Advent 2020 (final)


They fold slips of paper on which they've written secret Christmas missions for their remaining days, and they help their daughter place each one behind a casement window in the Advent calendar. Like her father, she's very into the idea of spywork.

Halfway through, and cramming a slip of paper rather forcefully, "Where this come from?" she asks.

"Daddy gave it to me," Kate answers, keeping the baby balanced and away from the work his sister is doing. "He was cheering me up, about my mom, and he put little gifts inside to help me remember Christmas spirit."

"How you ever forget Christmas?" she says, looking incredulously at her mother.

Rick laughs and swings her up into his arms. "Exactly what I thought. And then the next year, Mommy gave it back to me with gifts. And we bought this house for our last day."

"Ooh, I like this house!"

"Pretty good choice she made, huh?"

The girl gives Kate two thumb's up.

"Well, and then Daddy put my ring in the last day's window the very next year." She dips her hand for their daughter to ooh over the engagement ring and wedding band. "Which I thought was also a pretty good choice."

Now Rick gets the thumb's up. "Daddy, you do good gifts."

"Well, giving good gifts makes me feel good. So doing things for other people, giving them gifts and not just ourselves, that's what Advent is about."

"Because everybody should remember Christmas," Charlie says. She's only parroting back the words Kate herself used to describe the purpose of the Advent calendar, but it still melts her mother's heart, hearing how easily it comes out of the girl's mouth.

Rick kisses their daughter's cheek with a smack. "You are exactly right. You want to read December 1st and December 2nd?"

"I can't read," she huffs. "I mean, I can read some things. I'm only almost four."

"Lazy bones, I'll read these for you."

They open the first two days' windows: Tear down the plastic dividers. Put up the Christmas trees.

"We did these!"

"Exactly, and December 3rd, that's today, what does it say? You can read this one." Rick, so patient with their daughter, while Kate manhandles the baby trying to stuff Christmas decorations into his mouth and grunting, wordless but letting himself be known. "Sound it out."

"Fuh-fill up the de-da-days. Fill up the days! Oh, what does that mean?"

"What we just did, putting the slips of paper in each one."

"Oh." She looks mildly disappointed for a moment but then her face brightens. "You said hot chocolate after!"

"That's right. We all get hot chocolate."

While Rick heads into the kitchen, Kate pauses at the threshold and turns off the overhead dining room light to watch the flames from the fireplace. Shadows flicker across the Advent calendar set up on the dining room table, and it's almost as if each window has a warm little glow inside, just waiting for the day when they can be thrown open to the world.


The very next day, they collect all the ingredients for Christmas cookies and walk through icy temperatures to Alexis's apartment door and deposit them outside, ringing the bell and backing up. With masks on, they wave and give Alexis air hugs, while Charlie talks a mile a minute about everything she's seen and done and heard, her mask not stopping her one bit.

Kate pretends Rick isn't swiping at tears, and he pretends this is normal, even as Charlie apparently thinks it is completely normal. It's the best they have for now.

When they get home, Kate sets up the iPad to video chat with Alexis, and she and her daughter make the cookies her mother made with her, once upon a time, cookies she then made with Alexis so many Christmas seasons in a row. A lot of mishaps and giggling, Kate hampered by Charlie and Alexis hampered by only having two hands, but after hours in the kitchen, they each have something special, the reminder of traditions and family.

And each other.


Another day, Charlie is tasked with drawing Christmas cards for the people in the nursing home where Martha used to put on performances with her acting school. Castle fills the dining room table with crayons and markers and construction paper, stencils and glitter, a few glue sticks and a couple safety scissors, and they sort of unofficially make it a contest.

It's easier once the baby is put down for his nap. It feels good and right to sit side by side with her daughter and play footsie under the table with Rick while they write Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah for people who are isolated and shut off from the world. She doesn't think it's not enough one time while they work; instead, she is filled with the possibilities for their joy upon opening Charlie's haphazard and enthusiastic well-wishes.


While watching Elf on the iPad, their daughter comes up with the idea of singing carols to spread Christmas cheer, social-distancing style. So they get family and friends on a Zoom call and 'force' each one to take up a verse Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and then Jingle Bells while the app records them. Martha, of course, though slightly out of breath, plays the piano during her solo while the Ryans all sing together, horribly off-pitch.

Castle takes the raw footage and dumps it into a program he's been messing around with lately, and she's astonished by the end result: all of their various voices line up almost seamlessly into a not-too-bad couple of songs. Their daughter plays it around the house, again and again, while Castle emails everyone and asks for individual recordings of a whole song. He chooses I'll Be Home for Christmas and within a few days there is so much enthusiasm, he's expertly mastering a true caroling chorus.

They keep finding new ways to come together.


The baby busts his forehead open on the edge of a chair as he's running away from his sister, or chasing her, hard to tell, and he cries like a Castle, big fat tears with a little blood mixed in. Lanie gets a video call while he screams indignation for the way Kate probes at his hard skull, but he's pronounced butterfly-bandage-able and Castle does the first aid.

They stay on the call for a little while, catching up, though the morgue is busier than ever. If we can get through this, Lanie says.

Kate ends the call feeling guilty for not being there, not doing her part, but Castle hands her the baby to soothe and their daughter is making scrambled eggs for lunch with less supervision than she would like, and the day marches on.

In the window, the slip of paper for Advent says, Look around you; it will never happen just this way again.

She didn't write that one; she's grateful he did. Tucking Charlotte into bed, they count their blessings, my teddy bear, having a unicorn nightlight, Mommy and Daddy, oh and I guess Lukas too.


That morning, they sit at the office computer and make donations online instead of dropping money in red kettles around the city. It loses some of its pizzaz, but none of the heart, and their daughter finds a lot of glee in reading off the numbers of her daddy's credit card, much to their laughing oh no.

But it makes its impact when later, while Kate is obsessively watching the local news, their daughter—whom they thought was upstairs—asks if they can donate to that.

"To what, honey?"

"For where those kids don't have Christmas."

It was a local story on a fire in a Queens apartment building, everything gone.

So Castle takes her to the computer again and they hunt like detectives—like you Mommy—for how they can help. The best they can do is send an email to the reporter listed on the news agency's website, but after a couple hours of their girl getting antsy for action—like you Kate—Castle, with Charlie's help, sends out a tweet on his official account, quoting the online story.

Within twenty minutes, they're led to a GoFundMe already set up by one of the family members, and in another hour, donations have reached one hundred thousand dollars.

Kate cries in the bathroom, hiding her relief, not sure why, just knowing it has to come out.


They write a letter to Santa asking for a puppy. Baby brother's letter to Santa also asks for a puppy, mysteriously enough, and that night, she and Castle have a long conversation in bed, side by side, fingers laced, touching just to touch.

I don't want to set up this precedent with Santa, she whispers.

No, you're right.

I want it to be about more than getting things.

A puppy isn't a thing exactly. She'll have to take care of it. Which means I'll be taking care of it, he admits. And I'm not looking forward to that.

Me neither, she chuckles in the dark.

What if it's a puppy from that rescue group near the Twelfth?

What if it's not a puppy?

They look at each other, ideas begin to percolate.


They have sex in the master closet—voracious, hungry, desperate—standing up despite how exhausted they both are. She laughs too much; he holds her too tightly. It's maybe one of their best yet. She thinks it has to be all over her, the glow, the relief; he keeps touching her as she finishes getting dressed.

She has bruises on her wrist that their daughter notices and tries to rub off, you got paint on you.

They finish coloring in the ornaments, stick them in the oven to watch them bake. The salt dough hardens quickly, and when they cool, they have the baby's hand prints and their daughter's interesting rendition of an angel for the tree. Castle suggests its an alien angel and she pouts, gets a little weepy, and dissolves into tears for no good reason.

Except the whole year is reason enough and Kate picks her up off the floor and carries her to the big leather chair in the mostly unused living room. She rocks Charlotte back and forth, almost-four-year-old body draped over Kate's chest, those stick arms wound around her neck, thinking everything and nothing at all.

Castle brings the baby in, grimacing in apology; she waves him off because it could have been her, it could have been anything. He turns on the fireplace and scoops up the baby, prevents Lukas from trying to run to the safety gate in awe of the flames, little pyro.

Their daughter cries herself out and fall asleep; their son, mesmerized by the flames from the security of his father's arms, passes out soon after.

That's how they wind up putting both kids down for a nap right after lunch and finding better alone time in their own bed.

It's less frantic now, it's touching and breathing and being close. He tells her to keep it quiet, she in turn makes him loud just because. They fall back into rhythm, easy, right—like finally being aligned.


That morning in bed, she gets text alerts, don't forget! reminder for your appointment. One after another, six in all, while Castle grumbles at the intrusion then slowly gives her an eyebrow-raised look of interest as it continues.

Castle asks, "Is that your secret boyfriend?" He leans in over her in bed and presses a kiss to her neck. "So that's where you've been all summer."

"Shut up," she laughs. She can laugh about it now? When did that happen? "It's for Advent. And we have to be there at ten." His eyes widen.

And of course, that's when it begins to snow.

The next hour is a flurry of no, get your coat on, Charlotte, mixed with heart-stopping chases after Luke to prevent him from making love to the fireplace. Turn it off, Castle, she hisses over her shoulder, wrestling Lukas into his puffy ski suit while he grunts his protest.

They're only five minutes late to New Ivy Books (probably because it's only three blocks from their brownstone). The owner is a friend of Castle's, which is why she set up their private browsing appointment here first; Castle is so surprised by the empty store, the lone masked bookseller at the register reading a comic, and the miles of new books stretched shelf to shelf without obstruction.

"What is this?" he says behind his mask. He looks rugged in that black mask with his hood pulled up and scarf around his neck. She brushes snow from his shoulder onto the mat while holding Luke's hand with a death grip.

"This," she says slowly, "is our chance to spread Christmas cheer."

"Mommy, how many books? How many books do I get?"

"Actually, Charlie, we're going to buy books for other people. Remember the library is doing a book drive for kids at St Jude?"

"That's the cancer place, right?" Charlie jumps over the mosaic tile floor of the entry and beams back at them.

"Yes, baby. So we have five more bookstores like this, and I want you to pick out all of your favorites for the book drive." She flicks Charlie's pony tail. "To give away." In case that wasn't clear. "And Charlie? No limit on books today."

It's wild, her particular joy as she selects each and every book. She and Rick spend most of the time running herd on Lukas, but even the baby picks out his favorite: a truck board book with wheels. They don't buy out the whole children's section—they do have to carry everything home—but Rick has five cloth bags of books for donation. They manage to make it home to drop everything off, and then they take the car to the East Village's Haus Books and repeat the whole experience. Empty store, just their family, Charlie so giddy with joy that she can't contain it, Lukas being chased through the store.

From the East Village they move to Greenwich Village, a used bookstore where Castle entertains the kids while Kate gets her chance to shop. She finds a first edition of Colette that she can't imagine passing up, and a handful of books she read as a girl that she'll give Charlotte for Christmas. Not much time, really, but Castle adds two more books to her pile for his mother and Alexis.

Chelsea's independent bookstore is the smallest so far, and Kate has to restrain Charlie to keep the girl from clearing out the whole stock of Mo Willems picture books. "Just in case other kids' parents need one last gift, baby." They leave one copy of each on the shelves and then have to cram their packages into the trunk to go on. Stores five and six are in Midtown Manhattan, much larger, each of them, and Kate is on duty in both, chasing after Luke, preventing him from demolishing displays or knocking over merchandise. She suspects Castle is signing copies of his own book surreptitiously.

At the end of the afternoon, they drive their purchases to their branch library where the librarians, behind their festive masks, wave and thank them from the safety of their plexiglass shields. Charlie doesn't seem to notice the distance, or remember that last year she got a candy cane for each book she donated.

On the way home, all she can talk about are the books the kids will get to read, all her favorites, reciting to Luke, her captive audience in his car seat, the storyline of each one. Lukas grunts in appreciation, or maybe that's his attempt at following along, eighteen months and still not talking.

Kate often wonders how these kids have changed because of 2020, what they're missing, what ten years' time will show, but she's reassured of one thing: her daughter still understands what it means to celebrate Christmas.


A large bag goes to the shelter near the Twelfth, with little cards made by their kids tied with ribbon around men's tube socks. It's difficult to do their usual pomp and circumstance with the kids, especially when Luke doesn't understand, and so Castle is looking for something new, something more meaningful to them in their immediate environment.

Kate keeps saying, It's fine they don't always get it, because we know that we're not circling the wagons and pretending like others aren't suffering. We're doing something.

Donating money online, dropping things off, just doesn't have the same feeling. Last year they worked at St Vincent's kitchen for three weeks around Christmas, helping to produce and host their Twelve Days of Christmas feast. They had bell-ringing Santas over for lunch at the Old Haunt. Even with a six-month old, he and Kate were volunteering all over the city.

This year shut down so much.

Nothing feels the same.


Castle sets up the telescope on the roof before sunset, and they gather quilts and fleece, a couple body pillows, a few of the kids' animal pillows. They stargaze as twilight settles, and although there's always that pink-yellow haze from the city that never sleeps, Castle points out the stars to his squirming daughter while Kate hums and entertains the baby.

When the green-blue fades into a deeper hue, he nudges Kate. "There it is. Hey, Charlie, do you know what that's called?"

"Nope."

He smiles, sees Kate hiding a snicker. She confiscated one of his video game chairs and uses it to rock Lukas, but she is paying attention. She lets him MC this event.

"It's called the Christmas star."

"Like the baby Jesus story."

"Who told you the baby Jesus story?" Kate asks.

"I don't know. Everybody knows it." She shrugs and wriggles into the pink fleece she wrapped around her neck. "Is that the baby's star?"

"Well, no, actually. But it only happens once every four hundred to six hundred years. Where—"

"That star looks like it has a tail."

Kate snickers.

"Well," he says slowly. "It's two planets. Coming very very close together. Jupiter is said to overtake Saturn, because of their orbits. Saturn has rings and—"

"Oh, Dad," Charlie sighs, patting his arm like she thinks it's cute, him trying to explain astronomy to her.

Kate snorts with laughter.

"It's two planets," Castle tries again.

"It's a pretty tail."

He stops trying. "Yeah, it is. It's pretty. And it almost never happens, so it's a special treat to see it."

Kate slides her foot over the blankets to his, nudges. He glances over and she smiles at him.

It is pretty, she mouths.

He shakes his head, but he smiles and bundles Charlie closer, and they watch the stars slowly come on.


Charlie and Luke color pictures for the UPS delivery guy and their postal carrier, a woman with two grandkids she won't be able to see for Christmas. Castle makes peppermint cookies with the kids, their icing job atrocious but enthusiastic, and they create little care packages for the different frontline workers who have to show up at their door for deliveries.

There are a lot of deliveries.

Rick learned to make bread this summer, and they bake loves seasoned with cocoa and orange zest, and the care packages get bigger and more elaborate. Bows that Jack tears apart and drools on, then Kate directs him into scribbling on construction paper before Charlie can get upset.

By the time they've seen every kid-appropriate Christmas movie on every streaming service, have drunk too many hot chocolates drowning in marshmallows, they wind up creating enough gift bags for an army. With two kids half-asleep but trying to rally, they take the car and deliver them around the city, carrying a kid each and a gift bag, watching from a distance as friends and family discover their presents.

Castle takes Charlie up to bed and tucks her in, and for the first time the girl doesn't murmur, Mommy has to work? Her mother comes into the dark room and turns on the unicorn nightlight, crouches at Charlie's bedside for kisses, hugs, soft words.

Rick leaves to see Luke down in his crib—they'll have to convert this into a toddler bed soon—and leans over the sleeping boy to stroke his hair. "Good night," he whispers.

Lukas grunts in his sleep.

Good night.


Christmas Eve is the four of them, sitting close at the kitchen table and eating fish tacos. It's not the elaborate dinner they're used to, but both Luke and Rick are wearing Santa hats and Charlie is in the dance tutu she never got to wear for the recital back in March. Kate has gone for sweatpants and an ugly sweater, and Castle keeps flicking the jingle bell on her reindeer. Which is and isn't a euphemism.

They let the kids at a couple presents, watching them tear into it. Luke beeps like the truck he pushes around the tree and Charlie spins in her princess outfit, begins blessing items with her wand. Or ordaining them? Hard to tell.

Kate curls next to her husband on the couch and sips coffee, watching the kids. Rick massages her neck, her shoulder, sighs. "I meant to have a gift for you under the tree tonight, but it hasn't arrived."

"You know I don't need anything."

"I know. Wanted to anyway."

She elbows his ribs. "We said no gifts this year, just a few for the kids."

"I know. But I'd planned this whole thing. Advent, you know? It was all supposed to fit together, be special."

She touches her free hand to his mouth to shut him up. "If you don't think this right here is special—"

"No, you know I do."

She bumps his shoulder, trying not to spill her coffee. "Advent calendar, remember? Always made things special for us, and this year was no exception."

He nods but she can tell he's mulling it over, thinking too hard.

"This year…" he sighs. "This year was the exception. To everything. Everything was different. And I don't know, throwing some money at a book drive or Toys for Tots seems like a drop in the bucket."

"And keeping your mother's Broadway fund going, plus The Old Haunt—you're still paying their salaries, Castle, and the bar hasn't been out of the red for eight months." Which she knows they can't keep up for long. A month or two more before they're tapping into college funds and emergency money. "I shouldn't have taken—"

"Don't you dare say it," Castle growls. "I'd rather cut off my mother's overreaching promises of support than you go back to the Twelfth this month."

She nods, wincing as it hits her. "Only a few days left."

They sit in silence, not wanting to think it, but thinking it nonetheless.

Advent season is a blip in time, a wonderful escape.

Going back—

Neither want to think it.


Christmas Day brings Alexis to their door stop, masked, unable to come inside. Her room mates make it impossible to isolate; she had a negative test but can't be sure, doesn't want to risk them after a room mate brought her girlfriend in. It's already begun to snow, so they don't linger, Alexis blowing the kids kisses, stiff upper lip, presents and a couple plates of food for her to take back with her.

When they gather around the tree, Alexis video chats so she can watch the kids open Santa's gifts, the rest of the presents under the tree. Martha figures out how to get in on the call, finally, and they set up the iPad so that the kids are running back and forth between the screen and the tree, squealing with happiness (in Charlie's case) while Luke crashes cars together.

It's strange not to have the rest of the family, to not be hosting the large dinner party, to have two kids begging (or grunting, as the case may be) for fish tacos and mac and cheese for dinner. While the kids swim like land-fishes through the piles of wrapping paper, ignoring the few toys they just unwrapped, the knock comes at the door.

They share a secret look, call for Charlie to attend. Kate plucks Lukas from his shredding of the paper and carries him to the door after Rick, who waits a beat until they're all gathered. "Stay inside, remember?" he reminds Charlie.

"Who came to visit for Christmas?"

Castle opens their door, snow swirling inside. "Your dog."

"A puppy!" Charlie squeals, nearly throwing herself towards Alexis holding the leash. The dog is a three year old mix of things, mid-size, brownish coat with black ears and black paws, and he yips in excitement, immediately darting for Charlie.

In Kate's arms, Lukas squeals and leans to get down, but as Castle is whipping out his mask from his back pocket so he can take the stuff from Alexis, Kate has to wrestle the kid back. "Wait, wait, it's a dog, I know."

"Dog!" Luke shouts.

Castle stops, stares at Luke, while Kate's jaw drops. Even Alexis looks astonished.

Charlie, her arms around the dog and holding on for dear life as it wriggles, beams up at her brother. "That's Luke's first word! Took you long enough, Lukie."

Relief is another hard knot unwinding in Kate's chest, scraping her voice through her throat to say, "Yeah, I think Luke just said his first clear word." It's been grunts and noises, sounds, but no babbling, no stringing together consonants to form pretend sentences. Charlie talked early, and after they got Luke's ears checked, the pediatrician kept saying, he has no need to talk with her around; give him time.

She sets Luke down on the floor, a kind of reward for his new word, and Luke squeals again and collapses on the dog. "Dog! Dog! My dog!"

Charlie shrieks. "My dog!"

"Yeah, first word alright, and first sentence," Castle says, standing in the open doorway while snow spills inside. "We might be in for some trouble."

"Mine! Dog!" Lukas yells back.

"Daddy!"

"Hey, hang on now," Kate wades in, bending to cup the poor dog's ears with her hands. "What is the spirit of Christmas, Charlie?"

"Covid is sad but we can make people happier. But, Mommy, my dog all for me makes me happier."

Castle bends down, unhooks the leash from the dog. "You know what makes him yours, no matter what Lukas says, or whose bed he sleeps in tonight?"

"Castle," Kate hisses. "He is not sleeping in—"

"You get to name him, Charlie." Castle folds up the leash and pats the dog's side, brushing down where Lukas has ruffled his fur. "You name him, and he will always be all for you."

"Really?"

Kate shrugs. "Sure, yes. Yes, he'll be yours if you name him."

"His name is Max," Charlie nods. "Because he's just a—whoa big—version of the Grinch's dog, right? Do you love it, Max?"

And Max licks her nose and cheeks and whines.

Kate stands, takes Castle's hand to squeeze it. "Maybe you guys should show Max where everything is," she says. They spent hours, sneaking away one at a time, to visit with the dogs while the other parent was with the kids. They debated almost every night, would this dog be a good fit, would it even want them back? Alexis took him in with her for the last three days, sort of trying him out; she reported he was the sweetest, most pathetic thing.

Charlie picks herself up and races off, and Max bounds right behind, with Lukas running after, calling for his dog.

"Whew," Castle whistles. "Guess that worked."

"First words," Alexis says, hovering six feet away.

"I can't believe it." Kate shakes her head.

"First indication the kid has any sense at all."

She chuckles. "Guess we can't call him the baby any longer."


Ensconced in the back den where once she used to be isolated, wanting her kids and her husband, seeing them only through plastic, they curl up together, ready to jump in and referee if need be. The dog is right there with Charlie, tail wagging a bit impatiently but dutifully being lectured about all of her toys. Don't eat this. Poor Lukas looks on in hopeful adoration, trying to catch that tail.

Castle winds his arm around her waist and pulls her close, a soft kiss to Kate's forehead. "When you go back," he murmurs.

She nods, more than grateful he knows it's when and not if. "I can do it. And with the vaccines coming, it won't be long now, right? I can do it."

He takes her hand. "You got this, Kate."

With this, this before her, held within her like a light, yeah, she does.

She's got this.


end

A/N: I know these Advent stories have often been a little too real, but it seemed more appropriate for this season to lace the hope through the sorrow, to find our greatest loves within our greatest sorrows. I hope, as your winter season comes out of the dark, that your coming year is, especially, new.

Merry Christmas.

You got this.