Fourteen: Childless.

“While nothing can fill the space of a lost child or loved one, all of us can extend a hand to those in need, to remind them...that the love they felt for those they lost endures not just in their memories, but also in ours.

-President Barack Obama

Dumbstruck.

That was, I decided, the perfect word to describe how I felt on Friday afternoon, swimming in apprehension while parked outside your house. Aunt Sheridan, in the driver's seat (she always insisted on driving), was complimenting your house. It was one of those pretty, big Victorians that she wishes we could afford. Uncle Dillon was shushing her, saying that she was talking so, so loud and could she please calm down because he was trying to hear the radio.

And I was dumbstruck. Dumbstruck because this was real, and we were actually at your house and you were going to be outside any second now. Dumbstruck because of the solemn words trickling from the backseat speakers.

“One of the worst school shootings in American history...”

I didn't want to think about it anymore.

Thank God, Uncle Dill changed the channel to Christmas music, and at the same time you came dashing outside in an apple-red sweater with a giant reindeer on the front. I leaned across the seat to open the door for you, and you climbed inside with a greeting and a smile.

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood,” you said. “Thank you for inviting me; it's so nice to meet you.”

Uncle Dill smiled a bit and waved at you, and Aunt Sheridan twisted all the way around to reach out and shake your hand. Her blonde hair was wild, a frizzy mane around her head, but she was bright-eyed and beaming and so were you.

“You must be Ellery,” she gushed. “Please, call me Sheri. And look at you, such a pretty girl!” You turned the same color as your sweater and smiled as Aunt Sheridan confided, “Sam really likes you, you know.”

“Aunt Sheridan,” I hissed, appalled.

But you just laughed, your cheeks a glowing shade of rosy pink. “I really like him too,” you smirked.

Aunt Sheridan went crazy at the Christmas tree lot, as expected, because there were so many trees and she had to find the one that was just perfect. I thought they all looked the same, but maybe that was just me.

You walked beside me, hands buried in the pockets of your jeans, as my aunt darted through the aisles and past crates of trees and called out names and prices in her too-loud voice. The smell of pine crept up my sweater and through my hair and into my nose, tickling my senses.

“How about this one, Ellery?” called my aunt from around the corner. She had taken a liking to you already, I could tell.

We approached Aunt Sheridan, who stood beside her husband with her hands extended toward the most awful-looking tree I had ever seen. It was flocked, like the pretty white ones that look like snow, except that this was bright pink and terrible and looked like something had gone very wrong.

“It looks like moldy cotton candy,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

Uncle Dillon grunted. “Or furry intestines.”

And you: I saw your face twist up, your nose wrinkling as you tried to keep a look of disgust off of your features. “Um, it's...colorful?” you offered.

I shook my head, smirking, and my uncle snorted. “Ellery, please, don't try to spare my wife's feelings. If you don't like the tree, don't hesitate to say so.”

Aunt Sheridan shot him a poisonous glare, and you still hesitated. You were too nice then, you're too nice now, and all you could manage was a sheepish shrug and a mouthed apology. My aunt waved it off, tossed back her hair, and waddled along to the next set of trees. I began to follow, but quickly realized that you weren't next to me and turned around.

You were standing there, hands in your pockets, your boots dusted in green pine needles. Your eyebrows were knit tight, your eyes pointed downward and your expression kind of bittersweet.

“Ellery?” I murmured, worried.

You looked up immediately, startled, and your eyes met mine. “Oops, daydreaming,” you laughed nervously. “Sorry, about that, I'm fine.”

We ended up with a Noble fir, because Aunt Sheridan claimed that Douglas trees had weak boughs. I think she read that on the internet, because I swear I still couldn't see the difference.

She'd spent all day buying new decorations, and they were strewn all around the apartment when Uncle Dillon and I hauled the tree up the elevator and squeezed it through the front door. Boxes of booby traps covered the floor, so that we were forced to dance over all the mess on tiptoes. That was easy for you, ballerina, and you even managed to look pretty and graceful while skipping past ornaments and garlands.

“Put it right here, Dill!” Aunt Sheridan called, over in the living room. The six foot tree was placed next to our fireplace, and even though it was a little bit lopsided it looked so festive and beautiful and it made the whole room smell like Christmas.

Uncle Dillon strung lights. Aunt Sheridan made hot chocolate (from a box, so it actually tasted good). You and I danced around the room, dangling ornaments from the tree and putting wreaths above doorways and singing along to the Christmas songs that played from the TV. At one point when you were hanging a garland on the fireplace mantle, you slipped off the step stool and I caught you and we both ended up tangled in that garland, laughing.

It all felt so comfortable. Being around you was so natural that I couldn't help but hope in the back of my mind that maybe that meant we were meant to be. You were a newly discovered star, a dazzling young light that was caught so perfectly in the night sky. And with your hair flowing behind you, untamed, your beautiful ugly Christmas sweater, and your rosy cheeks dusted with glitter from the snowflake ornaments, I thought you were as flawless as a person could be. I couldn't take my eyes off you.

But every now and then, I'd glance over at you when you thought no one was looking, and you'd just be standing there with this blank stare and unstrung decorations in your fists. And in those little moments, I guess you just looked sad.

“Would you look at that,” Aunt Sheridan enthused, smiling. The finished product of the evening's work lay before us. The living room was done up in garlands and wreaths and twinkling colored lights, and the bright pinpoint bathed us in a transparent glow. The tree-topper star smiled down at us.

Even Uncle Dill grinned and admitted, “It looks great. You kids did good.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, mesmerized.

And then you were the only one left to give your opinion; except that you didn't, you were so quiet despite being right there beside me, and even though we waited for a moment you said nothing so I just glanced over—

There were tears streaming down your face.

I gasped softly, which drew your attention, and then you were swiping, swiping, swiping at your eyes and murmuring apologies behind your hand. But you didn't stop crying.

“I'm sorry,” you mumbled helplessly as I stood there, dumbstruck once again. “Oh God, I'm so sorry.”

“No, no, sweetie, shh,” said Aunt Sheridan, looking shocked. Uncle Dill was already backing out of the room. “I'll go and make some more hot chocolate, all right?” No one answered her. “All right.”

Then she was gone too, and it was just me, you, and your white diamond tears.

“Ellery,” I tried, very gently. “Ellery, what's wrong?” I reached out, carefully put my palm on your arm as you pressed your face into your hands. Your shoulders were shaking, sending silent tremors through my arm.

You looked up. Your tears, wet and fresh, left tracks on your cheek that glistened in the lights as you stared at the tree. At the floor. At anything but me.

“I'm sorry,” you repeated. You shook your head, bit your fist, pulled it away. “I was just thinking—about this, and...and how lucky I am to be standing here right now with you in front of all these beautiful decorations, but at the same time twenty-seven people on the other side of the country are dead in an elementary school and—”

Your voice caught in your throat, and you paused. I watched your face, the planes in shadows, as you attempted to collect yourself and your thoughts. When you continued, you sounded so small.

“Twenty kids are dead, Sam. Twenty little kids who didn't do anything but go to school, and seven teachers who were just trying to do their jobs. And I just keep thinking about how those kids aren't going to see this Christmas, they aren't going to get visits from Santa Claus, their families are going to spend the holidays grieving because their children are gone forever—and I'm here, perfectly fine and lucky, and it's not fair and it feels wrong.”

“Wrong,” I repeated hollowly.

“Wrong,” you agreed. “Wrong because those people are dead and I'm in the middle of such beautiful things. People were mourning while I was here, laughing and smiling and being happy. The parents of those children and the families of those teachers aren't happy. And they probably won't be for a long time, because the people they love are just gone.

“It hurts so much to lose someone, Sam. Especially when they're so young, when they have futures ahead of them and lives they could have lived and it's suddenly all over, because of one monster with a gun. One man. Killed twenty-seven people. Twenty-seven boys and girls and men and women are never going to open their eyes again. And their families—their families are all left here in pieces because now there's a hole in their lives and it's never going to be truly fixed, not ever. There are dozens of childless parents who aren't going to see their kids grow up, and I don't even know if you understand but I just can't, Sam, I—”

Your breath hitched at the end, dissolving into a sob that shook through your whole body, and I was just standing there thinking a million things at once and trying not to combust. It was your empathy, your overwhelming feeling for these people that you didn't even know, that got me the most. Because here you were, crying and pouring out this river of emotion in earnest, and you felt so much and you were so much that it was like a knife twisting in my gut, making my pain your pain, making our pain twist into one entity that lived and breathed within both of us and connected us by heartstrings.

And I understood—I did. I understood the pain of losing someone, and how even though time passes it just doesn't go away. I knew what you meant, about the parents. Because my aunt and uncle, they were childless, technically. They never had children and maybe didn't want to, but they ended up without a choice because of the crash and my parents and me and my sister coming to live with them because they were really all we had. But they love us, and I knew that if I was one of those kids, they would be that woman in the picture on the news, the one with the phone who was crying and screaming and looking so completely broken. Even if they're not real parents, even if they're adoptive parents or step parents or other family members, a parent should never lose their child like that. Not ever.

I wanted to tell you that, so badly. And this time, I did. I whispered it into your ear as I put a hand on your back and led you to the couch to sit, because you were shaking so hard that I didn't know if you could hold yourself up.

“Thank you,” you whispered, rubbing your arms and huddling into the cushions. “I'm sorry, I-I don't know what's wrong with me, I shouldn't be so dramatic...” I peered at you carefully as you pinched the bridge of your nose. It seemed like you were done for the moment, so I cleared my throat.

“You know, I was in study hall when I found out today,” I said softly. “I was on the computer in the library, and the article was on the home page, and I turned to the girl at the desk next to me and told her that someone had just opened fire at a school in Connecticut. And she just looked at me with this weird face and said, 'So? What's in Connecticut?' and I don't understand how people can't care about something like this. And the same thing, with the mall in Happy Valley. I was just at Clackamas with my aunt last week, and two people died there. It was right near home, too, but no one seemed to care. And I just—I guess what I'm trying to say is that I get it, Ellery. I really do. I know how it hurts an how it feels wrong, 'cause it is wrong. But”—I took a deep breath—“that doesn't mean that you should beat yourself up about it, because it wasn't your fault. And maybe today you were happy, but you shouldn't feel bad about it, not like this. You're an amazing person, Ellery, and the best thing you can do for these people is to continue being what you are and keep beauty in the world.

I let air out in a long rush, feeling the finished words swarm out of my mouth and cling to the walls. Out. Done. It was the most I'd said to you at once. It was the most I'd said in a while. And there you were, looking at me with teary eyes and red tracks on your cheeks, and you looked so strained and heartbroken but also hopeful and strong, and the contradiction of it was painful and soothing, both at once. I wanted to kiss you, at that moment, but I knew I couldn't because that wasn't what you needed. Right now, I could see it in your eyes: you needed a hug.

So I drew you into my chest, head against shoulder and sweater against sweater, arms wrapped around each other in an embrace of comfort and warmth and everything that was okay but wasn't, at the same time. And it didn't make sense, but nothing seemed to right then.

We sat there for an eternity, maybe more, but it didn't feel too long. It felt right, as we shared warmth and sorrow and everything, spoken and unspoken, and most of all tried not to think about it.

About an elementary school in a state all the way across the country. About childless parents. About murdered children and teachers. About twenty-seven eyes that would never open again.