For the Love of Christmas. Kate Forster

florist’s was opening, its lights flickering in protest at the early start. Pushing open the door, a bell heralded her arrival.

      ‘Morning,’ said a girl with a bright smile.

      ‘Merry Christmas,’ said Rebecca as her eye ran over the flowers.

      ‘Can I help you?’ asked the girl.

      ‘White lilies?’ asked Rebecca, unable to see them in the buckets in the shop.

      ‘I’m just about to bring them out,’ said the girl. ‘You can come and choose a bunch. I went to the flower market first thing, so they’re all fresh.’

      Rebecca followed the girl into the back of the shop, where she opened a large cool-room door. The smell of lilies hit her like a caress and she breathed in the scent.

      ‘Can I have four bunches,’ she said, ‘with some poinsettias or holly, if you have them?’

      The girl nodded happily. ‘Of course. Would you like me to mix them together for you?’

      Rebecca thought for a moment. Everything in her life had been delivered by someone else. Her shopping, her children delivered home from school by the nanny. She shook her head. ‘No, I’d like to arrange them,’ she said, as she touched a waxy petal.

      ‘Of course,’ said the girl, as Rebecca picked up the bunches that she wanted.

      ‘Any Christmas trees?’ asked Rebecca, glancing around the store.

      ‘Oh, not many left,’ said the girl. ‘They’re the ones I can’t really sell now and I didn’t get any more from the market. Most people have their trees up now.’

      Not I, thought Rebecca. Usually her tree was up three weeks before Christmas; now she would have to make do with the dregs.

      ‘I don’t mind as long as it’s a real tree,’ she said.

      She followed the girl into the back of the shop, to the laneway, where trees were lined against the wall. She walked to the end where the smaller ones were. She touched one at the end, the pine smell thrilling her.

      ‘That one’s a bit defective,’ said the girl. ‘The other ones are slightly better, but not much.’

      ‘What’s wrong with it?’ asked Rebecca.

      ‘One side is completely bald. I don’t know why the tree man put it with the others.’

      Rebecca pulled it away from the wall and saw that one side was in fact bald and the other beautifully bushy.

      ‘I like this one,’ she said decisively.

      ‘Really?’ asked the girl, peering at Rebecca. ‘It’s far from perfect.’

      ‘Nothing is perfect,’ she said, ‘and why shouldn’t this tree have a chance to be lovely, just because it’s got a bit of alopecia?’

      The girl laughed. ‘Would you like it delivered?’

      Rebecca thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I don’t think it would fit in my car.’

      ‘You can have it for free,’ said the girl. ‘No one else will want it and my delivery man can drop it off.’

      Rebecca paid for her flowers and went back to her car, happy with her unusual decision.

      Once she would have chosen the biggest and bushiest tree; now she chose the one no one else wanted.

      Perhaps rehab had made her a soft touch?

      But being vulnerable was brave, Rose-Marie had said to her in a session.

      Now it felt like she saw the strugglers everywhere. The unwanted trees, the misunderstood mothers, the frustrated fathers.

      She knew Jamie had a right to leave, that he had a right to protect the children from her behaviour; she just wanted a chance to show them she had worked hard to stop and be better. That she was just like the tree. Yes, one side was lacking but there was another side that was lovely, if you looked closely enough.

      At home, Rebecca arranged the flowers, wishing the children were home, the silence so deafening that she put on Christmas music.

      Usually Christmas music cheered her, but as she hummed along to ‘O Holy Night’, she felt tears form.

      She had fallen to her knees and had to pick herself up again. It was nearly impossible to face her reason for drinking. At first she had said it was because of work stress, then it was her marriage, Jamie, her children, her sister-in-law, anyone but herself.

      Until one day, she talked about Finlay.

      The drinking had started after she delivered a little boy, who refused to breathe.

      He’s an angel now, her mother had said, but Rebecca didn’t want an angel. She wanted a child who was alive and well, who would totter around the hideous glass table like Sofie, and worship his older brother, Oscar.