The Names on the Registry List

Box number two

Box two was the high chair. Patty handed it to me, and I saw her eyes go to the folded paper in my lap. I unfolded it all the way and smoothed it flat over my belly.

I tore the green paper and lifted the lid enough to see the tray. Then I read the tag aloud, the way you would, and then I read the list.

“The tag says Grandma Patty,” I said. “But this is from Ben’s uncle Jim and aunt Carol, in Denver. They must have shipped it to Patty’s house. That was so sweet of them. I’ll write them tomorrow.”

Aunt Barb wrote it in the notebook. My mother, over by the cake, looked up. Patty did not move. She did not say “Oh, I must have mixed those up.” She just reached for box three.

Box three was the crib mattress. “Ben’s cousin Mark Halvorsen, in Springfield, Missouri,” I said. “He picked the good mattress. I’ll write him tomorrow.”

Box four was a set of crib sheets, the soft ones with the little green tractors on them. “Ben’s cousin Jessica, in Fort Collins, Colorado,” I said.

By box five, the room had changed.

The room

Nobody gasped. Nobody whispered loud enough to hear.

But forty women who had been talking over each other about deer season and the price of propane and whose grandkid had made the volleyball team all stopped talking at once, and the only sound was paper tearing.

Box five was the baby monitor, from Ben’s cousin Tyler and his wife, in Lincoln.

Box six was a diaper bag from an aunt in Wichita Falls, Texas. Box seven was the bouncy seat. Box eight was the bathtub.

Every box, I read the tag first. “Love, Grandma Patty.” Every box, I looked down at the list and read the real name and the town and said I would write them this week.

I did not raise my voice. I did not look at the room. I looked at the gift, and the list, and then at Patty, so she would know I was not hiding anything from her.

Around box ten, one of Patty’s friends from the dental office, a woman named Deb, leaned over to the woman next to her and said something behind her hand. I saw Patty see it.

Around box twelve, my mother set down the cake knife and came and stood in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen with her arms crossed. She was not looking at me. She was looking at Patty.

Box fourteen

At box fourteen, the stroller, Patty finally spoke.

She had the long box in both arms, and she held onto it for a second instead of handing it over. Her voice was low, just for me, but the room was so quiet it carried.

“Kristen,” she said. “Honey. You don’t have to read every tag.”

I looked up at her. Her eyes were wet, and the lipstick she had put on that morning had worn off on her paper cup.

I thought about getting up and walking into the kitchen with her right then. I thought about how easy that would be.

“I know, Patty,” I said. “I’m reading the list so everybody gets a thank-you note. These folks drove nowhere and paid for shipping, and they don’t get to see me open it. I want them to know it got here.”

She looked at me a long time. Then she handed me the stroller.

“Ben’s cousin Dana, in Des Moines,” I read. “Good night, she put a card in the box. I owe that girl a casserole.”

A couple of women laughed, low, and it broke something loose in the room. It was not a mean laugh. It was the kind of laugh you let out when you have been holding your breath.