Imagine a crisp winter evening, two days before Christmas Eve. I am sitting next to my twelve-year-old sister, Celeste, in a moving minivan, my eyes barely above the lower edge of the back seat's window, staring out at the stars as the radio emits Silent Night. I realize it is the first time I have actually noticed and comprehended constellations, the large connect-the-dot pictures in the sky that the ancient Greeks observed. Celeste sees them too, but she is more interested in reading her magazine article about the latest Hollywood heartthrob. She and I both used to be interested in Greek mythology. She used to read me some of the stories, like those about Zeus and Hera, Hephacles and Aphrodite, and Paris and Helen. But lately she has been listening to her new tapes, reading her big, new, glossy magazines, and generally ignoring me. Tonight though, she isn't in my mind at all as the stars captivate me, make me relaxed, droopy-eyed, and I drift away into a deep slumber…
I'm awake! Yes, Mom. I'll put on the suit. Will you help me with my bow tie? Thank you. Celeste isn't up yet, so can I go back to bed? OK, I'll just wait in the dining room.
We are in my grandparents' house, the morning after the long car ride. People, uncles and aunts, my parents, and a few strangers, bustle by with a strange sort of energy and zip. Most of the men wear the same kind of suit that I do, the one with a standard white shirt, black jacket and pants, and a striking forest green bow tie, while the women wear dresses of varying colors and styles.
After about an hour of commotion, we all pile into cars and proceed to a small neighborhood church, in front of which a crowd of people has already congregated. My parents grasp my hands and lead me into the stucco-coated, off-white painted structure. In the foyer, a blue figure is on the floor. I'm told it is the Star of David, which is exciting because I think it is named after me. The joy of this thought is uncontrollable, and my parents wonder aloud why I am giggling so much. Celeste's answer is that it's just the stupid star on the floor, and when does lunch start? Mom reprimands her for her sarcastic tone, "Celeste! Why can't you enjoy your aunt's wedding?"
To which Celeste replies, "First, Mother, I've told you a million times to call me Scarlett. Second, I don't even know who my aunt is! I've never even seen her and I wanted to just hang out today."
"Oh, why can't you use your real name for once? Celeste, your aunt is getting married today and I would appreciate it if you would be a little more aware of the happiness surrounding you."
"Just leave me alone."
From the foyer, we enter through double doors into the chapel, at the end of which in the center is the altar. There are two sets of pews, one on either side of us, each of about twenty rows, and a single aisle down the middle. At the end of the aisle, on the wall behind and above the altar, is a fresco in soft, almost pastel colors, depicting the angels' visit to the shepherds revealing the birth of the Savior. The largest angel is situated slightly to the left of and above the altar with its left arm extended, pointing straight at a hamlet in the distance. Or is the angel pointing at the star directly above the tiny town? Is it pointing at the single star that draws my attention, the star that seems to radiate its warmth all through the church and the entire world depicted in the mural?
I hear a sharp intake of air from Celeste as she gazes at the mural, but the moment is lost as quickly as it arrived and once again Celeste dons her moody face under her hairspray-saturated locks.
For the next twenty minutes, Mom shows me how to carry the Bible forward to the altar and hand it to the priest. She also explains to Celeste that her job is as a flower girl. I practice with Mom at my side until I can do it by myself. However, I am much more interested in the mural, and I keep forgetting to go back to my seat after I hand over the Bible because I can't take my eyes off it. Celeste stands in the corner and refuses to throw a few flowers for practice because she says it's, "so dorky." I don't care about Celeste's complaints because I just feel so unbelievably happy basking in the strange glow of the star.
Next, we are taken out the back door of the chapel and into a garden behind the building. There are picnic tables loaded with food and even more people milling around here than in front of the church, all of them somehow avoiding knocking over the delicate waterfalls and trampling the vibrantly crimson rose bushes. Mom lets Celeste and me loose in the garden so she can talk with some of her old friends. I follow Celeste through the garden to an open lawn surrounded by a semicircle of rose bushes alternating with grey stone waterfalls. She collapses and buries herself into the grass on her back, legs straight and together, hugging her shoulders, rocking back and forth slowly, almost crying. I'm standing over her at her feet, puzzled. Why is she crying?
Two young women walk up behind me and their shadows fall on either side of me so that with my shadow all but Celeste's head and shoulders are blocked from the sun.
One speaks to Celeste, "Hello. Um, are you OK? You look like a ghost."
"I'm fine," Celeste answers.
"Well, I'm glad you are. I wouldn't want anyone to feel bad today. Say, you aren't my sister Maria's children are you?"
"Yeah, we are."
"Wow! I'm Sunny, your aunt. I'm getting married today. This is my friend, Melanie."
"Nice to meet you," mumbles Celeste as she rises and squints, blinded by the sunlight streaming into her face. "This is David and I'm -- " she pauses for a split second, "I'm Scarlett," she states with a wide grin.
"What a pretty name!" exclaims Melanie.
"Yes, that is a pretty name," repeats Aunt Sunny. "Goodness, I didn't know Maria had a daughter. I've been traveling for a while and only heard that she had a son a few years ago."
"Yeah, well, here I am. Scarlett."
I stand close by and listen as the conversation develops. "Scarlett" has a boyfriend in high school, straight A's, is popular with all the teachers and all the students in her school, and goes to the mall every Saturday night.
Aunt Sunny, Melanie, and Scarlett talk for more than thirty minutes before Aunt Sunny mentions that she has to get ready for the wedding, so she leaves Melanie alone with us.
Melanie and Scarlett continue their conversation and it turns to the wedding.
"So," Scarlett asks, "what will Aunt Sunny's new last name be?"
"She's not changing it," says Melanie matter-of-factly.
"She's not? I thought women had to do that when they got married."
"Well, it is traditional that a woman change her last name to that of the man she is marrying, but Sunny wants to keep her identity because she is proud of who she was, who she is, and who she will be, and she feels that by tacking her husband's name over her's it would… I don't know. It's hard to explain to someone who hasn't done what she's done."
"I think I understand," Celeste's voice wavers. Her jaw can't seem to rise in order to close her mouth and her eyes look like they will overflow at any moment. She thanks Melanie for her time and runs away through the garden.
I wave good-bye to Melanie and walk slowly back to the picnic tables. Mom is sitting and talking with some people I don't know, Celeste is nowhere to be seen, and I'm starting to get uncomfortable in my suit.
For some reason, I don't know why, I get an urge to go back into the chapel. I stroll in and head for the center aisle. There, I stand in front of the altar and stare at the brilliant star. A sudden noise grabs my attention and I whirl around to see Celeste through the open double doors, standing in the middle of the foyer, weeping. I stand and watch her for a moment before I sprint to the back of the church, through the open doors and leap over the Star on the floor into her arms, where I bear hug her and she embraces me right back, burrowing her face into my neck and chest, refusing to let go for what seems like forever.
A little while later, the wedding begins. I am the first one to go down the aisle. I hand the priest the Bible, and stop to stare at the star for a moment. But I don't feel the same radiating warmth as before, so I make my way to my seat. Several more people come down the aisle, then it's Celeste's turn. She doesn't come. A long, uncomfortable void appears and Mom hangs her head.
Before she can raise it though, I wriggle out of the pew and race back to the foyer, just ahead of her grappling hands. Celeste isn't there. I run outside and find her slumped against the outside wall of the church, tears still running down her cheeks.
"I can't go in there," she says, with surprising composure.
I stand and listen to her repeat the simple yet devastating sentence over and over again. Finally, I grab her hand and try to drag her with me. She grudgingly decides to let me have my way. I pull her into the foyer where she bursts out crying again and lets go of my hand. She stops in front of the Star on the floor and refuses to go any farther.
"No!" she frantically whispers. "No! No! No!"
Gently, I take her hand again and lead her toward the doors. I look up and see that her eyes are closed and she's holding her breath as we cross the Star. When we reach the doors, her eyes pop open but her breath is still in her lungs. We both take a quick glance back and see both Melanie and Sunny smiling outside, urging us onward. I shove open the doors and lead Celeste out into the aisle. A collective sigh of relief ripples through the chapel and I notice that Celeste releases a sharp breath and begins breathing easy, relaxed breaths. Holding her hand, I lead her forward down the aisle, toward the mural. The warmth I had sought earlier flows through me in a symphony of euphoria. I look up to my big sister's face and see her staring up at the star. She knows the warmth. She is Celeste, and she knows the warmth. Our pew absorbs us, and immediately I fall asleep…
Imagine a crisp winter evening, Christmas Eve. Celeste is sitting next to me in the moving minivan, staring out the window at the constellations above, her magazine crumpled, trampled underfoot on the floor. We Three Kings is floating from the radio. In the middle of the song, Celeste begins to repeat to me an oft-read tale, that of Helen, Paris, the Trojan War, and whether Helen should be known as Helen of Troy or Helen of Sparta. As I drift into peaceful dreams at the end of the story, Celeste leans forward and asks, "Mom, may I put the star on the top of the tree tonight?"
(This, warts and all, is a short story I wrote for my sophomore year English class, dated 15 December 1998.)
(Image cc-licensed: "The Star of Bethlehem" by Edward Burne-Jones)