Christmas arrived without Ruth.
I hadn't realized how much of the holiday had been built around her until she wasn't there.
The house felt different.
Our children were visiting relatives that year, so Daniel and I accepted Carol's invitation to dinner.
Jeanette was coming too.
I wasn't especially excited about it.
But I didn't want to avoid the family simply because Ruth was gone.
Carol's house was decorated beautifully.
There were candles on the dining table.
A large wreath hung above the fireplace.
The kitchen smelled of roasted meat and fresh bread.
People talked about work, the weather, and the children.
Nobody said much about Ruth.
Not directly.
Her absence was everywhere, but everyone seemed determined to keep the evening cheerful.
I helped Carol carry dishes to the table.
Jeanette was arranging glasses.
Daniel was talking with his brother-in-law.
For a while, it felt almost normal.
Then dinner ended.
We moved into the kitchen to clear the plates.
Carol opened the pantry.
She stood there for a moment, looking at the shelves.
Then she reached toward the back.
"Oh, look at this."
I turned around.
She was holding a mason jar.
I recognized it immediately.
The calico cloth.
The familiar glass shape.
The hand-painted number on the lid.
Forty.
I felt something tighten in my chest.
Carol turned the jar around.
"Mom must have made this before she went into the hospital."
Jeanette came closer.
"Another plum jar?"
Carol laughed.
"Of course."
She looked directly at me.
"Linda, I suppose this one is yours."
Then she tossed it across the kitchen.
Not hard.
Just casually, as though she were throwing me a dish towel.
I caught it with both hands.
The jar landed against my palms.
Jeanette laughed.
"Forty years of jam. You deserve a medal."
Carol smiled.
"Or at least a certificate."
I looked down at the lid.
Number forty.
I had never seen that number before.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
I felt a strange mixture of sadness and affection.
Ruth had made one more jar.
Even near the end.
Even when she was sick.
She had remembered me.
I ran my thumb over the painted number.
It wasn't perfectly straight.
The four leaned slightly to one side.
The zero was smaller than the others.
It looked as though Ruth had painted it carefully with an old brush.
I looked at Carol.
"Thank you."
She shrugged.
"It's only jam."
I nodded.
I didn't argue.
I didn't explain why I wanted it.
I simply held the jar.
Then I noticed something.
It felt heavier than the others.
Not dramatically.
But enough that I shifted it in my hands.
I looked at the glass.
The contents appeared normal.
Dark purple jam.
No visible cracks.
No strange objects.
But the weight was wrong.
I knew because I had carried thirty-nine jars before that one.
I knew how they felt.
I knew the weight of a pint of plum preserves.
This one was different.
I looked at the lid again.
The number forty seemed to stare back at me.
"Are you going to open it?" Jeanette asked.
I shook my head.
"Not yet."
Carol was already turning away.
"Well, take it home before someone puts it in the fridge."
I slipped the jar carefully into my bag.
I didn't tell them it felt unusual.
I didn't want to explain something I couldn't explain myself.
The evening continued.
People talked.
The dishes were washed.
Someone put on music in the living room.
But I barely heard any of it.
I kept thinking about the jar.
About Ruth making it.
About the little number on the lid.
And about the weight.
When Daniel and I finally left, I held my bag on my lap during the drive home.
He glanced at me.
"Everything all right?"
"Yes."
I looked out the window.
"I just want to get home."
He nodded.
We didn't speak much after that.
When we arrived, Daniel went upstairs.
I stayed in the kitchen with my bag.
I took out the jar.
Placed it on the counter.
And stood looking at it.
Number forty.
The last one.
I turned it slowly.
The cloth was tied neatly around the lid.
The glass was clean.
The jam inside looked exactly like every other batch Ruth had made.
But something was hidden in it.
I was certain of that now.
I picked it up again.
The weight shifted slightly when I moved it.
Not the way jam moved.
Something solid.
Something separate.
I put it down.
Then I looked at the clock.
Eleven.
I could have opened it right there.
But I didn't.
I went downstairs instead.
The basement light flickered before settling.
The wooden shelf stood against the wall.
Thirty-nine empty jars.
I counted them.
One through thirty-nine.
Every number was there.
I had never missed one.
I moved closer.
For the first time in forty years, I wondered whether I had misunderstood what Ruth had been giving me.
I went back upstairs.
I picked up jar number forty.
Then I returned to the basement.
I placed it on the worktable beside the old flashlight.
I didn't know what I was looking for.
I only knew I needed to check the other jars.
All of them.
I reached for number one.
And turned it upside down.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: The First Jar Held Something I Had Never Expected Ruth to Leave Behind, and Suddenly Forty Christmases Meant Something Different
For Forty Christmases, I Thought I Was the Only One Who Didn’t Understand What Ruth Was Giving Me
Part 4 of 20
