One Imperfect Christmas (7 page)

“Maybe I'll quit school. Maybe—”

“Lissa!” Mom and Dad burst out in unison. Great, the one thing they had to agree on.

Okay, dropping out was a dumb idea. And if running away didn't scare some sense into them, she'd have to think of something else fast.
Something
had to snap her parents out of this craziness. She laced her arms across her chest and shifted her gaze from one to the other. Which one was the weakest link?

Mom. Definitely Mom. She'd been a total basket case ever since Grandma got sick.

Sky, Granddad's lumbering old Great Dane, padded over and rested his slobbery chin on Lissa's knee. She stroked his head while she came up with a new plan.

“Okay, here's the deal.” Heaving a dramatic sigh, Lissa tossed her parents a withering look. “You're both being dorks about this whole separation thing, and now you've sold our house right out from under me.”

She sniffled for effect and wiped at an imaginary tear, which really wasn't so imaginary if she thought about it. “Mom, you spend so much time at your office that I hardly ever see you.”

“But if you lived with me—”

“Sorry, Dad's earned way more brownie points than you. At least he's usually around when I need him.”

Her father straightened and crossed his arms, slanting Lissa's mother an I-told-you-so smirk. Mom just rolled her eyes.

“So if you won't let me stay with Granddad, then I've decided.” She skewered her mother with a cold, hard stare, praying her words would hit their mark. “I'm moving to Putnam with Dad.”

5

S
eated on her secondhand apartment sofa, Natalie hugged her knees and watched the late-August sun climb into the morning sky. The effect lost some of its beauty as seen along the corrugated roofline of the sheltered parking area. Though she should have been dressed and on her way out the door by now, she still lingered in her gray sleep shirt, elephant-print bottoms, and bare feet. Despite the sunny morning, a dreary cloud hung over her—a lethargy of body and spirit—all because she happened to see a bright yellow school bus rumble past the apartment complex entrance, a painful reminder that Lissa started school today in Putnam.

It wasn't fair. Natalie should be the one exulting in the smells of Lissa's new backpack, pencils, and notebook paper. Natalie—not Daniel—should be the one driving her daughter to school, helping with her homework, listening to the endless gossip about her friends and which boy she had a crush on this year and how mean her new English teacher was.

Okay, if she were perfectly honest, she also missed tripping over Daniel's musty briefcase and sweaty sneakers, shoving his endless clippings from the sports pages to the other end of the table, teasing him out of a funk when his team lost a game. She missed all of it.

Across the room, stuffed into a lower cube of her modular entertainment center, she glimpsed the hodgepodge of materials she'd collected on strokes. She wondered why she kept it, why she'd bothered ordering it at all. Half the treatment recommendations were geared toward patients with far more control and cognition than Mom displayed. The other half were so depressing in their descriptions of life after a massive stroke that Natalie couldn't bear to finish them.

A tremor worked its way up her body and culminated in a stifled sob. She felt as if she'd landed on a barren beach at the foot of a rocky cliff, with no way up and no way around. And behind her an angry sea closed in fast. If she didn't find an escape route soon, she would surely drown. She needed help, and it was high time she admitted it.

Uncoiling her legs, she pushed up from the sofa and reached for the phone on the breakfast bar. Her fingers felt heavy and numb as she pressed the number for Fawn Ridge Fellowship. The secretary answered and immediately put Natalie through to Pastor Mayer.

“Natalie, how are you? Everything okay with this week's newsletter?”

“That isn't why I'm calling, Pastor.” Her voice sounded distant, hoarse, not like her own at all. “I … I need … ”

Pastor Mayer must have recognized the desperation darkening her tone. “How can I help? Do you want to come in and—”

“No, no, I can't.” Until her mother's stroke, she'd prided herself on her optimism, confidence, and self-control. How could she now slice open her heart and reveal its ugliness to someone she'd known for most of her life? “If you could just give me the name of someone. Preferably someone who doesn't know me or my family.”

“I see. Yes, give me a moment.” A few seconds later he offered the name and number of a Christian counselor. “Dr. Julia Sirpless practices from her home office in Fielding. Is that too far away for you?”

“It's only an hour's drive. Sounds perfect.”

If anything in her life could be called perfect. Before she could talk herself out of it, she phoned Dr. Sirpless and made an appointment for the following Monday. Thankfully, the doctor took evening appointments, which would save Natalie the difficulty of explaining absences from the office.

The first few visits went well, with Natalie mostly providing a detached overview of the events that brought her to this point. The petite and professional Dr. Sirpless had definitely mastered the art of smiling and nodding in all the right places. And Natalie had to admit, merely talking through her mother's stroke and some of the arguments with Daniel that led to their separation provided the safety valve she needed to keep from losing it completely.

On her last visit before the Thanksgiving holiday, as the session drew to a close, Dr. Sirpless capped her pen and said, “Tell me how you feel about the progress we've made.”

“Good, I think.” Natalie glanced around the room, her gaze flitting across an autumn-hued silk flower arrangement on the coffee table, a pine-cone wreath over the mantel. A glass-domed clock on the corner of the doctor's desk ticked off the minutes as the time neared nine o'clock.

“Just … good?”

“It's helping to talk objectively about things, but … ” A whisper echoed in a distant part of her brain, a voice telling her they hadn't yet plumbed the depths of her issues. She lifted her gaze to meet the doctor's. “You think I'm holding back, don't you?”

“I think there are parts of your pain you aren't ready to explore yet. In time, you will be.” Dr. Sirpless rose, her signal their time was up. “Try to enjoy the holiday with your family. We'll take this up again next week.”

Enjoy the holiday? She'd tried and failed miserably.

Natalie shoved away from the computer screen and rubbed her tired, dry eyes. Silence cloaked the print shop. A brisk November breeze whisked dead leaves across the sidewalk outside her window. Across the square, an elderly couple she recognized from church strolled into the Hillman House Café, one of the few businesses open on Thanksgiving Day, mainly for the folks who had no one with whom to spend the holiday.

For all the joy this day had brought her, Natalie might as well be one of them. Daniel had taken Lissa to visit his parents. Natalie put in an appearance at Hart and Celia's, but by the time dinner ended and Dad, Hart, and the twins adjourned to the den for a TV football marathon, Natalie had endured all the family togetherness she could bear. She'd intended to go home to her apartment and console herself with another huge helping of the pecan pie Celia had foisted upon her.

The next thing she knew, she'd turned into the empty parking lot behind the print shop. She'd work just long enough to finish the ad layout she'd worked on yesterday—an hour. Two at most. Just long enough to get through the loneliest Thanksgiving she'd ever spent.

Her breath stuck in the upper part of her chest. Her hand crept toward the side drawer and inched it open. She slid out her business card folio and flipped to the last card on the last plastic page. One finger traced the phone number, and she lifted her desk phone receiver.

“Dr. Sirpless? I was afraid I'd get your voice mail. It's Natalie Pearce.”

“I saw your name on the caller ID and decided to pick up. How are you, Natalie?” Calm concern laced the woman's pleasantly husky voice.

“Not so good. You're probably celebrating with your family, but—” The tightness in her chest intensified. “I really need to talk.”

“Holidays are the hardest, aren't they? I was just heading home. I can meet you at my office in an hour.”

“Thank you.” Natalie gave a shuddering sniff. “Thank you.”

She powered down the computer, flicked off the lights, and slid her arms into her camel-hair coat. Though her hands still shook as she fumbled to insert her car key into the ignition, a tiny glimmer of relief had already nudged its way past the gloom shrouding her heart.

Dusk had closed in by the time she parked in the driveway at Dr. Sirpless's home. She followed the narrow walkway around to the office addition behind the garage. The amber glow of a floor lamp shone through thin curtains. Natalie knocked and entered.

Dressed in slim-fitting jeans and a holiday sweater, her auburn hair in a loose ponytail, the doctor appeared through an inner door. “I've just started water for tea. Chamomile, hibiscus, or Earl Gray?”

“Chamomile, definitely.” Natalie smiled her thanks as she laid her coat and purse on a bench by the door. She sank into the depths of a navy velveteen overstuffed chair and inhaled the soothing aroma from a lavender-scented candle.

Dr. Sirpless returned with two tall, white china mugs decorated with Currier and Ives winter scenes. She handed one to Natalie and settled in the matching chair to Natalie's left. “This is your first Thanksgiving since you and your husband separated. I'm sure it raised more than a few memories.”

Natalie wrapped her fingers around the mug and let the warmth soak away the stiffness from the drive over. “I miss Daniel. I miss Lissa.” Her voice cracked. “I miss my mom.”

“Up to now we've only talked around the guilt, the regrets.” Dr. Sirpless sipped her tea. “Tonight I'd like you to tell me more about your mother. Not your failure to help with the Christmas decorations. Not the stroke. Just the good things.”

Natalie drew in a long, slow breath that shivered past her heart. She set the mug on a ceramic coaster and folded her hands in her lap. Staring at them, she let her mind drift through scenes from her childhood. “She's the best mother ever. Smart. Talented. Devoted to her family—”

Dr. Sirpless gave a low chuckle and held up one hand. “You love her, that's obvious. But no mother is perfect. Is it possible you need to adjust your view of her—allow for a bit more realism?”

Natalie squirmed. She tucked one leg under her and picked at a hangnail. Thunder rumbled in the distance … or was it only in her imagination?

“
I can take care of the horses, Mom. Go to your art show. You've been working years for this—your chance to be recognized at a major gallery.”

“Didn't you hear the weather forecast? I won't leave you alone on the farm with a bunch of nervous animals.”

“What are you remembering, Natalie?”

“I'm not sure I can talk about it.” Her voice creaked like a rusty feed bucket handle.

“Why not?”

She tipped her head, closed her eyes, and waited for the pain to pass.

It didn't. Instead, it encircled her throat and squeezed. She leaned on the padded chair arm and fixed her gaze on the lamp's golden reflection on the surface of her tea. “It was late March. Mom and I were alone on the farm. Dad had to drive a Friesian mare he'd been training back to her owner, and the round trip would take all weekend.”