The 13th Gift (12 page)

The lot is dark, and the tree stands are nearly empty.

“There were dozens of trees here the other day,” Megan says, sounding worried. “What if we can’t find one?”

“We’ll find one,” Charlotte reassures her.

We drive into Kettering and stop in the lawn and garden center of the Meijer store. One white spruce, the only tree left on the lot, looks as if it has been leaning against a fence for weeks. The branches on one side are completely flattened.

“Not a problem,” Char says. “We’ll place that side against the wall. It won’t take up as much space that way.”

A freezing rain begins to fall. Nick and I are anxious to get out of the weather, but Megan and Char are determined to make a purchase. We march inside the store and fetch the lot attendant. He holds up the tree for us to examine and tries to shake out the smashed branches. They don’t budge.

“Frozen,” he says. “Give it a day or two in the house, and they’ll fluff out.”

“We’ll take it,” Charlotte says, handing the clerk a twenty dollar bill, though the price of the tree is thirty-five dollars.

“Pitiful thing. Nobody else is going to buy it,” she tells the attendant. “Nick, help the young man load it into the back of the truck.”

From start to finish, the tree purchase takes all of ten minutes.

“That’s got to be a record,” Charlotte says.

Christmas tree–hunting expeditions with Rick had been epic. He would get a tip about a reasonably priced tree lot or farm from someone
at work and would start planning our trip immediately. The excursions always began early on a Sunday morning and involved packing a picnic lunch, which we ate with the heater blasting in our minivan in the early years and later in the GMC Suburban Rick’s dad bought for our family
.

We traveled tens of miles to find the perfect tree, stopping once to cut down a pine on the side of a remote country road in the dark, after my husband failed to locate the lot we were seeking. He didn’t want to disappoint our children. Feeling guilty about the deed, Rick had insisted we go back in the spring, also after dark, and plant a sapling
.

Buying a tree in a matter of minutes seems unnatural, but the frigid weather stifles any complaining. The kids are happy.

“Oh, Christmas tree. Oh, Christmas tree, I’m so glad Aunt Char found thee,” Megan sings most of the way home, in between bouts of adoration for the evergreen.

“It’s simply the most beautiful tree,” she says.

As we near the house, Nick and Megan recount the story of our five mysterious gifts to their aunt and speculate on what the next present will be.

“Maybe there’s a connection between the gifts in the song and the ones you’re receiving,” Char says. “What was gift number five—cards?”

“Angel note cards,” Nick and Megan say together.

“In the song, the fifth gifts are golden rings,” Char says. “Angels have halos? Those are like golden rings.”

“That’s right,” Nick says. “But I don’t see the connection between the partridge in a pear tree and a poinsettia.”

“The tree and the plant both have green leaves,” Megan says. “And they both begin with the letter
P
.”

“What about the other gifts? Any more connections?” Char asks.

“We got two bags of bows on the second day,” Megan says. “The bags had two bows of each color, including red, green, blue, and white, like turtle doves. But what do three rolls of gift wrap have to do with French hens?”

“Who knows?” Char says. “It’s a puzzle, though, and you two are good at those.”

We spot the package on the front porch just as Char turns the truck into the driveway. Nick is out of the vehicle before it rolls to a full stop.

“We got another one,” he shouts.

The gift bag holds six plastic drinking cups and a homemade card.

“Everyone into the house,” Nick says. “Let’s look for clues.”

I halt the procession.

“Let’s unload the tree first.”

“Where’s your tree stand?” Char asks. “We can take this baby right inside and set it up.”

“It’s in the garage. I’ll get it.”

Megan is racing around the garage to the back door, when I remember that our Christmas tree stand is history, thanks to my demolition derby a few nights ago.

“Wait. Come back,” I holler, and Megan returns. “Let’s put the tree in the garage. Give it a day or two to thaw.”

I leave the three of them waiting outside, while I go through the house to open the big garage door. I hide the smashed tree stand under some tarps, before flipping the switch to open the door.

“Took you long enough,” Char says, under her breath. “Hiding presents in there?”

It takes all four of us to haul the stiff tree out of the back of the truck. Once in the garage, I hold the spindly evergreen up, while Nick and Megan try to loosen the branches. A limb snaps off in Nick’s hand.

“Oops.”

Char instructs us to lean the fuller side of the tree against the garage wall. That’s when I realize how pathetic our little tree really is. The branches are bending at a near ninety-degree angle, and many of the tips hang by thin strings of bark. Even Megan wrinkles her nose a bit at our purchase.

“If the other side doesn’t fluff out, at least they’ll be even,” she says, making us all laugh.

Exhausted from a day of Christmas shopping, Char leaves us to solve the mystery of the gifts on our own. Nick collects the cards and lays them out on the dining room table.

The newest addition, four-by-three inches on white construction paper, is the smallest we’ve received. The design, like the ones that came with earlier gifts, includes hand-drawn holly leaves.

“Whoever is making the cards is an artist,” Megan says. “That’s one thing I know for sure.”

“Are either of you close to an art teacher?” I ask.

“Mrs. Urschel is a wonderful artist,” Megan says. “Remember when I wanted to quit school in first grade to become an artist? She taught me I could do both.”

“Have you talked to her lately? Does she even know about your dad?”

“She’s at the elementary school. I can’t remember the last time I saw her.”

“We’re never going to figure this out,” Nick says after a few more minutes. “I’m going downstairs to see what else needs to be done in the basement.”

Megan and I follow him down.

“A second coat of paint,” I say. “That ought to do it.”

I leave the painting to Nick and Megan. Using Christmas shopping as an excuse to get out of the house, I have to buy a new tree stand. By the time I get to the hardware store, the manager is locking the doors, so I drive to the twenty-four-hour discount center.

“Sold our last stand this afternoon.”

Running out of options, I call my brother-in-law Tom.

“I’ve got an old stand in the garage. It’s rickety, but it’ll work.”

A light snow begins falling during the short drive to my in-laws. Tom meets me at the garage door with the rusted stand in hand.

“Rick bought a new one of these last year. I was with him,” he says thoughtfully.

Mercifully, Tom doesn’t ask what happened to the new stand.

Ten minutes later, I’m stopped at Little Sugarcreek and Feedwire Roads on my way home, when a red car streaks through the intersection. A hand sticks out of the open window on the passenger side holding a lighted cigarette. Even though my car windows are rolled up, I hear music blasting from the
vehicle: Pantera’s
The Great Southern Trendkill
. It’s Ben’s favorite album.

My eyes follow the car as it leaps into the air at the crest of the first in a series of mogul-like hills. Belly-drop hills, the police call them, because that’s what happens if you drive over them too fast.

The car behind me honks, and I move on, but I don’t go home. I turn right and follow in the direction of the car, fearing that Ben is the driver. Hoping I am wrong. My hands tremble on the steering wheel as my car creeps over the first hill, then the second. There is no wreckage on the roadside, no smoke rising from a bent engine. No bodies.

I tell myself Ben is safe at a friend’s house. They are watching movies, playing video games, eating junk food. But I don’t know for sure. I never catch up with the car. Its taillights are swallowed by darkness and snowfall.

When I finally turn my car around and head for home, I can’t help but think of the gift givers, hoping their Christmas spirit will touch Ben’s heart just as it has Nick’s and Megan’s.

T
HE CLOCK ON
the mantel chimes twice: two a.m. I stand at the window watching the darkened street, praying every time I see headlights creeping toward the house that they will be Ben’s. I have been worried ever since I saw the red car speeding through the intersection on the way home from Tom’s house.

There have been too many nights like this, with me waiting at the window, enforcing no consequences when Ben comes home way later than his midnight curfew. I’m so afraid of driving him further away from me that I stay mute, not giving my son what I know he needs—parenting and love.

Shame on me.

Since Rick’s death, I have been emotionally absent from our children, blind to Nick’s nightmares, unable to fill Megan’s need for Christmas. Ben is drifting, walking alone with his grief.

If someone had asked me how we were getting along a week
ago, I would have said fine, under the circumstances. I work. Pay bills. The kids attend school. Most days, someone remembers to feed the dog and cat.

But we weren’t fine, and our true friends knew it.

Now I do, too.

I have been sleepwalking for more than two months, hardly conscious of a family falling apart. It wasn’t until I nearly stumbled over that poinsettia that I began to see how much my kids needed me.

My eyes are open now.

Thanks to our true friends, Momma Bear is back. My gusto for Christmas may not be the same as in years past, but my kids will know they are not on their own. We’ll order a pizza. I’ll buy a few presents, and we will decorate our tree, provided it thaws out.

I flip the porch light on and off to make sure it is working, then patrol the house, careful not to wake Megan and Nick, who went to bed hours ago. When I reach my own closed bedroom door, I hesitate. I haven’t been in there for weeks. My clothes hang on a rack in the laundry room. I sleep on the couch. I shower in the guest bathroom. Though I tell myself there is nothing to be afraid of, the room frightens me. I have not dusted in there or vacuumed since before October 8.

Placing my hand on the doorknob, I find myself wishing one of those true friends were here beside me now. The thought surprises me, and I don’t feel so alone. I was angry when we received that first gift, now I am curious about who they are and grateful for their attention.

This room is another demon they will help me conquer.

The hinges of the door squeak as I push it open. I peek inside from the safety of the hallway, where the chill of the room is already starting to creep.

I force myself to see what my children see every time I send one of them in here to fetch a blouse from the closet, or a necklace from my jewelry box. I always have an excuse not to go myself; tonight, as I wait for my son to come home, there are no more excuses.

A thick layer of dust covers the pine frame of our king-sized waterbed. The fitted sheet Rick died on is still tucked around the mattress. His too-small slippers, with the smashed-down heels, sit next to the bathroom door. The gym bag my husband planned to pack for his hospital stay stands empty in the corner.

It is as if the room is waiting.

I tug the sheet off the bed, the pillowcases, the blankets, and stuff them into the gym bag. They will go, unwashed, to Goodwill. I fetch one of the boxes Megan emptied of Christmas decorations from the family room and carry it upstairs. The old slippers go in first, then I thin out Rick’s closet of everything except his favorite sweaters. Those I leave hidden among my own clothes. Rick’s watch, Swiss Army knife, key chain, and wedding ring go into the bottom of my jewelry box, keepsakes I will give to our kids someday. I find something else that needs to go; flushing the contents of four bottles of Rick’s heart medication down the toilet seems an appropriate end. I toss the containers in the trash.