The Christmas Note (12 page)

Twelve

Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful.

—
N
ORMAN
V
INCENT
P
EALE

GRETCHEN

I didn’t hear anything in church today. I sat beside Mom and Gloria and Marshall and thought of Kyle, prayed for Kyle, hoped for Kyle, and cried, feeling sorry for myself. I want him home. In one breath it scares me to death that he’ll never be able to walk as he once did, but then in the next breath I’m grateful he’s alive. In another breath I worry that he won’t be able to do the work he loves, but as I exhale, I cry because he’ll be able to hug Emma and Ethan each day.

I feel bad because I snapped at Melissa yesterday and never apologized. I just couldn’t hear about Ramona again. I couldn’t take one more story about why Melissa’s life is pathetic and how Ramona is to blame. The fact is, Melissa’s life isn’t pathetic. She not only works, but is able to keep a job and pay a mortgage, something her mother never did. Melissa’s much smarter and brighter than she thinks she is; she could easily get a job in an office or even run her own business. I believe that. I need to apologize for snapping at her, but when we get home from church I’m exhausted and just want to take a nap. Some days are like that. For days and months on end I am mother, father, nurse, cook, maid, teacher, taxi driver, laundress, and referee. Every now and then I want to climb into bed without any responsibility and pull the covers over my head.

I throw on a pair of jeans and am putting on a sweatshirt when the doorbell rings. I groan because I don’t want to see anyone. I open the door without looking through the peephole and scream. “Dad!”

“Hi, sweet pea.” Tears pour over my cheeks as I throw my arms around his neck. He smells like shaving cream and cigars. “I’m here nine days early. Is that okay?” I nod and sob into the whiskers on his neck. The tears I hide from the kids so I won’t scare them pour over my father. “It’ll be all right, Gretchen. Everything will be all right.”

“I miss him so much, Dad.”

He squeezes me tighter, and I’m eight years old again. “I know you do.”

I try to hold it together but I can’t; I’m a drippy mess. “Why are you here so early?”

“Because I thought you could use a break and maybe your old dad could give you one.”

I laugh and cry at the same time. He’s always known who I was. He’s always known when I need to be quiet and when he needs to be quiet with me. He’s always known when to pick me up and when I need to pick myself up. He’s always known when I need a wink, a hug, a shoulder, or a time-out. My dad has his own brand of problems, but he still knows me. I pick up one of his bags and yell as I set it down in the entryway, shouting for the kids.

*   *   *

Dad is playing his fourth game with the kids (this time it’s Battleship with Ethan) when the doorbell rings. I nearly laugh crossing to the door because I called Mom from my bedroom and asked her to come over for coffee. I didn’t tell her Dad was here. Sure, it was sneaky and maybe even a bit cruel, but I just had to do it. I swing the door open and smile. Her hair is perfect, and she’s wearing a periwinkle scarf around her neck. She steps inside, and her eyes are the size of full moons when she screams. “Phillip!” She puts her hand on her forehead and I laugh, watching her. “I had no idea that you…” Her hand moves to her cheek and I laugh harder.

Dad is handsome as he smiles, standing to his feet. He is tall and his arms are well defined for a man his age. His hair is much thinner and grayer now, but his eyes are still as blue. “Look at you, Miriam,” he says, crossing to her.

He kisses her cheek and Ethan laughs, slapping his forehead. “They can’t kiss anymore. They’re not married!”

Dad laughs and hugs Mom. She is stiff and gives me a dirty look. “You are an awful child, Gretchen Elizabeth.”

Dad helps Mom take off her coat and he hangs it on the hall tree. “Relax, Miriam. She needs a good laugh.”

“At the expense of her mother?!”

I take her gloves and purse. “I’m sorry, Mom. I just had to.”

Mom straightens her hair and tries to peek at herself in the hall tree mirror. “I thought you were coming much later,” she says, wiping something imaginary from her sweater.

Dad takes her hand and leads her to the sofa. “Sit down, Miriam. As I finish my game with Ethan I will tell you all about it.”

“He came to surprise Mom,” Ethan says.

Mom sits and straightens her slacks. “Well, good. We’ve all gotten a grand surprise today.”

“D seven,” Ethan says.

Dad makes the sound of an explosion and Ethan laughs. “You sank my battleship!” He looks at Mom and smiles. “You are a vision, Miriam.”

Mom’s face turns red and she swats at something in the air. “Oh, pish-posh applesauce. Be quiet, you!”

I laugh out loud from the kitchen because I’ve never heard my mother get flustered, but she doesn’t know what to do with her hands and is grappling with the pillows on the sofa.

“No, no, you are,” Dad says, sitting next to her. “It’s like time forgot to march on with you.”

I strain to hear them as I pour the coffee. “You look well, Phillip. It’s good to see that you still have your hair and haven’t gotten fat. You were quite portly at Gretchen’s graduation. You’re not stooped over, your fingers aren’t gnarled, and you’re not gasping for breath so that’s something, too.”

I put some cookies on a plate and laugh out loud. She’s dying out there. I walk to the living room with two cups of coffee in one hand and put them in front of Mom and Dad. That sounds so weird in my head. Mom and Dad. They each take a cup from me while Emma takes the cookies. I go back for my coffee and bring some cream and sugar. Something sweeps through my chest that feels like sadness or joy or maybe both. I don’t know. I learned to live with the fact that my parents were no longer together, but here they are, sitting together and looking as I always imagined in my mind. Yet they’re not together. I know that.

“Gretchen,” Dad says. “Feel free to take off anytime to be with Kyle. Your mother and I can take care of the kids.” I glance at Mom, waiting for her to protest the two of them working together, but she nods. “When are they moving Kyle to Texas?”

“On Tuesday.”

He leans close to me on the couch and squeezes my leg. “Then why don’t you book a plane ticket?” Tears fill my eyes and I nod. Dad wraps his arms around me and kisses my cheek. “Why don’t you give me a list of things you need done around here, okay?” He looks around the living room. “I’ll start with hanging the pictures.”

I cry, blowing my nose, and laugh. “I can’t hang them like Kyle.”

“I know, Gretch. Your mother never could hang a picture, either.”

Mom groans and shakes her head. “She picked up all my horrible traits and all of your glorious ones!”

Dad wraps one arm around Mom and her back stiffens. “She clearly picked up on all of your beauty, Miriam.”

“It is getting ever so deep in here,” Mom says. “Where are my green Wellies when I need them most?”

“Maybe you can work on hooking up the DVD player, too, Dad. I hooked it up, but a line divides the screen somehow so the kids only see part of the picture.”

He pulls my head onto his shoulder. “I will check into all electronics, and I will even plant some shrubs and a small tree out front. Now’s the best time of year for that. It’s the best time of year for so many things.”

Thirteen

Each of us is here for a brief sojourn; for what purpose he knows not, though he senses it. But without deeper reflection one knows from daily life that one exists for other people.

—
A
LBERT
E
INSTEIN

MELISSA

It’s a cute two-story house with an enclosed porch on the side. The smaller trees have Christmas lights, and strands are wrapped around the shrubs in front of the porch and outline the roof. I knock on the door and feel my pulse knocking hard. A teenage boy answers wearing a white T-shirt and flannel pajama pants. “Hi, is Karla home?”

“She and Dad and Gramps went to the hospital already. Were you the lady who was bringing food?”

Crap. I didn’t even think to bring anything. “No. I work with Josh at Wilson’s. I just wanted to talk to your mom about your grandma.”

“Grandma’s here. Do you want to talk to her yourself?”

I feel the pulse on the side of my head. “Yeah. If she’s up and doing okay. Josh told me she was sick.”

He tips his head back and says, “Come on.”

I follow him through a living room decorated in warm browns, plums, and gold, through a hallway, and then step down into a family room with a plush sofa and big, comfy chairs. There, in one of the chairs by the window is Josh’s grandmother. “Grandma, this lady works with Josh.” I hadn’t told him my name, and he doesn’t ask as he bolts from the room.

She turns to look at me and my eyes fill. Her hair is white and her full face is lined with wrinkles, but her eyes are as brown and openhearted as I remember. “Mrs. Schweiger,” I say, choking on her name.

Her face opens in recognition and she puts something from her lap into a box on the table beside her. “Melissy!” She tries to stand and I move to her side, sitting down. She puts her hands on each side of my face and water covers her eyes. “Look at you! Look at what a beautiful woman you grew up to be!” It feels like my throat is cracking, and streams of tears spill over my face. It’s been close to thirty years since I’ve seen her, but all my life I’ve loved this woman as if she were my mother. She puts her arms around me and I crumble, remembering her hugging me as a child.

“I heard you were sick,” I say, swiping at the tears on my face.

“I was sick, but now I’m much better.”

“But you didn’t go to the hospital this morning.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “So this morning I’m not as better as I was yesterday.” She sticks her finger up as if popping a balloon. “But tomorrow I’ll be better than today. Eight years ago Albert and I moved to Albuquerque; the weather was supposed to be better for this and that ailment but look what happened. I got sick anyway.” I love hearing her voice again and watching her gestures. “You are here.” She makes it sound like she’d been expecting me. “Look at you. So beautiful. So smart. You were always so smart in school, bringing home those As in spelling and math. What do you do?”

“I just work in the mail room at Wilson’s.”

“What do you mean ‘just’?” She looks at me and her face is solemn. “My Al just worked in the stockroom at the supermarket until he managed the place one day.
Just
is nothing but a phony-baloney word. You’re good enough to work in the mail room and smart enough to work your way out of it.” She believes that, too. She reaches for the box on the end table and smiles. “I never stopped praying for you, Melissy.” She takes the top off the box and pulls out a stack of photos. “I pick up each of these pictures in here everyday and I pray.” She puts down a picture and names the person in the photo. “Josh, Eric, Taylor, Arianah, Drew, Taj, and Asia—my grandchildren. Karla, Mike, Madden, Grace, Louie, and Jen—my children and their spouses.” She smiles at me. “And then all of my adopted children.” She hands a photo to me, a picture of a kid about six or so standing in front of the old apartments where Ramona and I lived next door to the Schweigers. “Do you remember him? Bruce Linton from upstairs? Always had a runny nose?”

“Of course! He played with me and Louie everyday! Mean little kid.”

She laughs. “He was spirited! He’s the fire chief now somewhere in California. These…” She rummages through the photos until she finds one. “These were Bruce’s parents. Remember?” I nod. “Such nice people. His father died of a heart attack a couple of years ago, but his mother lives near Bruce.” She puts another picture on my lap. “That’s Rachel. She was Karla’s age, so you might not remember her.”

“She always wore her hair in a thick braid,” I say, studying the picture.

“This was taken the day she got her hair cut. She’s in Florida and is a fourth grade teacher.” She flips through one picture after another. “That’s Tommy. I don’t know where he is. Garland lived next door to us after we moved away from the apartments. He works with computers. Ronnie is a policeman in Wyoming.” On and on she went through a pile of worn photos of kids who wouldn’t know her if they passed her on the street, but she prays for them anyway. She hands another picture to me, one of me when I was around nine, wearing green shorts and a striped yellow shirt and standing next to Karla, Madden, and Louie in front of a Ferris wheel at the county fair. “I saw your face every day. And I prayed for you.” I look down at the photo and shake my head. “I prayed that God would protect you and guide you and your mother.”

I look at her. “You remember what my mother was like, Mrs. Schweiger, so I’m not sure if praying worked.”

She lays her hand on top of mine, and her voice gets quiet. “I know life was hard for you at that time in the apartments, and I always prayed that you would be strong and that you wouldn’t give up. I know that you haven’t, because look at you! You’re here and your heart pops right out of your eyes.” She squeezes my hand and leans in close. “I know your mother must be proud of who you are.”

“Ramona died less than two weeks ago.”

The sound of air escaping her lungs fills the room, and she wraps her arm around the small of my back. “I’m so sorry, love.” A single tear sneaks down my cheek and I brush it away with my finger. “How did she die?”

I search the floor for answers. “Alone in her apartment. Her heart stopped.” I laugh. “I could have told the coroner that years ago!”

She rubs my back and leans over to the end table for the tissues, handing me two. “How was she at the end?”