The Christmas Note (6 page)

Six

It is our relation to circumstances that determine their influence over us. The same wind that blows one ship into port may blow another offshore.

—
C
HRISTIAN
N
EVELL
B
OVEE

GRETCHEN

I take the kids to the new school and walk each of them to their classrooms, then cry all the way back to my car. Their little faces were wide-eyed and brave even as they squeezed my hands right up to the last second before letting go. New things are always so hard.

It takes a while, but I find the cemetery and pull into the parking lot, looking around. Two other cars are here and I get out, shoving my hands into my coat pockets. I haven’t heard from Melissa since she ran from her mother’s apartment. There was a part of me that felt so sorry for her as we worked together in that atrocious space. I could hear her mumbling and cursing and see her throwing things out of anger and rejection, and my chest felt so heavy thinking about her growing up with the woman who had lived there. Then there is another part of me who can barely stand to be with her. It’s too much like work. So why in the world am I here? I see two people in the distance near the back of the cemetery grounds and walk on a path through the headstones toward them.

Melissa’s back is to me, and I watch as the wind picks up her hair and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Wisps of snow seem to fall from the trees and swirl on top of the ground. The undertaker nods and I step next to Melissa; her eyes are dark and tired looking at me.

“How’d you know?” she asks.

“Ramona’s landlord knew she was being buried today. He told me before I left the apartment.”

Clear liquid leaks from her nose and Melissa swipes at it with her hand. “Big turnout, huh?”

I look inside the hole at the simple box and wonder if the state paid for this plot or how Ramona ended up here.

“Why are you here?” Melissa asks.

I pull my scarf tighter around my neck. “I’ve been to a lot of these. Men in my husband’s unit.”

“Heroes,” she says, wiping the snot away from her nose again. “This is Ramona.”

I look into the hole. “She was your mom, and everybody should have someone at their side when they bury their mom.”

*   *   *

I sit behind the wheel of my car and watch as Melissa pulls away from the cemetery. The cold, the open grave, the memories of Kyle and his unit rattle my brain, and sobs from somewhere in my chest overtake me. I cry until my head hurts, my eyes are puffy, and my tissue is in soggy shreds.

I wipe my face with a napkin from the glove compartment before I step inside Mom’s house. She’s going crazy because she can’t figure out how to fix this new life of ours, and if she sees that I’ve been crying, she’ll worry the rest of the day.

Gloria is making her morning visit, and I smell freshly baked something or other. “Cinnamon rolls,” she says, putting one oozing with icing on a plate for me. I stare at it and Mom laughs.

“You must eat that because if you don’t she’ll leave it here for me and my trousers simply cannot take the pressure.”

I take a bite and Gloria leans in, waiting for my response. I moan and she bangs the table with her hand. “See that, Miriam! We are going to
bake
a difference this Christmas!”

Mom rolls her eyes and I take another bite. “What’s that mean?” I ask.

“Another one of her ideas,” Mom says, filling a cup with coffee for me.

Gloria waves her hand in Mom’s face to hush her. “Every year the chamber orchestra does a Christmas concert. This year all the funds from the admission tickets are going to Glory’s Place to help the families we work with. And while that’s a wonderful thing, the ticket price is only five dollars. It has always been five dollars and will always be five dollars, and that doesn’t add up to much money at the end of the night. Well, I thought we could raise even more money by offering quality baked goods. You know, some people don’t have time to bake a pie or a cake for Christmas get-togethers.”

“And others can’t … or don’t want to,” Mom adds, winking at me.

Gloria waves at her to shush again. “So this year I think we can bake a difference by gathering really nice baked goods and selling them at the concert.” She bangs the table again and Mom jumps, grabbing her head. “No brownies are allowed! Everybody always makes brownies. Cakes, pies, candies, and Christmas cookies only. No chocolate chips!” She spins in her seat and looks around. “For heaven’s sake, Miriam! Where do you keep your paper? I have to write all this down.”

Mom jumps up and glides in her pink satin robe to the drawer under the coffeepot, and I smile watching her. She’s owned a pink satin gown and robe set for as long as I can remember. “Cakes, pies, candies, and cookies,” she says, handing a notepad and pen to Gloria. “What’s so hard to remember?”

“Let’s think of good bakers in town.” She puts the pen to her mouth and begins to think aloud.

“Oh, Gloria, please! Can’t your brainstorming wait? Gretchen just got here.”

“Don’t stop,” I say. “I love the idea. Put me down for something. Mom and I can surely bake a difference together.” Mom refills my coffee and groans at the idea, sitting down with a swish and a swirl.

“You could ask your neighbor if she’d like to help,” Gloria says, tapping the notepad. “What’s her name?”

“Melissa. But I don’t think she’s the baking a difference type.” Although Mom heard all about the apartment cleaning trip, I give Gloria the 411 of what happened, ending with the note.

“It is just so sad to me,” Mom says. “I can’t imagine not being a part of my children’s lives to the point that neither of them would even know that I was dead.”

“Now don’t get worked up,” Gloria says. “I’ll make sure that your kids know that you’re dead.”

I smile and pat Mom’s hand. “You were a great mother, Mom. Don’t worry. You weren’t anything like Melissa’s mom.”

“I never made you things like chicken and dumplings or cinnamon rolls.”

“No. But you made lots of mac and cheese.”

She makes tiny circles with her finger in the air. “Big deal.”

“You showed up at every choir concert and musical.”

Mom shoves a bite into her mouth and leans her head down on her hand. “Oh, yes! Those concerts could be brutal.”

Gloria holds her cup with both hands. “What’s Melissa like?”

“I don’t know,” I say, pushing my plate away. “She’s just so odd to pin down.”

“I’d be a bit wacky too, if I had a mother like hers,” Mom says. She points her finger at Gloria. “Don’t say a word, big mouth!”

Gloria laughs out loud and writes something on the notepad. “Just for that, I’m putting you down for two cakes.” She looks at me and cocks her head; salt-and-pepper ringlets bounce on her forehead. “Why’d you offer to help her find her siblings?”

I sigh. “Because she’s so pitiful … and if I had siblings that I didn’t know about, I’d want to find them.”

“But it seems you have so much on your plate right now,” Mom says.

“I’m alone right now, Mom. I’m going to go home and clunk around in that empty condo. Trust me, this will be a good distraction.” She wants to say more but practices unbelievable restraint.

“She should call Robert Layton,” Gloria says. “He’s a lawyer in town and a longtime friend of mine. Miriam would latch onto him if he wasn’t ten years younger than her.”

Mom’s cup hits the table with a thud. “Robert Layton is a married man, and if truth be known, he is a good five years
older
than I am.” Gloria pretends to choke and Mom looks at me. “Do not encourage her, Gretchen. She is a child stuffed inside an old woman’s body.”

Gloria laughs out loud and takes another nibble of cinnamon roll. “Robert would know where to start in tracking down her siblings.” She offers me another cinnamon roll. “Eat up, kiddo. These are so good you’ll want to smack your mama. Which I’d love to see, by the way.”

“You simply must eat another roll,” Mom says. “Because if you don’t Gloria will leave all of them here for me. This is what she does. She brings me fattening food and then gloats when I can’t fit into my trousers.”

Gloria smacks the table. “Ask Melissa to
bake a difference
.”

“No, Glor—” I begin.

She holds up her hand. “Just ask her if she’ll bake something to help raise money for people who can’t pay their electric bill or buy their little boy a puzzle at Christmas. People want to help other people. They really do. Ask her. You never know what she’ll say.” I try to say something but she holds up her hand. “Ask her!”

I look at Mom. “She’ll never shut up until you say you’ll ask her. Trust me. She’ll never, ever, ever, ever shut up.”

I laugh and give them each a quick hug before I make my way to the door. “All right! I’ll ask her to bake a difference. I’m off to surf the Internet classifieds for a job!” Mom’s face gets long and somber, and I hurry putting on my boots. “Gloria? When do you need the baked goods?”

“On the twentieth, babe.”

“The twentieth?” She nods and I slap my forehead. “That’s the day my dad gets in.”

Mom rises like a majestic pink cloud. “What?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” I know I hadn’t. “I invited Dad to come for Christmas.”

“Here?”

I zip up my coat and look at her. “I want him here, Mom. I want my dad and I want you.” She is slack-jawed and clutching the fabric of her robe on her chest. “I haven’t seen him since … I want him here, Mom.” She nods and I slip out the door with what feels like a peach pit lodged in my throat. The crappy thing about divorce is that you rarely get to see
both
of your parents on holidays or birthdays or any other day, for that matter. The fact is, my parents are in their sixties and should be mature enough to be in the same room without killing each other. I don’t think that’s too much to ask at Christmas.

On my way home I drive around the square and notice someone at Wilson’s Department Store putting up a sale sign in the front window. Gifts have been the furthest thing from my mind, and I pull into an empty spot. Gloria’s husband, Marshall, has owned Wilson’s for most of his adult life, and I keep my eye out for him as I enter the door. The store is lovely, with huge silvery snowflakes hanging from the ceiling and a giant Christmas tree made from enormous bulbs hovering over the jewelry counter. Employees are dressed in gold, silver, or red blouses and shirts and slacks. A sign for Santa’s workshop leads down the stairs, and Vic Damone singing “It’s a Marshmallow World” filters through the store.

After I browse the women’s department for ideas for Mom I run downstairs to the children’s department and Santa’s workshop. As I reach the landing and make the turn for the final set of steps I run into someone carrying a large, plastic bin and packages tumble down the stairs. “I’m sorry,” I say, reaching for two plain packages. “Melissa?” She picks up some envelopes at her feet and puts them into the bin. “Do you work here?”

“Did you think I was a doctor?”

There it is again. One of the reasons she’s so hard to like. I ignore her question. “I was talking to a friend. Gloria. The woman who made the chicken and dumplings.” I am amazed at how blank Melissa’s eyes and face look when I talk to her. “She said her friend Robert Layton could begin tracking down your siblings.” Something lights in her eyes.

“Are you kidding?”

It’s not the response I was expecting. “No. She said he’s a lawyer in town and could—”

“I work at his office in the afternoons.”

I step aside so a customer can get down the stairs. “That’s great! You could ask him if—”

She clutches the packages and heads downstairs. “I don’t want to ask him.”

I race after her. “Why not?”

She walks to a sales associate in toys and hands her a stack of mail. “I can’t jeopardize my job there.”

Melissa turns toward the shoe department, and I grab her arm. “Hold on. You’d pay him just like any other client.” She starts to speak and I talk over her. “You want to do it.” There’s that blank look again. “You need to do it. The not knowing will drive you crazy.”

Her face never changes expression. “I’ll talk to Jodi about it.”

She marches toward shoes again and I run in front of her. “One more thing. Do you bake?”

“Do I bake?”

“Gloria. My friend who—”

“Chicken and dumplings. I know.”

“She has a place for families who need help. You know, like single moms and their kids, called Glory’s Place. This year she’s”—I make finger quotes in the air—“‘baking a difference’ to help raise money for them. You know, help them pay their electric bill or help with rent.”

She shuffles the few pieces of mail in her hands. “I don’t really bake, but…”

Kyle once said that the word
but
erases everything before it, so I rush ahead before she says anything else. “You can come over to my place. Mom will come, too. We can all bake together.” She nods with that same vacant face. “Just let me know.”

I watch her walk away and look at my watch. I’ve been here five days. I have a feeling that despite what I think of her, one of these days I may actually see Melissa push herself up out of the rubble and crow.

Seven

Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family: Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one.

—
J
ANE
H
OWARD

MELISSA

Gretchen nags me. Not in a physical way of always being around or in my face, but she’s always in my head prodding and nudging me. I sort through the mail at Wilson’s and hear her in my head telling me I want to find my siblings or I need someone to be with me as I bury Ramona. Maybe I don’t want to find my siblings and could care less if anyone acknowledges Ramona’s death. I rummage through the boxes and packages for each department and tell myself that I don’t really want to know who my siblings are, but it’s a lie and I know it. Gretchen knows it.