A Christmas Peril (The Teacup Novellas - Book Five) (12 page)

Chapter
12

Over the next couple of days,
I tag-teamed with Shelly and the Christophers, taking turns staying with Mark
so we could get everything ready in time for our own version of a hospital
Christmas. I had to admit it was good medicine. I couldn’t remember a Christmas
I’d looked more forward to. Strange, isn’t it? My boyfriend is in a coma, and
I’m baking cookies and rounding up decorations and strings of Christmas lights.
It felt a lot more like business as usual, even if it wasn’t. And after all
we’d been through, I welcomed it like a soothing balm on the craziness of the
past few weeks.

After Mark’s parents left on
Christmas Eve night, I finally had a chance to sit down and relax. I insisted
on staying overnight with Mark. Even with all the distractions, I kept getting
emotional at the most random times. Like this afternoon when I realized I’d
forgotten to pick up some Poppycock
‌—‌the
gourmet popcorn that comes in clusters with a caramel glaze. Mark
loves
Poppycock,
especially the pecan praline flavor. I went to four different places and they
were all out. Said they’d been sold out for a week and didn’t expect to get any
more in time for Christmas.

The rational voices in my
head assured me it was no big deal. All things considered, it was probably the
last thing Mark would think about if he was awake. And let’s face it, Poppycock
is amazing, but it’s a dental nightmare. With all the other holiday treats and
cakes and cookies, it was just another cavity waiting to happen. Right?

Those were the rational
voices. The emotional voices had an altogether different tone. Which is why I
found myself at the Publix cash register at closing time, bawling like a baby.
You know, the ugly cry with mascara tracking down my cheeks and snot running
down my chin? Yeah, that was me. Utterly inconsolable. Naturally, that was the
precise moment when my cell rang and, blubbering fool that I was, I answered
it. Samantha was at JFK on her way to some chateau in the
Alps
for the holidays and wanted to wish me a Merry Christmas. Patience
isn’t one of Sam’s strong suits, which is why she kept yelling at me, trying to
find out why I was crying so hard and couldn’t talk. Then she shrieked, sucking
in the loudest emphysema-laced breath on record.

“OH, LUCY
‌—‌PLEASE TELL ME YOUR UPS
GUY DIDN’T DIE?!”

The Publix cashier
‌—‌
Bethany,
according
to her name tag‌—‌actually got down on the floor next to me and
wrapped her arm around me while I wailed. Later, when my brother showed up (
Bethany
called him for me), he informed the kind grocery staff that
I had apparently and unfortunately hit a point of critical mass.

“I think she held it in as
long as she could, then BOOM! Sorry you all had to see this.”

The store manager held my
hands as
Chad
helped me up. “She said something about
that UPS guy who was taken hostage. Said she needed some Poppycock for him. I’m
sorry, but we’re all out. I called the other stores in town and no one has any
left. We didn’t know what else to do.”

“Oh, wow. That was really
kind of you.”
Chad
herded me toward the doors. “Thanks so
much for your help. She’ll be okay.”

After making such a spectacle
of myself, I didn’t want to argue with
Chad
. But I wasn’t sure I’d ever be okay
again. He took me home, pulled my sneakers off, and tucked me into bed. Then,
because he’s the best brother on the entire planet, he stayed with me. He took
a seat in the shabby chic easy chair there in my room, and stayed there until I
woke up several hours later. He let me shower and pack up the last of my
cookies, then drove me to the hospital.

Now, a couple hours later,
with everyone gone and the lights in the hospital corridors dimmed, I settled
in to spend Christmas Eve with my Mark. I wasn’t proud of my very public Publix
meltdown. But sometimes there’s an odd sense of serenity that follows a good
cry. A cleansing, of sorts. And that’s how I felt as I took a few moments to
relax.

I let the gentle ambiance of
the decorations comfort me. The heady pine scent coming from the miniature
tree. The strings of tiny white lights on the tree and along the window ledge.
The soft Christmas music playing on my Pandora playlist. The heat of my
snickerdoodle latte warming my insides. All of it, helping me relax and
just . . . be.

When I finished my latte, I
reached for the box in my oversized bag. It filled me with an almost reverent peace
as I mirrored the same thing my aunt did on that Christmas Eve seventy years ago.
I unwrapped the Spode teacup and saucer and held them in my hands.

“Mark, I still don’t know if
you can hear a word I say. But I need to share this with you. I feel so
honored, so strangely content. Which makes no sense, if you think about
it. Yet here I am, holding the same teacup Aunt Lucille held that Christmas Eve
so long ago as she kept vigil with the love of
her
life. Remember when I
read to you about the vow she made to have tea with Uncle Gary on every Christmas
morning thereafter using these cups? True to her word, she eventually owned twelve
place settings in this pattern. And I’m so glad to know the history behind
these cups and all those dishes. Who knows, maybe I’ll try to twist Stephen’s
arm and see if he’ll let me have his mother’s Christmas dishes.”

I set the Spode teacup and
saucer on the bedside table and reached for Mark’s hand. I pushed away all the
fears and doubts and slammed the door on my ever-present worry. Tonight I
wanted nothing more than to be with Mark. That’s all. No strings attached. No
if-onlys. No demanding prayers.

We were together. And for
tonight, that was enough.

A little later I decided to
finish reading Lucille’s diary. Not the whole book; just the part that covered
that Christmas in the hospital. I wanted to know when Uncle Gary finally came
around. I wanted to know what happened next.

“We left off on the afternoon
of Christmas day,” I told Mark. “Lucille wrote how thankful she was that the
hospital staff could join them. Remember? Okay, here we go.”

I was
so thrilled that everyone stayed around after we ate. Even the nurses would
stroll back through on their breaks. I’m guessing they too wanted to feel a
little “normal” on this most blessed of days. Later in the afternoon, as the
snow continued to fall outside, it was just us
‌—‌
Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds,
my parents and Jack and me. We’d brought in extra chairs from the lounge and
placed them in a circle around
Gary
’s bed. We chatted quietly for a long
time while Father’s radio softly played Christmas carols. Jack had fallen sound
asleep in Mother’s arms.

My
father was talking to
Gary
’s father when Craig suddenly turned his
head and raised his hand. In the background I heard the soulful strains of “O
Holy Night” playing on the radio. I watched as Craig gazed at Patricia, and I
knew they were remembering the Sunday we sang in their living room. They were
remembering, as I was, the moment when our voices fell away until it was only
Gary
singing
‌—‌
his smooth tenor voice
bringing such a sacred richness to that unforgettable melody.

Craig
reached over and grasped Patricia’s hand. With only the glow of the Christmas
lights, I could still see the tear that spilled down her cheek. I looked away, not
wishing to invade on their shared moment. As I’d done a thousand times that
day, I glanced over to check on
Gary
 . . . and my heart
stopped when I found him staring at me!

“
Gary
?” I gasped as I rushed to his side. “
GARY
! Can you hear me?” I grabbed his hand
with both of mine and squeezed it hard.

Suddenly
his bed was surrounded as they all gathered around, all speaking at once,
saying his name over and over, all of us waiting and holding our breath as one.

He
said nothing at first. His eyes slowly tracked from one to the other, his mouth
moving as though he was trying to talk
‌—‌
or
remember
how
to talk?

“Sweetheart,
can you see us?” Patricia cried. “Can you hear me?”

His
eyes locked on her, but showed no immediate recognition. He turned his head to
the other side of the bed and looked up at his father.

“Son,”
Craig said, his voice graveled with emotion. “It would be awfully nice right
now to hear your voice and let us know you’re here with us.”

With
my free hand, I wiped tears from my eyes. The movement must have caught
Gary
’s attention as he looked back at me. His
eyes seemed to change a little
‌—‌
barely
a trace, but there nonetheless. As though they were trying to smile even if his
mouth wasn’t.

Then,
ever so softly, he began to sing, his raspy voice accompanying the music still
playing on the radio.

Right
in time. And right on key.

“Sweet
hymns of joy

    in
grateful chorus raise we,

With
all our hearts

    we
praise His holy name . . .”

His
voice gave out, too weak to reach the higher notes that followed. He closed his
mouth, a flicker of sadness dashing across his face. “Am I dead?” he croaked.

We
exploded
‌—‌
all
of us
‌—‌
in laughter and tears and hugs of joy.

My
father dashed toward the door. “I’ll go get the nurse!”

Patricia
kept kissing Gary’s hand, holding his palm against her face. Neither she nor Craig
could speak, but the joy on their faces was unmistakable.

I
leaned down. “
Gary
! Oh Gary
‌—‌
you came back to us.
You finally came back to us!”

“Where
did he go?” Jack rubbed his eyes as he leaned back from Mother’s shoulder.

Gary
looked at my brother. “Hi, Jack,” he
whispered.

A shy,
sleepy grin warmed my little brother’s face. “Hi,
Gary
.”

We all
laughed and hugged each other all over again. Gary gave my hand a gentle tug,
and as I leaned closer, he smiled.

“You
look beautiful,” he whispered.

I
laughed, taking his face in my hands. “Not half as beautiful as you. I was so
worried I’d never see those baby blues again.” I kissed his forehead.

The
slightest smile curved his lips just as his chin began to tremble. He squeezed
my hand as a silent sob shook him.

The
head nurse made her way into the room ahead of two others. “Well, well! Look
who decided to show up for Christmas!”

Gary
stared at her, still struggling with his
emotions.

“It’s
very nice to see you, Mr. Reynolds. How are you feeling?”

He
took a shaky breath. “My head hurts.”

I let the diary fall to my lap
and buried my face in my hands. It was too much
‌—‌it was all too much. Somehow our parallel
universes were colliding, and I felt like I’d literally stepped back in time. I
was right there in
Gary
’s room. I had felt the electricity in
the air, the same crackling surge they’d surely felt. I’d cried tears of joy
along with them and shared in their hugs of celebration.

For those moments I became
Lucille, overwhelmed and giddy with relief that the love of my life had
finally
come back to me
‍—

Right up until reality
slapped me hard across the face and shoved me back into
this
room with
the love of
my
life
‌—‌who
remained still and unconscious. I bit down on my knuckles and stood up, letting
the diary fall to the floor. I clawed at my sweater, pulling it tighter around
me as I turned my back on Mark and made my way to the window.

Get a hold of yourself,
Lucy.

The rebuke felt like another
slap. How could I be so naive? Of
course
Gary
woke up
‌—‌I’d known
all along that he would. I’d been in his home! When I was ten, he let me drink
my first coffee. He showed me how to dead-head petunias so they’d keep
blooming. We’d spent hours singing Broadway show tunes, Aunt Lucille and I
standing beside the baby grand piano he played so masterfully.
Gary
had come out of his coma and married Lucille and had a son
named Stephen and lived a full life. It wasn’t just some made-up story.