Blame It On The Mistletoe - A Novel of Bright's Pond (33 page)

She grabbed onto my arm.

"We won't leave until they come and get you."

We waited nearly two hours until a stern-looking woman arrived. She barely looked at us and marched straight to the nurses' desk and signed papers.

"She looks mean," I said.

The woman in a long, black wool coat approached us. "I'm sorry it took so long for me to get here. The weather. My name is Mrs. Strickland, Hildegard Strickland."

Zeb stood and let her take the seat next to Mercy. "You'll like Framingham," she said. "There's lots of girls there."

I fought back sobs.

"I don't want to go," Mercy said. "I got to stay for my brother. He'll need me. I bet he's crying just this minute for me."

The woman looked at me. "You'll see your brother. But for now, you need a place to stay."

"I can stay with Miz Griselda and Mr. Zeb. They said so."

"That's right," I said. "She can stay with us. I . . . we have a big house in Bright's Pond."

The woman shook her head. "I'm sorry, we can't just give children to people, and in this situation, it's . . . different."

"Different?" I said. "She needs us. That's what matters."

The woman paused and then said, "She's a Negro girl. She'll need to go with her own kind. Besides, we can't just give children away without going through the proper channels."

"Own kind? She's a human being. That's all that counts. And I love her. Please don't take her."

"Please," Mercy said. "Let me go home with Miz Griselda."

The woman shook her head. "I'm sorry. We have certain policies. And even if that wasn't an issue, I couldn't simply hand her over to you without the proper procedural tasks being attended to, now could I?"

I instantly hated her condescending tone. "Zeb, do something."

"There's nothing we can do tonight," he said.

"But it's Christmas," I said choking back tears as I held on tight to Mercy's hand.

Zeb uncurled my fingers from around Mercy's hand. "Come on, honey, you have to go. But we'll do something."

"You promise," Mercy said. "Right now, promise you'll do something to get me."

"I promise," I said. And then I hugged her. "What about the baby?" I asked looking at Mrs. Strickland.

"The hospital will keep him until he can be transferred to the orphanage."

Orphanage. I hated that word. Mrs. Strickland gave Mercy's arm a slight tug. "Come, child."

"But it's Christmas," I cried. Mrs. Strickland turned back and looked at me. "I'm aware of the day."

Zeb shook his head. "No one can be that hard-hearted, Grizzy, can they?"

The nurse came by. "Hers is a thankless, hard job. If she wasn't mean, she'd probably slit her wrists."

"Come on, Griselda. Let's go home."

We got into the truck and Zeb turned the ignition. This time Old Bessie complained. "Come on, start," Zeb said. He pumped the gas.

"I don't blame her. I don't want to go home either."

The engine finally turned over. The snow still fell and I could hear the wind whipping around outside. The trees shook, the traffic lights dangling from wires over the middle of the roads shook in the wind and the cold. The Christmas lights on the houses we passed and stores closed for the holiday still bright with Christmas cheer did little to warm me.

"Let's not go to Jack Frost tonight," Zeb said. "I'm not in the mood."

"Me either."

Christmas morning arrived. Zeb and I had not been to sleep. Instead we spent the night talking about Mercy and her tiny baby brother. We opened wedding gifts that had been dropped off the night before and marveled at the love and generosity of our friends and community. But the joy of the Christmas Eve was overshadowed by the intense sadness that had fallen on Mercy.

Zeb did everything he could to cheer me that day. He even gave me a gift.

"I wanted to show you that I really do listen when you tell me stuff."

I ripped the wrapping off the rectangular gift, an old version of Emily Dickinson poems, the one with the flowers on the cover.

"This is lovely," I said. "She would understand what Mercy is feeling, I think. What I am feeling. There must be something we can do."

The doorbell rang. It was a sound I didn't hear too often since Agnes moved to the nursing home.

"Who would come calling on Christmas?" Zeb said. "And besides, everyone thinks we're on our honeymoon."

"Don't know." I set the book on a table and waited for Zeb to return.

I heard voices.

"Griselda," Zeb called, "come here."

I went to the entryway and saw Mrs. Strickland standing there.

"Merry Christmas," I said.

She nodded.

"Mrs. Strickland has something to tell you. To tell us. Go on, Mrs. Strickland, say it again—for Griselda."

"I'm not certain exactly how the events transpired but the child's father and a weird little man came to the orphanage last night."

I looked at Zeb. "Leon?"

"Had to be."

The woman clicked her tongue. "The father signed custody of the minor children over to you and your husband if that's what you want. Course it's only temporary until a suitable home can be found, but—"

"Of course, where is she?" I looked around Mrs. Strickland's wide hips.

"She's in the car with my driver."

"Can I go get her?"

"You may."

But I didn't wait for her answer. I was halfway to the curb before I heard it. I pulled open the door and Mercy leaped into my arms.

"Miz Griselda," she said. "They said I can come stay with you!"

"That's right, Mercy."

We walked to the house.

"Thank you," I said to Mrs. Strickland.

"The agency will be in touch with you soon," she said.

"Fine," Zeb said. "Now if you'll excuse us, it's Christmas."

Zeb, Mercy, and I went to the living room.

"What's that?" Zeb said, pointing to the Christmas tree.

"What?" I said.

"It looks like a gift. I didn't put it there."

"Me neither," I said.

"Open it, Miz Griselda," Mercy said.

It was another rectangular gift with my name scrawled across the odd brown wrapping. I ripped the paper off.

"I don't believe it," I said. "It's . . . it's a first edition of
Don Quixote."

"Leon," Zeb said.

I ran to the back of the house and flung open the back door. But I didn't see anything, just crooked little footprints, making a crooked little path in the snow, but a straight line to my heart.

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