Comfort & Joy (14 page)

I show Bobby how to roll the list into a cylinder and wrap it in the pretty red foil paper, then to coil ribbons on each end. When we’re finished, the clock reads 8:25. “Time for you to go.”

He grumbles in protest but heads dutifully for the stairs.

After he’s gone, I sit on the hearth, listening to the last strains of the fading fire.

I have one more gift to place beneath the tree for Christmas morning—if I can find what I am looking for.

I go to my room and retrieve the still damp sweater I wore to town. Shrugging into it, I head outside.

The night is quiet and cold. A slushy layer of newly fallen snow covers the ground. Already it is beginning to melt. The green lawn shows through in big, irregular patches. Water drips from the eaves and branches, makes tiny dark holes in the melting snow.

I walk down the uneven path toward the lake.

As if on cue, the cloud overhead drifts on, revealing a nearly full moon. Shimmery blue light falls on me, on the lake and the clock, and the dark ground. It is almost eerie, this light, vaguely impossible. A shiver runs through me. Although it can’t happen, I
know
it can’t, I hear a woman’s voice. It is quiet, barely above a whisper, but I hear it nonetheless, hear her say, “There.”

I look down. There, lying all alone on top of a bed of shiny black stones, is a bright white arrowhead. Moonlight hits it and reflects it back at me, turning it for a second into a fallen star.

I spin around, but there is no woman around me.

Of course there isn’t.

I bend down for the arrowhead. It fits perfectly in my palm, feels as smooth as silk and as cold as a snowflake. I tuck it into my pocket and walk back to the lodge, through a night that is both silvery light and jet black.

By the time I get to the door, I’ve told myself in no uncertain terms that nothing unusual happened by the lake. I merely went in search of an arrowhead and found one.

But as I step onto the deck, hear it creak beneath my feet, I say softly, “Thanks, Maggie.”

Then I go inside.

B
y morning, the snow is almost gone. I stand at my window, staring out at the green, sunlit backyard. I can see a corner of one of the cabins. The roof shingles are furred with thick moss. Come spring, I imagine that tiny flowers will sprout up from the mossy patches.

I should have added power-wash roofs to my list. And advertising in more in-flight magazines. I’ll have to tell Daniel those things face-to-face.

Outside, on this Christmas Eve, the day is both sunlit and gray. A light rain is falling; the drops are so thin and tiny they’re almost imaginary, like tears.

And suddenly I am thinking of Stacey.

I remember that last night in Bakersfield when she asked me to come to her wedding. And showed me her pregnant stomach.

I’m sorry,
she’d said.

I remember her on television, crying for me, believing in the miracle of my return, hoping for it.

And Thom. The man I vowed to love forever, who now loves my sister.

The thought makes me sad, but doesn’t ruin me anymore. I can actually think of them together without wincing.

If nothing else, this pause has given me that: a lens through which to view my previous life. It’s not forgiveness. Not even near that yet, but it is . . . acceptance, and that’s better than nothing.

I’m not sure how long I stand at my window, staring out, thinking about my life Before and what will happen tomorrow. Time is odd in this place, more fluid than I’m used to somehow. When I finally take my shower, get dressed in my borrowed skirt and sweater, and go out to the lobby, Bobby is by the tree, shaking presents. Daniel is behind him, laughing.

I pause at the corner, watching them. All it takes is a look at Bobby and Daniel, a moment in their presence, and the bitter aftertaste of my previous life is gone. A smile comes easily; I feel it deep inside, too, not just a curving of my lips, but a lifting of my spirit. In some small way, I have given them this moment. Without the tree, they wouldn’t have been able to slide back in time, to recapture one of those ordinary moments that becomes extraordinary from a distance. I only hope I can do the same for myself. Stacey and I need to see ourselves more clearly. Maybe then we can find our way back.

At the sound of my footsteps, Bobby looks up. “Joy!” He is shaking a present, but pauses long enough to say, “Are you gonna go see the old people with us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell ’er where we’re goin’, Dad.”

“The church serves brunch at the nursing home,” Daniel answers.

It’s what I do on my own holiday. It’s a tradition my mom started long ago. For all the years of my childhood, I spent Christmas Eve afternoon at the nursing home with Grandma Lund. In my adult years, I volunteered on holidays.

Fate.

“You better hurry,” Daniel says to Bobby and me. I race down to my room, tame my riotous hair, brush my teeth, and make my bed. Then we all go out to the truck.

Between the Christmas lights and the remnants of an early morning rain, the town glistens with water and light. People fill the sidewalks; cars clog the streets.

Daniel pulls into a parking lot and stops. We are at the Rain Shadow Convalescent Center. It’s a lovely little brick building set well to the back of a deep lot. A few older trees, bare now, flank the sides, and giant rhododendrons and azaleas grow out front. Christmas lights outline the windows, and a fully lit menorah sits on the sill.

Inside, the center is a hive of activity. In the lobby, several white clad attendants are pushing people in wheelchairs toward a room marked “Christmas Eve Brunch.”

“I’ll go meet the guys and get breakfast ready. You can help get people to the tables, okay?” Daniel says to us.

“I’ll go get Mr. Lundberg!” Bobby cries out, rushing down the hall.

When I turn to ask Daniel something, he’s gone, but I don’t need his direction. I’ve spent plenty of time in nursing homes. I know how to help.

I walk down the busy hallway, looking in to the various rooms. Most are empty now. That’s why the hallways are so full.

In the very back of the building, I find an elderly woman sitting in a chair, all by herself, facing a window that looks outside. She wears a pale pink ruffled dressing gown, with ribbons in her snow white hair. Her small, heart-shaped face has been overtaken by wrinkles, and bright red lipstick doesn’t quite match her lip lines, but her eyes reveal a woman who was once gorgeous enough to stop traffic.

“Hello, there,” I say, stepping into the small room. “Merry Christmas Eve. Would you like to go to the brunch?”

She doesn’t answer me. I’ve probably spoken too softly. I enter the room, make my way past the bed, and kneel down in front of her.

She’s muttering something, playing with a red satin ribbon. The thin strip of fabric is coiled around her knobby, veiny knuckles.

“Hey,” I say, smiling up at her. “I’m here to take you to the brunch.” I have to yell the words.

The woman frowns. Her fingers still. She blinks down at me. “Is it my time?”

“The brunch starts in ten minutes.”

“My sister is supposed to come for me.”

“I’m sure she’ll meet you in the dining room.” I stand, offer her my hand.

She looks up at me. Her eyes seem huge in her tiny face. “Walk?”

“Let me help you.” I help her to her feet and coil my arm around her. It’s easy. The woman is almost impossibly frail. Together, moving slowly, we shuffle down the hallway. It’s less crowded now. Only a few people are lingering about.

We pass a nurse, or orderly, someone in a white polyester outfit who stares at us, then frowns. “Mrs. Gardiner?”

“It’s time to plant tulips,” the woman beside me says, tightening her hold on my arm.

We go the last bit to the dining room and turn. At our entrance, I notice how everyone looks up sharply. More than a few gasp. A heavyset nurse rushes toward me. “Mrs. Gardiner, what are you doing here? You know an aide would have brought you a wheelchair.”

“She walked really well,” I say, holding her steady.

“My sister?” she croaks, looking up at the nurse.

“Now, Mrs. Gardiner, you know Dora is gone. But your son is here, and your granddaughters.” The nurse points to a table in the back of the room where a good-looking gray-haired man is seated between a pair of twins. All three of them get to their feet when they see us. Even from here I can see the tears in their eyes.

The man rushes forward, takes his mother’s hand. “Hi, Mom.” His voice is shaky.

“Where’s Dora?” she asks.

“Come on, Mom. Your granddaughters are here.” The man tucks her into his side and leads her toward the table.

The nurse beside me shakes her head, makes a tsking sound. “Poor Mrs. Gardiner.”

Another nurse joins us, stands beside me. “She spends all day waiting for her sister.”

“It’s sad. Dora’s been gone almost fifteen years.”

I ease away from them and head toward the buffet line to help, but volunteers already stand shoulder to shoulder behind the food.

There’s no room for me.

I will do dishes, I guess. I look around for Bobby, but don’t see him. From my place in the doorway, I try to get Daniel’s attention and fail. He’s deep in conversation with an elderly man who seems to want a mountain of hash browns.

I go out into the now-quiet halls. “Bobby?”

When there is no answer, I go in search.

I find him in the recreation room, alone, playing with his action figures. I hear his sound effects before I enter the room.

“Hey, kiddo. What’cha doing?”

He barely looks up at me. “I’m too little.”

I sit down on the plaid sofa behind him. “That won’t be true for long.”

He sits back on his heels. The action figures fall to the side, forgotten. “Mommy never said I was too little. She always let me hand out napkins and stuff.”

“Come here, Bobby.” I pat the seat beside me. He jumps up to the sofa and snuggles in close. “Did you tell your dad you wanted to help?”

He shakes his head, looking miserable.

“You have to tell people how you feel . . .”

“
I’m sorry,” Stacey said.

The memory shakes me. Suddenly I have a pounding headache.

I should have listened to her . . .

“. . . and give them a chance.”

“It’s hard,” Bobby says.

“You’ll get no argument from me on that one, kiddo.” Later, when I call my sister, it will be the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.

Daniel walks in. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

I smile at him over Bobby’s head. “He was disappointed that he was too little to help serve.”

Bobby looks at me for encouragement. At my nod, he turns back to his dad and says quietly, “Mommy always let me help.”

“I’m sorry, Bobby. I guess I’m sorta learnin’ the ropes on this dad thing.”

“That’s what Joy said.”

Daniel seems surprised by that. “She’s a smart woman, your Joy. And now, boyo, it’s time for church.”

“Oh,” Bobby says quietly.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Daniel says. “I’ll hold your hand the whole time. We’ll light a candle for your mum. She’d like that.”

“You won’t let go?” Bobby asks his father.

“I won’t,” Daniel promises.

Bobby looks at me. “You’ll stay with me?”

“Of course.”

Bobby takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Awash in light, the church looks like a small white jewel against the royal blue sky.

We stand on the sidewalk out front, Daniel and I, with Bobby between us. All around us, people are talking to one another and funneling up the stone steps to the church.

“Don’t let go, Daddy.”

“I won’t,” Daniel says.

They’re a pair now, the two of them, holding fast.

Like Dorothy, the Scarecrow, and the Cowardly Lion, we advance cautiously up the sidewalk toward the steps, which we take one at a time.

An elderly priest is positioned at the door. He smiles at the sight of Bobby.

“Welcome back, young Robert,” he says, his eyes bright. “We missed you.”

Bobby nods in answer and doesn’t slow down. I can see how nervous he is, but he keeps moving. One foot in front of the other.

“You’re a brave boy,” I say, feeling a swell of pride for this child who is learning young to fight his fear.

He leads us into the back row and slides into the pew. I know he wants to be close to the door. Daniel and I bookend him, give him safety on both sides.

As people pour into the church and fill up the pews, Bobby stands as straight as a newly cut board. He doesn’t sit until the processional begins and the doors behind us bang shut.

It is then, when the pews are full and the doors are shut and the priest is blessing the congregation, that I realize how much I have missed my own faith. I haven’t been in church since my mom’s funeral.

For the next hour, we rise and kneel and rise again, and with each word spoken, each prayer reiterated, I feel a bit of myself return.

At the conclusion of The Lord’s Prayer, Bobby looks up at his dad and whispers: “C’n Mommy hear me in here?”

“She can hear you everywhere,” Daniel answers.

Bobby scrunches up his face and says, “I’m sorry I was mad at you, Mommy,” all in a single breath.

I hear Daniel gasp. “Oh, Bobby . . .”

Bobby’s eyes glisten as he looks at his dad. “I told her I hated her.”

Daniel touches his son’s face, wipes his tears away. “She knows how much you love her, boyo. No silly fight can change that.”

The words are exactly what Bobby needs to hear. For the first time, I see his true smile. It lights up his face, shows off all of his crooked, missing, and growing teeth.

When a hymn begins, Bobby turns to the right page in the hymnal, and joins his clean, high voice with his father’s.

For the remainder of the Mass, they stand side by side and hand in hand. I watch them find their voices, and the sight of it fills my heart.

Starting over
.

I’m seeing it. For all my dreams of complex new beginnings and convoluted endings, it can all be as easy as this: a boy singing hymns again.