One Imperfect Christmas (27 page)

Natalie drove back toward Fawn Ridge in a daze. When she arrived at her next destination, she realized only a miracle had kept her from wrapping herself around a telephone pole or getting pulled over for speeding. She certainly had no memory of driving those long, straight miles of country roads. All she saw in her mind's eye was that little Christmas ornament, the one her mother had painted all those years ago.

Windy, cantering across a meadow.

And Mom on her back.

Okay, so maybe Mom would never ride Windy bareback across an open field. Maybe Mom would never do much more than string pop beads together while Windy walked in a slow circle around the arena at Reach for the Stars.

But it was something. Something to hope for. Something to pray for.

It didn't take long for the medicine smells and polished tile corridors of Hope Gardens Convalescent Center to draw her vision away from those “stars” and back down to the reality facing her on solid ground. Just walking in the front door of the place never failed to make her shudder. Hope Gardens wasn't such an unpleasant facility, she had to admit. A usually friendly and caring staff attended the residents, but budget problems and understaffing took their inevitable toll. The harried nurses could spend only so much time with each resident.

And, Natalie admitted sadly, places like this were often where the ill and elderly came to die.

She stifled a shiver.
All the more reason to get Mom back home where she belongs.

“Mrs. Pearce, what a surprise.” Mrs. Blaylock bustled from her office as Natalie passed the doorway. “Won't you come in for a moment?”

With barely subdued distaste, she backtracked and followed the large woman into her office. Mrs. Blaylock motioned Natalie toward one of the visitors' chairs as she took her seat behind the immaculate desk. Natalie sat stiffly, one eyebrow lifted in suspicion. She had trouble trusting anyone whose desk wasn't cluttered with files and paperwork.

“I've had several conversations with your father recently.” Mrs. Blaylock ran thick fingers across the folds of her gray wool skirt. “I'm very concerned about his intention to remove your mother from our care.”

“What could be better than being cared for in her own home by a full-time nurse?” If Mrs. Blalock thought she could convince Natalie to talk her father out of this plan, the old bat had another think coming. Natalie tugged off her winter gloves and tucked them into her handbag. “Who knows, maybe being in familiar surroundings will do my mother good.”

Muscle memory. Like riding a bike. Lissa and the watercolor set. Reach for the Stars.
When she considered all the strange happenings in her life recently, it seemed as though each one had been directing her inexorably toward this solution, this renewed reason to hope. Why hadn't she made these connections months ago?

“Besides,” she began slowly, already anticipating Mrs. Blalock's negative response, “I've come across a new possibility for therapy.”

The administrator spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. Her condescending glare spoke volumes, which didn't stop her from speaking her mind anyway. “Mrs. Pearce, after all this time, I thought you'd accepted the doctors' prognosis. Why can't you let your mother live out her last days in peace?”

Natalie plucked one of Mrs. Blaylock's business cards from a gray faux-granite holder on the corner of the desk. She flicked the card between two fingers. “Hope Gardens, huh? What happened to the 'hope'?” Hot waves of determination flamed her neck and cheeks. She rose in a huff and marched out of the office.

She didn't slow her pace until she reached the door to her mother's room. One hand on the knob, the other clutching her throat, she suddenly didn't know if she could enter. Was she insane for continuing to hold out hope for Mom's recovery? Clearly Mr. Dixon's stroke hadn't been nearly as serious as her mother's. He was alert, could speak coherent, if halting, sentences.

And Mom on horseback? Had Natalie already forgotten Mom's discomfort around horses—even more so after that stormy night Windy was born? What kind of foolishness had made her believe putting Mom on a horse—even if they could convince her to try it—would miraculously bring her back to them?

Discouragement raked Natalie's nerves. She pressed her lips together and turned to leave.

“Nnnn. Nnnnnn.” The moaning sounds came from beyond her mother's half-open door.

She stood there for an eternity, her feet refusing to move. The soft, insistent keening finally drew her to the door. She peered inside, her stomach convulsing at the sight of her mother's shrunken form. In her “good” hand she clutched a handful of twisted sheet and banged her fist repeatedly against the mattress.

“Nnnnn. Nnnaaaa.” Her clouded gaze seemed directed straight at Natalie.

“Hi, Mom. Yes, it's me.” On legs that felt like rubber, she ventured forward. How many months had she wasted by allowing her guilt and fear to keep her away?

The closer Natalie drew to the bed, the more her mother's agitation increased. The clenched hand moved rapidly and her mouth opened and closed as if she wanted desperately to say something. Then Natalie saw a single tear slip down her mother's cheek, mingling with the spittle that formed at the corner of her mouth.

Natalie's heart climbed into her throat, her own tears nearly blinding her. She reached for a tissue and tenderly wiped away the moisture on her mother's face. Her heart thrilled.

You're in there, aren't you, Mom? Some part of you is still fighting to come back to us.

Easing onto the edge of the bed, she untangled her mother's gnarled fist from the perspiration-dampened sheet and drew the fingers to her lips for a gentle kiss. “It's okay, Mom. You're coming home. I'll never leave you alone again.”

16

N
atalie never made it back to the office that day. Instead, she spent the afternoon walking along the sun-dappled pathways of Fawn Ridge's forested city park. Right or wrong, she'd made some vital decisions. First on the list, she'd cancel the lease on her apartment and move into the farmhouse with her parents. Then she'd dissolve her partnership with Jeff and resume part-time work from home as a freelance graphic designer. Doing so would allow her to continue supporting herself while spending as much time with Mom as possible and helping in her therapy and recovery.

Nothing else mattered now, nothing.

Her mind made up, she drove to the farm to tell Dad. She found him with lemon-scented soapsuds creeping up his arms as he washed his supper dishes in the kitchen sink.

He looked up with a surprised grin as she rushed over to give him a hug. “What are you doing here, Rosy-girl? Thought you were working late these days.”

“After I left here this morning I could barely give work another thought.” She hung her coat by the back door. “The idea of Mom coming home again—it's all I've been able to think about.”

He remained silent as he rinsed the last plate, set it in the drainer, and dried his hands on an embroidered dish towel. “I bet you haven't even had supper yet, girl. Celia brought over one of her famous meatloaves earlier. There's plenty left.”

Before she could refuse, he found the plastic container in the refrigerator, sliced a large hunk onto a plate, and set it in the microwave. “There's a bag of salad greens in the produce drawer. Help yourself. I'll fix you some iced tea.”

Hunger was the last thing on her mind, but she went through the motions of eating anyway. She could tell from the way Dad fussed over her that he wouldn't be ready to hear her plans until he made sure she was well fed.

And she had to admit, food hadn't tasted this good in … okay, not since the other night at Adamo's, but she wouldn't let her mind go there. Savoring a bite of meatloaf, she tried to identify the mixture of flavors. Basil, maybe. An aromatic aftertaste of garlic and onion. And a sauce on top with a definite but not unpleasant kick. She'd have to give Celia a call later and ask her for the recipe.

Finally, pushing her empty plate aside, she told Dad everything she'd decided this afternoon.

He gave his head a decisive shake. “I don't want you turning your own life upside-down, Rosy. We'll manage just fine with the nurse living here. And your business—you and Jeff have worked so hard to build it. Besides, we don't know how long … ” His work-roughened hand curled into a fist. He lowered his gaze to the floor.

“It doesn't matter how long Mom's recovery takes. I'm going to be with her every step of the way.” Poor Dad. He had to be struggling as hard as Natalie to let himself believe there could still be hope. She reached across the table and laid her hand on his arm. “Dad, I need to do this. Let me.”

He took her hand and pressed it between his two callused ones. “You're thinking with your heart, not your head, Rosy-girl. I don't want you doing something you'll regret.”

“I already regret plenty,” she replied over the ache in her chest. “I'm through hiding behind my work to avoid dealing with Mom's illness. Jeff and the printing business can get along without me.” She gazed at him with pleading eyes. “Besides, Dad, I honestly think there's a chance we can have Mom back—
really
back with us.”

He returned her earnest gaze with moisture-rimmed eyes. “I want that, too, more than you'll ever know. But—” He glanced down, his Adam's apple bobbing. When his eyes met hers again, they held such intense sadness that Natalie had to look away. Surely, Dad hadn't already given up? Not now, not with Mom coming home.

“It'll be okay, Dad, you'll see.” She smiled through unshed tears.

He gave her hand a final squeeze and dragged his flannel shirtsleeve across his eyes. “But quitting your job, letting go of everything you've dreamed about and worked so hard for … it isn't what your mother would want. Most of all, she'd want you and Daniel—”

“One thing at a time, okay?” A knifelike pain sliced upward through her heart. “Please, Dad, I don't want to argue about this. Nothing you can say will change my mind.”

Her chair scraped across the floor as she rose. She bent to give her father a quick hug. “It's been a long day, and I'm exhausted. Don't worry about me, okay? Let's concentrate on getting Mom better, and I promise, everything else will work out fine.”

At the door, she slipped into her coat, fished her car keys out of her handbag, and then paused for one last glance at her father. How tired he looked, one elbow resting on the edge of the table, his gray head bowed. Throughout the past year, he'd been the family's pillar of strength, but the strain had etched deep crevices in his face.

And I didn't make things any easier.

Softly, she pulled the door closed behind her and stepped into the cold winter evening. A front had whisked away the clouds, leaving the sky a velvety blue-black mantle sprinkled with stars. She thought of the hope each one of those stars represented to the disabled clients at the therapeutic riding center.

She thought of her mother's starry backdrop for the nativity scene, waiting for the fiftieth star.

She thought of fifty perfect Christmases and all the love stored up and shining bright through the years her parents had been together.

Dear God, don't let Daniel give up on us yet. If you'll give him a little more patience, I promise I'll try again.

Yes, after Mom recovered, she would try to be the wife Daniel deserved. She would make this marriage work if it took the rest of her life.

And she prayed to God it would.

On Wednesday afternoon, Daniel sat behind his desk and stared at the hastily scrawled note in front of him. Coach Arnell at Langston High had been leaving messages since Monday, hoping to hurry his decision about the assistant-coach position. He'd picked up the phone three times already, only to slam the receiver down before dialing. How could he make such a decision without discussing it with Natalie, especially after what Hart had told him over lunch a few days ago?