The Gift of Christmas Present (4 page)

The door opened wide enough to show that Mrs. Daniels had a pale blue bathrobe draped over her.

“I'm sorry,” Christine said. “Did I get you up?”

“No.” Mrs. Daniels stepped back and waved her inside. “Get in here before my house gets cold.”

Christine stepped inside and quickly closed the door behind her. She stared at the frazzled old woman, unsure if this was actually the same Mrs. Daniels she'd met yesterday. Her short silver hair was sticking out in every direction, and she had on some wrinkled tan slacks with a pink pajama top beneath the robe that appeared to be half on and half off.

“Well, don't just stand there gaping at me,” Mrs. Daniels snapped. “I know I look a fright. I didn't sleep well last night, and I need some help getting dressed right now. You are able to do that, aren't you?”

“Of course.”

“Then follow me.”

Christine followed the old woman down the long hallway. In the dim light she could see that several works of art hung on the walls. Even her inexperienced eye could tell they were originals and probably valuable. She would've liked to have taken time to examine them more closely, but Mrs. Daniels had already made it to the room at the end of the hall.

“Come on, come on,” the old woman called. “Don't dawdle.”

Christine hurried along and followed her into a very elegant bedroom suite. The room was about twice the size of the living room Christine had grown up with and was decorated like something out of a magazine. Other than the unmade bed, only one side actually, and a few articles of clothing on the floor, everything was absolute perfection.

“This is a beautiful room,” Christine said as she watched Mrs. Daniels easing herself into a pale blue velvet chair by the window.

“Yes, yes.” Mrs. Daniels frowned. “I hope never to catch you snooping around in my things, Miss . . . Miss . . . What is your name again?”

“Christine.” She tried to smile. “Christine Bradley.”

“Yes, that's right.” She nodded. “Miss Bradley. Anyway, I won't put up with any snooping . . . or stealing either, for that matter.” She peered up at Christine. “You say you're a churchgoing girl, right?”

“That's right.”

“Well, I expect that means you should be honest. At least that's what it used to mean. Not too sure what it means anymore. But I will not put up with any shenanigans, you understand?”

Christine swallowed and nodded, still incredulous that this woman was a flesh and blood relative. She studied the old woman's long, straight nose and wondered if it didn't look a bit like her own. Or perhaps she was imagining things.

“Fine. Now help me get these ridiculous trousers off. I don't know what got into my crazy daughter-in-law's head yesterday, helping me put these confounded things on. I told her I should stick to loose, stretchy garments until my ankle heals up. But, oh no, she thought I should dress up nicely. She's a ridiculous young woman!”

Christine felt a bit embarrassed as she helped the old woman slip out of the lined wool trousers, carefully slipping the narrow pant leg past the oversize, bandaged foot. She couldn't help but notice the pale, scrawny legs.
How
awful to grow old
, she thought as she turned away and laid the trousers on the bed.

“Don't leave those pants on the bed,” the woman chided as she pulled the bathrobe around her. “There.” She pointed to the wall with two doors. “The closet is on the right. Find a pants hanger and hang them up. Then find me a jogging suit.” She cackled. “Not that I plan to do any jogging. Get the blue velour one, please. Those pants have extra-wide legs as I recall.”

Christine walked into the large closet. It was about the size of her dorm room, only completely outfitted with shelves and drawers and rods full of beautiful clothes. Expensive clothes. And shoes! She'd never seen so many shoes—that weren't in a store, anyway. She quickly located what appeared to be the more casual section of the closet and found not one but two blue velour jogging suits.

“Do you mean the dark blue or the light blue?” she called from the closet.

“The darker one, I think.”

Christine emerged with a jogging suit. “This one?”

“Yes, that's it. I don't care much for that color on me, but at least it will be comfortable.” Mrs. Daniels was attempting to stand now, struggling to get the crutches in place. “However, I've decided I want to take a shower after all. I'll need you to help me with the bandage.”

So Christine followed her into a large bathroom where everything was white. White marble tiles, white fixtures, and white towels. Mrs. Daniels lowered herself onto a metal bench topped with a white velvet cushion. She stuck out her bad foot and groaned slightly. “Be careful when you unwrap it,” she warned. “It's still very tender.”

Christine knelt down and gently untwined the layers of elastic bandage until she exposed a very swollen and odd-colored foot. It was shades of yellow, purple, and black. “Oh, my,” she said as she laid the bandage on the counter. “That looks like it hurts.”

“Of course it hurts,” Mrs. Daniels snapped, her brows drawn tightly together.

“I'm sorry.”

“Well, it's not your fault.” Mrs. Daniels seemed to soften just a bit. “And I suppose the pain is making me a little grouchier than usual.”

Christine took some comfort in the old woman's confession. “That's understandable.”

“Besides that, I'm old,” Mrs. Daniels said. “I've earned the right to be a curmudgeon if I feel like.”

Christine smiled. “That's not a word you hear every day.”

“Well, I used to teach English. Back in the days when students were expected to have an actual vocabulary.”

Christine stood, feeling a bit overwhelmed at the idea of helping this old woman bathe. How on earth had she gotten herself into this crazy mess, anyway? “Do you want me to start the water in the shower for you?”

“Yes.”

So Christine turned on the water and adjusted it to what felt like the right temperature, then stepped back. “That's nice that you've got a place to sit down in there,” she said. “That should make it easier for you.”

“That's the whole point,” Mrs. Daniels said. “Now turn your back while I get into the shower, but don't leave.
I may need your help getting out. I haven't actually attempted this yet.”

“All right.” Christine waited until she heard the shower door close. Then she picked up the bathrobe and pajama top and wondered what to do next. She decided to move the bench close to the shower for when Mrs. Daniels got out. She also set a couple of thick white towels on the edge of it. Next, she located a thick white bath mat, which she placed right next to the shower entrance.

“Okay, I'm done now,” Mrs. Daniels called from inside the shower stall. “Hand me a towel.”

Much to her relief, Christine managed to open the shower door and hand the old woman a towel without seeing too much old, wrinkly flesh.

“Now give me a hand,” Mrs. Daniels said. She was wrapped in the towel and struggling to balance on one foot. “And hurry it up, my ankle is starting to throb.”

Christine prayed as she helped the old woman out of the shower and eased her onto the bench, amazingly without a mishap.

Mrs. Daniels groaned. “Maybe I should've skipped the shower after all.”

Christine got a smaller towel, and without asking she began to blot the dripping silver hair. Fortunately, Mrs. Daniels didn't protest.

“Let's get you dried and bandaged up again,” Christine said with a bit more authority. She wrapped another towel around Mrs. Daniels's shoulders before she stooped down to help dry her legs and feet. Then, kneeling on the hard marble floor, she carefully rewrapped the ankle as
closely as she could to the way it had been before she'd unwound it.

“Have you done this before?”

She shook her head. “No, but I had considered going to nursing school for a while.”

“Whatever for?”

“To become a nurse.” Christine stood.

“Well, of course. But why on earth would anyone want to become a nurse, of all things? Changing bedpans and caring for sick people. Good grief.”

“As it turned out, I wasn't really suited for it.” Christine handed her a white terry bathrobe that was hanging on a hook by the shower.

“You could've fooled me.” Mrs. Daniels pushed the bathrobe back at her. “No, just go and get me my clothes. I believe I'll just get dressed in here. You'll find my underthings in one of the top drawers in the closet. And while you're at it, bring me a sturdy tennis shoe for my good foot.”

After about twenty minutes and a bit of cursing on Mrs. Daniels's part, they managed to get her adequately dressed and seated on the pale yellow leather couch in the living room.

“I think you should put your foot up,” Christine advised.

“Yes, I'm sure you're right.”

“And I think you should have some breakfast.” Christine adjusted the tapestry pillow beneath the injured foot. “What do you usually have?”

“I'll start with some orange juice.” Mrs. Daniels leaned back and closed her eyes and sighed. “Do you know how to make coffee?”

“Yes. How do you like it?”

“Strong and with cream.”

“What else would you like?”

“I would like a poached egg and a piece of lightly buttered toast.” Mrs. Daniels opened her eyes. “Do you know how to do that?”

Christine nodded. “My dad likes poached eggs too.”

Mrs. Daniels closed her eyes again. “Good.”

Christine wandered through a spacious dining room with a long, dark table large enough to seat at least twelve. Along one wall of this room was a bank of French doors that looked out onto a perfectly landscaped backyard and what appeared to be an inground pool. Christine wondered if Mrs. Daniels actually used the pool, or was it just for looks? Then she went through a set of double swinging doors and found what she'd hoped for—a kitchen. And to Christine's surprise, it was a sunny-looking kitchen with walls the color of butter and light wood cabinets with glass doors. She ran her hand across the sleek granite countertops. A bit cool perhaps, but at least they were a pleasant color, a nice sandy tone that resembled the beach on a summer's day. She decided that so far this was her favorite room in the house.

She quickly located a juice glass, filled it, and took it to Mrs. Daniels. “Here,” she said, worried that the old woman had fallen asleep. “You should probably drink this now. It's good for your blood sugar level.”

Mrs. Daniels frowned. “What do you know about blood sugar levels?”

“My mother was a diabetic.”

“Was? Oh yes, I do seem to remember that you mentioned she had passed on. When was that?”

“A few years ago.” Christine looked away. This wasn't a subject she particularly cared to discuss with this woman.

“Yes, well, I'm sorry.”

She nodded. “I'll get back to your breakfast now.”

Christine was relieved to be back in the kitchen. Before long she had a poached egg, a slice of wheat toast, lightly buttered, and a hot cup of strong coffee, with cream. She placed these on a tray with silverware and a napkin, then took them to the living room.

“Did you want to eat in here?” she asked.

Mrs. Daniels shrugged. “I might as well. Although, normally, I frown upon such practices.” She pointed to the glass-topped coffee table. “Put it there.”

Christine returned to the kitchen to begin cleaning up. As she finished washing out the saucepan, she paused to look out the window over the sink and found herself staring at the large oak tree on the left side of the backyard. Something about its bare branches silhouetted against the pale gray sky held her attention in an almost haunting way. Then suddenly she realized that this house might have once been her biological mother's home. She wasn't sure how long Mrs. Daniels had lived here, but it seemed entirely possible that Lenore might have once stood right here at this very window, perhaps as a teen, and actually stared out at this very same tree.

She went back into the living room to see that Mrs. Daniels was finished. “More coffee?” she asked.

“Yes, please. And for future reference, you don't have to make it
that
strong.”

“Sorry.”

“Usually people make it too weak, so I always say strong. That was, however, too strong.”

“Right.” Christine picked up the tray and wondered if she would ever do anything to this woman's satisfaction.

“Everything else was all right.”

“Thank you.” Christine paused for a moment. “This is a lovely home, Mrs. Daniels. How long have you lived here?”

Mrs. Daniels frowned. “Oh, I'm not really sure. Let's see, James and I got married in 1980, and we moved in here shortly after that. You do the math.”

Christine nodded and smiled. “A long time ago, anyway.”

But as she walked back to the kitchen, it hit her full force that her mother had indeed lived here, walked upon these very floors, looked out of these actual windows. She wondered which room might have been Lenore's bedroom and if she might get to see it at some point. Also, she wondered about photos. So far she'd seen nothing. But why not? Oh, the questions that tumbled through her head as she refilled Mrs. Daniels's coffee cup. If only there was a way to get this cantankerous old woman to talk without revealing her true identity. Because, like it or not, the more Christine played this game and the deeper she got into it, the more she realized it would be difficult to step out of. Perhaps she would never be able to divulge the truth to her grandmother.

By noon Christine had done two loads of laundry and cleaned the downstairs bathrooms, Mrs. Daniels's bedroom, and the kitchen. She'd vacuumed and dusted the den and emptied all the trash receptacles. She continued to search for photos and clues while she worked,
but so far she'd found nothing that seemed relevant to Lenore. Christine's chores were regularly interrupted by Mrs. Daniels, who was always asking for things like books, the newspaper, reading glasses, another cup of coffee, whatever seemed to strike her fancy at the moment. Plus, Christine was responsible for answering the phone and the door. And, for an older woman who lived alone, Mrs. Daniels seemed to have a lot of callers. Some of the phone calls were invitations to various luncheons and Christmas gatherings, all of which were declined, and the callers at the door were usually seeking donations or selling Christmas wreaths or delivering packages.