Beautiful Star of Bethlehem

by Lori Copeland

  I find myself agreeing to the outing. By now I have forgotten why I was upset with Frances, and apparently I am missing a few years of Christmas memories.

  Later, I stop by the birdcage to feed cracked eggshells to the little feathered creatures. I’m not sure when it happened, but someone put me in charge of feeding the birds that are kept in a big, floor-to-ceiling gilded cage near the main entryway. My job is to feed and water the birds once a day, but I throw in the eggshells because my grandmother kept birds and she fed them the treat. The chefs save the shells in a plastic bag and give them to me when I fold napkins with Gwendolyn in the morning.

  “Hello, Henry.” I kneel in front of the cage and study the array of God’s little creatures. I’ve given them all names. It only seems proper. Such trusting, carefree, and helpless creatures. Their tweets and twitters brighten the foyer, and the facility residents often spend hours sitting in the lobby, watching their activities. Yesterday I heard an older man quote what I believe was scripture. I heard him whisper, “‘Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?’”

  Often when I look in the mirror, I see a reflection and wonder if that person is valuable to God: a tiny, helpless creature with seemingly no purpose and yet I am fed and clothed and warm by no effort of my own.

  I carefully distribute the crackly treat, and afterward I glance up and mentally gasp. At the end of corridor one, that man is busy at work at the outside entrance. He’s peering over his shoulder like he’s about to achieve a goal. I know that I should report him, but since I’ve already had one brush with Candace Marshall, administrator, today, I don’t need a second one.

  Fascinated, I watch him fiddle with something and then unhook a wire. With a final security glance, he quietly opens the door. No siren squeal. Nothing but normal sound fills the corridor.

  I absently wipe my hands on my slacks and watch him slip through the doorway, envious of his success.

  Dr. Important rounds the corner like a bat out of Hades and apparently spots the offense. His pace quickens. “Need help on corridor one!”

  Shrugging my shoulders, I pick up the discarded napkin that contained the eggshells and continue to my room.

  If one has to be busted, the infraction should be for something worthwhile, and for one precious moment the man has his freedom.

  Chapter Eight

  Year Four

  December 12

  A decorated blue spruce stands in the foyer, resplendent with silver tinsel and large white peacocks scattered among the spreading branches. Bing Crosby dreams of a white Christmas over the intercom. I add the finishing touches to my finger-painting project and shove the construction paper aside. “Where did you say Gerty is? I haven’t seen her in days.”

  “She’s sick, honey.” The woman sitting across from me pushes back from the long worktable. Days blur slowly into one another. The craft room is near empty this morning, so I wander into the hallway and pause to speak to the first nurse that I spot. “Has Jack been in today?”

  “No, Arlene. Not today, sweetie.”

  Time hangs heavy on my mind. Nobody’s visited me for weeks. The only excitement in my life is meeting Una, who has fast become my dearest friend. Una’s about my age. She stays to herself mostly and refuses to associate with the others, but we have developed a rather close relationship. To my delight, I learn that the newcomer and I share the same likes and dislikes. I can talk to her like a sister, tell her my deepest hurts and secrets, and she understands. She’s the last person I speak to at night and usually the first I see in the morning.

  And Una’s even a Republican.

  Dr. Important rushes past me on the way to the break room. I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but his hair looks darker these days. Una and I decide he’s putting color on those graying locks.

  Speaking of the doctor, Una asks me if I think that he is married. I say no. I don’t know why, but I don’t think many women would put up with him. I presume that he’s quite an attractive man if he would slow down and let me get a better look, but I suspect it would take a strong woman to tame this male.

  A couple of unfamiliar residents are sitting in the foyer playing solitaire. I don’t enjoy the card game, but I decide to pull up a chair—at their invitation—and watch. Somebody mentions that a youth group from a local church is coming today to give manicures. One glance at my nails and I cringe. Where are the long, tapered gel nails with a tiny flower decal on the pointed tips? My gaze shifts to my dry skin that now looks like crepe paper. I abandon the inspection and stuff my hands beneath the folds of my sweater.

  “Mom?”

  I look up to see the woman that I now call “Melissa” standing in the foyer. Bits of snowflakes lie on her fur collar, and her blushed cheeks appear almost too red today. “Yes, dear?”

  “Hi. I thought you might be in your room.” Bracelets jingle and the scent of Elizabeth Taylor’s Passion scents the foyer.

  The solitaire ladies drop their cards and spring to their feet, cherry-color cheeks coming to life. “Why hello! Come in! Stay awhile,” one invites.

  I shoot out of my seat, grasping for Melissa’s hand. She is my company. Not theirs. “She’s here to visit me.” Peculiar how possessive the residents are. We act like selfish children when it comes to guests. We don’t want to share.

  Expectant smiles fade, and the women return to their hand of cards.

  Melissa and I walk down the corridor, and I admire her fur-lined boots with a three-quarter heel. So trendy. Once I dressed like her… how long ago? I can’t recall ever wearing anything but saggy pants and oversized blouses.

  “Melissa?”

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “What happened to my leather jacket?”

  “What jacket is that?”

  “The one I was wearing in the crash. I’d just purchased it that day.” The image is clear. I shopped my favorite store, and when I spotted the jacket, I cast prudence to the wind and paid the scandalous price for the garment.

  Mention of the accident seems to unnerve the young lady. “I don’t know. I imagine it was lost in the plane wreckage.”

  “Plane?”

  Melissa tone softens. “You were in a plane crash.”

  “I was? Was I hurt?”

  “You’re doing very well.”

  “I really liked that jacket. I don’t go out often,” I confess, “but I’d like to have it.” Gwendolyn wears her finest to meals. I might have the youth girls do my nails today, and then some night soon I will wear the jacket to dinner.

  We enter my room, and I close the door. I don’t want any snoop dogs sharing my guest.

  Melissa peels out of her coat and lays the garment on the sofa. Today her pretty face is strained. Even weepy. Smudges of back mascara form around her eyelids.

  “Are you feeling well, dear?”

  Pulling me to the sofa, she eases me down. “Have you noticed that Jack hasn’t been with me lately?”

  “My Jack?”

  “Jack Jr.”

  “Oh, him. No, I’m afraid that I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “Mom, he visited you early this week. He—we want to come more often but by the time we fly here and back, the day is gone.” Releasing a sigh, the woman bites her upper lip, and tears pool in her violet-colored eyes.

  I immediately regret my careless observation. “Have I upset you?”

  “It isn’t you. It’s me. I’m afraid that I’m about to upset you.” A ragged sob escapes her.

  I like seeing her strong emotions. I can’t recall a time when anything upset me. I have no particular emotions. Confusion, but no deep-down responses. At the moment, I welcome a good righteous anger. Scooting forward, I say softly, “I may not understand your words, but I can listen.” I have the oddest feeling that she needs to talk to someone. Too bad it has to be me, but I’ll do what I can.

  Hot tears roll from the young wo
man’s eyelids. Such a pretty face to be so fragmented.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s me… and Jack. We’re separated.”

  I frown. “You and my Jack?” This explains why he hasn’t been around to visit. My gaze skims the lovely creature with coal black hair that hangs below her collar and watery violet eyes. She is stunning. Young. Healthy. I glance at my worn hands and chipped nails. Oh Jack. How could you?

  “Jack Jr., Mom.”

  My mood lifts. “He’s my son.”

  “Yes, and my husband. We tried to save our marriage, but we’d drifted too far apart.” She swipes at the wet stream trickling down her cheeks.

  “Do you argue?”

  “We barely say a civil word to each other.” She looks at me and dabs at her nose. “I’m sorry—I know you can’t understand, but I desperately need someone to talk to.”

  “Your mother?”

  “She’s in Europe for the holidays.”

  I sit back, wondering if I have been the sort of mother who would spend the holidays in Europe if my daughter needed me. “Go on. I’m listening.”

  “There’s not much to tell. We’ve tried to keep our marriage from falling apart, but Jack works all the time and he says I’m too involved in my separate life.” She shakes her head. “I live a separate life because I’m forced to—not because I want to. He’s never around. Our home and social life has fallen apart.”

  Even I know that life has a way of separating couples who vow to love one another forever.

  “Jack Jr. and I no longer have a private life. When we speak, we bark. The tension between us has grown until we can cut it with a knife. The last straw was when I forgot one of his clients was in town, and I was supposed to have taken her shopping. Instead, I went to Jazzercise.” She drew a shuddering sigh. “He packed a bag and left that night.”

  I shake my head. “Seems a small thing to raise such a fuss over.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Images swim before me. I so need to help her, but all I can remember is the time a couple, both close friends of Jack and me, split up. “Jack and I had friends that indulged in the silliest disagreements. One time she wanted the garage door painted red, and her husband said he’d do it. She bought the paint, and he set to work on one of his rare days off. She was so busy that she let him do his thing. He poked his head in the doorway once and said, ‘I think you’d better take a look at this.’

  “My friend said, ‘The color is fine, Jack. Just paint it.’ It was one of her rare days off, too, and the man was capable of painting a garage door.

  “Later when she wandered outside, she nearly dropped her coffee mug. The door was pink. Shocking, hideous pink. Was he color blind?

  “He stopped work, and she drove back to the paint store. This time she returned with True Red. He set to work again. When she went out an hour later, she could not believe her eyes. The door was a cross between cranberry and dizzying red! She said that her dying geraniums were prettier.

  “Her husband sat down on the driveway and took off his hat. The third bucket, she hit gold. Red Garnet, a lovely shade. When her husband completed the job, the door was perfect. She often asked me how many husbands would have painted that door three times in the same day.”

  I shrug. The conversation is as clear as a cloudless sky in my mind. “Of course, he didn’t speak to her the rest of the night, but by morning, he was whistling while he dressed. Men recover quickly. That and she was wise enough to book a Caribbean cruise late that afternoon. She figured she owed her husband a little extra attention and appreciation.”

  “Oh Mom!” Melissa half laughs, half cries the exclamation. “Do you realize that you just spoke clear, long sentences? You are getting better!”

  We both laugh. Seemed convoluted to me.

  Wiping her eyes, Melissa dreams out loud. “I wish a Caribbean cruise would solve my problem.”

  By then I am back trying to figure out who I am speaking to. I know her—but I don’t know her. “Well, who knows? It could.”

  It didn’t take a full set of faculties to know that.

  She shook her head. “I haven’t spoken to or seen my Jack in weeks.”

  We sit in silence until I offer, “If he’d come to see me, I could speak to him about the matter.”

  “Mom, he comes to see you twice a month—and that’s as often as he can. Steven and Julee are supposed to fill the void when we can’t come.”

  “I never see Steven.”

  She leans to give me a hug. “I don’t know why I’m bothering you. You can’t do a thing about my problems. Are you okay?”

  “How would I know? I can’t remember squat—except an occasional flash. Sometimes at night when I’m lying in bed, I ask God, ‘Why?’ If I had to lose memory, why not make me like one sitting in the hallway, staring into thin air, without a care in the world. I recall just enough to aggravate me.”

  Melissa’s gaze roams the room. “I know Jack and Steven spare no expense to keep you here, but are you comfortable?”

  “What’s not to be comfortable? I have everything but joy.”

  Scooting to the edge of the sofa, Melissa looks me in the eye, her gaze soft. “What would it take to restore your joy?”

  “One thing. I want my Jack to come and see me. I miss him. It’s been weeks since the accident, and I know he has to be back from that business trip by now.”

  Melissa falls silent, her gaze focused on the Persian rug beneath the coffee table. “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Your Jack’s been very ill.”

  Alarmed, I scoot to face her. “His heart?” Odd that I would recall his recent heart episode. I hadn’t thought about it since the accident.

  “Yes… his heart is involved.”

  Nausea wells to the back of my throat. “Is it serious?”

  She takes both of my hands and holds them tightly. I detect a brief struggle in her eyes, and then strengthening her grasp, she says, “Jack would want me to remind you that whatever happens in this life, you and he will be reunited in heaven.”

  I latch onto her arm. “Melissa. You can tell me the truth. Is Jack alive?” From day one I have refused to consider the possibility that Jack might no longer be with me, but time passes, and it gets harder to shove the unthinkable aside.

  Her lovely gaze focuses on me. Tender. Caring. “He’s even better than that, Mom. He’s somewhere where he’ll never grow old and his heart will never give out.”

  Flashes of a young, bearded man wearing a white robe and sandals rush to mind. His eyes are tender, and He is holding a small child on His lap. “Heaven?” I venture.

  “Yes, I truly believe he is there, Mom.”

  My hand drops away, and I sit back with an almost giddy feeling. Jack isn’t ignoring me; he has been too ill to visit. His heart needed more than a stent. “I wish I could have said good-bye.”

  Kiss him one final time. Feel his strength in my weakness.

  “He would have liked that, Mom. You know you and Dad had an enviable marriage. You truly loved each other.”

  I glance up. “Thank you for telling me, Melissa. You don’t know how many nights I’ve lain awake wondering about Jack. Is he traveling? Is he eating well? I never once considered his heart.”

  “I know, Mom. I have seen your concern, but I believe that you sense that life is unpredictable. Tomorrow you won’t recall this conversation, but when you ask Jack Jr. or Steven about their father, Jack Jr. will remind you that your Jack is in heaven now.”

  Nodding, I say, “I’ll try.” For the first time in a long time, I am aware of hot salty tears streaming down my cheeks, filling my nose. For a second, I can’t breathe. My Jack is gone. I reach for a tissue.

  After a bit, I wipe my eyes and say, “I would like for you to come more often, Melissa. Perhaps we can help each other.”

  “Maybe we can, Mom.” She lightly blows her nose and then draws in a long sigh. “You’re so young to be here—in this place.”


  Gwendolyn, Eleanor, Frances—and almost anyone I can name—are older than me. Only Una looks to be near my age.

  “Have I told you about my friend Una?”

  “You have. Perhaps we can have lunch together very soon.”

  “I don’t know.” I think about it. “Una doesn’t like most of the people in here. She stays to herself a lot. She’s going home soon.”

  “I’m sorry. Perhaps one day we’ll go to her room and meet with her in private.”

  “Okay. I can convince her to meet you. She always asks about my family.”

  “Maybe the next visit?”

  “Sure.” I’m not going anywhere.

  Chapter Nine

  Year Five

  October 31

  Children’s laughter fills the corridors. Squeals and fussy cries burst forth from sticky faces with even stickier hands.

  I sit on the stool, wearing the Cinderella costume and hand out candy. There were shouts of protests and some pretty unfriendly looks when the prize dress landed in my hands. I don’t know why. I can’t ever recall wearing the garment.

  One lady accused me of cheating—me, Arlene Santana, who once went out of her way to return change when a cashier overpaid me. Then again, maybe I only imagine what I’m like. The thought does occupy time. Am I a fussy person? Rude? Or rather am I the sort everybody likes? I prefer the latter.

  Gwendolyn overheard the snide accusation and flew into the loudmouth know-it-all like a chicken on a June bug. That’s Gwendolyn, always protecting me. Yet often her and Frances’s feistiness lands me in trouble. Una says I should stay clear of my tablemates; they’re troublemakers.

  And to my shame, I walked away with the Cinderella dress this morning feeling a bit superior.

  Little guys draw back when I offer their treat, eyes round with wonder. I hand out candy as quick as my hand can keep up when I glance up to see Steven and Julee coming through the line, carrying a little blond-haired, blue-eyed girl. I’ve never seen the child before, but she is something special. Just the sight of her makes my heart happy. The child’s features are purely angelic and turn my heart to soup. “Why, Steven! What a surprise to see you!” I bound off my throne—actually a bar stool draped in a sheet that the janitor has fashioned—and hug the man so tightly he staggers backward. “It is so good to see you!” I affectionately punch his shoulder. “Where have you two been? And Jack Jr., is he with you?”