A Wish for Christmas

by Thomas Kinkade

  Thinking about Christine was just another kind of pain. David had learned the full A-to-Z list this past year. If they gave out college degrees for such matters, he would be a PhD by now.

  DAVID WASN’T SURE HOW LONG HE HAD BEEN ASLEEP. THE ROOM WAS dark when he opened his eyes, and his father was standing in the doorway, calling to him. “David? Can you get up? Time for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  David shook his head. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he promised, though he knew it would take much longer to maneuver himself out of bed and make the short trip from his room into the kitchen.

  He lay in bed, wondering if he could somehow avoid joining the family. He could say he had too much pain to get out of bed, or he felt too tired. It suddenly felt as if he were facing some sort of ordeal, just going out there and having to make small talk with all of them.

  But a few moments later, he gathered his energy and pushed himself up and off the bed. He had to at least try. Julie had been cooking all day, and his father had been making such a big deal of this holiday. If it felt like too much, he could always excuse himself.

  When he finally arrived in the kitchen, the family was already seated around the table, waiting for him. He awkwardly shifted from the walker into a chair. His father made a quick move to help him, but David stopped him. “I’m all right, Dad.”

  His father nodded and sat back down again. David noticed Julie glance across the table and meet Jack’s gaze, but she didn’t say anything.

  “So, do you like your surprise?” Kate asked him, breaking the tense silence.

  David felt as if someone had shaken him awake from a dream. He stared around and finally realized what his little stepsister was talking about. A colorful object, made from construction paper, sat on top of his dinner plate. He guessed it was a turkey, though it was unlike any bird he had ever seen. He picked it up and looked it over with interest, noticing his name spelled out on the tail, one letter on each feather.

  “Wow, look at that. My own personal turkey! Did you make this for me?”

  Kate nodded quickly, obviously pleased by his reaction. “I did.”

  “That is something else. Thanks, Kate. I love it.”

  Julie smiled at him. He saw Jack trying to hide a grin, too.

  “Nice touch.” Jack held up his own construction-paper turkey then put it aside. “Thank you, ladies. But I’m starved and ready to pounce on the real one. What do you say, everybody?”

  “I say, how about a little blessing over the meal before we begin?” Julie reminded him.

  “Oh . . . right. How could I forget, on Thanksgiving no less? When we have so much to be thankful for this year,” Jack added, looking over at David.

  David didn’t know what to say. His father was thankful enough for his return for both of them. For all of them.

  Jack bowed his head. “Dear Father above, we humbly thank You today for the many blessings You’ve given our family. For our good health and well-being. For the bounty of food on this table. For all that You provide in our lives, every day of the year. We are most thankful for the well-being of our family and for the safe return of our beloved David. Help us to remember the important things in life and to cherish those near and dear.”

  David had heard his father say grace countless times at a holiday meal. But had never known Jack—who was normally not the most eloquent guy in the world—to deliver such heartfelt words.

  “Amen,” Julie said. She lifted her head and smiled at her husband. “I’ll bring the turkey over, and while you carve, Jack, I’ll get the side dishes.”

  “Good plan. Just swing that bird my way. I’ll have it carved in a jiffy.” Jack stood up, wielding his carving knife and long fork, and began slicing. “Who wants a drumstick?” he asked.

  Kate raised her hand, as if she were in school. “I do!”

  Jack gazed around, pretending he didn’t hear her. “Nobody wants a drumstick? Hey, guys, that’s the best part.”

  “Me! I want a drumstick, Jack.” Kate kneeled on her seat, trying to get his attention.

  Jack cupped his ear. “Do you hear something?” He gazed around and looked at David. “Do you hear like . . . a little mouse or something . . . saying she wants a drumstick?”

  David shook his head. “I don’t hear a thing. A mouse, you said? Like, a little squeaking sound?”

  Kate sat back, giggling, finally figuring out the joke. David laughed, too. His father had pulled the same stunt on him when he was Kate’s age.

  Jack put the precious drumstick on Kate’s dish just as Julie returned to the table. “Jack, you two. Now she’s all giggling and practically falling out of her seat.”

  It was true, Kate was a silly little mess. Jack had gotten her going.

  “Oh come on now, it’s a holiday. And we have plenty to celebrate.” Jack glanced at David then delivered the second drumstick without even asking.

  “That is so true.” Julie sat down and began passing around the many side dishes—sweet potatoes, stuffing, mushrooms, fresh cranberry sauce, string beans, and red cabbage.

  “Wow, this food looks awesome,” David said. “I haven’t had a meal like this in ages.”

  His words were not an exaggeration. This was the first time since leaving home almost four years ago, right after his mother died, that David had shared a family holiday dinner. Most of that time when he was away, he had been working—at a gas station or in a restaurant kitchen, or at some other drudge job where the staff worked while the rest of the country celebrated.

  “You enjoy it, David,” Julie said. “The best part is having you here to share it with us.”

  “Amen to that,” Jack agreed between mouthfuls.

  David didn’t know what to say. Their gratitude over his safe return was sometimes overwhelming.

  It made him feel a bit small, being so focused on his own problems that he had to force himself to come out here a few minutes ago. He resolved to pull himself together, at least long enough to get through dinner, and not spoil everyone’s day.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE SUITCASE WAS BACK HERE SOMEWHERE. GRACE WAS SURE OF it. Why, she had seen it just a few weeks ago when she pulled out that brass torchère lamp. The bag with the straw weaving and thick leather straps. The handle was frayed, Grace recalled, but she could probably fix it.

  If she could find it. Grace had to open the shop in a little while, and she was prepared for a busy Saturday, the first after Thanksgiving, bringing a wave of Christmas shoppers.

  She did want to open on time and made a final effort to find the case. She peered into the pile of antiques, near antiques, and just plain junk haphazardly stacked all around the loft. The bare bulb hanging from the rafters did not provide much light, but she had thought ahead and brought along a flashlight.

  Its thin, sharp beam darted around the collection like a firefly, bouncing off the wood beams, decorated with cobwebs like crepe paper left over from some long-forgotten celebration. The light fell here and there, randomly illuminating a broken rocking chair, a large hall mirror with a gilt-edge frame, a tattered wedding veil with a pearl tiara, a coat tree draped with dusty hats, and large black umbrellas.

  One of these days, when she had the time and energy, she would sort things out up here, get it in some kind of order. Grace made that promise every time she came up. But her business, the Bramble Antique Shop, and her responsibilities caring for her father, kept her busy.

  Luckily, her life was pretty much condensed into a small space, with the shop on the first floor of their Victorian house and their apartment taking up the two upper stories. The efficient arrangement suited her. Half the big barn in back held stock. The other side was rented out to Sam Morgan for his woodworking business. Grace could hear him in there now, making a racket with an electric saw.

  Now Christmas was coming. Grace braced herself, though she doubted the trade would be overwhelming this year, with the bad economy. It was the kind of year when people were giving needful things, not china teapots and c
loisonné figurines. That’s why when a special request came in from one of those fancy decorators, it was best to hop to it. You got a good reputation that way. One would tell another and before long, you had a nice clientele of those folks, professional shoppers for rich people. They hardly cared how much they spent. After all, it was someone else’s money.

  Enough of those decorators coming around and you wouldn’t have to worry so much about the regular shoppers, the perennial browsers, looking and looking and hardly buying a thing. Especially the ones who always offered less at the register, even when they could see the price marked on each item, clear as day.

  People thought her business was easy. Well, it was not.

  She stepped back and sighed, about to give up on her quest. The dust was getting to her. She took out a tissue and dabbed her eyes and nose. She must have imagined the suitcase. She could have sworn there were two, and she had sold the other last summer. Maybe there had only been one? Was she getting old and confused now like her dad? Lord help them both if that was true.

  Then, the moment she pocketed the flashlight, she saw it. Down at the bottom of a pile, but thankfully, not under too much paraphernalia. She crouched down, moved some boxes and a small ballroom chair with a torn velvet seat cover, then carefully shimmied it loose.

  Eureka. Just what the decorator asked for.

  Grace examined the suitcase. The brass latches and hardware on the leather belts would look fine with a little polishing. The straw was worn in some places, but that added to its charm. So did the stamped gold monogram near the handle, P.G.H.

  She took hold of the leather handle, about to carry it down, then paused. It seemed awfully heavy. She didn’t want to kill herself climbing down the ladder with that load.

  Of course, there must be something in it making it so heavy. Clothes or books, old shoes or some such. Everything was such a muddle up here, you never knew what you might find.

  Grace set the case down flat and flipped open the latches. She hoped it wasn’t locked. Where would she ever find the key?

  The first latch opened easily. The other side was stuck. She found a metal doorstop shaped like a squirrel and gently tapped the latch. Finally, it sprang open.

  Grace leaned forward and slowly lifted the top of the suitcase. It did feel like there was something bulky inside.

  She saw an old sweater, the fisherman-knit type. Dark gray, full of moth holes and not very pleasant smelling, either. It had to be her father’s. She pushed it aside, expecting more useless old garments. But that’s not what she found. Not at all.

  Grace looked down into a suitcase full of money. Bills and more bills, neatly stacked and secured by thick rubber bands.

  Her breath caught in her throat, and she thought her heart missed a full beat. What in the world?

  She picked up a wad of money and examined it. Was this some sort of joke?

  She pulled out the flashlight then pulled off the rubber band. The bills scattered and floated down into the case, covering the sweater. Grace dug her hands into it and felt the paper.

  For mercy’s sake . . . the money was real. Big bills, mostly hundreds and fifties. She pressed a few to her nose. On those detective shows she and her dad watched on TV, the investigators always said you can tell fake money by the odor. This money smelled real to her. It had a vaguely fishy scent, no doubt from being imprisoned with that sweater for who knew how long. But it definitely looked, felt, and smelled like real money.

  And if it wasn’t, why would she find a suitcase full of fake money up here? Under her father’s old fishing sweater? Well, that would make even less sense, she reasoned.

  Her father. He was the one to ask about this treasure chest.

  Grace put the bills back inside then closed the case. It took some ingenuity, but Grace got the suitcase down from the loft with the use of a length of clothesline. She watched it land on the floor below, then quickly followed.

  Grace entered the building by the back door, then lugged the suitcase up the back stairway to their apartment. She soon found Digger in the kitchen, fixing himself breakfast.

  “Found that old suitcase you were looking for? Good for you,” he said mildly. “You already made one good sale today, Gracie, and you ain’t even opened the shop yet.”

  Grace stared at him a moment. Over the last few years, her father’s memory had grown foggier and so had his powers of reasoning. It was impossible to tell if he really had no connection to what was inside the case—or if he just didn’t remember.

  “Dad,” Grace began calmly, “don’t you recognize this case? I think it’s yours. See the monogram? Your initials.”

  As she pointed out the gold stamp to him, Digger glanced down, barely missing a beat as he slathered a slice of pumpernickel toast with strawberry preserves made with the berries from Grace’s garden.

  “So it is. Nice-looking piece. They don’t make them like that anymore. But you can have it. It’s probably too heavy for me to haul around these days anyways. Inconvenient, and I sure ain’t going anywhere real soon.”

  “It is heavy,” she admitted.

  She didn’t want to shock him, not in his frail condition. But it was hard to work her way around to the fact that the case was full of money. Full to the brim.

  Digger was just about to bite into his toast. Grace rested her hand on his arm. “Dad, wait a second. I need to show you something.”

  He stared at her, obviously confused. “What is it, Gracie? Something wrong?”

  “I hope not,” she said carefully. “I found something in the case. It must be yours. It’s really quite . . . quite a shock when you see it. Prepare yourself.”

  She set the case down on the floor and crouched down to open it again. Her father was watching but still didn’t seem to remember anything special about the old suitcase.

  She popped the latches, lifted the top, and then stood up. “There, see what I mean. Look at all that money. Can you believe it?”

  She heard Digger draw in a quick breath. He leaned over to take a closer look. “Well, I’ll be . . . That’s a pile of greens, all right.” He looked at Grace. “You say you found it just now? Sitting right in there?” He pointed toward the barn. “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”

  Grace sighed. He didn’t remember anything about it, did he?

  “Yes, Dad. I just found it. I think it’s real, too. See?” She picked up some bills and let him handle them.

  Digger examined the money and nodded his head. “Seems real to me, though I guess you need to take it to a banker to tell for sure.”

  “Probably,” she agreed. “I’m just wondering how it got there. Any ideas coming to you? I found this old sweater on top of it, sort of covering it. Looks like yours.”

  She pulled the sweater from a plastic bag and showed it to him. Her father’s face lit up, looking much more excited and pleased by the sight of the old ragged sweater than what Grace guessed had to be thousands of dollars.

  “My sweater! Well, what do you know? Where did you find this?”

  “In the suitcase, sitting right on top of the money,” Grace repeated patiently.

  Digger lifted the beloved sweater up to feel the rough wool on his cheek and inhaled the smell. Then he gently laid it in his lap, stroking it as if it were a living thing, a little pet cat, perhaps. “Your mother made me this sweater. Gave it to me one Christmas, not too long before she died. Remember?”

  Grace shook her head. “No, Dad. I’m sorry, I don’t remember that.”

  “Oh well, she did.” Grace believed him. His memory for distant events was still quite accurate. “After she died, when I sold the house on Clover Street, I didn’t want much inside. I let you and your sisters take the lot of it.”

  “Yes, I remember,” Grace said. His mind was wandering again. He didn’t even seem to notice the money anymore. Why was he talking about the old Clover Street house? The sweater must have reminded him.

  Grace lost hope of him offering any explanation for the suitcase, at
least right now. “You just took your clothes and books and maps. You told us to split up the rest.”

  “Yes, I did.” Digger nodded. “I took this sweater. And some other stuff. I gave you girls all the money, too. Most of it, anyways. Set some aside for my old age . . . and then another little chunk, just in case.” He looked down at the case and poked it with his toe. “I expect that’s what this here is. That little chunk I squirreled away. Sort of like an inheritance for you, Grace. A gift for taking care of your old man all these years. You were supposed to find it after I passed on.”

  So, he did remember. Grace stared at him. His intentions were touching, but Grace couldn’t help but find fault with his plan. “After you passed on? How was that supposed to happen? Did you leave a note about it somewhere for me?”

  “Not that I recall . . .” He shook his head, as if the effort of all this thinking was wearing him out. “But what are you complaining about, Grace? You found it, didn’t you? And I’m not even dead.”

  Grace was momentarily stumped by this logic. She could see it was useless to argue the point any further.

  She looked down at the suitcase again. “I guess I’ll have to bring that to a bank. Bet I get some good service when they see that deposit.”

  “A bank?” Her father nearly choked. Looking the most animated she had seen him during this entire conversation, he shook his head. “No, ma’am. No banks.”

  “Dad, what are you talking about? Of course we have to put it in a bank. Why in the world not?”

  “Don’t trust them, that’s why. Open your eyes, Gracie. Bankers are . . . Why, they’re shifty-type people. I’m not letting them get their grubby fingers on a dollar of mine. I saved that money all these years. For you. I’m not letting it out of this house.”

  Grace let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Do you think it’s safer in an old suitcase, stuck up in the rafters of the barn, than in a big, solid, bank?”

  He didn’t answer, just frowned and started eating again.