Grace put her hand on Shelby’s belly so she could gauge the bubbling spasm. It soon eased. Another pillow under her knees would help, along with a foot and ankle rub. Shelby wasn’t too swollen, but enough to merit a reminder that bed rest was an order.
An enervating conduit of peace passed back and forth between them with her touch, a comfortable reminder of the gift slowly recharging inside of her. She wasn’t fully prepared to admit how much she’d missed it, even as Sean’s laughter echoed around her skull. Why now? Why were these memories surging out of their neatly labeled boxes she’d thought safely locked in the attic of her soul? A baby…so precious. She’d practiced as a midwife last year before having Sean, visiting expectant mothers and fathers, acting as doula or delivering at home. The joy of that first breath, that first cradling hold, so right in her hands. The pulsing of the warm umbilical cord reminding her of attachment, but also of the need to let go. Trust. So hard.
“There. Stopped,” Shelby declared. “The doctor said not to get too excited unless my water broke or the spasms didn’t stop. Early contractions or something, he said. You should have seen Davy sweat the first one last month!”
Grace passed off her automatic professional smile, but she worried about her friend. The story Ted had told her about the last time they’d tried to have a baby and almost died lingered on the surface of her consciousness. She’d never let anything happen to Shelby and the baby. She must remember…do nothing unusual. Only what she’d trained for. If she did everything right, Shelby and the baby would be fine.
Grace walked to the other side of the room and took her coat from the closet.
Shelby pulled the colored afghan around her shoulders. “Hey. Thanks for your concern. You make me feel safe, you know. Everyone says how great you’re doing at the clinic.” Her smile grew conspiratorial. “Mr. Jeffries won’t even see Doc anymore. He only makes his appointments with you.” She winked, and Grace laughed.
“The people are very kind. I’m so glad to be here. I’ll take off now and let you two rest.”
For once her friend didn’t protest.
A week later another of Grace’s dilemmas was conveniently solved. She laughed at the sight of her neighbors’ special delivery upon answering the door.
“We brought you a Christmas tree, Grace!” Eddy pranced into her living room. Randy carried in a fresh cut fir and Ted followed, hunched into his coat against the cold.
“Why is it that just when I’m really wondering what to do, my prayer gets answered?”
“What prayer?” Eddy galloped around the tree.
She grabbed him and hugged him tightly. “Why, how to find the perfect Christmas tree, of course! And here you are, my favorite guys, bringing one right to me.”
Whoops! The words popped right out before she considered them. Ted leaned forward, both hands folded over his cane, bemused smile on his face, while Randy spared a fleeting glance as he turned the tree for the best angle in front of her window.
“Eddy—fetch the stand, boy. I think we left it outside,” he told his nephew. A blast of cold air filled the living room when he raced out and back in again with a red metal stand clutched in his arms.
Grace tried to cover her awkwardness with exaggerated cheer as she imagined herself wiping that smirk off Ted’s face. “We’ll string some popcorn and gingerbread guys on it, Eds.”
“I’ll make you some!”
“You’re my best decorator,” she told the little boy as she helped Randy settle the pretty little tree into its stand. Randy and Ted then examined the multitude of paper snowflakes taped to the front windows, some on large lined paper, some misshapen, but all made with love.
“I think we can send over some stuff, Grace,” Ted said. He plopped into her little bentwood rocker. “Mom had a lot of decorations and most of it’s in the attic yet. We never did a lot of decorating after she passed away.”
“Oh, I couldn’t use your mother’s things,” she replied, appalled that he would say such a thing. She gave the tree a critical eye. “I’m sure now that Eddy is older you’ll enjoy decorating with him and use them yourselves. But thank you for thinking of me. I have some things of my own that I could bring out.”
A large box had been shipped up from Tennessee last month, in fact. She had directed her lawyer to close up the house there until she decided what to do, but had given him a detailed list of which of her things to send on to her in Michigan.
No more secrets back there, I guess. If they wanted me to come back, they would have asked. Lena’s letters started coming two weeks ago—three newsy missives—catching Grace up on news of Woodside. Lena conveniently passed over anything too personal, memories that might have proved too sad.
Grace had replied with a postcard. Just an appetizer, she told Lena. It would take awhile before she felt comfortable writing at all, let alone talking about her new life. She wasn’t ready to start e-mailing her friends, either. In time. Yes, she only needed a little more time so the memories could fade a little more, for the blame to pass away. They might forgive her eventually, if there was more distance and she had more proof that she was doing good things.
She roused from her muse to catch Ted watching her, telltale sympathy in the gentleness of his eyes. Randy stared past the tree out of the big window.
Yeah, so? Widows deserve a little sympathy.
Ted pressed to his feet, gesturing for Eddy to come and put on his coat. “Well, Grace, us favorite guys gotta mosey on. I hope you don’t mind we took it upon ourselves to bring you this one. We didn’t give you a chance to pick it out or even knew if you liked living Christmas trees.”
She flushed, feeling that he read her thoughts. “I love the tree.” She buttoned Eddy’s coat and wound the scarf around his neck. “I can’t thank you all enough. I’ll see you tomorrow, then, for church? Would you three like to have dinner here? It’s the least I can do.”
She waved them gone from her porch and turned back inside, daunted by the thought of actually having to open some of the boxes from Woodside.
On the floor of Eddy’s former bedroom, the contents of the largest carton of her belongings from Tennessee spread in a loose arc around her. Her tea the other day with Shelby seemed to breach a dam of pent-up emotion. Tears rolled non-stop down her face and dripped on her sweater. She took out the bubble-wrapped framed photographs of her parents, Jonathan’s parents, of herself and Jonathan, and finally, of Sean. She put those of Sean away to look at later and held up the one of Jonathan and herself sitting on a big rock at Acadia Park in Maine where they had vacationed once. The ocean sprayed across their smiling faces. They had been wet and so happy. There had been so many good times before he got sick.
She smiled as she unwrapped some of the pinecone ornaments her mother had decorated with paint and tiny glued-on birds, beads, and glitter, and one she attempted as a child. Four glass birds from her collection. It was a big chance sending them through the mail, but they had been carefully wrapped and cushioned. Eight doilies her great-grandmother crocheted, taken from her living room chairs. They were yellowed with age, quaint dainty little things. Grace held one up to the light, marveling still at the microscopic stitches, then set it aside on the bare floor, smoothing it with her forefinger.
She brushed hair behind her ear as she bent forward again, pulling out the dozen books she requested. She smiled, thinking of whoever was kind enough to search through the numerous titles to pull these favorites for her: Sir Walter Scott, Tennyson, and Kipling. Eddy might like some of Felix Salten’s Bambi: A Life in the Woods, the early parts, if he didn’t already know the non-Disney version.
On the bottom was a heavy packaged set of kitchen dishes. She was tired of the unmatched and stained plastic odds and ends she picked up at garage sales and found leftover in the cupboards. Ted said Jilly took away most of what they had when she left. Grace had always liked the chunky country-art set of eight she and Jonathan had found on one of their weekend rambles. The plates and cups were moss gre
en with folk birds and birdhouses around the edges, in old blues and deep reds and mustard yellows. She heaved herself off the floor and hauled the dishes out to the kitchen to wash, her river of tears mingling with the dishwater.
A few hours later she answered the door to Ted who stood alone on her front porch, fist raised mid-knock. He narrowed his eyes and frowned.
“I just came with a few of Mom’s old decorations, even though… I just thought it would be a kick, getting them out and I wanted to share…to tell you about some of them. I guess, really just to talk. If this is a bad time, though…” Ted stammered. “Can I, um, do anything?”
Grace focused on him, wondering why he was really there. She saw him raise his eyebrows, as if he was concerned about something. Someone. Her? She rubbed tear tracks from her cheeks.
He shifted a box under his arm and held it out. “Here. Just look at them. If you can’t use them, I’ll take them back.”
“Okay.”
Ted stared past her into the living room. “You’re unpacking.”
“Yes. I had the house in Woodside closed up and a-a few things shipped,” she replied, pressing her lips together. She squirmed under his scrutiny. He probably noticed the changes she had made in the room when he glanced at the little table near the doorway. She had put the picture there, the one of her and Jonathan on vacation, younger and carefree.
Ted swayed against the doorjamb. “Ah, well, maybe I’ll come back another time, then.”
She shook her head and blinked. “Excuse me?”
Had he come for a reason? She was so tired. She wasn’t supposed to have Eddy, was she? He wasn’t here? No, it was the weekend. She was alone with the ghosts of her past. “Thank you. I’m sorry, Ted. What did you want?”
Ted took a deep breath and straightened. “A cup of sugar?” he said with the hint of a smile. “I was mostly showing off. Look—no cane, no crutch, but—I’ll go. I’m sorry I keep turning up. Just because I live next door doesn’t give me the right to drop in any time, unannounced. Although you don’t have the phone turned on, so I couldn’t call ahead and ask.”
Grace tried to smile, a real and honest one, but she felt confused about how she should accept his news, his visit, his gifts. “Yes. I don’t. How wonderful for you. And, thank you,” she said, without any sense or order.
Ted cocked his head. Silence ensued. “Okay, then. I’ll be off.”
And to her dismay and confusion, she let him go. All these ghosts reminded her of what she’d been incapable of in the past. She couldn’t risk hurting anyone now…certainly not someone as vulnerable as Ted. It was better, so much better, if he left her alone. She couldn’t help him, anyway.
Chapter Twelve
Grace gazed out on her snowy front porch and considered sweeping the wide boards. The wet probably wasn’t too good for the wood. She had not had to worry about things like that in Tennessee. She let the lace panel fall back into place at the window as she turned and wandered back into her living room.
Mmm. Aromatic cedar branches she had brought in three days ago and placed around the room whirled their Christmas scent every time she breezed by. She decided to put in a rug after all and bought a short-napped rust-colored area one. Eddy could still run his trucks smoothly across it and not scratch up the polished oak floor.
The prints she’d found at a local craft store and hung on the wall across the door were perfect. Apple orchards at dusk, the green and rusty reds in early Americana, had a primitive feel. The lamplight was low and intimate, casting long shadows on the drop ceiling panels. This was more than a nice house; it was becoming home.
What do people do about gift-giving here in Michigan? She brushed moisture from her eyelashes and struggled to keep back tears at the memories of past holidays. The first Christmas with Sean had been so much fun. Everyone had been right. Christmas with a baby was special. Bittersweet memories.
A card had come from Lena. A few colorful notes and cards from patients and some of her new friends here made a little respectable pile in her Amish apple wood bowl on the coffee table.
Grace sat down on the sofa and picked up her list. Scarf and leather gloves for the men in her life, new pads of colored papers, smelly markers, and squiggly cut scissors for Eddy, new hot pads for Matty who complained that her husband Harold burned up her last nice one when he dropped it in the oven.
She twirled the pen in her fingers as she contemplated her options for Christmas Day. Matty had invited her home.
“Harold, my man, will make you his famous Christmas punch. That’s a drink, you know.” There was something definitely mischievous about this punch, judging by the twinkle accompanying the declaration. “The children all come home with their own—thirteen so far. Und a neighbor or two who may be alone.” She shrugged. “You never know. Then the cats and turtle… Harold has this snapper—big as a plate! Feeds it burger. The little ones love it! The cat always tries to play, but Georgie, that’s what Harold calls it—he don’t play too much. Ja—no one should be alone on the holy day.”
Matty pronounced it as two separate words, letting Grace know that she held Christmas sacred.
Grace wrapped up her mincemeat pie in a couple of dishtowels to keep it warm while she drove to the other side of East Bay where the Van Ooyens kept a small hobby farm. Matty had come to the United States from her native Netherlands when she married Harold, whom she met while he was studying abroad at the Hague for a semester. She was already a nurse who had no trouble getting a license in Michigan and worked while Harold finished school. A few years ago, Harold retired from the engineering firm he worked for. The two of them enjoyed their growing family, the animals, and a small orchard.
“Mincemeat!” Harold exclaimed upon opening the door. “Reminds me of home with grandma. I’ll take care of that for you. Oh, and Merry Christmas.”
Grace laughed and surrendered her coat to Matty who grinned hugely and kissed her cheek. “We’re happy you could join us!”
Grace strolled around the living room, alternately looking at her friends’ lifetime of odds and ends and dodging variously-aged grandchildren and scrambling pets. She sipped cautiously at the punch which Harold had given her accompanied by a wink, a sort of tart apple mulled with cinnamon sticks and cloves. It was a pleasant appetizer to the heavenly aromas wafting from the huge farm kitchen. The boisterous, joyous, and homey atmosphere enveloped her.
“No one should be alone,” she repeated softly to herself. She jumped at the unexpected sight of her boss admiring the other side of the tree.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Greg said, as surprised-looking as she felt.
Grace took a nervous sip of the punch. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”
“Yes, yes. I suppose so.” He sighed. “Matty and Harold collect strays, as you can see,” he told her, eyes full of chagrin and discomfort. He reached for her hand but didn’t meet it as he was nudged out of the way by a rambunctious waist-high little boy, closely followed by a petite curly-headed girl chasing one of the cats.
“Well, anyway, I’m so relieved to see a familiar face, no matter whether Christmas is merry or we’re all a bunch of strays getting together for a good time,” Grace said. “Are you really not a fan of Christmas? Does your family feel the same way?”
“I get back home every couple of years. In between, I’m invited here.” He indicated the pager at his hip. “A couple of us take turns watching the shop over the holidays.”
Happy chaos continued to unfold around them. “I suppose for years I’ve associated Christmas with accidents and work,” Greg said in a low voice. “My family is pretty staid. The folks are gone now. I have two sisters, one older and never married and one younger with grown-up kids. Christmas is supposed to be more like this, don’t you think?” He waved his hand at the ruckus of children and pets and the heavily-decorated tree in constant threat of toppling over. A fairy of a girl lay on her tummy, chin in hand and ringlets running riot over her head, eyeing the gaily-wrapped packa
ges spilling from underneath it.
Warmed by the punch and the commotion, Grace agreed. She drew a ragged breath at the memory of a little boy who once looked at a brightly lit tree with rapt amazement.
Right then Harold, dressed in an old white butcher’s apron proclaiming “Kiss the Cook,” banged a ladle against the lid of a pot and announced, “Feeding time!” It was a mad scramble for the table. Greg ushered her to a corner seat, her mouth watering in anticipation of the flavors emanating from the various covered dishes.
Greg’s tranquil baritone was another surprise when Harold started singing. She joined in. “We gather together, to ask the Lord’s blessing…”
Everyone at the table knew the words. She smiled inwardly at the Norman Rockwell moment around the table, the faces glowing in candlelight and every mouth open in praise.
An hour later the scraping was done, the dishwasher humming, and the refrigerator boasted leftovers for a few easy meals. Grace joined the intimate group to watch the exchange of gifts; all of them arranged about the living room and spilling back into the dining area. Parents begged the children to go slow, be properly thankful and figure who gave what to whom. Greg somehow worked an arm across Grace’s shoulders and whispered in her ear, “And what would Grace like for her Christmas gift?”
She sat still, dismayed, unsure what to say or do, or how to read the situation. She liked him and did not think he would turn on her if she rebuffed him—or wasn’t that what he was doing? Making a pass? He hadn’t acted like more than a friendly uncle during work hours and she had only bumped into him a couple of times in town while shopping, once at the diner. Maybe it was the punch. She hesitated, trying not to twitch her shoulders but failing. The arm was immediately removed.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh, no, please,” she hissed, checking around to see if anyone was looking at them, feeling her cheeks unnaturally warm. “It’s not that…” She risked a peek at him. She leaned back again and closed her eyes briefly. “What Grace would like this Christmas is just being here” —she gestured at the room— “with my new friends.” She included him in her smile. “In my new home.”
Healing Grace Page 10
