by Unknown
She met Emma’s eyes and continued. “Simple as that. The others weren’t you. My son would deny it with his dying breath but I know. I know.” Pain filled her features. “There is no greater heartache than to realize that you’ve hurt your child irreparably. I can never give Sam back those years. Never. But I can apologize and let you know we’ve all suffered from what I believed at the time was the only way the situation could be handled.”
Unshed tears brimmed in Emma’s eyes. She didn’t have trouble buying the admission; hadn’t she done the same thing with every man she dated the last few years? Now she recognized the pattern of defeat. They were all good, decent men for the most part, but they weren’t Sam, never could be Sam.
“I’m sorry, Edwina. Maybe in time—”
“I don’t demand that you forgive me,” Edwina acknowledged. “But I know this: the Spirit that is within God’s children can do what we can’t. We are given the power of his Spirit. You can’t forgive on your own, Emma, but through God we can do all things.” She flashed a hint of a smile. “I’m not asking you to like me—only to forgive the sinful nature that exists in each of us.”
“Oh, Edwina …” Foolishness swept her. Foolish, immature—painful years that could have been avoided.
She rose from her chair and took the old woman in her arms. Why did the circumstances have to be so hurtful? Now she might actually feel pity for Edwina—losing a husband, frail health, sons growing up and leaving home. Years of resentment were hard to overcome, yet there was no reason for Emma not to forgive. What was past was in the past, where it should remain. Christmas was a time of new hope, and it had been a long time since Emma had felt this much hope.
Before she left Edwina, Emma felt as if a huge anchor had been lifted from around her neck.
Emma buttoned her coat and huddled deeper into the wool lining as she and Elizabeth left Happy Hollow Assisted Living late that afternoon. Visiting with Sam’s mother had left her restless. For an hour afterward, she took deep breaths, willing herself to be calm. She admitted to herself that she was too old to hold a grudge. Grudges took energy, and lately Emma wasn’t up to the fight.
She drove Elizabeth home and then stopped by a small strip mall to pick up a few gifts. She supposed the holiday-like atmosphere at the nursing home affected her more than she thought. The weathered, kind, smiling faces had made her realize how ungrateful she was for the things she had: health, youth—basically her whole life ahead of her. Last Sunday after church, Ray Sullins gave her an orange and a candy cane, and had wished her Merry Christmas. I miss Lully, his eyes silently told her.
I do too, hers said back.
She purchased a pair of butternut-colored calfskin gloves for Elizabeth. As she passed a man’s clothing store, she had the insane urge to buy something for Sam. The impulse wouldn’t go away after several moments of browsing, so she bought the most impractical thing she could find and still call it a token remembrance: a pair of gold cuff links. She knew that it would take Houdini to find a shirt that required cuff links these days, but the gift couldn’t be misconstrued or considered intensely personal.
She had the present wrapped, and then stuffed it into her shopping bag. Who knew? She might decide not to give him the gift after all.
It all depended on whether he gave her one. Ho, ho, ho.
Snow fell in blowing sheets as she drove home with her packages. Thoughts of Edwina’s admission, the weather, and impatient Christmas shoppers left her tense. She felt close to tears and for what rational reason? Some long overdue apology? She was like a pathetic love-starved orphan who, when given an ounce of pity, sought a pound.
Climbing her front-porch steps, she stomped snow off her feet and inserted the key into the lock. Four inches of fresh snowfall covered the barren ground. The thought of putting up a tree crossed her mind, and she wondered if she was losing it. She was alone, living in a mausoleum and considering putting up a Christmas tree? She chuckled humorlessly. What was wrong with her tonight? Christmas lights, Santas ringing bells on street corners, carols saturating the air—it was enough to make the meanest Scrooge experience a fit of melancholy. She opened the door and a blast of heat knocked her back a step.
Entering the foyer, she shrugged out of her coat and trailed a wet slick of snow into the kitchen, where she heated a can of soup and later watched Entertainment Tonight. When several Oreo cookies and a piece of banana-nut bread failed to improve her mood, she paced the old house, going upstairs to check on Gismo, back downstairs, flipping through television channels.
Around eight o’clock, she put her coat back on and went outside. She traipsed to the shed and got a shovel, determined to clean the walk. Halfway into the project, she realized it was hopeless. Snow was falling faster than she could shovel.
Self-pity engulfed her.
She crossed her arms and stared at the picturesque landscape, biting her upper lip. This stunk. All around her, families settled in for the night—relatives who loved and cared for each other. Christmas was around the corner and she didn’t even have a tree up. There was not a wreath or eggnog or cute little sugar cookies cut in shapes of Santa Claus and bells to brighten her holiday.
She bent down and grabbed a handful of snow, forming a tight ball. She stared at the lump, feeling tears roll down her cheeks and off the tip of her nose. Leaning over, she began to roll the small ball into a bigger one. Gradually the lump grew larger. Within fifteen minutes she had the base of a huge snowman. She worked with intent now, rolling the midsection, then the upper torso. By now the snowman was three inches taller than she was. She trudged back to the shed in deepening drifts and retrieved a stepladder, so she could heft the unsightly fat head onto the shoulders.
Racing back into the house, she begin grabbing things: a woolen scarf, a carrot from the crisper, and a man’s hat she found in the closet. Dad’s? Buttons—she needed black buttons. She located the items in a sewing basket next to a chair in the parlor.
She flew out the front door with the armload of items. Twenty minutes later she had created a rather unusual-looking snowman. Her hands were red and numb because she’d discarded gloves an hour earlier, but Mr. Snowman had two tree limbs for arms and scraggly branches for fingers. Studying her creation, Emma was reminded that there was always someone worse off than she was.
As she stared at the funny-looking bulk with black-button eyes and a carrot nose and wearing a hat, she realized two things: she was losing her mind, and that was the ugliest snowman she’d ever seen in her life. Ten red M&M’s formed a jagged smiling mouth. He looked pathetically happy—the exact opposite of Emma’s present mood. She wondered if God ever looked at man in the same way. Sometimes unhappy with what he saw. Often sad and heartsick with what he’d created in love. Did he look at her that way?
Hot tears swelled to her eyes. She had dug a big hole for herself over the years and systematically filled it with despair, self-pity, and more despair. Was that how she intended to spend the rest of her life—wallowing in the muddled sea of what-could-have-been and poor-me? That was exactly what she’d been doing, was still doing. Self-defeat wasn’t what she wanted in life.
Slowly, deliberately, one hand closed around the shovel, and then she grasped it with both hands. Lifting the heavy implement over her head, she brought the steel down, knocking the ugly snowman’s head off with one swift blow. The M&M’s mouth smiled grotesquely up at her from the snow-packed ground, carrot nose askew, one button eye dislodged from its socket.
She brought the shovel over her head again. And again. And again until tears blinded her. She slammed into the mounds of snow over and over and over, trying to empty herself of the pain that besieged her. Lully was dead; Sam’s mother was sorry. What did it matter? What did anything matter?
Sinking to her knees, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed, releasing the pent-up tension she’d lived with since the morning of the phone call informing her of Lully’s death. No, Emma, you’ve lived with bitterness and resentment longer th
an that—it started years before the phone call. This one she couldn’t blame on Lully.
As snow came down around her, Emma cried out to God to ease the awful hurt and let her heal. Fifteen years, God. Isn’t that enough?
If he loved her, truly loved her as he did the lamb that had gone astray, surely he would allow her to begin to heal. It wouldn’t happen overnight, but it could happen. For the first time Emma allowed herself a wish. She wished for forgiveness for her sins of blaming everybody and everything else for her years of resentment and self-pity. Shame washed over her. Her childhood hadn’t been the best, but other people didn’t grow up with perfect surroundings and they managed to go on. Deep down, she knew real healing would come only when she turned loose and allowed God to handle what she thought was unachievable.
She turned her face up, letting the wet snow mingle with her tears. “I’m fighting and holding on to something that I can’t control, Lord. My past is impossible for me, but you have said that you are willing and able to take this from my hands. I ask that you take it and make me stronger in the process.”
Christmas was the season for hope and new beginnings; grudges took too much effort to maintain.
Rolling to her back, Emma stared at the sky. She had to find a way to forgive. Edwina said it was impossible for human beings to forgive on their own; only God’s Spirit within them could do that.
Perhaps it was time Emma searched for that Spirit.
Chapter Thirteen
A week later, Christmas dawned gray and dreary. Unable to even pretend to sleep, Emma walked into the kitchen a few minutes before six o’clock. The long day stretched ahead of her. Elizabeth had invited her for dinner in the late afternoon. Emma promised to bring a salad and dessert, but her heart wasn’t in the mood for gaiety. In the past, holidays—especially Christmas and Thanksgiving—were days to get through.
Emma plugged in the percolator, and then went into the living room to add wood to the stove. Her gaze fell on the two personal gifts wrapped in colorful paper: the calfskin gloves and the gold cuff links. They were the first personal gifts Emma had bought in fifteen years. She usually gave Sue and Janice a box of Fannie Mae chocolates for Christmas, but that was hardly personal. Sue was her employee and friend, and Janice wasn’t allowed to have personal items other than essentials.
She stuck a couple of sticks of wood on the fire and shut the stove door. The repairman had been there and finally the stove worked. Her eyes fell on the cuff links again. She had no idea why she had bought them except that it felt good. As if you’ll be around to see him wear them, ninny. She’d talked to Sam at Brisco’s briefly only once since their sleigh ride. He sounded casual and not at all on pins and needles like she’d been, wondering if their date and the kiss meant anything. She rubbed her arms when shivers assaulted her. Sam Gold still held the power to make her feel giddy.
She moved to the front window and looked out. A blanket of snow covered the ground. Fog shrouded the top of the Rockies. All over America small children would be waking up, throwing covers back, bounding into the living rooms, and squealing with delight when they saw what Santa brought. PlayStation, wagons, bicycles, sleds. Dolls and play ovens and baby strollers with miniature curly-headed plastic infants. Tired parents would be wreathed in smiles as they watched the chaos.
This was her first Christmas truly without Lully. She and Emma hadn’t celebrated the holiday together in fifteen years, yet this morning Emma clearly felt her sister’s absence. The two of them hadn’t made much of a family. Tears blinded her and she turned away, going back to the kitchen for coffee.
Sam stopped by as she was making breakfast. “Merry Christmas,” he said, handing her a gaily wrapped box. His features sobered. “I know today is going to be hard for you.”
Pulling her robe collar closer, she admitted, “I didn’t know if you would have time to stop by today.”
He frowned. “For you, I’d make time. Kenny and I are splitting shifts. He’s working this morning and I work this afternoon.”
“Can you come in?”
“Sorry.” His face assured her he’d like nothing better. “But I have to visit Mom, and then I have to relieve Kenny.” He leaned in and gave her a brief kiss. “How’s my girl this morning?”
“I’m not your girl.”
“How’s my grouch this morning?”
She smiled. “Wait here a minute.” She returned with his gift, relieved it was nothing that proclaimed “I love you.”
He grinned, accepting the wrapped package. “I didn’t know if you’d remember me or not.”
“Oh, I remember you, Sam Gold.” She leaned against on the door frame, shivering.
“I’ll open it when I get to the office. It’ll seem more like Christmas.” He bent and kissed her on the lips this time. “Call you later.”
The house screamed its silence after he left. The old mansion seemed so empty today.
At ten thirty, Emma climbed the stairs and walked down the long hallway. Pausing in front of the second door, she bit her lip and turned the knob. The scent of candle wax and incense was stronger here. Emma’s eyes scanned the room. Lully was everywhere. A worn nightgown hung on a peg outside the closet door as if she had momentarily stepped out of it. The bed was rumpled and unmade. Shoes littered the floor. Socks and hosiery had been flung here and there. A thick coat of dust layered the small dressing table, where there were jars of creams and blushes and tubes of lipstick with lids missing. Lully loved to experiment with cosmetics.
Emma meandered about the room, touching everything, experiencing Lully’s presence. A small, framed picture sat on the nightstand. The image was one of Lully and Emma when they were very small—maybe four and seven. A birthday cake sat in the middle of the table with one candle burning. Emma didn’t know whose birthday they were celebrating. Both girls wore a smile, and the shadowy image of a man’s arm lurked in the background. Dad. Mom must have taken the photo.
Opening the drawer, Emma shoved the picture inside and closed it. She had to do something with Lully’s personal effects. She avoided the task as long as possible. Christmas Day wasn’t appropriate for endings. It was a time for beginnings, and Lully would understand that Emma needed to begin somewhere.
An hour later she had lugged six large boxes up from the basement and begun filling them with Lully’s things. There was no sense in keeping them, so they would go to the Salvation Army, where someone could use them—pay them back for all the years they’d kept Emma and Lully in clothes. She emptied the closets and drawers and then turned to the dresser. Memories cut sharper now. Lully’s slips and underwear. Nightgowns—a small packet of lavender sachet to keep the intimate apparel smelling sweet and fresh. Sweaters—blue, light green, red—were in the bottom drawer. She carefully folded each garment and tucked them into a box.
When the dresser was empty, she scooped up makeup, lotions, brushes, and creams and dumped them into an empty shoe box. She added the carton to the other items.
She stripped the worn spread off the bed, then the sheets and pillowcases. The mattress cover came next. Everything was put in a box. Tears rolled down her cheeks now. She yanked the heavy drapes off the rods, coughing as dust swirled up her nose. The hardest part of losing someone is removing his or her presence. It was so final.
She stared through the window at the gravestones, alone and forlorn in the snow. Was this what life was all about? You live and then you die. You end up in a cold piece of ground covered with snow, with only an occasional visitor to remember you.
Dropping to the side of the bed, Emma bawled—racking sobs that made her nose run and her eyes red. She hated this. Her counselor told her about the “outer child,” the part of one’s personality that loves to play martyr. The outer child has a favorite feeling: anger. The child feels only anger. The outer child tests the people it looks to for security—to the limits.
Oh, Sam. Is that what I’ve been doing? She was trying to fill a hole with countless reasons why her childhood sho
uldn’t have happened to her. She had thrown herself in that hole and dared life to try and move her.
When emotion subsided, she wiped her eyes and nose, and opened the nightstand drawer and removed the photograph gently, laying it on the bed. She would take it home, put it on her bedside table, and try to remember the good years. The years when she felt safe and warm and protected, the years the Mansis had been a family. And she’d remember the idyllic months when she loved Sam Gold and he loved her back.
Emma was about to shove the drawer closed when she saw a small journal at the very back. Picking it up and opening it, she felt almost guilty when she recognized Lully’s handwriting. About to close the book, she paused, wondering exactly what Lully had thought in the last days of her life.
She turned to the first page. It only took a second to realize this wasn’t a daily journal. After flipping through several pages, Emma understood that Lully wrote only about events that touched her deeply. Toward the front there were several pages dedicated to the search for Emma after she’d left home fifteen years earlier. Tears rolled down Emma’s cheeks as she read how afraid her sister was that something awful had happened to Emma, about how she had prayed that Emma was all right, that God would keep her safe.
I was safe, Lully. I thought you didn’t care. I was terrified at the time, but I didn’t know how to pray—not really. I didn’t have you there to pray for me.
Emma returned to the beginning and read. There was an entry on the day their mother died, and one when Dad left. On one page, Lully spilled her fears about how scared she was to be handed the responsibility of her twelve-year-old sister—would Family Services learn they were alone and take Emma from her? There were a few notations about how frightened she felt when the kids played mean pranks on them, when they sneaked around the house and vandalized the cemetery.
One passage in the later pages caught Emma’s attention.
I found Mommy’s Bible today—the one we used to read before Daddy left. She’d underlined a lot of her favorite passages, and I wondered why the words hadn’t meant anything—or were of no particular significance at the time I read them. One of the passages is about the lost sheep—the one in the picture that Emma loves so much. I don’t think Emma understood the importance of the portrait—I know at the time I didn’t. But I do now as I write this; the lost sheep is us, Emma. You and me. Everyone but God has abandoned us yet Jesus was and still is there to gather us back into the fold. I wish—oh, how I wish—I had been old enough or wise enough to tell you that we are loved, Emma. Deeply loved by a Shepherd who watches over us even if the world doesn’t care. How I wish I’d understood. How I wish I had swallowed my stubborn pride and taken you to church like you asked every Sunday morning. But I hated the stares and the whispered innuendos. I’m not bad. Maybe I’m different from most people, but no two of us are created alike. They shouldn’t have taken their hatred out on you. You were a little girl forced to live a lie. I knew Daddy wasn’t coming back. I didn’t want you to lose hope—that light that stayed in your eyes for years. I’d watch you sit on the porch and watch the road until it got so dark you couldn’t see anymore. I wanted to tell you the truth, but lying—keeping your hope alive—seemed so much more humane.
