All Hearts Come Home for Christmas

by Annalisa Russo

  She shuffled to the kitchen to drag out a half-full can of cat food from the refrigerator. After scooping the remainder of the can into Buster’s dish, she returned to the dining room table and stopped to glance out the bay window. A large moving van was parked at the curb and lights were on upstairs in the Solano house. Tristán’s family must have finally sold the place.

  As kids, she and Tristán had often played at Sadie Solano’s house—hide and seek, snowball fights, bicycle races. They camped in the back yard, and with help from their fathers made a nifty tree house high in an old oak in the back yard. And as the years progressed, they shared their first kiss on the front porch swing after Jillian’s senior prom. A deep, visceral sadness spread to her heart’s core.

  Tris had always kept their relationship casual—not like her, who had gone and lost her heart to him, completely and foolishly. She always knew he’d leave one day to follow his dream of the big time. If he had stayed, he would never have been happy. Maybe he would have eventually blamed her for holding him back. But to discover the one you loved didn’t return your feelings, well…it left bruises on your heart.

  She strode to the bookcase and pulled out a picture album, one she’d had to put away because of Brian. She sat on the couch and opened the album to see picture after picture of Tristán plying his trade, one concert after another. The man was insanely talented. She wondered where he’d land now, after Last Bluff. Would he go out on his own? Put together another band? Would Last Bluff find another keyboardist and continue without him? Every one of Last Bluff’s albums had gone platinum. The members of the band were all insanely rich. None of them ever needed to work again.

  Besides being an incredible musician, the man was undeniably gorgeous—six feet tall, with thick black hair long enough to brush his shoulders, lean muscles, and a face created on one of the dear Lord’s extra good days. Clear light-blue eyes inherited from his English mother were a contrast to the dark coloring of his Latin father.

  Thirty was old for a rocker, but Tristán had always been a health nut. He hit the gym faithfully and ran—because of the job, he had said. Sitting all day long was not conducive to your health, but she knew the reason was because of what happened to his brother.

  Gosh, she missed Tris. She closed the album and blinked back tears hovering behind her eyes. She hadn’t seen him in person in almost eight years. They’d stopped communicating after he left in his senior year of college with only two classes left to complete. An agent had heard him play one night at a local bar, and the rest was history.

  The lights flicked off in the old Solano house, and Jillian resumed her place at the dining room table. She glanced at her cell phone. Eleven o’clock. If she made herself a cup of coffee now, she’d never get to sleep. Maybe one more set of papers, and she’d leave the rest to knock out during her plan time tomorrow. She yawned broadly and decided to lay her head on the table for a few minutes.

  ****

  “You gonna sleep all night, girl?”

  The words reverberated in her muddled brain. Jillian bolted upright and stared at the figure who had spoken to her from across the table. “Oh, my gosh! You’re Oprah! Crimininny! You’re Oprah, and you’re sitting at my dining room table. What the heck? Am I dreaming?”

  “Do you feel like you’re dreaming? Sit down, Jillie, girl. I’m not going to hurt you. You are Jillian Magee, right? I don’t have the wrong human?”

  “Human? Human? What’s going on here?” In her haste to stand, Jillian knocked her chair over. She backed up a couple of feet, trying to keep one eye on Oprah and one on the clear path to her front door.

  The woman smiled broadly and waved her back. “C’mon. I don’t bite.”

  “Are you really Oprah? How did you get in here? All my doors are locked. What do you want with me? Is this a TV spot? You know, surprise the person with a million dollars? Because if it is, that’s okay with me. I could use the money.”

  “’Cause you’re a teacher, right?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Shug, I know just about everything there is to know about Jillian Magee. Now…are you gonna sit down and talk, or do I have to go over your head?”

  “Over my head? Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You don’t wanna know, but I’m here to help you get through Christmas. It’s my job.”

  Jillian edged closer, mostly to get a better look at the woman. “You look kinda like Oprah, but I’m not sure you sound like her. She always uses perfect grammar. And what do you mean it’s your job?”

  “First, I’ve been sent. Second, I came looking like Oprah because if I looked like me, Cher, you woulda been scared.”

  “What do you—whoa!” Jillian jumped back. The woman morphed, right before her eyes, into a seasoned black female with dreadlocks and layers of tattered clothes. “Holy cow! How’d you do that?”

  The woman drummed her fingers on the table. “Sit down, Cher. I’m fixin’ to explain. We don’t got all night. Well, technically, we do, but I need to get started.” Her eyes skimmed over the room. “You got any gumbo?”

  “Gumbo? Huh? Get started with what?” Jillian narrowed her eyes at the woman.

  “I’ll pass by again, Cher, but for now, I need a little info so I can do my job. I could take a po’boy. Dressed.” When Jillian didn’t reply, she continued, ticking off the items on her fingers. “Lettuce, tomato, pickles, and mynez—’case you don’t know.”

  Chapter Four

  Jillian woke with a start to static on her alarm clock. She hit the snooze button. Something was off, different. In December, she always reconfigured her alarm so she woke up to Christmas music. She sat up in bed and shook her head.

  The remnants of a dream sifted through her brain. She tried to recapture some of it—Oprah had come to visit and then turned into a bag lady and asked a lot of questions. Jillian realized she hadn’t felt afraid in the dream or even thought it odd for Oprah to show up at her dining room table. And, as hard as she tried, she couldn’t remember exactly what they had talked about.

  Eventually, she rolled onto her stomach, which only encouraged Buster to jump on the bed and plop heavily on her back. Nothing like a thirty-pound nuisance to get you up and rolling at five-thirty in the morning.

  After a few minutes under Buster’s kneading paws, she could barely breathe. She rolled over and knocked him off. When she headed to the bathroom, the big tabby wasn’t too pleased about being ignored, voicing his annoyance with a loud hiss and a swipe at her legs with his paw.

  The hot shower flushed out the cobwebs, so she tried to rehash what remained of the dream. She must have fallen asleep at the dining room table while correcting papers, but she didn’t remember climbing into bed. Her memories of last night had big blank holes, though she remembered the scent of sugar cookies baking. The scent seemed to emanate from the woman in her dream. Huh. Crazy.

  Jillian opened her closet and chose gray slacks and a crisp white cotton blouse. She pulled her hair into another ponytail, yanked on a blue blazer, grabbed her purse from the dresser, and headed to the kitchen. She paused at the dining room table. A plate with the remnants of a grilled cheese sandwich sat across from the pile of graded papers.

  She continued to the kitchen expecting to see the skillet she’d used for the grilled cheese sandwich, but—no pan in the sink, or in the dishwasher. Since she was only twenty-eight years old, her memory should still be intact. Had she really made a grilled cheese sandwich in the middle of the night, washed and dried the frying pan, and left the sandwich, half-eaten, on the other side of the dining room table? She walked back to the table and noticed the chair across from where she always sat to correct papers was pulled out.

  She shook her head hard, which set her ponytail swinging. She must be out of her mind. Too much stress over Christmas this year. Maybe she should see a psychologist about coping with change. Did her insurance cover crazy dreams and still pining for old boyfriends after eight years?

  She
fed Buster and then ate a bowl of oatmeal with blueberries. She rinsed out the bowl and set it in the sink. When she got to school, she’d google vitamins that helped with brain function. Christmas break couldn’t come soon enough this year.

  She grabbed her coat and her school bag and headed for the kitchen door. As she scurried passed Buster, he batted at her leg. No surprise there, she thought.

  ****

  When Jillian popped into Cleo’s classroom on the way to the copy room, she found her friend in a tizzy fit.

  “He asked me to take over the Christmas concert. It’s a week from tomorrow.” Cleo emphasized her point by tearing at her hair, which only gave the curly, thick stuff more volume.

  “What are you talking about? Glenn’s still sick?”

  “Hah! He called in last night—from the hospital. He has pneumonia and is down for the count. He won’t be back until after Christmas break. I’m talking about Donnelly. Donnelly wants me to take over the concert.”

  “Because Mr. Donnelly knows you’ll do a great job, Cleo,” Jillian soothed. “You performed on Broadway, for cryin’ out loud. You’ve got this in the bag. You can handle a Christmas concert in your sleep with one hand tied behind your back.”

  “Well…thanks for the vote of confidence,” Cleo said, as her head of steam ran out. She scrunched up her eyes and bit at her lip. “I told him I’d do it, but only if I could do it my way. He agreed, out of desperation, I think. He’ll never get anyone else to take on the project at this late date. The stingy stipend”—Cleo snorted with derision—“wasn’t an incentive. I’m gonna do it because I want to make some changes to the program.” She beamed and imitated twisting a mustache in Groucho Marx style.

  Jillian laughed. “Just don’t lose your job over it,” she advised, emphasizing her point by jabbing an index finger in her direction. It would be just like Cleo to have something up her sleeve that could get her into trouble. “Don’t be a flame thrower.” She turned to leave.

  “New tryouts tomorrow,” Cleo added. “I’ll give a spiel on the PA system later today.”

  “If you need anything, holler,” Jillian called over her shoulder. You could always count on Cleo to do an outstanding job. Her friend would handle the program with her usual aplomb, and the concert would be spectacular. It was about time the Winter Concert would be more like the “reason for the season.”

  Decimals were the target goal of the day, so Jillian set her place-value tachistoscopes on the back table. As she busied herself lining up the other manipulatives, she thought of one of her favorite students. Graciela Sanchez, a lovely girl with a beautiful voice. She could have easily qualified for the fifth-grade choir, but she chose not to take Jillian’s advice and try out for choir or the Christmas program. But Graciela had mentioned how much she liked Ms. Butterfield’s drama class. Maybe this time she wouldn’t be too shy to sing. Jillian made a mental note to mention the girl to Cleo. If anyone could convince Gracie to perform, it would be her favorite drama teacher.

  ****

  Because of her late start and wacky dream, she hadn’t made herself a sack lunch. And, since Cleo had a student in for a lunch-with-the-teacher reward, she would head to Nola’s Diner by herself, but first she’d stop in the teachers’ lounge and check her sign-up list.

  As usual, the noisy lunch room was crowded with teachers and TAs. Everyone chatted and took turns with the two available microwaves. Normally, she liked her co-workers and the diverse discussions that filled the room, but today she was glad she could escape to Nola’s. Last night’s dream had been disconcerting, to say the least—almost as disconcerting as the news about Tristán Solano, aka Trystan Sol. And, darn it, anyway! Her list still had just seven names on it. If she counted herself, Melissa, and Wendy, she’d still have only ten carolers. The caroling party was a mere week away. She might have to start twisting arms.

  ****

  When Jillian arrived, Nola’s Diner was practically empty. Melissa pointed to a corner table and mouthed, “I’ll be right with you.” From the lack of customers, her friend would probably have more time today to chat.

  Jillian took the corner booth and flipped through the menu. Her thoughts returned to her conversation with Graciela. The girl didn’t want to try out for the concert, though by her droopy shoulders, she was obviously disheartened to miss a chance to work with Ms. Butterfield.

  So Jillian had had a brilliant idea—ask Graciela if she’d like to go caroling with her group next week. It would add one more member—one who could actually carry a tune—and increase the number of carolers to eleven. And, as an additional check in the plus column, help the girl’s apprehension of singing in front of an audience and quell her stage fright. Her plan had worked. Before she left math class, Gracie had agreed to join their caroling group.

  Melissa sidled up to Jillian’s booth, order pad and pencil at the ready. “Lunch at Nola’s twice already this week? Did you win the lottery?”

  “I wish.” Jillian was still a little fuzzy on what had happened last night. Until she got a handle on it, she didn’t want to mention her manic Oprah-slash-bag-lady delusions and paranoia yet. “I couldn’t sleep last night and woke up late. No time to pack a lunch.”

  “Again? You need to slow down, girl. Too much on your plate.” She waggled her pencil at Jillian, then licked the point. “I suggest the special. It’s meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans—out of the can, though. It comes with a small piece of blueberry pie.”

  “Okay. And I’ll have hot chocolate. It’s freezing outside. Hey! Maybe we’ll have snow for Christmas. Did you catch the weather report this morning?”

  “Blue skies and thirty-six, but don’t change, Jillie. Stay the optimist—or pessimist, depending on your feelings about the fluffy white stuff. Be right back with the special. I have a break coming up, so I should be able to take five.”

  After some small talk, Melissa brought up her husband. Jillian couldn’t imagine how Melissa felt. When she spoke of Brad, her friend’s pretty face always registered worry. How would you feel if the love of your life put his on the line every day for love of country? Especially if you also had a child who could hardly remember her father. In her mind, Brad McQuada was a real live hero. Most people respect the great sacrifice American soldiers make, but most can’t imagine how hard their service is on their families, too.

  “Where’s Brad stationed now?”

  “Somewhere west of Baghdad, a relatively safe place—he says. I hope he doesn’t get deployed elsewhere for the remainder of his tour. He gets out in a few months.” Melissa ran a finger along her order pad. “I can’t wait until he gets home. Wendy barely remembers him. When he left for Iraq, she was only two and a half. We Skype whenever he can, but it’s not the same. She doesn’t really understand the concept of Skype. Wendy can’t equate the man in my computer with her daddy.”

  “We’ll keep Brad in our prayers, and he’ll be home soon. Will he re-up?”

  “No, and that’s what keeps me going,” Melissa said. She glanced at one of the booths in her serving area. “Looks like my two-top is ready for the check. I’d better hop to it.”

  Jillian had noticed the young woman in the booth a row over who looked as if she could use a break. Her dark hair was mussed, like maybe she’d shoved her fingers through it a bunch of times, and her eyes were red-rimmed. She spoke on her cell phone continuously, across from a toddler in a booster chair. The beautiful little girl, soft-curled and rosy-cheeked, scribbled on a paper placemat with Nola’s complimentary box of crayons.

  “Wait,” Jillian said, grabbing her purse. She pulled out a ten-dollar bill and handed the money to Wendy. “Put this toward the woman’s check and say a customer said to tell her Merry Christmas.” With Miss O on the mind, Jillian had been reminded of the TV personality’s pay-it-forward challenge.

  Melissa rolled her eyes, but she took the bill and stuffed it into the pocket of her apron. At the waitress station, she plugged information into a computer to generate the bill
and walked over to the woman’s table to present it. She pulled out Jillian’s ten-dollar bill, set it on the check, and leaned in to explain. The young woman never put her cell phone down or even glanced up at Melissa. She simply nodded her head and continued to talk on her cell phone while her child busied herself with the box of crayons.

  Melissa shot a glance Jillian’s way, shrugged her shoulders, and rolled her eyes again.

  Oh, well…so much for the Christmas spirit, Jillian thought. Maybe things would improve, if only it would snow…

  ****

  After a particularly trying day with the Brown twins and an after-school committee meeting, which ran over an hour, Jillian opened her back door, dropped her heavy school bag on the kitchen table, and plodded up the stairs to the bedroom to change into sweats.

  She removed the loose change from her wallet and dropped the coins into her Christmas jar. Soon, she would need to call Father Stevens at Sacred Heart Church and drop the jar off at the rectory.

  Maybe she’d make a hot cup of Tea of Good Tidings, a winter fruit blend she’d recently ordered from Amazon thinking it might hit the spot on a cold, snowy day. Fat chance. She may as well brew the tea now and enjoy it while it was still fresh. She rummaged through the utensil drawer for a tea ball.

  She wasn’t looking forward to another strange evening with Oprah. Maybe her delusions had to do with something she ate—like in Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, where Scrooge thought Jacob Marley’s apparition could be attributed to “a bit of undercooked beef.”

  Hardly, she decided, as she brewed the fragrant tea and poured it into her favorite Christmas mug, which sported a clever-looking, muffled-up moose. She sauntered to the front window and stared into the darkness with only her multicolored tree lights for illumination.

  With shorter days, the street lights came on by four-thirty. The cloudy sky seemed perfect for a night of snow, and a crisp breeze bent over the Rose of Sharon in her front yard. Unfortunately, she’d caught the local weather report, which predicted dropping temperatures but no precipitation. She heaved a sigh, took a sip, and burned the roof of her mouth with the Tea of Good Tidings. Perfect.