“Yes, thank you. Tonight was the first time I’ve been to church since Robert’s funeral, and I realized how much I missed it.”
She grinned. “Good.”
I touched her arm. “Thank you. Robert and I always celebrated Christmas Eve together, and I’ve dreaded tonight for weeks, but you made it special.”
She beamed. “You’re welcome.”
I took a deep breath. “Also, please forgive me for the awful things I said to you.”
She hugged me. “We all say things we don’t mean when we’re hurting.”
That night, I talked to God for the first time since my husband’s accident and thanked him for sending Jenny to ease my pain. I never thought I’d enjoy Christmas without Robert, but Jenny gave me the gift of hope.
The End
CHRISTMAS COOKIES
Gwendolyn Michelle
The inviting scent of sugar cookies and peppermint still lingered in the room. The cookies had been a favorite of her children for as long as she could remember, and it was the simplest of recipes. The tradition had begun with little boys standing in chairs, propping elbows on the kitchen table, rolling sugar cookie dough on to wax paper with a rolling pin and pressing cookie cutters with the eagerness of children’s hands. Although more cookies came out looking as questionable half-stars and tops of trees, as opposed to the expected holiday cookies. It was a basic kid-friendly recipe, still easy for her to do at her advancing age; a sugar cookie sprinkled with green and red, baked in the oven, and then pressed in the middle with a chocolate peppermint candy.
The cookies were now boxed up tightly, ready to be delivered to smiling grandchildren as soon as the rising sun brought Christmas Day. She rested, her glasses slipping low on her slightly upturned nose, her feet curled underneath her, a blanket that was nearly worn thin on the corners from years of little hands carrying it everywhere covering her knees. For years, it had been her own children who grasped the blanket and dragged it everywhere behind their hurried footsteps, then it was the grandchildren when they visited her. Now she cherished the blanket for its many memories.
The tree that stood in the corner was not as grand as the ones that had stood in the same spot in years past. At one time, when the children lived at home, when her husband was still with her, there would have been a tree tall enough to touch the ceiling, with enough branches to hold every single ornament she possessed. She had boxes of ornaments that caused her grown, strong sons to complain because of the multiple trips to the attic to retrieve the boxes. Decorating the tree was a family event, even after the children were grown. They still came home to help her. She cooked a meal that rivaled any holiday dinner. After they ate and cleaned the dishes, with the aroma of hot chocolate and warm cookies, her children helped her decorate the family tree.
This year, she had decorated it alone, but it hadn’t been so bad. Now it was a smaller tree, one she could manage herself, each ornament having a specific story, a magical memory, that added to the Christmas spirit in her quiet little home. The last couple of years, there had not been a tree at all. So this tree, though small, held significance for her. The soft glow of Christmas lights sparkled off her glasses, and her closed eyes twitched gently and she sighed, slipping into a gentle sleep.
It wasn’t long before the quiet pitter patter of tiny feet hurried across the room, and her glasses were nearly knocked askew when pudgy toddler arms wrapped around her neck. The smell of baby powder assaulted her senses; a little blond-haired, green-eyed boy crawled unceremoniously into her lap and pulled the blanket to cover his legs.
She hesitated only briefly, as that beautiful smile radiating up at her, brighter than any light on her tree. Holding a shaky hand to her heart, she reminded herself to breathe.
Another quick hug around her neck, and that little bundle of joy had scooted from her lap, the blanket now nearly forgotten, trailing behind him on the floor, one corner still clinched tightly in his fingers, as though it belonged there. He stood at a window, his chin propped on the windowsill, just barely tall enough to see out. His fingers pressed against the window. She had yet to move. He turned to glance at her.
“Snow,” he said, his voice like music to her ears, causing her eyes to briefly close in bliss.
“Snow,” he said again, his eyes alight with wonder, a little more persistently, his little finger pointing out the window at the thick snow that covered the ground, turning the world outside into a winter wonderland. The air itself seemed to sparkle with the falling snow that fell silently from thick clouds in the night sky.
She adjusted her glasses, slowly rising and padding softly to the rocking chair by the window. On a clear summer day, she could see the ocean. When she and her husband had bought the place, she could see the lighthouse, now a dark reminder of times long gone. She sat in the old chair, pulling the boy into her lap. This rocking chair had rocked all of her children to sleep more times than she could count. She had rocked away the pain of scraped knees and bruised elbows. She had rocked away upset tummies and sleepless nights. She was unable to resist a quick squeeze of this little boy now, and she wrapped the blanket around them both.
The music from the Christmas lights on the tree began to play again, and she rocked him, her little boy, that she had not rocked in many, many years. She smelled the boyish scent of his hair, now mixed with the remnants of the cookies she had baked earlier. She had not gotten to bake cookies with this child, or decorate a Christmas tree, or play in the snow in such a long time. Sometimes, in her old age, she was sure she had forgotten things. There were times, when she was afraid she was forgetting him, which was absurd, and she knew it, but growing old does silly things to the mind.
She rested his body against the crook of her arm and memorized every little detail all over again; the shape of his eyes, the pout of his lips, the cute little upturn of his nose. All of these things she once knew, but time was a fickle, fickle thing. The feel of his heart beat beneath her hand. It beat so assuredly. The feel of his breath against her skin. If she closed her eyes, it was almost as if the past had vanished.
Her eyelids grew heavy, though she valiantly fought sleep. She kissed the top of his head, tears gathering in her eyes. “Don’t wake me,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from disuse. “If this is a dream, please don’t wake me.”
She glanced once more out the window beneath the silver moon, and her rocking stopped. Her toes rested against the hardwood floor, her own heartbeat stuttering. Up the pathway, hair dusted with falling snow, walked the husband she had not seen in almost three years. Her breath hitched in her throat. One hand still cradled the child but the other hand covered her mouth, either in disbelief or to keep herself from crying out and waking the slumbering boy.
She was too old now to go out in that weather, too weak to safely maneuver, so she sat in her chair and she watched him. Watched that familiar stride she had ached to see. The grace in the step that had captivated her for so many years, and she had missed so much.
Until finally the door opened and a gust of wind came through, blowing her hair away from her face, causing the sleeping boy to snuggle closer to her. She smiled briefly down at him, in awe at the feeling of holding him again.
There, in the doorway of the house they had built together and shared for more than forty years, and who had not graced it for three long years, stood the man she had married oh-so-long-ago. With the snow drifting in from behind him, his hands shook slightly as they reached up to remove his hat and brush it off.
He sighed, but there was relief in his eyes. “Still sitting there rocking, I see?”
Eyes shining with tears, reflecting the Christmas lights from the tree, she nodded.
“Always,” she whispered, a slight laugh in her voice.
He studied her intently, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He crossed the room and sat again in his favorite chair, which still occupied the exact same spot as he had left it. �
�You baked the cookies.” It wasn’t a question.
“Every year.” She couldn’t help but smile at him. He looked so right sitting there, like he belonged, like he had always belonged. It made her heart swell. “You know that.”
He nodded. “I do.”
She glanced down at the child sleeping in her arms. “Is this real?” She was terrified of his answer, but she was terrified of not knowing, too.
He hooked his hat on one of his knees, his wrinkled fingers dancing across the fabric, fidgeting with it.
“I didn’t want you to think I forgot you at Christmas.” He glanced at the tree. “It’s so small,” he mumbled. “You deserve a tree as tall as the ceiling. You know that. It was hard as hell watching you decorate that thing by yourself.” His eyes turned back to her, a storm cloud twisting within them. “I understand the boys are busy.”
“They have children of their own,” she said softly. “They need to start their own traditions.”
“I know. It’s just…I didn’t want you to be alone.”
She reached over, hesitantly, resting her hand gently on top of his, entwining her fingers with his.
“You were watching me?”
“Of course I was. What kind of husband do you take me for? Think I’d just go off and forget about you, do you?” He huffed, again, his hand searching for his hat.
She smiled, her hand reaching up to rest against the side of his face. It took her a moment before she answered. “Then I wasn’t alone, was I?”
He leaned into her touch, his gray eyes still stormy, before resting his head against the back of his chair. He motioned toward the boy. “This was the best I could come up with for you, as a gift. I thought…I thought a visit…it’s been so long.”
She rested her cheek against the head of the slumbering boy. “Too long,” she whispered, eyes closing briefly. She delighted in the moment. The boy in her arms, and her husband’s hand in hers.
A hand against the side of her face, brushing through her hair, and a forehead resting momentarily against her and she couldn’t breathe. Tears welled in her eyes and one escaped down her cheek. She inhaled deeply.
“I miss you,” she managed to whisper.
“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered in return, his lips closing against her forehead, “but I’m so proud of you. You have done so well. I just wish you were not so alone.”
“I’m not alone.” She gripped his hand, squeezing it. “I have the boys. They are here as much as possible, and you remember their wives. And oh, the grandkids. The stories I could tell you!”
“When we meet again, we’ll have a cup of coffee and we can sit in rocking chairs by the bluest of blue lakes, and you can tell me all the stories you want.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
He slowly stood, helping her to stand too, then he pulled her to him, one arm slipping around her, in a long overdue hug. She rested her head against his chest.
* * *
“Don’t wake me,” she whispered, breathing in deeply. She could see the Christmas lights begin blinking in time with the music again. The scent of peppermint and sugar cookies hung heavy in the air. And the little old lady sat in her rocking chair, rocking slowly, one hand resting on the arm of the empty recliner beside her, the other entangled in the worn blanket that covered her bare feet.
The soft white walls were covered with pictures of the same smiling faces; little blond boys, three of which grew from frame to frame into adulthood, and one little boy who seemed to remain a toddler forever. Overlooking them were the pictures of a dark-haired man who aged into a gray-haired man, and a dark-haired woman who greatly resembled the little gray-haired woman now occupying the chair by the window. Christmas lights and a tinsel-garland decorated the border of the window and the opposing doorframe.
The room had a caring feel to it and yet was still sterile. The door slowly opened, and in walked a grown man, one of the men from the photos on the wall. On the table, he sat a tin. Behind him, holding hands, followed a little boy and two little girls, none older than 10. The last to enter the room was a nurse.
He turned to her as she briskly entered the room. “How is my mom?” His voice was soft, questioning.
The nurse smiled. “She’s about the same. Did you bring her cookies?” She nodded toward the cookie tin on the table.
The youngest of the children, the little boy, spoke up. “We did. They’re her favorite.”
The nurse smiled at him. “I’ll make sure she gets one with her lunch.”
The man sat on the chair beside his mom and reached out to hold her hand. “She’s doing well then?”
The nurse took the older woman’s vitals. “She is. She’s lucid sometimes, but not often. She has more good days than bad. She’s living in a happy place somewhere in here.” She touched his mother’s hair softly with one hand.
“She’s still talking to my little brother?”
The nurse nodded, writing in a chart. “And your dad.”
The man chuckled softly. “I wouldn’t mind talking to him sometimes.”
The nurse smiled at him sadly. “I think most of us would like to have a conversation like that with a loved one.”
One of the little girls opened the cookie tin, and the scent of peppermint permeated the small room. The little old lady stirred in her chair. She looked around the room, her gaze seeing but not quite seeing.
The little girl, in all of her childlike wonder, walked across the room, holding out a cookie. “Want a cookie, grandma?”
The little old lady nodded, her weathered hand slipping from beneath the blanket to take the cookie. “Chocolate peppermint sugar cookies,” she asked, looking at her son. And for a moment, just a moment, her eyes cleared and he thought, just for a moment, he saw his mom in there. “Yes, mom.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you,” she whispered, “They’re my favorite.”
He squeezed her hand tightly. “I know.”
“They’re my favorite too,” announced the little boy, and he crawled carefully into his grandma’s chair, and with a cookie in each hand, he smiled up at her, and they ate their favorite holiday cookies together.
The End
CHRISTMAS ON-CALL.
Olga Núñez Miret
“What now?” Carmen looked at her cell with murderous intent. It did not work. The mobile kept ringing. She sighed and answered the call.
Carmen wasn’t particularly fond of Christmas. She didn’t hate it as such, but she couldn’t stand all the fuss and the pressure to be happy, merry, and have a great time. Her approach to the season of goodwill was pretending that it was not happening. She made excuses if she was invited to relatives or friends for the day, and tried to do non-Christmassy things: going for a long-walk, cleaning, engaging on some overdue DIY project… When she lived in the UK any Christmas managing to dodge Christmas pudding she considered a success. Here…
Last year’s events didn’t help her change her opinion of Christmas. She had been visiting Washington DC, and as not many things were open on Christmas day, she’d decided to go and pay her respects at Arlington Cemetery. On her way out she was jumped on the back, punched in the face and badly assaulted. Luckily, the park police came to the rescue and her injuries were not too bad. But, it had added insult to injury on the joyful season issue. Being the psychiatrist on call on Christmas day this year was a step up from that. Yes, she was in a hospital also, but at least she was not the one receiving treatment.
The call was from A&E.
“Hi. I’m Dr Jones, from A&E. Sorry to bother you, but we have somebody for you to see. Ah, Merry Christmas.”
“Ho, Ho, Ho to you too. I’m Dr Graham, psych on-call. So, what’s the story?”
“You’ll love this one. We have a young guy who tells us he’s Father Christmas. The police brought him handcuffed. It seems he started arguing with somebody about the meaning of Christmas and they ended
up fighting. The other guy got the worst of it. Missing several teeth, broken nose, and two black-eyes. When they tried to interview him, he started telling them how that guy had disrespected him, because he was Father Christmas and he would not tolerate anybody badmouthing Christmas and the festive season.”
“This should be fun…I’ll be there in a bit.”
During her career she’d treated several Jesus Christs, angels, a St Peter, Mohammed, Neo (from the Matrix), and people with special powers in general. She could not recall any Father Christmas, but if there had to be one, this was the right day.
She walked across the car park from her accommodation to the main hospital building, and made her way to the A&E department. There, she was greeted by much merriment and a number of doctors and nurses all making jokes about her patient.
“He’s mad as a hatter!” said one of the young nurses, all giggles and bounce.
“I think you’re not qualified to make such diagnosis. What’s his name?”
A young doctor, dark-haired, deep green eyes, sporting a friendly smile, approached her offering her his hand.
“I’m Dr Jones…It gets better. His name is Nicholas Klaus. Or Santa.”
The whole floor roared with laughter. Carmen sighed. It was 11 pm. This could take a while. Dr Jones pointed, still shaking with laughter, to a side-cubicle. One of the advantages (there weren’t that many) of being a psychiatrist was that staff in A&E always tried to find you a separate room rather than the main ward, in the face of it to give you and your patient more privacy, but Carmen had always suspected that they feared the possible disturbance.
Carmen tried to compose a professional and circumspect smile. The young man in the cubicle was fairly non-descript. Tall and thin, pale, mousy hair, sitting handcuffed to the bed, wearing bright red (glowing) Santa attire. The corresponding hat, white beard and belly filling were by his side on top of the bed. A uniformed policeman, in his fifties, greying hair, short and robust, was sitting on a chair by the side of the bed, and looking bored.
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