"Jake? Nat’s got Cara on the phone upstairs—"
"Is she all right? Is Emma all right? Where—"
"We’re working on getting their location now. Soon’s we have it, Nat and I are flying out…"
"I’m coming, too," Jake interrupted brusquely and hung up before Helen could finish.
Understanding completely, she pushed down the phone button, released it and called her mother to come stay at the house with Grandma Josephine and the other kids, then went to wake her grandmother and tell her what was happening. Back upstairs, she woke Zach and Libby to fill them in, nodded in empathy when they were too excited to go back to sleep and instead followed her down the hall to Nat. While they were talking to Cara, Helen gave in to an unexplainable impulse and climbed into the attic to collect Amanda’s gifts for Emma and Jake.
Shortly thereafter, Jake arrived, followed closely by Julia Brannigan. Leaving Julia, Josephine, Zach and Libby to take turns making Cara stay awake and talk to them so she wouldn’t freeze, Helen, Nat and Jake headed for the airport.
It took a little time and the cooperative efforts of the local sheriffs, the search team General Greene pulled together at Helen’s request and a ski patrol to locate the abandoned store with the ancient pay phone Cara had found to call from. When the ski patrol got to her after a hard two hours of looking, Cara was sleepy, snow–covered and nearly frozen, huddled in a car blanket on the ground against the phone kiosk.
Emma was two miles down the road, asleep in the car, which was out of gas and partially buried in a snow bank. Both were suffering from exhaustion and some minor frostbite.
Emma was also suffering from the effects of depression and the confusion that came with the onset of Alzheimer’s. For months before John and Amanda’s deaths she’d managed to cover the symptoms of the devastating illness. Not unexpectedly, their deaths had wrought havoc with her emotions and equilibrium and she’d no longer been able to stifle the personality changes and the anger that too often accompanied the disease.
By the time Helen, Nat and Jake were able to get through to them later that afternoon, Emma and Cara had been taken by helicopter to the nearest hospital for treatment. Since Cara was still being examined, they saw Emma first.
Attached to a precautionary heart monitor because of her age, and tied to IVs, she appeared shriveled and shrunken, lost, far less than her usual self. She recognized Jake, but didn’t know either Nat or Helen, asked for Amanda. When the attending physician pressed her, trying to jog her into identifying them, she was first vague and befuddled, before becoming angry and belligerent. Then she turned onto her side and burst into tears.
Despite the pain Emma had brought them from the beginning, Helen’s heart wrenched at the sight of the lonely, suddenly elderly woman who had lost her daughter and was now losing herself. She watched Nat’s lips harden and compress as he listened to his former mother–in–law rant and cry, watched him struggle not to forgive her, then finally take her hand and forgive her anyway, silently, without the words she wouldn’t, for the moment at least, comprehend. When he stepped back and turned to her, Helen squeezed his hand, left Amanda’s final Christmas gifts to her parents on the bed table where Jake wouldn’t miss them and guided Nat down the hall to his daughter.
Cara was overjoyed to see them, drowsy but full of her adventures, anxious for hugs, in need of kisses—and sleep.
Tied as Emma was to IVs, and with her frostbitten fingers and toes wrapped, Cara looked pale and a trifle thin. Helen supposed the thinness was simply a mother’s imagination, superimposing a waiflike demeanor on the child who had been strong enough not only to survive a bewildered grandmother, a scary cross–country odyssey, a heavy blizzard, freezing temperatures and a couple of days without food, but had also been resourceful enough to rescue herself and her grandmother despite the odds against her.
Unable to see her, to assure himself through nonphysical channels that Cara was indeed all there—ten fingers, ten toes, two hands, two feet, two ears, two eyes and one nose—he needed to touch her, but was half afraid to try to because he didn’t know where to put his hands so he could hold his daughter without unintentionally hurting her or getting tangled in the IVs.
"Help me, Helen," he whispered, so she did. Dropped the bed rail for him, moved things out of the way, moved the recliner one of the nurses had brought down from Pediatrics next to the bed and guided him to it. Let him settle himself, then placed his child in his arms.
Holding Cara at last, Nat relaxed for the first time in a week, resting his cheek against her hair and cuddling her close, smiling while his little girl slept.
Heart full and unable to take her eyes off them, Helen realized that everybody’s favorite Madonna and Child told only half the story. This was the picture she would keep in her heart: Father and Child, safe together at last.
* * *
From the bits and pieces Cara told them in between naps, Nat and Helen slowly gathered what had happened between, er, mall and call.
When the mall commotion began, Emma had taken Cara’s hand and pulled her out of the way of the curious crowd. At some point, they’d begun walking, looking in store windows and picking out things they liked. Cara had forgotten about not having the others with her, hadn’t paid much attention when Grammy Sanders walked her out to the car to go home. They’d been pulling out of the parking lot when Cara suddenly remembered they’d left everyone else inside the mall, but when she’d said something about it, Emma had looked at her strangely and said, "That’s okay, darling, Mama will take care of it, fasten your seat belt, there’s a good girl," and continued driving.
They’d driven long enough for Cara to fall asleep, trusting Emma to bring her safely home despite the fact that the drive back home from the mall seemed an awful lot longer than the drive there had been. When she woke up, Emma had laughed and said something about taking the scenic route and a wonderful surprise waiting for Mandy at the end of it.
Though somewhat apprehensive about being called by her mother’s name so often, Cara had simply written it down to the silliness of age and politely ignored it the way she and the other children always did whenever one of their older relatives confused them with someone whose genetic bone structure they’d inherited. Even Jane and Max had occasionally been called by somebody else’s name by aunts and uncles a generation older than their parents, so why should it concern Cara to be mistaken for her mother once in a while when even she knew how much she resembled Amanda?
Cara thought she’d slept a long time. When she’d wakened a second time it was black outside, real night, and there hadn’t been any streetlights to hide the stars. Emma had parked at the side of the road with the interior car lights on. She’d looked a little anxious and had been studying a map. Cara didn’t recognize anything about where they were, but when she’d asked because she was beginning to feel frightened, Emma had patted her hand reassuringly and told her that Mama was a little lost but not to worry, go back to sleep, they’d get straightened out in no time. It wasn’t until Cara woke up and it was light outside again that she’d understood how wrong things really were.
As nearly as she could figure, she and Emma had driven for the better part of five days, stopping occasionally to get gas, to wash up in gas station bathrooms. Cara had started looking for a way to get to a phone sometime Monday. She’d even asked Emma about calling Daddy, but Emma had seemed confused about who Cara’s daddy was, had grown more agitated and fearful the longer they’d been on the road. She had also been afraid not only to let Cara out of her sight but to physically let go of her at all for fear somehow they’d get separated and Amanda would be lost.
Cara told them Emma had started looking over her shoulder a lot, becoming more and more fearful by the day and wanting as little contact with people other than Cara as possible. She’d started crying and told Cara she couldn’t remember their phone number and anyway was a little afraid of what phones could do to people, and oh, my, wouldn’t Daddy be angry with Mama for g
etting them so lost when all she’d meant to do was drive down the road a little way to Disneyland, and oh, there, she’d gone and spoiled Amanda’s surprise, don’t tell Daddy, dear, don’t tell Daddy.
And Cara, older sister to three younger siblings, her mother’s and now the Colonel’s responsible helper, had realized that Grammy Sanders was no longer the adult in this situation. Something had happened to her and she badly needed someone to take care of her. Cara had done the best she could to do just that.
Since Emma seemed to become more herself while they were driving, Cara hadn’t tried to talk her out of doing so, but had simply kept her eyes open all the time for the opportunity to find Grammy some help. By Thursday, Cara said, Emma had stopped talking period, and all they’d done was drive without stopping, except once at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere when Cara had to go to the bathroom. Driving into the blizzard and running out of gas had seen the end of Emma’s reality reserves. Before Cara’s eyes her grandmother had seemed to shrink in on herself, drained of life. To give up, wither and fade, unable to handle more. Crying, but without saying a word, Emma had shriveled up in her car seat and refused to move.
When Emma had fallen asleep at last, Cara had taken the car keys and looked in the trunk for blankets or something to keep them warm. She’d found the big heavy metal lantern Jake kept in the trunk, two blankets, some too–big boots, an extra jacket, scarves, mittens and a shovel, along with water, a stash of dried figs and some flares. For one of the safety classes at school, she’d read newspaper stories about people who’d been stranded in blizzards, knew it was always best to stay with the car. So she’d eaten some figs, then read the instructions on the flares and lit them.
Snow buried the flares, so she’d gotten out the shovel and tried to unbury them, but the snowfall was heavier and faster than she could keep up with. She’d gotten back in the car, stuck the keys in the ignition and switched them backward the way John had once shown her so she could play the radio without turning on the engine. She’d found a talk station on the radio and in between listening to it and trying to keep herself and Emma warm under the blankets, had honked SOS with the horn, three shorts, three longs, three shorts, the way Libby said Nancy Drew did it—Cara was more into the Ramona books and the Goddess Girls, herself—until the car’s battery went dead.
By that time it was starting to get dark again, she had to go to the bathroom because of the figs and the water she’d consumed and the snow was letting up a little. Emma hadn’t moved for such a long time that Cara kept feeling her mouth and chest to make sure she was breathing; the blare of the car horn hadn’t disturbed her even once.
Nobody came to find them.
Cold and more afraid of not doing anything than of at least trying to do something, Cara had finally decided it couldn’t be too much worse for her to get out in the snow and relieve her body than it would be for her to try to sit in the car any longer, uncomfortable as she was. When she’d gotten back in the car that time, Emma seemed to be sleeping deeper than ever, and her breathing was more irregular and shallow. It was at that point that Cara had determined her grandmother couldn’t wait much longer for help to come to them and had resolved to go out and find it. She’d taken the flashlight and what little money was left in Emma’s purse, collected one blanket, donned the jacket that came down to the tops of her boots, put on an extra hat and mittens and struck out for parts unknown.
Since there’d been nothing for hours back in the direction they’d come from, she’d headed the way the car was pointed, doing her best to stay on the road and out of the drifting snow. She had no idea how long it had taken her to find the abandoned store with the ancient rotary but still working pay phone out front. Couldn’t explain what had made her turn off the road just there when she was unable to see anything through the blowing snow, but that’s what she’d done. There’d been enough change in Grammy’s purse to start the collect phone call home. Dad and the Colonel had taken care of the rest.
Simply grateful to have her back, Nat wasn’t concerned about the hows and whys. Helen thought of the angel presents back home in the attic and offered a word of thanks to Amanda and the legions of heavenly beings who must have worked extra hard to lead a little girl home.
Chapter Fourteen
~DECEMBER 24~
The entire family was there to greet them when they arrived home late Sunday morning: Blocks and Brannigans, Maximoviches, Crocketts and Block–Brannigan relations from far distant zones of reality and somewhat scattered dimensions of time. Fortunately the Block–Brannigan reality and time impaired were largely a feather boa wearing, kindly, eccentric, tactless and gently benevolent faction, who elicited rolling eyes and disbelieving laughter from those around them rather than fear.
Cara was the center of everyone’s attention, especially—at first—her siblings. After Nat established her on one of the living room couches in the heart of the festivities, Libby, Max, Jane and Zach couldn’t wait to be of service, fetching and carrying, giving her unexpected hugs and lavishing on her presents of some of their favorite toys until Cara was nearly suffocated beneath the literal weight of the stuffed animals, books, games, trucks, pens, etcetera, of their love.
Having her home got old after a while, however, and within a couple of hours—after her story had been told and embellished so many times her siblings stopped being able to suspend their disbelief and started picking it apart—the old pecking order was reestablished and Cara was once again merely the not–feeling–well kid on the couch, the butt of Zach’s worst jokes, the long–suffering lieutenant–secretary to Libby’s general, Max’s favorite person to bug and Jane’s resigned designated reader of Green Eggs and Ham—over and over and over.
It was a crowded day, full of food and laughter and way too many hovering people. By early afternoon, Cara was exhausted, so after letting the cousins exchange and open their name–drawing gifts to each other, Helen kicked everybody out. With a great deal of understanding and only a few teasing comments from her sisters about the poor extent of her hospitality after all the trouble they’d gone through to arrange this party at her house, everybody but Grandma Josephine went.
As a family, they spent the rest of the day in unhurried, joyful preparation for the evening’s and following day’s celebrations.
In spite of the bandages on her hands and feet, Cara was determined to still play Mary in the Christmas pageant and following tableau, so after a hurried conversation with the Music Minister, Helen made a hurried dash up to the church to bring Cara’s costume home for a quick fitting. And it was a darned good thing that the alterations to the shapeless blue robe could be accomplished with a few strategically placed safety pins and a rope belt, or Cara would have been up the creek without a seamstress.
Amid a flurry of flour, powdered sugar and food coloring, the Christmas cookies Zach, Libby, Max and Jane hadn’t wanted to make until Cara came home were mixed, rolled, cut, baked and creatively painted. Grandma Josephine, the self–elected kibitzer on the project, encouraged the children to suggest stories for each of their creations, then told them tales of the real people she’d met in her travels through life who reminded her of each of their cookies. Albert Einstein was the sheep with the wild hairdo Libby gave it. Other twentieth century historical and celebrity figures with whom Josephine professed modest acquaintance fared less well. Stephen Spielberg, for example, was the purple goat whose horn broke off and who needed Josephine to glue it back on for him—and then introduce him to George Lucas—and tell him that special effects were the wave of the future. And Walt Disney—according to Great–grandma J—was the blue elephant who originally wanted to write a sweet little story about cute and scary little mice until Josephine Block set him straight, suggested he write about one mouse in particular and call it Mickey.
The children were delighted with the chronicles. Helen swallowed them with several grains of salt and a lot of eye rolling, and Nat tried not to wonder which parts of the fabrications mi
ght or might not be true.
And probably guessed wrong every time.
The children’s Christmas Eve Mass was scheduled for five, so after the cookie baking—and consumption—everybody bathed or showered and dressed for Christmas.
The church was packed to the rafters, standing room only. Fortunately, pageant and angel families were needed early, so Nat, Zach and Grandma Josephine found seats for eight in a front pew and scattered coats to reserve the spaces for the other family members.
Stationed in the church vestibule helping angels and shepherds dress, Helen watched the parish come in, families gather. Dress ranged from blue jeans and sweaters to gorgeous and sparkly. Mothers and grandmothers had dressed infants in darling, beautiful outfits that would never be worn again but would be preserved in the family photograph albums forever.
Fathers carried toddlers, held newborn babies in nervous arms. Teenagers stood close to current inamoratas; younger children who were no longer in arms but were still young enough to take the Night Before Christmas literally went big eyed to the crèche, petted or kissed the head of the representative ceramic Baby Jesus. Children too young to date but too cynical to believe in Santa anymore found friends and talked about what they might be getting in the morning. And everyone smiled and greeted everyone else, laughed and shared a moment regardless of how good or bad their lives outside of this place and time might be.
Mass began in darkness, moved to blaze with light as candles were lit from the ends of the pews inward. The children’s choir sang their specially prepared songs; the listeners joined in wherever they could. The angels, Jane and Max among them, twirled up the aisles during the Gloria, stumbling and serious to the joyous ringing of bells and rattling of keys, the whir of camcorders and the grins and covered faces of their enjoyably embarrassed families.
During the reading of the Gospel, Cara’s Mary rode a borrowed child’s wheelchair covered by a gray robe into Bethlehem. The shepherds on the hillside were properly—and probably literally—sore afraid when Libby’s announcing angel, cockeyed halo, skewed wings and all, shouted, "Hey! Unto you a Child is born!" The bearded wise men presented their gifts of gold, frankincense and a basket of canned vegetables, bread, fruit and canned ham with almost the right amount of reverence. Once the pageant was presented, the participants stood in tableau without moving a whisker until the Music Minister signaled them to join their families.
Five Kids, One Christmas (The Brannigan Sisters) Page 21
