Five Kids, One Christmas (The Brannigan Sisters)

by Ramin, Terese

  The Mass progressed. The host and wine were consecrated, the Our Father was recited, the sign of peace was lengthily and cheerfully exchanged, and communion was distributed. When everyone had settled back for the moment of silence following communion, the lights were turned out and parents in the know aimed their children’s eyes toward the double doors at the back of the church. In a moment, Father Christmas appeared, plump, bearded and dressed in red. The hush grew as he moved up the aisle to the crèche, knelt on one knee before it and removed his hat for a long moment of silent meditation. Then he left as silently as he’d come and the wide–eyed children exhaled held breaths. The adults with them inhaled, their own sense of wonder momentarily restored and engaged.

  Then the Mass was over and the exodus began, with more greetings and visiting and dispersing until, finally, the last of the families went home.

  Nat ordered pizza before they left church, and they stopped to pick it up on their way to the house. The children, Zach included, were wired to the gills from Christmas expectations, more than a little rowdy. Libby and the boys, with far more energy than necessary, toppled a willing Nat off the couch after pizza, while Helen built a fire in the fireplace. The ensuing wrestling match was noisome, filled with Max’s shrieks, yells of "Dad, no fair, you’re bigger than me" from Zach, and hearty laughter and giggles from Libby, who was the most ticklish of the bunch.

  When the fire was burning brightly, Helen turned to find a pouting Jane wanting to take part in the tussle with Nat, but afraid of getting in the way of flying arms and feet. However, she was perfectly willing to let Helen sweep her wildly off her feet, blow raspberries on her rosy cheeks and neck and tickle her until she was squealing with delight and had to go to the bathroom. In the big chair in front of the fire, Grandma Josey sat with Cara, enlightening her about the whys and wherefores of collecting African masks via pirate traders in Fiji until Helen caught the gist of the lesson and put a stop to it. Her children, she informed Josephine firmly, were much too young to need to know how to bargain with pirates.

  With some misgiving, Nat decided this must be one of the true stories Helen had referred to and wondered exactly how responsible a parent he was for letting Josey tell his children things he wasn’t around to edit. Decided that if they learned anything at all about living long and fully from Josephine’s… parables, then the parables—no matter how blatantly outrageous—were well worth the later questions.

  At long last—later than the parents wanted but earlier than the kids felt necessary—everyone was readied for bed. Nat read A Visit From Saint Nicholas and then it was time to hang stockings. After putting up their own stockings—Victorian style, lovingly and painstakingly embroidered by Emma for each of them as they joined the family—the five kids disappeared in a bustle of whispers and shushes. Came sidling back a few minutes later wearing silly grins and shyly expectant faces, hiding things behind their backs.

  Helen touched Nat’s arm, whispered, "Uh–oh. They look goofy and they’re hiding something behind their backs."

  He pressed his lips to her ear, whispered wickedly and very quietly, "I’m not hiding what I’ve got for you behind my back, in case you’re interested."

  The heat spread instantly. "Very interested," Helen murmured, "but cool your shorts for a bit, would you? We’ve got other things to do first."

  Nat sighed, hand to his heart. "I guess the honeymoon’s really over. You’re no fun anymore."

  "Wanna bet?" Helen asked then, before he could do more than grin appreciatively, turned to the kids. "What’s up?"

  "Umm," Cara said diffidently, "We, umm—"

  "Erm, we have something…" Zach shuffled his feet.

  "We have something for you," Libby said, shooting her older siblings’ disgusted looks. She’d never quite understood how it was so many people had so much trouble putting five words together without hemming and hawing. She never had trouble spitting out what she intended to say. "Max?"

  She gave him a poke and the five–year–old stepped forward, took a deep breath and cleared his throat. Brought his hands out from behind his back and held out four large, brass cup hooks to Helen.

  "Kern’l, we need you to put these on the fireplace for us. Right here—" gravely he pointed out the bare spots at each corner of the mantel framing the hung stockings "—and here and here." He showed her the space between his stocking and Libby’s in the mantel’s center. "I brought you a little hammer and a nail so you could start the holes." He went back to the couch, reached underneath to pull the tools out. "I wanted to do it for you, but Libby said you’d catch us if we did it early and we wanted it to be a s’prise, so I didn’t. I will now, though. If you want."

  Helen fetched a dining room chair for him to stand on. "I’d like that very much."

  When he’d finished screwing the hooks into the mantle, he marched solemnly back to his place in the row of children and Helen put the chair away. Unable to contain herself, Jane danced and twirled excitedly.

  "Now?" she whispered loudly, nodding, eyes alight. "Me do it now?"

  "Go ahead," Zach said.

  Wiggling with pleasure, she bounced across to Nat and tugged on his hand. He picked her up.

  "Whatchya got, sweet cheeks?"

  "Me have stocking for Toby, see, Nat?" She shoved the fuzzy red–and–white stocking into Nat’s cheek and rubbed so he could feel it. "Me put his name on it, there—" she grabbed Nat’s hand and traced his finger over the glittery letters that might possibly have spelled Toby—in Martian. "—an it’s bootifool. See, Tern’l?" She swung the stocking at Helen, then nudged Nat’s chest impatiently with her knees as though he were a horse. "Move, Nat. Needa hang it up."

  Ceremony completed, she squirmed down and jumped about, waiting for the rest of it to take place. Zach stepped forward, shoved a stocking into Nat’s hand.

  "It says Pop and you’re supposed to hang it here." He guided Nat to a hook at the end of the mantle. Turned to Helen and Grandma Josephine. "We have ’em for you guys, too."

  Cara and Libby brought matching stockings out of hiding. Libby handed hers to Josephine.

  "It just says GGJ," she said, "’cause your name is too long to put it all on."

  "That’s true," Josephine agreed. "It was never meant to be monogrammed on anything."

  "That’s what I thought." Libby nodded. "Here, I’ll hang it up for you." She did.

  Shyly Cara brought her stocking to Helen. "It says Mom," she said hesitantly. "I hope that’s okay. I wanted to put Colonel on it, but Libby said not to because you could get demoted or promoted and might not always be a Colonel, so we should put something less…" she hunted for the word "…less unique. You hang it at the other end from Dad’s."

  Overwhelmed, Helen held the stocking, looking at the glittering gold letters, tracing them once while her throat closed. She leaned into Nat and he kissed her temple, slipped an arm about her shoulders and squeezed.

  "Is it all right?" Zach asked anxiously.

  Helen nodded, eyes bright. "Oh yeah," she said. The smile that crossed her face felt big and brilliant and about to crack. "Yeah, it’s definitely all right."

  Then she hung the stocking on the remaining hook and, hand to her mouth, admired the way the letters sparkled in the firelight.

  Mom.

  ~CHRISTMAS EVE—11:23 P.M.~

  Kids and Josephine in bed asleep at last, Nat and Helen skulked down the upstairs hallway and staircases like thieves, dragging sacks of booty behind them.

  "Shh, Nat, don’t rattle the packages, you’ll wake the kids."

  "Me? Who the hell’s great idea was it to hide all this stuff in the attic where we’d have to sneak it past the kids’ bedrooms anyway?"

  "Oh, just shut up. Next year I’ll know better and we’ll hide ’em in the basement."

  "A likely story," Nat whispered, then nearly tripped over Helen, who’d stopped short at the girls’ doorways to listen.

  "Be careful," she breathed.

  "Tell me when you�
��re going to stop," he hissed back, "or let me lead."

  "You could lead me straight down the garden path to hell," Helen whispered back, "and I’d go."

  He slipped passed her, started down the steps to the main floor. "Is that a threat?"

  Helen followed him. "Or a promise."

  Downstairs they put out the gifts, filled the stockings. Toby’s got a rawhide bone—made in the United States, as per Zach’s insistence—and a big box of dog cookies. Josephine’s got a bunch of tall, multihued ostrich feathers and a new fake sable–trimmed hat with a bunch of orange poppies sewn onto the side. The kids’ stockings were filled with assorted oddments of things they each liked, then Helen stuck one small gift in Nat’s stocking and he tucked one into hers.

  When they were finished, they snuggled together in the big chair in front of the fire, enjoying the peace and each other. Outside the snow drifted gently to earth. Inside, Nat kissed Helen long and deep, fiddled loose the buttons of her heavy silk blouse, drew the fabric open and slipped his fingers under it to outline what lay beneath.

  More heavy silk ridged in feather–light lace lay under his hand, molded gently to Helen’s breasts. He grinned against her mouth.

  "New teddy?" he asked.

  Helen nodded. "Siren red. Thought you might like a little seasonal packaging if you were going to unwrap this gift under the tree."

  Nat pulled her blouse out of her pants, finished unbuttoning it and laid it open, dragged his hand from her breast to her hip, hauled her close. "You’re going to let me open a present before midnight?"

  In the front hallway the grandfather clock chimed the hour.

  "It’s midnight," Helen said, gathering his shirt collar in her fist and pulling him into her kiss. "Merry Christmas."

  "Merry Christmas," Nat whispered. Then they didn’t speak again for a long time.

  When they next came up for air, they were both somewhat flushed and heated, their clothing in open disarray.

  "I think maybe we should move this upstairs," Helen murmured, pushing herself up on his chest, tugging him after her. "Don’t you?"

  "Unless you want Grandma Josey walking in on us when I make you scream." Nat grinned, pure arrogant male.

  "I never scream." She was affronted. Then she amended for the sake of honesty, "Well, almost never."

  Nat slipped his hands under the hair on her neck, kissed her lingeringly. "Yeah, but only because I keep your mouth so busy you can’t."

  "Nathaniel." Helen sighed. "Let’s go upstairs."

  He caressed her jaw. "In a minute, okay? First I’ve got something I want to give you now."

  He got up, went out to the dining room hutch, came back.

  "Nat, you don’t—"

  He hushed her with a finger to her lips. "I want to, Helen." He pressed a tiny velvet box into her hand.

  She looked at him, uncertainty in her voice. "What—"

  "Open it and see."

  With shaking fingers, Helen snapped the box open. An emerald engagement ring gleamed up at her from the depths of the deep red velvet.

  "Oh, Nat." Stunned, she looked at him. "I—I… Oh, Nat."

  He smiled. "Jed says it matches your eyes. That’s what I wanted."

  "But I… Oh, Nat, I don’t…" She gulped.

  He went down on a knee in front of her, fumbled for her hand. "I love you, Helen Crockett," he said simply. "Marry me again."

  She’d thought the revelation would frighten her, would come into being like a thunderbolt the way the initial libidinal hunger always had, but it didn’t. It was an insidious hungry delight that filled her to brimming and wouldn’t go away. It was choking tenderness and roaring passion and peace. It was five kids and Toby and Grandma Josephine. And always, on top of it and underneath it and around it, it was Nat. She slid forward in the chair toward him.

  "Yes," she whispered. "I will. I love you, Nat."

  Then, because it was so ridiculously simple now that she wasn’t afraid of it anymore, she stretched her arms around his neck and, laughing, said it again. "I love you, Nathaniel Hawthorne Crockett. I love you. Now get off your damned knees and take me to bed."

  Chapter Fifteen

  ~DECEMBER 31, VA HOSPITAL ANN ARBOR, MICHIGAN~

  "You ready, Captain Crockett? We’ll take the patch off and see what we’ve got."

  Nat’s fingers twitched nervously; his mouth felt dry. He didn’t think he’d ever been so afraid of a single moment in his life.

  "Where’s Helen?" he asked.

  "Here, Nat." She stooped at his side, understanding perfectly. "You want me to go?"

  "No." He grasped her hand hard. "You stay. Where’re the kids?"

  "In the waiting room with Josephine. You want them here?"

  "No." He took a breath, blew it out. "Okay, Doc, let’s do it."

  The doctor picked at the tape over the patch, peeled it back. "Now, it’ll seem bright in here and it’ll take your eye a few minutes to adjust, so don’t be concerned if you can’t see anything at first."

  He lifted off a layer of gauze, dropped it onto the treatment tray to his right. "We’ll take a look here, and if everything’s working, we’ll stick you in a perforated metal patch. I want you to wear the patch all the time for the first three months to make sure none of those kids can stick a finger in your eye."

  He took off another layer of gauze. "No bending for at least a couple of weeks, no stairs today, after that be careful. If you have to sneeze or cough, do it with your mouth open so you don’t jerk the wound. We’ll send you home with a post–op instruction sheet, antibiotics and steroids for your eye. Don’t skip any doses. You shouldn’t feel too much discomfort, if any at all, but if you need something for minor pain take acetaminophen, not aspirin. If you feel any sharp or persistent pain, I want to know immediately. Well…" He picked up the last piece of gauze. "I think we’re there." He lifted off the patch. "Blink a bit and tell me what you think."

  Tell him what he thought? Nat wondered, incredulous. How could anybody think?

  Instead of thinking, he simply blinked his right eye—his clear blue right eye—and let the marvels come to him. Light, white and watery to begin with.

  Snatches of color: chrome, steel, blue, pink, green, white.

  The doctor’s face, hazy and out of focus, younger than Nat would have thought, freckled pink scalp showing where his hairline receded.

  Helen’s hand, warm and tight in his.

  He turned his head slightly and she was there, vibrant and vivid, more beautiful than his last sight of her so many years ago. Fair black–Irish skin. Fuzzy, dark curly hair that wouldn’t stay put no matter what she did with it. Freckles bridging her nose. Generous mouth, straight nose except right there at the tip where sight confirmed what touch had told him about that sassy upturn.

  Her hands, slim and strong in his, his rings on her wedding finger, one plain gold band and one emerald to match her eyes.

  He brought his gaze to her face and found those deep green pools waiting for him, brimming with hope, with love. Smiling. Knowing. Waiting for him to say it.

  So he did.

  He reached up a finger to brush her cheek and grinned, with his heart printed plainly on his face.

  "Damn," he said dryly, fervently. "It’s good to see you."

  ~NATIONAL PICKLE DAY—FOURTEEN MONTHS LATER~

  It was a beautiful day, sunny, clear, an early promise of spring. Inside, the family courtroom at Oakland County’s district courthouse was unusually full of Brannigans when the judge emerged from her chambers to take the bench.

  "All rise," the judge’s assistant said.

  In a great clatter of sound, everyone did—except for Helen, who was busy brushing children’s suits and dresses into place and whispering admonitions.

  "Helen," Nat growled. "Get up and quit fuss–budgeting, it’s time."

  Helen stood, stared earnestly into his one deep blue, sparkling eye and its opposing hole–filled metal eye patch. "I just want them to look nice, make a goo
d impression."

  Nat swiped his palm across her rump, flicking down the up–turned ends of her uniform jacket. "What about you, Colonel?" His eyes skimmed down her, head–to–toe, paused on her legs. "You’ve got dust on your hem." He pressed his mouth to her ear. "And are those my favorite thigh highs you’re wearing?"

  "That’s for me to know and you to find out," Helen told him smugly. "Later."

  Counting heads, she looked down the row of children in front of her—seven of them now, since the same group that had found Jane and Max for John and Amanda had called Helen and Nat six months ago, desperate to place orphaned, ten–year–old Arkady, who’d needed a lifesaving surgery, and his sister, Anna, with a family who would take them both.

  She caught sight of Toby, sitting patiently at Nat’s knee and smiled. A donation the equivalent of what it would cost to raise and train another leader dog had ensured them and the children that Toby could remain with them when Nat no longer required his services. Zach had been ecstatic and Helen had informed Toby that he was not allowed to die until after all seven kids were through with high school and could cope with the loss. A rough–tongued kiss assured her that Toby understood the request and would do his best to follow it.

  It was a rich life she and her husband had found for themselves, one that would continue richer still after today.

  On the bench the judge pulled her glasses down her nose and looked them over: uniformed, untraditional–looking mom; tall, rangy dad in an eye patch, holding her hand. Funny–looking old lady with a gargoyle cane and some kind of hugely feathered hat on her head. One oversize yellow dog wearing a red bow who shouldn’t have been allowed in the judge’s courtroom at all. Six kids standing uncomfortably stiff and straight and apprehensive. The seventh child—Libby, of course—looked the judge straight in the eye and dared her to say no to this group adoption.