“How many people are coming?” Amanda asked her.
Matt didn’t have much family, just his parents in Worcester and a sister in Newburyport. Amanda still wasn’t quite used to the big family parties Lauren and Jillian had grown up with.
“Oh…you know, honey, the usual. Just family,” Molly said. “I haven’t called anyone yet. I’m not sure who can come.” That was true, though a quick mental tally that afternoon had put the list at over fifty. Molly reminded herself that they had plenty of room now in their grand new house. Fifty people wouldn’t feel crowded at all.
“We have plenty of time before Christmas to figure it out,” she added. Matt stared at her doubtfully. “I won’t go crazy. I won’t get all fussy and nutty, I promise. I won’t cook complicated foods that take two weeks to prep and keep me stuck in the kitchen all night, okay?”
Matt nodded then reached across the table and touched her hand. “I know it means a lot to you to have your family here for Christmas. I want them here, too. I’m sure it will be wonderful. All I ask is that you try to keep it in perspective, okay?”
Molly nodded. “Okay.”
That’s what she loved about Matt. One of the things, anyway. He genuinely wanted her to be happy.
When dinner was finished, the girls helped clear the table and clean up the kitchen. Then they scattered, escaping to their private spaces upstairs to finish homework, talk online with friends or wash and blow out their hair, a never-ending project.
Molly spent the rest of the evening washing and folding laundry while half-watching TV with Matt. Finally, around eleven o’clock, Matt handed over the remote. “I’m going upstairs. I have to be in early tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” Molly glanced at him. “I just want to straighten up.”
He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t be too long.”
She heard his footsteps on the stairway, then a short time later, heard their bedroom door shut. She walked to the foyer and peeked up the stairs. It seemed very quiet. Jill had gone to bed around ten, and the two older girls were occupied, their bedroom doors shut.
Molly opened her purse, which she had left on the table near the staircase. She took out a small white paper bag and carried it into the downstairs bathroom. With the bathroom door closed and locked, she took out the slim box that was inside the bag, tore it open, and read the instructions.
It seemed pretty simple. Not the complicated test and doctor’s appointment she had gone through when she was pregnant with Jill. But that was nearly fourteen years ago. Now, you could find out in five minutes if you were pregnant.
She stood at the sink, staring at the tiny window on the plastic stick. Then at her watch. It wasn’t taking very long. Not very long at all. The dot was blue and got bluer and bluer.
Molly felt her stomach clench with nerves. She couldn’t believe it. There had to be something wrong. Maybe these home tests weren’t that reliable?
She took out the other plastic stick and tried again.
Blue. Almost instantly.
Dark, undeniable blue.
She felt her head spin for a minute, as if she were going to faint.
She couldn’t be pregnant. Not now. She didn’t have time to be pregnant, to have a new baby. She had just started her business. Everything was going so well.
But a baby! Now? That would change everything.
She would be back to square one.
The diapers, the bottles, the waking up in the middle of the night for bad dreams, fevers, false alarms.
She had spent the last eighteen years raising her daughters, concentrating on them instead of herself. She had lost so much time and was just starting to make up for it. Just getting her life back and achieving something of her own.
Just when she was making some progress. Now she would be homebound again, sitting by the sandbox, watching kiddie shows on TV, mistaken for a grandma at Gymboree.
Molly sat down and held her head in her hands. She started to cry, then quickly grabbed a towel and covered her mouth so no one would hear her.
When she was cried out Molly splashed her face with cold water. She hid the pregnancy tests at the bottom of the kitchen trash, then shut off the lights and went up to bed.
Matt was sound asleep when she crept into their room. She didn’t have the heart to wake him. She pulled on a nightgown, brushed her teeth, then slipped into bed.
Just when things were going so well.
It just didn’t seem fair.
THE DOCTORS AND NURSES CALLED HIM JOHN DOE. THE name doesn’t fit, Miranda thought. She and Sophie sat in waiting-room limbo in the Southport Hospital’s emergency room. The big clock on the wall opposite the TV showed it was nearly midnight. When they arrived the area had been crowded, almost every seat taken. But as the hours passed, the crowd had thinned. They were practically the only ones left. Sophie thumbed through worn-out magazines while Miranda sipped a cup of cold coffee.
“I’m not sure we should wait.” Sophie put the magazine aside. “They’ll probably want to keep him overnight.”
“They might,” Miranda agreed. “If only someone would tell us what’s going on.”
The admitting nurse had told Miranda and Sophie that as strangers, they were not actually permitted to see the patient or be given access to his medical information. Miranda explained how she had found the man in the orchard and that he had apparently lost his memory, and the nurse’s officious attitude seemed to soften a bit.
“Can you let him know that we’re out here?” Miranda had asked.
“I can, but I’m not sure you’ll be allowed to see him. It’s usually only family.”
“I understand. I just wanted him to know he wasn’t alone. How is he doing?”
The nurse glanced at her over the top of her slim reading glasses. She appeared to be weighing how much she could say. “He’s just been admitted. I doubt if there’s anything to report. If you want to wait, I’ll try to get some information later.”
Miranda smiled at her gratefully and took a seat to wait.
And wait. And wait.
The updates had been brief and spaced apart by hours. John Doe had gone upstairs to have his head x-rayed and downstairs for an examination by a neurologist. The nurse added it was sheer luck a specialist had been in the building at this hour. There had been a car accident during rush hour, and a neurologist had been called in to assist with emergency neurosurgery. John Doe wouldn’t be examined until the surgery was over, which would take a while longer.
That was the last they had heard, almost two hours ago. The nurse didn’t seem to know anything more and Miranda was wary of seeming like a bother.
She was also starting to worry about her grandmother. Though Sophie never complained, Miranda was sure she must be uncomfortable sitting in the hard, plastic chair all these hours. Now Miranda saw her lean her head back against the wall and close her eyes.
Miranda touched her arm. “Grandma? I think you’re right, maybe we should go. I don’t think there’s anything we can do for him.”
Sophie sat up with a start and blinked. “I’m all right, honey. I was just resting my eyes.”
Miranda smiled at her. “Let me try that nurse one more time. Maybe if she sees that we intend to go, she’ll finally tell us something.”
Miranda headed off to confront the supervising nurse again, expecting another brush-off. Sophie followed a few steps behind.
The nurse was talking on the phone and Miranda waited until she had hung up. “Miranda Potter, right?” The nurse glanced at a note on her desk. Miranda nodded, surprised that the woman remembered her name. “You can go back and see the patient now. Here’s a pass. He’s in area three.”
“Area three. Okay. Thanks.” Miranda took the stick-on pass and pasted it to her jacket. A badge of honor for waiting out the system, she thought. She turned to Sophie. “I won’t be long.”
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.” Sophie gave her a hug and headed back
to the waiting area.
Miranda stepped through the swinging doors. A busy nursing station was at the center of the floor. No one paid attention to her or stopped to check her badge. She saw a few rooms on the far end of the floor, but mainly beds separated by curtains and movable dividers. She noticed numbers on the dividers and soon found area three.
John Doe, as the hospital now called him, was lying in a bed with its backrest raised almost to sitting level. There was a large white bandage on his head. Miranda guessed that he must have had stitches to close the cut.
His expression brightened as he saw her. “Miranda…I didn’t even know you were out there.”
“My grandmother and I wanted to make sure you were given good attention.”
“I’ve been rolled from one end of this place to the other. I think this bed is going to need new tires.”
Miranda smiled. He still had a sense of humor. “What does the doctor say? Has your memory returned at all?”
“No, nothing yet.” His expression turned serious again. “They say it’s just a concussion. I had an X-ray and they ruled out a brain tumor.”
“Well, that’s something to be thankful for.”
“Sure, I guess.” He let out a long sigh. “But if they could find something that was causing it, at least they could fix it.”
A doctor pushed back the curtain and walked in. He wore green scrubs and carried a clipboard. “How are you feeling? Has that medication helped your head any?”
“I’m doing all right.”
“Good. Let’s check your eyes again.” The doctor leaned over, took hold of his patient’s chin, and peered into his eyes. Then he took out a small flashlight and aimed the beam directly into his right eye, then his left. “No progress with your memory?”
“No, not at all.”
“Do you know this woman?” the doctor asked, stepping back and looking at Miranda.
The stranger’s expression brightened, almost making her blush. “If it wasn’t for her, I would still be out there, frozen to death.”
The way he put it sounded so dramatic. Had she really saved his life? Well, maybe, Miranda thought.
“It’s good you remember that much. I’m not an expert, but most memory loss is temporary when it’s triggered by head trauma.”
“Falling down, you mean?” Miranda clarified.
“I don’t believe the wound I saw was caused by a fall,” the doctor told her. “It looked more like a blow to the head—with a blunt object. Of course, you found him on the ground and he had obviously fallen. He could have struck his head again at that point.”
“But you think he was hit on the head before he fell?”
“That’s right.” The doctor glanced at John Doe again. “We’ve already talked about this. It’s possible he was mugged and his attackers hit him on the head to subdue him, then took his top coat and wallet, et cetera. Not unusual in that sort of robbery. That kind of blow and emotional trauma could cause a memory loss. It’s what we call stress-induced.”
“How long will it take to come back?” the man asked.
“Hard to say. Your memory could return in a few hours, days, or even months. I’m not sure even a specialist could predict it with any accuracy. It’s a tricky situation, memory loss. Not too much is known about it, really.”
“I see.” Miranda could hear the discouragement in the stranger’s voice. “Do I need to stay here any longer?”
“I can admit you…but we’re short on beds,” the doctor replied. “The only place we can put you tonight is in the psych ward.”
The psych ward? Miranda thought that sounded depressing. “Does he really have to stay? You just said the concussion isn’t that serious.”
“I can release him if I’m sure he’ll have responsible care,” the doctor said. “He needs to be woken up every few hours to see that his pupils are dilating. You just use a flashlight, the way I did.”
She looked over at John Doe. “I can do that,” she told him. “You can come back to our house.”
“Thanks…but I don’t think so. I’ve been too much trouble for you already.”
“It’s not any trouble, not at all. We would feel a lot better if you came back with us.”
He didn’t answer but looked about to refuse again.
Miranda couldn’t leave him here. He didn’t belong in the psychiatric ward. Or sitting out in the waiting area, sleeping on a plastic chair. What would he do tomorrow morning? Who would be here to help him sort things out if his memory hadn’t returned?
“Lots of people say the Potters are crazy…but it’s still a better choice than the psych ward. You’ll get a better breakfast, too,” she promised.
He stared at her thoughtfully. Then, finally a small smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “Okay, I’ll go back to the orchard with you,” he said. “But just for tonight.”
“Sounds like that’s settled.” The doctor wrote some notes on his clipboard. Miranda had almost forgotten he was still in the room. “You’re free to go. Just give this to one of the nurses at the desk.”
He handed John Doe several forms. He also handed Miranda a note, instructions on checking the patient’s concussion, and a number to call if his condition took a turn for the worse.
An aide with a wheelchair came for John Doe, and Miranda accompanied them out to the waiting area. She found Sophie sitting with her eyes closed in the seat farthest from the big TV.
“Grandma?” Miranda touched her grandmother’s shoulder. “We can go now.” Sophie opened her eyes, sat up, and smiled at her granddaughter and the stranger. “I’ve asked…John…to come back with us,” Miranda explained.
She didn’t know what else to call him. She hoped he didn’t mind.
Sophie stood up and buttoned her coat. “Of course you did,” she said to Miranda. She glanced at her houseguest. “That’s an impressive bandage. Hurt much?”
“Not too much.” From his expression, Miranda guessed it actually hurt a great deal.
“I’ll make you an ice pack as soon as we get back,” Sophie told him. “Sometimes these things hurt more later, after the numbing drugs wear off.”
John got to his feet at the hospital door, and they started across the parking lot.
Sophie took his arm in a friendly, comforting gesture. “I bet you didn’t get a thing to eat, either. We’ll have a bite when we get in, a midnight snack. I have some chili and johnnycake…Oh, and there’s an apple crumb pie. I just baked it this afternoon.”
“Some snack.” He laughed. It was the first time, Miranda realized. “What would you call a real meal?”
“I’m just a plain, Yankee cook. Nothing fancy. But you won’t leave the table hungry, I can guarantee that.”
“You’re very kind.” He glanced at Miranda, and their gaze held for a moment. “I’m very grateful. To both of you.”
“Nonsense.” Sophie waved her hand at him as she climbed into the front seat of Miranda’s small car. “It wouldn’t have felt right, leaving you here. You’re doing me a favor, young man. Now I can get a good night’s sleep.”
There is no greater wisdom than kindness, Miranda had once read. If that was true, then her grandmother had to be the wisest woman in the world.
As she drove out of the parking lot and headed back to the orchard, Miranda thought again of Tucker Tulley’s warning. Perhaps they were taking a risk, bringing this stranger home. Even for one night. But it didn’t seem right to leave him stranded here. Not to her or her grandmother.
That was all there was to it.
CHAPTER TWO
“I WOULDN’T HAVE ASKED YOU TO HELP, REVEREND. But the plumber will be here any minute, and I’ll never get these boxes cleared with my bum hand.”
Carl Tulley, the church sexton, held out his bandaged hand to show Reverend Ben. Carl had been replacing a broken pane of glass in one of the Sunday school classrooms a few days ago and accidentally slashed his left palm.
“I don’t mind helping,” Ben assured him. “Just
show me what you want moved and where.”
“The pipe froze and busted right here.” Carl pointed to a thick copper pipe near the low ceiling. “All the boxes on this end need to get moved. A lot of the stuff got wet. You’ll have to tell me what to throw out, though. I don’t want to toss out anything valuable.”
“I’ll have to sort through it all later.” Ben wasn’t looking forward to that. He hated going through old files and correspondence, even when it was dry. Dealing with wet boxes full of moldering church records was his idea of serious penance. “For now, let’s just move it all out of the way.”
Ben lifted a large cardboard box from the basement floor and carried it to the far side of the basement—the high and dry side, Carl called it. Ben would be the last one to deny the visible difference between one side of the basement and the other. The church had been built in the Colonial era and was now sinking in various directions, as old buildings tended to do. The wooden floors upstairs were wavering and so were the walls.
The basement was little more than a hole in the ground, which had been reinforced from time to time with solid-looking layers of gray concrete on the walls and floor. The original beams, clearly recognizable as tree trunks, had been reinforced in the 1960s but never removed.
Ben liked to look at the tree trunks and think about how old they were, how many church services they had supported, how many holidays, baptisms, weddings, and droning church council meetings—even church crises.
How many pastors they had held afloat, unconditionally.
Ben came back for another load. He could tell Carl was struggling to carry a carton one-handed but preferred to manage on his own. “Did you see a doctor about that hand?”
“I had a visit with Harding. He put in a few stitches, gave me some ointment. Swelling’s gotten worse, though.”
“You might have to go back and see him again. Sounds like it might be infected.”
Carl grunted, dumping his load. Ben doubted the sexton would take his advice. Carl was the type to tough it out, never asking for help or taking much care of himself. He had grown up in Cape Light, then disappeared for over twenty years, spending part of that time in prison for accidentally killing a man, and the rest wandering, taking odd jobs or going homeless. No one really knew the whole story—not even his stepbrother, Tucker Tulley, who had served on the village police force most of his life.
A Christmas Visitor Page 3
