One Imperfect Christmas

by Myra Johnson

  Natalie burst through the ER entrance and scanned the faces in the congested waiting area. A mother holding an ice pack against her son's forehead. An ashen-faced woman dozing against an elderly man's shoulder. Whimpering babies. Frightened children. Anxious parents.

  She spotted her father's silver-gray head across the room, where he paced in front of a set of double doors. Her brother, Hart, stood close by with his hands tucked into his blue-jeans pockets, rocking on his heels.

  Natalie rushed over and touched her father's arm. “Dad, how's Mom? Tell me it's not serious.”

  Her father turned and looked at her—looked through her. “They think it's a stroke.” His face crumpled as his thin veneer of strength collapsed. He pressed a fist to his mouth and pulled her to him, squeezing her so tightly, she could hardly breathe.

  Natalie struggled away and stared at him, not comprehending. A stroke? Ice-cold terror crackled through her veins. She spun to face her brother and seized his wrist. “Hart?”

  “It's bad, Nat. Real bad.” He drew her into his arms, and she felt her brother's fear in every tense muscle of his body.

  A tall, bearded man in hospital greens pushed through the double doors. “Mr. Morgan? I'm Dr. Wyatt.” He indicated a frayed blue sofa, the only empty seat in the waiting area. “Why don't we sit down.”

  Natalie blocked his way. “Just tell us, how is my mother? She'll be okay, right?”

  “I wish I had better news.” The doctor glanced at the chart he held.

  “But there's stuff you can do for a stroke these days. I saw it on TV.”

  “It isn't that simple. Please try to understand.” Dr. Wyatt attempted to explain her mother's condition, tossing out phrases about blood clots and clot-dissolving medications and something about a three-hour time window before irreversible brain damage set in.

  A sob tore from Natalie's throat. “Are you saying she got here too late? That there's nothing you can do?”

  “We'll continue to do all we can to minimize the damage, but under the circumstances … ” The doctor gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry.”

  2

  Natalie ran a thumb across the misshapen knuckles of her mother's hand as it rested quietly in her own. More than two weeks had passed, with no significant improvement. To see her mother hooked up to all those tubes and monitors, to realize she might never wake up, much less speak or hold a paintbrush or even recognize her family again—how could Natalie ever forgive herself for letting this happen?

  One phrase slithered through her thoughts, accusing her, condemning her: If she'd received immediate treatment …

  “Good morning, Mrs. Pearce.” A plump nurse in scrubs the color of Pepto-Bismol breezed into the room and patted her shoulder. “Have you been here all night again?”

  Natalie bristled. “Where else would I be?”

  “How about home with your family?” A pitying smile quirked the nurse's lips in a look Natalie had come to despise. “Seriously, there's nothing you can do here. Get some rest. Eat a decent meal.” After another condescending shoulder pat, the nurse inventoried her mother's vitals and monitor readings.

  Rest? Eat? The woman had to be kidding. A king-size cup of industrial-strength cafeteria coffee, on the other hand, might get her through the morning. She looped her purse over her shoulder and trudged out to the corridor.

  When the elevator doors slid open, Natalie almost collided with her father as he stepped off. His accusing expression mirrored the nurse's. “Natalie Rose. Have you been home at all since I saw you yesterday?”

  She held up one hand. “Don't start on me, Dad.”

  He frowned, fatigue etching deep lines around his eyes and mouth. She thought of all her father had to deal with— the farm, the horses, not to mention all the things around the house Mom always took care of.

  She followed his sagging form to her mother's room. When he paused outside the door, she hooked her arm in his and rested her cheek on his corduroy sleeve. “Daddy, how are you doing? Do you need anything from the supermarket? Any help with the horses?”

  He shrugged. “Celia keeps me supplied with meals. Hart and the twins have been pitching in with farm chores.”

  Natalie swiveled and sank onto a nearby bench. She should be doing more to help her father, but she couldn't bring herself to leave her mother's bedside. A shudder raked her body. Her mind flicked around the edges of a memory with the hesitance of a tongue probing a sore tooth. Lightning flashes. Blowing rain. A frightened mare's whinny.

  She pulled herself away from the strobe-like images as Dad settled onto the bench beside her. His thin, callused fingers gripped his lean thighs. “I just spoke with the doctor. They want to move your mom to a long-term care facility.”

  A blackened thumbnail on her father's left hand drew Natalie's gaze. “Long-term care. For the therapies they want to try, right?”

  Dad's chest rose and fell. He rubbed his eyes. “They'll do what they can.”

  “How soon will they move her?”

  “A few more days, once they're sure she can hold her own.” He stood and moved to the door. “I'm going to sit with her awhile. Go home, Natalie. Spend some time with Dan and Lissa.”

  At the mention of her neglected husband and daughter, her heart lurched. They'd been carrying on as usual, or trying to. Daniel had taken a full week off from school right after Mom's stroke, but his personal and sick days were dwindling fast. Lissa had to keep up with her studies or risk failing grades.

  She rose and peered through the partially open door. Dad hunched on the chair next to Mom's bed, his frayed work shirt stretched across his bony spine as he clutched her hand. The pink-clad nurse hovered nearby, checking monitors and typing notes on a bedside computer terminal.

  An ache, thick and spreading, welled beneath Natalie's heart. Okay, she'd leave for a while and get some fresh air to clear her mind … and pray.

  Daniel Pearce paused behind the desk in his cramped coach's office, one hand gripping the back of his chair. He felt as if he'd been praying nonstop ever since he returned from his Saturday scouting trip to find Lissa home alone and Natalie nowhere to be found.

  Minutes later the phone had rung—Natalie, calling from the hospital to say her mother had suffered a devastating stroke. Their lives hadn't been the same since.

  “Hey, bro.” Head coach Carl Moreno nudged open the office door with a meaty forearm. “You headed home?”

  Daniel grabbed his jacket off the coat tree. “After a stop at Casey's Diner for another take-out order. I swear, if I eat one more French fry, I'm going to turn into one.” Not to mention the food would be cold and soggy by the time he drove home from Putnam to Fawn Ridge.

  “Meant to tell you, Marie's sending a casserole tomorrow. Hope your family likes shepherd's pie.”

  “A home-cooked meal? You bet!” Daniel's mouth watered in anticipation, although Natalie would probably eat at the hospital again, if she ate at all.

  The rattle of the janitor's cart echoed in the corridor, a reminder Daniel needed to be on his way. He gathered up a stack of basketball stats and the history reports his fourth-period students had turned in and stuffed everything into his canvas briefcase. With a slap on Carl's shoulder, he said goodbye and ambled out to the parking lot.

  He turned into his driveway just after six-thirty. When the garage door lifted, he saw Natalie's car in its spot. His heart rose with a happy thump and just as quickly stuttered and fell. If she'd left the hospital, it must be bad news. Nothing else would draw her from Belinda's side.

  The greasy odor of Casey's burgers and fries turned rancid in his nostrils. He shut off the Bronco's engine and sat in silence as the garage door creaked shut behind him. Hauling in a shaky breath, he collected his things and sent up a hasty prayer before heading into the house.

  The door opened onto a view of the kitchen table set with a floral tablecloth and their white wedding china. A smiling Lissa poured ice water into crystal tumblers. Natalie stood at the counte
r stirring a sizzling concoction in the red-enameled electric wok. Something Asian lingered in the air, spicy and flavorful.

  A stupid grin creased Daniel's face. He held up the greasy Casey's bag. “Guess we won't need these burgers.”

  “You could always take one for lunch tomorrow.” Natalie's smile didn't quite match her teasing tone. She adjusted the temperature knob and continued stirring. “Liss, check the rice cooker, will you?”

  Daniel frowned at the bag and dropped it into the trash can. Laying aside his briefcase, he came up behind his wife and encircled her waist with both arms. She smelled of peach-scented shower gel. Her pale yellow hair felt satiny against his cheek. “I didn't expect to find you at home.”

  A tremor shook her body, and something told him it had nothing to do with their closeness. Slipping out of his arms, she reached for a bottle of teriyaki sauce. “Mom is being weaned off the machines. They'll move her to a nursing home soon.”

  “That's good news, isn't it?” He spied a bowl of carrot sticks on the end of the counter and helped himself to a couple. The sweet crunch satisfied him in a way no soggy French fry ever could.

  When he glanced at his wife, her lips were drawn into a thin white line. Tears threatened beneath lashes already spiky with wetness. His chest swelled. He tossed the last bit of carrot onto the counter and took her in his arms seconds before she burst into sobs. “Hey, hey. What's wrong?”

  “Why didn't I just go out and help her? How could I have been so selfish?”

  “It's not your fault, honey. You know it's not your fault.” Over Natalie's shoulder Daniel watched Lissa draw into herself—her face a twisted mask of confusion and fear. She replaced the lid on the rice cooker and huddled against the refrigerator.

  A knot of urgency squeezed Daniel's chest. Somehow he had to salvage what was left of the first semi-normal evening his family had shared in nearly three weeks. He stroked Natalie's back. “Please, honey, you've made this fantastic dinner. Let's sit down and enjoy it.”

  She pressed her fists against his shoulders and pushed away, her head shaking as if she couldn't quite clear it. “I can't do this. I thought I could, but—” She spun away and tore out of the kitchen. Seconds later their bedroom door slammed.

  “Dad?” Lissa's tiny voice trickled into his jumbled thoughts. He opened his arms to her. “Daddy, I'm scared. For Grandma and for Mom.”

  “Me, too, pussycat. Me too.”

  Natalie edged her Saturn into a narrow parking space. Nearby stood a concrete-and-brick sign partially obscured by overgrown yews. Etched into the concrete was the name Hope Gardens Convalescent Center. It had a pleasant ring to it. If only the place lived up to its promise. If only they could make her mother well again.

  Natalie clutched the steering wheel and squeezed her eyes shut. Dear God, please— Her mind blanked. She'd run out of prayers.

  A crisp February wind whipped at her coattails as she made her way to the entrance. Inside, the mixed odors of disinfectant, cafeteria food, and talcum powder assaulted her. She tried not to inhale on her way to room 51-C.

  The door opened into a cheery room painted sunshine-yellow and edged with a border of wildflowers near the ceiling. Natalie's gaze fell upon the shrunken woman lost amid carefully arranged pillows and blankets.

  “Oh, Mom … ”

  Only the dimmest light of awareness shone in her mother's pale blue eyes. The emptiness behind them tore at Natalie's heart. Sucking in a quick breath, she pulled a chair closer and plopped down. A pained smile forced artificial lightness into her voice.

  “Isn't this a pretty room, Mom? Yellow is such a happy color. And the people here seem nice. I know you're going to do great, I just know—”

  It wasn't working. A shuddering sigh shook her chest. She sat back and unzipped her laptop case. “You rest, Mom. I'll just sit with you and get some work done.”

  She'd practically begged Jeff Garner, her friend who owned the local print shop, for all the graphic design assignments he could send her way. For one thing, Mom's care would surely tax Dad's finances to the limit. For another, Natalie craved anything to help take her mind off the unrelenting guilt.

  She looked up from the computer screen, her vision blurring as she recalled the watercolor she'd left unfinished the day of her mother's stroke. Agonizing shame shredded her already raw emotions. Until her mother walked out of here whole and healthy, Natalie vowed never to touch a paintbrush again.

  3

  Valentine's Day arrived, bleak and cold and somber. The staff had decorated her mom's room and most of the nursing facility with red paper hearts, lace doilies, and pink balloons. Stressing over Jeff's advertising projects all morning, Natalie had pushed herself to the brink of a migraine. Only when an aide brought lunch for her mother did she realize how much time had passed. She retrieved the ham sandwich she'd packed and nibbled at it while the aide slipped bites of something puréed between her mother's lips. Even though Mom had been eating well since the feeding tube was removed in the hospital, her continual sputters and dribbles made Natalie look away in anguish.

  Her father came to visit after lunch, and Natalie welcomed a couple of hours to escape. She ventured as far as the lobby but couldn't bring herself to go home. Instead, she settled onto a plaid sofa with some magazines and tried her best to avoid the inquisitive looks of the elderly residents.

  Around three, she glanced up to see her father shuffling across the speckled Berber carpet. He sank onto the sofa next to her and gave a tired chuckle. “What am I going to do with you, Rosy-girl?”

  The childhood nickname pricked her heart. “I'm fine, Daddy. It's you I'm worried about.”

  “Don't tell me you're fine when I can see plain as day you're not.” His knee brushed hers as he shifted to face her. He held out a colorful brochure. The central graphic depicted a middle-aged couple surrounding an elderly man in a wheelchair. “I think we should do this.”

  She looked askance at the words under the picture: Surviving Stroke: A Family Matter. “What exactly is it?”

  “A support group for families with loved ones who've suffered a stroke.” Dad flipped open the brochure. “See, they meet once a week at Fawn Ridge Fellowship.”

  “At our church?”

  “Al and Betty Grumbacher told me about it. Betty's dad had that stroke two years ago, remember?”

  “I know, but … ” Natalie edged away. Her pain was still too raw—too private.

  “Just think about it, okay? I've got to get going.” He winked. “Daniel asked a favor.”

  She didn't have the energy to ask what, and did she even want to know? She gave her dad a hug and kiss good-bye before returning to her mother's room.

  Too bleary-eyed to face another siege at the computer, she'd been sitting next to her mother's bed, a year-old gossip rag lying open in her lap, when Daniel breezed in, a bouquet of scarlet roses in his outstretched hand. “Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart.”

  She looked up from the article she'd been skimming about some movie star's recent stint in rehab. Only it was old news now. The star had been arrested two weeks ago for driving under the influence. Natalie had watched the twenty-four-minute car chase live on the tiny TV in Mom's hospital room.

  The magazine slid from her lap. “Is school out already?”

  “It's nearly five.” He laid the bouquet on the bedside table. Taking both her hands, he pulled her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her. His suede jacket smelled of roses and wood smoke. “Honey, you need to get out of here. Let's go to dinner tonight—just the two of us. I made a reservation at Adamo's.”

  “What about Lissa?”

  “Your dad picked her up from school. They're ordering pizza.”

  The favor. Of course. “I shouldn't leave Mom.”

  “She'll be fine. It's just for a couple of hours.”

  Natalie pulled away and fiddled with her mother's pillow. Her gaze fell to her mother's bony right wrist, stiff and misshapen from the arthritis that had set in after—<
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  A shiver ran through her. She'd never forget that terrifying night. “I'll be all right, Natalie. Do what you have to do.”

  Daniel came up behind her and slid his arms beneath hers. His warm chest pressed against her back. “You're exhausting yourself, Nat. Come with me tonight. It'll be good for both of us.”

  Resentment frayed her nerves. How could her husband even talk about celebrating Valentine's Day? She edged out of his embrace. Her thoughts skittered in a thousand other directions, all leading back to her mother. “The Putnam Starving Artist Show is next weekend. Mom should be packing up all her beautiful paintings and pricing them.”

  “Celia said she'd take over a few. Maybe you could go with her—take some of yours this year. Your mom would like that.”

  An invisible hand closed around her throat. She should realize Daniel only meant to make her feel better. He should realize it wasn't working, and she wished he'd stop trying. The words she'd repeated countless times already slipped out once more. “If I'd been there that day, if I hadn't been so stupid and self-centered—”

  “You can't keep doing this to yourself.” Daniel paced across the room and swung around. “Nobody blames you for your mom's stroke. You've got to get over the idea that you could have kept it from happening.”

  She glanced away, too tired to argue. “If you won't try to understand my feelings, then why don't you just leave?”

  “Nat, come on. You don't mean it.”

  “Yes, I do. Go!” Her voice broke on a sob. “Get out of here, and just leave me alone.”

  “Fine, if that's the way you want it.” Hurt and confusion clouded Daniel's eyes. He hesitated, looking as if he expected her to take back her words. When she didn't, he snatched up the roses and stormed out.

  In the silence that followed, something in Natalie shattered. Turning to her mother, she brushed a tear from her cheek. “You gave up so much for me, Mom, and look how I repaid you. If it takes the rest of my life, I'll find a way to make you well.”