One Imperfect Christmas

by Myra Johnson

  The look in the big man's eyes said he already had a pretty good idea. “Looks like you're stuck with me awhile longer.”

  “Yes!” Carl pumped his fist.

  “Gloating is not allowed. Neither is saying 'I told you so,' even if you did.”

  “There'll be other opportunities.” Carl flipped a folding chair around and straddled it. “You got what it takes, Dan. Brains, guts, talent. One of these days somebody's gonna notice. And then I'll be stuck training your replacement.” He grimaced. “And I ain't looking forward to it.”

  “You could do a whole lot better than Putnam, yourself.” Daniel shoved a stack of folders aside and rested his elbows on the desk. “Hey, we could promote ourselves as a package deal—two of the winningest middle-school coaches in the central United States. We might even get picked up by the Spurs or the Bulls.”

  Carl tilted back his head and guffawed. “Brother, when you dream, you dream big!”

  “Might as well.” Daniel drew a hand down his face, the momentary lightness fading.

  Carl quirked an eyebrow. “Natalie problems again?”

  Daniel leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. His gaze slid to the filing cabinet across the room and the framed snapshot of Natalie, him, and Lissa two summers ago at Disney World. Since he realized a few days ago that Natalie's birthday was coming up, he hadn't been able to get her out of his mind. “Today's her birthday. I don't know how she's going to cope.”

  “First one since her mother got sick. You've told me how that family always had big doings this time of year.”

  “ 'Big doings' is putting it mildly.” Belinda Morgan had created a mid-December birthday celebration for Natalie that launched the entire family headlong into the Christmas season.

  “You gonna try to see her?”

  His hands fell limply into his lap. “You honestly think today would be any different from all the other times I've tried to reach out to her? Whatever I do, whatever I say, Natalie's bound to slam the door in my face.”

  Nope, especially now that they were separated, he couldn't imagine her welcoming his interference. As for joining the Morgans for Natalie's birthday dinner, not even his family status as Lissa's father seemed adequate justification for intruding on what was bound to be an evening of painful reminders for the entire Morgan clan.

  A knock on the office door pulled him from his thoughts. Carl slid off the chair and opened it to a sweaty kid in a basketball jersey. “Hey, Jason. What's up?”

  The team captain stuck his carrot-top through the opening and sought out Daniel. “You comin' out, Coach?”

  Daniel rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, sorry, Jason. Be right there.”

  “Stay put.” Carl waved a hand toward Daniel. “I'll cover for you. You got more important stuff on your plate.” He edged Jason out the door and closed it behind them.

  What exactly Carl thought he could do about this “stuff on his plate,” he wasn't sure. On the other hand, he couldn't abide the idea of sitting here and doing nothing. There'd been too many months of feeling helpless and “doing nothing” since Natalie had shut him out of her life. Somehow he had to make her understand how much he wanted to be with her today—how much he wanted to be with her always.

  An idea surfaced. He tugged open a squeaky desk drawer and searched beneath loose newspaper clippings and random paperwork for the phonebook. Riffling through the Yellow Pages, he found the number of a local florist and keyed in the number on his cell phone.

  “I need to order a birthday bouquet. Something really nice. Can you do red roses?” He gave the address for Natalie's apartment.

  He heard the youthful clerk slurp something from a straw. “How do you want the card signed?”

  He tossed around several alternatives, none of which seemed appropriate, considering how long they'd been apart. The best he could come up with was: Thinking of you. Daniel.

  Taking advantage of some quiet time in his office, he checked the pop quizzes from this afternoon's history class and entered the scores in the grade book. When the final bell sounded, he gathered up his things and drove around to the front of the school to meet Lissa.

  As they drove home, he broached the subject of Natalie's birthday dinner. “About tonight, Liss, why don't I drop you at the farm around six? You can give me a call when—”

  He felt her gaze slash through the space between them. “What do you mean, drop me off? Aren't you coming too?”

  “Not a good idea, sweetie. I don't want to make your mom uncomfortable—especially today.”

  “I can't believe you, Dad! Mom's birthday, and you're not going? What's wrong with you?”

  He felt like both his heart and his ego had been run over by a semi. His fingers bit into the steering wheel, and he willed himself not to lose his temper.

  “Try to understand, Lissa. You know how easy it is for your mom and me to get into an argument. Why would I want to risk spoiling her birthday?”

  “That's just an excuse. You won't go because you're scared.”

  “I am scared, yes. I'm scared of upsetting your mom when she's already so vulnerable.”

  Lissa's voice turned shaky. “But Mom needs you, Dad. If you would just try, I know you could help make her feel better about Grandma, and Christmas, and just everything.”

  He wished that were true. He'd lost count of how many sleepless nights he'd spent agonizing about his wife and his marriage. And these days he couldn't seem to communicate any better with his daughter.

  “Don't push it, Lissa,” he finally told her as he drove through the ivied entrance to Putnam's Deer Creek apartment complex. Finding himself at an utter loss, he stated his intentions as simply as he knew how. “My decision is final. I told you, I'll drive you out and pick you up afterward, but I'm not staying.”

  She crossed her arms and glared out the side window. “If you aren't going, I'm not going either.”

  “Aw, come on, Liss.” He swerved the Bronco into a parking space next to building three and jammed the gearshift into park. “Don't do that to your mom. It'll break her heart if you aren't there.”

  “Like you haven't already broken her heart by staying away?” Book bag hugged against her chest, Lissa flung the passenger door open, slammed it, and flounced up the sidewalk.

  Pausing at the foot of the stairs to their unit, she turned, her face contorted. “You guys don't even try anymore. All you can think about is yourselves and how you don't want to do anything that makes either one of you uncomfortable.” She made a growling sound that made her whole body shake. “Both of you make me sick!”

  “That's enough out of you, young lady!” Daniel launched himself from the Bronco and stormed toward Lissa, who immediately hightailed it up to their apartment. Inside, he aimed his index finger toward her bedroom. “Go. And don't come out until I say so.”

  “Fine. You want to ground me for telling the truth? I'll stay in my room till Christmas. Till next Christmas! Till I'm a hundred and five!” Seconds later, her bedroom door slammed, and it felt as if the whole building trembled on its foundations.

  Daniel could only stare immobilized and wonder how his world had tilted so far out of balance.

  7

  Dad greeted Natalie at the door with a hug and planted a wet kiss on her cheek. He smelled of aftershave and chili spices. “Here she is, my Christmas Rose! Happy birthday sweetheart.” He linked his arm with hers and ushered her into the warmth of the country kitchen. “How's my little girl tonight?”

  “Come on, Dad, at thirty-six I'm not exactly a little girl anymore.” Natalie rested her head on his shoulder. The soft brush of warm flannel made her feel momentarily safe. How sweet it would be if she could only make herself small enough again to crawl into her daddy's lap and find shelter from all her troubles.

  “Hey, Sis, happy birthday.” Hart rose from a spindle-back chair and hugged her, whispering so only she could hear, “Glad you changed your mind. Dad's been cheerier tonight than I've seen him in a long time.”
>
  “You were right, I couldn't let him down, but … ” Biting her lip, she fixed Hart with a desperate gaze. On her way in, she had seen the freshly cut Christmas tree leaning against the house in a bucket of water, the green-and-red plastic boxes of lights and ornaments stacked neatly on the back porch, and finally, the crate containing the ceramic nativity scene, hand-painted and fired by her mother.

  How would she ever get through this night without falling apart? How would any of them?

  Celia, her sister-in-law, claimed a quick hug, her perky chestnut ponytail bouncing. “Happy birthday, Natalie. Love that sweater. Baby-blue is your color.”

  Celia stepped aside to make room for Kevin and Kurt, Natalie's lanky teenage twin nephews, who offered awkward, boyish embraces. She held her composure long enough to accept each greeting with as much grace as she could muster and then took a step back and glanced around nervously.

  No Daniel. No Lissa. She cast Hart a questioning look.

  He ran the toe of his boot across a tear in the yellowed linoleum floor. “Daniel called at the last minute—said they couldn't make it.”

  So much for her fleeting hopes for this dinner. At the very least, it would have provided the rare chance to spend a little more time with Lissa.

  Yet the pressure had lifted. No more worries about staving off the all-too-predictable clashes between her and Daniel. No more worries about disappointing Lissa if this tentative step toward a reunion ended in disaster.

  “How come?” she asked through a tight-lipped smile.

  “Homework or something.” Hart gave an evasive wave of his hand.

  Dad forced a laugh. “You know how it is with teenagers.”

  Natalie caught the regretful look in his eyes. Undoubtedly he, along with everyone else in the family, had harbored visions of getting her and Daniel back together tonight.

  Somehow, the flimsy reason given for Daniel and Lissa's absence didn't satisfy her. She knew why Daniel had decided not to put in an appearance. After the many times she'd pushed him away, she couldn't blame him if he'd given up trying. She didn't like herself very much these days.

  Her father held a steaming spoonful of chili under her chin. “Here, taste this and tell me what you think.”

  The aroma usually sent her taste buds into overdrive, but tonight it suddenly filled her with nausea. “Hang on, Dad, I think I left my lights on.” She shoved her father's hand away, and the thick, red-brown sauce spattered the floor. “Sorry.” She fluttered one hand in a helpless gesture before rushing outside.

  Leaning against her car, the hood still warm, she raked in huge gulps of frosty air. Stars shimmered in the clear sky overhead. A sliver of moon peeked over the barn roof. The horses nickered softly in their stalls. The screen door banged, and she looked up to see her brother striding toward her.

  “Thought you might need this.” He draped her camel-hair coat around her shoulders.

  “Thanks.” She sniffed away an embarrassed tear.

  Hart planted his slim, blue-jeaned hips against the fender next to her. “You okay?”

  “Just … give me a minute.”

  “Sorry, Nat. We all knew tonight would be hard for you.”

  She released a mirthless laugh. “I actually convinced myself I could handle it, at least for Dad's sake. I even dared to hope things might be different between me and Daniel this time. Then you said they weren't coming and … ”

  She looked toward the porch and shuddered. “And seeing the Christmas tree and decorations … Hart, it's just too hard.”

  “The old man's a stickler for tradition, just like Mom. I'm sure he thought it would help the whole family get through this season if some things stayed the same.”

  “But Mom's the one who made Christmas special. And she isn't here to celebrate with us. It'll never be the same again.” She searched the pocket of her coat and found a shredded tissue. Giving several loud sniffs, she drew it roughly across each cheek.

  “For crying out loud, Rosy, you talk like she's already dead.” Hart pushed himself off the fender and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. He glared at her over his shoulder. “You claim to love Mom so much, but I bet you don't even visit her anymore. When was the last time you went by the nursing home, huh?”

  That was the trouble with big brothers. They never got tired of pointing out your flaws—never let you off the hook about anything. With one simple accusation, Hart could make her feel five years old again. She heard it in her voice as she answered. “I've tried, you know I have. But every time I see her like that … ”

  The ever-present guilt surged over her like a tidal wave. She covered her mouth to stifle a sob. “If I'd only come out that day—”

  “Give it a rest, will you?” He spun around. “Dad and I weren't there, either. And Celia turned Mom down, too, remember?”

  “But you had legitimate reasons. You and Dad had been planning to go to that auction for weeks. Celia had to take the twins to the game.” She let out a tremulous breath. “I could have spared a couple of hours to help Mom, but I scraped around for any excuse I could find.”

  Hart's gaze pleaded with her. “Come on, Sis, how often have you ever let Mom down when she needed help with something? This was just one time.”

  Natalie snorted. “One time too many.”

  “How many times do you have to be reminded? She could just as easily have had her stroke during the week while we were all at work and Dad was out taking care of the horses. The results would have been the same.”

  Natalie stared at the ground and shook her head. “No, Hart, I'm the one who could have been there, and I wasn't.”

  “Aw, give it up, Nat. Where's your faith in Mom's love? Don't you believe she'd forgive you in a heartbeat if she could ever speak the words?”

  Her voice lowered to a pained whisper. “That's just it. She isn't going to get better. She'll never be able to tell me she forgives me.”

  “I'm through listening to this garbage.” He squared himself in front of her and gripped her shoulders. His fingers dug into her arms until she met his unyielding stare. “You're coming inside, and you're going to put a smile on your face and at least act like you're enjoying your birthday dinner. And afterward we'll put some Christmas music on the stereo like we do every year on your birthday, and we'll help Dad decorate the tree. And then, when we're all done, if you still want to, you can take your pity party home and cry your little heart out.”

  Grabbing her hand, he all but dragged her into the house.

  “Just in time, you two.” With sunflower-print oven mitts, Dad set the huge kettle of chili in the middle of the table next to a basket of piping-hot corn muffins. A hint of worry creased his eyes. “Everything okay?”

  “Sure, Dad. Hart and I just got to talking, that's all.” Natalie's voice rang high and tight, and she doubted even her eternally optimistic father would be fooled by her false assurance. “Mmmm. The chili smells wonderful. Mom would be proud.”

  With a strained smile she took her place at the table and helped herself to a bowl full of chili, a meal she felt certain she would not be able to eat.

  The bland, boring aromas of lemon-glazed chicken and mixed vegetables—the frozen kind, not home-cooked— wafted through the narrow apartment kitchen as Daniel waited for two microwave dinners to warm. Gazing into the night through the mini-blinds over the kitchen sink, he reflected on a lousy day that had only grown worse. His stomach heaved with a gnawing emptiness far more intense than mere physical hunger.

  Nothing made sense to him anymore, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times he begged God to help him figure it all out. More and more often, he found himself losing focus on what he was supposed to be teaching in his history class, or, just like today at basketball practice, he'd stare out the gym windows instead of paying attention to the drills he'd assigned.

  “You in there, Coach?” one of the boys finally asked, waving a hand in front of his eyes.

  Thank goodness Carl was willing to cu
t him some slack, even cover for him from time to time, as he had today. Anyone else might have fired him a long time ago.

  Thoughts of his job brought to mind another prime source of contention between him and Natalie—his goal to move on to a larger school and a better coaching position. When he heard about the possible vacancy over at the high school, he'd taken it as a sign he needed to stay here and work things out with his wife. Until that job possibility went up in smoke too. He might as well admit it. His career had hit a dead end and so had his marriage.

  Almost a year had passed since Belinda's stroke, and his marriage had been on shaky ground for nearly as long. How could he hold out hope that things might still get better? How long before Natalie pressed him for a divorce? It was a word he couldn't even bring himself to say aloud, and yet it appeared inevitable. He clenched his jaw. How had things gotten this crazy?

  The microwave beeped, and Daniel removed the dinners he had been heating for his and Lissa's supper. He winced as the hot containers burned his fingers. With greater care, he peeled away the cellophane from one dinner and scraped the steaming contents onto a plate. The meager chicken breast and mound of shriveled vegetables made the plate look huge.

  “Lissa, supper's ready,” he called down the hall. “You can come out of your room now.”

  The closed door muffled her angry reply. “I'm not hungry!”

  Daniel eyed the second dinner hungrily. With a furtive glance toward the doorway, he quickly added Lissa's dinner to his own. He grabbed a knife and fork and the glass of iced tea he'd already poured and started for the living room. No way he could sit down at the kitchen table, hidden beneath Lissa's schoolbooks, his gym bag, a batch of chapter questions he'd barely started grading, and a folder of basketball stats he needed to sort through.

  He pursed his lips. Eating meals at the table had gone out with the return of “bachelorhood.” Even after Lissa moved in with him, they'd both gravitated toward the sofa with their morning bowls of cereal. Daniel's unimaginative evening meals—usually hamburgers, TV dinners, pancakes, or omelets—didn't inspire table dining, either.