One Imperfect Christmas

by Myra Johnson

  Her prize dangling from her mouth, the monstrous Great Dane lunged behind the Christmas tree. The whole tree tipped sideways, and Natalie and her father each grabbed for a limb. Ornaments swung precariously on the bouncing boughs. A flurry of pine needles shimmied to the floor.

  “Sky,” Dad ordered when the tree stopped swaying, “come out of there at once.”

  Head down, tail between her legs, the dog crept from her place of safety and dropped the slobbery red Santa at Kurt's feet.

  “You naughty dog.” Kurt smoothed the Santa's floppy cap and yarn beard, a throaty laugh belying the disapproval in his voice. He folded his tall frame to kneel in front of Sky and scratched her behind the ears. As if delighted to be forgiven, she wagged her tail furiously.

  But the huge dog stood too close to the tree. The white-tipped tail caught Natalie's cherished horse ornament and swept it from its branch.

  “Sky, no!” She made a desperate dive to rescue the keepsake, only to crack her knees on the hardwood floor and bang her forehead on the corner of the coffee table. A moan of shock and pain burst from her lungs. The sound changed to an amazed cry when she discovered the ornament resting in her open palm. Miraculously, she'd snagged it just before it would have shattered into a thousand pieces.

  Natalie felt a wave of vertigo as she knelt there, the small globe cradled in shaking hands. The voices of her family, all rushing over to help, echoed eerily as if from deep inside a cave. The edges of her vision blurred, until she could see only the little painted Appaloosa, stark against the white background of the ornament. Her dizziness intensified, and the whole room seemed atilt on a whirling base. Even the painted horse appeared to be in motion, galloping across a wide meadow glowing green and gold in the sunlight. She imagined she saw a rider—a woman—silver hair flowing behind her like a comet's tail.

  Mom?

  Natalie wavered. She felt strong arms catch her.

  “You okay?” It was her brother's voice.

  “That was some save, Aunt Natalie,” Kevin said.

  Celia laid a concerned hand on her shoulder. “You're getting a nasty lump on your head. I'll get some ice.”

  A wet tongue on her cheek, doggy breath in her face, Hart helping her to her feet—a kaleidoscope of activity slowly coalesced into clarity.

  “I'm okay, I'm okay.” She felt her way to the nearest chair with one hand while the other protected the ornament.

  “Let me take care of it for you, Aunt Nat.” Kurt loomed over her, his peach-fuzz teenage face filled with concern. “I'll put it on the tree.”

  She smiled her thanks but stubbornly shielded her treasure from his outstretched hand. “No … no, I've got it.” She waved everyone away and even refused Celia's offer of the dishcloth she'd wrapped around a bag of ice.

  While her family looked on in confusion, Natalie dared another glance at the ornament. But she saw only a painted horse again, frozen in mid-stride—no meadow, no rider.

  “Hey, Rosy-Posey,” Hart said with a chuckle, “you look like you've seen a ghost.”

  She flung her brother a look of utter disdain. “How many times do I have to tell you? Don't call me that!”

  Whether it was his unwelcome use of her nickname or the idea that he'd glimpsed something in her face that hinted at the otherworldly vision she'd just experienced, she suddenly couldn't escape fast enough. She burst from the chair and thrust the ornament into her father's hands.

  Tearing through the kitchen, she grabbed her coat and purse on the run and charged out the door. It was a mistake. She never should have come tonight.

  “I'm sorry, Daddy,” she whispered, jabbing the key in the car's ignition. When the engine grumbled to life, she jammed the gearshift into reverse. Gravel flew as she swung the car around and tore down the driveway. She pushed the speed limit all the way home to her apartment and hoped Dr. Sirpless would answer her call.

  Rage burned white-hot through her limbs. If tonight was any indication, the rest of the family hadn't succeeded any better than she at accepting what they themselves had been trying to force upon her for months now.

  “A lot has changed,” her father had said to her less than an hour ago. About time he admitted it. About time they all did.

  No matter how badly she wanted to, she couldn't turn back time. It was useless holding onto the past, holding onto false hope. Somehow she had to find a way to put the past year behind her and move forward. Somehow she had to start living again.

  Natalie stumbled up the unlit stairway to her apartment landing and cursed the forgetful maintenance man who had forgotten to replace the burned-out lightbulb. After several unsuccessful stabs at fitting her door key into the lock, she finally got the door open. She slammed it behind her, twisted the deadbolt, and headed straight for the phone on the breakfast bar.

  “This is Dr. Julia Sirpless. I'm unavailable to take your call, but—”

  Natalie slammed down the receiver. She could never squeeze tonight's turmoil into a fifteen-second voice mail.

  Ten minutes later, she stretched out in bed for what she already knew would be a sleepless night. Despite her resolve to stop living in the past, she couldn't let go of the haunting image of her mother on Windy's back, riding alive and free and strong across the sun-drenched meadow.

  She flopped over on her side and beat a fist against the mattress. The only way she could imagine Mom enjoying such blissful freedom again would be if she were to leave the prison of her earthly body behind.

  Did she wish her mother dead? Silent tears streamed onto the pillowcase. She only wanted to talk to her again, hear her voice, and know that she still loved her … and forgave her.

  God, why can't you do something?

  9

  The 6:00 A.M. alarm bored into Natalie's sleep-deprived brain with jackhammer force. She hit the snooze button three times before she finally marshaled enough willpower to heave her weary body out of bed. She felt like a zombie on steroids as she rushed through her morning routine in a hopeless effort to get to work on time. While she waited for a toaster pastry to finish warming, she glanced around for her briefcase and then remembered she'd left it in the car last night.

  Rats. All those design projects she'd brought home from the office were still sitting there, no closer to being finished than when she stuffed them in her briefcase. Had she honestly expected to duck out early from Dad's and have any semblance of sanity left to get some work done?

  As she stepped onto the landing and turned to lock the door, a splash of color caught her eye. She glanced down to see a bouquet of red and white roses, the edges of the petals limp and blackened from frostbite. The flowers were probably there last night when she got home, only the landing had been too dark for her to notice. Stooping, she lifted the globe-shaped glass vase, careful not to crush the flowers. With a wistful smile, she carried the bouquet inside and set it on the end of the bar that separated the living area from the small kitchen.

  Could Daniel have sent the flowers? He knew how much she loved red roses, but … She grimaced and shook her head. Maybe Dad. Surely not Hart. She doubted her business partner Jeff Garner would have remembered her birthday. Still, warmth seeped through her veins. No matter how upset she'd been with her family last night, someone had been thoughtful enough to remember her favorite flowers.

  She tore open the card. Birthday Wishes for Someone Special read the printed verse superimposed upon a background of wispy pink clouds. And beneath it a scrawled signature: Thinking of you. Daniel. So he had sent the flowers.

  Natalie collapsed onto a barstool and pressed a fist to her mouth. She told herself not to read too much into the gesture and tried unsuccessfully to stifle the overpowering yearning to be near her husband again. She could hear his voice, feel his arms around her, and taste his lips on hers.

  The phone sat not six inches from where her arm rested on the bar. Daniel and Lissa would have already left for school by now, but she had his number programmed into her speed dial. Her hand crept toward he
r cell. What could she say to him?

  The flowers could mean anything, or nothing at all. After all, it was only a friendly “Thinking of you,” not, “Darling, I love you and forgive you and want you back with all my heart.” Besides, the left-hander's backward slant and the tiny hearts dotting the i's clearly suggested the card had been signed by a lovesick teenage floral assistant, not Daniel himself. Which meant he'd phoned in the order, probably as an afterthought once he'd declined Dad's invitation to dinner. Obviously, her husband didn't even care enough to go by the shop and sign his own name. Then why send flowers at all? Sympathy, maybe? More likely an apology for not bringing Lissa to the birthday dinner.

  Ashamed of her thoughts, she cut him some slack and reminded herself he always phoned in his order. He never had time to swing by a flower shop himself.

  “Get a grip, Natalie.” How she hated the stomach-churning, roller-coaster ride of emotions.

  Still … it would only be polite to call and thank him. She lifted the phone and pressed the speed-dial code for his cell phone before she could change her mind. It rang three times before he answered.

  “Daniel Pearce.”

  “Hi, it's me.” Shy vulnerability crept into her voice.

  “Natalie, hang on a sec. I'm in traffic.” A pause, then a muffled, “Liss, turn down the radio, okay?”

  “Is that Mom?” She heard Lissa's voice, high and expectant.

  “Yeah, talk to her until we get into the parking lot.”

  She listened to more rasping sounds before Lissa came on the line. “Hey, Mom! How was your birthday?”

  “Nice.” She closed her eyes, pressed two fingers to her temple. “It was very nice.”

  “You decorated the tree?”

  “Of course.”

  “I wanted to be there, but Dad grounded me.”

  Natalie's eyes flew open. Her brows shot together so tightly, it made last night's lump on her forehead throb all over again. “He what?”

  “Yep, he grounded me because I got mad at him for saying he wouldn't go too.”

  So the flowers were an apology. The warm, fuzzy feeling in Natalie's chest turned to hot anger. How heartless could one man be, refusing to let a child attend her own mother's birthday celebration?

  She heard the honk of a car horn, followed by more static, and then Daniel's gruff voice. “Give me that phone.”

  Natalie was more than ready to give him a piece of her mind. She could feel the adrenaline pumping through her system like steam through a boiler.

  “Hey, Natalie.”

  “Daniel Pearce, how dare—”

  “That's not exactly the way it happened. I would gladly have brought Lissa out to your dad's, but when I told her I didn't think I should go along, she threw a tantrum and said she wouldn't go without me.”

  Threw a tantrum, huh? Daniel always was one to exaggerate. “So, you just decided to ruin my birthday and both of you stay away? Well, thanks a lot.”

  “No, Nat … hang on, let me get this car parked before I have a wreck.”

  Seconds ticked by as Natalie tried to decipher the various rumbles, crackles, and whines coming over the phone line. She used the moment to rein in her anger and sort out her thoughts before she resumed this little discussion with her husband on the finer points of parenting.

  Like she was any expert. Shaking off the accusing thought, she focused on the bouquet of roses, still beautiful and fragrant despite the frost-burnt petals. The image stirred something deep inside her—the hope that something beautiful still remained amid the ruins of her marriage. If she looked past the damage, would she find anything worth saving? Would Daniel? Did he want to?

  “Okay, I'm here.” Huffing breaths punctuated Daniel's words. “About last night. Things went a little crazy. I lost my temper; Lissa lost hers. I'm sorry.”

  Tearing her gaze away from the bouquet, Natalie drew the familiar cloak of indifference around her. “It doesn't matter. I really just called to thank you for the flowers.”

  A sigh. “I hoped your favorite roses would help make up for what I knew had to be a tough evening for you.”

  “Roses?” came Lissa's incredulous shout. “Dad, you sent Mom flowers?”

  “Just a second, Natalie.” Daniel lowered his voice and spoke away from the phone. “Lissa, you don't need to listen to this conversation. Get going, before you're late for class.”

  “I'm warning you, Dad.” The creak of a car door couldn't drown out Lissa's stern reply. “Don't blow this, okay? I mean it. You'll regret it forever.”

  “Get to class, young lady, or you'll have plenty to regret.” The next sounds were a loud slam and Daniel's muttered expletive.

  Natalie flattened her lips. Okay, maybe Daniel hadn't been exaggerating about the temper tantrum. Clearly, he struggled as much with parenting Lissa as she ever did.

  Daniel cleared his throat. “Um, what was I saying?” She could picture him rubbing his eyebrow with a stiffened index finger as he so often did when distracted.

  “The flowers. I was just thanking you for the flowers.” She stroked a wilted petal. “And the card was so thoughtful.” Had she managed to keep the sarcasm out of her voice? Probably not.

  “Yeah, I wasn't sure quite how to say it, but—” His voice cracked. “Nat, honey, I still lo—”

  “Oh, gosh, I'm going to be late for work.” Don't say it, Daniel. Not yet. I can't bear it.

  Her heart felt like a helium balloon in her chest, pressing upward into her throat, cutting off her flow of oxygen. “We'll talk later, okay? Thanks again. Bye.”

  She pressed the off button and bolted for the door.

  “Natalie? Nat, are you still there?”

  The one thing Daniel couldn't get used to about cell phones was that when someone hung up on you, you just got dead air, not the telltale drone of a dial tone.

  And he'd gotten used to being hung up on a lot since Natalie left him. She would sometimes chat with him briefly about how Lissa was doing in school, maybe even fill him in on what Bram or Hart and his family were up to, if he made a point to ask. But the moment he attempted to move the conversation toward deeper issues—her mother, her self-imposed guilt, their marriage—she cut him off.

  Stifling a yawn, he swung open the door of his Bronco and started toward the gym. Between worrying about how Natalie was handling the party at her dad's and pondering the call from Coach Arnell about the opening at Langston High, he'd gotten precious little sleep last night. Arriving at his office, he flipped the light switch and blinked as the garish fluorescent tubes flickered a few times before coming to full brightness.

  “Dad?”

  He jumped at the sound of Lissa's voice and spun around. “Aren't you supposed to be in class?”

  “The tardy bell doesn't ring for another two minutes.” She chewed her lip and hugged her backpack against her chest. Her voice was barely audible. “I had to know what you and Mom talked about. Did she like the flowers? What did she say?”

  He saw the hope in her eyes, and he knew he was about to crush it once again. He circled his desk and plopped into the squeaky and definitely not ergonomically designed stenographer's chair, the best Putnam could afford for a middle-school assistant coach's office.

  Don't go there, Pearce. You asked for a sign and you got one. If Arnell's offer came through, Putnam's coaching budget would be a nonissue—and so would his marriage.

  He picked up a pencil and twirled it, unable to meet his daughter's probing gaze. “It was just a gesture, Liss … to make up for skipping her birthday dinner. Don't read anything into it that isn't there.”

  Lissa sidled over and perched on the corner of the desk. “There could be, if you'd just admit it.” She swiveled to face him. “So … did she like them or not?”

  “Yeah, she liked them. And she called to thank me. That's all.” He reached inside his briefcase and pulled out a folder brimming with the dog-eared, seventh-grade history questions he never finished grading.

  “That's it? Like,
you two aren't going to get together to talk about it or anything?”

  “Talk about what?” As if he didn't know.

  “You and Mom, of course.” Her tone implied his complete stupidity. Then her voice became pleading. “Come on, Dad, it's nearly Christmas. Isn't there something—”

  A strident blare echoed throughout the building—the tardy bell. Daniel gave his daughter an “I told you so” look and shooed her off his desk. “How many times do we need to have this conversation, Lissa? When—if—your mother ever changes her mind about us getting back together, well … we'll take it one step at a time.”

  Rising, he set a firm hand on her shoulder and propelled her toward the door. “Now, will you please get to your class?”

  She turned, another question on her lips and an accusing look in her eyes. “Dad—”

  “Not now, sweetie. Go.” With a final shove, he ejected her into the corridor and closed the door.

  Returning to his chair, he rested his forehead in his hands. How much longer could he hold out hope that Natalie would return to him? And how much more disappointment could Lissa stand if it never happened?

  Again, his thoughts returned to last night's phone conversation with Coach Arnell. Langston wasn't that far from Putnam and Fawn Ridge, but it wasn't exactly next door, either. He began to regret his decision to drive up to Langston for an interview on Saturday. If he were to take a coaching job there, Lissa would have to choose once and for all which parent she wanted to live with.

  And, of course, the “D” word had to be dealt with. The specter of divorce hung over his head like the blade of a guillotine, ready to sever him from everything he held dear.

  Natalie stared bleary-eyed at her computer screen. She'd been working on the layout for Fawn Ridge Fellowship Church's weekly newsletter, trying in vain to manipulate a 400-word Advent devotion into a space large enough to handle only 250 words, unless she resorted to six-point type. She reached for the phone, planning to call the pastor and ask him whether he wanted to edit it himself or entrust her with the task.