by Myra Johnson
Shaking her head, Natalie smoothed a hand across her mother's brow. “I can't understand you, Mom. Don't try to talk. Just rest.”
Her mother's mouth and throat labored, evidence of her frustration. “Luuuhh,” she tried again and sputtered meaninglessly before another coughing spell wracked her body.
Natalie sensed her father's presence beside her and glanced toward him with a helpless frown. The musky-sweet scent of hay and horses permeated his work-stained barn jacket. He pulled off his soiled leather gloves and stuffed them into a pocket.
Carolyn appeared at the foot of the bed. “I'm sorry for alarming you, but I thought you'd want the family together in case … ”
“Yes, thank you,” Dad said. “Do"—he swallowed with difficulty—“do you think it's close?”
Carolyn shook her head. “There's no way to know.”
Natalie edged away, her own breath catching in her throat. This could not be happening. Not now—the day before Christmas Eve! There were promises to keep, a star to paint.
Fifty perfect Christmases, Mom, you promised!
The bedcovers rustled, and the raspy voice murmured again, “Luuuhh.” Her gaze locked with Natalie's. “Nnaaa. Luuuhh.”
“Mom,” Lissa urged through her sobs, “listen to Grandma. She's trying to tell you something. I know it's important.”
Natalie moved her head slowly from side to side. Her limbs felt leaden, her mind numb. “I … I don't understand.”
It was more than her mother's garbled words she couldn't make sense of. She no longer understood anything. All her restored hopes, and now this?
God, how could you!
Natalie's father knelt at the bedside, pressing his wife's face between his hands, drawing her attention to him. “We're listening, darling. Take your time.”
Natalie watched through the mist of her tears as a strange and beautiful clarity came over Mom's face. With an effort drawn from her deepest being, she spoke: “T … tell Nnnatalie … nnnnot her fault … ffforgive … lllearn … to love.”
Her clear, determined gaze fixed on Natalie. She drew in several gasping breaths, and her eyes fell shut.
Daniel paced the hallway between Belinda's open bedroom door and the kitchen. With each trip, he glanced out the kitchen window in hopes of seeing Hart's pickup drive up. Pausing at the bedroom door, he saw his mother-in-law's frail body writhe in a series of raking coughs. She was already so weak. How would she ever survive this new assault?
A long, aching sigh scraped through his chest. He longed to help somehow, but Natalie had made it abundantly clear that she found his presence more an intrusion than a comfort. No reason to expect today to be any different, especially after the argument they'd just been having.
And Lissa. What could he possibly say to reassure his daughter, after all her hoping and praying and childlike tenacity?
His moment of anguish was interrupted by the rumble of tires on gravel. Tearing his gaze away from his sobbing wife, Daniel strode to the kitchen to meet his brother-in-law.
Hart burst through the door, eyes wide with panic. “Mom—how is she?”
Daniel laid a firm hand on Hart's arm, halting his headlong dash toward the hallway. “It doesn't look good. I'm sorry.”
Shoulders sagging, Hart let his head drop forward as he expelled a shuddering breath. He rested one hand on the back of a chair and took a moment to compose himself. “Are Dad and Nat with her?” At Daniel's nod, he hurried from the kitchen.
Daniel hated feeling so helpless, so useless, so … in the way. He collapsed into the nearest chair and pressed his palms against his eyes. Tears would have been a welcome relief, no matter if some of his coaching colleagues might think them weak and unmanly, but at this moment Daniel felt only chilling numbness.
“Daddy?”
Lissa's shaky voice and tentative touch on his arm caught him by surprise. When he looked up into his daughter's tear-streaked face, his heart wrenched. He opened his arms to her and she collapsed onto his lap, burying her damp cheek against his neck.
“It's okay, sweetie.” He tenderly stroked her hair.
“Why, Daddy? Why'd Grandma have to get sick like this? She's supposed to get better. I've prayed and prayed for her to get better.”
“We all have, honey.”
What was he supposed to say? That even though Grandma was dying, she'd be going to a better place? That time heals all sorrows? Platitudes never brought the comfort they were intended for. And they certainly wouldn't dry a little girl's tears. For now, holding her would have to suffice.
Trembling, Lissa lifted her head. “Oh, Daddy,” she said, tears falling afresh, “I've messed things up so bad.”
He crooked a finger under her chin, not sure what to make of this unexpected confession. “Lissa, what are you talking about?”
“It's so bad, I can't even tell you. You'll hate me.” She buried her face deeper into the crook of his neck.
More confused than ever, Daniel kissed the top of his daughter's head. “I have no idea what this is all about, but I guarantee you, nothing could ever make me hate you, sweetheart. Come on, you can talk to me.”
Her sobs grew louder, the wetness soaking through his shirt. He stretched one arm across the table to grab a napkin from the ceramic dispenser. Coaxing her to sit up and blow her nose, he willed himself to remain silent and wait, even as his mind raced in search of possible explanations. He couldn't for the life of him imagine what Lissa would have to feel guilty about, least of all concerning her grandmother. More than any of the rest of them, she had faithfully visited her grandmother at the convalescent home, talked to her as if she understood every word, prayed every night for her recovery.
Lissa wiped at the tears still streaming down her cheeks. “Everything I did—it was all for you and Mom. And now Grandma could die, and I'm so scared for her, and I'd miss her so much, but … ”
She clenched her fist around the soggy napkin. “But what scares me even more is that if Grandma dies now, Mom will never forgive herself, and she'll go back to working even harder, and she'll never make up with you, and you guys will get divorced for sure, and—”
“Hold on, hold on.” Daniel pressed his daughter's face between his palms and tried to keep his voice level. “Lissa, honey, what exactly did you do?”
She closed her eyes for a moment and sucked in a quivering gulp of air. The revelation that followed left Daniel staring open-mouthed at his shamefaced child. Sinking deeper into the hard wooden chair, he felt the spindle-back press into his spine as Lissa told him how she'd schemed with Deannie.
“I thought if Mom didn't give all her time to working, she'd start thinking about how much she missed us and would want to make up with you. But I also wanted to help Grandma. I didn't know if she really could get better, but then after I brought Grandma the paint set, Mom seemed to think so, too, and if Grandma did get well, it would be even better because then Mom wouldn't have any reason to feel guilty anymore, and then you two could get back together and … and then we could be a family again.”
She sighed as she ran out of steam. Her blue eyes shone. “But if Grandma doesn't get better … oh, Daddy, what are we going to do?”
Daniel slowly shook his head, still trying to comprehend what he'd just heard. “First of all,” he began, “I want you to understand that whatever you've done, you are absolutely not responsible for whether Mom and I get back together.” He tugged on a lock of her hair. “The problem is, Liss, no matter how good your intentions are, manipulating other people's lives and emotions is never the answer. It only makes things even harder to unravel in the end.”
He cringed inwardly. Look who's talking, fella. He'd sure done his share of manipulating this past year. Maybe a good chunk of it was the passive-aggressive kind, but he couldn't deny the many ways he'd tried to manipulate Natalie into seeing things his way.
“But can you? Unravel things, I mean?” The plaintive note in her voice tore at his heart.
“We can sure
try. But it's going to take some time. We all have a lot of healing to do.” Again, he extended his arms and enfolded his daughter in his embrace. “And eventually you're going to have to tell your mother everything you've just told me.”
“I know,” she said into his tear-soaked collar.
He held her close, half listening to the muted sounds coming from down the hall and wishing he could hold and comfort Natalie like this. Her hopes for a “perfect Christmas"—maybe even her hopes of ever forgiving herself—could vanish forever if Belinda didn't pull through this crisis. He hated to admit how right Lissa might be, that any chance he and Natalie had of getting back together would die as well.
Lissa gulped and peered up at him. “What happens now? Will they take Grandma back to the hospital?”
“I'm not sure. Probably they'll try to take care of her here.” Hard to explain to a scared little girl that in a case like Belinda's, extreme lifesaving measures usually weren't taken. His thoughts ventured again to Natalie and what this must be doing to her. He tried to think of ways he might help, errands or phone calls he could handle for the family.
On the other hand, considering Natalie's current state of mind, she'd probably see anything he did as interfering. Tell it like it is, Pearce. Manipulating. Yeah. Maybe he'd best stay out of the way for now.
He worried about Lissa too—the shock of witnessing her grandmother in such distress, coupled with remorse over the problems her scheming had caused. “Your mom and Granddad and Uncle Hart will be very preoccupied today,” he began carefully. “It might be a good idea if you and I went home to the apartment for a while. We can check later—”
From behind him he heard a startled intake of breath, then Natalie's bruised retort. “You're not taking Lissa anywhere. I want her here with me, with my family.”
Daniel turned and faced his wife, realizing he'd once again said the wrong thing. “I just thought—”
“You just thought you'd deprive me of one more person I love. No. Go if you want to, but Lissa stays. I need her.” Her tone vibrated with desperation.
“Natalie, please.” He lowered his voice. “You don't realize the effect all this is having on our daughter.”
Hart appeared in the doorway beside Natalie. “Listen, Daniel, we're all pretty rattled about Mom. And Lissa's not a little kid anymore. If Natalie wants her here, let her stay.”
“I'm only trying to think about what's best for everyone.” Frustration burned behind his eyes. He turned to his daughter. “Liss, it's up to you.”
Avoiding eye contact, she whispered, “I'll … I'll be okay, Dad. I can handle it.”
Outnumbered, he raised his hands in surrender. “Fine. I'll get out of your way. But please let me know if there's anything I can do.”
“Thanks.” Hart placed a protective arm around Natalie's shoulder. “I know you meant well, Dan. We'll keep you posted about Mom.”
Daniel lifted his suede jacket from the hook by the door. Shrugging it on, he walked over to Lissa and gave her a hug. “Hang in there, kiddo. If you need anything, call me. And remember what we talked about.”
“I know,” she answered shakily.
His heart ripping in two, he left.
Christmas morning dawned with blazing glory, a golden sunrise more fitting for Easter Sunday than for the nativity. Shafts of sunlight sliced through the east windows of the farmhouse, a jarring, glaring light that seemed to mock Natalie's despair. Her mother, now unaware of her surroundings, had barely survived two grueling days and nights of coughing spasms. With each passing hour she grew more frail.
Natalie sat alone in the living room, a chair pulled close to the library table where the nativity scene stood in silent tableau. She'd spent the rest of Sunday and most of Christmas Eve at her mother's bedside, pleading with God for a miracle and yet increasingly convinced it would never come. She'd tried to catch an hour or two of sleep last night, but her tormented thoughts wouldn't subside. Giving up, she'd wandered the dark house until she found herself in the living room. She settled into the overstuffed chair and kept vigil there through the hushed early-morning hours, staring into the darkness, wondering, doubting, remembering.
As the harsh light of morning fell upon her mother's starry backdrop, still propped against the easel in the alcove, an angry sob caught in her throat. Her mother would not paint a new star this Christmas; the fifty-year-old promise would be broken. She fought the urge to take an ax to the thin piece of painted plywood and toss the fragments into the wood stove, then watch it go up in flames along with all her shattered hopes.
Her father appeared in the doorway. She'd heard him go out to the barn earlier, as he always did at dawn to check the horses and begin his daily chores. His whiskered cheeks crinkled into a sad smile. “Mornin', Rosy-girl. Merry Christmas.”
Natalie pressed her palms against the arms of the chair, starting to rise. “Dad, don't—”
As he motioned for her to remain seated, she noticed that under one arm he carried a large, flat package wrapped in bright silver Christmas paper, a fluffy red bow tacked in the center. He placed the gift tenderly in her lap. “For you, from your mother.”
“What—?”
“Open it.” Dad pulled over the ottoman and sat in front of her, his bony, blue-jeaned knees protruding at awkward angles as he watched her expectantly.
Natalie stared at the package, tight bands of dread and disbelief closing around her throat. It took her several moments to find the courage, but finally, her fingers trembling with anticipation, she plucked off the bow and tore at the paper. As it parted, her gaze fell upon a gilt-framed oil painting, her mother's delicate but unmistakable signature across the lower right-hand corner.
The subject of the painting caused Natalie to suck in her breath in bittersweet agony. Her own image, bearing a wistful, almost dreamlike expression, filled the larger portion of the picture. The eyes looked upward with unmasked affection toward two other faces—Daniel's and Lissa's. Mom had crafted the painting in such a way that the three portraits were distinctly individual yet seamlessly interconnected. Natalie's sandy-blonde hair flowed into Lissa's silvery-yellow tresses, which blended with Daniel's darker waves. Natalie's head seemed to rest gently upon Daniel's shoulder.
She pressed a fist to her lips, unable to speak. In a sudden flash of memory she remembered the dream she'd had the night before Lissa hitched a ride to the convalescent home to take her grandmother the watercolor set. Daniel and Lissa had been in her dream, and starlight shining on something she couldn't make out, some kind of package.
And then she remembered that day in the barn, seeing something shiny in the tack room closet before Dad quickly blocked her view and closed the door. The gift had been there all along, waiting for her, waiting for this day, this moment.
Again, she had an unsettling impression that some vital truth lurked just beyond her understanding. Daniel knew, and … Mom knew.
“Forgive. Learn to love,” Mom had urged.
“Isn't it something?” Her father shifted the portrait so it caught the now softening morning light. “Your mother's last painting. She finished it just days before her stroke, said she wanted to save it for your family Christmas present. She'd planned to do one of Hart and Celia and the boys, but—” A ragged moan tore from his chest. “She so wanted this Christmas to be special, our fiftieth Christmas together. But now … Oh, Rosy-girl, what will I ever do without her? What will I do when she's finally gone?”
For the first time since Mom's stroke, Natalie witnessed her father completely break down. His shoulders rocked with loud, painful sobs, and she could do nothing but set the painting aside and wrap him in her arms.
“Oh, my Belinda,” he mourned, “oh, my darling Belinda.”
She longed to be able to comfort her father, but her own grief and guilt seared with the intensity of a blazing ceramics kiln.
Forgive. Learn to love. The words repeated over and over in her mind until she thought she would go crazy from trying to unders
tand.
“Mom?” Lissa's fragile voice cut through her silent, angry questions. Wrapped in an afghan, the girl stood at Natalie's side with sleep-tousled hair and tear-stained cheeks. “Is Granddad okay?”
Natalie rubbed her father's back and tried to lace her tone with the reassurance she knew her daughter needed. “Yeah, honey. It's just … with Grandma so sick, it's going to be a really tough Christmas.”
Natalie's father, his tears spent, gave a final shudder and sat up. He dragged a sleeve across his face. Weakly, he smiled at Natalie, then looked up at his granddaughter. “Your old granddad's a mess this morning, huh?”
“Me, too, Granddad. I can't stop worrying about Grandma.”
“Me, neither.” He scooted over to make room for her next to him on the ottoman and tucked her under his arm. Their knees brushed Natalie's.
“I had this really weird dream,” Lissa said, a tremor in her voice. “Grandma was in heaven, and she was so happy. God took her far out to the very edges of the universe. Then he gave her a set of oil paints in the most beautiful colors ever created. 'I've decided we need a few more stars out this way,' he told her, 'and I want you to paint them.' “ Lissa cocked her head. “Isn't that the most wonderful thing you could imagine for Grandma, all better and painting stars for God?”
Natalie gazed at her daughter, glimpsing in her shining eyes an inexpressible mixture of hope and love. Her own heart seemed to shatter. “Yes,” she answered, her voice raspy, “yes, it is.”
A peaceful stillness enveloped Natalie, a gentle letting go—no, more of a letting in. Deep in the farthest recesses of her mind a new awareness filled her, a golden, glimmering silence.
Silence? No coughing, no strained breathing coming from the guest room.
“Oh, God—Mom?” Natalie stumbled past her father and daughter and tore down the hall. She grabbed the door facing and skidded into the bedroom, her heart hammering. “Carolyn? Is she … ”
The nurse stood at the bedside, holding her stethoscope against Natalie's mother's chest. She looked toward Natalie and offered a gentle smile. “The fever's broken, and her lungs sound clear. She's sleeping comfortably.”
