Their Christmas Angel

by Tracy Madison

  “Really?” Erin asked. “The best person for one of the most important roles?”

  “Really. And both of you are doing an excellent job.” Rather than easing, the dizziness had grown worse. “I’m proud of you. Both of you.”

  “We’ve been practicing a lot.” This came from Megan. “Every single day and night.”

  “I can tell. I really appreciate all your hard work, and I wish everyone else in the play had the same mind-set.” Nicole pushed the hair from her forehead and breathed in deeply. She might need to get some juice or lie down. “Your dad wanted me to tell you that we’re almost ready to start decorating the tree. Erin can make the popcorn and Megan can choose the music.”

  Megan jumped to a stand, put away her script and sped downstairs in all of ten seconds. Erin, however, stayed on the floor, petting Roscoe with one hand while flicking at the corner of the script pages with the other. “I guess I have another question,” she said. “Is that okay?”

  “It sure is. Ask away.”

  “You and Daddy are dating, right? Like boyfriend and girlfriend?” The words were spoken in a casual tone, and nothing about Erin’s body language seemed to state she was upset.

  But Nicole didn’t know what Parker had told them, if anything, and she didn’t think it was her place to speak for him on something so important. So, she went with “We’ve become good friends, sweetie. I enjoy your dad’s company, and he seems to enjoy mine.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy Erin, thank goodness, because the next words out of her mouth were “I should go make the popcorn. Want to come with me and help?”

  “I would love to help, and we can check in on your dad. See if he is still untangling those lights or if they’ve made it to the tree yet,” Nicole said as she stood. Oh. Bad idea. The room spun and her vision swam. She sat down again, instantly, and put her head between her knees.

  “Nicole, are you okay?” Erin asked. “Nicole?”

  Roscoe, sensing her distress, pulled himself off the floor and sat next to the bed, leaning all of his weight against Nicole’s legs. A sense of security stole in, safety. Roscoe was always there for her, no matter what. He whined, just a little, and pushed his nose into her hair.

  “Yes, sweetie. I just need to sit here for a minute,” Nicole managed to say. Oh, this was bad. As in, she might actually pass out, bad. “Could you get me some juice, maybe?”

  “Does it matter what kind of juice? We have apple and orange and grape.”

  “You choose. Just...hurry, please.”

  She heard Erin take off at a dead run, yelling for her father. She heard Parker’s voice, loud and concerned, and his footsteps as he charged up the stairs. Throughout it all, she kept breathing, kept her head between her knees and hoped she wouldn’t faint.

  Oh, how she hated this feeling. Of not having any control over her body.

  And then, there was Parker. “What’s going on, honey?” His voice was a comforting mix of warmth and strength, and just by the sound of it, by his very presence, she felt protected. Cared for. “Tell me what the problem is. What do you need?”

  “I’m really light-headed. I... Wow, this is bad.” She pushed out the words, feeling as if she were trying to talk while underwater. “I asked Erin to get me juice. That should help.”

  Roscoe whined again, pushed his nose harder into her hair. He remembered those days, in that canine brain of his, when she would sit like this, trying to quell the nausea, the dizziness, that the chemo brought forth. And he’d stay with her, like he was now, for, well, sometimes, for hours on end. This dog had been with her, every dark and tortured step of the way.

  Sitting in front of her, Parker rubbed his hands up and down her calves, the warmth of his skin easily permeating the thin fabric of her leggings to reach her skin. And the warmth, the rhythmic movement, the pressure of his touch, all served to offer another level of comfort.

  “Did you eat today, before coming over?” he asked. She heard the fear resonating in his tenor, and she knew he was remembering similar moments with Bridget. She just knew.

  “I ate, yes, but maybe not enough,” Then, “I’ll be okay, Parker.”

  Erin returned then, saying, “Nicole? I have your juice. I hope apple is okay.”

  “Apple is perfect,” Nicole said, lifting her head and accepting the juice. “Thank you, sweetie.” She took a sip, a small one, and then another. When those went down okay, she drank half of what was left and waited for her body to become hers again.

  “Why don’t you go check on your sister?” Parker asked Erin. “And you might as well start the popcorn. So it’s ready when we decorate. How does that sound, sweets?”

  “But is Miss Brad—Nicole, I mean...is she okay?”

  “She’s a little dizzy, is all. Nothing to worry about,” Parker said. “I promise. And when she’s feeling better, she’ll probably want some of that popcorn.”

  “Oh, I’ll definitely want some popcorn, Erin,” Nicole said, hoping her voice now sounded steady and strong. “I’m just going to sit here for a few minutes, let this juice finish doing its thing, and we’ll be right down.”

  When Erin left, Parker’s concerned gaze locked onto hers. “Tell me the truth, Nicole. Should I be worried about this dizzy spell of yours, beyond a low blood sugar response?”

  “No. Not worried, Parker. I promise.”

  “Okay. Then finish your juice and we’ll get you something more substantial to eat,” he said, obvious relief in his cadence, in his expression. “And maybe, after the tree, when the girls go to bed, we can just take it easy and watch a movie. Just us, by the light of the tree.”

  Oh. That sounded wonderful. Amazing. But this man’s heart was so very important. The last thing she ever wanted was to cause him harm, in any way. And this dizzy spell of hers had done just that. She knew—by his question, by the stark concern and fear in his eyes—that this experience had brought at least one frightening memory to the surface, and oh, she felt bad.

  He’d asked for the truth, and while she’d answered his question honestly, she hadn’t told him everything. She opened her mouth, set to tell him she was pregnant, when she clamped it shut again. The girls were downstairs, waiting for them to decorate the Christmas tree. There was to be popcorn and Christmas music, and giggles and happiness. This was not the time.

  So, she nodded and finished her juice and, when the spinning room finally settled to a full stop, went downstairs with Parker. She was already half in love with this man. Maybe more than half. She adored his daughters and could see being their—well, not their mother, as Bridget could never be replaced—but their mother figure, she supposed. And she would be honored.

  So very honored.

  Within an hour, after a hastily prepared meal of canned soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, the Lennox team was finally ready to decorate the Christmas tree. Megan started the music, the first song being “Frosty the Snowman,” and a big bowl of popcorn sat in the middle of the coffee table. And the girls—they were beside themselves with excitement.

  Sipping her hot cocoa, Nicole sat on the sofa and took everything in, knowing she would want to remember every aspect of this evening. This was important. To the girls, to Parker and, therefore, to her. One large plastic bin sat in the very middle of the living room floor. No one had removed the lid yet, and the girls, as they played with Roscoe, kept looking at their father. Waiting, she assumed, for him to give them the go-ahead to open that bin and start decorating. It felt, well, a lot like the start of a marathon, waiting for the whistle to blow.

  All at once, Parker went to the front of the now beautifully lit Christmas tree and clapped his hands. Loudly. At the sound, the girls stopped playing with Roscoe and bounced to their feet. They hunched their bodies forward, their arms at their sides, with one leg just slightly in front of the other, and Nicole almost laughed—almost,
because yes, this did seem very much like a marathon was about to begin. A Christmas tree decorating marathon, perhaps.

  “Are you two ready?” Parker asked. “And do you remember the rules?” Both girls nodded and leaned forward another inch. “Okay, then. Get ready! Get set! And...go!”

  And bam, they were running toward the bin with all their might, which was only a few feet from where they started, so it took them all of ten seconds. If that. Megan got there first, by the slenderest of hairs, and threw herself on top of the closed bin.

  “Me! I got here first!” she exclaimed with a mile-wide smile. “Right, Daddy?”

  “That’s my official call,” Parker said, grinning at Nicole. “What did you see, Nicole?”

  “It was very close,” she said, “But yes, Megan was first.”

  Erin didn’t argue or try to insist on a different call, just dropped to the floor next to the bin, saying, “Good job, Megan! You beat me fair and square.”

  “Thank you, Erin!” Megan said. She slid off the bin. “Can I start, Daddy?”

  Crossing the room to sit by Nicole, Parker nodded. “Go for it, kiddo.”

  Megan took off the lid and, one by one, removed smaller boxes from inside. She seemed to be looking for one specific box, and finally, she found it. And from that box, she gently—almost reverently—removed a hand-painted ornament. An angel. She wasn’t that large, maybe three inches long, with pale golden hair, a sparkling halo, and clasped in her hands was a flower.

  “This one,” Megan said softly. “I want to hang this one first.”

  “Tell us why, kiddo,” Parker said, his voice equally as soft. Emotional. “Why that one?”

  “Because this one is the very last angel that Mommy ever painted.” Megan turned the ornament over in her hands and showed the underside, where the initials “BL” were written in a black marker, along with the year. “We never choose her to go first, and I was thinking...if this is the last angel that Mommy painted, she should be first on the tree.”

  “I think that is an excellent reason.” And as he spoke, his hand found Nicole’s. He held it, tightly, as if he was afraid she’d run away. “I remember when she painted that one, sweets. She changed the hair color several times. At first, that angel had brown hair, then white, and then several different shades of blond, until she finally found the right color. That color.”

  The girls paid rapt attention to every word Parker said, obviously hungry to hear anything and everything they could about their mother. Nicole knew that Megan had basically zero memories of Bridget, and Erin had retained only a few. That broke her heart, not just for the girls or Parker, but for Bridget. She couldn’t even know that her words, her voice, her touch would be remembered by her precious daughters. And that, well, for lack of a better word, sucked.

  Without thought, Nicole put her hand—the one that Parker wasn’t holding—on her stomach, thought about the life growing inside. She hoped she would never need someone to keep her memory alive for this child, but she would want that, if the need existed. She would want someone who loved her, knew her and understood her to create a picture for her son or daughter. Like Parker had for Bridget, with Erin and Megan.

  It was a lot to think about. All these possibilities, good and bad.

  “Can I hold her for a second, Megan?” Erin asked. “Before you hang her on the tree?”

  Megan nodded but didn’t speak, just handed the angel ornament to her sister. Erin turned it over in her hands a couple of times before standing and walking to the sofa. Naturally, Nicole thought she was bringing it to Parker, but instead, she held the angel next to Nicole’s face.

  A pair of ten-year-old brown eyes looked at the angel, then at Nicole, then back to the angel, and even though Nicole didn’t understand what was going on or why, she didn’t move a muscle. She barely breathed. And she certainly did not say a word.

  “Daddy,” Erin finally said in a hushed tone. “Mommy’s last angel looks like Nicole.”

  Megan rushed over, to see for herself. “She does! They both have green eyes and blond hair and...and the very first time Daddy met Miss Bradshaw, she was dressed like an angel!”

  “Girls, lots of people have blond hair and green eyes,” Parker said. “And you know why Nicole was dressed as an angel. It was for the Christmas play tryouts. Just a coincidence.”

  “No, Daddy,” Erin insisted. She passed the ornament to her father. “Look for yourself!”

  “I’m sorry,” Parker whispered to Nicole as he held the ornament next to her face, just as Erin had. Blinking, he gave his head a quick shake and traced a finger from her cheeks down to her chin. “Well, you are correct, Erin. I see the resemblance, too. But, girls, I promise you, this is nothing but a coincidence. Your mother didn’t know Nicole.”

  Handing her the ornament, Nicole looked at the angel’s face. Oh. Wow. It wasn’t just the painted color of hair and eyes, which was, eerily enough, spot-on, but the angel had the same curve to her cheeks, the same full mouth, the same rounded chin.

  Coincidence, as Parker had said, of course. But a strange one.

  The Christmas tree lights still twinkled, and music still played—now the song was “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”—the popcorn bowl still sat in the middle of the coffee table, but the feeling in the room had shifted from jubilant and excited to quiet and almost spiritual. Nicole thought that was okay, probably how it should be, as the girls and Parker were thinking about Bridget and how she should be here with them, helping to decorate the tree.

  Breaking the silence was Parker, who handed the angel ornament back to Megan. “You won, sweets, so pick the exactly right spot for this angel.”

  Megan walked to the tree and stood there, as tall and straight as a little girl could, looking for the perfect place to hang the last ornament her mother had ever painted. “At the top, Daddy. I want her right at the top, so she can look down on us and see everything. Just like Mommy can.”

  Without speaking so much as a syllable, Parker went to his daughter and lifted her high into his arms, holding her steady while she oh-so-carefully hung her angel. Right at the top, facing front, so yes, she could see everything. A place of honor, Nicole thought.

  Not only for the angel ornament, but for the woman who had painted her.

  She had a feeling that she’d have liked Bridget Lennox. In a strange way, almost as odd as how much she resembled Bridget’s angel, Nicole missed the woman, too. Even though she’d never met her, there was a connection between them. And no, it wasn’t the type of cancer they’d shared, or the hell they’d gone through in their attempts to kick its ass.

  It was love. For this family.

  Chapter Eleven

  After tucking the girls into bed for the night, Parker took a minute to gather his bearings. The day hadn’t turned out quite like he’d thought. First, there had been Nicole’s dizzy spell, and in the middle of that, one memory after another had rolled into his head, taking up far too much space. There he was, trying to help Nicole, and it was another woman’s face he saw. Another woman’s voice he heard. Bridget’s illness had become front and center again.

  Brought on by his crippling fear over what Nicole was going through in that specific moment. He couldn’t even help her as he should’ve been able to, not with his mind trying to shake off images he didn’t want to see, experience, ever again.

  Maybe not ridiculous, given the circumstances, but he’d overreacted. Nicole wasn’t sick. She’d confirmed that with him when he asked. She hadn’t eaten. She’d had low blood sugar.

  End of story.

  But it had taken more than a minute to get the day, the festivities back on track. More than that, it had taken longer than a minute to get his head where it needed to be. And then, Megan’s choice out of the multitude of Bridget’s angels—she’d always painted one or two or three each holiday sea
son—was the very last one she’d ever finished. The eerie resemblance of that angel to Nicole had lowered the volume on the rest of the evening.

  Oh, they still followed the regularly scheduled program. Erin chose her ornament next: a red-headed, brown-eyed angel that Bridget had painted the year their eldest was born. And back and forth they went, from one girl to the other, until every one of Bridget’s eleven angels were on the tree. That was when Parker broke out the rest of the ornaments, when Nicole had joined in with the tree decorating, and slowly, spirits lifted.

  He’d started the tradition on how they decorated their tree the first year they’d lived here in Steamboat Springs. The connection seemed important, and even though the girls were very young at the time, the tradition had stuck. Now he couldn’t imagine starting their holiday season in any other fashion. It seemed right, fitting, for the girls to have that time “with” Bridget.

  The day had worn Parker out, though. Through and through. And all he wanted now, all he yearned for, was some quiet time with Nicole. Maybe he’d break out a bottle of wine they could enjoy while watching a movie. They could cuddle on the couch, make out a little—or a lot—and before the night was out, perhaps he’d dispel that crippling fear.

  It was a good and worthy goal. And one he’d fight for.

  Downstairs now, he didn’t find Nicole in the living room, so he went to the kitchen. She was there, sitting at the table with another glass of juice in front of her, and her eyes closed. He figured the day had worn her out just as much as it had him, but the sight of the juice brought along another rush of worry. Dizzy again, or merely thirsty?

  She opened her eyes when she heard his approach, and smiled. “They go down okay?” she asked. The question resonated as familiar, as if she’d asked him that nightly for, well, years, rather than only once. “And I take it Roscoe is conked out with them?”