The Christmas Note

by Donna VanLiere

  “You must eat that because if you don’t she’ll leave it here for me and my trousers simply cannot take the pressure.”

  I take a bite and Gloria leans in, waiting for my response. I moan and she bangs the table with her hand. “See that, Miriam! We are going to bake a difference this Christmas!”

  Mom rolls her eyes and I take another bite. “What’s that mean?” I ask.

  “Another one of her ideas,” Mom says, filling a cup with coffee for me.

  Gloria waves her hand in Mom’s face to hush her. “Every year the chamber orchestra does a Christmas concert. This year all the funds from the admission tickets are going to Glory’s Place to help the families we work with. And while that’s a wonderful thing, the ticket price is only five dollars. It has always been five dollars and will always be five dollars, and that doesn’t add up to much money at the end of the night. Well, I thought we could raise even more money by offering quality baked goods. You know, some people don’t have time to bake a pie or a cake for Christmas get-togethers.”

  “And others can’t … or don’t want to,” Mom adds, winking at me.

  Gloria waves at her to shush again. “So this year I think we can bake a difference by gathering really nice baked goods and selling them at the concert.” She bangs the table again and Mom jumps, grabbing her head. “No brownies are allowed! Everybody always makes brownies. Cakes, pies, candies, and Christmas cookies only. No chocolate chips!” She spins in her seat and looks around. “For heaven’s sake, Miriam! Where do you keep your paper? I have to write all this down.”

  Mom jumps up and glides in her pink satin robe to the drawer under the coffeepot, and I smile watching her. She’s owned a pink satin gown and robe set for as long as I can remember. “Cakes, pies, candies, and cookies,” she says, handing a notepad and pen to Gloria. “What’s so hard to remember?”

  “Let’s think of good bakers in town.” She puts the pen to her mouth and begins to think aloud.

  “Oh, Gloria, please! Can’t your brainstorming wait? Gretchen just got here.”

  “Don’t stop,” I say. “I love the idea. Put me down for something. Mom and I can surely bake a difference together.” Mom refills my coffee and groans at the idea, sitting down with a swish and a swirl.

  “You could ask your neighbor if she’d like to help,” Gloria says, tapping the notepad. “What’s her name?”

  “Melissa. But I don’t think she’s the baking a difference type.” Although Mom heard all about the apartment cleaning trip, I give Gloria the 411 of what happened, ending with the note.

  “It is just so sad to me,” Mom says. “I can’t imagine not being a part of my children’s lives to the point that neither of them would even know that I was dead.”

  “Now don’t get worked up,” Gloria says. “I’ll make sure that your kids know that you’re dead.”

  I smile and pat Mom’s hand. “You were a great mother, Mom. Don’t worry. You weren’t anything like Melissa’s mom.”

  “I never made you things like chicken and dumplings or cinnamon rolls.”

  “No. But you made lots of mac and cheese.”

  She makes tiny circles with her finger in the air. “Big deal.”

  “You showed up at every choir concert and musical.”

  Mom shoves a bite into her mouth and leans her head down on her hand. “Oh, yes! Those concerts could be brutal.”

  Gloria holds her cup with both hands. “What’s Melissa like?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, pushing my plate away. “She’s just so odd to pin down.”

  “I’d be a bit wacky too, if I had a mother like hers,” Mom says. She points her finger at Gloria. “Don’t say a word, big mouth!”

  Gloria laughs out loud and writes something on the notepad. “Just for that, I’m putting you down for two cakes.” She looks at me and cocks her head; salt-and-pepper ringlets bounce on her forehead. “Why’d you offer to help her find her siblings?”

  I sigh. “Because she’s so pitiful … and if I had siblings that I didn’t know about, I’d want to find them.”

  “But it seems you have so much on your plate right now,” Mom says.

  “I’m alone right now, Mom. I’m going to go home and clunk around in that empty condo. Trust me, this will be a good distraction.” She wants to say more but practices unbelievable restraint.

  “She should call Robert Layton,” Gloria says. “He’s a lawyer in town and a longtime friend of mine. Miriam would latch onto him if he wasn’t ten years younger than her.”

  Mom’s cup hits the table with a thud. “Robert Layton is a married man, and if truth be known, he is a good five years older than I am.” Gloria pretends to choke and Mom looks at me. “Do not encourage her, Gretchen. She is a child stuffed inside an old woman’s body.”

  Gloria laughs out loud and takes another nibble of cinnamon roll. “Robert would know where to start in tracking down her siblings.” She offers me another cinnamon roll. “Eat up, kiddo. These are so good you’ll want to smack your mama. Which I’d love to see, by the way.”

  “You simply must eat another roll,” Mom says. “Because if you don’t Gloria will leave all of them here for me. This is what she does. She brings me fattening food and then gloats when I can’t fit into my trousers.”

  Gloria smacks the table. “Ask Melissa to bake a difference.”

  “No, Glor—” I begin.

  She holds up her hand. “Just ask her if she’ll bake something to help raise money for people who can’t pay their electric bill or buy their little boy a puzzle at Christmas. People want to help other people. They really do. Ask her. You never know what she’ll say.” I try to say something but she holds up her hand. “Ask her!”

  I look at Mom. “She’ll never shut up until you say you’ll ask her. Trust me. She’ll never, ever, ever, ever shut up.”

  I laugh and give them each a quick hug before I make my way to the door. “All right! I’ll ask her to bake a difference. I’m off to surf the Internet classifieds for a job!” Mom’s face gets long and somber, and I hurry putting on my boots. “Gloria? When do you need the baked goods?”

  “On the twentieth, babe.”

  “The twentieth?” She nods and I slap my forehead. “That’s the day my dad gets in.”

  Mom rises like a majestic pink cloud. “What?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” I know I hadn’t. “I invited Dad to come for Christmas.”

  “Here?”

  I zip up my coat and look at her. “I want him here, Mom. I want my dad and I want you.” She is slack-jawed and clutching the fabric of her robe on her chest. “I haven’t seen him since … I want him here, Mom.” She nods and I slip out the door with what feels like a peach pit lodged in my throat. The crappy thing about divorce is that you rarely get to see both of your parents on holidays or birthdays or any other day, for that matter. The fact is, my parents are in their sixties and should be mature enough to be in the same room without killing each other. I don’t think that’s too much to ask at Christmas.

  On my way home I drive around the square and notice someone at Wilson’s Department Store putting up a sale sign in the front window. Gifts have been the furthest thing from my mind, and I pull into an empty spot. Gloria’s husband, Marshall, has owned Wilson’s for most of his adult life, and I keep my eye out for him as I enter the door. The store is lovely, with huge silvery snowflakes hanging from the ceiling and a giant Christmas tree made from enormous bulbs hovering over the jewelry counter. Employees are dressed in gold, silver, or red blouses and shirts and slacks. A sign for Santa’s workshop leads down the stairs, and Vic Damone singing “It’s a Marshmallow World” filters through the store.

  After I browse the women’s department for ideas for Mom I run downstairs to the children’s department and Santa’s workshop. As I reach the landing and make the turn for the final set of steps I run into someone carrying a large, plastic bin and packages tumble down the stairs. “I’m sorry,” I say, reaching for two
plain packages. “Melissa?” She picks up some envelopes at her feet and puts them into the bin. “Do you work here?”

  “Did you think I was a doctor?”

  There it is again. One of the reasons she’s so hard to like. I ignore her question. “I was talking to a friend. Gloria. The woman who made the chicken and dumplings.” I am amazed at how blank Melissa’s eyes and face look when I talk to her. “She said her friend Robert Layton could begin tracking down your siblings.” Something lights in her eyes.

  “Are you kidding?”

  It’s not the response I was expecting. “No. She said he’s a lawyer in town and could—”

  “I work at his office in the afternoons.”

  I step aside so a customer can get down the stairs. “That’s great! You could ask him if—”

  She clutches the packages and heads downstairs. “I don’t want to ask him.”

  I race after her. “Why not?”

  She walks to a sales associate in toys and hands her a stack of mail. “I can’t jeopardize my job there.”

  Melissa turns toward the shoe department, and I grab her arm. “Hold on. You’d pay him just like any other client.” She starts to speak and I talk over her. “You want to do it.” There’s that blank look again. “You need to do it. The not knowing will drive you crazy.”

  Her face never changes expression. “I’ll talk to Jodi about it.”

  She marches toward shoes again and I run in front of her. “One more thing. Do you bake?”

  “Do I bake?”

  “Gloria. My friend who—”

  “Chicken and dumplings. I know.”

  “She has a place for families who need help. You know, like single moms and their kids, called Glory’s Place. This year she’s”—I make finger quotes in the air—“‘baking a difference’ to help raise money for them. You know, help them pay their electric bill or help with rent.”

  She shuffles the few pieces of mail in her hands. “I don’t really bake, but…”

  Kyle once said that the word but erases everything before it, so I rush ahead before she says anything else. “You can come over to my place. Mom will come, too. We can all bake together.” She nods with that same vacant face. “Just let me know.”

  I watch her walk away and look at my watch. I’ve been here five days. I have a feeling that despite what I think of her, one of these days I may actually see Melissa push herself up out of the rubble and crow.

  Seven

  Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family: Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one.

  —JANE HOWARD

  MELISSA

  Gretchen nags me. Not in a physical way of always being around or in my face, but she’s always in my head prodding and nudging me. I sort through the mail at Wilson’s and hear her in my head telling me I want to find my siblings or I need someone to be with me as I bury Ramona. Maybe I don’t want to find my siblings and could care less if anyone acknowledges Ramona’s death. I rummage through the boxes and packages for each department and tell myself that I don’t really want to know who my siblings are, but it’s a lie and I know it. Gretchen knows it.

  Ramona has a half sister, Kay. I’ve only seen her on a few occasions, but one time, when I was a teenager and she and Ramona had drunk too much one night, she asked Ramona if some girl named Louanne was my sister.

  “You know, Louanne? Jake’s girl. I know you remember Jake,” Kay said, laughing. Ramona shot her a look that could have ripped out Kay’s spleen. “My God, you look just like each other,” Kay said, looking at me.

  “Shut up, Kay!” Ramona hissed. Kay withered a bit in her chair, and I was too frightened to ask any questions. All these years later I never asked Ramona a thing about that night, but it was the last time I saw Kay.

  “Hi.” I jump and turn to see a young kid standing in the mail room doorway. He has dark hair and a tall, lanky body. “I’m Josh. I was told to be here at eleven today.”

  I throw packages for the office into a bin. “For what?”

  “Melissa’s supposed to train me for the mail room.”

  I sort the letters in my arms and toss each one into a slot on the wall. I look over my shoulder at a mail bin on the floor. “Well, I’m Melissa and that’s the morning mail. We pick it up and put it into these slots. If it’s a big package we put it into the bin with the department name.” I kick at the bins on the floor with my foot. “If you have time you can deliver it right to the department. Otherwise, just leave it here and somebody will come get it. Everyday we receive some sort of merchandise and we help unload it into the stockroom or take it directly to the floor.” I toss a few more packages into bins for security, ladies’ wear, and jewelry. “There. You’ve been trained.”

  Josh walks to the mail bin and lifts out a few packages. “This just has a person’s name at it,” he says, reading the top envelope.

  “A list of employees and which department they work for is right there,” I say, looking at the wall to the left of the mailboxes.

  He steps close to the list and glances for the name, putting the envelope into the slot for the children’s department. “How long have you worked here?”

  I’m not interested in chitchat with this kid and I sigh. “A while.”

  “Do you think it will be a problem if I have to take off suddenly someday?” Already he’s scamming for a way out of work. “My grandma is really sick, and my mom doesn’t know if we’ll just have to run out of town real quick.”

  I shrug. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m sure there will be enough part-time help to cover you.”

  He reaches for more mail and is painstakingly slow finding the department name on each package. The buzzer rings in the mail room, and I sigh in relief. A shipment is at the loading dock, and that means I won’t be alone with this kid anymore. “Come on. There’s a truck that needs to be unloaded. Grab your coat.”

  Unloading the shipment and getting it on the floor or in the stockroom takes up the rest of my time before I leave for the law office. “Will you be working tomorrow?” Josh asks as I put on my coat.

  “I’m here everyday with bells on,” I say, leaving.

  I usually walk through the city square to get to the office but today I’m especially hungry and realize I didn’t stop for lunch and left it in the fridge at Wilson’s. I walk the few extra blocks to get to Betty’s Bakery, thinking of my aunt Kay and the girl she said could be my sister. The place is decorated with those big, papery snowflakes that hang from the ceiling, and a tinsel swag with ornaments hanging from it is draped over the bakery case. I choose the empty booth in the corner and wait for a waitress. A couple of older women are sitting at the table next to my booth and chattering like magpies.

  “I just want some soup and water,” I say to the waitress when she hands me a menu.

  “Vegetable beef or clam chowder?”

  I hand the menu back to her. “I’ll try the clam.”

  “Do the vegetable beef, babe,” one of the older women says. “That clam chowder isn’t fit for consumption.”

  The waitress turns to look at her. “Thanks for the rousing endorsement, Gloria. You’re great for business.”

  “Sorry, Heather. I love Betty’s stuff, but that chowder has got to go!”

  “Vegetable beef,” I say.

  “Thatta girl,” the older woman says.

  I look at her, wondering, and then just come out with it. “Are you the Gloria who’s friends with Gretchen?”

  She smacks the table in front of her. “One and the same, and this old broad here is Gretchen’s mother.”

  Her friend rolls her eyes and speaks through her teeth. “You have absolutely no tact when introducing people, Gloria!” She looks at me. “I’m Miriam, Gretchen’s mother.”

  “I live next door to her. She gave me some chicken and dumplings you made,” I say, looking at Gloria. “They were great.”

  Gloria jumps out of her seat and plops down on the bench across fro
m me. “You’re Melissa!” She reaches for my hand and puts her warm, soft palm on top of it, squeezing. “I am so sorry about your mother, babe.” Something in her touch or in the way she said “babe” makes my throat quiver and I look down at the table, pulling my hand out from underneath hers. “Come on up here, Miriam, and let’s eat with Melissa today.” I don’t have time to say no or tell them I’m in a rush. Miriam reaches for Gloria’s coat and purse and hands them to her, taking her seat next to Gloria. “So, how are you, babe?”

  It’s the second time Gloria has called me babe, and I push a lump in my throat as far down as I can, trying to find my voice. “I’m fine.”

  She pats my hand again and smiles like she knows me. “Life is short. It’s so, so short. Makes your head spin when you think about it.” She squeezes her warm hand around mine and I don’t pull away. “Were you close to your mother?”

  I look at both their faces and wish to God that either one of them could have been my mother. I don’t even know them but sense they are good and kind, decent, and soft. They were there when their kids wanted to play a game. They wiped runny noses and bundled up little bodies for playtime in the snow. They cooked meals and baked cookies, even if the meal was Hamburger Helper and refrigerated slice and bake cookies. “No,” I say.

  Gloria’s eyes mist over, and I can’t imagine why she’s crying. “She never knew what she was missing. Isn’t that right, Miriam?”

  “Awfully tragic,” Miriam says, nodding at me.

  I bite the inside of my cheek and feel so stupid. Why am I so emotional? These women are strangers! Gloria pushes Miriam out of the booth and then slides in next to me, putting her hand on my arm and keeping her voice low. “It’s harder to let go of a bad relationship than a good one. With a good one you’ve got sweet memories and kind words. With a bad one you just got a whole lot of unanswered questions and open wounds.” I keep my eyes on the table. I can’t speak and feel like a fool. “Don’t ever think that tears are a bad thing,” she says, somehow knowing that I feel like exploding. “Lord have mercy! I’ve cried buckets in my lifetime. But Miriam here doesn’t cry much.” She leans in and whispers. “Afraid it will melt the wax.” I laugh and Miriam hisses through her teeth. “I buried my first husband and cried myself sick. My son ran away from home and was gone seven years. I can’t begin to tell you how many tears I cried over that loss. Grief takes a while, but joy does come.” She wraps her arm around me and she’s as warm and soft and sweet-smelling as I imagined. She squeezes my shoulder and then smacks the table, the silverware bouncing in front of me. “I know! Why don’t you come on over for Christmas dinner? Miriam and I will be cooking for the whole gang, although Miriam doesn’t really cook. But she has always wanted to pretend to cook sweet potato casserole, so that’s what she’ll be doing this year.” I smile and Miriam shakes her head, unaffected.