Colors of Christmas

by Olivia Newport

  She threw back the bedding and sat up. This was her bedroom with her familiar bedroom furniture. On the other side of the door was the living room with the sofa she had deliberated about for three months before finally buying it. Adjacent to the living room, the small kitchen was barely large enough for a narrow table up against the wall. Through the kitchen was the door to the hallway and access to the entire community.

  Community. Astrid was not quite used to the way the term was used in this place. But she was ravenous, and in another twenty minutes the dining room would stop serving breakfast. She stared for a moment at her bare left ankle, the culprit that precipitated the move to Sycamore Hills. Alex had been lobbying for two years. The fall gave him the final evidence that the time had come. Astrid did not disagree, but she was the one to absorb the reality of the change. Her scooter was beside the bed, and she gripped it now and pulled herself upright. Clothes. Hair and teeth. Blood pressure pills. Ankle brace. Then out the door.

  By the time she reached the dining room, she was steering against traffic. The few people still in the dining room were merely lingering over coffee. Astrid dropped into a chair at the table closest to the door. Dinner the previous evening had taught her that a server would come to ask what she wanted to eat.

  Pancakes, she thought. Lots of pancakes. Bacon on the side. And a tall glass of orange juice. Of course coffee. She grew hungrier by the minute waiting for someone to take her order.

  Finally a young man approached, but he was not a server. His uniform clearly identified him as the chef.

  “I’m Sam,” he said, offering a hand.

  “Astrid.” She shook his hand in a firm manner. She was never one for wet noodle handshakes.

  “Welcome to Sycamore Hills,” Sam said. “I like to be sure I meet our new residents.”

  “I’m delighted to meet you. I’m afraid I dallied too long this morning. Is it too late to trouble you for some breakfast?”

  “Not at all. What are you in the mood for?”

  She told him, leaving out lots of pancakes, and Sam waved someone over to fill her coffee cup.

  Sam brought the food himself, setting the plate in front of Astrid and lifting the warming lid. The pancakes were still steaming. Astrid’s stomach gurgled.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I can see you’re going to be a handy young man to know!”

  “We aim to please.” Sam grinned and waved over his shoulder as he strode back to his kitchen.

  As she dragged the last bit of pancake through the syrup, Astrid looked at the large clock on the dining room wall. It was time for physical therapy. Mentally she rehearsed the turns she and Joy had taken the day before, certain that she could arrive in the therapy room on schedule and without getting lost.

  Two therapists in their telltale gray scrubs were already at work with residents. One looked up.

  “Can we help you with something?”

  “I believe I am supposed to have a session with Carly,” Astrid said.

  The therapist glanced at the clock. “Looks like she’s running late, but you can come in and wait for her.”

  “Thank you.” Astrid aimed for the nearest chair against the wall. On the seat beside her was a magazine about health and wellness. She flipped through the pages, hesitant to be in the middle of reading an article when Carly arrived.

  Carly blew in from a door on the other side of the room. Astrid set the magazine aside.

  “I’m so sorry,” Carly said. “Give me two minutes, and we can get started.”

  While Carly shirked off her coat and pulled papers from a briefcase, Astrid used her good foot to push herself upright.

  Carly patted a padded treatment table. “If you can sit here, I’ll have a look at things.”

  Astrid crossed the room. Carly pushed a button that lowered the table so Astrid could easily sit and dangle her legs.

  “I had to take my son to school,” Carly said, pulling a stool toward the table. “Sometimes the teacher gets very chatty, and today was one of those days.”

  “It’s no problem,” Astrid said. She had only waited about three minutes. “How old is your son?”

  “Four.”

  “Does he like school?”

  Carly’s mouth twisted to a half grin. “The teacher says all the girls like him.”

  “Ah, yes,” Astrid said. “It was that way for my brother. We went to a German kindergarten. I spent three happy years there. That was in the 1930s. I suppose now kindergarten is different than it was in those days.”

  German kindergarten was a place where children learned discipline, good manners, respect, hygiene, and punctuality. Tante Tilde presided over twelve kindergartners. Kindergarten also was a place of imaginative play. When her grandchildren were that age, Astrid had adjusted to saying preschool rather than kindergarten. American kindergarten was the beginning of serious learning, and children were expected to come into kindergarten with some mastery of letters and numbers. None of that was as carefree as her memories of German kindergarten.

  “I’ll never forget,” Astrid said, “the time on sunny days when we all played on the large balcony. There was a big sandbox with moist, clean sand and many metal forms to make rolls, cakes, breads, and cookies. We pretended to be real bakers.”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  “It was. There were even shelves where we could display our wares. Tante Tilde let us play out nursery rhymes. All day long there was laughter and singing.”

  Astrid gazed past Carly, staring blankly at the far wall. Those three years with Tante Tilde were a safe place for young children unaware of the danger that brewed in Germany in the 1930s. Tante Tilde’s school was so well structured that every hour was a fun, unforgettable experience. None of the children in that school had yet learned to feel suspicious. Her parents protected the innocence of their small children. Fearful questions were still years away from stirring in a little girl’s mind.

  “I hope your little boy loves school half as much as I did,” Astrid said. “Perhaps he will even make a friend who lasts him a lifetime.”

  “Maybe.” Carly pressed her lips together. “I’ll need everything off your foot.”

  “Of course.” Astrid raised her injured leg and gently removed brace, sock, and shoe.

  “You also might be more comfortable if you roll up your pant leg,” Carly said.

  Astrid did so.

  “Thanks,” Carly said. “Today I’m just going to figure out your baseline for strength and range of motion.”

  “You’re the therapist,” Astrid said.

  Carly bent Astrid’s foot at several angles, watching to see when Astrid might wince or object to the motion. She asked Astrid to push against her hand, curl her toes, and a half dozen other tasks. In between requests, Carly made notations of the measurements.

  “Where does your son go to school?” Astrid asked.

  “It’s not too far from here.”

  Carly’s response came slowly enough that the conversation lost its fluidity, and Astrid probed again, gently.

  “Does he like his teacher?”

  “I think so.”

  “Does he talk about his friends?”

  Carly shrugged and wrote another measurement.

  “What about the girls?” Astrid said. “Does he mind that they like him?”

  Here Carly did look up with the hint of a smile. “I think he’s clueless.”

  “Well, he’s only four. Did he go to the same school last year?”

  Carly shook her head and tapped her chin with the top of her pen. “We’ve got some work to do. I think the doctor is right to caution you about putting weight on your foot right now, but I don’t think it will be long. If it happens accidentally, the brace will help prevent injury. Once we get you into a walker, I imagine it will be easier to get around and do things for yourself.”

  Astrid nodded. But she would not stall at the walker stage. She wanted her freedom back. She would walk on her own two feet.

  “L
et’s start some trial exercises,” Carly said. “Have you ever tried picking up marbles with your toes?”

  CHAPTER 5

  By lunchtime, the dining room tables boasted gold tablecloths and white candles and sprigs of blue spruce. In one corner stood an artificial Christmas tree, still naked, towering over a box that no doubt held the decorations that would dress it. Astrid stood in the doorway soaking up the scene. Outside, stores and homes had been lit for Christmas for weeks. Astrid always preferred to wait until closer to Christmas to put up a tree, but the tables looked inviting and might cheer a spirit or two.

  A hand shot up from a table in the center of the room and beckoned. Astrid glanced over her shoulder to see who might be the recipient of the summons, but no one was behind her. The fingers wiggled again. The gesture was for her. Astrid rolled her scooter toward an empty seat at the round center table. She recognized the group now—the ladies who liked card games, with Betty at the center of the action.

  The summoner stood up to pull out the chair. “You looked a little forlorn standing over there by yourself. Please do sit with us.”

  Astrid nodded. She was used to eating alone at home, but a little company now and then was welcome.

  “I’m Betty, and this is Phyllis, Mae, and Fern.”

  “Thank you for reminding me of your names.” Astrid mentally repeated them as she arranged herself in her chair, hoping her scooter was out of the way.

  “Skip the special,” Mae advised. “It’s always safer to go with the meat loaf.”

  Astrid chuckled. She’d had the meat loaf the night before.

  “Tomato soup today,” Betty said. “It’s the best soup they have.”

  Soup and bread appealed. Astrid wasn’t used to eating a large meal in the middle of the day, and her robust and late breakfast had served her well.

  “What happened to your foot?” Fern asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Not at all,” Astrid said. “I fell down a few steps in my home.” “So you ended up here,” Phyllis said. “There’s always something that makes the kids think it’s time.”

  That was exactly what happened to Astrid. Alex had appeared with a list of places to visit, and on the phone Ingrid had urged her to cooperate for her own good.

  “Well,” Astrid said, “here we are, whatever the reasons.”

  “Honestly, you’re going to love it here,” Betty said. “The people are so friendly, and there’s always something going on if you want to get out of your apartment.”

  “I’ve still got some unpacking to do,” Astrid said. “Get things on the walls, arrange the kitchen the way I like it, get the books on the shelves, that sort of thing.”

  Mae laughed. “Do you mean your kids didn’t try to tell you where to hang the clock or that you didn’t need all those books?”

  Astrid smiled. If Alex hadn’t been racing to catch an international flight, he would have done those things and more.

  “How can you manage the unpacking with one knee on a scooter?” Betty said.

  Astrid shrugged. “I’ve been using it for a few weeks now. I manage. Carly will speak to the doctor soon about putting weight on my foot.”

  “The physical therapist?” Fern said. “She helped me when I sprained my wrist. She was very sweet, but she seems, I don’t know, antsy. She never seems to relax.”

  Fern’s words confirmed Astrid’s assessment of Carly. Something was not right in that young woman’s life.

  Mae put her hand to her mouth and leaned to one side to speak behind her hand. “Here comes Penny. We know what she’ll want.”

  Penny, Astrid remembered, was the young woman who was the “director of fun” for Sycamore Hills. Joy had mentioned her.

  “Hello, ladies.” Penny stood between two chairs, one hand on each. “We’re decorating today, and we could use your help.”

  “Ornaments?” Mae said.

  “My elf helpers are bringing the boxes out of storage right now.” Penny settled her eyes on Astrid. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “I’m Astrid. Just arrived yesterday afternoon.”

  “Welcome to Sycamore Hills. I hope you’ll join in the fun. We’re putting up trees in all the common rooms.”

  Astrid nodded. “Thank you for including me.”

  “This year’s theme is gold,” Penny said. “We’ll use other colors in some places, but I’m hoping we can do the tree in the lobby completely in gold. I think it will be stunning.”

  Gold. Astrid pictured the twelve-foot evergreen that had once stood in the corner of her family’s living room. Her papa had brought home a box of brand-new gold ornaments, polished gleaming spheres for the tree. She was small, and Papa let her hang the ornaments at her eye level to see her reflection in each one.

  “I’m happy to help,” Astrid said, “if you’ve got a task I can do sitting down.”

  “No problem,” Penny said. “After lunch, come to the lobby. All of you. Please join us. It will be loads of fun.”

  When Penny moved on to another table, Fern rolled her eyes. “For Penny, everything is loads of fun.”

  “Then it sounds like she’s in the right job,” Astrid said.

  “We’ll all help,” Betty said. “We always do.”

  Astrid took in her tablemates, wondering how long they had lived at Sycamore Hills to say things like “always” or predict what is going to happen next. They were at least as old as she was, and likely older. Fern looked closer to ninety than eighty. Astrid looked around the dining room, which had been filling steadily in the last few minutes. Some residents came with walkers, some in wheelchairs pushed by staff in blue scrubs, a few with canes, and many fully ambulatory. A walker would feel like a step up for Astrid, because it would mean she could gently put weight on her foot. She had no reason to think she would not be walking independently within a few weeks—and without settling for a walker.

  “Does your family have Christmas traditions?” Betty asked.

  Astrid’s lips spread in a smile. “When I was small, my papa made sure we had a wonderful Christmas. I always tried to do the same for my children, and now they bring their children.”

  Papa was fantastic. Mama usually planned the family meals with the cook, but Papa took over on Christmas Eve. The thought of chicken liver sausage pâté made Astrid salivate even all these years later. The tree spanned floor to ceiling. Papa decorated it with gold and silver bulbs and strands of tinsel, hung one at a time, and little wooden angels. And real candles sat on the widely spread branches. Papa took great pleasure in decorating the tree, making his children stay out of the room until he rang the Christmas bell and threw open the French doors. Every year was a wondrous sight for Astrid and her brother and sister.

  Then they lined up in front of the tree and sang Christmas songs. Mama knew every verse of every song. After the singing, Papa extinguished the candles on the tree, turned on the lights, and took the children to look at their presents on the table. They weren’t wrapped, but Papa tied pretty bows on them. Cookies and chocolate on porcelain trays were a special treat while they opened gifts. Afterward, they went to the dining room for a gourmet meal. Astrid had albums full of photographs documenting her father’s holiday flair.

  Astrid picked up the menu in front of her, which offered basic American fare. If she got to speak to Sam again, she might ask him if he knew how to cook any German dishes.

  The conversation turned to what the other women did at Christmas, where their families lived, what foods would be on their tables. Alex would be back from France; Ingrid would come from Kansas with her family; and they would all be together in Alex’s home, where his wife, Gwen, would do her best to make Christmas a delight. This would be the first year they didn’t all share Christmas at home—in the house where Astrid had lived for so long and where Alex and Ingrid grew up. Astrid had been making Christmas in America for more than sixty years. It was time for the next generation.

  All the talk about holiday meals had made Astrid hungry
for more than soup and salad, after all. She ordered trout amandine with herbed rice and vegetables and indulged in a cupcake for dessert. When the others pushed back their chairs, Astrid did the same and they migrated as a group to the main lobby. Next to the fireplace, a bare tree stood. Astrid could see into the adjoining parlor, where another tree was half adorned but lacking anything gold.

  Penny lit up at the sight of the volunteers, even if it did feel as if they had been conscripted.

  “Here’s a comfortable chair for you right here,” Penny said, urging Astrid toward a blue wing chair. Beside the chair were three cardboard cartons. “I know there are some gold ornaments in here. Maybe you can pull out the gold ones and sort the other colors so we know what we have to work with.”

  Astrid sat down and let Penny park the scooter against the wall. Bending over, she opened all three cartons and met with a jumble of ornaments, some spheres, but many miniature items with wintry themes. Clumps of last year’s tinsel snagged on hooks. Papa was a perfectionist. He never would have allowed anyone to put away decorations in such mishmash condition. With Christmas music playing softly in the lobby, Astrid settled into her task of sorting colors, picking off tinsel, and examining ornaments for cracks or missing hooks. Eventually she accumulated nearly three dozen large round gold ornaments safely nestled in a box of their own.

  Somewhere she had gold ornaments. She had specifically told Alex she wanted to take them to her new apartment. There were only three, but other than faded black-and-white photographs, they were all she had left of her father’s exquisite Christmases. Surely one of the unopened boxes in her apartment contained this childhood treasure.