Catching Christmas

by Terri Blackstock

  Great. Just as I feared, it’s time for one of them. I’ve never heard of this medication, but she clearly needs it. The bottle says to take it with food. I’ll have to wake her up.

  I take my time getting her wheelchair, then lean in and shake her. “Miss Callie?”

  She stirs but doesn’t wake. “Lady, I need you to wake up.”

  Her eyes flutter open, and she looks up at me, blank.

  “We’re at the restaurant,” I say. “You have medication to take, but you have to have food with it. So come on. I’ll take you in.”

  “Oh yes. Thank you.” She’s polite even when she’s a pain in the neck. I help her out and get her into the wheelchair, reach back in for her purse and set it in her lap. I drop her medications in my pocket so I won’t have to go into her purse again.

  She perks up as I wheel her in and search for the least sticky table in the place. There’s a sad Christmas tree near the door that has probably absorbed a layer of grease from the food in the cafeteria lines. The ornaments are dusty. They can’t do better than that?

  Now what? Do I have to take her through the line and find out what she likes? This could take forever.

  But Callie is pretty easy. She quickly identifies roast, black-eyed peas, and green beans as all she wants. I get her a roll for good measure, then serve my own plate. I take the plates to the table, then come back to wheel her.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” she says in a soft voice before she takes her first bite.

  “Ma’am, I’m not Jesus. I’m Finn Parrish.”

  She laughs then as if I’ve done a great comedy bit. “No, no, sweet boy. I was praying.”

  I grin. “Oh. Sorry. You didn’t have your eyes closed.”

  “I didn’t need my eyes closed,” she says. “I can talk to him anytime.”

  “I bet you can,” I mutter under my breath. “Um . . . you have some medications to take.” I show them to her. “This one has to be taken now. The other one . . . it says twice a day, so I’m assuming that you took one this morning. Did you?”

  “Yes, I’m sure I did.”

  I’m pretty sure she’s just guessing. “Okay.” I open the one she needs now and pour it into her hand. I watch her swallow it, then I drop the bottles back into her purse.

  “You’re a nice young man,” she says. “Are you married?”

  Is she coming on to me? “No, ma’am. I’m not.”

  “Because I have a beautiful granddaughter.”

  “Yeah, about her. Have you remembered how we can reach her? Sydney, isn’t it?”

  “You know her? She hasn’t mentioned you.”

  I doubt that, at this moment, Callie has any inkling who I am. I could be Sydney’s husband for all she knows. “No, I haven’t met her. But I’d really like to. Do you have her number in that lovely head of yours?”

  She laughs again and shakes her finger, as if this time I’ve flirted with her. “You’re a flatterer, aren’t you?”

  “Sydney’s phone number?” I ask. “Do you have it? Or even her last name?”

  Her smile fades, and she looks confused. “Oh my, I don’t know where my head is. I know, but I can’t think of it right now.”

  That’s progress. At least she knows she’s forgetting. “Keep trying,” I say. “I can’t take you home until you think of it because you’re locked out of your house.”

  “Yes,” she says. “I’ll try.”

  She’s stopped eating, so I point to the food again. “Food looks good. Don’t you want more?”

  “Yes,” she says, suddenly remembering it. “It’s good, but not as good as my own cooking.”

  “You cook?” I ask. “I used to cook.”

  “Used to?”

  “Yeah. Had a restaurant. It went under, so . . . now I’m driving a cab.”

  “What did you cook?”

  I look at her, perplexed. Has she suddenly grown lucid? Is her medication working that quickly, or is her dementia a come-and-go kind of thing? “French haute cuisine. I studied in Paris at Le Cordon Bleu.”

  “Paris?” she asks, delighted. “That’s fascinating. I went to Paris once. My husband took me there for our anniversary. Oh, the food!” Her eyes mist over, and I can see that it’s a sweet memory. “Your mother must have been so very proud.”

  “Uh . . . yeah. She was.” The thought flattens my appetite. The truth is that she never had much opportunity to tell me how proud she was, because I didn’t go home that much after Paris. I shove my plate away. “So . . . you seem to be feeling better. Let’s talk about Sydney again.”

  “Sydney,” she says, and her smile brightens even more. “She’s such a lovely girl. And so smart.”

  “I bet. She probably has a great personality too, huh?”

  “Everyone likes Sydney. She’s a blonde, you know. Taller than me. She must get the height from her father, because she sure didn’t get it from our side of the family. She could be a model, but she decided to go to that other school. That . . . what do they call it?”

  “No clue,” I say. “So . . . remembering her last name yet? Her number? Maybe an address or where she works?”

  Again that distressed look comes over her.

  “I’d love to meet her,” I say again.

  She pokes through her purse but seems to forget what she’s looking for. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Sydney,” I prompt.

  She finds her list and pulls it out. “Oh, I need to run these errands. I have so much to do.”

  Oh boy. I rub my face. “Yeah. You said that before you fell asleep in my cab.” Before I had to feed and medicate you.

  “All right,” I say, getting up. “If you’ve eaten all you want, we can go. Unless you want dessert.”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you.”

  I get her back to my car and start the meter running again. “So you want to go to a dry cleaners? Which one?”

  “The one near my house.”

  Great. Well, at least I’m driving again, which means the meter is on, so I’m at least getting paid. I drive toward her house and spot a dry cleaner’s just before I get to her street. “Is this it?”

  She’s zoned out, looking on the wrong side of the car. I snap my fingers. “Miss Callie? The dry cleaners?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  I pull into the parking lot. “I could run in and get your clothes for you. You could wait here.”

  “No, no, I need to go in. I have to talk to that nice young man in there.”

  Perfect.

  I get her chair out. This is getting old. It pains me to turn off the meter again, but how long can it take to pick up dry cleaning?

  CHAPTER 11

  Sydney

  After a grueling lunch with Steve in the interview room during the midday recess, I squeeze in a phone call to Grammy’s house phone. It goes straight to voice mail again—a voice mail box that has never been set up or checked. I try the cell phone I gave her, but I didn’t charge it last night, and she never remembers to take it with her, anyway. It goes straight to voice mail, too. Where is she?

  I have to remind her that it’s time to take her medication again, but now I wonder if something has happened to her. What if she’s lying on the floor of the bathroom, yelling, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” like that woman on the commercial? What if she’s lapsed into confusion again and doesn’t even remember how to answer the phone?

  I have to go over there. I check my watch. I only have forty-five minutes left before I have to be back in court. I grab my bag and head for the elevator, wishing I had on different shoes. The men in the office expect the women to dress in heels every day—because everyone knows that a woman only looks professional if she walks on her toes and arches her back until her disks pop.

  “You’re not leaving, are you?” Steve says behind me.

  I punch the down button and look over my shoulder at him. “I have to run to my car for a minute. I’ll meet you back in court. Stay in this building. Don�
�t go anywhere.”

  I ride the elevator down, wishing it would go faster. On the ground floor, I trot out to the parking garage. My parking space is so far away that by the time I get to my car, I have a blister on the side of my foot.

  These stupid shoes! Why did I wear them? Why do I even own them?

  I accelerate out of the garage and speed to my grandmother’s house. The door is closed and locked, which is odd. The first thing Grammy does each day is open that door to “let the air in,” even if it’s thirty degrees outside. I left it open when I left there this morning after dressing her, and she seemed relatively fine—even better than she has in the past few days. The medication is helping her already.

  I open the screen and knock on the door, but no one comes, so I use my key to unlock the door. My heartbeat escalates as I step in and look around. “Grammy? Where are you?”

  When there’s no answer, I kick off my shoes and dash from room to room, certain I’ll find her on the floor. Her scooter is here, but she isn’t, and neither is her wheelchair or her purse.

  Where in the world has she gone?

  I pace from room to room, looking for a clue and hoping she’ll come back. Her medication isn’t here, and the only dish in the sink is the one I left here myself after I made her eat eggs this morning.

  So Meals on Wheels hasn’t delivered her lunch?

  I wait as long as I can, and Grammy still doesn’t come back. I can’t be late for court.

  Finally, I have to leave. I put my dreaded shoes back on, lock the door, and trot to my car.

  I make it back just as the judge makes his entrance. I hope no one sees that I’m sweating in December as I hurry to my seat.

  CHAPTER 12

  Finn

  I roll Callie into the dry cleaners and stop at the counter, where the clerks are helping two people in front of us. Callie points to the area behind the counter. “Push me back there.”

  I frown. “Behind the counter? Ma’am, I don’t think you should go there. That’s for employees.”

  “But I need to see him.”

  She leans forward as if trying to get up, but I touch her shoulder. “Okay, stay in the chair, ma’am. I’ll take you.” I catch a clerk’s eye as I push her toward the gap in the counter. “Is it okay if she goes back there?”

  “Sure. Hi, Mrs. Beecher. How are you today?”

  Callie gushes all over the girl. She must have done this before. I push her behind the counter, past several green bags full of clothes, to the door that has the Manager sign on it.

  I knock.

  “Come in,” a man calls.

  I open the door and lean in. “Sorry to bother you. Callie Beecher insists on talking to you. I don’t know if you shrank her best sweater or didn’t get out a stain, but she’s pretty set on seeing you face-to-face.”

  He gets up and comes around his desk, smiling. “Mrs. Beecher. My favorite customer. How are you, sweetie?”

  Callie beams up at me. “Isn’t he handsome?” She winks, and I’m even more embarrassed.

  “Yeah, a real prince.”

  “Give us a minute alone, will you?” she asks.

  The man probably feels trapped, but better him than me. I step out of the room and go back around the counter. There’s a folding chair by the door, so I sit down. Another Christmas tree blocks the window. What is it with all these trees? There must be no more than thirty square feet of space in this room, and this tree fills up a huge part of it. Hasn’t anyone ever heard of decorating with tinsel or something that doesn’t impede customer movement?

  I can hear laughter through the door. Callie hasn’t seemed like a cougar before now, but I wonder if this is a hundred-year-old’s idea of flirtation. After a few minutes, the door opens again, and the man wheels her out. “I really appreciate the invitation,” he says in a loud voice to accommodate her hearing. “But I’ve got plans with my family on Christmas. My mother would kill me if I didn’t show up.”

  “Well, that just breaks my heart,” Callie says.

  “Maybe another time?”

  “It has to be on Christmas.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Beecher. You know I’d do anything for you if I could.”

  She draws in a heavy breath and lets it out in a rush. “Okay, then.”

  She’s quiet as I get her back into my still-idling car. When I get behind the wheel, I ask, “You okay, Miss Callie?”

  “Yes, I guess I am,” she says, her voice heavy with disappointment.

  I try to think of something to comfort her, but what can I say? There are other fish in the sea? Isn’t it a little absurd that I’d be comforting her for unrequited love when she’s probably fifty years older than the object of her affections?

  “Were you inviting him over for Christmas dinner?”

  She doesn’t answer, so I glance in the rearview mirror and see her staring out the window. Has she zoned out again?

  Finally, she says, “He isn’t the right one.”

  “There’ll be others,” I say.

  Instead of comforting her, my words clearly upset her. Tears redden her eyes.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “I’m running out of time,” she says.

  I’m not sure if she’s talking about Christmas. The words sober me, but when she asks me to take her to the bank, I shake my thoughts away. When we get there, I ask, “Do you want to do the drive-through?”

  “The what?” she asks.

  “The drive-through, where you can do your banking through the . . . Never mind. Guess we’re going in.”

  Once again I consider whether I can leave the car and meter running here, but it doesn’t seem like a great idea. It pains me to cut it off, but again I add the amount to the list I’m keeping on my phone.

  I get her wheelchair out for the thousandth time today and help her back into it. Inside, I hesitate at the first desk, where a young woman looks up and offers to help us.

  “No, thank you,” Callie says. “But you’re very pretty. Isn’t she pretty?” she asks me with a smile.

  I can’t believe she would put me on the spot this way. “Yes, very pretty.”

  The employee beams at me. “Thank you.”

  “Over there, sweet boy,” Callie says, pointing to a glass office where a man is working.

  I push her to the doorway of the office, and the man looks up. “Well, Mrs. Beecher. We’ve missed you! How are you?”

  He hugs Callie, then reaches to shake my hand.

  I take it but say, “Cab driver.”

  “You can wait out there,” Callie tells me in a sweet voice. “I want to talk to this nice young man for a moment.”

  “Of course.” I step back out, closing the door behind me. Good grief. Is she hitting on another man? This is reaching the absurd.

  I take a seat and watch through the door as she talks to the man. They’re both smiling. Callie looks through her purse, but she clearly can’t find what she’s looking for.

  This doesn’t add up. Callie isn’t the kind of woman to be flirting with younger men, is she? Maybe in her dementia she thinks she’s twenty-two.

  She couldn’t remember where her keys were, but she remembered where these men worked? Yes, there are notations on her list that probably prompted her memory, but why would this be important enough to have written down while she forgets the location of her keys?

  Frustration waxes through me. I check my watch.

  After a few minutes, the man gets up and hugs her again, then turns her wheelchair around. I go to the door. As it opens, I hear the man saying, “I’m sure she’s lovely. But my girlfriend wouldn’t like it.”

  “You can’t make an exception for an old lady?” Callie cajoles.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Beecher. But I do appreciate it.”

  When I have her back in the car, I have to ask again. “So who were you talking about to him? The person he said was probably lovely?”

  “My Sydney,” she says. “I’m starting to think I have as bad taste in men as she
does.”

  “Sydney has bad taste in men?”

  “That’s right. Such a sweet girl. She deserves so much.”

  I seize the opportunity. “So . . . what’s Sydney’s last name?” I glance back hopefully and see that Callie is faltering. She still can’t think of it.

  “What about a picture?” I ask. “Do you have a picture of her?” Maybe that will prompt a clue about how to reach her.

  When she doesn’t answer, I say, “What does Sydney do?”

  “She’s one of those . . . you know . . . Oh, I can’t think of it.”

  Not helpful. Irritation floods through me again. What am I going to do with Callie?

  I look in the rearview mirror and see that she has drifted off to sleep again, this time with her head at a weird angle. She’s probably going to hurt when she wakes up. I pull over and get out, lean into the back seat, straighten her head, and lay it back on the seat.

  She never stirs.

  Though it’s against my better judgment, I take her purse. I’m going in. I have to find her keys or something about Sydney . . . anything that will help me get Callie into her house. I pull out her big wallet, unzip it, and look inside for a key. Nothing. No cash, no key. I move her checkbook, her glasses case . . . then I look in the pocket on the outside of her purse.

  Not a key . . . but a cell phone.

  “Are you kidding me?” I whisper as I take it out. All along she’s had a cell phone in here, probably with her granddaughter’s contact info on it, and she hasn’t told me? How many times has she dug through that purse today?

  I try to turn on the phone. Perfect. The battery is dead. I have to get it juiced up so I can see what’s on there.

  The phone is different from mine, but I know what kind of connector it needs. I drive to a drugstore and leave her in the car with the engine idling while I go in. I grab the connector off the carousel that holds the cellular accessories and glance out the window at my car. Did I lock it? What if Callie wakes up and climbs over the seat and drives away?

  I chuckle at the thought. And if someone steals it, they’ll have to deal with Callie, and I’ll be off the hook.