Sleepless in Snowflake: A Heartwarming Christmas Story

by Rusty Fischer

down. “What does that mean?”

  He holds up his hands in defense, smiles and says, “Nothing, Molly. It’s just that, well, I’ve worked here for the last four years and your mother’s been here just as long and, well, I’ve never seen you do a random pop-in on Christmas Eve, is all. Let alone at midnight!”

  “I… I… I’m not quite sure,” I stammer, suddenly flustered all over again. “I just, I couldn’t sleep for some reason. I started remembering all those years we picked up Mom and brought her to our house to spend Christmas Eve with us so she could be up with the kids the next morning. I guess I just thought she might be feeling lonely as well.”

  He nods, reaches for a cookie and nibbles it almost absently. “And your husband? I know I’ve seen him sniffing around the buffet table over the years. ‘Max,’ I think I heard your mother say on occasion? He didn’t try to talk you out of it?”

  “That’d be rather difficult, Jim, considering he’s been dead for six months!”

  Jim sits back on his stool, as if I’ve just smacked him.

  The giant room echoes with the sharpness, the harshness, of my voice.

  “I’m so sorry,” he gushes, leaning forward, reaching out a hand to comfort me, then yanking it back in again at the last minute. “I had no idea…”

  “No, I’M sorry,” I say, much more quietly this time. “I’m sorry, Jim. I don’t know where that came from. You didn’t know. How could you know? I guess I’m just a little… emotional… tonight.”

  “Sure you are,” he says, eyes faraway as if he’s talking to someone else or, perhaps, even himself. “After all, it’s your first Christmas without him…”

  And, suddenly, it hits me: he’s right.

  All this fussing and fighting with Vicki at the door, the hastily packed overnight bag and the rush to spend the night with Mom, the snapping at Jim, it’s so simple: it’s Christmas Eve and I’m alone.

  Utterly, completely and absolutely alone.

  Jim is looking at me expectantly, if patiently.

  “I’m sorry, did you… ask… me something?”

  He chuckles lightly and says, “How long? Were you married, I mean.”

  “23 years,” I say tightly.

  “Wow, Molly, I’m… sorry. There are no words when you suffer that kind of loss. And your kids? You mentioned something about…”

  “They couldn’t be bothered,” I snap, again, though a tad quieter this time. “Sara never even came home from college once her break started and Sam, well, he’s got the new job in Springfield and has to work day after tomorrow, so… why bother with the drive and the hassle, he says. ‘Why bother?’ Is that what I am now, Jim, a bother? Like my mother is to me?”

  I look at Jim, his large, red face sitting quietly above his starched white chef’s jacket.

  “I didn’t mean that,” I sigh, heavily, reaching for more coffee. “About my son, about my mother. You must think me a horrible person! I’m just… I can’t be held responsible for what I say tonight, I suppose!”

  “All’s the better to keep talking then, right Molly?” he asks, pouring the coffee and remembering the two sugars and two healthy pours of half-and-half. “Who am I to judge? And whatever you say, well, it never leaves this kitchen, right?”

  I snort, putting down the untouched coffee. “Is that some kind of chef’s rule or something?”

  “More like a friend in need rule,” he says pointedly, shoving over the plate of cookies.

  I turn up my nose at the odd assortment of gingerbread men and sugar cookie snowflakes and brownie bites, when suddenly the whiff of a fresh snicker doodle greets my nose.

  I reach for one, then another, then two more, realizing I haven’t eaten all day.

  “These are as divine as the coffee,” I manage to utter between gorging myself. “And they’re twice as good together!”

  “How long’s it been since you’ve eaten anything, Molly?” he asks, getting up.

  “I know it looks like a week,” I mutter when my mouth is finally empty, “but it’s probably just been today. Maybe yesterday, too, but… that’s not too bad, right?”

  “Not if you’re a bear in hibernation it isn’t,” he scowls over his shoulder, picking up two clean white plates from the opposite counter and setting about filling them with a variety of treats from warming trays along one gleaming white tiled wall. “But you won’t be much good to anybody if you don’t keep your health up.”

  There is more psychologist than chef in that statement, but I’m powerless against a man in a chef’s hat barking orders!

  I listen to the clatter of serving utensils on porcelain, the slow roll of chafing dishes being opened and closed. Somewhere a Christmas carol is playing, something smooth and jazzy. I look around to find an iPod in a sleek, silvery deck atop a nearby employee locker.

  I can smell the food before Jim puts it on the butcher block in front of me. Savory glazed ham, green beans in an herby garlic butter and a steaming wedge of sweet potato soufflé with a dollop of cinnamon sugar infused whip cream on top.

  “Is this what you’re serving tomorrow?” I ask, using my fork to slice off a chunk of tender, glistening ham.

  “It’s what I’m serving today,” he explains, nodding at the clock on the wall.

  I look up to find that it’s nearly 2 a.m. already!

  And I could care less. I eat, and eat, and eat some more. Food has never, ever tasted so good. When we’re both through he starts to stand, to clear the table, but I beat him to the job and clear the butcher block myself.

  There is a giant hose hanging from the washing machine area, the kind with a handle and a nozzle and I use it to spray off the plates. It’s like spraying bugs with a nuclear tank. In two minutes of cleaning I’m practically soaked and I turn, face covered in mist, to find Jim handing me a holly green apron emblazoned with the cursive “Snowflake Senior Kitchen Staff” logo.

  I take it gratefully, as well as the starched white bus towel he gives me.

  “Since you’re dressed for work, and had your shift meal already,” he jokes, “would you mind giving me a hand for a few minutes?”

  “Really?” I ask, following him to the big mixing bin that has automatically shut down to let the dough inside rise.

  And rise and rise and rise!

  “Sure, if you don’t mind.”

  And so we begin. First shaping the yeast rolls in dozens and dozens of rows of dozens and dozens of palm sized slabs of thick, yeasty dough. Then glazing them, by hand, by roll, with butter and egg before sliding them in one of the huge, gleaming ovens.

  In minutes the room smells of Christmas and yeast and butter and everything good, and right. I think, if only for a moment, “If only Max were here to smell this” but before I can traipse too long down that trail, Jim has me pouring real cream into a steaming vat of peeled and quartered potatoes, which he continues to mash, by hand, for the better part of an hour.

  “Quite a workout,” I exclaim after he lets me take over for the last 15 or 20 minutes. “My arms are already tired!”

  Jim only smirks, dragging a thick sleeve across his broad, sweaty forehead. “I hope they’re not too tired to help me drag these birds out of the oven!”

  At last our work is done, and the kitchen is alive with the fragrant scents of holiday cooking. Turkeys sweat under layers of plastic wrap while chafing dishes full of homemade mashed potatoes gleam in a long line as they wait for morning.

  What wait?

  It is morning!

  Outside the screen door at the back of the kitchen, where Jim and I stand to get some fresh air, the sun silently rises over a thick forest glade.

  Fresh coffee steams above red mugs dotted with little white snowflakes. I sip mine and Jim says, softly, “Merry Christmas, Molly.”

  I look at him, this giant of a man, with his ruddy face and beefy knuckles and kind, blue eyes and I can’t help it; I blubber.

  Long and loud, great gulping sobs that splash coffee over the top of my brimming mug and o
nto the pitted pavement at my feet. Jim reaches over tenderly to take the mug and, with free hands, I embrace him.

  My head lands squarely on his chest while my arms barely reach around his back. He stands quietly and lets me whimper, softly, until I’m done and dry. Only when I inch back from him do I feel his big arms slide gently from around my back.

  “Thank you,” I sniff, wiping my nose roughly with the bus towel I’d wedged, somewhere along the way, deep in my back pocket. “For… everything. I know, I know you didn’t need help tonight. Or that, if you did, you didn’t want it from some crabby amateur like myself. You were keeping my mind off things, off this first holiday alone. And for that, Jim, I’ll be eternally grateful…”

  He blushes, avoids my eyes and stares down into his half-empty mug. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Molly,” he bluffs, finally looking up with a crooked smile. “But the good news is, visiting hours are just about to start…”

  We clean up, him for a much-deserved trip home for the day and me for the short walk down the hallway to Mom’s room. I follow him back through the kitchen, now bustling with wait staff and busboys as they light Christmas candles on each table and place name