Finding Faith

by B. E. Baker

  “Because it's not like you're facing your demons. You're letting your mom and dad ruin not just your childhood, but also your entire life. You're giving them the power to incapacitate you.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask.

  “You're a hypocrite,” Luke says. “You chastise me for not staying put, for running from my problems, but you dump anyone who wants to talk about kids, because you won't make the sacrifices it takes to raise one, and at the same time you blame your parents for being selfish.”

  I slam my fork down on the table. “You have no idea, no idea what you're talking about. I don't want kids because I won't mistreat them the way my parents did. I won't, but I love my job, and I love accomplishing something outside of the home. I know myself, and I set healthy boundaries.”

  “Oh?” Luke asks. “And what kind of boundaries do you set, exactly?”

  I push my chair back from the table. “I came here tonight to set one with you. I can't date you, Luke, not anymore. We want different things, and we just aren't compatible.”

  “I want something different? What, to take care of my kids? To put food on the table? And you want to be a saint who helps every poor kid in the city, but doesn't actually love any of them enough to change your life in the slightest.”

  I grit my teeth. “I should have broken up with you via text. I'm sorry I came tonight at all.” I stand up and my voice is woodenly stiff when I say, “Thank you for dinner. I wish you and your family all the best.”

  “Now who's running away?” Luke asks.

  “It takes a runner to spot one.” I turn on my heel and walk out of the dining room and through the front door before the first tears spill, hot and fast, down my cheeks. The man outside with the Salvation Army cauldron swings his arm back and forth, back and forth.

  “God bless you,” he says.

  I could use some blessings. I haven't had too many lately. I don't even look at the wad of bills in my hand before stuffing them into his red bucket.

  I drive home on autopilot, barely noticing familiar landmarks as I pass them. When I finally turn into my own driveway, I stop on impulse at the mailbox and grab the weekend's pile of letters. Maybe the stack of bills will distract me. Sometimes routine things help me clear my head.

  After I park, I toss the pile of letters onto my kitchen island and start working my way through them. Coupon mailer, bill, bill, coupon, flier, bill. Thick, heavy, embossed envelope. I tear it open carelessly, cutting my finger in the process. Blood stains the edge of the luxe paper.

  A wedding invitation. From Foster and Jessica. A tiny scrawl on the corner in Foster's handwriting. “Sorry this is late. Jessica didn't want to invite you until she realized you had a plus one. Hope to see you there.”

  Blood rushes to my head, my ears ringing. I'm invited, now that I have a plus one, huh? I close my eyes and shake my head slowly. I couldn't have waited until after Christmas to dump Luke? I could box Trudy and Addy's ears for this. Now, tomorrow, I'm going to have to march into Foster's office and tell him Luke and I have broken up.

  I'd rather eat a bowl of glass shards.

  Maybe I could RSVP and then claim I was ill or injured, instead. Or in the hospital! I could get a fake cast to really sell it.

  I shake my head. Grow up, Mary. You can do this. Tomorrow, I'll simply march into Foster's office. I'll fight for Sub-for-Santa, and I'll tell him I won't be attending his wedding as an unwanted single, or with a plus one. And if he's a real jerk about it, I can always tell him his future wife lied and she isn't pregnant at all. I hope he got a good pre-nup.

  Actually, if I'm being honest, I kind of hope he didn't.

  Chapter 18

  Heather smiles beatifically when I walk through the front doors of the United Way office, and I wonder why. It's too bright, too cold, and far too early for anyone to be that chipper.

  “Morning,” I mumble.

  “It's a beautiful winter day,” Heather says. “And we're less than a week away from Christmas. If you check the break room, you'll see a surprise for everyone from me.”

  I close my eyes and breathe in and out once. I need to find my Christmas joy. I'm letting men steal it from me. First Luke, and now Foster. No more. From today forward, I'll channel Heather's holiday spirit until mine regenerates.

  “Thanks, Heather. I'll be sure to check it out. Is Foster in yet?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “He may be pretty late today. I think he had his bachelor party last night.”

  Of course he did. I massage my right temple and walk down the hall to my office to take some Tylenol. It's not fair that I feel horrible this morning, because like always, I didn't have a single drink. Even so, I tossed and turned with dreams of Luke and dreams of Foster, and dreams of Luke with Foster's head, or Foster's voice coming from Luke's mouth.

  All in all, I've never wanted to turn my alarm off as badly as I did this morning. I did hit snooze once, and pull the covers up over my head. But I only gave myself six extra minutes, because I have too much to do today, and they're things that can't wait. Besides, my cleaning lady was coming by this morning to make sure everything's ready for Trudy to start moving in. I only have her come once a month usually, but she squeezed me in once she found out about Troy.

  I slide into my tall, black, leather backed desk chair, a gift from Foster for my birthday last year. I make a few calls to Trudy's landlord to confirm he received her notice, in spite of the place being rented in Chris's name. I also call the moving company I hired to get her stuff packed and shifted over today, and they confirm they'll be at her house by nine a.m.

  Once I'm done with my messy personal stuff, I dig in to the Sub-for-Santa work. This week's officially check-in week. I call each volunteer family to make sure they've found appropriate gifts and are wrapping them. I confirm they've been able to reach their family and schedule a delivery time, usually on Christmas Eve. This year, Christmas falls on a Sunday, which puts Christmas Eve on a Saturday, and sometimes that complicates matters.

  I work my way down the list, chatting with some people, leaving messages for others. A few of them haven't bought all the gifts yet, but are going today. A few have had everything purchased and wrapped for almost a week. The over-achievers make me smile.

  Of course, that smile that drops off my face when I reach the bottom of the list of names. Lucas Manning. Aka, Luke Manning. Penciled in as a confirmed sponsor. I pick up the phone. It's business, not personal. I take a deep breath, because I can do this.

  The phone rings.

  Luke's deep voice intones, “Hello?”

  “Mr. Manning,” I say, trying my best to remain detached. Professional. “This is a courtesy call from the Sub-for-Santa organization. We'd like to remind you that your family's gifts need to be wrapped and ready to deliver for Sunday. Have you been able to touch bases with the family to confirm a time and place for delivery?”

  “Mary?”

  “Uh, yes, this is Mary Wiggin.”

  Luke's voice bristles more than a porcupine in a needle factory. “You dump me, and then you call me the next day and pretend . . . what? That you don't even know me?”

  I sigh. “I have a job to do Luke, and I wasn't sure, er, I mean, this has never happened before.”

  “What, dating a sponsor parent? Or dumping someone because you're scared?”

  My hand clenches on the receiver. “I'm not scared. I'm sensible.”

  “Sensible? What are you, British? Is your real name Mary Poppins?”

  “Luke, I'm not trying to pick a fight here. I'm just trying to check in with you, okay? I've got a holiday party Wednesday that I'll have to attend alone because I'm getting a promotion I don't want. And I got invited to a wedding on Thursday for my ex-boyfriend, which would suck on a normal week, but now I'm dreading it because I don't have a plus one anymore, but he's put one on my invite. I don't have the time or energy to argue with you anymore.”

  “I'll still go with you, if you want me there,” Luke offers. “I'm sorry I sai
d what I said last night, for what it's worth, and it sounds like it would suck to go alone, to both of those. Of course, if I help you out, you'd have to come to my red ribbon ceremony on Friday morning.”

  I want to tell him yes so badly, but everything the girls said is still true. He has kids, and I can't deal with them, I just can't. And he's still leaving, and on and on.

  I clear my throat. “As much as I'd love that, Luke, and I really would love to have a gorgeous, funny, smart man on my arm at both events, but I can't do that. I can't learn to lean on someone who won't be here in a few weeks. And I can't keep spending time with your kids when they won't ever be my kids, and they can't be.”

  “The kids love you. It doesn't hurt them to spend more time with you.”

  I shake my head, but of course he can't see that through the phone. “I think it does cause them pain. Or at least, it shows them what they're missing. Did Amy tell you what she really wants for Christmas?”

  “I know she wants a dog. Everyone in the entire RV Park knows she wants a dog.”

  “Amy told me what she really wants is a mother, right before she told me she wanted a home that's not on wheels. She said since she knows she can't have that, she asks you for a dog.”

  Silence on the line.

  “Luke?”

  “I'm here. I'm sorry, I was processing. She's never said anything like that to me. Not ever.”

  “My sister's son is sick, and they're moving in with me today. Plus my promotion is taking up a lot of time, plus this week is my last big push to get the United Way to keep Sub-for-Santa on its docket. I'm going to beg off on the wedding, I hope. And either way, I've got to be able to handle these things alone, just like I'll have to when you move away in a few weeks.”

  Silence again. I think about hanging up.

  “Well, thanks for checking in,” Luke says. “We've got all the gifts purchased, and we'll be wrapping them all tonight.”

  “That's wonderful to hear,” I say. “And you've talked with the family?”

  “I called the number twice. No answer the first time and no machine, but on the second try, I connected with the father. He only speaks Spanish, but I speak enough to make things work. I'll be dropping them off on Saturday at noon. His kids will be with their grandmother. He has a shed we can store the presents in.”

  “Perfect,” I say. “Thanks so much. I'll make note of it. And don't forget to keep all your receipts. You can deduct them.”

  His receipts. I smack my forehead. “Oh, Luke, I'm so sorry. We never divvied up the cost of the gifts that were for my family. You have the receipt. Can you text me the amount and I'll mail you a check?”

  “You paid for Chuck-e-Cheese. As much as I'd love to lure you over under the pretense of dividing up a check, we're square. Don't worry about it.”

  Not a chance. I'll guesstimate and send him twenty percent more. “Uh huh. Okay.”

  “Mary?” Luke asks.

  “Yeah?”

  “It's really good to hear your voice. I really am sorry for what I said last night. I don't know what you went through, and I don't think you're running away. Quite the opposite. Your sister's moving in with you, and you're taking a promotion you don't want to help her with her son. You couldn't be more different than your own mother, from what I can tell.”

  My throat closes off and I can barely breathe, much less talk. I choke out a few words. “Thanks, Luke. Goodbye.” Then I hang up the phone. A moment later, I hear a familiar voice booming from down the hall.

  Foster's here.

  “Precisely,” he says, his voice moving from the hallway into the conference room. “Please, come right this way. I'll show you the plans for the new healthcare supplemental access for children. Once we've reallocated funds like you suggested—”

  Foster stops speaking, presumably because the person he's with asked him a question.

  “Right, yes, I have a list of programs we'll be cutting. Of course. I'll have Heather grab that for you right now.”

  I grab the stack of papers off the corner of my desk, and jog down the hall to Heather's kiosk with them under my arm. I need to catch Foster's eye. It's almost time for me to leave, but I need to make my case for keeping Sub-for-Santa, and I need to tell him I can't make it to his wedding.

  Foster turns to face me when I reach the receptionist desk. “Mary?” His eyes search my face, looking for my purpose in chasing him down the hall. “I'm a little busy right now.”

  “I can see that you are,” I say. “I only need a minute. I think you're making a huge mistake letting corporate cut the Sub-for-Santa program and I've got evidence to back up my claim.”

  Foster exhales heavily. “Not right now, Mary, okay?”

  “What evidence do you have, exactly?” A short man, balding, with thick black-rimmed glasses stands in the doorway of the conference room.

  I glance from Foster to the man and then back again. “Uh, Foster?”

  “Uh Mary?” Foster asks me, his tone so condescending that my hand itches to slap him. “Answer Mr. Peters. He came all the way out here from Alexandria, and I was about to hand him a list of underperforming charities we should eliminate to make room for a larger initiative for sick kids. So go ahead. Show him your evidence that giving kids some toys at Christmas is more important than, say, providing them with a prosthetic limb, or glasses that will enable them to see the chalkboard and learn how to read and add and subtract.”

  I frown. I wasn't expecting to present to the Vice President of the United Way. And with that glowing introduction, Mr. Peters isn't likely to listen to a word I say.

  “My name is Mary Wiggin. I've been spearheading the Sub-for-Santa program for years, for free. It meant so much to me as a child. In fact, before I get into the evidence I brought, I just wanted to say that I was a recipient of Sub-for-Santa for many years, from the age of seven. Most years, it was the thought of Christmas that helped me survive and thrive in school. That's why I've been giving eighty to a hundred hours of my time free each year in support of this program. I know hope and excitement and wonder don't manifest as tangibly as medical care, but Sub-for-Santa's very low resource, and I don't see why the two initiatives would be zero sum.”

  Mr. Peters' eyebrows rise. “Zero sum?” He laughs then, a great big belly laugh. “Of course they aren't zero sum, except that our funds are limited and if we spend the money we've raised on one thing, we can't spend it on another. Last week, I tasked Foster here to cut enough programs to make room in the budget for our top priority, which is aiding sick kids.”

  Foster walks back toward the conference room. “We can talk more tomorrow, Mary. Stan and I have a lot of work to do now.”

  “Let her come show me her evidence,” Mr. Peters says. “I'd be most interested to see why she thinks United Way needs this program. After all, our goal is to maximize good for the funding we have. Shouldn't we listen to a self-proclaimed expert on it before we decide? And, frankly, her excitement has me questioning Sub-for-Santa's removal.”

  I jog behind Foster and Mr. Peters and into the conference room, spreading my notes, articles and spreadsheets out in front of them both.

  “Okay, first we've got the chart here that shows how many kids have been helped, and the total cost per family to United Way. If you average our costs out by family, we only spend $11.40 per family at Christmas. It's very low budget, because in fact, it's a fundraiser all its own. The families who sign up pay for almost everything.”

  Mr. Peters hums quietly to himself. “And where does that eleven dollars go?”

  I point at another chart, a budget break down. “We have promotional materials we provide to churches, clubs and schools. They help us identify families, which we then screen for eligibility. Beyond that, we also have mailers, paperwork fees, and whatnot. And while I work for free, I need an assistant to help me manage all of this, and she can't afford to work for free. I pay her half what she makes at my firm, and she's the best secretary I've ever had, but her salary composes
about half of the expense for the administration.”

  “If I agreed to let this continue, but I insisted on cutting your budget by half?” Mr. Peters stares into my eyes. “What then?”

  I wring my hands in my lap where I hope he can't tell. I'd need to do Sub-for-Santa without a secretary or assistant, and I have a new job where I'll be working even more. I want to keep it alive, but I'm not Atlas and I can't carry the whole globe. Tears well up in my eyes. “I don't know, sir. Maybe we could make that work. Would we be allowed to do additional fundraisers, and use any funds we generate to pay my assistant?”

  He shakes his head. “Against policy.”

  Of course it is. “I could pay the assistant instead.”

  He shakes his head again. “If you donate to United Way, it needs to go into the general fund. It's against our charter to have you pay an assistant on your own. In fact, it might invalidate our 501(c)(3) status.”

  I close my eyes. “Sir, we're talking about a very small amount of money here. And I have more evidence of the benefits. Look at these articles about our program. This program is marketing and publicity gold, sir. People love the stories and the good we do generates a lot of positive buzz for the United Way. It's hard to quantify the exact benefit, but it's got to help people be more generous in donations. Families love participating, and obviously the recipient families love knowing someone cares about them. It fosters exactly the kind of goodwill and general kindness that's missing in the world.”

  Mr. Peters flips through my fliers and my clippings. He lays his huge hand across the top of the clippings and leans back in his chair. “I hate to tell you this Mary, because I admire your excitement and your passion, but even though this certainly seems like a worthy cause, I have to evaluate everything as good, better, best. I would place this squarely into the “good” category. It's good, but our money can be better or even best used elsewhere.”

  I knew this was coming. Foster told me resisting was futile, but somehow, here, looking this man in the eye, I can't quite believe he's turning me down. I think about the little girls out there with nothing to look forward to all year. I think about the little boys who only ask for a baseball and a glove. No glove for their dad, because they have no dad. I remember at last year's drop off, one mother fell at my feet and wept. Her husband was sick and the care for him was more than she could manage. Food stamps kept them alive, but there was nothing left over for the children.