Mistletoe Melody (Christmas Holiday Extravaganza)

by Stacey Weeks

  She stirred, flickered her eyelids and smiled, and drifted back to sleep. He relocated her to her room, which was just across the hall from his, and turned on the dim light that she liked to keep on at night. Lord, help me protect her tender heart. Help me make the right decisions for her. I want to shield her from the hurts of this world, but I haven’t been doing a very good job. She had a stroke. Her mother died. And the first woman she bonds with seems to be another drug abuser. I’ve never felt so powerless. I feel like such a failure.

  He left her door open a crack. Instead of returning to his room, he strode down the adjacent hallway to the guest rooms. He didn’t care that the hour was late. He pounded on Wayne and Carol’s bedroom door.

  Wayne cracked the door open, his hair askew from rest. “Is everything OK?”

  “No, it’s not.” He didn’t bother with the small talk. “I need the whole story behind Melody, and I need it now.”

  “What’s going on, Wayne?” Carol called from inside.

  From across the hall, Clive opened his bedroom door and poked out his head. “Is everything OK?”

  Quentin fought to urge to roar. He hadn’t intended to wake the whole house; he just wanted answers.

  Carol joined Wayne at the door, wrapped modestly in a long robe. “What’s going on?”

  Clive closed the door behind him and stood with his parents. He rapped on Travis’s door as he passed it.

  In the matter of a few seconds, Quentin faced the entire Staff clan minus the one Staff who was beginning to mean more to him than she should. They stood shoulder to shoulder like the final line of defense protecting Melody.

  “I just saw Melody with about two dozen pills in her hands. After everything we went through with Janie’s mom, we can’t have this.”

  Wayne’s expression hardened. “My daughter is not abusing drugs.”

  Carol placed a hand on his arm. “Wayne, he deserves to know—”

  Wayne slashed his hand downward. “We promised.”

  Quentin turned to Clive. “You have a daughter. Put yourself in my place.”

  Clive’s damp eyes displayed his sympathy toward Quentin, but sympathy wasn’t enough. “I stand with my parents. This is not our secret. Ask Melody.”

  “I tried!” He threw his hands up in the air and turned his back to them.

  “It’s not what you think,” Travis said.

  He spun around. “What am I supposed to think?” His booming words echoed down the corridor.

  “Quentin—” Carol reached out.

  He shrugged off her hand. “If it’s not drugs, not illegal, why didn’t she say something?” He refused to be placated.

  “Quentin!” Carol pulled out her old teacher voice. Her entire tone and posture shifted. “Behind you.”

  He turned.

  “Maybe she’s scared because you look crazy…and… and mean!”

  “Janie!” He reached out a hand.

  “She’s good, Dad. I know her.” Janie wrapped her arms around her middle, and quiet cries shook her body. She stepped away from him, rejecting his invitation to come to him.

  He stepped toward her, but she swatted away his advance. “No, Dad.” She fled the hallway.

  His rigid neck, shoulders, and arms slackened as his self-righteous anger drained from his defeated body. His mind flashed back to a day when he and Melody were neighbours. Melody had exited the house in her graduation gown. Her dark hair fell to her waist in perfect curls. She had looked like a movie star—like an innocent movie star. His feet had frozen to porch boards where he had been pacing, bouncing Janie in his arms. At that moment, he saw with clarity what his impulsive partying had stolen from him. Innocence.

  And it had just happened again. His impulsiveness stole innocence from his daughter.

  He dropped his head into his hands and sagged his back against the wall. “Tell me what is going on.”

  “Daddy!” Janie screamed.

  Quentin bolted to Janie. He threw open her bedroom door, and it bounced against the backed wall. “Janie?”

  “Daddy!”

  “Melody’s room,” Clive said.

  Quentin dashed out. He hadn’t even noticed that Clive had followed him to Janie’s room, and he didn’t look back to see if Clive followed him now.

  Quentin dropped to the floor beside a writhing Melody. Her hands, head, and entire body shook uncontrollably.

  He pressed two fingers against her jugular vein. “I’ve got a pulse.” Quentin fumbled for the pill bottle on the floor. “What did you take?”

  “I’m fine.” She pushed away his hands.

  “You’re not fine.”

  Carol dropped by her daughter’s head. She brushed the hair off Melody’s sweaty face and quietly prayed.

  “It’s a relapse.” Her dad explained.

  “I figured it out.” Quentin ground his teeth. Were they still going to try and convince him Melody wasn’t using drugs?

  “No,” Melody twisted her head. “No.”

  “Hush, darling. We’ll get you into bed.”

  “Bed?” Quentin’s head snapped up. What was wrong with this family? “She needs an ambulance. She needs her stomach pumped.”

  Clive lunged at Quentin. He shoved his forearm across Quentin’s collarbone and pinned him to the wall. “She needs you to believe in her,” he hissed.

  Clive’s hot breath heated Quentin’s skin, and Clive held him until he stopped struggling.

  Wayne and Travis scooped up Melody and transferred her to the bed.

  Melody’s face contorted with each movement. Her clenched jaw sent a muscle in her cheek twitching.

  The softness in Wayne’s expression hardened the second he turned his attention to Quentin. “She’s not abusing drugs.”

  Janie buried her face in Quentin’s chest. “What’s wrong with her?”

  Quentin wrapped Janie in his arms. He locked gazes with Wayne. Would the man deny Janie answers, too?

  “It’s fine, Dad.” Melody’s soft voice sucked the tension from the room. “You can tell him.” She turned her face away.

  Wayne drooped. “Melody has Multiple Sclerosis.”

  Janie started to cry.

  13

  Melody stirred. She tried to roll over in her bed, but pain radiated down her legs and immobilized her. She tried to lift her head, but it pounded. She settled it back onto the pillow and groaned. The entire previous night rushed back in a flood.

  One minute, she heard the yelling in the hall and the way her family stood with her, and the next thing she knew, she was in bed. Later, her mom helped her down some medication, and finally, blessed sleep arrived.

  But now she was awake. Now she started all over again. How long, Lord? How long would she be down this time? A day? A week? Forever? She recoiled at the idea of accepting anything but good from God’s hand. She hated the constant pain her misfiring nerve cells produced that no medication could touch. It wasn’t fair.

  But God never promised fair, He promised Himself.

  She peeked through a slit in her eyelids. Her Bible sat on the nightstand, but the idea of trying to read made her stomach flip.

  Lord, M.S. has turned me into a short-suffering, impatient, unloving, unforgiving, resentful, discontent, unrested, harsh-hearted sinner. No wonder I have struggled to lead your people to worship.

  But even here, God you’re leading me. Even here, your hand guides me. You’ve said, “Here I am,” and I can no longer resist Your presence. I choose praise.

  You’ve never changed God; you’ve never walked away. You understand empty and broken because Your Son’s body was broken and spilled out empty for love. You allow hardship and tears – but you don’t waste a single drop on the ground.

  The longer she prayed, the more verses hidden in her heart rushed to the surface. Praising God for this hardship was a sacrifice. It was OK that it was difficult. It was her sacrifice of praise, and it was the best kind of worship to guide the people of God into. To point the eyes of the church to a G
od who sees beauty in broken, who receives praise from fractured bones, who promises one day to press a nail-scarred hand to every cheek and wipe away every tear. This was her God. He would walk with her through this, whatever this was going to be, even if it meant she was disqualified from the drug trial.

  A tear slid down her cheek.

  “Knock knock,” Quentin poked his head into the room. “Can I come in?”

  She slit open her eyelids. It sent a wave of nausea rolling over her.

  Quentin pushed open the door, and Janie entered ahead of her dad. “Janie’s our chaperone,” he explained. “Your dad gave me the lowdown on how the Staff family does dating.”

  Dating? She risked another peek. The room swayed. She snapped it shut again.

  A chair scraped the floor as it was pulled close to the bed. “Janie’s going to sit on my lap, and you can keep your eyes closed. But, we have a lot to discuss.”

  She winced. Daggers ripped through her body as he picked up her hand. Rough callouses scraped her skin. His firm grip tightened, not in a frightening way, but with a tender, almost gentle touch.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

  “I don’t want pity.” She kept her eyes closed. It was easier with her eyes closed. “Everything changes after I say the words Multiple Sclerosis. I wanted to be seen as me. Just me.”

  “I see you,” Janie piped up.

  The eagerness in Janie’s voice curled Melody’s lips up into a smile. Melody forced her features to relax into the movement. She willed her expression to show no pain. “I know. And I love you for it.”

  “Tomorrow is the Christmas Eve service. Will you be better by then?” Janie’s voice elevated with hopefulness.

  “I’m not sure, sweetheart.” Melody especially hated this part of her disease, not knowing if she would be present for important moments, knowing those most important to her couldn’t count on her to be well. She squeezed her eyes tightly, forcing the building tear to remain inside the eye. “My flare-ups usually last 24 hours. Sometimes longer. It’s unpredictable.”

  Janie lowered her voice to a whisper. The bedsprings groaned as she leaned her weight onto the side of the bed. “Wanna know a secret?” Her words exhaled against Melody’s cheek. “I never know when my leg is going to give out. It’s unpredictable.”

  Melody chuckled. “So you get it.”

  “I do.” The springs groaned again as Janie’s weight on the bed lifted. “But the concert,” urgency filled her voice.

  “You don’t need me. You’re the star.” Melody fumbled to find Janie’s hand. When her trembling fingers connected with Janie’s smooth, tiny, and frail ones, she squeezed. Even that hurt.

  “The star?” Melody heard the question in Quentin’s voice.

  She shook her head.

  For once. He didn’t ask. Maybe he was starting to learn to trust her.

  ~*~

  The next morning Melody forced herself to get out of bed. She was far from recovered, but she could tell the relapse wasn’t as bad as some of the others had been. Thank you, Lord.

  She poked her feet into her slippers, and half walked, half dragged herself to the staircase. She could use Janie’s sparkly cane right about now. She staggered down the steps one painful motion at a time.

  She hobbled around the corner and sagged against the doorframe. Pins and needles shot down her limbs, but she made it. She remained there, unobserved by Janie and Quentin.

  Janie puttered around the kitchen, shooing out her father. “Go, Dad, I’m fine.” She flapped her hand at him as though he were a pesky fly.

  “When did you grow up and get so bossy?” he teased.

  She fisted her hands on her hips. “Melody will be down soon. I have to get ready.”

  “I’m already down.” Melody gingerly limped the rest of the way into the room. Quentin spun around and leaped to her side. He supported her by the elbow and eased her down into a chair that Janie had pulled out.

  “Melody!” Janie skidded to a stop right in front of her. She leaned over and peered directly into Melody’s eyes. “Can I hug you?” She bounced with barely restrained eagerness.

  Melody opened her arms to the girl. It would hurt, but it would be worth it.

  “They grow up when you’re not watching.” Mom came around the corner and whispered the words to Quentin loud enough for Melody and Janie to hear. She held Melody’s gaze overtop of Janie’s head. “It’s nice to see you up.”

  Mom looked at her with a familiar expression. It was the same expression Quentin had when he looked at Janie. For the first time, Melody saw it for what it really was. It wasn’t pity; it was admiration and love. Her family didn’t pity her. They loved her.

  “Did you hear back from your doctor?” Mom asked.

  “Yes, I can still take part in the drug trial. They just pushed back my start date.”

  Mom closed her eyes and lifted her chin. “Thank you, Jesus.”

  “I thought a relapse disqualified you from participating in the trial?” Quentin asked. “What changed?”

  “Apparently, I’m a perfect candidate in every other way. I’m the right age, in good health, relatively untreated. They’ve agreed to let me into the trial if the next thirty days are episode free.”

  Hope flooded his features. “Are you concerned?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve yet to relapse that quickly. But whatever happens, God’s in control.”

  Her mom’s eyes bugged out at Melody’s verbalized confidence in the Lord’s sovereignty, but for once, Mom didn’t push it. Maybe God was growing them both.

  “Can I get the harp?’ Janie’s eyes shone.

  “You bet.” This time it was Melody’s turn to shoo out the onlookers. She and Janie had a concert to prepare for.

  Quentin let Melody’s mom usher him from the room. At the door, he turned back. “You and I still have to talk.”

  She nodded. There was no way to avoid it. But she didn’t have the time or energy to worry about that right now. She had an eleven-year-old girl who needed her. “No matter what you hear in here, stay out.”

  Quentin winked and saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

  He was bound to hear the autoharp as Janie practiced, and he’d figure out Janie’s surprise, but Melody didn’t care. She was done with secrets. He was a great dad, and he loved Janie so much. He’d act surprised tonight. She knew it.

  14

  Quentin shifted in his seat like a toddler unable to pay attention. How was he supposed to concentrate on the service when Melody’s thigh kept brushing against his leg? He scooted closer to Janie. He was an adult. He could do this. He could get through a Christmas Eve service without being distracted by the pretty girl beside him.

  Quentin kept Melody in his side vision while he waited for his cue to come to the stage. When prompted, he ascended the steps to the podium, unfolded his papers, and settled his gaze on his daughter. She had wiggled closer to Melody the minute he vacated his seat, and Melody had tucked her arm around Janie.

  “In many ways,” Quentin said, “one of the most difficult times to stand up in front of a congregation is Christmas.” He opened his Bible on the stand and looked over the gathered people. “It’s hard to come at a familiar passage from a fresh angle. Likely, every one of you sitting here tonight could preach the Christmas story better than me. Bethlehem, the manger, Mary and Joseph. There was no room in the inn. Many of you have had the privilege of growing up in a home where these stories of our rich Christian heritage were told and re-told over the years.” His gaze landed on his parents, who slipped in the back of the room and into the last pew. His face softened. “I was fortunate like that.”

  “Still, Christmas leaves some unanswered questions, like why? Why did God send Jesus, especially if He knew what we would do to Him when He grew up? Why did Jesus have to come to earth? Why couldn’t God reach us from Heaven? So instead of telling the traditional Christmas story tonight, I’m going to look at it from a fresh angle. If you have read any of Je
sus’ teachings, you know that he loved to tell stories, so in honour of Him, I would like to read you a story written by Henry Carter, taken from my favourite holiday book, Christmas Stories for the Heart.”

  Quentin opened a worn copy of the paperback book he and Janie read together every Christmas. He read the familiar story of a boy who hid under his bed and wouldn’t come out when his caregiver called him. How he didn’t budge when his caregiver looked under the bed and tried to coax him out. It wasn’t until his caregiver wiggled under the bed beside him, and lay with him in his loneliness, that he would finally allow himself to be led out.

  Quentin’s gaze landed on Melody during the tender moment of the story when the child reached out to accept his caregiver’s offered hand. “This is how God pursued us, but we didn’t listen to Him. God called us from heaven and mankind resisted. God sent prophets, but we closed our ears. Finally, God sent Jesus, God in the flesh. Only then, when He came and dwelt with us in difficulty and pain did we have the courage to reach for His hand and accept the forgiveness that comes only through Him. That’s why Jesus came. He meets us in our pain and leads us out toward God.”

  Melody blinked back tears.

  Quentin invited the children to join him at the front.

  Janie gave Melody a huge grin, squeezed past the Staff family, and didn’t join the other children positioned on the risers in a choir fashion. Instead, she took centre stage right beside her father.

  He turned his head to Jethro, who nodded his approval. Quentin lifted his brows at Janie, who simply grinned in return. He returned to his seat only to face another mysterious smile from Melody.

  Janie picked up the autoharp that sat on a chair in the middle of the stage. Janie settled the instrument on her lap in the same position Melody had that day in his music store when he showed Melody how to play it. His arms tingled as he recalled the heat that radiated from Melody’s body as she nestled between his arms, her face tilted upward to receive his instruction.