The Christmas Shoes (Christmas Hope)

by VanLiere, Donna

  “I don’t want that, Mom,” I said, but it was no use.

  “Dalton and Heddy won’t be able to finish up all that cake. I need to get rid of it.”

  As she turned her back to pour more coffee into her cup, I picked up my fork and began to separate the sweet, gooey coconut icing from the rest of the cake. “Eat all of it, Robert. Not just the topping,” she said, scolding, without looking. Resigned, I pushed the frosting back to the cake and took a bite.

  “Things are a lot different now than when you were married, Mom,” I said with a mouth full of cake. “People go through more complicated things than they did back when you and Dad married.”

  “And what are those things?” she asked, interested. “Power? Prestige? Jockeying for top position on the corporate ladder?” Her brow raised and crinkled after each question, seeking a response from me. “Those things have been around for centuries,” she stated with certainty. “There’s nothing new under the sun—just the same mistakes made time and time again, but the thing is, we’re actually getting worse at figuring out what those mistakes are. Why do you think your divorce-lawyer colleagues are so busy?”

  I sipped the coffee and swallowed hard, looking at my mother. “Mom, at this point Kate and I are past the mending stage. Things have gone broken for so long that they would be too hard to fix now. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. We were going to tell you after the holidays because we didn’t want to spoil Christmas for you or for her parents.”

  “How very grown up of you,” she offered acerbically.

  “But I have thought about trying to fix things. I really have. The bottom line is, making the effort wouldn’t be worth it because Kate doesn’t love me anymore.” Somehow those words hurt more than I expected. “I’m sorry, Mom, but it’s true.”

  She set her cup down with a thump.

  “Nonsense,” she blurted. “I know Kate. I know women. I know she still loves you, but she doesn’t feel loved, Robert. All she wants is to feel that you love and need her and can’t live without her. You make her feel like you’re living with her because you have to, not because you want to. Women want to feel cherished, and that they’re the most important thing in your life. You’ve made Kate feel as if she’s the third or fourth most important thing, and the girls don’t feel anything at all. You’re just some guy who pays the cable bill and wanders through the living room from time to time.” Her voice softened. “But I know she loves you, Robert. I know it wouldn’t take Kate long to remember why she fell in love with you in the first place, and if you’d give up some of the things you’re holding tight in your claws, you’d remember why you fell in love with her.”

  “Sounds easy, doesn’t it?” I mocked.

  “No,” she retorted, defensively. “As a matter of fact, it doesn’t sound easy at all. That’s why divorce is skyrocketing—because it’s much easier than actually working at the marriage. But there isn’t a book anywhere that says marriage is easy.” Her eyes blazed. “Never in the history of marriage ceremonies has any minister ever said, ‘You may kiss the bride and be on your way to an easy life.’ Whoever said ‘Life’s a breeze’ should be smacked! That person didn’t have a clue. Life isn’t easy. Just when you get close to having it figured out, they haul you away in a hearse.”

  I leaned back in the chair, interlocking my fingers on top of my head. “Things sure did seem a lot easier for you and Dad.”

  She burst into laughter. “Oh, my goodness. Your father and I were like Ralph Kramden and Lucy Ricardo the first ten years of our marriage. He always wanted his way, and I always wanted mine, and we’d roll up our sleeves, jump into the ring, and duke it out till one of us got tired,” she laughed. “If one person in a marriage expects to always get his or her way, they’re going to be mighty disappointed.”

  “Ralph Kramden and Lucy Ricardo weren’t even on the same show,” I said.

  “Exactly!”

  “But you always worked things out. Kate and I have never been able to do that.” I looked deep into the empty coffee cup. “When Dad died, you didn’t have any regrets.”

  She thought for a moment and then scooted her chair away from the table. “Come with me,” she motioned.

  I followed as she led me upstairs and into the bedroom she’d shared with my father for over thirty years. She removed the hand-stitched quilt from atop the cedar chest her mother had given them on their wedding day and opened the cherry lid, the familiar piney fragrance I remembered from childhood filling the room. Rummaging through the chest, she lifted out a small box and opened the lid. She folded open the tissue paper and pulled out a long, straight-stemmed pipe made of burly briar and handed it to me.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “This is my regret,” she answered softly. “This is a Dunhill Billiard from England. Your father always wanted one. I was saving it for a special occasion.” She took it back from me. “You know what I thought about as I held your father’s hand when he lay dying in that coma after his heart attack? I thought about this Dunhill Billiard pipe, buried up here in this stupid chest.” She stared at it for a moment and then re-wrapped the pipe in the tissue paper. “I don’t know what sort of occasion I was waiting for,” she said quietly, her voice trailing off, “because every day was a special occasion with your father. Every single day.” She tucked the box back into the chest and closed the lid. Taking my hands, she pulled me down on top of it, sitting next to me.

  “Don’t treat your wife or your kids like they’re not special, Robert,” she whispered, her eyes glistening. “They should be the most special people in the world to you.”

  “I know, Mom,” I said squeezing her arm.

  “No. You don’t. Maybe once you’ve lost them, you will. But don’t lose them Robert.” She grabbed my face and spoke plainly to me, “You and Kate can still make it,” she said sincerely. “It’s still fixable. But you have to work on fixing yourself first. It’s too easy to want to fix someone else but the hard part is fixing yourself. Instead of demanding more from her, you need to give more of yourself.” She dropped her hands and folded them around mine. “No man ever really lives, Robert,” she said softly, “until he gives himself away to others. That’s what you need to do. What did I always tell you and your brother at Christmas?”

  I rolled it off my tongue as if on tape. “That that’s why Jesus was born in a manger. He humbled Himself to give His life away for mankind. That’s the meaning of Christmas.” I then spoke in a high voice to imitate my mother, “Isn’t that right, boys?”

  She laughed and smacked my leg. “Finally, you’ve remembered something I’ve said over the years. Now why don’t you ever put any of that good advice to practice?”

  She turned off the lights in her bedroom and was heading back to the kitchen when Lily greeted us on the stairs. “Grandma, I need a treat,” she giggled. My mother raced her downstairs and cut slices of cake for everyone except me. (I just couldn’t stomach the thought of one more piece.) She poured milk into tall Santa glasses for the girls and sat down at the table with them for the final snack of the day. When they finished eating, Mom took one more picture of Hannah and Lily by the tree, and then it was time for everyone to gather up their coats and hats and mittens, the great swishing of Gore-Tex and nylon ending with hugs at the front door. It was snowing again. Three inches had collected on top of the car since dinner. My mother told me to drive carefully and to call and let her know we were safe.

  She went back to the kitchen and finished washing the dishes. She wrapped the leftover cake for Dalton and Heddy. Then, shutting off all the lights in the kitchen and living room, my mother fell into her favorite winged chair, the one she and my father purchased years ago at an auction, and stared into the lights of the uneven, magnificent mess of a Christmas tree her granddaughters had decorated, and closed her eyes. A few minutes later, the phone rang once, my signal that we were home safely. Only then could she fall asleep.

  Four

  Lif
e must be lived forwards, but it can be

  understood only backwards.

  —Sren Kierkegaard

  Monday was a day when nothing was going my way. I had scheduled an early meeting with one of my more important clients and was rushing out the door when Kate reminded me I’d promised to drop Hannah off at school that morning. Kate had to be at the hospital by eight and had asked me last week to take Hannah. I’d completely forgotten.

  With traffic, I’d kept my client waiting for twenty-five minutes. He was none too pleased. As if that weren’t bad enough, I’d recently taken my car in to have the brakes worked on. Gwen had recommended a place on the edge of town that was supposed to do good work, and they’d quite cheerily told me to bring the car back if there were any problems. The car was running fine, but I’d just received the bill. Now, I had a problem, and they were going to hear about it. You drive an expensive car and people think you have money to burn. They assume you won’t notice if they pad the bill. On my lunch hour, I headed to the shop. I had better things to do with my time. I asked the receptionist if I could speak to whoever had worked on my car. She summoned a man with the name Jack embroidered on his overalls.

  “Jack,” the receptionist began, “this is Robert Layton, and he has some questions about the work done on his car.”

  “Thank you, Jeannie. What can I help you with, Mr. Layton?” Jack asked politely. By the look on my face, he appeared to be dreading the answer.

  “Did you work on my car… Jack, is it?”

  “Yes. Jack. I worked on your car along with Carl.”

  “Who’s Carl?” I snipped.

  “He’s one of the owners. He’s been doing Mercedes work for over twenty years.”

  “Well, you’d think he’d know how to fix them then, wouldn’t you, Jack?” Jack winced every time I said his name. I was having a bad day, but, I reasoned, I pay good money for service, and I will make sure I get it. I won’t let anyone take me for a ride.

  “If your car still isn’t running right, Mr. Layton, we’d be glad to fix it for you.”

  “By looking at this bill, Jack, I don’t think I can afford to have you guys fix it again.” I threw the bill on the counter. Jeannie turned her head to her desk, looking as if she wished the phone would ring. “Do you mind explaining this bill?”

  Jack carefully looked over the work done and all the specific charges. “Mr. Layton, everything seems to be in order here.”

  “Everything seems to be in order, Jack?” I mocked. “Look at the total!”

  “Our prices have always been below our competitors’,” Jack assured me.

  “Below your competitors’?” I said, amazed, reading from the bill. “Two hundred and seventy dollars for front-brake work? You’re telling me that’s below your competitors prices? I should have just taken it to the dealership.”

  Jack shifted from one foot to the other as Jeannie began rummaging through her desk drawers.

  “You had warped discs on both front sides,” Jack explained. “We took the old ones off, cleaned everything up inside, and then put on brandnew rotors. Sometimes we can just rotate the rotors, but yours were too warped to do that. We even rotated and balanced your tires at no charge.”

  “Oh, well,” I said, throwing my arms in the air. “If I’d known you’d done that, I never would have complained.”

  Jeannie dug deeper into a drawer as Jack took a deep breath before attempting once again to appease me. “If your car’s still shaking when you brake, you can leave it with us and we’ll look at it again.”

  “No, thanks,” I said sharply, yanking the bill away from him. “Like I said, I can’t afford to leave my car here anymore. I guess since it’s Christmas, you guys think you can jack up the prices on guys like me…no pun intended, Jack.” Throwing open the office door, I added, “Oh, Jack, be sure to tell Carl that he shouldn’t expect my business anymore,” and slammed the door behind me.

  Sylvia was checking Maggie’s vital signs and gently caressing the thin arm resting on the bed. She glanced at the picture of Maggie up on the mantel and silently compared the image to the frail, gaunt shell of a woman lying before her. She changed the IV drip that administered medication through Maggie’s arm and gently massaged her hands and feet. That wasn’t part of her job description, but Sylvia felt that in more ways than one, tender touches were the most important part of her work. The redheaded nurse was ten or fifteen years Maggie’s senior and had a sweet, sensitive spirit. Maggie liked her very much.

  “Thank you, Sylvia,” Maggie said, smiling. Sylvia had seen some of her patients fight the dying process all the way to the end, kicking and screaming until the sheet was pulled over their heads. Then there were others who somehow managed to face death without fear, despite the sorrow they felt for those they would leave behind, people who could somehow meet death with a strange confidence…a knowing. People like Maggie.

  “You’re welcome, baby. You feeling all right?” But Sylvia already knew what Maggie would say.

  “I feel good.”

  Sylvia had seen other ovarian-cancer patients die, and she knew they didn’t feel well.

  “You’re not lying to me, are you?” she teased. “Because Sylvia does not like to be lied to.”

  “I’m all right. Really.”

  “Oh,” Sylvia exclaimed, running to the sofa. “I nearly forgot. I found this tucked away in one of my drawers last night,” she said, pulling a beautiful red and green scarf from her purse. “The colors of Christmas.” She pulled the blue scarf off Maggie’s bald head and tied the new one on, fashioning it into a knot so the tails hung down her neck. “Oh, my. This one makes your eyes pop. Let me get you the mirror.”

  “Thank you, Sylvia,” Maggie said. She smiled as she examined her image in the glass. “Last night I dreamed I had hair.”

  “You did?” Sylvia laughed. This wasn’t the first time a patient had dreamed of having hair.

  “And this time it was long and red, just like yours,” Maggie said. Sylvia chuckled, adjusting the pillows behind Maggie’s head. “I was driving a convertible, and my long red hair was blowing in the wind.” Maggie stopped, realizing she would never have long hair again, knowing she would never get behind the wheel of a convertible. Sylvia brushed her cheek and squeezed her hand.

  Rachel toddled to the bed and reached for her mother.

  “Up,” she ordered Sylvia.

  The little girl would often want to get up into the bed with her mother to snuggle. Maggie would scratch her back or tickle her arms. When Evelyn first realized Rachel wanted to be in the bed with her mother, she worried that the child would squirm too much and somehow hurt Maggie. When Sylvia set up the IV drip, Evelyn worried Rachel might rip the needle from Maggie’s arm. Evelyn tried several ways to discourage the baby from wanting to climb into the bed, but she would only persist, “Up,” she’d scold, her little fists thumping her chubby thighs. Maggie would say, “It’s all right, Mom. Set her up here,” and Rachel would burrow close to her mother, never fidgeting for a moment.

  “All right, baby girl,” Sylvia said lifting the child onto the bed. “Get up there and love on your mama.” Maggie wrapped her arms around Rachel, proceeding with the story of Cinderella and her handsome prince.

  Sylvia marked some things on Maggie’s chart, tucking it under her arm as she gathered her things to leave. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she told Evelyn.

  “Thank you, Sylvia,” Evelyn replied, showing her to the door.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Maggie,” Sylvia yelled. “And you too, Little Miss Rachel!”

  Evelyn closed the door behind Sylvia, wishing that they wouldn’t see her tomorrow or the next day or the next, because her frequent visits meant Maggie was getting sicker and sicker. One day Evelyn wouldn’t be able to care for her alone during the day, and Sylvia would be brought in for long shifts to help with Maggie’s medications, bathe her, and take her to the bathroom. Evelyn pushed such thoughts out of her head and busied herself cleaning the bathro
om. Through the open door, she listened to Maggie tell one story after another to Rachel, her enraptured audience. As each tale ended, Rachel would touch her mother’s face and say, “More Mama,” and Maggie would launch into Snow White or Rudolph or Joseph and Mary, each story more intriguing than the last. Rachel sat up in the bed when she heard her daddy’s car in the driveway.

  Jack had started going home on his lunch break as soon as Maggie told him she was ill. By the time he got home, ate, and went back to work, it was usually longer than an hour, but Carl, Ted, and Mike had all told him he should eat lunch at home, and if it took an hour and a half or two hours, it wasn’t a problem. Back when City Auto first opened, a large part of its winter business was putting snow tires on people’s cars, but now that everyone was driving four-wheel-drive vehicles, there was less of that. He was grateful for the extra hours at home.

  Jack was untying his boots in the front hall when Rachel called out, “Daddy!” from the bed where she was lying next to her mother. Jack lifted her up from the bed as she reached for him, kissing her forehead. He sat her down and leaned over to kiss Maggie. “How do you feel?”

  “Good. Not bad at all.”

  Evelyn emerged from the bathroom, whisking Rachel into her arms. “Who wants lunch?” she announced.

  “Me!” the little girl shouted, pointing to her chest.

  Evelyn set Rachel down, donned a pair of oven mitts, and took out the meat loaf she had been keeping warm in the oven. She put thick slabs of meat loaf between two slices of wheat bread spread with mustard, placed two large spoonfuls of potato salad beside the sandwich, poured a glass of iced tea, and handed it to Jack on the sofa. Evelyn managed to get a few bites of leftover mashed potatoes and applesauce into Rachel before laying her down for her nap, something Rachel always objected to vehemently.

  “She always fights a nap,” Evelyn sighed once the child was down. “Wonder who she gets that from?” she said, eyeballing Maggie. When Maggie was Rachel’s age, Evelyn would practically have to tie her down for her naps. Humming, Evelyn had started cleaning up what little mess there was in the kitchen when Maggie called for her.