by Susan Wiggs
He didn’t seem to know what her role was on the night he’d told her about, the night of his accident. Apparently he didn’t even realize she’d been present. It was remarkable how different her memory of that night was from Eddie’s.
Maureen had attended Heart of the Mountains Church all her life, and that year, it had been more important to her than ever. Her long-awaited, dreamed-of college semester abroad had come to a premature and devastating end. If her family hadn’t been there for her, she had no idea whether or not she would have survived. Yet that year, and in all the years since, no one had ever asked her what Eddie had tonight: Have you ever been that hurt by another person, so hurt you didn’t care if you lived or died?
Singing in the choir at the church that night, Maureen had lifted her voice up to the rafters and beyond. She’d known it then—there was nothing so powerful as the healing she’d found in coming home to her family. She’d always believed Christmas to be a season of miracles. The year they’d lost her mother, the miracle had happened for her father. He’d started to smile again, to live again. At a Christmas Eve potluck, he’d met Hannah, the woman he would eventually marry, the woman who would make their family whole again.
That year, it was Maureen’s turn.
She had dragged herself up from the depths of despair, and though she would never be free of the memories of her time overseas—the adventure, the romance, the heartache—she knew she would survive. That was something. When you learned you could survive the unbearable, you could take on the world.
Fortunately, taking on the world wasn’t required of Maureen. All she had to do was rethink her dreams and remake her own life.
In this, she’d had help. She wasn’t much of a believer in cosmic signs, but the world in general did seem to be sending her certain signals. Her heart broken and bleeding, she’d spent the remainder of her money on a last-minute ticket home. She’d reached the airport with only a few euro in her money belt. There, a kiosk crammed with books caught her eye. Yes. Her physical escape was one thing. But her mind had needed a refuge, too. And that refuge was the most reliable place of all—between the pages of a book.
She saw nothing ironic in the notion that a mystery novel rescued her from having a psychotic break. Some people needed a prescription from a doctor. Maureen needed a trip to the bookstore. At the airport, she’d bought a mystery novel by a popular author, opened it and immediately sank into the story. While she was reading, everything else fell away and she became part of a dark and dangerous world, vicariously experiencing a fantastic series of events. When she arrived home in Avalon, she read a fantasy novel about a quest to save a forgotten world. Then she read an Edith Wharton novel because someone had once told her that when you had a broken heart, you should always read an Edith Wharton novel just to see that your heartache was not nearly as bad as it might have been. After that, she read an international spy thriller about an ancient piece of art tainted by a curse.
During the post-breakdown period, she read books the way an addict swallowed pills. She devoured stories one after the other, trying not to let reality intrude too deeply. At the end of it all, when she knew she had to reclaim her life and remake it according to a new vision, she emerged with a strong, clear goal for herself.
“You’re changing your major to library science?” asked her sister Renée.
“That’s right.”
Her father had beamed at her. “We’ve never had a librarian in the family.”
It turned out to be the perfect fit for Maureen, so perfect that she was surprised she’d never considered a career as a librarian before.
And that Christmas Eve, surrounded by family, friends and fellow worshipers, she’d blended her voice with the others, and her heart filled up. Yes, she’d been hurt—devastated. But her spirit refused to break. Life was just too precious, and Christmas too wonderful, to be spent wallowing in misery.
From that moment onward, Maureen vowed, she was going to be all right. She was going to be—
On that night of reverence and healing, a terrific crash had exploded into her moment of revelation. All the lights in the church had gone out. Panic erupted from every quarter of the sanctuary. Women screamed and children cried. Parents gathered their families close and led them to safety. People took cover or fled through emergency exits, because at that point, no one knew what had happened.
Everyone rushed outside and saw that a fireball had smashed through the Christmas display and slammed into the building. It was not immediately apparent what had happened. Had a meteor hit?
As a blast of icy wind roared at the conflagration, Maureen could see what everyone else saw—the flaming, twisted, skeletal remains of a panel van. It was a red-hot shell, a torch, setting fire to the timber beams of the portico at the main entrance.
There was a hiss and whir as the sprinkler system engaged.
A few people leaped into action, yelling into mobile phones. A guy dressed like a shepherd used his staff to break open the fire extinguisher case, and an alarm shrieked into the night.
Kids in their angel and livestock costumes gathered in an intermingling flock.
Several people tried to get to the van, but the deadly flames held them back.
“Good Lord have mercy,” someone said. “Have mercy on those poor souls in the van, whoever they are.”
“No one could have survived that crash,” someone else commented. “The thing must have burst into flames on impact.”
Maureen’s heart lurched. To see people killed on Christmas Eve only compounded the cruelty of the tragedy.
Within minutes, sirens sounded and the emergency vehicles started to arrive. Unnatural blue and red light swept the area, smearing color across the snow.
Maureen felt drawn to the scene, although she was of little use when it came to rescuing people. Someone—a firefighter—said it was a recovery situation, not a rescue. “It’d take a miracle to survive that fireball,” said one of the EMTs.
As the meaning of that sank in, Maureen felt sick. She turned from the scene, lifting her feet high through the drifted snow. She felt oddly guilty, remembering how happy, how peaceful she’d been feeling only moments before. It was horrible to realize that while she was quietly exulting in the new direction of her dreams, someone else’s life was ending. She felt horribly connected to the event. In the sanctuary, she had wept tears of relief upon realizing she had a home to return to, a family to comfort her. She was surprised that only moments had passed since then. It felt like so much longer. She automatically did a head count of her family, finding them all present and accounted for—her dad and stepmom, somber and holding each other close. Her sisters, her brother and his family—everyone safe and sound.
Drawing her choir robe more snugly around her, she wandered through the crowd. Kids were still crying. Some people prayed. Others looked desperate to do something, anything. Two guys were arguing about letting people back into the building. Everything had been left there—coats and purses, street clothes, car keys. Pastor Hogarth was inviting people into the reflection chapel, an annex to the church that had not been saturated by the sprinklers, which had been tripped on when someone pulled a fire alarm. He wanted to hold an impromptu prayer vigil for the unknown victims of the crash. The voices all sounded distant and hollow to Maureen, and no one spoke to her. It was as if she were invisible. Was her choir robe an invisibility cloak? The silvery fabric had been chosen by Mrs. Bickham years ago; she insisted the metallic look added a festive touch. Maureen had always thought they added a Vegas show-girl touch, but maybe that was just her. She detached herself from the crowd, heading away from the smoke and the noise.
Bloodred flashes fell from the revolving light of an emergency vehicle. This was crisscrossed by the glaring beams of searchers’ flashlights and the bluish lightning bolts of police squad cars, flooding the area and turning the snow to an eerie shifting field of color. Here and there, she could see items from the nativity scene—piles of straw and broken wea
thered wood, unidentifiable bits of plaster statuary and shattered floodlights.
Weirdly, there was one string of lights still burning, unscathed by the accident. The string crossed the churned-up snow, clearly delineating the path of the out-of-control van.
The poor driver. Had he been scared? Had he panicked or had it all happened so fast that there was no time to feel anything?
She hoped that was the case. Hoped it had not been excruciating. She stopped for a moment, said a little prayer to that effect. To her surprise, her cheeks felt damp with tears.
She found baby Jesus, head down in the snow. She picked it up by one plaster arm. It was the same plaster baby on display year after year, forever frozen in a beatific pose, reclining with arms spread, palms out, a gold leaf coronet circling the head. The back of the statue was stamped with HECHO EN MEXICO.
It felt vaguely irreverent to abandon the plaster infant, but she wasn’t helping anything by dragging it around. She set it right side up in a snowbank.
Maureen was shivering now, the snow and cold penetrating her thin silver choir robe.
She nearly tripped over one of the wise men. At least, she thought it was one of the magi, or maybe it was a shepherd, or poor long-suffering Joseph. Bending to have a closer look, she let out a little scream and jumped back. Her heart nearly leaped from her chest.
Then she called herself a fool and approached more cautiously, leaning forward and removing her glasses.
She gasped loudly, realizing her eyes had not deceived her earlier. This was no wise man. This is no plaster saint at all. It was a man. A dazed and broken man, lying half-hidden in the snow, his eyes softly shut. A thin dark line marred his forehead. He looked young; he had longish, light-colored hair and a face she vaguely recognized.
“Hey,” she said, her voice cracking. “Hey—hello?” She dared to touch him, nudging his arm. “I need some help over here!” she called, not looking away from the stranger. Without thinking, she reached out and stroked his cheek.
Warm. He was warm.
“Hallelujah,” she murmured. “Please be who I think you are,” she said. “Please be the car’s only occupant.”
His eyes fluttered open. In the artificial light flooding the area, she couldn’t make out the color. But she could make out his faint smile. Why on earth was he smiling? At her?
“Another angel?” he murmured. “This place is crawling with angels.”
“What?” She looked around, saw no one; apparently no one had heard her call out a moment ago. “What?” she said again, and then: “Where?”
He shifted, gingerly pulled himself up by bracing one arm behind him. The other arm didn’t look so good, hanging at an awkward angle. Aside from that, he had a couple of cuts on his forehead and chin, one on his right cheekbone just below the rim of his eye. But he was alive, and talking. Considering the state of his vehicle, that was a miracle.
He frowned at her. “Sorry. For a second, you looked like an angel to me.”
Despite the circumstances, Maureen felt a beat of warmth. She could safely say no man had ever mistaken her for an angel. Then she snapped herself back to reality. “You were driving the van,” she said. “A white van?”
“Yeah.” He frowned. “I was.”
“Were you by yourself?” she asked. Please say yes. Please say yes. “Was anyone else in the car with you?”
“I was alone,” he said. His teeth were chattering now. “All by my lonesome.” Then he looked panicked. “Did I hurt any one? Oh, Christ, did I hit—”
“No,” she quickly assured him. “Everyone’s fine. And you’re going to be fine, too.”
Thank heaven, she thought, allowing herself to smile weakly with relief. She remembered hearing the grim voice of the EMT…“It’d take a miracle to survive that fireball.”
“You got a real nice smile,” said the miracle.
Part Two
CREDO AT CHRISTMAS
At Christmastime I believe the things that children do.
I believe with English children that holly placed in windows will protect our homes from evil.
I believe with Swiss children that the touch of edelweiss will charm a person with love.
I believe with Italian children that La Befana is not an ugly doll but a good fairy who will gladden the heart of all.
I believe with Greek children that coins concealed in freshly baked loaves of bread will bring good luck to anyone who finds them.
I believe with German children that the sight of a Christmas tree will lessen hostility among adults.
I believe with French children that lentils soaked and planted in a bowl will rekindle life in people who have lost hope.
I believe with Dutch children that the horse Sleipner will fly through the sky and fill the earth with joy.
I believe with Swedish children that Jultomte will come and deliver gifts to the poor as well as to the rich.
I believe with Finnish children that parties held on St. Stephen’s Day will erase sorrow.
I believe with Danish children that the music of a band playing from a church tower will strengthen humankind.
I believe with Bulgarian children that sparks from a Christmas log will create warmth in human souls.
I believe with American children that the sending of Christmas cards will build friendships.
I believe with all children that there will be peace on earth.
—attributed to Daniel Roselle, co-founder, Safe Passage Foundation
Six
Daisy Bellamy set her two-year-old in Santa’s lap and stepped back, holding her breath and hoping for the best. The setting looked beautiful this year—a skating hut that had been turned into a gingerbread house, with Santa ensconced on his wingback throne, giving dreamy-faced kids a “Ho Ho Ho” and promising them the moon. She offered up the prayer known to parents of toddlers everywhere—Please let him sit still long enough to get the shot.
Hurry up, she silently urged the helper dressed like an elf. Take the shot. Take it. Now. In photography, timing was everything.
The elf held up a squeaky toy in one hand and the shutter release in the other. “Look at the birdie,” he said in a light, singsong voice.
Charlie’s eyes, usually twin emerald buttons of merriment, widened with horror. He looked from the red-clad, bearded stranger upon whose knee he sat, to the goggle-eyed elf holding up the squeaking thing. Charlie sucked in a breath, and there was a moment of perfect, stunned silence.
Take it, take it, take it, Daisy thought.
The elf pressed the shutter a split second too late. By that moment, Charlie’s face had contorted into a mask of abject terror. His tiny T-shirt read Santa Loves Me but his expression said, “Who’s the freak?” He let out a tortured wail that could probably be heard by everyone standing in line outside the gingerbread-bedecked cottage.
Daisy swooped in and rescued him. He clung to her, a shuddering mass of sobs, his wet face pushed into her chest, his tiny fists digging into her sweater. He refused to let go even long enough for her to get his parka on him, so she settled for merely draping it around his shoulders. “You’ll probably catch pneumonia,” she muttered.
“’Monia,” he echoed with a tragic sniffle.
She made her way toward the exit, which obliged her to parade the tormented child past the other waiting children and parents. At a glance, they appeared to be well-groomed, calm children, accompanied by their soccer moms and commuter dads. Daisy could imagine them critiquing her parenting, speculating that she’d given her toddler too much candy or skipped his nap. (Guilty on both counts, but still.) That was the trouble with teenage mothers, they’d probably say. They just aren’t ready to be parents.
Daisy wasn’t a teenager anymore, but she still looked it, having rushed from class in her worn jeans and old snowboard parka to pick Charlie up from the sitter. She’d been pregnant at eighteen, a mother at nineteen. In just a short time, she’d gone from being a student at a Manhattan prep school to being a single mo
ther in a small town, where she’d moved to be close to her family. Now Charlie was two and a half, and she was pushing twenty-one, which sounded young, yet there were times when being a single mom made her feel older than rock itself.
She sneaked a glance at a woman in heeled boots and a fashionable houndstooth jacket, bending down to put the finishing touches on her silky-haired daughter’s bow. The two of them looked as if they’d stepped out of the pages of a magazine. How did they do it? Daisy wondered. How did they look so pulled-together and calm, instead of rushing from place to place, always forgetting something?
Deep breath, she told herself. She was blessed many times over with plenty of friends and family for support. She did acknowledge that she struggled because living on her own was her choice. Though her family had money, Daisy possessed a streak of independence and pride that made her want to succeed on her own. Charlie was healthy, she was making her way toward a college degree (albeit slowly) and getting occasional work in photography, her area of discipline at the State University at New Paltz. The holidays were on their way, the first big snow of the year had arrived, and life was good enough. She reminded herself to find and savor the moments of sweetness.
“Okay,” she said to Charlie. “I’m relaxed. So what if we didn’t get a shot with Santa?”
“Santa!” Charlie said, rearing back to regard her with shining eyes. “Lub him.”
“Right. We got a picture of just how much you love him.” They walked by a path marked by human-size lollipops. She stopped and made him put on his parka then, because it was a bit of a hike across the park to the car. “I’ll do your Christmas picture myself,” she said. “We don’t need no stinkin’ Santa.”
“Santa!” He clapped his hands, clearly still in love with the idea of Santa. Plunking him on the lap of a fat, bearded stranger—now, that was another story.