Chasing Christmas

by Steven Hunt

  “She’s under a lot of stress. Her world has fallen apart. She’ll be better when Teddy gets home. But then, you and he will need to provide her with extra love and a secured home environment—without coddling—to help her. Otherwise you may lose her to her anger forever.”

  “How?” Jane sniffed. She wiped at her runny nose with a tissue.

  “By being great examples for her to follow. By loving her unconditionally. By establishing ground rules. Set boundaries and keep them.”

  “We…” she started to argue then stopped. She glanced at the closed door before nodding. “You’re right. We can do better. But why didn’t you want her to stay?”

  He moved to the now-vacant chair next to her. “I’ve discovered that it’s better to have people of like mind in an important meeting such as this. It becomes a hindrance when someone plays the devil’s advocate. Statements are made. Feelings get hurt. And the purpose of the meeting is not resolved. We’ll be able to talk more openly without having to dodge Mandy’s feelings.” He leaned back, smiling. “What she doesn’t know is that Mrs. Gibson is a firecracker. She’s been blessed with the ability to speak to kids in trouble.” He chuckled. “She’ll probably hear more religious talk with Mrs. Gibson than she would have with me.” Joseph shifted in his chair. “Now. How can I help?”

  Jane dropped her head. “I don’t exactly know how to explain it—“

  “Just try.”

  She wiped her cheeks with the palm of her hand. The tears on her hand were clean. When was the last time she had worn mascara? Shaking her head, she realized she had not been herself since Teddy disappeared. Every day since high school she had worn makeup.

  The dam broke a little more.

  “OK.” She sniffed. “I feel we need…divine intervention…for Teddy. I don’t know where the thought came from, but it’s there and I can’t shake it. The police haven’t been much help and the man we thought was a close friend has other…er, motives. This whole thing has blown up in our faces, and it’s tearing us…me apart inside.” She swallowed hard. “If Teddy’s ever going to come home, I need help.”

  A smile crossed his face. “Do you believe in the Truth?”

  Jane nodded weakly.

  “All right, then. Let’s talk.” He reached for his Bible.

  21

  Their lunch consisted of dry baloney sandwiches, small bags of baked chips, juice boxes, bottles of water, and of course, red apples. By Yebo’s continual pushing, pulling, and prodding, they’d landed the fourth and fifth places in line.

  “Lunch is better on weekends,” Yebo said around a big bite of sandwich. In the short time he’d known her he discovered that Yebo loved to ramble. It could have been that she didn’t have many people to talk with on any given day or maybe it was that she just loved to talk. Either way Teddy knew he’d have to listen to every word to weed out the worthless from the important. As hard as he tried his mind still drifted.

  She continued, “On the weekends they serve large, home-cooked meals. Man, oh, man, do I look forward to them. I don’t know, maybe the cooks have more time on the weekends since they don’t have to go to their day jobs.” She crammed another large bite of sandwich into her mouth. “The absolute best meal is…”

  Teddy’s thoughts wandered. What did Yebo have to offer? She lived on the street, for Pete’s sake! Wasn’t she supposed teach him about hope? How much hope could a homeless person have? They’d gotten themselves in their situations because of the absence of hope. If he believed the newspapers and television reports most homeless persons had given up. “Homeless and hopeless” was a favorite term of the local press. So what exactly was Christy trying to show him? Did she know that Yebo was homeless before she sent him here? Of course, she did. Otherwise she would have directed him to a house instead of an alley.

  Give her a chance.

  He straightened at the sound of the voice. Yanking his head from his left to his right, he searched for the person who had spoken in his ear. No one stood close. No one watched him to judge his reaction. Different from Bud’s voice he’d heard in the woods, this one sounded more powerful. As if a four-part choir had spoken the message without a single voice being dominant. Perfect symmetry.

  The voice again breathed in his ear, Give her a chance.

  “Did you hear that?”

  Yebo stopped chewing and looked at him. She raised her eyebrows, asking What?

  “A voice.”

  “You heard a voice?” She swallowed.

  An image of a white panel truck skidding to the curb and two brawny men in white jackets hauling him to a mental hospital played in his mind. “Uh, never mind. I must have been mistaken.”

  Yebo shrugged before returning to her meal.

  He looked at his sandwich. He’d heard a voice, of that he was certain. But who would believe him? After two bites, he crammed the rest of his sandwich into the paper bag, deciding to stick with the apple.

  “Are you going to eat that?” Yebo asked, nodding to the food.

  Even before he’d finished shaking his head, she snatched the sack from his hand and shoved it into a pocket of her large dress. Teddy watched with amazement, prompting a “You never know when you’re going to get another meal out here,” from Yebo.

  “Have you lived on the streets long?” Teddy bit into his apple, producing an audible crunch.

  “Yeah, you could say that. Time has gotten away from me, but I guess around eight years.”

  “Wow! Eight years? I can’t imagine being home—uh, living on the stre—uh, being out here that long.” He felt his face turn hot.

  She didn’t seem to notice. Her focus had been on her apple, turning it over in her hands, looking for the perfect place to take her first bite.

  “Why haven’t you gotten help? I mean to find a more stable place to live? I’m sure you could find some work. At least something that would provide a source of income.”

  “I have everything I need. I have my shelter. Everyone who’s been in this lifestyle for any time knows it’s mine and they don’t bother it or me. I get most of my meals from the community center, and when they’re closed I know I’ll be provided for. I don’t have any need for money and I get to talk to practically anyone I wish.” She smiled at him. “Who turns from someone in need? Even if it’s just to say hello?”

  “I suspect many people.”

  Yebo stared at the apple in her hand for a moment. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  “Why don’t I what?”

  “Seek a more stable lifestyle.”

  “Oh, that. I had one…once. I had a great job, a nice home, and a loving husband. We cooked dinner every weeknight and grilled on the weekends.” She beamed while her eyes searched the distance. “We ate at the table like a real family. We attended parties and local events, supporting the community. We even attended the local high school football games and donated to charities. It was wonderful. I guess since we were in love, everything seemed sweet and bright. I was happy with my life.” The tone of her voice dropped.

  “What happened?”

  “My husband died.” Her voice cracked as she turned away from him. He saw her swipe at a cheek.

  “I…I’m sorry.”

  Yebo waved her hand. “After he died, I hit rock bottom. I didn’t want to live anymore. I started drinking. I lost my job, our friends, and everything that was significant in my life. Before I knew it I was broke and living on the street.”

  Yebo looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “Then Christine appeared. I could tell she wanted to help me, but I was angry, bitter, and sad. I’d been homeless almost six months by that time. My normal routine had become so that I lunched on the square every day, and I always ate at a picnic table far away from everyone. The people in the park knew to leave me alone. Must have been my sparkling personality.” She giggled. Her laughter faded as the smile slipped from her face. “I wasn’t a pleasant person then. If anyone approached I ripped their head off
. And not with nice words either. That day was no exception except she stood over there next to that giant oak tree—” she pointed with the hand that held her half-eaten apple “—watching me. She was so beautiful and perfect; elegant like an angel. She had long, flowing, blonde hair, a Marilyn Monroe body, and the most beautiful pink and white dress I’d ever seen. When she smiled—”

  “Wait! Did you say pink and white dress?”

  “Yeah. Why is the color of her clothes important?”

  His mind swirled with thoughts, arranging the pieces of the puzzle in his mind. There was a mystery here and he needed to solve it. Since Christy refused to share any personal information with him, he’d have to assemble the clues bit by bit. “Christy wears a pink and white dress.”

  “You don’t say. Now isn’t that interesting? Or is it just coincidence? Hmm?” She tilted her head like Christy had done.

  “Also Ezi’s Christopher preferred a pink and white shirt.”

  “Who?”

  “Ez—never mind. You were saying?” Teddy’s mind swam with possibilities. Could they have been just coincidences? Maybe if two of the special persons wore pink and white. But all three? His heart raced. He was getting closer to discovering Christy’s secret.

  Why was he so infatuated with her identity? His fastidiousness—his hunger—to uncover who Christy was clouded the sole reason for his journey; to learn the three lessons that would pave the road back to his family.

  Hadn’t Ezi said that not believing in the Truth opened the door to doubt and depression? Or something like that? So what was Christy’s truth?

  Only Christy knew.

  No, Ezi knew.

  And Yebo might know also.

  Teddy’s software engineering professor had described problem solving much like peeling an onion. Each layer is removed until the bulb—or core—is reached. Only then can one see the problem and develop a solution.

  Christy was his onion. He just had to continue peeling away the layers.

  Yebo continued. “Anyway, once I got tired of her staring across the park at me, I started to her, but when I arrived she was gone. It was probably for the best since I hadn’t intended to become friends, if you know what I mean?”

  Yebo glanced toward a jungle gym where children were laughing and playing. She smiled. “The next week there she was again; wearing that same dress and that same smile. This time I caught up to her before she got away. Remember I was extremely bitter then—not the sweet person that sits beside you now—and very depressed.” She winked at him. “I’d lost everything, and no one seemed to care. I would have gladly given up my career, my home, and the stability they provided if I could have gotten one more day with my husband. My thinking at the time was warped, and I thought my life would have been better if I ended it.”

  Teddy caught the wink and realized that Yebo knew of his attempt to take his own life. Ezi had also known. But Ezi and Yebo both claimed they didn’t know Christy. A missing piece to the puzzle.

  Christy, Christopher, and Christine—all similar names. More coincidence?

  “What did you do? I mean, as a job?” he asked, trying to keep her talking—not that it was hard to keep Yebo talking. But she might allow a few tidbits of information slip about the mysterious three.

  Yebo glanced at him like the question had lanced her. She turned her face away from him.

  “I didn’t mean to pry—“

  Yebo raised her hand to cut him off. She inhaled a deep breath before saying, “I was a physician’s assistant. My husband was my sponsoring doctor.”

  A “Wow” escaped his mouth before he could stop it.

  Her eyes glistened. “I know your next question before you ask. Believe me, I’ve been asked that question more times than I can count. You want to know: How does one with an advanced education end up living on the street? My life should have been milk and honey, right? The simple answer is that Stan’s death hit me hard—very hard. Not only had I lost my husband, I also lost my employer. As much as I tried, the pain would not go away. I turned to numbing comfort—a big mistake. Sleeping pills, pain pills, antipsychotics, and anything else that I could get my hands on. Without a doctor-sponsor, obtaining narcotics was nearly impossible since I’d lost my prescription-writing privileges. So I bought what I could on the street and anywhere illegal drugs were sold. Street dealers, corrupt doctors, nursing home employees, I tried them all. Still the pain didn’t go away. I turned to alcohol and chased the pills with liquor. The only place it got me was in the psych ward after an overdose.”

  She sighed. “I couldn’t even stay in my beautiful home anymore. I associated pain with everything in it. My television reminded me of Stan. I saw his face in my bathroom mirror. I smelled him on the sheets. Some say what I did was irrational, but I didn’t care. I needed relief. I sold everything, including the house. If the buyer had cash, it sold on the spot. I emptied our bank accounts and left what didn’t sell behind. Here is where I ended up.” She looked toward the alley. “My new home.” Her voice cracked as she wiped her eyes with her fingers.

  “So when I met Christine, she told me she knew the pain I felt and said she was there to help me. I refused. I didn’t want her help. I needed to feel the pain. I needed to suffer.” Yebo exhaled deeply. “She persisted, but not with words. With actions. She sat right over there.” Yebo pointed to a park bench by the edge of the park.

  Teddy noticed her hand trembled.

  “Day in and day out. Rain or shine. She was even there some nights. Sitting and smiling. Eventually, I grew tired of seeing her, but I knew she wouldn’t quit until I gave in. So I went to her and said, ‘OK. Take me out of this depression if you think you can. Do your magic.’ I know it was a condescending thing to say, but she didn’t take offense. I agreed to listen to her, to try what she said, thinking that she’d go away when she failed. The depression had such a tight grip on me I thought I would be too big of a job for this little Barbie. I waited for her to become frustrated, throw her hands in the air, and give up. But she didn’t.” Yebo grinned. “When things got tough—mostly my bitterness—she dug in and worked harder. She taught me how to have hope—something I’d lost the day Stan died.” She exhaled as if just telling the story unchained a heavy burden from her shoulders.

  “Does Christine remind you of anyone? Maybe from your past? A sister or a friend?”

  “You know, I always thought that she looked familiar…but I couldn’t place from where I knew her. Now that the years have passed, I think she reminds me of my best friend in college, Gail. Gail and I shared some of the best times of my life. They say that the college years are the formative years. Well, I don’t know about formative, but ours were definitely inspiring.” She shifted to look at him. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because Christy, my…um, facilitator…reminds me of my daughter, Mandy. Not the Mandy I know now, but a younger version.”

  She nodded. “Interesting.”

  “Once Christine taught you how to hope again, why didn’t you go back to your regular life?”

  “This is my regular life, Teddy. In the purest form. How much more exciting can life be not knowing if someone is going to rob—or maybe kill you—just because they want your dirty five-dollar blanket. Not knowing when or from where your next meal will come? If you get sick, who will care for you? All of these people”—she waved her arm to the homeless persons starting to gather in groups around the park—“rely on the generosity of others. They depend on each other. Unlike the ones who’ll be snug in their warm beds tonight, many of these people don’t even know where they’ll sleep. They live life on the edge not by choice but because of their unfortunate situations. This, my friend, is hope in the highest form. Without hope, these people have nothing. I know this type of life is not for the weak and foreboding, but for myself, I’ve chosen to live this type of lifestyle in order to help them. Where I once used my knowledge of medicine for personal profit, I now use it for them and their gain.”

  Teddy scratched
the side of his forehead. “But why? You could be on top of the world again.”

  She looked him in the eyes. “You don’t understand because you haven’t yet learned to let go of worldly possessions and place all of your faith in the Truth. You’ll get there. But I know from where you’re coming because I was the same. You see these ratty clothes?” With her thumb and finger she pinched her dress. “The dirty hair,”—She ran her fingers through her tangled hair—“the cardboard box house, and you wonder why I’ve chosen to stay. You must think I’m crazy. It’s true I have the education to get another job, to live in a nice home, to wear nice clothes, and not have to worry about food. But take away the selfishness and ask yourself: who will look after these people if I’m gone? Who will give them medical care? They can’t afford to go to a hospital, and they’ll become a laughingstock if they try to schedule an appointment with a family practitioner. Those with money look upon these people as second-class citizens because they aren’t able to afford health insurance, they haven’t any money in their pockets, and because their wardrobe came from someone’s discarded pile. They don’t have many options when they get sick. So they look to me, knowing I can leave, but have chosen to stay with them. They know I’m sacrificing another lifestyle for them. If I have a chance to help one person—just one—my time here is well spent. I offer hope; hope that they too can achieve the opportunity to get out.” She waved at a child no older than ten as he and his mother walked by. The child smiled and waved, but her mother shot a look of disgust in their direction.

  “Did you see the look that woman gave us?” After Teddy nodded she said, “That’s the reaction we get every day from the people who live in houses. To them we’re scum. But to the people of the streets, I’m royalty. I respect them, and they respect me. I’m a living example of hope.”

  She continued, “Do you see that man over there wearing the dress coat?” She pointed across the park to a man in his thirties wearing a grungy, dark blue trench coat. Like most of the homeless, he had collected aluminum cans and now carried them in several plastic bags hefted over his shoulder. “He used to be a lawyer—a prosecutor. His mind snapped one day after sending a child molester to prison. His hope drained when he realized, beside his best efforts, he could not protect all children from harm. He saw his job of prosecuting as reactive to the crime, unable to prevent more atrocities. Each day he prosecuted major criminals—sending them to prison—but the victims still carried the scars, the memories, the pain. He felt hopeless to help them. His job became a vicious cycle; once a bad person had been carted off to prison, another took his place.