Last Christmas Card

by Briggs, Laura

  "Hey, honey, we have a couple of guests," he called. "I'm Nate Hydberg, by the way." He gestured towards a woman emerging from the kitchen wearing a holiday sweater and apron. "This is my wife Janet. My dad–Mac junior–is out back with the rest of the family."

  "I'm sorry–are we interrupting something?" asked Ty, his brow furrowed. "Stupidly, I was thinking with Thanksgiving past, that now was a good time to drop by."

  "Oh, it's just a little family thing," Janet answered. "It's fine, sit down." She patted the sofa cushions and motioned for Samantha to sit.

  "Where are those albums of Grandpa's, honey?" asked Nathan, scanning the crowded bookshelves in the room. After a moment, he pulled a thick scrapbook from among the paperbacks and photograph albums crammed around it.

  "This has some of Grandpa's old pictures in it," he said. "From before he went overseas. Friends, family, a few of his fellow soldiers are in here, too." He handed Samantha the album as he sank down in a nearby armchair.

  Samantha opened the volume, revealing black photo pages with snapshots clipped inside. Black and white images of women in flowered dresses and chiffon, men in double-breasted suits and fedoras.

  "That's Mac Hydberg the original." Nathan sat forward in his chair to tap a photo in the corner of the page. "That's my future Grandma, Elise Howard."

  "So not Bette Larsen, huh?" said Ty. Sitting next to Samantha, he drew closer to study the picture. His breath brushed against her skin, his hand mere inches from her own as he took hold of the book and drew it closer.

  "I don't recall Grandpa ever mentioning a girl named Bette," admitted Nathan. "He used to tell stories about old girlfriends before he went off to war. But by the time he was drafted, he claimed he was in love with his future wife. I guess maybe there could have been a secret love or an old flame," Nathan laughed.

  In between the photos were mementos of the past: party invitations, flyers for town events, even a flattened bottle cap glued to the page. As she turned through the volume, Samantha looked for any samples of handwriting that matched the envelope. The curving loops above the photos on the pages seemed almost feminine by comparison. Mac's daughter or wife probably assembled this volume for him. Writing "Mac and his mother Ethel, 1944" and "Friends Frank and Julie, 1948".

  She wondered if any of the faces belonged to Bette Larsen. Would he keep a snapshot of a girl he begged to love him from far overseas? Especially if it wasn't returned as he wished?

  "Didn't your grandfather have a girlfriend who died while he was in the war?" asked Janet. "I seem to remember him telling the story once. About a sister of one of his friends, maybe. She died of the flu or pneumonia."

  "Maybe so," Nathan answered, slowly. "Dad would know–honey, see if he'll come inside for a few minutes."

  Janet opened one of the glass patio doors and stepped outside. The brief sound of laughter and voices talking, the smell of food cooking before the door closed again.

  "So how did you end up with this card?" asked Nathan, picking up the envelope again from the table.

  "It was delivered to my house," answered Samantha. "Sixty years late, I guess."

  His mouth twisted into an incredulous smile as he glanced at the address on the envelope. "You drove all the way from Boston to find out who sent a card?" he asked.

  "Yeah, she did," Ty answered. "Apparently, we're kind of crazy like that."

  Something about his "we" made her blush. A sense of comradeship between them that she hadn't felt when he told her he would help. Picturing the man beside her as doing crazy things seemed impossible–even knowing his past. But a man who once diffused bombs would hardly consider delivering mail to a stranger an obstacle.

  "You're planning to give this card back to Bette, I take it?" asked Nathan. "That's why you wanted to see Grandpa."

  "It is," said Samantha. "Do you think there's any chance he would remember her? If he knew her, that is?" She crossed her fingers that the answer was yes. But the face across from her looked gloomy.

  "Probably not," Nathan answered, gently. "He's on a lot of medication since his hip surgery is scheduled for a couple of days from now. His car accident left him in a lot of pain–he hasn't even recognized me the last few times I visited." Nathan fingered the seal on the envelope, as if curious about what was inside. Glancing up, he smiled at the sight of a man opening the patio door.

  "Here's Dad," he announced. "Dad, these people think they found a card that Grandpa mailed during the war. To an old girlfriend, maybe."

  Mac Junior shrugged off his heavy parka and gave them a grin. "Friends of my father, eh?" he asked. "Come to look through all his old pictures–must be a dozen albums on those shelves."

  "Does this look like something he would've mailed?" Nathan handed his father the card.

  Fumbling through his pocket, Mac produced a pair of reading glasses and studied the envelope carefully. He turned it over, examining the sealed flap, then back again. One finger traced the postmark, then the address in the center.

  "No," he said. "That's not my father's handwriting. He always crossed his 't's funny–that's how I always recognized his papers. And I think he was stationed in England by '47. Almost home again, so to speak."

  Samantha's face fell with disappointment. Mac handed the card to her. "Sorry about that," he said. "Shame it's not my dad's, though. We might've been able to find her since he kept a pretty thorough photographic record of his girlfriends." He sat down on the love seat. "Some pretty girls in that album. Not as pretty as yours, though," he said to Ty with a wink in Samantha's direction.

  Ty's face reddened for a moment. "I'm not–she's ... I'm afraid I'm not that lucky, sir. Just a friend." He glanced apologetically towards Samantha as a crimson flush crept upwards from his collar.

  "That's too bad," laughed Mac. "If I were you, I'd do something about that before she finds some other young fellow."

  Nathan checked his watch. "We'd like for you to join us for dinner if you like. We're grilling a couple of turkeys, having some salad and trimmings. Late Thanksgiving, since Grandpa's condition was touch and go until now."

  "Oh, no, we couldn't impose on you like that," Samantha answered, closing the photo album.

  "It's no imposition," answered Janet. "We'd be honored."

  Samantha noticed the woman's glance falling on the faded military insignia on Ty's sleeve, where his military service was quietly displayed. "Then we'll stay," she said, glancing at Ty's face to gauge his reaction. "Won't we?"

  He was quiet for a moment. "Sure," he answered, finally. "Sounds great."

  "Then I'll go set a couple of extra places," said Janet, her face brightening.

  *****

  The swing in the Hydberg's backyard was suspended from a large oak tree. Samantha pushed herself back and forth, her sneakers trailing in the dust circle beneath. No doubt created by the great-grandchildren of Mac Hydberg as they pushed themselves higher.

  Smoke drifted from the grill as the fire cooled in the late afternoon. She could still taste the smoky flavor of the meat, the onion stuffing and macaroni salad from Janet's generous servings. The chaos of happy family conversation as a crowd of Hydbergs passed each other dishes and rolls.

  This kind of gathering was more foreign than the countries stamped on her passport; even when her mom was alive, there was no big family to plan holiday gatherings or bring casseroles and pies to the dining table.

  The patio door slid open, the sound of conversation drifting outside as Ty emerged. He closed the door behind him, stuffing his hands in his jacket.

  "Kind of cool out here," he said, crossing the patio. "Sure you don't need something better than that old windbreaker?" He nodded towards her jacket.

  "I'm warm enough," she answered. "Too much turkey, so I thought I'd try a little fresh air."

  With a short laugh, he strolled closer. "They're quite a family," he said, leaning against a plastic playhouse assembled in the yard. "Can't say I'm used to that kind of holiday celebration."

  "I r
emember you said you didn't have any family," she answered.

  He dropped his gaze for a moment. "True. I was a foster kid," he answered. "Spent most of childhood moving from house to house. They said it was so we wouldn't get attached. But that's what you want most, then. Something to be attached to."

  The toes of her sneakers dug into the dirt. "I didn't have this kind of life as a kid, either," she answered. "My mom and I were pretty much alone. And when she died, there was just me."

  His eyes raised to meet hers, a strong blue that she had never noticed until now. "Sucks, doesn't it?" he asked.

  She couldn't help the laugh that escaped her. "I guess it does, sometimes," she answered. "Seeing a family like this, all their traditions and connections, it makes you wish you had something like it."

  "That would be kind of inconvenient for a missionary, wouldn't it?" he answered. "I mean, cutting those ties again and again, every time you take off for foreign lands."

  "Any more than for a soldier?" she retorted. He hesitated, then chuckled.

  "True," he said. "Maybe I was lucky to be on my own, huh?" There was a slightly bitter tone in his voice.

  She shook her head. "You weren't alone. Maybe you didn't have a family, but someone still cared about you." She glanced towards the house. "Don't you know that's why they asked us to stay today?"

  His jaw tightened. "I don't need people to feel sorry for me," he said. "It was a choice I made, a job that I loved–it wasn't something people have to give me gifts for doing."

  "That's not why they did it," she answered. "They wanted to say thank you, that's all." She let go of the swing's ropes and stood in front of him.

  "Besides, I didn't mean just them," she said. "I was talking about God. You said you used to believe, remember?" She raised her eyebrows defiantly as he looked away.

  "It's not that I don't believe," he argued. "It's just ... hard. After everything." He turned away, staring through the glass at the family party inside.

  "I didn't mean to sound so harsh about the pity thing," he said, after a moment. "It means a lot. What people like them do for service members. I just don't want anyone to think I'm fishing for sympathy these days." He rubbed his right leg, as if the muscle ached in the cool air.

  "I wish they had been the right family," said Samantha. "Maybe there's no chance of finding the right ones. Not everybody has a happy ending and even then–"

  "–not everyone has the ending you imagine," he concluded. "Like this one–if they'd been the right family, then Bette Larsen's card wouldn't exactly have any value, would it?"

  "I don't know," Samantha answered. "I think that's up to her to decide. Maybe even after all these years, even if she never saw him again, she would still want that piece of her past."

  He studied her face intently as she spoke, a faint smile appearing on his own. She couldn't fathom what was deep in those eyes. Pain? Amusement? She didn't know him well enough to be sure of anything.

  They were silent together, leaning against the plastic slide that traveled down the playhouse side. The breeze ruffled her curls, lifted the collar of his faded jacket. Both watching the glowing world on the other side of the glass, where Janet was maneuvering past a table crowded with grown-ups and kids making popcorn balls.

  He cleared his throat. "I want to keep looking for Private Hydberg," he said. "The right one is out there somewhere. If there's a chance he's alive or has family around, maybe you can still find Bette."

  She glanced up at him. "You think they still have a connection?" she asked.

  "Why not?" he said. "Maybe it's possible that people who meet are always connected somehow." A trace of the warm smile she had seen before appeared for a moment, then vanished with a brusque sigh.

  "Ready to go say goodbye?" he asked, holding out his arm.

  "Yeah. Let's go." Sliding her fingers around his sleeve, she felt the warmth between the rough fabric as they walked towards the family inside.

  *****

  Was home a physical place? Samantha had asked herself this question more than once. The collection of postcards from her favorite places in all the world didn't include a photograph of her childhood home, for instance. The only one she had was a grainy image shot from the middle of the road: a grey blur obscuring half of the house, the limbs of an elm swayed by stormy winds.

  To her, home had become a heavenly destination; an earthly place defined by friends and family and the benchmarks in her faith. That was her conclusion after years of traveling across the globe, her earthly possessions confined to a couple of bags and a storage box or two in the attic of a family member.

  Now she was rifling through someone else's possessions, looking for a trace of their earthly connections. Opening the brownstone's closets, sorting through boxes of private possessions and forgotten junk left behind when the house was emptied. Old newspapers and magazines, a woman's hat worn through with moth holes.

  She pulled open the drawers in the living room bureau and the old china cabinet covered by sheets and left in the former kitchen. Which in a matter of weeks would be converted into a dining room and guest bedroom for the future tenant of her apartment. In each drawer, she found nothing but dust and peeling contact paper.

  In the attic, she poked around with a broom, searching for old letters or correspondence tucked in the eaves. Prying open mildewed cardboard boxes, she discovered faded old clothes and a complete set of encyclopedias, assorted kitchen wares and old holiday decorations. But no trace of the Larsens, nothing that could be tied to their past. Not even the worn Sunday School Bible found in a jumble of books in the old wardrobe.

  Downstairs, Samantha brewed a cup of tea and flipped through the pile of junk mail from the front mat. Brushing cobwebs from her sleeves and hair periodically, wondering what Tyler Lars would have to say about her desperate search.

  When she first met him, she would imagine him calling it a wild goose chase. But now she wasn't sure. Not after he volunteered to continue the search on his own, without her asking for his help.

  She wondered what he was doing right now. Was he sitting at his desk, popping painkillers and trying not to think about the soldiers who were killed in his unit. Or was his mind on their conversation from a week ago, when she saw a glimpse of the fragile soul within?

  If only she could think of a way to reach him. Somewhere within those depths, his faith was still there. It had kept him alive through tragedy, had made him strong in the face of pain and adversity. If he could only see it; if he could only realize that God had a reason for him to survive the past.

  Resting her face in her hands, she prayed silently as her lips moved to the words in her head. Please, Lord, please change the direction his feet travel. Show him Your light and a new path of service. He's lost right now without the dreams he held onto for so long. Now that it's gone, he needs you more than ever. Show him what you have in store for him before he slips away.

  She opened her eyes, gazing at the laptop screen before her. A picture of her Australian mission building against a brown terrain of wind-swept dirt and crossed fence lines. A little piece of the home she once knew for six months of her life.

  Would she feel the same way about Brazil? For once, she tried not to think about the answer as she closed the laptop screen.

  *****

  Finding people who were still alive was hard. Finding people who already died was even harder, Ty discovered. Dialing number after number, trying to locate next of kin or surviving spouses. All to ask a question about a person most of them had never heard of before.

  "Most of them" was a generous assessment of reality, actually; half the phones never picked up, still others were answered by relatives clueless about the past of their veteran family member. Some were wrong numbers altogether, the curse of internet phone references and incorrect family links on websites.

  He ran his hand over his weary features, one elbow resting on a stack of finished reports. A handful of names were crossed off his list for good. But it did
n't look like a happy ending was in store for Samantha's Christmas card.

  "Hey, Ty, you're looking good," teased a passing coworker. A crimson flush spread over Ty's face. As if being clean-shaven was a sign his life was improving. Or the presence of a couple of framed photos on his desk made a difference in the pile of papers or the ever-handy aspirin bottle in the top drawer of his desk.

  "Thanks," he answered. Less gruffly than usual, aware that it was meant as a compliment. Tugging his sleeves up, he pushed through the list of phone number matches for a Mac Lydberg in Connecticut.

  After work, he went for a brief jog. Aware that the pain in his muscle would punish him later, but wanting the excuse to run. It made the memories of Iraq real again; of the patrols and perimeters, of the smell of the hot desert and the sense of fear as he donned his explosives gear.

  Heart pounding, his thoughts flew through those years, into the present. Where he couldn't help but feel the lines of the Christmas card matching the rhythm of his movement with their urgency. Private Mac Hydberg's plea for his sweetheart's answer as war raged all around him.

  Did it matter if he found the answer? It seemed to matter a lot to the missionary girl who spent hours riding buses to other states, trying to find the card's owner. It wasn't an obsession; more like a calling with her. As if she couldn't help herself, trying to help others over something as small as a lost letter.

  Maybe that was why he couldn't let this go. The girl who believed God wanted her to deliver a long-lost Christmas card.

  He couldn't afford to think about that right now, not with his life like it was. He stumbled up the steps to his house, leaning on the pillar for momentary support. Gasping for breath as he felt flames passing through his thigh muscles, reminding him that part of it was forever lost after that day in the desert.

  Digging his keys from the pocket of his shorts, he pushed the key into the lock as the December chill bit through his bare skin. Stupid idea, going for a run in workout gear on a day that threatened snow. Even now, he wasn't used to the New England cold, the sudden snowdrifts that appeared on the sidewalk and streets. Not to mention the blizzards that rocked the landscape for days.