Last Christmas Card

by Briggs, Laura

  "Did you write anybody at home?" she asked. "Friends, maybe? Soldiers stateside?"

  "Sometimes," he said. "But a lot of them have families. Lives of their own. They sent care packages, though," he added, after a moment's pause. "You know, a box of prepackaged cookies, a new CD that just came out. Razors and soap."

  He took a sip of coffee, pushing aside his finished plate of chicken strips. "You don't think about how much you miss things like that until they're a thousand miles away."

  She nodded. "Know what I missed most when I was overseas?" she asked. "Jelly beans. Weird, I know. There's better things–better things for you, too–but I used to love them. Whenever a friend sent me something, they popped a package inside. They'd melt together when I was in Botswana–one giant glob of sugar."

  Ty laughed. "Sometimes listening to you talk, I forget that you come from a different experience. Spreading the good word in foreign lands."

  She drained the last of the soda from her glass, then bent the straw between her fingers. "Weren't you the one who said there was a lot similar between us?" she asked. "We're just soldiers in different kinds of armies."

  "I don't think it's the same," he answered. Pushing up from the table, he moved stiffly to a jukebox in the corner of the diner and studied the selections. Popping a few quarters into the machine, he pushed a button. A moment later, the sound of "White Christmas" drifted from the speakers.

  Sliding into his seat again, he offered her a smile. "Classic for soldiers," he said. "Even a white Christmas overseas just isn't the same."

  Samantha's chin rested on both her hands as she gazed into his face. "What you meant before," she said. "About them not being the same. Do you mean that?" She searched his face carefully, her eyes meeting his own as if searching their depths.

  He sighed. "I don't know," he answered. "When I was still over there, I talked to God sometimes. When I first went over there, that was all I had. Curse of being a foster kid; no other rocks to cling to except what's inside."

  "But why didn't you think of your work as part of His will?" she asked. "You were saving lives; helping people. Without you, others would have died."

  "Because the time it mattered most was the one time I couldn't do it," he answered. "When we were caught off-guard that morning. Nobody was looking, it was supposed to be a clean zone. But a second later ..." His voice broke slightly. "A second later, there was nothing anybody could do."

  He laughed. "The funny thing is, the only thing that got me through it was faith. There was a chaplain, newly-stationed with my unit. He should've been scared out of his mind, first time seeing that kind of tragedy. But instead, he sat by me the whole time."

  Ty reached for his coffee cup, his fingers trembling as they touched the handle. "He propped this postcard next to my bed. The Sermon on the Mount. Said that way I would remember I wasn't alone whenever he couldn't be there." He held the cup in hand, not taking a sip.

  "He gave me the card right before they sent me home. A goodbye gift right before I took off. That's the last time I saw him."

  After a quiet moment, Samantha spoke. "The last time I saw my mom, she gave me a promise. That I would always have a part of her with me, so long as I kept my faith. And that was the last thing she ever gave me."

  Reaching across, she touched his hand. "Your faith is like Private Hydberg's card. It just got lost between the past and where you are now."

  "You think it's just gonna show up someday, like the card in your mailbox?" he asked.

  Her eyes met his with a gentle gleam. "The card needed some help to get to its destination, remember?" she asked.

  He didn't move his fingers away from the warmth of her touch. Instead, he let them intertwine with hers, in a sudden gesture that sent her heartbeat skipping wildly.

  "You make me think about how long I've been away from that part of my life," he said, softly. "Maybe it's the missionary part, I don't know. Maybe it's the way you stuck with this card all the way to a diner two states away." He ran his hand over his face, trying to hide the smile creeping across his features.

  "How do you know you weren't already looking for signs?" she replied, softly.

  Instead of answering, he leaned forward and cupped her face, drawing her closer. His lips touched hers, brushing softly before the kiss.

  It took her by surprise, but so did the realization that she had wanted this for a long time. Her hand reached up to cradle his wrist, trace his hand against her face.

  He drew back after a moment. "Was that okay?" he whispered. "I didn't intend–but I've been wishing for that for awhile." He sounded boyish, almost apologetic as his eyes met hers.

  Samantha's fingers brushed against his hair. "I have too," she said, with a faint laugh. "I guess I just didn't know it until now."

  The jukebox song switched to the slow, familiar sounds of "The Christmas Song" as someone inserted new quarters into the slot. A cool breeze swept over them as the door jangled open, sending a shiver through the patrons.

  Ty stirred, glancing out the window where the first snow flurries appeared. "We should go," he murmured. "We don't want to get snowed in here when we're so close." Gently, he drew his fingers from hers.

  "No, we don't." Samantha pulled a few bills from her pocket and laid them on the table. Her hand still tingled with warmth, a sudden blush causing her to lower her eyes from Ty's.

  The snow grew heavier a few miles from the diner, thick drifts along the ditch and coating the highway. Ty's car poked along the road, the windshield wipers working furiously against the white flakes.

  Peering through the windshield, Ty scowled. "We should've left sooner," he said. "If we get stuck somewhere–" He didn't finish, glancing at her before turning back to the road.

  "It's okay," she said. "I always carry a couple of pocket-sized thermal blankets in my bag. Just in case."

  He gave her an incredulous look. "Are you serious?" he said.

  She shrugged. "I may be in the states, but my mind is still other places. And I never remember to take anything out of my pockets once it's inside."

  It was the first time she heard him laugh like that. Without a trace of bitterness or sadness.

  *****

  Ty nosed the car into a spot in the Belmont Assisted Living parking lot, its lines invisible through the blanket of snow over the pavement. A dusting of flakes began covering the windshield a moment after he shut off the wipers.

  "Well, shall we?" he asked.

  Samantha shouldered her bag. "I guess so," she answered. A trace of nervousness in her voice as she opened the car door. Ahead was the building's main office, surrounded by box shrubs transformed into white orbs by the snow.

  The main hall was heated, an area rug just inside to protect the main carpeting from snow flurries. A row of apartment mail boxes beside a potted banana tree, a row of doors ahead in the corridor. Samantha checked the names and numbers against the slip of paper in her hand. Mrs. Bette Hydberg, Apartment 132.

  "She must be down another hallway," Ty said, glancing at the doors as they passed. "There aren't enough doors–take a left up here." He pointed towards the end of the hall, where it branched off in two directions. One a short passage to vending machines and laundry services, the other, a second hall of apartments. Including door 132.

  Samantha raised her hand to knock, the pressure pushing the door partly open. Unlatched, the crack revealing a messy stack of books and household linens.

  "Hello?" she called. "Mrs. Hydberg?" She pushed it open all the way, half-fearing the resident was in distress. An echo of silence in the room. Behind her, Ty leaned against the door.

  "Maybe she went out for a few minutes," he suggested.

  "Excuse me, are you looking for somebody?" A voice behind them spoke up. They turned to see a nurse carrying an armful of collapsed cardboard boxes, the name "Cindy" stamped on her name tag.

  "For Mrs. Hydberg," said Samantha. "Is this her apartment?" She pointed towards the open door.

  "It was,"
the nurse answered, brushing past her as she made her way inside. "Mrs. Hydberg's been transferred out of here, I'm afraid. Couple of days ago."

  "Do you know where they transferred her?" asked Ty.

  "Over to the nursing home," answered Cindy. "It's across town. She's pretty bad now. Gets confused easily, doesn't take her meds or eat her meals. She couldn't be left alone any longer and since she doesn't have any family ..."

  "No family?" repeated Samantha. "No kids?" The nurse shook her head.

  "She and her husband couldn't have any, apparently." She glanced from Samantha to Ty. "Are you two related to the Hydberg’s somehow?"

  "Just some concerned friends," Ty answered. "Miss Sowerman here found some personal papers that belong to Mrs. Hydberg and wanted to return them."

  Cindy nodded. "Well, it's kind of ironic, since what I'm doing right now is boxing up her personal stuff." She pointed towards the jumble of personal possessions, books and knickknacks. "I figure we'll track down another branch of her family and send them there. Maybe a cousin or a great-niece or nephew or something. Mrs. Hydberg never left instructions about what to do with her things if she became too ill to look after her apartment."

  "It seems so sad," said Samantha, lifting up an old schoolbook and paging through it. "That there's nobody left to care after all these years." Cindy placed a few old records in the box, a clay sculpture obviously molded by a child.

  "Oh, they had quite a love story, apparently," the nurse answered. "They were crazy about each other, never spent a night apart. When he died, her health just went downhill." She placed a stack of old scrapbooks and framed photos inside.

  Samantha lifted the cover of one of the books, revealing a series of brightly colored snapshots from the fifties. Bette Larsen all grown up in a silk dress, an older couple at a picnic table.

  A few pages back, wartime photos in black and white. A solemn-looking boy in a soldier's uniform, posed in front of a brownstone entrance. Mac Hydberg?

  She touched the photo, glancing below at a water-stained image of two people. The color photo of Bette in yellow chiffon, the young man now in a grey suit, his arm around her shoulder.

  "Ty, look," she said. "It's Mac Hydberg." He moved closer, leaning over to study the photograph.

  "You knew him?" asked the nurse.

  "No," answered Samantha. "I just wanted to know what he looked like." She pulled the photo of Bette from her pocket.

  "Somebody gave me this. A friend," she added. "Of Mrs. Hydberg when she was younger. She said since I was trying to return Bette's letter, I should at least see what she looked like back then."

  Cindy laughed. "That's her, all right," she answered. "Mr. Hydberg kept one like that in his wallet. He called her Bets and made everybody call him Mac."

  "Did you ever meet him?" asked Ty, looking up from the photograph album.

  Cindy nodded. "I knew him pretty well. He was a good man, a strong believer," she answered. "He bought Mrs. Hydberg flowers every week. Used to whittle prizes for the facility fundraiser." She assembled a second cardboard box. "Somewhere around here, she has his war uniform. I guess since they didn't have a son or grandson, there was no one to give it to."

  Samantha closed the book and placed it in the box. "Can you tell us how to get to the nursing home?" she asked. "I'd really like to see her, if I can."

  "Sure." Cindy paused in her packing, rummaging around on a nearby table. She pulled a pad and pencil from beneath a pile of newspaper.

  "This is the shortest route across town. The nursing home's on this side street, not far from the school." Her pencil sketched out lines and numbers quickly. "Just watch out for traffic–it's almost five o' clock and Christmas Eve, so the road will be pretty packed with cars. Plus, the snow makes it all slower." She tore off the piece of paper and handed it to Ty.

  "Bette doesn't have many visitors," said Cindy. "If they'll let you stop by, then it'll be a real treat for her. She must be pretty lonely there; just memories for company."

  Ty reached into his wallet and drew out one of his business cards. "If anything should happen to Mrs. Hydberg, then you can contact us at this number," he said. "We'd like to know if she's okay or if she needs something." The nurse glanced at it.

  "You're with the military?" she said. "From Connecticut?"

  Ty smiled faintly. "Yes, Ma'am," he answered. "Miss Sowerman here is a missionary from Massachusetts."

  She shook her head as she slipped the card into her smock pocket. "I can't get over you two coming all this way," she said. "Just to bring somebody a lost item."

  Reaching down, she flipped open the book and pulled something out. "Wait a second," she said, stopping them in the doorway. "I think you should have this."

  She handed it to Ty, who was closest. The photo of Mac Hydberg from the album, posed in his military uniform.

  "Bette would have wanted it that way," she said. "Something to remember Mac by, since she's the last family he has. Now you've got a matching one to go with Bette's there."

  "Thank you," said Ty. He slipped the photo in his pocket and followed Samantha into the hall. Glancing back to see Cindy watching from the doorway with a goodbye wave.

  *****

  Cindy wasn't lying about the traffic. In a snarl of cars and buses downtown, Samantha and Ty watched the lines of vehicles crawl along through traffic lights and constant snowfall. A tinsel Christmas tree swung from the lamppost in a gust of wind. Red metallic balls glinting in the flash of lights from a wrecker a few feet ahead of them.

  "We'll never make it by visiting hours," said Samantha. "It's the holidays, so they probably sent as many people home early as possible."

  "Maybe they'll bend the rules," Ty answered. "It's Christmas Eve, you know. There will be family stopping by, probably."

  "She doesn't have any family," Samantha reminded him. "I guess the Larsens must have moved away. Or maybe her brother didn't have any children, either."

  "Sad," Ty said. "To think that there's nobody left." His expression clouding with gloom as he flicked the right turn signal.

  The parking lot for the nursing home was large and empty, the yard lights blazing like beacons beneath their snowy caps. In the grey light, Ty climbed from the driver's seat, waiting as Samantha emerged. He could see the card in her hand, held tightly for its final journey.

  "Watch your step," he said. "There's a few patches of ice under this snow." He held out his arm in a gentlemanly gesture. After a short pause, she took hold of it.

  "Just don't let me pull you down," she teased.

  In the foyer of the nursing home, a small Christmas tree winked with clear lights and matching silver and gold ornaments. Behind the desk, an aide glanced over a pile of reports as a Christmas choir hummed from her computer's speakers.

  "Excuse me," Samantha approached, leaning over the counter. "We're here to see Bette Hydberg. We were told she was a patient here."

  The aide lowered her file. "Are you family of Bette's?" she asked.

  "No," Samantha answered. "Just friends."

  "There are no names on Bette's visitor's list," said the aide. "You may not have been informed that this is a closed facility. Patients only receive pre-approved visitors they place on their lists, usually family."

  "It's important," pleaded Samantha. "It's Christmas Eve. If we could just see her for a few minutes–"

  "That would be against the rules," the nurse answered. "I'm sorry." She gave Samantha a sympathetic smile.

  Disappointment and frustration washed over Samantha's face, the first trace of tears gathering in her eyes. She took a deep breath as she held up the envelope.

  "Then could you–" She felt Ty's hand on her arm, gently moving her aside.

  "Excuse me, Ma'am, I'm from Veteran's Affairs," he said. "And I'm here with regards to Mrs. Hydberg's late husband, Private Mac Hydberg." He pulled out his wallet, flipping it open to his I.D. card.

  "If we could just have a few minutes of Mrs. Hydberg's time, I would appreciate it," he said.


  The aide studied the I.D. card carefully, then nodded. "If you're from Veteran's Affairs, I suppose I can make an exception."

  She glanced at the clock. "It's almost six-thirty. The residents are being wheeled to the recreation room around seven for a special Christmas Eve concert, so you have until then. The room is 227, just down the hall." She pushed a button beneath the desk, buzzing open the door to the main hall.

  "Thank you," Ty answered, taking Samantha's arm and steering her through the doors.

  "Don't look back," he whispered, "I don't want her to change her mind."

  "Thanks for doing that," she said, keeping her voice low. "I thought it was over and we were so close." Her fingers were clamped tightly around the envelope. Her palm was sweating as she took Ty's hand for a moment, his skin cool and damp to the touch.

  The rooms slipped by as they walked. One by one, until the number 227 was visible.

  *****

  Samantha pushed the half-ajar door open and slipped inside. The lighting was dim, a small touch lamp glowing on a table. A woman sat dozing in an armchair, a holly-patterned bathrobe drawn around her.

  "Mrs. Hydberg?" Samantha approached. "I'm sorry to interrupt–"

  The woman's eyes flickered open. "Is it you, Lissy?" she asked. "Never mind about that cake now. I'm too tired to make one for supper." She stirred, her fingers feeling around for a cane leaning against the chair's arm.

  "My name is Samantha," said Sam, reaching to touch the woman's hand as she sat down across from her. "I came to bring you a Christmas card. From Mac."

  For a moment, Bette Hydberg's face cleared. "Mac," she whispered. "Why yes, I know him. Such a fine boy. From a good family." Her hand fumbled, reached over to pat Samantha's.

  "We're sweethearts, you know," she whispered. "Of course, we haven't told anybody yet. We're both too young, they say."