"He mailed you a card from overseas," said Samantha. "But it never arrived. Did he tell you about it?" She held out the envelope, the address facing Bette.
Bette took hold of it, confusion on her face. "He wouldn't write to me sometimes," she said. "In the war, I mean. He got upset about something; thought I had another boyfriend, I suppose. It was such a long time before he would write me letters again." She sighed, her hand trembling in Samantha's.
"Do you want me to read it to you?" asked Samantha. "Mac's card? It's been waiting for you for over sixty years." Turning it over, she lifted the flap where it had resealed itself after closing.
Bette's eyes widened as Samantha drew the card from inside. The blue and white scene of the village, the star blazing above.
"Dear Bets," she read aloud. "I hope you're reading this somewhere alone before Christmas and that you're having a swell time. I'll bet you've been too busy to write many letters with all that studying for exams. I hope you do the best in your class. Your mama will be proud of you and you'll be a graduate by the time I get back from this war."
"My exams," said Bette. "Oh, I used to study and study. I remember once..." she trailed off, before adding, "...once he coached me through geography. Showing me all those countries in Europe. I never thought he would go to one, though."
"He says he carries your photo everywhere he goes," said Samantha. "Here he says, 'I guess I think about you all the time, even when it seems like home is a million miles away and I'll never get back there. It must be Christmas that makes it feel this way'..." As she read, she watched Bette's face change, her grey eyes swimming with tears as she listened.
"Do you think about me?" Samantha paused at this line, afraid of going on. The words were causing Bette more pain than happiness as she gazed at the faded card in Samantha's hand.
Bette's voice trembled. "I think about him all the time," she said. "Oh, every day. I wish he would come back from that terrible war." Her voice choked.
Samantha's fingers creased the edge of the card, her mind trying to find the right words for the woman lost in her memories. A noise in the doorway made Samantha turn towards the sound. Ty had slipped inside the room. He crouched down beside Bette's chair and touched her hand.
"Hello, Bette," he said. She raised her head from her lap, her face lighting up at the sound of Ty's voice.
In the dark, his face was hard to see, a silhouette of a man's figure. The light caught the faded military insignia on his jacket. Bette's fingers reached eagerly to touch it, recognizing the Army symbol.
"Mac?" she said. "It's you, isn't it?" A flutter of hope in her voice, like a frail bird beating against a cage's wire bars. Her fingers closed around his hand, clutching it tightly.
"This girl brought me your Christmas card," she said. "All the way from the war. Do you remember?" she asked him. "She was reading it to me. You wrote it, didn't you?"
"Of course I did," he answered. "The Christmas in Belgium. I remember." He squeezed her fingers gently.
"Do you want me to finish it for you?" he asked. Reaching over, he pulled the card from Samantha's hand. Scanning the lines briefly before he spoke.
"If there's a chance you'll feel the same when the war's over, then tell me so. Tell me you'll keep waiting until I make it back. That way I'll have something to hold onto." He paused for a moment, his voice thickening. "Merry Christmas, Bets. Love, Mac."
Carefully, he refolded the card and laid it on Bette's lap. She held onto his hand, her lips moving as they formed a smile.
"I do, Mac," she whispered. "I think about you every day. I always remember. I waited so long for you to write and when you didn't, I knew how I really felt." A tear rolled down her face.
"It's all right," he answered, soothingly. "There will be more letters, I promise. But I wanted you to have this card in time for Christmas. To know I was thinking of you the whole time."
"I missed you so much. I've been waiting so long for you to come back," she said. "You promise everything is all right?"
He held her hand in both of his now, a soft smile as he replied. "I know," he said. "I know you waited, Bets."
"We were happy, weren't we," she whispered. "We were happy together. You and I."
"Of course we were," he said. Reaching up, he touched her cheek. The tear was followed by another; Bette smiled into his face as her trembling fingers reached to touch his hand."
"Merry Christmas, Bets," he whispered.
Her eyes drooped closed. One hand resting on the card, drawing it closer.
"Merry Christmas, Mac," she murmured. Leaning forward, he kissed her on the forehead, then rose to leave. Placing the card's envelope on her lap, next to the blue and white village from sixty years ago.
*****
Samantha waited in the hallway as Ty closed the door behind them.
"That was incredible," she said. "What you did for her ... I can't thank you enough for that." She wiped her eyes, feeling the trace of tears on her fingers.
He shook his head. "No thanks necessary. It was just a Christmas present for a friend."
She could see the tenderness beneath the surface of his gaze. Reaching for his cheek, she gently traced his jawline.
"You're really something, Sergeant Lars," she said. Warmth spilling into the depths of her brown eyes as she locked her gaze with his.
"This from the girl who traveled hundreds of miles to deliver a Christmas card," he answered, softly, a hint of sadness creeping into his voice. The faint flicker of a smile visible momentarily before vanishing again.
"That card may have made Bette's Christmas," he whispered. "I guess you were right after all. About it mattering."
She let out a laugh. "It wouldn't have mattered if you hadn't helped me," she answered. "Thank you. I mean for everything."
Shrugging his shoulders, he zipped up his coat. "We should go now. Before the storm picks up again," he said, nodding towards the door.
He placed his hand on her shoulder, guiding her towards the main entrance. They passed a handful of residents being wheeled towards the recreation room by aides, where a Christmas tree glittered near an unlit fireplace. A row of high school students in choir robes, a young woman with her ear bent towards an Irish harp as she plucked its strings.
Outside, the snow coated the hood of the car, inches deep as they trudged towards the parking lot. Samantha glanced up into the sky, where heavy white flakes were falling in a fast, thick cloud.
Behind those clouds, stars were twinkling like the silver one on the card. That was her thought as she slid her arm through Ty's, feeling the gentle pressure of his hand as it wrapped around hers.
*****
In the car, Samantha sipped the remains of her thermos of tea. Lukewarm from hours of sitting in the cold car. She glanced at Ty, whose fingers were toying with the knob to the car's heating system. A rasping sound from the vents as it blew a draft of cool air on both of them.
"I've been thinking about what you said, Ty," she said, screwing the lid on her thermos again. "About these last few weeks bringing you closer to your faith."
He snorted. "I don't know if I would go that far," he answered. "I said it made me remember those times."
"You said it made you miss them," she argued. "I think that's a pretty big deal. For someone who claims he doesn't have a rock to cling to anymore." She held out the thermos, but he shook his head.
"What I feel ..." he hesitated. "What I feel for you is ... is something we should be careful about."
His voice was rough, emotion buried in its tones. She stared at him, feeling confused.
"What do you mean, careful?" she asked. "Ty, when I talked about our confession, I wasn't trying to pressure you into a relationship with me."
"With you, no," he said. "With God, yes." He looked away from the road to meet her eyes.
"Half of this has been about you, Sam," he said. "I could pretend that wanting to live by faith is the point, but right at this moment, it's not. What I did today, I did
for you. Plain and simple."
He caught a glint of accusation in her eyes before he looked away again, the windshield wipers sweeping a path of vision to the road ahead. He seemed grateful for the distraction, making her cheeks scarlet with frustration.
"How can you say it's all about me?" she asked. "I saw you with Bette; at that moment, your focus was on her, not me. When you had no clue that I would show up at the Hydberg house, you went there alone to learn the truth from them. If you wanted to impress me there were easier ways. I think you were trying to accomplish something else." Reaching over, she closed the shutters to the vent's cool stream.
"What?" he asked. "Impressing God? Somehow I think He wants something more than a road trip to Pennsylvania over a Christmas card."
"I think all He wants is for you to believe in Him again," she answered.
A rasping sound emerged from the heat vents as Ty's hand smacked the dash. A sputter, followed by a rushing wave of heat.
"So everything we talked about at the restaurant," he said. "That was just for the sake of my walk with God. None of it was us. About what you feel for me." A cold edge crept into his voice.
"That's not what I said," she answered. "That's what you're making it out to be. Because you're not willing to admit your soul is more important.
A hollow laugh emerged from his throat. "Yeah, I guess that's the most important part if you're a missionary, isn't it?" He gripped the steering wheel, fingers white against the dark vinyl. "I should've remembered that when we were in the restaurant today."
Biting her lip, Samantha stared at the window, unwilling to respond. His coldness cut through her like a knife after what happened today. From the kiss in the diner to the sound of him reading Mac's words to Bette–this shouldn't be the way those moments ended. A fight over whether Ty's eternal salvation outweighed the brief connection between two hearts.
The cassette tape had fallen silent, ejected from the player. The sound of passing traffic and radio static filled the rest of the ride. By the time they reached Boston, the pink light of dawn appeared on the horizon. Ty circled around the block, pulling into an empty space in front of Samantha's house.
He shifted the car into park, the motor running. Silently, she gathered her bag and thermos, her fingers closing around the door handle.
"Thanks for driving me there," she said.
"No problem," he answered. His eyes flickering towards her briefly, his smile forced.
She shrugged. "I'll see you around sometime, maybe." She climbed out, closing the door behind her. Aware that his eyes were focused on her for a long moment as she fumbled through her pocket for her house keys. Waiting for her to climb the steps before he shifted into reverse and pulled onto the street again. His car drove towards the end of the block, the veteran's insignia on his license plate barely visible to her gaze as he signaled a left turn up ahead.
"Merry Christmas, Sergeant Lars," she whispered. Then climbed the steps to the cold rooms and unlit tree awaiting her inside for the holidays.
*****
Two days after Christmas, the application for the Brazilian medical missions program arrived by email. Samantha printed off the pages, sorting through the blanks and questionnaires that would bend her life path in a new direction.
Her mind was elsewhere, however; still thinking of a Christmas card from sixty years before. And the sound of Ty’s voice reading the last few lines to a woman whose memories dwelled on a soldier’s blue Christmas overseas.
She had phoned Ty’s office the day after Christmas. The phone rang without answer; the second time she called, a voice came on the line to inform her that he was on vacation. She left messages, none of which were returned.
Had she pushed him too hard? Her mind replayed their moments together, the rare glimpse of a genuine smile when he let his guard down. He had seemed so close to finding peace again, but his conversation in the car snatched back the words from the diner.
He had accused her of treating him like a mission project, as if her heart had never felt anything for him but the concern of a fellow Christian. The memory of his words stung whenever they drifted into her thoughts. She stirred her cup of tea, wishing she could forget the bitter part and remember the sweetness alone. But life’s flavors were mingled between the two, a divine reminder that this existence was a brief window of opportunity for the heart and soul.
Failing to convince Ty of that truth hurt worst of all.
Her pencil scribbled answers into the blanks, about her experience in languages, her life in faraway villages. It always helped her to write out the answers before she typed them, giving her a chance to think about each one. A trick her mother used for job applications, she remembered.
In the “next of kin” blank she wrote “none”. There was no one they should call if there was an emergency. The pain of knowing that no human heart would be hurt by her loss was comforted in the knowledge that her work was meant for the One who cared the most.
The realization startled her, that only a few days ago she had entertained feelings that someone like Ty would want to know if something happened to her. Would care deeply, perhaps, if she was lost–all while understanding the risk was worth the mission. After all, there were more connections between a missionary and a soldier than met the eye.
She wondered if there had been anyone to care if Ty had been lost. Or if his name would have mattered only as an entry on a list of casualties of war.
The photograph of Bette Larsen was still clipped to her fridge, alongside the young Mac Hydberg in uniform. Ty had slipped it into her bag after they left the nursing home, apparently. She found it there when she arrived home, its edge sticking out slightly between the pages of her Bible. His way of a offering her a Christmas present, maybe. Or a goodbye kinder than the one between them in the car.
Maybe she would try to phone him again. Maybe this time he would finally answer.
*****
The red light on Ty’s answering machine flashed repeatedly, but he didn’t push the button. He let the messages pile up as he flipped through the television channels, his leg propped on the coffee table.
He hadn’t felt like a jog, recently. His aspirin bottle was almost empty, but he hadn’t bothered to replace it in the cabinet. Limping from room to room, an occasional trip to the front lawn to collect the paper. As if his interest in life had begun slipping away by inches, leaving him listless again.
“So when are you coming back to work?” One of his coworkers phoned one evening to ask about a recent report. “You taking a couple of weeks off?”
“I don’t know,” Ty answered. “Just needed some personal time, that’s all.” He scrolled through an internet site on careers, trying to muster enthusiasm for the list of retail security posts and sales positions.
“A girl called for you. A couple of times, actually. She left a message, her name’s Samantha Sowerman–”
“Yeah, I know,” he answered. “I’m on it.” Actually, he was tempted to delete them without listening, to avoid hearing her voice again. Reminding him of that last conversation in the car, when he blew off the opportunity to make their connection into a future.
If a future was possible for him, that is. He was restless, in need of a change, but with no idea where to start. Was it his job? His attitude? Being stuck between the life of a soldier and the life of a civilian gave him no place to start. Maybe that’s why Samantha kept pushing him to open up to God. A rock would be a starting point; a home base to stand in search of a future path.
Maybe she was the answer. And instead of accepting her help, he pushed her away.
He closed his laptop and pressed his face in his hands. It had been a long time since he prayed, but the urge to speak to God was stronger at this moment than any he had known since he left Iraq.
The chaplain’s final words to him: God wants to talk to you, Ty. Speak up more often so He doesn’t have to shout to get your attention.
“What do you want me to do?” Ty murmur
ed. “Tell me what’s supposed to happen, Lord. ‘Cause I don’t have a clue what comes next.” That was all that emerged from his lips, followed by the silence of an empty house.
No answer, no sign. Nothing but the flicker of static on the muted television screen. As he stretched out on the sofa, he wondered what the missionary girl would say about that. Probably that he wasn’t trying hard enough. Or being open enough.
Whatever. He flipped the station to a late-night movie and let his eyes sink closed beneath the wash of grainy color and shadow.
*****
Rap, rap, rap. The sound of faint knocking interrupted Ty’s dream. He opened his eyes, blinking to adjust to the harsh light pouring in the window. Two-fifteen. Whoever was at the door had roused him from sleeping through the day.
He had a fleeting thought that someone had given Samantha his address. A strange tingle passed through his body, vanishing with the thought of someone from the office dropping by to check up on him.
Pushing aside the classified section of the paper, he straightened his shirt and moved towards the door. Shifting his weight from his stiffened leg as he pulled it open. On the other side was a woman who looked vaguely familiar, wearing a flowered blouse and jeans.
“Sergeant Lars?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes, Ma’am,” he answered. Trying to suppress a frown as he struggled to place her face.
“It’s Cindy from Belmont Assisted Living,” she said. “You gave me your card–”
“Of course,” he answered. No wonder she looked familiar. “Please, come inside.” He opened the door, motioning towards the sofa inside.
“I can’t stay long,” she said. “But you said to let you know if anything happened to Mrs. Hydberg. She passed away a couple days after Christmas. I thought you should know, since you and your friend were so interested in her.”
Last Christmas Card Page 7