Christmas Blessings

by Katherine Spencer

  Jean returned to the kitchen and carried out the many dishes she had prepared. It did seem like a lot for two, but they would definitely use the leftovers. Jean’s mother had not been a very good cook. She was more interested in her painting and would toss together a hasty supper after hours in her studio—often sandwiches and soup from a can or pasta with bottled sauce.

  But Jean loved to cook. She was always taking classes and gleaning tips from TV shows and the Internet. She had already found some interesting recipes for Thanksgiving leftovers and would try a few this week. She wasn’t just visiting Cape Light for the holiday but had moved down from Portland, Maine, to take care of her mother indefinitely, taking over the cooking and housekeeping from the aides who stopped in daily.

  She placed a bowl of string beans on the table. She would have preferred to have made Brussels sprouts, oven roasted with a touch of balsamic vinegar, but she didn’t want her mother to find the food too challenging. Her mother had always made string beans. Not fresh, with slivered almonds, the way Jean prepared them, but they would be familiar nonetheless.

  Her mother peered at the dish then sat back in her chair. “No potatoes?”

  “Coming right up.” Jean ran back to the kitchen and retrieved a dish of sweet potatoes, baked with cinnamon, butter, and a pinch of brown sugar.

  “Oh . . . I meant plain potatoes. I always made mashed, remember?”

  Jean remembered. Granulated bits from a box. Just add water. Her mother’s specialty. Jean would never cook anything like that. Her mother probably still had a family-sized box of the wretched stuff stashed in a cupboard.

  “I thought I’d try something different. Sweet potatoes are traditional, Mom. I’ll make you mashed potatoes another night.”

  “All right.” Cynthia sighed and took a small piece of sweet potato. The she poured an ample amount of gravy all over her dish. Though her mother was supposed to watch her diet, Jean didn’t say a thing.

  At least I left out the salt, Jean consoled herself. She knew it was dangerous to her mother’s condition—congestive heart failure. Failure being the operative word these days, according to Cynthia’s doctors. No surgery could repair her mother’s heart, and all the drugs in the world couldn’t stop the muscle from weakening and eventually failing altogether.

  But Jean forced herself to focus on the moment. She was here now with her mother, and they could enjoy a nice meal together.

  “Shall we say grace?” Jean asked. Her parents had taken Jean and her brother to church most every Sunday, and her father had always started Sunday dinner by saying grace. Jean hadn’t gone to church much since leaving home, but she knew her mother still belonged to the church on the village green, even though she had not been to Sunday service in a long time.

  Cynthia shrugged. “Why don’t you say it? I don’t feel very grateful lately.”

  Her mother’s admission made Jean sad. Cynthia claimed she didn’t mind living alone—in fact, preferred it. But being confined to the house with only aides and a visiting nurse for company would take its toll on anyone. Sometimes friends came by, her mother reported. Or her minister, Reverend Ben, who visited at least once a week, sometimes more. That was something.

  Jean would never say her mother had a sunny personality, even when she was younger. But her mother had always displayed a lively intellect and could carry on an interesting conversation, up-to-date about the news and the latest books and movies. Little by little, her intellectual interests had faded. Cynthia seemed to have shrunken back, into a shell. That was the only way Jean could describe it.

  Jean could see a decline, even since her last visit in late October. Her mother’s doctor had told Jean that Cynthia should not be living alone any longer. The obvious choice was a nursing home, where she would get more attention and social contact. And medical assistance would be quickly available.

  But Jean knew her mother’s most dreaded nightmare was having to leave her cozy house and end her days in such a place. That was the main reason Jean had decided to move back home and take over her mother’s care. She had only arrived Tuesday night but could already see this plan was going to be more challenging than she’d expected.

  “All right, I’ll say grace.” Jean bowed her head and folded her hands, trying to remember what her father would say before the meal. “It’s been a while. Let’s see . . . Thank you, Lord, for this delicious food we’re about to enjoy, for this comfortable house and all of our blessings. We’re grateful for your gifts all year round, and especially today, on Thanksgiving.” She looked up at her mother and smiled. “I guess that covers it.”

  “More than covers it, I’d say.” Cynthia had already picked up her fork and was picking around her dish, as if the offerings were exotic. What could possibly be so mysterious about turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, and string beans?

  “Is everything all right, Mom?” Jean took a bite of turkey and stuffing.

  “It’s fine. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble. I don’t think I can eat half my dish. Is there any salt?”

  “Here you go.” Jean handed her the salt substitute.

  Jean’s mother stared at the shaker. “Oh . . . this stuff. Did you cook with that? No wonder the stuffing doesn’t taste right.”

  Jean took a moment to gather her patience. “Salt is very bad for you right now, Mom. You know that. It holds water in your body, and that’s the last thing you need.”

  “Yes, yes. Believe me, I know all about it.”

  Jean continued eating. She had thought she would miss the salt in the food but hardly noticed it. Perhaps her mother expected to get a day off from doctor’s orders since it was a holiday.

  Cynthia wasn’t eating much, just picking at her dish. Jean didn’t comment, though she knew her mother needed to eat better if she wanted to stay out of a nursing home. She would address that later, maybe talk to the visiting nurse about it. One thing at a time. There were many fronts to cover.

  “So, are you really going to live here with me? Is that really your plan?”

  Her mother’s question surprised her. They had discussed this move several times over the past few weeks while Jean was still in Portland. Was her mother growing senile as well?

  Jean helped herself to more cranberry sauce. “Yes, that’s the plan. We talked about it. Remember?”

  “Oh, I do. But now that you’re actually here, I wonder if you’re having second thoughts. You’re moving in because you were fired from your job, is that it?”

  “There was a merger, Mom. The advertising company I worked for was bought by a larger firm, and I was laid off. With a lot of other staff in the same boat. Not fired.”

  Her mother shrugged. “You lost your job. It’s more or less the same boat, isn’t it?”

  “Not exactly. But yes, I lost my job. I could have found another one, in time. But I decided to come down here and help you. Dr. Nevins says he doesn’t think it’s safe for you to live alone anymore.”

  And you should be in a nursing home at this point. That was what he had really said. But her mother knew that.

  “I’m not alone. The aides are in and out every day. I should install a revolving door. That Nurse Crosby. She’s here a few times a week. Too many people coming and going, if you ask me.”

  “That’s just it. They’re coming and going, visiting an hour or so. You’re alone the rest of the time and alone every night.”

  Her mother sighed. “All I do is lie in bed. What’s the difference if anyone is here or not?”

  “There’s a lot of difference.” Jean decided not to argue further. Her mother knew there was a difference between having someone in the house full-time and not. She was just being obstinate.

  “The doctor said you need more attention, and I’d like to take care of you. I’ll take care of the house, too. We can get rid of the aides coming and going. You’ll have more privacy, Mom,” she added, knowi
ng that point would appeal. “Once I get things in order, I’ll find some freelance work.”

  Jean also planned to work on the special project she had started—a children’s picture book. The idea had just come to her one day. She had started with some rough sketches and soon had a cast of quirky animal characters, a story, and a few watercolor and ink drawings in the works.

  “What about the shop? Will you run that, too?” The question broke into Jean’s thoughts.

  There was a little shop on her mother’s property, which sat at the end of Main Street, on the edge of the village. Her mother had run the shop for extra income, serving coffee and tea and desserts. Cold drinks and ice cream in the summertime. The shop also displayed an array of knickknacks and semi-antique bits of bric-a-brac that her mother had collected here and there, sometimes culled from their own attic. But the main line of merchandise consisted of her mother’s watercolor paintings, which were prominently displayed, covering every wall. Scenes of the local beach, marshes, and other natural sights. Cynthia had been a fairly good artist and had even won some local competitions, though she never seemed truly satisfied with her work, Jean reflected. The shop was, in fact, a private gallery, and Jean guessed her mother would be very happy to see it reopen.

  “Yes, I can run the shop if you want me to. How long has it been closed?”

  Her mother looked down at her dish, reluctant to meet Jean’s gaze. “Oh, I don’t know. A month or two.” Jean knew it had been much longer but didn’t contradict her. “What does it matter? All you have to do is unlock the door and turn on the coffeepot.”

  It would take more than that to get the place up and running; Jean was sure of that. Chase out some squirrels, maybe, or other nesting creatures? But she didn’t want to get her mother upset by raising that possibility.

  “I’ll take a look in there tomorrow and figure out what needs to be done.”

  “You might as well. If you’ll be living here.” Her mother shrugged. “If it helps you get back on your feet, Jean, I suppose I’m willing to see if it works out.”

  “Well . . . good. Let’s see how it goes.” Jean took a huge bite of turkey to keep from laughing. Leave it to her mother to turn things around and make it seem as if she was the one helping Jean out of a rough patch.

  Jean knew she could have easily found a new job at another advertising agency or publishing house. A lot of companies hired graphic artists, and her references were excellent. But after talking to her mother’s doctors over the past few weeks, she understood that Cynthia was certainly facing her last days—and Jean didn’t want her to face them alone.

  Jean cleared the table and brought in dessert. She had made an apple pie and bought a pumpkin pie at a bakery in town.

  “Oh, dear. Two pies? One for each of us?” Her mother sat back, eyeing the pies as if they were about to explode.

  “I’d claim the apple all for myself, but I know it’s your favorite,” Jean replied, unfazed by her mother’s reaction. “You can have some later if you’re too full now.”

  “I’m sitting here now, might as well get it over with. I’ll try some of the apple, please.”

  Jean cut her a slice and then a taste of each for her own plate.

  Her mother was silent, too busy eating her dessert to talk for a moment or two. “Not bad. Willoughby’s does a good job,” she said finally.

  “I got the pumpkin pie there, but I made the apple myself.”

  “Really? The crust, too?”

  “Yes, the crust as well.” Jean didn’t think it was her best piecrust ever, but her mother seemed impressed.

  “Where did you learn to cook like that? Not from me, that’s for sure,” Cynthia added with unusual candor.

  “I like to cook. And bake. I’ve taken quite a few classes.”

  “Cooking never interested me. But I guess you have the time, being single. Seems a waste though, with no one to cook for.”

  The words stung, though they were true. There was no one special in her life to cook for and share meals with. Certainly no husband or children. Jean had been married for a short time, but it hadn’t worked out. There hadn’t been anyone really special since. But that could change, Jean reminded herself. Even if her mother doubted it.

  “Not a waste at all, Mom. Now I’ll cook for you,” Jean said brightly.

  Before Cynthia could answer, the phone rang. Her mother sat up in her chair. “What time is it? That must be Kevin.”

  Jean’s older brother, Kevin, had gone to law school in California and had been living there ever since. He called their mother once a week, without fail, though he rarely visited.

  “Could be. I’ll go see.” Jean rose and answered the phone in the kitchen. She greeted Kevin and wished him a happy Thanksgiving.

  “Hello, Jean. Happy Thanksgiving to you, too. How’s it going? Did you really move in with Mom this week?”

  Jean had told her brother her plans and had explained on the phone and in e-mails about their mother’s failing condition. Though she didn’t feel Kevin truly understood the gravity of the situation.

  Perhaps he, too, thought she had given up her apartment and independence because she was down on her luck.

  “Yes, I came on Tuesday night. I’m not quite unpacked, but I didn’t bring that much. I left a lot in storage.” As she talked to Kevin, she walked back to the dining room. She could see how eager her mother was to get the receiver, practically squirming in her chair.

  “I’ll catch up with you later, Kevin. Here’s Mom.”

  Jean handed the phone down to her mother, who lit up like a firefly at the sound of Kevin’s voice. Jean could only hear half the conversation as she started to clear the table, but that was enough.

  “Oh, I’m fine,” Cynthia insisted. “Don’t you worry about me. You have a big job to focus on and lots of other concerns. These doctors love to exaggerate every little tick and twitch. I’ll outlast them all,” she boasted, her voice sounding heartier and livelier than Jean had heard it in the last two days.

  Kevin was speaking and Cynthia listened attentively. Her gaze followed Jean as she came back into the dining room again to take away more plates and cups. “Yes, she’s here. Cooked a huge turkey dinner. We could barely make a dent. I’ll be seeing more of that turkey as the week goes on, I’m sure.” Cynthia chuckled.

  Jean felt annoyed at the joke. As if she had done something wrong by making a special dinner. Sometimes it seemed, from her mother’s perspective, she could never do anything right.

  On the other hand, Kevin could never do anything wrong. He had always been her mother’s favorite. They shared a special bond, as if they both belonged to an exclusive club, and Jean was not a member. And never would be. She didn’t know why it should still bother her after all these years, but it did.

  “Oh, isn’t that nice. You deserve a vacation. You work so hard,” Jean heard her mother say. “You take care, too, dear. Thanks so much for the call. It gives me such a lift to hear your voice, honestly. You have a good week. Take care of yourself.”

  Jean waited until her mother had hung up before returning to the dining room. “How’s Kevin doing? Did he have a good Thanksgiving?”

  “He went to a neighbor’s house for dinner. Said it was very nice. But there were a lot of children there and he came home with a headache.” Her mother laughed. “It’s a good thing your brother never had kids. I don’t think he would have the patience for them.”

  Jean didn’t agree. Kevin had always loved children. He had even done some babysitting as a teenager. There was a reason that Kevin’s marriage had broken up, and perhaps it had been fortunate that no children were involved. But Jean always thought her brother would have wanted children. With the right woman, that is.

  “He’s working hard, of course. I do worry about him. So much pressure at those big firms. He sounded tired, as usual.”

  Jean d
idn’t comment. Tired or just bored? Kevin’s conversations with their mother were usually short and sweet. But she knew for a fact that Kevin’s work was very routine. He had taken a job at an insurance company right out of college and had never left. He had once described his job as a big snore that paid very well. It was hardly the high-powered legal firm her mother imagined.

  “He’s going on vacation. Skiing in Utah. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

  “Lovely,” Jean agreed. Kevin was often on vacation—skiing or scuba diving or traveling through Europe. A single man in his early forties, with no children to support, he had plenty of time and extra money.

  “When is he going to Utah?” Jean sat at the dining table again.

  “Over the Christmas break.” If her mother had hoped Kevin would visit Cape Light for the holiday, she didn’t show it. “I think it’s nice for him to get away with friends. I hate to think of him all alone at Christmas.”

  If he came home and spent Christmas with us, he wouldn’t be alone, Jean thought. This could be their mother’s last Christmas. Didn’t Kevin get it?

  Cynthia yawned. “I feel tired. I should go back to bed. All this eating and talking has worn me out.”

  “Here, let me help you.” Her mother was trying to push herself up from her chair but was having trouble. Jean came around and helped her maneuver onto the walker. She knew her mother must be tired when she didn’t protest.

  Jean helped her wash up and get into bed. Then she watched as Cynthia took several pills from a box on the nightstand and swallowed them with water, every movement slow and deliberate. She sank back on a pile of pillows with a deep sigh. Her color wasn’t good, Jean thought.

  Jean felt relieved when her mother asked for the oxygen. “I think that’s a good idea.” The small tank, in a metal holder with wheels, was set up near the bed, and Jean helped her mother fit the breathing apparatus to her nose.