by Jillian Hart
Yes, that felt right. Friends. The warm glow in her spirit remained. As if a door had opened to a place within her heart. To what, she didn’t know. Ryan lived in Phoenix. She lived in Seattle. The most they could be would be long-distance friends. It seemed as if the only thing they had in common were their visits home for the holidays.
On the wide wooden sill behind her, the delicate porcelain figures sat in eternal worship. The barn animals, the wise men and mother and father. All knelt before the simple manger where the Christ child lay.
Her breath fogged on the cold window, but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. Cold radiated through the windows. Warmth from the heat vent curled around her ankles. Tiny snowflakes flitted against the window.
Slowly the grief inside her ebbed away, leaving in its place peace.
Chapter Eleven
Christmas Day
Kristin’s cell phone rang. Yanking her favorite Christmas sweater over her head, she dug through her bag on the floor until she found it. She checked the ID on the screen before answering. “Hey, Karen. How did Allie like her trike?”
“She’s squealing and pedaling around the living room as we speak. I tried to get her off to eat breakfast and she raised such a fuss, I just handed her a waffle and let her eat and drive.”
“Sounds like it was a hit. Did Zach tell you how hard that thing was to put together?”
“Yep. ‘Santa’ is still assembling some of the other toys. He’s been at it since sunup.” Karen’s voice sparkled with happiness. In the background, a little girl’s squeals of delight rang like merry bells, accompanied by a loud crash. “Oops, I gotta go. Disasters abound. I’ll see you around noon. Merry Christmas!”
She sounded so happy, Kristin thought as she tucked her phone into her back jean pocket. Good. Karen, who’d been closest to Allison, had a hard time with her death. Now, she was laughing and happy again. That was a good thing. But Kristin couldn’t help worrying. She prayed Karen had one of those special marriages that would last. She wished that for all her sisters.
She didn’t know how they could do it, but she was thankful they were all thriving and content.
She hopped over Minnie, asleep on the sunny landing, and down the stairs. Presents were heaped under the lit tree, and the fragrance of wood smoke and fresh pine was like every other Christmas in her memory. She followed the scent of sizzling bacon to the kitchen, where Mom was at the stove, spatula in hand.
“Merry Christmas. Is Dad in the barn?”
“Yes, indeed. The snow had drifted over the back door and he had to dig his way out. What a storm we must have had last night.” Mom flipped the bacon, the hollows beneath her eyes, bruised with exhaustion, told a different story. “Did you want one egg or two?”
“Are you kidding? Two. It’s not every day I get treated to your eggs Benedict.” She kissed her mom’s cheek as she slipped by.
Mickey was purring, content to lie on the heat register beneath the table. She stooped to give him a stroke, wondering. Mom looked so worn out, as if she hadn’t slept at all. And what about Dad?
A knock at the back door—it was Dad. He poked his head in, his skin was red from the cold. His lined plaid hat with the earflaps was dappled with ice pellets. “Kris—get your boots on and help me. The water’s froze up solid at the barn.”
“Are the animals all right?”
“For now, but that heater conked out sometime during the night. Don’t know how long they’ve been without water. We’ve got to start packin’.”
“Okay.” She reached for her coat, unhooking it from the back closet. The frigid draft from the partially opened door had her shivering. She dug through the closet for insulated gloves. There had to be an extra pair lying around somewhere.
“Pete.” Mom’s voice felt as chilled as the outside air. “Will you be long? I’ve just put the eggs on.”
“Well, now, I don’t rightly know, Alice.” Dad sounded tired. Irritable. “It’ll take as long as it takes. You know that.”
Her parents arguing—it used to be a rare thing. She hated it. Her stomach clenched tight. Please, stop, she wished with all her might.
But Mom didn’t. She kept right on going. “It’ll ruin the eggs to keep them warming.”
“What would you have me do? You’ll just have to wait, Alice.” With a tired sigh, Dad closed the door with a click that echoed through the tense silence in the kitchen.
Kristin released a shaky breath. That was why she never wanted to get married. If her parents, who’d had the perfect marriage and life together, couldn’t make love last, then no one could. From the outside, they looked content enough. But behind closed doors, the distance and the hurt separated them. How long would it be until the anger progressed to bitter hatred? Would they divorce?
Her stomach burned. No, that was unthinkable. Her parents wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t walk away from their holy vows in that final way. She jerked on the pair of gloves she’d found. They were too big, probably an extra pair of Dad’s.
What difference did it make? She just wanted outside. She was choking, and Mom was muttering to herself as she put the eggs on to cook. Words that Kristin didn’t want to hear. Turning away, she pounded outside and into the brutal cold before she realized she hadn’t zipped up.
She didn’t even remember pulling her coat on. Ice dried on her cheeks as she bent to zip up, the thick gloves making it difficult.
No, her parents wouldn’t divorce, she realized as she looked around at the sprawling home and well-kept outbuildings, at the horses milling around the open barn doors. Mom and Dad had built something good here together. They wouldn’t divide it up into his and hers. They’d just live like this forever, silently angry and quietly hurting.
Marriage was such a blessing? Not from where she stood. Disillusionment twisted in her heart on this most sacred of mornings. She tried to push it aside but she couldn’t. Since Dad had left two ten-gallon buckets by the back steps, she swept them off and sidled back inside to the laundry room, off the mudroom, where she hefted the buckets into the oversize sink and hit the faucet.
There was no way she was ever going to get married. No way she was ever going to trust that one day her world wouldn’t be pulled out from under her like a rug beneath her feet. Leaving her in pieces and hurting as Mom was. She tried not to listen to the sounds of Mom’s anger. The harsh ring of a pot or the harder than necessary thud of a cupboard door closing
The buckets were nearly full. Kristin, used to the drill, turned off the water, hiked the buckets with care and lugged them to the back door. It felt like a two-mile trek to the barn hauling twenty gallons of water. Her nose, throat and lungs burned from the icy wind as she struggled across the backyard. Dad had broken a path, but she still sank into snow up to the top of her boots.
“Say, thanks for your help, Kris.” There was Dad, hurrying to take the heavy load from her.
He was such a kind man. Why couldn’t he and Mom just get along?
“I’ve got a space heater working in the utility room. Temporary fix.” Dad gestured with a curt nod toward the corner room, where the water heater and industrial furnace were housed. “Could you do me a favor? Run in the house, would ya, and fetch my phone. I left it in the living room.”
She heard what he didn’t say. He didn’t want to face Mom. “Fine. I’ll do that.”
“Good. I figure all our little ones are up by now. All that excitement with Santa Claus comin’, you know.” His blue eyes twinkled and for a moment he looked young and alive. But the brightness slipped away and left a tired, aging man. An unhappy man.
“I might as well warn the boys I’ll be needin’ their help today. Sure is good havin’ them in the family. You wouldn’t be lookin’ to give me another son-in-law, would you?”
“Dad! Not you, too.” She snatched up empty buckets from the ground, ones Dad had just emptied. “I expected better from you.”
“I’m just sayin’. It doesn’t hurt to mention it.” Dad upende
d a full bucket over the top of the gate and into his mare’s water trough. “Noticed you and Ryan are getting close.”
“We’re friends. You know. We’re friendly.”
“Well, sure, but he’d make a fine son-in-law. He’s smart, works hard, respectful to women and his elders. It’d be awful handy to have a doctor in the family.”
“Dad! I’d much rather haul twenty gallons of water in the freezing cold than stand here and listen to this.” With the buckets she held clanking, she marched straight to the door without looking back.
Although she couldn’t stop from wondering—why was her dad doing this, too? Putting so much attention on her and Ryan’s friendship that could never be anything more.
Maybe because it helped them to forget for a while their own unhappiness.
Snow tickled her nose as she negotiated the treacherous path to the house. She could see Mom through the big bay window busy at the stove, the bow of her apron at the small of her back. Her left shoulder hitched high to keep the phone at her ear while she worked. Probably hearing about her grandchildren.
Kristin popped open the door to the sound of Mom’s voice, falsely cheerful.
“Oh, I’m sure Allie will get the hang of it in no time… I suppose the couch will have to face a few more head-on accidents before the day is through. How’s little Anna? Loves to rip the paper…”
Talking with Karen, Kristin concluded, as she elbowed into the laundry room and set the buckets in the sink. Bits of conversation rose over the rush of the water. “Oh, dear, Kirby’s calling on the other line. Yes, I’ll tell her. See you in a bit… Kirby, Merry Christmas. Michael did what?” Mom laughed, shallow and forced, the note ringing hollow on this holy day.
The tension between her and Dad lingered.
Once they’d all come together in celebration and joy. Christmas would never be that way again. Her family was forever changed.
Ryan followed his nose down the hall, yawning. He wasn’t even really awake yet, but his stomach was growling. He shuffled in his socks and his flannel pj’s, lured by the scents of coffee and sausage and maple syrup.
“Hey, sleepyhead.” Mom sat in her favorite chair by the window, smiling up at him as her knitting needles flashed. “Mia’s still asleep, too. Boy, does this take me back to when you two were teenagers on a weekend morning.”
“Weekends and holidays are made for sleeping in. You know that.” He raked a hand through his hair. Yawned again. He was still tired. He couldn’t say he got much sleep last night.
Christmas was everywhere. The solemn carols humming from the little stereo system he’d gotten Mom for her last birthday. The blink and glisten of the tree lights. The presents piled beneath the branches. A mix of the presents for each other and ones “Santa” had left overnight. The serene glow of love that lingered in this house. Why hadn’t he noticed that before?
“I have your breakfast keeping warm in the oven. Don’t forget to rinse your plate!”
“Yeah, yeah.” He stooped to brush a kiss to her forehead. “Merry Christmas.”
Mom’s eyes filled. “Oh, you’re my favorite son.”
“I’m your only son, but I am your favorite.” He winked, enjoying the sound of her chuckle as he left the room. One thing about his mom, she loved both Mia and him equally. But he was uncomfortable with what he’d wanted to say. Like, I love you, Mom.
With the fire snapping in the woodstove, the kitchen was blissfully warm. He found two plates keeping warm in the oven, the smaller one was Mia’s. He took the big serving plate, heaped with scrambled eggs, pancakes and sausage links to the table.
It was a very white Christmas. Snow clouds rolled along the sky like waves in an ocean, undulating and white-capped and stunning, crashing upon the frosted mountains. The roll of land, the draw of valley and silent firs snowcapped and still, tugged at his heart, summoning the past. Memories surged through him. Of Dad at the table, nose in the paper as he dragged out that last cup of coffee and used the last sausage link to wipe up the puddle of maple syrup from the pancakes.
Mom, younger and more lively, taking the empty plate from him. “No, you just relax. You work enough for two men the week through.”
Mia hopping up from the table—spritelike and freckle-faced as she’d been as a little girl. “I wanna open the presents now. Can we? Can we?”
“After your father finishes his coffee,” Mom had answered from the sink. “Ryan, are you still eating? Haven’t you filled that hollow leg of yours yet? There’s one more pancake. Go ahead and eat it.”
That had been their last Christmas together, Ryan remembered as he sat down to the table with the syrup bottle in hand. He’d gotten skis as part of his cache and after Christmas dinner, Dad had taken him outside. Showed him how to cross-country.
The years fell away and he was an eight-year-old bundled well in bulky winter gear. The thick scarf and the parka’s hood made it hard to tip his head back far enough to look up at his dad. Dad had seemed so tall and invincible. A superhero of a man who could do anything.
With endless patience, Dad showed him how to use the poles to kick off and glide. “With a little practice, you’ll be good enough to go up in the backcountry with me.”
“Can I, can I?”
“Sure thing, Son. I promise. We’ll make a day of it. We’ll use the new binoculars you and your sister got me. I bet we’ll even see a few wildcat tracks, if we’re lucky.”
A promise that Dad never got to keep.
Ryan could almost feel the pure thrill of anticipation he’d felt that Christmas. How like a man he felt skiing alongside his dad. Being big enough to get to go up into the mountains. Of swelling up with love until he’d felt like bursting, as his dad’s hand came to rest on his shoulder.
“That’s my boy,” Dad had said.
In the warmth of the kitchen, Ryan took a steadying breath. His vision was blurry, and he swore he could feel the weight of his dad’s hand on his shoulder still. Could still sense his father’s love and pride.
Something he hadn’t felt since that long-ago day.
Why? He’d never faced his grief before. He’d been a kid. He hadn’t known how to handle his father’s death. And through the years, it had been easier to push those feelings down. Until last night. Until he’d found the card.
Because of Kristin. She was the reason. If his mom hadn’t been trying to fix him up with her and arranged for them to cut Christmas trees, then he wouldn’t have used Dad’s coat. And he wouldn’t have put Kristin’s gift in the pocket where the forgotten card had resided.
Kristin. He thought about her. About how she’d looked last night in the truck’s dome light, full of compassion and caring and beauty. How she was like the gentle peace of a winter morning, and he wanted to see her. He missed her company. There was a place deep in his heart that warmed. It was like the connection he’d felt last night between them, and he wondered if she was thinking of him, too.
Oblivious to the tension in the living room, little golden-haired Allie galloped in circles around the couch, holding on to her new toy horses with real manes, who were “galloping” with her. Her little sister, Anna, ran after her with one hand outstretched and the other clutching the couch for balance, making a shrill sound of glee.
Kristin moved her left foot in time to save it from being run over by little Michael’s dump truck that raced on the edge of the cold hearth bricks. With the help of Michael’s sound effects and guiding hand, the truck took a tragic head-on into the wood box, flew through the air to roll to a stop where Kristin’s foot used to be.
“Uh-oh!” Baby Emily commented as she hugged her Sesame Street doll that was laughing hysterically.
Wearing a very fashionable red-and-green Christmas sleeper that said Santa’s Favorite in candy-cane striping, Baby Caitlin yawned, stretched her little fists and nestled deeper into her mommy’s arms. Seated side by side, Kendra and her husband Cameron watched their infant daughter sleep with sheer love on their faces.
; Kristin prayed that their love would last. She wished that for all of her sisters. And for her parents, who sat on opposite sides of the room, Mom staring at the brochure that held the tickets and paid hotel-and-tour vouchers. That wish was looking more and more like an impossibility.
“Look what the girls got us, Pete.” Mom held up the picture of a lush Maui resort.
Mom didn’t look too happy. Kristin glanced at her sister Michelle, who was seated on the chair next to her.
“Disaster,” Michelle leaned over to whisper.
“Uh-oh!” Emily commented from Michelle’s lap.
Exactly. Kristin watched as Mom struggled to smile. Not a real smile. And the last of Kristin’s hopes—and, she was sure, all of her sisters’—broke into a thousand pieces.
“Well, now,” Dad commented as even the children silenced. “That was real thoughtful of you girls.”
“You always used to talk about a second honeymoon in Hawaii, but with the running of the farm, there was never any time,” Kirby gently explained. “So we thought—well…”
“Since you never got the chance to go,” Michelle broke in. “We’d help you along. Merry Christmas.”
“That’s real fine.” Dad’s smile was too tight, but he was trying to be gracious.
As Karen and Kirby huddled around Mom, showing her all that the two-week vacation included, Dad stood from his recliner and began clearing away the wrapping paper. Brody and Cameron got up to help him. The TV flashed to life. Little Michael had abandoned his dump truck to take command of the remote control.
Sam blew a raspberry on his boy’s cheek and they chuckled together, father and son. “If you’re going to take charge of the remote, you’ve got to make sure to turn it to football. That’s it, hit that button right there. Good boy.”
The black-and-white Jimmy Stewart movie switched to a game in progress. The men froze, staring at the screen as a football sailed through the air—
“Incomplete!” the commentator announced and the men moaned in agony.