by Moody, Diane
The rational voices in my head assured me it was no big deal. All things considered, it was probably the last thing Mark would think about if he was awake. And let’s face it, Poppycock is amazing, but it’s a dental nightmare. With all the other holiday treats and cakes and cookies, it was just another cavity waiting to happen. Right?
Those were the rational voices. The emotional voices had an altogether different tone. Which is why I found myself at the Publix cash register at closing time, bawling like a baby. You know, the ugly cry with mascara tracking down my cheeks and snot running down my chin? Yeah, that was me. Utterly inconsolable. Naturally, that was the precise moment when my cell rang and, blubbering fool that I was, I answered it. Samantha was at JFK on her way to some chateau in the Alps for the holidays and wanted to wish me a Merry Christmas. Patience isn’t one of Sam’s strong suits, which is why she kept yelling at me, trying to find out why I was crying so hard and couldn’t talk. Then she shrieked, sucking in the loudest emphysema-laced breath on record.
“OH, LUCY—PLEASE TELL ME YOUR UPS GUY DIDN’T DIE?!”
The Publix cashier—Bethany, according to her name tag—actually got down on the floor next to me and wrapped her arm around me while I wailed. Later, when my brother showed up (Bethany called him for me), he informed the kind grocery staff that I had apparently and unfortunately hit a point of critical mass.
“I think she held it in as long as she could, then BOOM! Sorry you all had to see this.”
The store manager held my hands as Chad helped me up. “She said something about that UPS guy who was taken hostage. Said she needed some Poppycock for him. I’m sorry, but we’re all out. I called the other stores in town and no one has any left. We didn’t know what else to do.”
“Oh, wow. That was really kind of you.” Chad herded me toward the doors. “Thanks so much for your help. She’ll be okay.”
After making such a spectacle of myself, I didn’t want to argue with Chad. But I wasn’t sure I’d ever be okay again. He took me home, pulled my sneakers off, and tucked me into bed. Then, because he’s the best brother on the entire planet, he stayed with me. He took a seat in the shabby chic easy chair there in my room, and stayed there until I woke up several hours later. He let me shower and pack up the last of my cookies, then drove me to the hospital.
Now, a couple hours later, with everyone gone and the lights in the hospital corridors dimmed, I settled in to spend Christmas Eve with my Mark. I wasn’t proud of my very public Publix meltdown. But sometimes there’s an odd sense of serenity that follows a good cry. A cleansing, of sorts. And that’s how I felt as I took a few moments to relax.
I let the gentle ambiance of the decorations comfort me. The heady pine scent coming from the miniature tree. The strings of tiny white lights on the tree and along the window ledge. The soft Christmas music playing on my Pandora playlist. The heat of my snickerdoodle latte warming my insides. All of it, helping me relax and just . . . be.
When I finished my latte, I reached for the box in my oversized bag. It filled me with an almost reverent peace as I mirrored the same thing my aunt did on that Christmas Eve seventy years ago. I unwrapped the Spode teacup and saucer and held them in my hands.
“Mark, I still don’t know if you can hear a word I say. But I need to share this with you. I feel so honored, so strangely content. Which makes no sense, if you think about it. Yet here I am, holding the same teacup Aunt Lucille held that Christmas Eve so long ago as she kept vigil with the love of her life. Remember when I read to you about the vow she made to have tea with Uncle Gary on every Christmas morning thereafter using these cups? True to her word, she eventually owned twelve place settings in this pattern. And I’m so glad to know the history behind these cups and all those dishes. Who knows, maybe I’ll try to twist Stephen’s arm and see if he’ll let me have his mother’s Christmas dishes.”
I set the Spode teacup and saucer on the bedside table and reached for Mark’s hand. I pushed away all the fears and doubts and slammed the door on my ever-present worry. Tonight I wanted nothing more than to be with Mark. That’s all. No strings attached. No if-onlys. No demanding prayers.
We were together. And for tonight, that was enough.
A little later I decided to finish reading Lucille’s diary. Not the whole book; just the part that covered that Christmas in the hospital. I wanted to know when Uncle Gary finally came around. I wanted to know what happened next.
“We left off on the afternoon of Christmas day,” I told Mark. “Lucille wrote how thankful she was that the hospital staff could join them. Remember? Okay, here we go.”
I was so thrilled that everyone stayed around after we ate. Even the nurses would stroll back through on their breaks. I’m guessing they too wanted to feel a little “normal” on this most blessed of days. Later in the afternoon, as the snow continued to fall outside, it was just us—Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds, my parents and Jack and me. We’d brought in extra chairs from the lounge and placed them in a circle around Gary’s bed. We chatted quietly for a long time while Father’s radio softly played Christmas carols. Jack had fallen sound asleep in Mother’s arms.
My father was talking to Gary’s father when Craig suddenly turned his head and raised his hand. In the background I heard the soulful strains of “O Holy Night” playing on the radio. I watched as Craig gazed at Patricia, and I knew they were remembering the Sunday we sang in their living room. They were remembering, as I was, the moment when our voices fell away until it was only Gary singing—his smooth tenor voice bringing such a sacred richness to that unforgettable melody.
Craig reached over and grasped Patricia’s hand. With only the glow of the Christmas lights, I could still see the tear that spilled down her cheek. I looked away, not wishing to invade on their shared moment. As I’d done a thousand times that day, I glanced over to check on Gary . . . and my heart stopped when I found him staring at me!
“Gary?” I gasped as I rushed to his side. “GARY! Can you hear me?” I grabbed his hand with both of mine and squeezed it hard.
Suddenly his bed was surrounded as they all gathered around, all speaking at once, saying his name over and over, all of us waiting and holding our breath as one.
He said nothing at first. His eyes slowly tracked from one to the other, his mouth moving as though he was trying to talk—or remember how to talk?
“Sweetheart, can you see us?” Patricia cried. “Can you hear me?”
His eyes locked on her, but showed no immediate recognition. He turned his head to the other side of the bed and looked up at his father.
“Son,” Craig said, his voice graveled with emotion. “It would be awfully nice right now to hear your voice and let us know you’re here with us.”
With my free hand, I wiped tears from my eyes. The movement must have caught Gary’s attention as he looked back at me. His eyes seemed to change a little—barely a trace, but there nonetheless. As though they were trying to smile even if his mouth wasn’t.
Then, ever so softly, he began to sing, his raspy voice accompanying the music still playing on the radio.
Right in time. And right on key.
“Sweet hymns of joy
in grateful chorus raise we,
With all our hearts
we praise His holy name . . .”
His voice gave out, too weak to reach the higher notes that followed. He closed his mouth, a flicker of sadness dashing across his face. “Am I dead?” he croaked.
We exploded—all of us—in laughter and tears and hugs of joy.
My father dashed toward the door. “I’ll go get the nurse!”
Patricia kept kissing Gary’s hand, holding his palm against her face. Neither she nor Craig could speak, but the joy on their faces was unmistakable.
I leaned down. “Gary! Oh Gary—you came back to us. You finally came back to us!”
“Where did he go?” Jack rubbed his eyes as he leaned back from Mothe
r’s shoulder.
Gary looked at my brother. “Hi, Jack,” he whispered.
A shy, sleepy grin warmed my little brother’s face. “Hi, Gary.”
We all laughed and hugged each other all over again. Gary gave my hand a gentle tug, and as I leaned closer, he smiled.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered.
I laughed, taking his face in my hands. “Not half as beautiful as you. I was so worried I’d never see those baby blues again.” I kissed his forehead.
The slightest smile curved his lips just as his chin began to tremble. He squeezed my hand as a silent sob shook him.
The head nurse made her way into the room ahead of two others. “Well, well! Look who decided to show up for Christmas!”
Gary stared at her, still struggling with his emotions.
“It’s very nice to see you, Mr. Reynolds. How are you feeling?”
He took a shaky breath. “My head hurts.”
I let the diary fall to my lap and buried my face in my hands. It was too much—it was all too much. Somehow our parallel universes were colliding, and I felt like I’d literally stepped back in time. I was right there in Gary’s room. I had felt the electricity in the air, the same crackling surge they’d surely felt. I’d cried tears of joy along with them and shared in their hugs of celebration.
For those moments I became Lucille, overwhelmed and giddy with relief that the love of my life had finally come back to me—
Right up until reality slapped me hard across the face and shoved me back into this room with the love of my life—who remained still and unconscious. I bit down on my knuckles and stood up, letting the diary fall to the floor. I clawed at my sweater, pulling it tighter around me as I turned my back on Mark and made my way to the window.
Get a hold of yourself, Lucy.
The rebuke felt like another slap. How could I be so naive? Of course Gary woke up—I’d known all along that he would. I’d been in his home! When I was ten, he let me drink my first coffee. He showed me how to dead-head petunias so they’d keep blooming. We’d spent hours singing Broadway show tunes, Aunt Lucille and I standing beside the baby grand piano he played so masterfully. Gary had come out of his coma and married Lucille and had a son named Stephen and lived a full life. It wasn’t just some made-up story.
So why was I so angry? Why did I feel like biting somebody’s head off?
I took a deep breath and blew it out, shaking my head. Stupid, stupid questions. I knew exactly why I was angry—I’d been reading a story knowing all along how it would end. As if I’d skipped to the last page in the book and sneaked a peek at the ending. These reading sessions merely filled in the blanks. They simply told me “the rest of the story.”
And deep in my heart, I knew that Lucille and Gary’s happily-ever-after didn’t guarantee the same for Mark and me.
I plucked some tissues from the nearest box of Kleenex and wiped at my relentless tears. I was sick of them. Sick of the emotional roller coaster. Sick of losing control at the slightest bump in the road. Sick of all of it.
I stood there staring out at the snowfall for the longest time. Silly, but I didn’t want Mark to see me like this. These are the mind games one plays with a coma boyfriend. But in spite of all I’d learned, this was one story I had no desire to write. Ever. Lucille and Gary’s story would fill the pages of my novella, but I would surgically detach myself from what was happening to Mark and me. I would type every word from Lucille’s perspective and leave it at that.
The serenity of the gentle snow falling outside my window slowly began to drain the angst inside me. I made a conscious effort to breathe in, then breathe out. Over and over, I let the calming breaths do their job. And as they did, I caught the sweet words of the familiar carol drifting through the room. How long had I stood here, tuning out the music playing on the radio? The age-old lyrics tugged at my heart, beckoning me to a Bethlehem stable two thousand years ago.
Silent night, holy night.
All is calm, all is bright.
Round yon virgin, mother and child.
Holy infant so tender and mild.
Sleep in heavenly peace—
My heart stopped even as the reverence of the beloved carol continued.
Sleep in heavenly peace.
I looked over my shoulder at Mark and watched his chest slowly rise and fall, just as it had for the last couple of weeks. He looked so serene. So peaceful. And yet his peace had delivered unspeakable fear to those of us who loved him. Was it possible for us—for me—to experience such peace in the midst of such a horrific nightmare?
Again, I knew the answer to my own question. I’d memorized the verses long ago as a child.
And the peace of God,
which transcends all understanding,
will guard your hearts and minds
in Christ Jesus
—Philippians 4:7
Peace I leave with you;
My peace I give to you.
I do not give to you as the world gives.
Let not your hearts be troubled.
Do not be afraid.
—John 14:27
I could hardly remember the child I was when I learned those verses. They meant little to me then, just a bunch of words I memorized to earn stickers on a Sunday school chart. Later, I would understand why it was so important to learn scripture. Back then, I learned those verses because it was what we were supposed to do. It was expected. But oh my goodness, how thankful I am to know them now. Like so many life rafts in a raging sea of fear.
Silent night, holy night
Son of God, love’s pure light
Radiant beams from Thy holy face
With the dawn of redeeming grace . . .
I closed my eyes and prayed.
Oh Jesus, thank You. It’s only through You that I can fathom such grace. To be redeemed to You through a mercy I can’t even begin to understand. But I believe in You. I trust in You. And I’m clinging to Your promises as if they truly are life rafts in a dark and stormy sea.
When I finished praying, the strangest thought came to mind. I’ve always woven threads of faith through the books I write. I’ll never be a preacher or a missionary, and I’ve never felt called to lead a Bible study or even teach kids in Vacation Bible School. But I never once doubted God’s call to use the passion He gave me for writing to tell of His unconditional love and mercy and grace.
So was this the faith thread of my own personal story?
The assurance of God’s presence even when I can’t feel it?
His promise of peace even when it seems to elude me at every turn?
The legacy of hope that defies understanding?
And the greatest gift of all—His precious Son born in a manger on that silent, holy night . . .
I glanced at the snow falling outside the window and took another cleansing breath.
And then?
I smiled.
Chapter 13
On Christmas morning, Chad and Shelly woke me up.
After my late-night heart-fest with God, I’d fallen sound asleep. Maybe the most restful sleep since this all began. I stretched and smiled and hugged them both.
“Merry Christmas, Chad. Merry Christmas, Shelly.”
“Right backatcha, Lucy,” my brother said, holding me another moment. “For someone who slept in a chair all night, you sound rather chipper.”
“Me? Chipper?”
Shelly unwrapped the scarf around her neck and studied my face. “Chad’s right. You seem different somehow. Relaxed. Everything okay?” Her countenance drew together and she quickly turned toward Mark. “Is he—”
“No. No change. Sorry.”
“Don’t be silly. I just—” she tilted her head and stared at me again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I felt like I was looking at Shelly through a different lens. I realized how much I’d grown to love Mark’s sister. She was smart and beautif
ul and sincerely compassionate toward everyone around her. Including my brother. I’d picked up little nuances between them now and then. A look. A lingering smile. The fact that he’d saved her number in his cell phone. The fact that they arrived here together. On Christmas day. I wondered what else I might have missed and made a mental note to have a heart-to-heart with Chad about it later.
The staff scooted us out the door so they could bathe Mark and shave his whiskers. I was rather fond of those whiskers—not permitted in the UPS employee guidelines—but cute, nonetheless. We took the opportunity to go downstairs and grab some breakfast in the cafeteria. A far cry from the Christmas mornings of our childhood, but it would have to do.
The rest of the day felt eerily similar to Lucille’s Christmas. Lots of relatives showing up, and lots of good food streaming in. I felt a little guilty seeing the parade of scrumptious holiday dishes coming in juxtaposed against the trays of grayish-looking fare showing up from the hospital’s food service.
I half-expected to see Lucille come around the corner, wearing her emerald green swing dress with the pinstriped bow, carrying the strange old “Christmas candle” to put on Uncle Gary’s bedside table.
But thanks to my unexpected encounter with the Lord last night, I felt strangely calm. At peace. As though I were finally given a glimpse into that heavenly sleep my Mark was experiencing. And just as Lucille noted in her diary, ours was truly a wonderful Christmas. I think it helped that I didn’t allow myself too much hope or expectation. I was okay with having our families together, blessing the hospital staff with a taste of home cooking, and basking in the peace I’d accepted in the wee hours of the morning.