by Anna Schmidt
And now he’d lost Karen too. And Laurie.
He refused to look up and see the “people lights” the child embraced. He’d get through Christmas, somehow, someway, and then face the future with his sister. A future that suddenly seemed bleak and sad all over again.
* * * * *
“I’m not a war widow.” Karen faced the gathering of girls after their evening meal that night and let her gaze meet theirs, one at a time. “I am an unwed mother, just like you.”
Most looked surprised. A few didn’t.
“I met a soldier when I was eighteen, just out of high school,” she explained. “I fell in love with him. I believed his promises. I let the needs of my life dictate the choices I made then.” She made a face, acknowledging her mistake. “My parents threw me out. They cast me onto the streets where I lived for weeks until Major Flora found me. She brought me here. Taught me. Helped me. And when Laurie was born, she made sure I had help while attending nursing school. With the army’s help, my poor choices turned into great hope. I know many of you thought I was widowed, and I let that go on for Laurie’s sake. And mine,” she admitted. “But I need to be honest with you and myself. God has forgiven my iniquity. I hope you will, too.”
The girls gathered to console her. Empathize with her. Relief mixed with pain as she began her shift that night. She may have gained the girl’s trust with her honesty, but she’d lost a man who touched her, heart and soul. For knowing him so short a time, she was amazed how much that hurt.
* * * * *
Karen didn’t return to her bell-ringing post on Thirty-Fourth Street.
Arnie looked saddened by the news, as if he bore some weight in her decision. But that was ridiculous, Mike decided. What would an elderly Jewish baker have in common with a Salvation Army bell ringer?
A shared love of good bread. That’s all.
Mary Lynn faced him on Christmas Eve. It had been a long, silent stretch of days, but now she met his gaze with a firm look. “I’ve been thinking this week.”
He nodded, listening.
“Thinking and praying,” she went on, and her pointed use of the second verb caught Mike up short. “I’ve decided I’ll do whatever you think is best after Christmas. I know I’ve made bad decisions in the past, and I’m trying to learn from them. So yes, if you want me to go to a home like where Karen works, I’ll do that because it’s time for me to take responsibility for my actions. I won’t fight you on it. But on one condition.”
Mike raised a brow. “And that is?”
She picked up his coat off the hook inside the door. “You come to church with me.”
“Now?”
“It’s Christmas Eve. Yes. And every Sunday thereafter.”
“Because?” He faced her square, half-proud, half-miffed that she called him on the carpet.
She thrust the coat at him and kept his gaze locked with hers. “Because it’s the right thing to do. Mom and Dad would have expected you to go with me. Even though I’ve messed up.”
She was right on all accounts. Walking the two blocks to the church, he wished his father were still here to talk to. Mike Sr. held a wisdom and grace that inspired those around him. His inner strength called to others, and his helpful nature welcomed everyone to their table.
How he’d love to talk to his father one last time.
They walked into the church. Twin wreaths decorated the broad, wooden doors. Candlelight brightened the deepest corners of the oak-trimmed sanctuary. Tall, thin, short, and wide, the gift of light shimmered around them. And in the middle of the sanctuary stood a crèche, lovingly cast and painted, the Holy Family celebrating the gift of a child.
As the service began, Mike’s gaze strayed back to the manger. The loving mother, solicitous, bent over her child. The Jewish father, caring for a son not his own. He’d protected Mary from shame and possibly death by marrying the young woman who carried God’s Son.
Joseph had gone the distance to protect his betrothed. A simple man who worked with his hands, a protector, he sheltered God’s son from evil and mayhem.
Mike recalled the feeling of holding little David in his arms, the newborn’s warmth and trust a thing of beauty.
He pictured Mary Lynn’s face as she confronted him earlier, ready to do as he asked to protect her child.
He raised his gaze to the wooden cross. God had given His all, His Son, to live and die for the sins of the world. A Father, loving and beloved.
Arnie’s words flooded back to him. “If the army helps you, you help them. It is a payback.”
Karen’s profile, rocking the bell, the young child tucked in the safety of the overhang.
Karen who worked in a home for unwed mothers . . .
A woman whose angry father treated her poorly.
Light dawned. Awareness awakened within him.
Karen hadn’t shied away from him because he wanted Mary Lynn safe. She’d backed away because she feared the truth of her situation would shame him.
What a fool he was. A stupid, silly, sanctimonious heel, and when church drew to a joyous, music-filled close an hour later, he caught Mary Lynn up in a full hug outside. “You’re not going anywhere, Mare.”
She pulled back, not understanding.
“Not to some home or anywhere else. We’re family. We stick together through thick and thin. Just like Mom and Dad taught us.”
“Oh, Mike.” She hugged him back, and when she finally pulled away, tears of joy brightened her light blue eyes. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Him.” Mike hooked a thumb back to the sanctuary behind them. “God told me I was being stupid. And I couldn’t deny it. But tomorrow morning we’re not going to Aunt Frannie’s like we planned.”
“No?”
“Nope.” He looped an arm around her shoulders and headed up the street, “people lights” shining around them as a light snow began to fall. “We’re going to the Booth Home to celebrate with Karen and Laurie. If they’ll have us.”
Mary Lynn hugged his arm. “I’d love that, Mike.”
Chapter Fourteen
• • • • • • • • • • • •
“Mommy, can we go down to the tree now? Please?”
“May we.”
Laurie sighed. Clearly the ten minutes Karen had used to get dressed tested the child’s Christmas morning patience. “May we?”
Karen glanced at her watch. The home’s morning celebration was scheduled for ten o’clock, with a midday dinner at one. Surely a few minutes early to see the tree wasn’t a bad idea. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Halfway there, Karen stopped, surprised.
Her mother was coming down the hall from the opposite direction.
Trudy O’Leary here. On Christmas.
A blend of dismay and caution filled her. Why had her mother come? In the five years since Laurie’s birth, her mother hadn’t come to see the child once.
A part of Karen longed to turn. Take the opposite hall into the hospital gathering area. She didn’t want Laurie’s Christmas to be tainted by anger or caustic words of reprisal. She wanted . . .
“Karen.” Her mother spotted them and proceeded at a quicker pace. “I found you.”
“Right where we’ve been for over five years,” Karen replied.
Her mother accepted the retort with unexpected ease. “I know that. When Laurie was smaller, I used to sit in the park across the way and watch for you to bring her out in her stroller. That way I could see her grow.”
“You did that?” Karen thought back, wondering if the claim was true. Would she have noticed someone watching from afar? Probably not.
“You watched me?” Laurie’s upraised brows said she thought being watched was quite special.
Trudy squatted low and handed Laurie a gift. “For you.”
“From you and Dad?” Karen asked.
Trudy looked up and there was no mistaking the added firmness to her expression. “From me. For my beautiful granddaughter.”
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“May I open it?” Laurie asked.
“Please do.”
Laurie’s hands fumbled the wrapping, but once she got it undone, she sighed and smiled as she held up the framed photo. “Look, Mommy! It’s a picture of me!”
Karen looked at the old print and sighed. “It looks like you, doesn’t it? But that’s actually a picture of me in kindergarten.”
“So beautiful.” Laurie touched the glass covering the old photograph with a gentle reverence. “I love it, Mommy. I look like you.”
“You do. Beautiful. Kind and good,” answered Trudy. She turned and handed a similar-sized package to Karen. “This one is for you.”
The gift held a framed photograph of Karen with her aunt and uncle, a picture they’d had taken at Yankee Stadium. The bright summer’s day was reflected in their smiles for the camera. Karen’s eyes filled. She held the picture up. “Thank you. I had no pictures of them to show Laurie. Just stories in my head.”
“Well.” Her mother raised her shoulders and settled a softer expression on Karen than she’d ever known growing up. “They were good to you. And us. Until . . .”
Karen understood “until.”
She motioned to her right. “They’re having a Christmas celebration out by the big tree in the gathering area. Would you like to stay, Mom? Celebrate with us?”
Her mother shook her head. “Not this time. But perhaps another? Right now I’m doing things day by day. And it’s getting better.”
Karen understood what her mother didn’t say. She had entered some sort of program, something that offered help for her drinking problem one day at a time. She reached out and gave her mother a quick hug. “I’ll pray for you.”
“As will I.” Trudy reached down and touched Laurie’s cheek briefly. “God bless you, child.”
“Thank you, Grandma. Merry Christmas!”
They walked down the hall with Trudy O’Leary. At the “T,” she turned left, out into the snow-covered walks. Karen and Laurie moved to the right, but as Trudy passed along the front wall of windows, she turned and waved to her daughter and granddaughter.
“Did you know she was coming, Mommy?”
Karen shook her head. “No.”
Laurie held up the wooden frame surrounding the only picture they had of Karen as a child. “I’m glad she did.”
Poignant emotions swirled within Karen, but the overwhelming one she felt seeing her mother sober and clean was joy. That alone felt wonderful. “So am I.”
Half the young mothers had already arrived in the gathering room. Staff members mingled with the girls, drinking coffee and juice, laughing and talking. Obviously Laurie wasn’t the only one anxious for the festivities to begin. And outside, thick snow fell softly to the ground, the clean white coating a cleansing of heart and soul.
“Mommy, look! Isn’t the snow the most beautiful snow you’ve ever seen?”
Christmas snow. Karen smiled and nodded. “That’s a gift right there, Laurie.”
“Oh, it is!”
But as wonderful as snow was, Laurie’s attention was pulled to the big, centered tree. She peeked around the semicircle, sounding out names, and when she got to the largest pile of all, her eyes grew round. “Mommy! These all say my name!”
Karen skirted the growing crowd of girls, then stopped.
Each of the young mothers had found something to give Laurie for Christmas. From the size of Laurie’s pile, they might have to put dinner off a while.
Tears pricked the back of her eyes. These girls gave from their need, and that blessing was Spirit-filled.
Her thoughts ran to Mike, but that was no surprise. She hadn’t stopped thinking of him since the night she sent him on his way. For five days she’d rung her bell in the financial district, surrounded by suit-clad men. There was no bagel maker looking out for her on Maiden Lane. No Officer Mike patrolling the Federal Reserve or Wall Street, and the smaller shop windows didn’t hold a candle to Thirty-Fourth Street.
“Karen?” Major Flora’s voice tugged her attention away from what might have been.
She turned, determined to move forward because there was no other place to go. “Yes, Major?”
“I’d like you to meet someone.” Major Flora shifted her attention to the tall, well-dressed man at her side. “Mr. Cooper, this is Karen O’Leary, the young woman you asked about.”
Karen wasn’t sure why this man had asked about her, but she stuck out her hand in greeting. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Merry Christmas.”
He shook her hand with hearty intent. “You took care of my daughter last year. She told me about you.”
Karen waited, one brow arched.
“She said you stayed with her in her moments of joy and sadness.”
Karen accepted the praise with a quiet dip of her chin. “That’s my job, sir.”
“It’s not, you went far beyond your job, young woman, and my daughter and I wanted to find a way to thank you. Repay you. Those acts of kindness meant a great deal to Genevieve.”
Genevieve.
The young mother whose premature son passed away eighteen months ago. They’d cried together, her and Gen, as tiny Samuel’s life slipped through their fingers.
“I was stupid then,” the man confessed. “I don’t know what got into me, and I’m ashamed of myself, but I’ve come back here to make amends.”
Amends?
How could he amend the lost life of a small child?
Major Flora slid her gaze to the far left. There, wrapped with a big, red bow, was an Isolette, the new enclosed, oxygen-enriched baby beds that helped support premature babies. “You bought us an Isolette? A preemie bed?”
“Six of them,” he explained. “And my people are going to build a separate unit to house them upstairs. By spring, there will be a small Intensive Care Unit for struggling newborns.”
Tears threatened again. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you seems inadequate.”
The man reached out and grabbed her in a hug. “The thanks come from us. The army’s kindness helped Genevieve through a time when her family didn’t stand by her. I’ll never forgive myself for that. But my shortcomings then will help others now.”
Major Flora motioned to a sign suspended above the Isolette. “Samuel R. Cooper Intensive Care Unit.”
Karen smiled through her tears. “This is a dream come true.”
“And could there be more dreams coming true this day?” the major wondered out loud.
Karen followed the direction of her gaze.
Mike.
He and Mary Lynn were crossing the snow-covered sidewalk. In one hand he gripped a cord-handled bag. His other arm embraced his kid sister’s shoulders, a silent message of love and protection.
Karen stood rooted to the spot until Major Flora nudged her forward. “I expect you’ll want to let them in.”
Did she?
Absolutely.
But their days apart made her steps unsure. Why had they come? Hadn’t she made herself clear? And how could she make Mike understand her firm stand, with all these people gathered in celebration of Christmas? She crossed to the main foyer entrance and pushed through the heavy door, uncertain.
Mike looked up. Saw her. Smiled.
The warmth of his look made her long to move forward, into his arms. Lay her head against his snow-dotted coat and rest there, the beat of a true heart strong beneath her ear. But she couldn’t, so she swung the door behind her wide and motioned them in. “Merry Christmas, Mike. Merry Christmas, Mary Lynn. We’re gathering for a little Christmas party here in the waiting area.”
Mike swept the busy foyer a quick look of decision. “Mary Lynn, can you take these over by the tree while I talk to Karen a minute, please?”
“Yes.” She smiled up at her big brother, leaned in, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. She turned back toward Karen. “Is it okay if we put these under the tree?”
Karen thought Mary Lynn’s sweet face showed less consternation. More peace. Just as she’d hop
ed. “That would be lovely.”
Mary Lynn moved into the waiting area as Karen redirected her attention to Mike. “Mike, I—”
“Me first.” He moved closer as the door swung shut, until the breadth and solidity of him blocked her view of the party commencing inside. “I went to church last night with Mary Lynn.”
Karen sent him a soft smile. “I’m glad, Mike.”
He made a face of regret. “Well, I should have done it sooner, but I’m a stubborn cop sometimes.”
She would have said sweet and amazing, but stubborn probably fit as well. She nodded. “I’m a little stubborn myself.”
His gaze went past her, to the gathering inside, and the hospital entry itself. He waved a hand in that direction. “I remember thinking how sensible it was that you worked here and lived here. A nice, safe setting, the little park across the road. Helping these young mothers is a wonderful thing.”
Just repaying a favor, Karen thought. She opened her mouth to tell him exactly that, but he shushed her with a gentle shake of his head. “I sat there in church, surrounded by soul-stirring music and candlelight, thinking about what Arnie told me.”
Karen frowned, confused.
Mike saw her expression. He paused, inhaled deeply, and motioned to the hospital again. “About how people repay the army by volunteering their time. Ringing the bells. Thinking about you living here with Laurie, all I could see was Mary, facing Joseph, trying to explain a baby that wasn’t his. A baby conceived without marriage.”
Karen’s heart chugged to a stop within her chest.
“That had to be so hard for her. For him,” Mike went on. He reached out a hand to Karen’s face, her cheek, and the rugged touch of his hand made her long to step closer. “You sent me away because I wanted to avoid embarrassment by tucking Mary Lynn away. I was putting reputation ahead of brotherly love.”
“I don’t find fault with a good reputation,” Karen told him softly. “But if God is willing to wipe a slate clean of sin, why do people have such a difficult time doing likewise?”
“We’re human. He’s God.”