Christmas on Mimosa Lane (A Seasons of the Heart Novel)

by Anna DeStefano

  “I come from somewhere that gives me a leg up working with people like your daughter,” she reminded herself out loud. That’s all that was happening here. This was another impersonal connection she’d spin into something good, because helping and letting go once her job was done was supposed to be her specialty.

  “And you think you can work with us?” He didn’t sound convinced.

  “That’s a question you’re going to have to answer for yourself. I’ve considered sending Polly back to her class when she comes to my office, but I worry about how she’ll take that kind of rejection. And I could lock my doors here…” She ignored the cringe deep inside, a flashback of being hemmed in as a child, unable to leave. Not until morning when daylight made it safer, though never completely safe, to be out and about. It was a claustrophobic, panicked place she hated each time her mind returned to it. “But if Polly came back another night, she’d be—”

  “Locked outside in the dark, and there’d be no pretty Christmas tree for her to hide behind. No one to alert me that she was gone.” Pete seemed to age before Mallory’s eyes.

  “I don’t have definite solutions to give you.” Thinking that she did was a slippery slope. “I suspect I’ll end up asking you more questions than anything else.”

  “Questions I’ll like about as much as you giving Polly puffed air for a late-night snack?”

  “Get back to me on that one. My guess is she’ll sleep better with it in her stomach than she does the harder-to-digest, wholesome fare you’re giving her for dinner.”

  “Because you served her the nutritional equivalent of crack?”

  “No, because she ate it from a chipped princess bowl.”

  Mallory waited for him to get that she was kidding. He didn’t blink. So much for distracting him with playful sarcasm.

  “The cereal’s a base for her stomach.” She felt ridiculous lecturing him about dietary dos and don’ts while looking like a waif that barely came up to his chin, wearing oversize thrift store pajamas she suspected might not be entirely covering her breasts. Only she wasn’t drawing attention to the situation by clutching at the lapels of her nightshirt. “Even with the appalling amount of sweetener coating it, something like puffed corn is a good option for bedtime. Like rice, it’s easier to digest than more complex grains. Have you heard of the BRAT diet? I recommend it for many of the kids I work with. There’s a lot of anxiety to deal with for little ones who’re constantly moving around with displaced parents.”

  Pete blinked. “There are kids like that at Chandler?”

  Mallory inhaled.

  “No…” she backpedaled. “I was speaking of other places I’ve worked. What I’m trying to say is digestive problems are common in kids who experience upheaval too early in life.”

  “The BRAT diet?”

  “Bananas, rice, apple sauce, and toast. Four of the most easily digestible foods you can find, and there’s substantial dietary value to each. When you’re rebooting a little one’s system, I’d start with BRAT every time.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  It was the nicest thing he could have said to her, even if his acquiescence came out rusty, like the scrape of a door that didn’t want to be opened.

  “Friends, then?” The suggestion tumbled from her mouth as if she hadn’t bungled each attempt to make a similar offer to other families in their community.

  She extended her hand, officially committing to their ceasefire for Polly’s sake. And why not? To this man a friendship with her would mean nothing more than being casual acquaintances. And casual was a crystal-clear boundary Mallory could work with.

  “If Polly continues not wanting a tree of her own,” she said, “maybe the two of you could come back one afternoon to visit it together. I’ll stay out of the way. You can have a little holiday, at least, without her feeling pressured to want what you’ve always done with her mother.”

  “You’re hard to figure out.” He shook and held on longer than any casual friend she’d ever had.

  “You’re better of not trying.” Mallory slipped free and yanked her pajama top tightly closed. “Tougher characters than you have given up in frustration. I’m a nut that defies cracking.”

  When he laughed she felt a rush of pleasure race through her.

  “Daddy?” a tiny voice said. Then a tiny body emerged through the butler’s door. “I’m tired.”

  Pete knelt and cuddled Polly close. As he held her and stood, his daughter’s head fit beneath his chin as if she’d laid it there a million times. The bond between them no matter how much they’d both lost was clearly stronger than ever. They were still trying. Maybe they were failing a little, but they were trying.

  Watching them Mallory felt alone beneath her glaring Christmas tree for the first time since putting the thing up.

  “How’s your tummy feeling?” Pete ran a hand down his daughter’s hair.

  “Better,” Polly whispered around a yawn. Her eyes drooped, then shut completely.

  Pete scowled at Mallory’s unapologetic smirk.

  “Night.” Savoring her victory, she led the way to the patio.

  “We should give you back your robe.”

  “Next time,” she heard herself say.

  Pete stepped outside. He turned back. The look he gave her clouded with unvoiced questions. “Next time,” he accepted, sealing their deal. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Too welcome. She stepped away and caught herself wondering which afternoon that week the pair might be back.

  She had way too much personal experience with what it was like for a little girl to dream of a Christmas that wouldn’t break her heart to be inviting Polly and Pete Lombard deeper into her rebooted life. She slid the glass shut between them, her tree’s lights reflecting her image like a mirror. With a flip of the switch beside the patio door she disappeared, her tree going dark for the first time since she’d decorated it.

  The world beyond her window re-formed, shadowy and frigid. Her neighbors were already gone. The door in the corner of her fence was shut. Peace had reclaimed her view. But the crystal perfection of it no longer tempted her to smile.

  As quickly as she could she cleaned the kitchen, reset the thermostat, turned her tree back on as she passed through the living room, and crawled into bed. Much, much later, she fell asleep, worry for the Lombard family joining her until dawn painted ribbons of lavender across a gray sky and Mallory’s own childhood grabbed for her with greedy fingers.

  Chapter Three

  My life closed twice before its close…

  When you got nothin’, you’re invisible.

  Mal had her mama, but not really. And her crazy mama had left everything but Mal behind three months ago when she’d taken Mal away from Grams and Papa. They had nothin’ now except what they could carry each time they moved on from whatever place they were, before someone realized that Mal should be in school or that Mama and her had nothin’ of their own. Not even Christmas.

  Being invisible had been okay at first. It was trying not to get caught that got old fast. And scary. It was scary to never belong and never stop the way Mama kept saying they would one day. Mal didn’t believe her anymore. And now that Thanksgiving had come and gone and they were still movin’ from one shabby building to the next, hardly ever sleeping at the kind of shelters that gave away free turkey dinners and pumpkin pie, Mal had started to wish someone would finally, really, see her.

  If they got found out maybe it would stop. Maybe the one day Mama kept promising would happen. Maybe Christmas and Mal’s grandparents would find them after all.

  “Come on, Mal, we have to keep goin’. It doesn’t hurt that bad. We’ll make it in time.”

  Mama never called her anything but “Mal.” No “Mallory Jane,” the way Grams called her. And she never worried like other moms, even the other street moms, or stopped to see how tired or cold or sad Mallory was. Mama felt too much already to worry about stuff outside her head. Most of
the time she needed Mal’s help to stop feeling—Mal, and whatever Mama found to drink that made everything better for a little while.

  It was Christmas Eve. The TV news had said so on the overhead screen in the stuffy, crowded drugstore they’d walked around in until it closed. Now instead of finding some vacant place to stop for the night or even a shelter with free presents, they were walkin’ to the next town like they did all the other nights when Mama couldn’t sleep.

  An image filled Mal’s mind of two homeless Energizer Bunnies with crazy hair and bad teeth and grimy coats that didn’t keep them warm, drumming down a no-name city street. She laughed out loud.

  “Shhh…” Mama warned.

  A jagged cough grabbed Mal’s insides as she tried to shush. She let it out just like the laugh, and it went on and on until the pain got so bad she squeezed her arms around herself and held her breath and swallowed the next wheeze, trying not to cry. She hated to cry. Mama couldn’t stand it either. It made her crazier, which made people look at them weird while Mama paced and talked to herself and cried, too, because she was scared of everything, but mostly of Mal bein’ taken away from her.

  “Someone will hear,” Mama said in her scared voice.

  But there was no one, not ahead of them or behind. It was late. Probably after midnight. Christmas morning. The world was deserted. Tall buildings and trash and filth and winter wind was all there was for miles. No one would hear her cough. No one would see Mal tonight.

  She remembered a story from kindergarten, from back when she’d lived with Grams and Papa. A story about kids with yards and play sets and Christmas trees and real families. Those kids liked the cold that came with the holidays. Leaves changed in their perfect yards. They played games in piles of them after their parents raked their lawns. They had toys they left outside that got buried by the fall. They didn’t have to hold onto everything that was theirs, carrying it with them wherever they went or someone would steal it. They had jackets and hats and warm soup and turkeys at Thanksgiving and loads of presents each Christmas. They had everything, and when you had everything the cold didn’t matter so much.

  Because of her mama, Mal’s family had never been like that. And now all Mal had was her crazy mama and a cough. They’d coughed up crud for days while they kept goin’, because the shelters in this city weren’t like the one they’d left in the last small town. She and Mama couldn’t be invisible here, not if they needed a doctor. Doctors and nurses in big cities made you sign stuff, and the different shelters talked to each other. They kept track of kids like Mal, especially if they were sick. Someone would call the police, who’d take Mal away and put Mama back in the hospital.

  Mama said she’d rather die than lose the only thing she’d ever really had—Mal. She said they had to get to somewhere else before they could stop, no matter how bad Mal’s cough hurt. No matter how hard it was to watch Christmas come and go like it was just another day. Like they really had no one. Nowhere. Nothin’ of their own. Nothin’ but each other.

  It began to snow.

  Mal pulled their hats from her backpack, making sure Mama put hers on. Mal was always making sure. Without Mal, her mama would forget to eat and sleep and get clean whenever they had the chance. Mal had stolen cough syrup before they left the drugstore. She’d make sure she and Mama took it—every four hours, the bottle said—until it was gone. Then when Mama finally let them stop, Mal would steal more.

  A fresh start, Mama called each new town. Except Mal remembered Gram’s soft, clean sheets. They’d been fresh, not the nasty boxes and stuff they slept on most nights now. She’d drank cold orange juice for breakfast at Grams’s, in cartoon glasses, not whatever the next shelter served lukewarm, or something a store threw out because it was no good to anyone but people who’d dig it out of a Dumpster. There was no fresh for people carrying their life around in wet plastic sacks and a backpack that Mal had stolen long before the cough syrup.

  There’d be no fresh waiting for them in the next town, either. Or the next. Two or three more cities from now, Mama would finally drink enough to crash. She’d stop movin’ completely. Like the last time and the time before that, Mal would find them a place, maybe a good shelter, and Mama would wind down like her batteries were empty. She’d get too tired and drunk to keep goin’, and for a while they’d stop, even though there was nothing Mal hated more than bein’ trapped inside one of those places with other people like them.

  There’d be only grimy windows to see out of. There’d be gray all around them. Whatever colors the shelters painted on their walls, it all looked gray to Mal. There’d be no leaving behind the awful smell of rooms filled with cots and other dirty people where they’d be told to sleep. Not until Mama got better. Mal would stay by her, guarding their stuff day and night till they could keep goin’ again. And by then there’d be no Christmas for another year. The magic she’d been dreaming the holidays might bring would be long gone.

  Mal lost her hold on the next cough.

  Pain streaked up her side.

  Mama kept walkin’ through the snow.

  “We’ll make it,” she was muttering.

  Mal palmed the quarter hidden in her frayed coat pocket. As long as she had her quarter there was a number she could call to make this all go away. A phone number her teacher had made her remember over and over until she’d stopped forgetting it. There was a Christmas, another life, waiting for her to go back to no matter how long she’d been gone or how invisible she was or how messed up that world had been, too.

  “You’re such a smart girl, Mallory Jane,” Grams had said when she’d heard Mal repeat their phone number. “Now you can always reach us, no matter what.”

  But Mama would never go back there, even if Grams and Papa still wanted Mal. The police and then the hospital would take Mama away for stealing Mal from her grandparents. Then who would take care of Mama the next time she wound down? If Mal stopped being invisible because it was Christmas and she was sick and dirty and freezing, would she ever see Mama again?

  She kept walkin’.

  She sucked down another cough and her dreams of the yard and the trees and the perfect house and family she’d wanted her whole life.

  “We’ll make it,” Mama said, louder than before, as the night got colder around them and the snow closed in until there was nothin’ but blinding white and darkness. “It doesn’t hurt that bad, Mal. You’ll see. The next town’s not far. We’ll find you your Christmas. If we don’t stop, if we keep goin’, we’ll make it in time…”

  Chapter Four

  Success is counted sweetest

  By those who ne’er succeed…

  “How are you feeling this morning?” Julia Davis asked her cul-de-sac neighbor and dear friend Sam Perry, of a mind to work some Mimosa Lane magic.

  At a quarter past eight in the morning, the North Georgia air around them was crisp but rapidly warming. The neighborhood kids were just back to school from Thanksgiving and less than a month from Christmas break. They’d been an overexcited, chattering swarm as they’d run through the neighborhood toward the bus stop. Happy and loud and anxious to share their Thanksgiving stories, they’d headed off for their first day of biding their back-to-school time, until winter break arrived with its two more weeks of freedom.

  Not that the weather itself had succumbed to holiday fever. Chandlerville’s youngest would have to wait a bit longer before breaking out the coats and sweaters that the rest of the country already wore. Georgia this December was still clinging to the last echoes of a hot, dry summer—their warm, humid fall days stubbornly refusing to fade to winter. For many the delay was putting a damper on the traditional countdown to presents and holiday treats. The grown-ups especially were digging deeper than ever for a seasonal spirit that should have been effortless.

  Each night since Thanksgiving more and more Christmas decorations appeared in the yards up and down the lane. Still, it was hard to enjoy stringing twinkle lights on bushes and trees when most families had ne
eded to run their air conditioners during Thanksgiving dinner and were still wearing shorts and sandals each afternoon and barbecuing dinner outdoors. The leaves had already changed and fallen, but full-on winter was so far a no-show. The weatherman had forecast temperatures to rise into the seventies again today, though the overnight chill kept slipping closer to freezing than ever and a cold snap was due by the first of next week.

  Julia knew Sam would be working religiously in her yard each blissfully mild morning, basking in the sun’s healing rays and the breathtaking blue skies that fed the flowers and bushes she nurtured with such care. For just a while longer, for far longer than people north of the state line would believe possible, Sam’s yard would be the sanctuary that anchored her to their community.

  But once cold daytime temps did come it would rest particularly hard on Sam’s petite, frail shoulders. Over the winter she would sit outside on her back patio wrapped in blankets and her heaviest clothes, staring blankly into the hibernating, silent world she would no longer interact with. Gone would be Julia’s opportunity to casually drop by and chat while Sam dug into fertile soil and coaxed fragile beauty to flowering life.

  Remaining indoors for long periods of time was hard for Sam. Being surrounded by walls would forever make a part of her feel as if she were trapped within the Manhattan high-rises she’d been too close to as they’d first burned and then crumbled to the ground. But until spring came this still-traumatized 9/11 survivor would be lost to both her yard work and their community. Taking regular part in their neighborhood’s social activities had always been difficult for Sam.