One Imperfect Christmas

by Myra Johnson

  Standing there in only her thin sweater, Deannie shivered and hugged herself. “That's okay. But I've got something important to tell you.”

  Natalie cast her gaze heavenward. “What?” Moonbeams Bookstore? Eleanor's Flowers?

  “It's that lady from Hope Gardens, where your mother is. She wants you to call right away.” Deannie held out a crumpled pink message form and made a halfhearted attempt to flatten it.

  This was not good. Not good at all. Natalie snatched the note and carried it into her office, where she dropped her shoulder bag on the desk and flung her coat across the chair. She started to dial Hart's clinic number and then remembered he scheduled all his farm and stable visits in the morning. She could call his cell, but he'd asked the family to use it for emergencies only during clinic hours.

  That left Dad. But if something were seriously wrong, if Mom had become ill or … worse …

  Natalie felt as if an iceberg had lodged in her core. Oh, Mom, no! No matter what guilty thoughts she'd wrestled with, she suddenly realized she'd never be prepared for the news of her mother's death—never be ready for that final good-bye.

  Yet if it were true, if Mom had passed away, how could she possibly thrust the burden of discovery upon her father? Hadn't he suffered enough already? It wasn't much and would never make up for all the other mistakes she'd made, but placing this call herself might serve as one small act of redemption.

  Lips pressed together, she dialed the number. “Mrs. Blaylock, this is Natalie Pearce. You called?”

  “Ms. Pearce, I thought you understood.” The administrator's clipped tone set Natalie's teeth on edge. “All items brought to the patients' rooms must be cleared by the nursing staff.”

  Relief flooded Natalie in the brief moment before utter confusion set in. She pressed a finger to her temple. “I'm not following you, Mrs. Blaylock. What items are you speaking of?”

  “The Christmas gift you left for your mother this morning, of course. She's made quite a mess.”

  “Excuse me, but I did not visit my mother this morning.” Confusion shifted to annoyance. “Besides, you have instructions to call my brother regarding any problems with my mother's care.”

  “Yes, I understand, but since it was a paint set, I just assumed … .” The woman fell silent.

  Slowly, Mrs. Blaylock's statement filtered through. A paint set? Natalie pinched the bridge of her nose. Where could a paint set have come from? She had no reason to think Mom was capable of holding a paintbrush again. If there'd been even the slightest hint of improvement, Dad or Hart would have said something. Unless maybe Dad brought Mom the paints in hopes of stimulating some sort of response. But that didn't make sense, either. Natalie had always been the one holding out false hope.

  Giving her head a small shake, she returned her attention to the woman on the phone. “Are you telling me someone visited my mother and no one noticed? Aren't visitors supposed to sign in?”

  “Well, actually, with everyone occupied with their duties and all … ” Mrs. Blaylock's embarrassed tone lasted only a moment before she went on the offensive again. “But someone came to your mother's room before visiting hours, which is another policy violation, I might add. A nurse found your mother with torn Christmas paper and ribbon in her lap and this watercolor set and artist's sketchbook. She had the paints open and must have tried to use them. She was soaked with water from her bedside pitcher, and she'd smeared paint all over the sheets. Ms. Pearce,” continued the flustered Mrs. Blaylock, “we simply cannot have—”

  “Wait.” Natalie held up a silencing hand as if the other woman could see it. Her voice shook. “My mother tried to paint? And you're upset about it? For heaven's sake, Mrs. Blaylock, it's the most encouraging sign we've had that my mother is still in there.”

  She slammed down the receiver, pushed away from her desk, and began to pace, feeling oddly hopeful for the first time in months.

  “Excuse me.” Deannie knocked softly on the doorframe.

  “What is it, Deannie? This isn't a good time.”

  “Even to say your husband just called?”

  Natalie froze. Lissa. “Daniel called? Did he leave a message?”

  Deannie chewed her lip as if replaying the call in her head. “He said not to worry. Lissa's at school, and everything's okay.” Then the usually animated assistant fixed Natalie with an enigmatic gaze. “It will be, you know.”

  Natalie stared in puzzlement. She had to consciously force her jaw shut. “Will be what?”

  “Okay. Everything will be okay.” Deannie stared at something over Natalie's shoulder. “Lissa painted that landscape, didn't she? Obviously, she inherited your talent.” Her mouth twisted in a crooked frown. “I should be so lucky.”

  Deannie's random remarks always threw her off. Natalie lifted an eyebrow before turning to admire the painting Lissa had done as an art class assignment last year. Yes, her amazing daughter had artistic talent.

  Just like I inherited Mom's. An unexpected sense of pride washed over her before regret settled in once more. She hadn't picked up a paintbrush since the day of her mother's stroke.

  “Yeah,” Deannie said, her tone laced with dejection, “if I'd inherited some of my uncle's business sense, maybe I'd be his partner instead of you.” She smiled ethereally and left.

  Deannie's comment banished all other thoughts from Natalie's mind, and she could only stare open-mouthed at the empty doorway.

  Lissa—the paint set. Of course!

  11

  An annoyed groan rumbled in Lissa's throat as she used her hip to shove open the heavy glass door of the school office. She glanced in both directions before maneuvering into the stream of students headed toward the main exit—no simple thing with her cumbersome artist's portfolio slapping against her legs. Her art teacher would pick tonight, when Lissa already had tons of homework in other classes, to give a complicated weekend drawing assignment.

  Her friend Jody caught up with her on the front steps and grabbed one corner of the portfolio. “Here, let me help.”

  Lissa puffed out her cheeks, wishing she had a free hand to tug on one of Jody's perky French braids. “Thanks.”

  She didn't know what she'd do without Jody, whose presence had helped ease Lissa's transfer to Putnam Middle School. The two girls had met in second-grade Sunday school class where their families attended church in Fawn Ridge. They'd been best friends ever since.

  Jody nodded over her shoulder toward the school building. “So how much trouble are you in?”

  Lissa tipped her gaze toward the slip of blue paper peeking from the side pocket of her purse. It required a parent's signature and had to be returned the next day, or she'd get detention. No big deal, right? And so totally worth it. She gave her head a toss.

  “Just another tardy slip. I'm cool.”

  “With the school, maybe.” Jody raised a dark eyebrow. “What about your dad? You were late for first period yesterday too.”

  “Because I was talking to my dad.” Lissa grimaced. “I can't believe he missed my note on the fridge this morning. I'm lucky he didn't call out the National Guard. Bad enough Lurking Lattimore nabbed me the second I got here.” The students' nickname for the nosy assistant principal couldn't be more fitting, the way he skulked around campus flipping pages in his little notebook. Get a life, man!

  Jody started down the steps. “When your dad showed up looking for you at my house, I didn't know whether to lie for you or what. And when you weren't in class when the tardy bell rang, I wondered if you really had run away again.”

  “Run away, are you kidding? My super-dense parents didn't get the message the first time.” Reaching the sidewalk, she shifted under the weight of her backpack. “Besides, if I'm not around, who's going to look out for my grandmother? Nobody else has time for her anymore, and those nurses treat her like she's not even a real person.”

  “How mean! I hope my grandma never has to go to a nursing home.”

  Lissa bit down hard on her lower lip to
keep the tears from spilling over. “Nobody understands, Jody, nobody!”

  “Hang in there, Liss, it'll be okay.” Jody bumped Lissa's shoulder with her own and beamed a sympathetic smile. “Hey, there's my mom. Call me later, okay?” She helped Lissa get a better grip on the portfolio before releasing it. Walking backward down the sidewalk, she added, “And good luck with your dad.”

  “Thanks, I'll need it.”

  Wiping her cheek with her coat sleeve, Lissa scanned the driveway for her father's car. Unless he had a meeting or late practice, he usually pulled around front to pick her up, but today she didn't see the green Bronco anywhere.

  “Jody, wait.” She trotted after her friend. “I may need to bum a ride with you. Dad must have had a coaches' meeting and forgot to tell me.”

  Jody slowed and motioned her over. “No problem, if you can handle sitting through my boring piano lesson.”

  Just then Lissa saw her mother's silver Saturn pull into the drive-through. Chilly fingers of dread tickled her spine. “Never mind. My mom's here.”

  Jody made a face. “That can't be good.”

  “Only one way to find out.” Lissa waved good-bye to Jody and marched toward her mother's car. She lifted her chin and tried to look as if she couldn't care less, but her insides felt like Jell-O.

  Even from five feet away, Lissa could hear Mom's car stereo blasting out a thunderous, heart-pounding symphony. The whole car hummed and thrummed, vibrating the sidewalk beneath Lissa's feet. Yep, definitely bad news. Mom hardly ever tuned to the classical station except when she was really, really upset.

  Taking a deep breath, Lissa reached for the door handle. “Mom, what are you doing here?” She had to shout over the music.

  Her mother switched off the radio but scarcely looked at her—another bad sign. “I told your dad I wanted to pick you up today. I believe we have a few things to discuss.”

  “Okay,” Lissa said. As she slid her portfolio behind the passenger seat, she purposely swung her hair across her face as a temporary shield against Mom's simmering anger. With a disgruntled huff, she dropped her backpack onto the floorboard and settled into the car. A furtive downward glance revealed a computer disk protruding from the outer pocket of her backpack. Nonchalantly, she tucked it deeper inside and tugged the zipper closed.

  She looked up to see her mother glaring at her, brows lifted expectantly. Mom made no move to start the car.

  “Wha-at?” Lissa rolled her eyes and fidgeted with the gold metallic clasp on her purse. No way would she come right out and confess about this morning. If Mom suspected anything, she'd have to spell it out.

  Mom drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and stared at Lissa.

  Lissa made a strangling sound in her throat. “Okay, can we just get this over with? Obviously, you're mad about something.”

  As if she didn't know what. Dad probably couldn't wait to get Mom on the phone and describe all the juicy details about this morning's little escapade. Today he decided he and Mom needed to talk. Nice, Dad. Real nice.

  Yeah, but talking was talking, right? Lissa slid her right hand down between the seat and passenger door and secretly crossed her fingers. She could survive a whole year of being grounded if it meant getting her parents back together.

  Just when she thought the strained silence would suffocate her, Mom finally spoke. “Why would I have anything to be angry about, you may ask. Hmm. How about sneaking out without telling your dad? How about hitchhiking from Putnam to Fawn Ridge and back? How about visiting your grandmother without telling anyone and—”

  “First of all, I did not sneak out.” Good grief. Adults could be so clueless. She shot her mother an exasperated glare. “I left Dad a note on the refrigerator.”

  “Oh, like last time?” Mom cocked her head. “How thoughtful of you!”

  “I can't help it if he didn't look under the grocery list. And I didn't hitchhike. I bummed a ride from a—” Lissa winced. “From a friend in the high-school youth group.” Okay, so maybe she stretched the rules a teensy bit too far with that part. Her parents had stressed to her time and time again never to ride with a teenage driver without their explicit permission.

  Mom pressed her lips together. “That issue will be dealt with later. For now, I'd like to hear your explanation about a watercolor set found in your grandmother's room. I caught you-know-what about it from Mrs. Blaylock.”

  “That witch.” The beady-eyed woman gave her the creeps, watching her like she was a criminal every time she visited Grandma, like she'd break a bedpan or something, or run up and down the halls and terrorize the patients, just because she was a kid. She cut her eyes at Mom. “All that lady cares about is bossing people around. She never wants the residents to have any fun.”

  “From what I hear, the nurse found your grandmother having all kinds of 'fun.' “ Moisture filled Mom's eyes. She twisted in her seat and reached across the console to press Lissa's face between her hands. “Honey, you know your grandmother's condition. What on earth were you thinking?”

  “Somebody had to do something.” Frustration tore at Lissa's heart. She pried her mother's hands away and crossed her arms. Almost under her breath, she added, “Grandma's got to get better by Christmas.”

  Mom closed her eyes, and Lissa let her thoughts carry her back to that morning. She had arrived at the convalescent center just after six-thirty. She slipped down the deserted corridor and closed the door softly behind her before tiptoeing across the shiny tile floor of her grandmother's room. Grandma appeared to be sleeping, but a soft moaning escaped her balm-moistened lips. Her head rocked gently as if she were dreaming.

  “Grandma? Hi, it's me, Lissa.” Leaning against the side of the bed, she lightly touched her grandmother's wrinkled hand.

  Cloudy eyes flickered open, glanced unseeing for a moment, and then settled on Lissa's face. Something oddly like a smile crooked one corner of Grandma's mouth, and Lissa felt sure that Grandma recognized her.

  “Naaaa,” her grandmother moaned. Sometimes it seemed like the only sound she could make.

  “Lissss-sssa,” she enunciated. “Grandma, it's Lisss-sssa. Just try to say it. I know you can.”

  The lines in Grandma's forehead deepened. “Llllll.”

  A thrill of hope ignited in Lissa's chest and spread its warm rays down her limbs. “That's right, Grandma, it's Lissa. Hey, I brought you a present.” She unzipped her backpack and laid a flat, rectangular package on her grandmother's lap. “Here, let me help you open it.”

  Grandma's eyes lit up with joy, Lissa felt certain of it. The good hand came around and clutched at the red bow, yanking at it clumsily.

  “Good job, Grandma.” She loosened a corner of the paper and guided her grandmother's hand to peel it away. She removed the lid from the box and lifted out a sketchbook and an oblong watercolor set in a bronze-colored tin.

  “Nnnnaaaa, nnnnaaaaa.” Grandma's hands jerked in excited spasms. “Painnnnn.”

  Lissa's heart soared. “That's right, Grandma, I brought this so you can paint!”

  Never once in all the many times she'd visited her grandmother at the nursing home had Lissa seen her so animated. Maybe the drooling, one-sided grimace wouldn't look like a smile to anyone else, but Lissa believed with all her being that Grandma had never been happier or more alive since the day of her stroke. Oh, thank you, God, thank you!

  A commotion in the corridor snapped Lissa's head around. Every nerve went on high alert. If she didn't leave now, one of the attendants delivering breakfast trays would catch her and report her to Mrs. Blaylock.

  “I have to get to school, Grandma, but I'll come this weekend and help you paint something, okay?” She kissed her grandmother on the cheek, edged to the door, and eased it open a crack to peer out. As soon as the two attendants disappeared into another patient's room down the hall, she scurried along a side corridor, through the laundry facility, and out a rear exit, where her high-school friend waited for her in the alley.

  Her mission h
ad been a success, which made her want to kick herself for not thinking of it sooner. Why hadn't someone else in the family realized a long time ago that all Grandma needed was to be reminded how to paint again? Mom, of all people, should have thought of it, considering every other crazy therapy she'd made the doctors try. Even if Grandma only recovered a tiny bit by Christmas, it might be enough.

  Lissa could only hope the rest of her plans went as smoothly.

  Natalie's heart throbbed against her breastbone as she stared through the windshield. With the engine turned off, the December chill quickly permeated the car. She shivered as much from her spinning thoughts as from the cold.

  Christmas.

  She didn't need Lissa to remind her it was her mother's favorite season of the year. “You were supposed to be born on Christmas Day, but you came a little early,” Mom had told her many times. It was the very reason they'd chosen her name. “ 'Natalie' means 'the birthday of Christ,' and Christ has been called the 'Rose of Sharon.' So, my darling, you've always been our little Christmas Rose.”

  Natalie slowly turned to face her daughter and fought to repress the quiver in her voice. “Sweetheart, you know what the doctors say. How many times have they told us Grandma isn't going to get better?” Because of me!

  And then that other emotion surfaced, the one Dr. Sirpless made her realize she'd been resisting all these months. She shuddered and stuffed down her anger. It took several deep breaths before she could continue. “Even if Grandma did show some signs of recognition, you mustn't get your hopes up. It might be nothing.”

  Despite her momentary resurgence of hope after talking to Mrs. Blaylock, as the day wore on and reality set in, she had forced herself back to a state of pragmatism. Now, Lissa must do the same.

  Her daughter turned a tear-streaked face toward her. “I don't care what the doctors say,” she blurted. “Grandma always told me she promised Granddad they'd have fifty perfect Christmases together. And this is—”