The Christmas Secret (Christmas Hope)

by VanLiere, Donna

  An image of Brad raced through my mind and my eyes filled. I could not lose this job. He would use it against me and try to get primary custody. Rod had to know how desperate I was. “Please, Rod. This was not my fault. I had to help that woman.”

  Renee overheard us and stepped next to Rod. “We’re so busy,” she said. “Can’t you give her another chance?”

  He wouldn’t look at her. “Gather your things, Christine.” He walked into the office and closed the door.

  Renee balanced the tray she was carrying on her hip and leaned in to hug me. “I’m so sorry, kid.”

  I nodded and my legs shook as I walked toward the crowd of customers who were waiting for a table. The other two waitresses formed what they could of a smile as I picked up my purse and jacket from under the hostess station and moved through the waiting area to the front door. I pushed it open and a rush of something like sadness or injustice or disbelief filled my throat and when I stepped onto the sidewalk I shoved my jacket to my mouth, sobbing.

  “Are you okay, miss?” I glanced up to see an older man in front of the restaurant and turned my head away from him, nodding. “Are you sure? I can take you into the store and get you some help.”

  I shook my head and walked away, hoping he wouldn’t say anything else. I turned into the alley between the restaurant and the bank and waited for him to walk away. It took a few seconds before I heard him leave. I peered around the corner and watched as he waved at someone on the street before going into Wilson’s.

  The phone on Marshall’s desk rang about twenty minutes after eleven. He hung it up and hurried toward the entrance of the store. “What’s wrong?” Jason asked as he and Matt kept in step behind him.

  “Judy’s unconscious in the hospital!” He and Jason jumped into Marshall’s green Dodge Stratus and pulled out of the lot.

  I realized I had driven the woman’s car to the restaurant and I didn’t have a ride home. Tears burned my eyes and I pulled a tissue from my purse, pressing it to my face. This was what I got for helping someone. I looked up and down the street, for what I don’t know, and started walking in the direction of the bus station. The air made me shiver and I stopped to put on my jacket before crossing the road. I pulled up the zipper and stepped off the curb, jumping as a green car laid on its horn and raced by me. For a brief second I wished it would have hit me and cried harder. Why couldn’t anything ever go right? Why was everything always so hard? The bus station was eight blocks away but it didn’t feel like my legs could carry me there. I passed the florist and the flowers in the window caught my eye. They were beautiful pink and blue and white hydrangeas, my favorite. Brad never gave me flowers. Not even once. He said they died and were a waste of money.

  I wanted to call someone and tell them what had happened but I didn’t know who that would be. My mother and her husband Richard were out of town visiting his parents and I didn’t want to bother them. Mom had always prided herself on never asking anyone for help when she was raising me; I was her responsibility and she took care of me on her own. I had fallen in step right behind her, failing to even call her when I needed help.

  I’ll figure it out, I said to myself, shoving the tissue inside my jacket pocket. The sign for the bus station was visible in the distance and I picked up my pace. I stopped at the corner of Main and Fourth Street and waited for the light to turn green before I crossed the road.

  “Excuse me.”

  I turned to see a woman with light brown hair that hung to her shoulders in a wispy mess. She looked to be in her midthirties but something in her eyes seemed much older. I had been a waitress since I was seventeen years old and had seen a lot of faces over the years. Every once in a while I really see what’s in those faces, something that stops me. I can’t describe it exactly but it’s something there in the eyes or in the lines on the upper lip or across the forehead that reveals unexpected pain or beauty or both and in that split second of a moment my heart breaks for that person. I don’t know what it was about the woman in front of me—maybe it was how close her skin stuck to her bones or the dark circles that cast moonlike shadows under her brown eyes. Whatever it was, I felt like I needed to protect her, defend her, or take her home.

  “I’m looking for Daley’s. Do you know where that is?”

  I thought for a moment. “Is that the truck stop?”

  She shrugged and held up the classified section of the newspaper. “I don’t really know. They need a cashier.”

  She looked breakable; there was no way I was going to send her to Daley’s. “You don’t want to work at the truck stop,” I said. “They’ll put you on the night shift and the smoke will kill you.” She nodded without looking at me. “Hey, why don’t you go to Patterson’s? I know they need a waitress.”

  She glanced up at me. “I don’t think I’d make a very good waitress.”

  “Then you’d be perfect for Patterson’s.” I turned around and pointed up the street. “It’s up that way about six blocks, right next to the bank and Wilson’s. While you’re up that way you should apply at Wilson’s, too.”

  “No matter what you’re going through,” my mother would say as I was growing up, “someone else has it worse.” I watched as the woman walked away and knew, without knowing anything about her, that her life was a bigger mess than mine.

  I turned to head for the bus stop again when I noticed people mingling on the sidewalk off Fourth Street, waiting for a table at Betty’s Bakery and Restaurant. I realized I had forgotten about that little restaurant tucked away off the main drag in town. I pulled out my compact and fixed the black lines under my eyes and put on fresh lipstick.

  The lunch crowd stood outside the doors and filled the small waiting area. I pressed through them and the smell of cinnamon and hazelnut filled the restaurant. A waitress was filling a customer’s glass with water. Unlike Patterson’s, Betty’s didn’t have the newest furnishings. The chairs were hardwood or wicker-backed, the floors were dark, knotty pine, two walls were exposed red brick and old newspaper articles and magazine covers were hung on them. Blue and white checkered cloths draped each table and baskets hung from the ceiling. The front counter curved from one end of the restaurant to the waitress station, enclosing the short-order prep area where sandwiches, soups, and salads were made. The first third of the counter was wooden and covered with Betty’s Tshirts and sweatshirts for sale along with bags of coffee beans. The remaining two-thirds of the counter was glass that looked down into a brightly lit display of cakes, pies, pastries, bread, and cookies that stretched back to the waitress station. Across from the display cabinets were three wooden racks filled with day-old and fresh bread and rolls. It smelled like the bakery where my mother used to work. “Excuse me,” I said to the waitress. “Is there a manager on duty?”

  She glanced at my Patterson’s uniform. “Are you going to work or looking for work?”

  “I’m looking,” I said. “Are you hiring?”

  “I hope so,” she said, pointing to the back. “Betty Grimshaw’s the owner. She’s the lady with gray hair, talking to those people at the four-top.”

  I walked through the maze of tables and waited for Betty to finish her conversation. Something about this place felt so different from Patterson’s. Betty turned toward me, looking at my uniform. “You showed up for work at the wrong restaurant,” she said.

  I faked a laugh and stuck out my hand. “Hi, Betty. I’m actually looking for work. I’m Christine.”

  Betty Grimshaw had opened Betty’s on her own twenty-five years ago. It started as a small bakery and grew to include the restaurant. She was short and plump, wore glasses on a chain around her neck, and cackled when she laughed. She studied me and then motioned with her head for me to follow her. “How long have you been at Patterson’s?”

  “Just over a year and a half,” I said, weaving in and out of tables.

  “A long-termer,” she said, stepping into the kitchen. “It’s a revolving door down there.” I didn’t say anything. She poi
nted to a young woman working with dough. “Don’t handle that too much, Stephanie. If you work the dough too much it won’t be flaky. It’s ready now.” Stephanie floured the table and rolled the dough out in front of her. A timer buzzed and Betty opened the oven, pulling out a large tray filled with pastries. “Stephanie, give these a few minutes but then use that pastry bag and drizzle icing over each one. And don’t be stingy with it. No one’s watching their weight when they eat one of these and they expect it to be fabulously gooey.” Betty washed her hands in the sink and dried them with a paper towel. “Do you cook, or bake, or wait tables, Christine?” She stepped out of Stephanie’s way and leaned against the walk-in refrigerator. I wondered how old she was; her hair was a soft white with a few streaks of pepper throughout, some would say her moon face was half-ruined with lines but I thought it crackled with joy. She bounced around the kitchen like employees half her age.

  “I’ve only waited tables at Patterson’s.” I realized that didn’t make me sound very valuable. “But I could bake. My mother worked in a bakery for fifteen years and she taught me some things at home.”

  “Do you have children?”

  My eyes filled at the mention of Zach and Haley and I looked down at the floor. “I have two,” I said, pretending to cough. “A boy and a girl.” I could feel her watching me.

  “I had that exact combination, too,” she said. She poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me. “You remind me of my granddaughter. Something in the eyes. I think she’s beautiful but I have been accused of being biased. It’s completely unfounded. She is stunning. Like you.” I looked up at her and smiled. “Has it been one of those days?” I nodded. “I had one of those days once,” she said, reaching for a broom hanging on the wall. “It lasted fifteen years and then he decided to run off with the neighbor woman. Two years later she took him for everything he had but I got two kids who have given me four grandchildren so I made out in that deal.” She swept the kitchen floor and around Stephanie’s feet in small, brisk strokes, sweeping up a small, floury, white pile. I reached for the dustpan hanging on the back wall and knelt in front of her. She took it from me and dumped the pile into the trash can, washing her hands afterward. “Listen, one of my gals is about to go on maternity leave. I thought she should have left last week. When you get to the size of a planet I think you should lay low until the baby comes, but she was determined to work as many days as possible to save up Christmas money. She has three days left, then she’ll give birth to little Aaron or Sybil and she’ll be off until sometime in January. You interested?”

  I had hoped I could find a job that would keep me settled longer, but this was better than nothing. “I am. Is there anyway I could start tomorrow or even today?”

  She laughed and handed me a fresh scone. “Try that. We put lemon and cranberries in them during the holidays. It’s so good you’ll want to smack your mama. I have no idea what that means but my mother always said it so there you go.” She watched as I took a bite. It was delicious. She slapped the counter in front of her. “I knew you’d love it.” She put her hand on my shoulder and directed me out of the kitchen. “You can start on Tuesday. And we don’t do uniforms around here. I just ask that you wear comfortable shoes, keep your breasts covered, and leave room in your pants for air to move through them.” I smiled. “I’ll provide the apron.”

  “I really could start today,” I said, wondering what I could do to make up for the money I wouldn’t be making.

  “These things always work themselves out,” she said, patting my back. “Your kids will be back in school on Monday, right?” I nodded. “Enjoy them. We’ll fill out paperwork when you start. Hold on.” She stepped back into the kitchen and moments later appeared holding a white paper sack. “Take this home. It was takeout but nobody came to pick it up.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Better you take it than us throwing it away.”

  The smell of the food in the bag reminded me that I hadn’t eaten breakfast, and I was anxious to get home. I made my way back through the restaurant and stepped outside into a dazzle of sun and sky. Somehow, the town felt warmer and brighter and I thought maybe it would be a good day after all, but knew it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped. I knew it would; it always did.

  Patricia Addison picked up the phone and pressed it to her ear. “This is Patricia,” she said, scanning a report on her desk.

  “I’d like to report a case of child neglect,” a man said.

  Patricia scribbled notes onto the sheet as the man rambled. She had worked for the Department of Family Services for twenty-one years but for the last four years she’d only worked two days a week so she could stay home with her children. In her experience she often felt she knew when someone was manufacturing a story. She looked over at Roy Braeden who’d been at the department longer than she had but he was on the phone.

  “We’ll look into it,” she said, hanging up. She typed the information into her computer, sighing. She had a feeling she was getting caught up in divorce antics. She sighed louder and Roy waved his arm in the air to shush her, pressing the receiver tighter to his ear.

  “Are you trying to blow up a hot air balloon over there?” Roy asked, hanging up the phone. “What’s the problem?”

  “Nothing. I just have a feeling I’m being sent to this woman’s house to scare her. Compliments of her ex.”

  Roy popped a stick of gum in his mouth and leaned toward her. “That’s what that social worker in Florida thought, too. Remember hearing that on the news? He never called on those kids and look what happened.”

  “Since when haven’t I checked out a case?” Patricia said.

  “You only work two days a week now. I’m thinking you might be slipping.”

  “Oh, shut up,” she said, turning her back on him.

  “Two days a week but it feels like eight,” Roy said, opening a file on his desk.

  Patricia laughed and labeled a file for this new case. She needed to gather as much information as she could before she visited the home of Angela Christine Eisley.

  . . .

  Marshall stood at the window and watched as people down the street loaded the number four bus at the station. He hated hospitals: the sterile smell, the clickety-clack of the janitor’s mop bucket pulled across the floor, the hushed chatter in not so faraway corners, hearts breaking and voices rising as they come to terms with what’s happening to their spouse or child or parent in the room beyond the closed door. Marshall pressed closer to the window when he thought he saw the young woman who had been crying on the sidewalk earlier that morning. She was smiling now, waiting in line for the bus. Another day, Marshall thought. Tears, dreaming, weeping, laughing, emergency room visits, the time of day. Nothing stays the same for long.

  He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a number, leaning against the window. “Linda? Judy’s in the hospital.” The doctor stepped into the waiting room and Marshall whispered into the phone, “I’ll need to call you right back.”

  Judy’s husband, Dave, stood up when he saw the doctor.

  “Mr. Luitweiler?” the doctor asked. The lines between Dave’s eyes deepened and his mouth tightened at the sound of his name. “Your wife has had a heart attack,” the doctor said. Dave nodded. “We have her stabilized now and are going to move her upstairs to the cardiac cath lab for evaluation.”

  Dave twisted his ball cap between his hands. “Is she going to be okay?”

  “We need to run tests to determine the damage to her heart and arteries and test blood flow. Thankfully, whoever discovered your wife started CPR right away and paramedics began medication therapy as soon as they got her into the ambulance. We’re hoping that decreased the amount of heart damage. We’ll keep her at least overnight, maybe longer depending on what we find. Once we get her settled you can come be with her.”

  He left them alone and Dave pushed his thumb and middle finger into his eyes, squeezing them. “Forty years,” he said shoving the c
ap back onto his head. He snapped his fingers. “In the last few minutes they went like that.”

  “I know,” Marshall said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  I climbed onto the bus and sat next to the window. I called home to let Mira know that I wouldn’t need her for the rest of the day. When I hung up, the phone vibrated and I saw that Brad had left a voice mail. The other shoe was about to drop.

  Judy looked ragged. Her hair sprouted in short, gray tufts on top of her head and she smoothed it down, working her hands through it like pizza dough. Marshall leaned against the windowsill and watched her eat some applesauce. “Linda, Alice, Glenn, your book club, and everyone at work want you to know that they are thinking of you,” he said.

  “Oh, good grief,” she said. “What’d you do? Send up flares in the night?”

  “When are you getting out of here?” he asked.

  She turned her face toward the open door and yelled, “Not soon enough!”

  “She keeps thinking that if she throws enough hints that the doctors will release her sooner,” Dave said.

  Judy flung the spoon down on the tray. “I want a cream cheese bear claw from Betty’s,” she said.

  “You’re not getting a bear claw,” Dave said. “So stop asking for one. Bear claws are one of the reasons you’re in here.” Marshall laughed and leaned against the windowsill. “They’re talking stents,” Dave said. “Two or three to open blood flow.”

  “My blood flows,” Judy said.

  “Not to your heart it doesn’t,” Dave said.

  “Right before Christmas,” Judy said, dipping her spoon into the cup of applesauce and turning it over. “This is a terrible time for a stent.” She spit the word off her tongue and turned over another spoonful of applesauce.

  “What have you been doing to pass the time?” Marshall asked.