Well…does life ever turn out the way we think it will? In some ways my life does look an awful lot like my parents’ life: I live in the same town; my friends are the children of their friends; Beethoven, Bach and Brubeck still comprise my personal sound track. But in many ways my life is far different. My parents smile and laugh and enjoy each other’s company; theirs is a model marriage in all respects. And while my own marriage resulted in two delightful boys and a sixty-year-old ski cabin in Tahoe, it did not last a full two decades. Which brings us up to the present, and my sudden need to be over the mountain and through the trees a few days before Christmas.
“Okay,” I told my sister, Anne, on the phone, “I can still come to the Father-Daughter Christmas lunch at Dad’s club, but I will have to leave right after they clear the plates. The heater is out in Tahoe, and I have renters coming for the next two weeks. The Christmas and New Year’s renters offset the mortgage payments in a big way, so if I don’t get an electrician in there, I’m in trouble.” Anne and I have been going to the holiday lunch with our father since we were little girls in velvet dresses and patent-leather shoes. She’d come down from the Pacific Northwest especially to be there this year, so at least I wouldn’t be leaving our eighty-five-year-old dad sitting alone at the table.
The weather forecast looked…well, it looked bad. And it sounded bad when I called the recorded highway conditions line to see what they had to say about what was going on in the Sierras. Winter storm warning. That is never really the moment that you want to head up a narrow road in the forest by yourself, even if you are a woman with a four-wheel-drive Jeep.
“Have you checked the weather yet?” David, my boyfriend, asked me on the phone. “What is it supposed to be?” I was quiet. I knew exactly what the weather held, and I also had a good idea what he would say when I told him. David is a worrier. In the time we’d been a couple, I’d listened to him worry about his three grown sons, about his garden, about his Suduko score, about his roof, about his…you get the idea. He worries.
“Oh…I think it will snow,” I finally offered up, closing the window on my computer that predicted a heavy storm a few hours away. “But, hey, the Jeep is four-wheel drive. So I should be just fine.” Maybe I downplayed the severity of the forecast a bit, but I needed to be in South Lake Tahoe, and having him tell me I shouldn’t go was literally not something I could afford to hear.
I dressed carefully for the luncheon, choosing a warm, knitted wool dress and tights (a great underlayer if I ended up getting stuck on the summit for the night), a silk scarf (I could use it to wave for help if the Jeep went into a snowbank), low-heeled boots (because no one should drive in the Sierras in stilettos) and a cashmere throw (something to snuggle under if that whole spending-the-night-in-the-car thing came to pass). My timing was tight enough that I planned to jump in the car and head straight from the club parking lot to the freeway. It is usually a quick two-hour drive to Tahoe, but with a storm warning, who knew. I figured I’d have at least four hours of daylight in which to make it safely to my little red house in the woods.
“Call me before you leave,” he said, in his low and even voice. How I love the sound of his voice, so calm, even when he’s worried. He is a large man, my David. It’s not hard to squint and see the young college football player he once was. We met years ago in a bookstore, when I thought the big blond man was just pretending to be interested in books so he could flirt with me. He wasn’t flirting with me, and he wasn’t pretending to be interested in books. Now, becoming a couple so many years later, it looked as if we might have the rest of our lives to sit side by side and read together.
I fidgeted through the luncheon, delighted to be with my father and sister but distracted by my concerns about the weather. Finally, the music program reached a pause where I thought I could slip out without attracting too much notice. In my family, you don’t walk out while someone is playing the piano. “Thanks for the lunch, Dad. See you Anne,” I whispered. “Be safe,” she whispered back.
“Okay, I’m headed up now,” I told David on my cell phone as I snapped my seat belt on and adjusted my scarf. No reason to look frumpy on the road. “I know you’re in a hurry, babe,” he replied, “but please stop off the freeway near my office. I have something for you. Meet me at the gas station just off the exit. I’ll be in my car.”
He has something for me? I smiled as I put the Jeep in gear and pulled out of the parking lot toward the freeway entrance. It was still a week before Christmas—what could he be giving me this early? I let my mind wander as I drove, imagining all manner of bejeweled finery. Maybe he wanted me to wear something special to his office party. Maybe he’d seen me turn back to that magazine ad for diamond studs last night. Maybe a new watch to help me stay on time for dinner? Or maybe…as I pulled up, I saw him standing next to his car, right where he said he’d be. Hmm, empty hands, not a gift bag in sight. What could this be about, then, I wondered as I pulled in next to him and parked. David made a quick gesture with his hand, telling me to roll down my window. I did.
“Here, I went out at lunch and got you this,” he said, reaching into his car and pulling out a black canvas gym bag. Didn’t look much like a jewelry bag to me, unless it was one heck of a large strand of pearls. He set it gently on my lap as I sat behind the wheel. “Go on, open it,” he urged.
Raising my eyebrows at him, I slowly unzipped the bag to reveal…tire chains. Chains. Big chains for a four-wheel-drive Jeep, the kind that will get a girl through any kind of weather system. He smiled sheepishly, then said, “Yes, I know your car is fine, but I just wanted to make sure you were prepared for anything. I hear there’s a storm coming in.”
“Oh, David. Thank you. Thank you so much,” I leaned toward him for a kiss. Here was the man I’d imagined all those years ago, the man who would prowl the house at night to make sure everyone and everything was safe and sound. The heavy lock on my heart clicked shut, with David safely inside.
SHORT AND SWEET
JUDY STEVENS
The holidays were a twinkle away as I did my best to recover from surgery. My days were filled with range-of-motion exercises, pain medication and naps. I needed something fun, something to think about other than myself. It had been two months since my surgery, and everyone was tired of my being sick and in pain, myself included. The chemo had compromised my immune system, so I spent a lot of time at home. But at that point, I just had to get out. Go somewhere, do something, other than dealing with my newly diagnosed cancer.
In mid-December, Ron, my husband of just two years, my teenage daughter and I took our nine-month-old infant to the church Christmas party to see Santa. We were so excited to put the baby in Santa’s lap for that special first time. Walking around the gym–turned–Christmas wonderland, I relished the feel of her solid little body in my arms. She was so adorable in her little maroon-and-pink dress with the butterflies on the hem. Her beautiful blue eyes were as amazed as a nine-month-old could be.
“Do you think Isa will sit on his lap or cry?” I wondered out loud as we stood waiting our turn. She was at that age when babies put everything into their mouths. That age when they reach out to pull on hair. Grabbing at my hair as it swung into her face, she pulled, and out it came. I looked down. Her tiny hand was full of my hair.
I handed her to her father and, feeling sick to my stomach, I stumbled a little on the hard gym floor and found a seat on the bleachers. “This has to stop,” I said to myself as I sat there trying to compose myself. “The chemo has kicked in, and my hair is all gonna fall out.”
My head hurt. Not just on the inside, but the very roots of each hair screamed whenever anything touched my head, and this tiny baby tug was no exception. My head was also flooded with worry—Will I be alive to see Isa turn one? And my older kids—they just lost their dad two years ago. They can’t lose me, too. Sitting there in the gym on that hard gray metal chair, my stomach churned.
“Honey, are you all right?” my husband asked as he took a seat
beside me. I could only stare at him, barely hearing as the Christmas carols and happy faces swirled around me.
At last it was our turn with Santa, and the minute we were done I knew I needed to go. Driving home with the baby safe in the back seat and my husband at the wheel, I said out loud, “Oh please, God, just one more Christmas. I can’t have a bald family photo.” My husband just looked at me. “Yep,” he said, a note of firmness in his voice. I stared out the window into the gloomy December day. Yep, please.
The month passed day by day, and as Christmas approached I hurt more and more. The chemo was working its way through my system. Bit by bit my hair fell out, leaving odd areas still covered. Christmas cards arrived, many with handwritten personal notes, saying, “I am so sorry to hear…”, “We were so upset when your mom told us…” and the “I know what will make you feel better, if you just…” I knew they meant well, but it was all too much. Tossing another card into the woven basket next to the tree, I thought, “Can’t anyone just wish us a Merry Christmas with our new baby?”
The next week was a blur. A wintry blur of feeling icky but still trying to enjoy the holiday and making the best of the time we had together as a family. Both teens were off school for two weeks but were saddled with caring for me and the baby. With busy teens we didn’t get much family time anyway, and they were resentful, angry at me for getting sick. My daughter complained to everyone while my son stood silently in the wings. I knew this was extra-scary for them; they couldn’t lose another parent. Sometimes when you are ill, it just hurts the people you love too much to look at you.
Christmas Eve I did my best to look good. I tried my hair one way, I tried it another, but it was just not cooperating. “I hate this,” I muttered to myself. “I have to do something drastic.” In frustration I chopped my long hair short as best I could, which, since I could really only use one arm, turned out not to be very good. Choppy and uneven. My daughter’s expression of shock and dismay said far more than her simple, “Oh wow, Mom.”
My husband came home from work and, although it was clear that he noticed what I’d done, kindly said nothing. Christmas Day arrived and we were up early as usual. The smell of a special holiday breakfast turned my stomach, but everyone else enjoyed it. As the time approached to go to my mom’s for dinner and the family photo, I grew increasingly frustrated at how horrible and lifeless I looked. My color gone, my hair a weird choppy cut and the huge black circles under my eyes left me in tears.
“I hate being sick! I hate my hair!” I railed against the turn of events as I tossed party clothes around the bedroom when I should have been getting ready for the family dinner. My husband walked into the bedroom, and I exploded again about how horrible my hair looked. “Well,” he said, “why don’t I cut it like mine? We could be twins, like those couples who wear the same T-shirts,” he joked, trying to get me to laugh off my rage. His head is shaved clean. But his solution only elicited more tears and frustration from me. “Why don’t you take a quick nap before we leave,” he suggested. “Maybe that will help you feel better.”
I lay down gingerly beside the baby, and my head stung as it hit the pillow. When I woke, Isa had her hand in my hair and was kissing my head. She sat up, covered with the short hairs from my head. “This is it,” I thought, “the end has come. Merry Christmas to me.”
I managed to get through the dinner at my mom’s, but when we got home that night, I pulled my husband aside. “Cut it off, cut it off now!” I demanded. My hair, my long beautiful hair, had been such a source of pride my entire life, but I just did not care anymore. It hurt too much and, even cut short, it was falling out everywhere. “You’re joking, right?” he asked. “You don’t really want me to shave your head?” Tears filled my eyes as I nodded. “Yes. Take it all. Shave it clean.”
Ron reached for his electric razor. “Wait,” I said. “Isa needs to watch. She might not know who I am if she suddenly sees me without hair.” “Good point.” We sat her on the floor as if it were just another moment of baby play. He chuckled and joked with me as he shaved, “So, shall we try a Mohawk first? Or I could do fun designs like the athletes do?” His jovial attitude brightened my sour mood, and the baby laughed and giggled at the sight of her parents’ silly talk.
I sat in that bathroom watching in the mirror as my new husband shaved every single hair off my head. Gone was the cute skinny paralegal he had married two short years ago. In her place was a cancer patient, sick and weak. Ron didn’t seem to notice. “See, we are twins after all,” he teased. “People wouldn’t be able to tell us apart.” I smiled. “Also, think how much we will save now that you won’t be buying fancy hair products.” I smiled again. “And,” he continued, holding my chin in his hand and gazing at me with his blue-gray eyes, “hair or no hair, you are beautiful.” Who would have ever thought that the most romantic thing a husband could do for his wife would be to ever-so-gently shave her painful head for Christmas?
Five years have passed since that Christmas. Isa is six years old. I am healthy. Once again I have a full head of hair, but it is lovely to know that Ron would love me even if I didn’t.
CHRISTMAS BLIND DATE
SUZANNE LILLY
I’m late. Again. Why can’t I ever be on time? My internal guilt chided me as I pressed my foot harder on the gas pedal. It was a sunny Saturday, two weeks before Christmas, but from the Arizona heat wave, it felt more like early summer. Watery mirages shimmered above the blacktop as I sped down the rural road to my sister Diana’s house. I wished I was skiing in a parka instead of wearing shorts and a cotton top.
I’d overslept this morning, in part to recover from a Friday night blind date gone doubly wrong. After that holiday nightmare, staying single forever looked like my best choice.
I pulled onto the dirt road, trailing a fishtail of dust behind me. My niece and nephew ran out of the house to greet me when I arrived.
“What did you bring us?” Grange peeked in the back seat of my old Chevy.
“It’s a surprise.” I gave him a hug. “You’ll find out soon enough, in exactly two weeks.”
Emma stood back, shaking her head. “He always tries to sneak peeks at the presents under the tree. He’s going to get caught and get in trouble someday.”
I put my arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “That will be the year he gets plenty of coal in his stocking, won’t it?”
She laughed. “He deserves coal this year.”
“I do not!” He pulled the gift-wrapped boxes out of the car. “Look at me now. I’m helping her carry all the presents into the house.”
Emma snorted and rolled her eyes, trying to act more mature than her brother. “We have a surprise for you, too.” She linked her arm in mine.
“I can’t wait to find out what it is.”
My sister stepped onto the porch, wearing a flour-covered apron and wiping her hands on a dish towel. “If you weren’t late, I’d go into shock. I started the baking without you.”
“Hi, Sis. Love you, too.” I kissed her on the cheek, catching a whiff of cinnamon and ginger. “I have to stay true to form, you know. Never less than thirty minutes late.”
She shook her head, a perfect replica of the head shake Emma had just given Grange. “Come on inside. My cookies are almost ready to come out of the oven.”
I stepped inside the front door, and right away noticed the man sitting on the couch. How could I miss him? His tall frame and confident, relaxed posture made him look as if he’d just stepped out of a calendar photo. My brother-in-law was nowhere in sight.
“Where’s Chad?” I asked Diana.
“Working. He got called in this morning. Being a volunteer firefighter means he’s out saving the world more than he’s here.” She smiled her mischievous smile, always a cover for one of her schemes. “This is Brandon. He’s a friend of Chad’s.”
Brandon’s smile lit up his blue eyes. He held up a hand to greet me. No ring on his finger. Too bad I’m done with blind dates.
&nbs
p; I nodded in return and gave him a half smile. “Pleasure to meet you.” Taking Diana by the elbow, I led her toward the kitchen. “Let’s go check on those cookies.”
As soon as we rounded the corner, I put my hands on my hips.
She spread her hands wide. “What? I told Brandon he didn’t have to wait for Chad, but he insisted on staying.”
“Diana, I had the worst blind date in the history of the universe last night, and now I walk into your house, and there’s some strange guy sitting on your couch. You could have warned me.”
She reached in the drawer and pulled out a rolling pin. “He’s not strange. He’s actually kind of cute, don’t you think?”
“How long have you known him?”
“He got stationed here at the Air Force base a few weeks ago. Chad met him at work, and they found out they have a lot in common. He’s very nice.”
I washed my hands and grabbed the rolling pin. “Give me that. I’ll roll out the cookie dough. It’ll release some of my tension.”
“What happened last night?” She took a ball of gingerbread dough from the bottom shelf of the refrigerator and handed it to me.
“You will not believe what Heather did to me. She invited me to her house, for a casual holiday dinner.”
Diana’s hand covered her heart and she gasped. “Spare me. How could she be so cruel and invite you to dinner?”
“Just wait. When I walked in the door, there were not one, but two guys sitting at the table. I got the impression they’d been waiting for me. They both smiled, and one actually patted the chair next to him.”
“Let me guess.” She tipped her head and put a finger on her chin. “You were late.”
“That’s not the issue here.” I flattened the dough with a hard slap and smacked the rolling pin on it.
A Kiss Under the Mistletoe Page 3