Colors of Christmas
Page 1
© 2017 by Olivia Newport
Print ISBN 978-1-68322-335-1
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-68322-525-6
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover desgin: Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design
Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.shilohrunpress.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Christmas in Gold
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Christmas in Blue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Welcome to Colors of Christmas, two stories about both the ultimate transformational meaning of Christmas and the things we don’t like to talk about at Christmastime because somehow they don’t belong in the sort of Christmas we think we’re supposed to have.
Both sentiments are true, but we’re not always very good at holding them in balance and claiming them both as true. Can grief be just as true as triumph? Can loss be just as sacred as receiving? Can Christmas be about the baby in the manger and also be about rending apart how we protect ourselves from the way the world hurts us?
I think so.
Every year when I drag the red crate from the crawl space, open it up again, and see ornaments I don’t necessarily hang anymore but which still hold sentiment, I realize it’s not hard to buy an ornament that says “Baby’s First Christmas” or to cross-stitch the year of a wedding onto a handmade ornament to mark new beginnings. At the same time, I realize many “firsts” also mark the first birthday or anniversary—or Christmas—since a seismic shift of some sort.
The loss of a job that was not easily replaced.
The loss of a home.
The loss of a relationship, even a long-term marriage, by betrayal, breakup, divorce.
The loss, by death, of a dearest friend, sibling, parent, spouse.
The first year with one less place setting at the table. The first year with adjusted—or released—traditions. The first year with no place to go for the holidays. The first year of having your eyes opened to the pain that was always there but that no one talked about.
The second year, the third year, the fourth, the tenth. These are not easy signposts to journey past, especially if we are alone.
Why have I chosen to write about such themes at Christmas? Because they are true at Christmas just as they are other times of the year. Because perhaps we feel them more heavily at Christmas than we do at other times of the year. Because we need Emmanuel—God with us!—nearer to our hearts at a time when it may be most difficult to look and see that He is there.
I pray that in these stories you will see hope. And I pray that after you’ve read them, you’ll linger with the reflection questions at the back of the book, whether on your own or with a group of friends, and take your own heart deeper into hope.
Olivia Newport
2017
CHRISTMAS IN GOLD
DEDICATION
For Astrid, whose faith and hope shine always.
CHAPTER 1
They rode in silence, the murmur of Alex’s expensive late-model white SUV lulling Astrid into drowsiness. She preferred an automobile with more clatter, something a person would be sure to hear coming—like her old but faithful beige Buick sedan. Even if it was fifteen years old, it took her where she wanted to go, and as both she and the car aged, they’d become companions who understood each other.
Now someone else drove her car, someone ecstatic to buy a low-mileage vehicle driven by an old lady who went to church, the grocery store, the library, and out to lunch with her friends. She hadn’t been afraid to drive farther and occasionally did, usually to see one of her friends who had downsized and moved to one-floor accommodations. Her neighbors, younger and spunkier, were kind enough to check in on her—not that she needed this service until lately. Now it was her turn to downsize and move.
A truck rumbled past them, circumventing Alex’s prudent driving and roaring in the left lane. Astrid’s eyelids, which had closed, fluttered open. It was an older model—older even than her Buick—and the speed required to pass multiplied the decibels.
She had learned long ago that the oddest things provoked deeply buried memories.
The Americans had come and rounded up all the men, including her father, in the open beds of trucks that sounded like the one that had just cut back into the lane ahead of Alex. She hadn’t seen her father again for a year. He came back gaunt and stooped.
Beside her, Alex adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.
“This is the right thing, Mom,” he said.
Astrid nodded.
“We’ve talked about this.”
Astrid nodded again, her eyes watching the never-ending shops and businesses that populated the stretch of highway.
“Mom.”
“Mmm?” Astrid turned toward her son.
“I know you value your independence,” Alex said, “but we also have to think of your safety.”
If she had fallen on the steps outside the library instead of coming down from the second story of her own home, would she be in the car with her son at this moment? Astrid had never played the what-if game, and she wouldn’t start now. Speculation wouldn’t change the fact that she had fallen and two bones snapped.
“I know.” Feeble acquiescence was the best she could offer right then.
“You’ll be closer to me,” Alex said. “I can visit more often— and bring the kids.”
When you’re not traveling the world, Astrid wanted to say. She held her tongue. Alex was enormously successful in business, and she was proud of him. She wouldn’t sully the sentiment with her discontent of the inevitable. She was past eighty years old, after all, and her balance was fraying at the edges. The home wh
ere she raised Alex and Ingrid was far more space than she required at this stage of life, even when she invited a few friends in for a simple supper.
And she wasn’t afraid of change. If she were, she would have been huddled up somewhere years ago, slowly losing her mind.
“It’s fine, Alex,” she said.
“It really is for the best.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Mom.”
His tone grated for an instant. He first used that inflection while speaking to her when he was thirteen or fourteen, caught in that age where children believe their parents understand little of the world and it is their duty to patiently explain. Ingrid had grown out of it more quickly. Alex hung on to it, perhaps believing himself to be the man of the house charged with taking care of her.
She had taken care of him, and Ingrid, too. Every moment of those years. The grief. The adjustments. Moving on. Believing in happiness again. Grasping goodness. Astrid found work first in one bank and then another. Alex and Ingrid went to good schools, earned college degrees, entered careers, had families. If they ever thought of those moments forty years ago anymore, they didn’t speak of them—at least not to her.
Astrid turned and mustered a smile. “I’m fine, Alex.”
“I hope you don’t feel like we forced you to do this.”
Astrid chuckled. It was a little late to suggest they could simply back out of the arrangements now. Her car was gone, her house scrubbed top to bottom, staged beautifully, and priced attractively. She had been afraid to touch anything in her own home the last few days. Already the Realtor had brought two couples back for a second look. There might even be a bidding war, the Realtor said. It might be a couple of weeks before they knew for sure. Ten days before Christmas was not peak house-selling season, but after the holidays lookers would be earnest.
“No one forced me to do anything,” she said. She’d signed all the papers with a clear mind while her children sat across the table doing their best not to be overbearing. “I am an old lady, and I don’t want to be a burden to anyone.”
“Mom, you’re not a burden. You’ve been taking care of yourself since you were twelve. It’s time to let yourself take it easy.”
Astrid nodded. In the mirror on the passenger side of her son’s car she could see the hired truck behind them. Strangers had whisked in, sorted her belongings that had not yet been boxed up according to instructions Alex issued, and loaded the truck with basic furniture for a one-bedroom apartment with limited storage.
“We want you to be safe,” Alex said. He was repeating himself now.
“Of course, dear,” Astrid said.
“And happy. We want you to be happy.”
“Have I been putting out vibes that I’m unhappy?” She had just had a pair of bad breaks in her ankle and lower leg. Astrid thought she had borne up rather well, considering the circumstances of the last few weeks.
“No,” Alex said. “But we recognize this move will be an adjustment.”
We. No one else would have to adjust.
“Of course it will,” Astrid said. She’d been through worse, and Alex knew that.
“I wish I could stay longer to help you settle in.”
“But you have to go to France. I understand.”
“I’ll stay long enough to make sure everything gets off the truck and out of my car. I don’t want you to have to worry about any of that.”
Astrid nodded. Alex would do his best, but she wouldn’t hesitate to rearrange if his choices didn’t suit her. This was to be her home, after all.
“When I get back we can buy anything you need. Keep a running list.”
“Provided we packed pen and paper,” Astrid said.
“Mom.”
There was that tone again.
“I’ll be fine, Alex. It’s an all-included place.”
“That’s what we talked about. You liked this place when we toured.”
Astrid didn’t deny the statement. Compared to the other “senior communities” Alex dragged her to, this was a fine choice.
“Meals, laundry, housekeeping, salon, exercise room, activities.” Alex ticked off the benefits as if Astrid didn’t comprehend the concept of “all included.”
Astrid wondered what, if she didn’t have to cook, clean, or do laundry, she was supposed to do all day. With no car.
“And physical therapy,” Alex said. “Most places like this don’t have physical therapy on-site.”
Places like this. If her son wanted her to feel happy and at home, he might have chosen another phrase.
“The doctor sent his order for physical therapy electronically,” Alex said. “I checked yesterday to be sure they have it and there won’t be a delay in getting started.”
“Thank you.” Astrid was quite capable of making those calls, but since Alex had already done it, she had nothing to gain by arguing the point.
Silence resumed. Astrid watched the truck in the mirror. Loading it had happened so quickly that morning. The men were on the clock, after all. Their efficiency had excluded Astrid from being sure that some of the boxes she had packed herself weren’t erroneously headed elsewhere. Alex had arranged for someone to pick up items that might have value if sold on commission. Another pile was headed to Goodwill. Forty years in a four-bedroom, three-bath home with a finished basement yielded an overflow of items for both categories. A few things were going to Alex’s storage unit for the time being, until they could be sorted properly. Astrid closed her eyes and tried to picture the major items on the truck. The bedroom suite she had treated herself to just five years ago. A bookcase. The couch and a recliner, a matching ottoman, a couple of end tables. Lamps. Cardboard cartons she presumed included items for the small kitchen, bedding, favorite books she had refused to part with, photo albums, a handful of small heirlooms. Astrid had wanted to take another chair, but Alex had whipped out the diagram of the apartment and made a convincing argument that there was no space for it—unless she sacrificed the bookcase, which she was unwilling to do.
“Mom.”
Astrid stifled a sigh. “Yes, sweetheart?”
“This really is the best thing.”
“Have I argued otherwise?”
“No, but that’s not the same as agreeing.”
“I’m sure it’s going to be perfectly lovely.”
“Mom.”
“Sweetheart, I know it’s the right thing,” Astrid said. “I am not wishing it weren’t happening. But you will go to France and then to your own home, and tomorrow I will wake up in a strange place without most of my things. Surely you can see that I may be a little unsettled.”
Alex exhaled. “I’m sorry. Of course you’re right. But Ingrid and I only want what is best for you. I hate the thought of you falling again.”
“As do I.”
“Next time your cell phone might not be within reach.”
Astrid did not reply. They must be nearly there. Alex slowed at an intersection and made a right turn. After another few blocks, Sycamore Hills Community Living came into view, its yellow brick gleaming in the winter sun and the lawn beside its parking lot still covered in last week’s snow and the small man-made pond frozen over.
“You can see your window from here,” Alex said. “Second floor, third from the left.”
Astrid followed his fingers. At least she would look out on the lawn and pond and not the back parking lot.
She gave Alex a smile and said, “Home sweet home.”
CHAPTER 2
Here we are.” Alex turned the key in the lock. “Apartment 231.” Astrid was a couple of yards behind him and nervous about the cavalier way he was carrying the potted succulent she’d spent the last six years nursing. Her bent knee was well accustomed to the cushion on the wide-wheeled scooter that Alex’s son called a “crutch alternative.” Alex held the door open and let her pass directly into the kitchen, which was about one-sixteenth the size of the comfortable kitchen she was accustomed to. Glancing at the cabinetry, she
feared she hadn’t sifted her kitchen equipment sufficiently for this reality, after all. At least there was a stove, small as it was. Some of the units they’d toured had only a microwave. Astrid liked to think she was a long way from not being trusted to turn off a burner.
The walls had that freshly painted smell, and Astrid wondered whether she would find them still wet if she grazed an ecru surface with her fingers. The carpet, they had been assured, was completely replaced after the previous resident’s departure. Astrid pushed away thoughts of what would ruin a carpet in a building full of aging occupants. The color was a few shades darker than the walls but still a neutral palette. Already she missed the jewel tones she always preferred, but once she hung curtains over the standard-issue blinds and put some pictures on the walls, it might not be so bad.
“I’ll grab that chair from the hall,” Alex said.
Astrid didn’t object. She was out of her boot cast and wearing a lace-up brace but still instructed not to put weight on the healing bones for a little while longer. Alex unloaded the plant on the narrow width of counter between the single stainless-steel sink and the white refrigerator, which wasn’t as big as what she had at home.
Home. Would she ever use that word to denote Apartment 231 at Sycamore Hills Community Living?
Astrid rolled into the area she would learn to call the living room, well out of Alex’s way as he lifted the yellow plastic Adirondack chair that they’d found beside the doorway. He set it down again next to the random spot Astrid had chosen to stand, and she lowered herself into it. Its slant and depth meant she might have trouble getting out of it, but she wouldn’t worry about that now.
“Will you be all right?” Alex said. “I should go down and meet the movers at the delivery entrance.”
“Go,” Astrid said. “I will be right here.” Where else would she go? At some point the yellow chair would be in the way, but perhaps her recliner would be in the room by then.
Alex propped the door open as he left, and ambient noises filtered into the apartment. Someone across the hall had a dog with a squeaky bark who would likely be agitated all through the process of getting Astrid moved in. Heavy footsteps approached, passed, and receded. Two female voices laughed.