Tales from Grace Chapel Inn

by Sunni Jeffers

  Louise picked up her baby and managed to warm the bottle in a pan of water using her free hand. She changed her just in case she nodded off after eating.

  Lots of things about caring for a new baby were deeply satisfying, but the biggest challenge was staying awake while her infant dawdled over her bottle. Louise was afraid of falling asleep and dropping Cynthia, so instead of contentedly rocking her, she ended up pacing and feeding her at the same time.

  “Rock-a-bye baby,” Louise sang softly, but the lovely old lullaby did nothing to put her daughter to sleep. After what seemed like hours—but was less than forty-five minutes on the kitchen clock—Cynthia finally surrendered to sleep. Her tiny lids drooped, then closed, and the serene beauty of her face tugged at Louise's heartstrings. She gently laid her down in her cradle.

  The lovely material was still in the sack on the table. She took it out and fingered the luxurious velvet. It was wonderfully soft, but it still couldn't compare to the feel of her daughter's downy head against her cheek.

  One way or another, Cynthia was going to have a beautiful stocking for her first Christmas. But maybe it wasn't a good idea to start cutting this late at night.

  Louise gave in to her fatigue and went to prepare for the night. She was tired from the top of her head to the bottom of her feet. Tomorrow was another day, and maybe her baby would give her the great gift of a good night's sleep.

  How had her mother managed to do all she did with two small daughters? Reeling with fatigue, Louise made quick work of getting ready for bed. The pillow under her cheek was cool and welcoming, and oblivion swiftly overcame her.

  How much sleep did a colicky baby need? Apparently less than her mother, Louise thought as she slid her legs over the edge of the bed and groped for her slippers with her feet. She was almost afraid to look at the clock. This was the second time Cynthia had cried in the night, and it was only a little after 6:00 am.

  At least there was one good thing about waking up that early. She would have a long day to work on the stocking. Surely a baby as young as her daughter would have to sleep sometime.

  “What time is it?” Eliot mumbled, still half asleep.

  “Early,” Louise said, standing to find her robe. “Go back to sleep. You have to give an exam this morning.”

  When she picked up her daughter, it was immediately obvious her diaper had leaked. The pail Louise used to soak the diapers was nearly full, and somehow she had to make time to do laundry in the washing machine in the basement. The landlord supplied an old wringer washer, but there wasn't a dryer. Louise either had to hang everything on lines strung across the laundry area or haul everything to the Laundromat.

  Maybe she could wash a few things in the sink, enough to last until the weekend, when Eliot could watch Cynthia. They would dry fairly fast if she hung them over the old-fashioned steam radiator. The basement was too musty and damp for a baby, and she wouldn't bring her out in the frigid weather even if her husband left the car and took the bus to work.

  “What you need is a bath,” Louise cooed to her daughter.

  Unfortunately, she didn't have the energy to go through the complicated process of setting up the plastic tub on the sink drain board at this hour of the day. Anyway, the apartment was too cold and probably wouldn't warm up until midmorning. She quickly changed every stitch on her baby and stripped off the wet blankets and sheets. She wanted to scrub the plastic pad before replacing them, but first it sounded like Cynthia's tiny tummy was ready for formula. Louise mentally calculated the supply in the fridge and knew sterilizing a new load of bottles was a top priority.

  It was noon before all her essential jobs were done. She looked longingly at the fabric she'd spread out on a card table in the living area. Cynthia was awake and happily cooing in her little seat, and there was only one more thing Louise had to do before working on the stocking. Lately her meals had been sketchy at best, but Eliot hadn't complained. Tonight she wanted to prepare something he liked: hunter's stew. It was made with ground beef, potatoes, carrots, onions, and canned peas, all blended together with creamed corn. She could make it now and warm it when he got home, since the flavor only improved if it sat a while.

  After cutting up the vegetables, she browned the meat and added it, stirring with a watchful eye on Cynthia. When the ingredients were cooked through, she added a can of creamed corn and took the pan from the stove. Scooping it into a ceramic bowl, she refrigerated it next to the newly prepared formula, happy to have a nice meal she could serve quickly.

  Cynthia was making little noises that Louise interpreted as signs of hunger. It was one of God's miracles that a baby could communicate its needs without words. She hurried to warm a bottle, hoping this feeding would go well.

  Settled down in the rocker with her baby wrapped in a soft flannel blanket, Louise marveled at the sheer joy of holding her child. Cynthia drank eagerly for a minute or so, then began toying with the bottle. It was impossible to know whether she was full or just tired of sucking, but Louise knew if she didn't take more than a scant ounce, she'd be hungry again in less than an hour.

  Sometimes it helped to sing. Louise softly cooed a lullaby, but it didn't encourage Cynthia to drink the small amount in her bottle any faster. When at last she'd drained all but the last half ounce, Louise changed her and put her down for a nap, hoping for a couple of hours to work on the stocking.

  As soon as she'd spread out the velvet, Cynthia dashed her hopes for a quiet work session. Her hysterical cries shattered the peace in the apartment, and Louise hurried to pick her up, gently patting her back in hopes of relieving another bout of colic.

  Cynthia wasn't easily pacified. Louise paced within the confines of the apartment until even her lightweight daughter seemed heavy. She sang, hummed, and cooed some more, all to no avail, gently rubbing and patting her baby's back the whole time.

  When, at last, Cynthia relaxed in sleep, Louise carefully laid her down. She felt groggy with fatigue, unable to remember when she'd last had a good night's sleep. Maybe if she took a very short nap, she'd awake alert and refreshed.

  Rather than lie on her bed, she hunkered down on their lumpy secondhand couch, sure she wouldn't sleep long if she wasn't comfortable. She pulled an old afghan her grandmother had made years and years ago up to her chin and dropped off to sleep immediately.

  The next thing she knew, Eliot was standing over her, still wearing his coat and gloves.

  “Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you,” he said.

  “What time is it?” She sat up with alarm, hardly able to believe she'd slept until he got home.

  “Not quite five thirty. Did you have a good nap?”

  “Too good,” she said, quickly rising. “I have to check on Cynthia.”

  “I just did. She's sound asleep.” He took off his coat and hung it up. “I'm really glad you got some rest, especially since you have another rehearsal tonight.”

  “Oh dear, I shouldn't have slept so long. It's past time to feed Cynthia, and I have to warm the stew for supper.”

  “I'm sure she'll let you know when she's hungry, and I'll warm supper so you can get ready for the rehearsal.”

  He went to the kitchenette and opened the refrigerator. “Looks like my favorite, hunter's stew. You make it even better than my mother did when I was a kid.”

  “I'll turn it on high and stir it so it won't burn,” she said. “You can help by setting the table. With any luck, we can eat before Cynthia wakes up. Poor little thing must be exhausted.”

  Eliot turned on the tiny radio they kept on the counter, keeping the sound low. “Let's get some news. I haven't had time to buy a paper this week.”

  Although her interest in the news broadcast was low, Louise couldn't help but hear the words ‘Asian flu.'

  “What was that about the flu?” she asked.

  “Only that several public schools have closed early this week because so many pupils and faculty are out sick,” he said seriously. “I'm glad our students are having their winter
break now.”

  When the broadcast was over, he turned it off and took his place at the table. Louise filled a bowl with the stew and put a plate of saltine crackers on the table.

  They took turns saying a blessing, but Louise liked it best when Eliot did it. He never used a traditional prayer, but always made one up. This evening he asked the Lord's blessing for the recovery of the many flu victims.

  Although the stew wasn't her favorite, Louise ate with a hearty appetite for the first time in weeks. Apparently a long nap made food taste better.

  “I thought I'd have time to feed Cynthia before the rehearsal,” she said after quietly checking on her sleeping baby.

  “I'll take care of it. And I'll wash the supper dishes. The streets are a little slick, so you should get an early start and drive slowly.”

  “I'll get home as soon as possible. I know you have grading to do.” They often mused that teachers had more homework than their students.

  Grateful for his help, Louise quickly changed clothes and left for the church, wondering as she drove whether any choir members would be out sick.

  Much to her relief, her pianist was there before her.

  “It's chilly in here,” Mary Grogan said, still wearing her winter coat as she warmed her fingers by playing scales.

  “Maybe it will feel warmer when everyone gets here,” Louise said, although she wasn't optimistic. It was a large church, and the rows of dark wooden pews that contrasted so beautifully with the cream-colored wall in daylight looked stark in the yellow light of the ceiling fixtures high above them.

  “The Butlers called me—they weren't sure about your number because there are quite a few Smiths in the phone directory,” Mary said. “They're both down with the flu. Gerald said his wife can hardly lift her head off the pillow. I haven't heard how long this Asian flu lasts. have you?”

  “No,” Louise said. “I do hope it won't go through the whole choir. It would be such a shame to cancel the concert.”

  “Yes, I can remember playing it for at least fifteen years, and it was an important tradition long before we moved here and joined the church.”

  “Well, maybe they're the only ones who are sick,” Louise said without too much hope, making a mental note not to get too close to anyone who was coughing. It would be a nightmare if she got sick and brought it home to Cynthia and Eliot. Fortunately, neither she nor her husband were very vulnerable to viruses.

  The rehearsal wasn't a disaster, but it was disappointing to see that three other people were home sick. One of their soloists had to leave the sanctuary because she was coughing too much to sing, but the rest of the choir really threw themselves into the music to make up for the missing members.

  “If there aren't any more people down sick, we should be okay,” Mary said when everyone else had left. “I think Harriet can do the solo if Ginny is ill. But I don't think coughing is a sign of the flu, at least from what I've heard. Maybe she just has a cold.”

  “Let's hope she'll be over it soon. We only have a week until the concert,” Louise said as much to herself as Mary. “I pray the epidemic will stop soon,” Louise said.

  “Yes, apparently it's very dangerous for the elderly. We might not have the large attendance the Christmas concert usually gets,” Mary said.

  “That would be a shame. The choir really sounds lovely, and they couldn't have a better accompanist.” Louise gratefully pulled on her coat and gloves, making a mental note to wear two sweaters to the next rehearsal. A person really couldn't direct wearing a winter coat.

  “I'll see you Monday evening for the next rehearsal,” Mary said, slipping into her black coat.

  “Yes, Monday,” Louise said. “Thanks for all you're doing.”

  At least she would have the next evening free to work on the stocking. She turned off the lights and locked the door, wondering why she still felt weary after her long nap. Having a baby seemed to take the starch out of a person.

  When she got home, Louise found Eliot still at work, his grading materials spread out on the kitchen table.

  “I'm later than I thought,” she said apologetically. “How is the grading going?”

  “Slowly, I'm afraid. Cynthia woke up cranky as soon as you left. I guess she missed her mother because she cried most of the evening.”

  “I'm sorry,” Louise said. “We had to work extra hard because several choir members are down with the flu. At least tomorrow is Friday, so there's no rehearsal.”

  “How's it going?” he asked.

  “Okay. One soloist has a cough, but I guess that's not a symptom of this new flu. I hope she'll be able to sing at the concert. She has a week to get over it. I have a substitute in mind, but she's not nearly as good.”

  “I think I'll call it a night,” her husband said, standing and stretching. “If I get up early, I can still make the deadline for turning in grades. Let's go to bed before Cynthia wakes up again.”

  “You go ahead. I'll be along in a while.” With both her husband and baby sleeping, she could finally get started on the stocking.

  “You really should get some sleep while you can,” Eliot said. “You look absolutely exhausted.”

  “You're right, I'm sure, but this is the first chance I've had to begin work on Cynthia's Christmas stocking. I'll only work a little while.”

  “It can wait,” her husband insisted. “Your health is more important than a stocking, and you look beat. What possible difference can it make if it isn't done until next Christmas?”

  Louise tried to stifle her irritation, but it wasn't like Eliot to be so closed-minded. Why couldn't he see how important it was to follow in her mother's footsteps? She would be devastated if she couldn't finish the stocking for Cynthia's first Christmas. She even had a few little presents to put in it: a new rattle, a pretty embroidered bib, and the cutest red and white striped stockings with tassels. Even before the baby was born, she'd tucked away a few small purchases so Cynthia would have presents to celebrate the Lord's birth.

  “I don't want to wait,” she said emphatically.

  “Very well. I'm going to bed.” He squared his shoulders and left the room without saying good night.

  Eliot was slow to anger, and they'd never had a real fight. In fact, they rarely disagreed on anything important. This was the exception. Louise was beside herself, frustrated because he couldn't or wouldn't see how important Christmas traditions were in her family.

  His family had their own holiday customs, but they'd seemed to lose importance after his parents moved to Florida to retire. There was something about lazing on the beach on Christmas Day that didn't appeal at all to Louise, but she respected what they wanted to do. Why couldn't her husband make an effort to understand why she needed to follow her mother's traditions?

  After making a cup of tea, she settled down at the folding table, taking the velvet and satin out of the department store bag. Her eyes were tired, but she still loved the sight of the deep red and shimmering green fabric. She'd made her own paper pattern, really just an enlargement of one she'd seen in a women's magazine, because she wanted it large enough to hold gifts, not just hang as decoration.

  For a few moments she imagined her little girl as a toddler, old enough to pull packages and sweet treats out of her stocking. When would she start talking? How old were babies when they said their first word?

  Louise forgot about her husband's objections and daydreamed about the wonderful years to come. When should she start teaching Cynthia to play the piano? Of course, first they'd have to buy one, and that meant having a home large enough to accommodate it. Maybe someday her little darling would have a grand piano, but she'd have to begin on an inexpensive upright.

  In fact, Louise looked forward to having pupils besides her daughter. They could use the extra income, and she loved introducing children to the wonderful world of music.

  “Oh my, I'm going to nod off if I don't get to work,” she said to herself. Woolgathering wasn't going to get the stocking cut out.
<
br />   Since her time was so limited, she wondered if it was possible to cut both pieces of material at the same time. All she'd have to do was carefully pin them together, then pin the pattern onto both layers. It would be quicker, and the lining and outer fabric would be exactly the same size.

  After spreading out the satin and smoothing it down, she laid the velvet on top. Both pieces of cloth were so lovely, it was almost a shame to cut into them. But, of course, the completed stocking would be even more beautiful.

  Louise hoped that their house, when they bought one, would have a fireplace. It wasn't right to tack a Christmas stocking any old place, and hanging it on a doorknob was even less appealing. When they started looking for a permanent home, she was going to put a fireplace at the top of the list, followed closely by room for a piano. And, of course, Cynthia had to have safe places to play, both inside and out.

  Her eyelids were drooping, and she realized she was close to nodding off. It was so pleasant to imagine her baby growing up in a home with room for all three of them to pursue their interests. Eliot, bless his heart, was a good sport about working on the kitchen table, but he really did need a quiet corner with a desk and bookcases. With any luck, they could find a house with a spare bedroom to convert into an office for him.

  She shook her head to stay awake and sipped the tea she'd allowed to grow cold. In fact, the apartment was quickly losing heat, and she tiptoed to look at Cynthia in her bed to be sure she was still covered.

  “Sleep well, my dearest daughter,” she murmured, silently hurrying back to her worktable.

  For some reason she'd inherited her mother's workbox, although both Alice and Jane were more likely to sew. She took out the big, heavy scissors, older than she was but still wonderfully sharp, and made a small, tentative cut. The blades of the shears cut through the double layer of fabric like a knife through butter, and Louise was encouraged to continue.

  Her fingers seemed to have a will of their own, guiding the heavy blades through the ultrasoft material. Velvet, she was learning, had a will of its own, and she could feel the satin under it sliding around. She checked to be sure the cuts were going through both layers, but it took some maneuvering to keep the two slippery pieces in place. She was beginning to doubt the wisdom of cutting both together. Worse, maybe Eliot was right: She should have gone to bed and left the stocking for another day. But with only a little over a week left until Christmas, could she depend on her colicky daughter to sleep enough to let her complete it?