The Christmas Secret

by Donna VanLiere

“Little girl painting it for her mother.”

  She whistled through her teeth. “She will be all over this box and her mother will love you for it.”

  “I’m not interested in her mother’s love,” Jason said, paying for the box. “I was just looking for something easy.” He read the back of the box as he climbed the stairs and sighed. “What have I gotten myself into?”

  He put the bag under Judy’s desk and walked to the coffeemaker. “I’m ready to take that test again!” he said, yelling back to Marshall.

  Marshall opened a file cabinet and pulled out a sheet of paper. He put on his glasses and wrote something on the back of the paper before handing it to Jason. “Feeling confident?”

  Jason held the cup of coffee up as if toasting his grandfather. “I know every person’s name in this building.”

  Marshall smiled and put the test in front of him. There weren’t any questions regarding the history of the building but every one was a person’s name. “Who are the two people who work in the mailroom?” “What are the names of the security guards?” “Who is the supervisor of toys and Santa’s workshop?” On and on it went until Jason filled in the last blank, smiling as he wrote Shirley Cohen’s name. “Give me my check,” he said, waving the test in the air.

  Marshall stepped down from his office, looked over the answers, and then over his glasses at Jason. “You did it.”

  “I told you I would.” Jason sipped his coffee and held out his hand. “Check, please.”

  Marshall laughed and walked up to his office, pulling out two weeks worth of checks from a file drawer. “So how does it feel?”

  “To get paid for work I’ve already done? Awesome!”

  “To know everyone’s name,” Marshall said, sitting on a chair across from Judy’s desk.

  Jason folded the checks and put them in his back pocket. “I feel like I’m a vital part of humanity,” he said.

  Marshall rolled his eyes. “A point is lost on someone like you.”

  Jason grinned. “I get your point.” He looked out the office windows into the store. “I know everyone’s name and because I took the time to learn them I know about them as a person. Satisfied?”

  “Perfect. Now what are you going to do with the rest of your life?” Jason’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he pretended not to notice. “You’re not on the sales floor. Go ahead and take it,” Marshall said, closing his office door.

  Jason pulled the phone out fast and flicked it open. “Hello,” he said.

  “Hey, babe,” Ashley said. The hair on the back of Jason’s neck stood on end. He’d forgotten all about her. “I’ve been driving a couple of hours already and should be there by two or so.”

  Judy sat at her desk wearing her red jingle bell sweatshirt. She looked great. “You know, I’m perfectly fine to come back.”

  “No, you’re not,” Marshall said.

  “My doctor says yes but you say no. Let me see . . . who should I believe?”

  Marshall paced back and forth in front of her. “You’re avoiding the question.”

  She covered her face with her hands and moaned. “I am not avoiding it. I’ve already answered your question every way I know how. If you feel that you want to do this. Do it.” She banged on the desk. “This is your desk. This is your store. This is your life. If you feel strongly about it—”

  “What do you think Jason will do?”

  She leaned back and screamed. “Just say what you want to say and don’t worry about Jason.”

  “I can’t call Linda and talk to her about it on the phone. It’d be better if she was here.”

  “Well, that’s a few more days,” Judy said. “If you want to wait and talk it through with Linda, wait.”

  He stopped and looked at her. “What would you do?”

  She pushed her chair back and stood up. “You know what? You’re right. I am not ready to come to back to this.”

  “I told you you weren’t. Take a few days and enjoy the grandkids.”

  She slid gloves onto her hands and walked to the door. “I will.”

  He followed her, tapping her on the shoulder. “Seriously . . . should I wait for Linda?”

  She threw her head back and laughed.

  . . .

  Glory’s Place was closed on Thursdays so I spent Wednesday night and the drive into work Thursday morning calling sitters again. When the breakfast crowd left and my tables were cleaned I checked my phone to see if anyone had called back. I made another call and waved at Tamara when she sat at a booth. “Renee,” I said, into the phone, “is there any chance you’d be available tonight to watch the kids? I promise I’ll never bother you again.”

  “I can kind of do it,” Renee said. “I have to drive friends to the airport this afternoon. I couldn’t be at your house when the kids get off school but could be there by five thirty or so if that works.”

  It would have to work if I couldn’t find anyone for the whole time. I carried the coffee to Tamara’s table and she looked up at me. “Sitter troubles?” she said.

  “If I had a dime for every minute I spent trying to find one.”

  “How many kids do you have?”

  “A boy and a girl,” I said.

  “That’s what I have,” she said. “My boy’s eleven and my little girl is nine.”

  “I didn’t know you had children,” I said. Really, I didn’t know anything about her. “Coffee and a day-old?” She nodded and I crossed to the baker’s rack to pick out a pastry. I threw it back into the basket and went to the register where I input a bowl of oatmeal instead. The oatmeal warmer was at the end of the cook’s line and I lifted the lid, dipping out a bowl full. I put a small cup of berries covered with brown sugar onto the tray and delivered it to Tamara. She looked up at me. “Someone ordered it for takeout and never showed up.” She didn’t move. “Who orders oatmeal for takeout, right? Probably why they didn’t come get it.” She looked down at it. “If you don’t eat it we’ll have to throw it out.”

  “Really?”

  “Hopefully it’s still warm. I dumped it out of its to-go container. The fruit makes it really good.”

  “Thanks,” she said, pouring the fruit and sugar concoction on top of the oatmeal. I took orders from a table of four and from a new couple who sat in the booth next to Tamara. I delivered their food and checked back with Tamara. The oatmeal was only halfway gone.

  “You’re a slow eater,” I said.

  “Just enjoying it,” she said.

  “Do you ever bring your children in with you?”

  She stirred the oatmeal and lifted the spoon up and over. I knew I’d said something wrong. “They live with their dad.” She took a bite and stared into the bowl.

  “My kids live with me.” She looked up at me. “How often do you get to see them?”

  She wadded the napkin in her hands. “It’s been over a year.”

  I was never good in these situations. I never knew the right thing to say. “Does he have sole custody?”

  “He does now,” she said, turning the oatmeal up and over, up and over.

  “I’ve been divorced for four years and it’s been a nightmare.” She let out a puff of a laugh. “For you, too?”

  She shook her head, wadding the napkin in her hand again. “I’m the nightmare in our divorce.”

  I glanced over my tables to make sure they had everything and that no one new had showed up. “What does that mean?”

  “I taught third grade and my husband worked in computer sales. Still works in computer sales. I went to the thirtieth birthday party of a friend one night. Girls only, you know, and one of the ladies, a real snooty ‘something’s stuck up her butt’ kind of lady with expensive clothes pulls out some meth and starts offering it around. We were all slightly buzzed because we’d had a lot of wine and she said we’d feel even better in a few minutes. I loved it. I’d never felt so charged in my life.” She pulled up a spoonful of oatmeal and tilted the spoon so the oatmeal dripped back into the bowl. “I wok
e up in the bed of my friend’s husband. Some birthday present I gave her. And I was hooked on meth. Your face says there’s no way it could happen that fast. I didn’t think so either but it does . . . and it did.”

  “So drugs were the reason you lost custody?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

  “Drugs were one of the lesser charges,” she said, pulling the toast apart. “I kept those hidden from my husband. He had no idea. All he knew was I had a lot more energy throughout the day. The problem was I lost my job halfway through the school year. I had a hard time showing up on time and had a tendency to leave early. You do that a few weeks in a row and people notice. Without my paycheck I had a harder time paying for the meth and before long we were late paying the mortgage and car loans and that pissed off my husband.” She tried to take a bite and stopped.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll let you eat.”

  “No. It’s okay. I’ve told this story a lot in treatment. It always ends the same. You’d think I’d know that by now.” I caught Karen’s eye and she raised her brows, looking at me. My tables were now empty and I found myself glad for the lack of work. “We separated but had joint custody of the kids. They came to my apartment one weekend and I went to the apartment manager’s place after the kids had fallen asleep with the intention of screwing him for rent before I went back to my apartment. But he had some crack and some booze and before I knew it it was morning and my kids were gone. My daughter had woken up in the middle of the night and was terrified when she couldn’t find me. She called my husband and he came to get them. He left twenty-seven messages on my answering machine throughout the night. When I woke up around lunchtime I ran up the flights of stairs to my apartment and threw up when I saw they were gone. The phone started to ring and I saw it was my husband. I picked it up and he called me a whore.” Her voice caught and she turned to look out the window. “And I couldn’t deny it.”

  A long and empty stretch of silence followed. I had no idea what to say. Winds blow us off course. I’ve been swept away myself by unexpected gusts but then there are storms of my own making and those have been more destructive and costly. This storm was Tamara’s and the aftermath was devastating. There are days when it’s hard for me to live inside myself because it’s there that I’m most angry and hurt and the failure of my life beats the loudest. I looked at Tamara’s small frame and blue-veined hands and wondered what it was like living inside herself. I couldn’t imagine. She pressed the napkin to catch a tear on her cheek and looked me in the eyes for the first time. “Long story short . . . I ended up on the streets for seven months so I could support my habit. I lost consciousness after a man beat me when I wouldn’t do something he’d asked and two hookers found me and took me to a hospital. I was out of it for days but I could hear a woman talking. I had no idea who she was or what time of day it was. All I could hear was this whispering that sounding like a prayer in my head. ‘Help her. Open her eyes.’ That’s what I heard. When I finally came to I heard this whispering again and opened my eyes to see an overweight black nurse checking the monitor by my bed. I listened as closely as I could to her whispering and she was praying. For me. Rita has four children, seven grandchildren, and an adopted former meth addict-prostitute in her family. She convinced me to go to a treatment center, and when I got out she introduced me to someone at the women’s rescue mission where I’ve been for seven months.” I was stunned and knew that anything I said would sound trite and stupid. “I know,” she said. “It’s unimaginable that a mother could do those things.”

  “No,” I said. “I mean—”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I still can’t believe it myself.” She took a few more bites of her oatmeal and I sat feeling awkward and stiff and not at all helpful. “We have to be out of the mission at eight each morning for work . . . or to look for work and then back by four for classes and dinner.”

  “So when you’re not working what do you do during those hours of the day?”

  She smiled. “I go to the library and read. I like to read the books I always read to my kids at night. It makes me feel close. I sit in the park and think and hope and pray . . . a lot. I go to that church on the square and sit in the sanctuary and pray some more. They did a food drive for two weeks before Thanksgiving and because I was already there I helped every day with that,” she said, laughing. “I do a lot of walking around town.” It sounded horrible to me. She looked at me and smiled. “It’s not so bad. Rita says, ‘One step forward each day is the way back to the land of the living.’ So that’s what I try to do.”

  “But why haven’t you seen your children?” I asked. “If you’ve been through treatment and are making strides to get your life—”

  She shook her head. “They don’t want to see me.”

  “How do you know that?” She didn’t answer. “Did they say that?” She shook her head. “They do want to see you.”

  Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes and she looked out the window. “No, they don’t. They haven’t taken my calls in months.”

  “Because they don’t understand what’s happening to you,” I said. “They’re confused. I know they’d want to see you.” She shook her head. “You’re their mother. They love you. They’d want to see that you’re doing well and that you love them. They’ll see that you’ve changed and that you’re still the mother they remember.” She shook her head back and forth hard in front of me. “Yes. They’d want to see you.”

  “No!” she said, yelling. Karen looked up at me from the waitress station and Tasha stopped sweeping the floor.

  I slipped out of the booth. “I’m sorry,” I said, whispering. “I’ll let you finish.” I walked to the kitchen and leaned up against the aprons, closing my eyes.

  “Are you okay?” Karen asked.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “What happened back there?”

  I reached for the right words. “Sad,” I said. “Just so sad.”

  “Can you tell me later?” I nodded. “She left and you have a table.”

  Tamara had finished the oatmeal and toast and I rang up her check, pulling four dollars out of my apron pocket for the oatmeal. Four dollars for a story, I thought. “Help her,” I whispered, remembering Rita. Take her back to her kids. My eyes filled at the thought of her not seeing her children. Give them love for her.

  Gloria and Miriam met me in Betty’s back parking lot a few minutes before three. Gloria stayed crouched in the seat as I drove through town and into Ashton Gardens to spy out her mystery man. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “What if someone sees us?”

  “No one will see us,” Miriam said. “I’ve worn my super-secret magical crystal ring that will make us invisible when I turn it on my finger.”

  Daylight flooded over the grounds of white and they sparkled and shone and nearly blinded me as I wound through the property. Two squirrels chattered in front of the car and scurried up a tree. “No one seems to be here, which is only logical in twenty-degree weather,” I said.

  “I’m going to throw up,” Gloria said.

  I turned the car left and headed for the greenhouse. “Here’s a car,” I said. The greenhouse windows were foggy and their borders etched with ice crystals. “I’ll have to get out to look in the windows.”

  “Do not do that!” Gloria said, whispering with force. “Do not get out of this car!”

  “Run!” Miriam said. “Run while I hold her off.”

  I opened the door as Gloria yelled again and I pulled my coat tight around me as I ran for the greenhouse. The first window was too foggy to see through and the next two were blocked with sprawling plants and trees. No one was visible from the back windows and I crept to the end where the entrance was found. I could hear voices inside. A brick retaining wall curved along the end of the greenhouse and I stepped onto it, hoping I could see through the trees that filled the entrance. I could make out the shape of a man’s back as I lifted myself onto my toes to see through the leaves of the trees. It was a couple and t
hey were kissing. The man turned toward the door and my heart raced when I saw his face. TS took the hand of the woman and walked toward the entrance.

  I jumped off the wall and ran along the back of the greenhouse, keeping low. I jerked open the car door and threw it into reverse. My face was hot and my breathing was heavy as I sped through the streets.

  Jason held on to Ashley, longing for a love he couldn’t get by his sexual prowess or wit but one he could only receive as a gift. He held on to her hoping for more but knowing there was only less. He looked into her face wishing for a smile that would catch his breath at the sight of it. He watched her eyes and listened to her voice, hoping, like his grandfather, for a look or a sound that would leave him breathless and humbled by the beauty of it. He watched. He hoped. He listened. But there was nothing.

  I walked into the house and rehearsed a hundred things I’d say to TS tonight at seven but knew I’d never carry through with any of them. My mother said I never stood up for myself. Maybe she was right. I put a pot of water on to boil and reached for the package of hamburger in the fridge. Thoughts flooded my mind as I put it into a skillet to brown. Why would he do that? Why would he do that to me or her? I drained the grease from the meat and reached for a can of cream of mushroom soup and some sour cream. The phone rang and I saw it was my mother. “Hi, Mom,” I said, stirring the soup and sour cream into the hamburger.

  “Hey, sweetness. How is everything?”

  I shook my head. Somehow she had the ability to call at the worst moments. “Good,” I said, lying. I just couldn’t tell her the story of being evicted or about TS right now.

  She was quiet. “Really? Your voice sounds different.”

  “I’m just making something for the kids to eat before I head to work,” I said, watching the water bubbling up.

  “Are you working nights now?”

  I ripped open a bag of noodles and poured them into the pot. “Just a few nights. Gives me extra money for Christmas.”

  “Who’s watching the kids?”