I enter Wilson’s through the loading dock doors and make my way to the mail room. The shipping manifest shows a shipment is due at six this morning. I prep the shelves in the stockroom, although I know the shipment will be late due to the roads. When I finish, I walk to the office to see if by chance anyone is in yet. The office is dark and I check the door. It’s open. I walk inside and flip on the lights, looking around. I know if I call the hospital that they’ll never give me any information about Josh. Several file cabinets sit behind Judy’s desk, and I wonder if one of them contains phone numbers for Josh or if his information would be on the computer.
I move to one of the file cabinets and try my luck there. I pull open a drawer, and it contains names of others businesses—vendors, I assume. I pull open each drawer and scan the files, looking for names I recognize. The third file drawer contains some names I recognize as employees, and I search for Josh, realizing I don’t know his last name. A file for Joshua Dumont catches my eye and I pull it out, reaching for a sticky note and a pen off Judy’s desk. I scan the file for phone numbers and write down his cell. For some reason, I take down the number for one of his emergency contacts, his parents, Mike and Karla Dumont, and jot down his home address. I slip the file back into the drawer and turn the lights off as I leave the office. Somewhere, the night security guard is either watching the cameras or walking through the store, so I act as if I was supposed to be in the office at this hour in the morning.
It’s six fifteen when I make it back to the mail room, and I take my cell phone out of my coat pocket. I set the sticky note on the countertop and call Josh’s cell. I don’t know if I’m thinking he’ll answer or someone else will pick up his phone, but for some reason I need to know what happened to him. His phone rings one time and goes directly to voice mail. I hang up and look at the other number on the paper. I can’t call his parents. I’m not his supervisor calling to check on him. I’m not anybody.
It’s one o’clock when the shipment is unpacked and the mail is distributed, and I clock out for the day. I’m heading toward home when I find myself sitting in the parking lot of University Park Hospital. I kept telling myself that I wouldn’t come, that I’d drive straight home and watch something on TV, but I wandered onto the highway and ended up here. I’ve never visited anyone in a hospital before and am not sure how to find Josh. Two women sit behind a huge C-shaped desk in the entryway, and I walk toward them, hesitating, ready to go back to the car because I’m not sure what to say to Josh. “Can I help you?” the younger of the two women asks.
“I’m here to visit Josh Dumont. He was in a car accident this morning.”
“Are you a family member?”
My palms feel sweaty, and in a stupid way I feel as if I’ve done something wrong. “No. I’m a fr—I work with him.”
She holds a pencil with both hands and lifts it right in front of her face. “We can’t give out that information. A family member would have to let you know if he’s here.”
I turn to leave, feeling embarrassed and ridiculous. Deep down, I knew it was a dumb idea to come.
“Do you know Josh?”
A middle-aged man holding a small white sack is standing beside the desk. He looks familiar, and then it hits me. I blew him off when he asked which sweater would look better on his wife. “I work with him at Wilson’s,” I say, hoping he won’t remember me.
“I’m Mike. Josh’s dad.”
He doesn’t remember me. I don’t shake his hand or hug him or do anything but stand here. “Our supervisor said Josh was in an accident this morning and I wanted to…”
“Come on up,” he says, walking toward the row of elevators. “He had surgery first thing, but he’s out of recovery and in his room now.” The elevator doors close and Mike pushes the number eight.
“What happened?”
“Icy roads. A van lost control, slamming into Josh on the passenger side. He stepped on the brake when he saw the van sliding toward him and because his leg was braced for impact”—he straightens his leg to demonstrate—“when the van hit him, the force broke the low part of his tibia. They got him right into surgery, and it took a couple of hours. They put a pin in. They’re keeping him for two or three days.”
The doors open and I follow Mike down a bright hallway. “He probably doesn’t want any visitors,” I say, dragging behind him.
He stops and looks at me. “Who wouldn’t want to see a friend after coming out of surgery? He’ll love it. My wife went home to pick up Lyda, Josh’s grandmother.”
Josh’s leg is raised in some sort of sling, and he’s propped up on pillows when his dad and I walk into the room. “Melissa!”
I stand at the foot of the bed and lift my hand to wave. “I heard what happened and just wanted to see that you’re … come say hi.” Mike hands Josh the sack, and Josh pulls out some fries. A tray with traces of something brown and bland sits at his bedside.
“They made me eat that,” Josh says, grinning. “But I had to have some fries to chase it down.”
“I’m sorry about your leg.”
He takes a bite of a fry and smiles. “I’m hoping I’ll have years of fun setting off airport security.”
“How long do you have to be off it?”
His mouth is full and ketchup sits on his upper lip. “Six weeks.”
“So I guess your days are done at Wilson’s?” He shrugs, eating. I swing my arms, looking around. “I should have brought you something, like a magazine or a bag of chips or something.” I shove my hands in my coat pockets to keep them from moving and realize I must look as awkward as I feel. “Well, I need to get going. I just wanted to check on you and make sure you’re okay.”
“Come back anytime,” Josh says. “I like jalapeño kettle chips.”
He grins while eating, and I wave good-bye to Mike. I wait for the elevator and stand aside when it opens. Four people step out and I watch as two of them, a middle-aged woman carrying a suitcase and a white-haired elderly woman, make their way as quickly as they can down the hall. Josh’s mom and grandma. I let the elevator doors close without getting on and strain to hear them in Josh’s room. I can’t make out any words but I hear laughing and the rise and fall of voices. My eyes fill and I press the button for the elevator.
* * *
I knock on Gretchen’s door when I get home because, well, just because. I’ve been alone so much of my life that I’m sick of it. “Did you have to work today?” she asks, opening the door. It smells like something chocolaty in her house, and I hear the kids down the hall; it sounds like they’re dismantling their room.
“I was called in this morning because a kid was in an accident.”
She leads me to the kitchen. It’s a mess of dirty bowls and lunch plates. “What happened? Was he hurt?”
“Broke his leg. I saw him in the hospital.”
“Did he have to have surgery? Is he okay?” I sit down at the table and look at her. “Is he okay?” she asks again.
“How many times have you asked that in your life?”
She looks at me like I’m crazy. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you know how many times I’ve asked that?”
She leans against the counter and crosses her arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever asked if someone was okay.”
“Sure you have.”
“No! I haven’t. I’ve never visited anyone in the hospital, shown up at anyone’s funeral, baked a cake for a fund-raiser, or batted an eye when I heard someone in the military had died.”
Gretchen turns on the light in the oven and mumbles as she peers inside at what I know is another cake for the Bake a Difference fund-raiser. She sits down across from me. “You just said you went to the hospital, so you have visited someone in the hospital.”
“First time.”
“And you have baked a cake for a fund-raiser.”
“One time.”
She gets up and crosses to
a cabinet, pulling out two glasses. “There’s a first time for everything.” Her voice sounds strained as she puts ice in each glass and fills them with water.
I watch her and know that Gretchen is my friend. She is my friend for no particular reason other than she moved next door and cleaned out a crappy apartment and showed up at the graveside of a stranger, invited me in for spaghetti, and asked me to bake a cake. “Ramona never…”
She hands me the glass of water. “Ramona’s dead.” She is blunt and seems frustrated. “I don’t know what you’re going to say … that she didn’t make you be a caring person because she was so self-absorbed or whatever. It doesn’t matter. Whatever she did or didn’t do … you can’t change your past. Not even God can change your past.”
She stops short of telling me to shut up and grow up. Two weeks ago I would have gotten up and walked out, but today I feel relieved. Gretchen is my friend for no particular reason at all and most particularly because she puts up with me.
* * *
I awaken at three, thinking of Josh. I roll over, rearranging the blankets, and see his mother and grandmother scurrying down the hall toward his room. “What’s happening? Show me,” I say aloud in what I realize is a prayer. It’s three fifteen when I look at the clock again and I roll over to my other side, the image of Josh’s grandmother running through my mind. What did his dad say her name was? At three thirty I’m frustrated because I can’t sleep. What was his mom’s name? The grandma’s name? At four thirty I sit bolt upright in bed. Mike said her name was Lyda!
My heart is racing as I lie back down. I smile in the night and feel like a kid again. I’ll never get back to sleep now.
Twelve
Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful.
—NORMAN VINCENT PEALE
GRETCHEN
I didn’t hear anything in church today. I sat beside Mom and Gloria and Marshall and thought of Kyle, prayed for Kyle, hoped for Kyle, and cried, feeling sorry for myself. I want him home. In one breath it scares me to death that he’ll never be able to walk as he once did, but then in the next breath I’m grateful he’s alive. In another breath I worry that he won’t be able to do the work he loves, but as I exhale, I cry because he’ll be able to hug Emma and Ethan each day.
I feel bad because I snapped at Melissa yesterday and never apologized. I just couldn’t hear about Ramona again. I couldn’t take one more story about why Melissa’s life is pathetic and how Ramona is to blame. The fact is, Melissa’s life isn’t pathetic. She not only works, but is able to keep a job and pay a mortgage, something her mother never did. Melissa’s much smarter and brighter than she thinks she is; she could easily get a job in an office or even run her own business. I believe that. I need to apologize for snapping at her, but when we get home from church I’m exhausted and just want to take a nap. Some days are like that. For days and months on end I am mother, father, nurse, cook, maid, teacher, taxi driver, laundress, and referee. Every now and then I want to climb into bed without any responsibility and pull the covers over my head.
I throw on a pair of jeans and am putting on a sweatshirt when the doorbell rings. I groan because I don’t want to see anyone. I open the door without looking through the peephole and scream. “Dad!”
“Hi, sweet pea.” Tears pour over my cheeks as I throw my arms around his neck. He smells like shaving cream and cigars. “I’m here nine days early. Is that okay?” I nod and sob into the whiskers on his neck. The tears I hide from the kids so I won’t scare them pour over my father. “It’ll be all right, Gretchen. Everything will be all right.”
“I miss him so much, Dad.”
He squeezes me tighter, and I’m eight years old again. “I know you do.”
I try to hold it together but I can’t; I’m a drippy mess. “Why are you here so early?”
“Because I thought you could use a break and maybe your old dad could give you one.”
I laugh and cry at the same time. He’s always known who I was. He’s always known when I need to be quiet and when he needs to be quiet with me. He’s always known when to pick me up and when I need to pick myself up. He’s always known when I need a wink, a hug, a shoulder, or a time-out. My dad has his own brand of problems, but he still knows me. I pick up one of his bags and yell as I set it down in the entryway, shouting for the kids.
* * *
Dad is playing his fourth game with the kids (this time it’s Battleship with Ethan) when the doorbell rings. I nearly laugh crossing to the door because I called Mom from my bedroom and asked her to come over for coffee. I didn’t tell her Dad was here. Sure, it was sneaky and maybe even a bit cruel, but I just had to do it. I swing the door open and smile. Her hair is perfect, and she’s wearing a periwinkle scarf around her neck. She steps inside, and her eyes are the size of full moons when she screams. “Phillip!” She puts her hand on her forehead and I laugh, watching her. “I had no idea that you…” Her hand moves to her cheek and I laugh harder.
Dad is handsome as he smiles, standing to his feet. He is tall and his arms are well defined for a man his age. His hair is much thinner and grayer now, but his eyes are still as blue. “Look at you, Miriam,” he says, crossing to her.
He kisses her cheek and Ethan laughs, slapping his forehead. “They can’t kiss anymore. They’re not married!”
Dad laughs and hugs Mom. She is stiff and gives me a dirty look. “You are an awful child, Gretchen Elizabeth.”
Dad helps Mom take off her coat and he hangs it on the hall tree. “Relax, Miriam. She needs a good laugh.”
“At the expense of her mother?!”
I take her gloves and purse. “I’m sorry, Mom. I just had to.”
Mom straightens her hair and tries to peek at herself in the hall tree mirror. “I thought you were coming much later,” she says, wiping something imaginary from her sweater.
Dad takes her hand and leads her to the sofa. “Sit down, Miriam. As I finish my game with Ethan I will tell you all about it.”
“He came to surprise Mom,” Ethan says.
Mom sits and straightens her slacks. “Well, good. We’ve all gotten a grand surprise today.”
“D seven,” Ethan says.
Dad makes the sound of an explosion and Ethan laughs. “You sank my battleship!” He looks at Mom and smiles. “You are a vision, Miriam.”
Mom’s face turns red and she swats at something in the air. “Oh, pish-posh applesauce. Be quiet, you!”
I laugh out loud from the kitchen because I’ve never heard my mother get flustered, but she doesn’t know what to do with her hands and is grappling with the pillows on the sofa.
“No, no, you are,” Dad says, sitting next to her. “It’s like time forgot to march on with you.”
I strain to hear them as I pour the coffee. “You look well, Phillip. It’s good to see that you still have your hair and haven’t gotten fat. You were quite portly at Gretchen’s graduation. You’re not stooped over, your fingers aren’t gnarled, and you’re not gasping for breath so that’s something, too.”
I put some cookies on a plate and laugh out loud. She’s dying out there. I walk to the living room with two cups of coffee in one hand and put them in front of Mom and Dad. That sounds so weird in my head. Mom and Dad. They each take a cup from me while Emma takes the cookies. I go back for my coffee and bring some cream and sugar. Something sweeps through my chest that feels like sadness or joy or maybe both. I don’t know. I learned to live with the fact that my parents were no longer together, but here they are, sitting together and looking as I always imagined in my mind. Yet they’re not together. I know that.
“Gretchen,” Dad says. “Feel free to take off anytime to be with Kyle. Your mother and I can take care of the kids.” I glance at Mom, waiting for her to protest the two of them working together, but she nods. “When are they moving Kyle to Texas?”
“On Tuesday.”
He leans close to me on the couch and squeezes m
y leg. “Then why don’t you book a plane ticket?” Tears fill my eyes and I nod. Dad wraps his arms around me and kisses my cheek. “Why don’t you give me a list of things you need done around here, okay?” He looks around the living room. “I’ll start with hanging the pictures.”
I cry, blowing my nose, and laugh. “I can’t hang them like Kyle.”
“I know, Gretch. Your mother never could hang a picture, either.”
Mom groans and shakes her head. “She picked up all my horrible traits and all of your glorious ones!”
Dad wraps one arm around Mom and her back stiffens. “She clearly picked up on all of your beauty, Miriam.”
“It is getting ever so deep in here,” Mom says. “Where are my green Wellies when I need them most?”
“Maybe you can work on hooking up the DVD player, too, Dad. I hooked it up, but a line divides the screen somehow so the kids only see part of the picture.”
He pulls my head onto his shoulder. “I will check into all electronics, and I will even plant some shrubs and a small tree out front. Now’s the best time of year for that. It’s the best time of year for so many things.”
Thirteen
Each of us is here for a brief sojourn; for what purpose he knows not, though he senses it. But without deeper reflection one knows from daily life that one exists for other people.
The Christmas Note Page 9