The Christmas Note

by Donna VanLiere

  Dad and Melissa went to church with us this morning. Dad’s never been a church man, but he’s always open to it at Christmas, especially when he’s with his grandkids. Melissa’s been to church a few times when she was a kid, with the Schweigers but never with Ramona or on her own. She was still as she listened to the reading from Luke and wiped her eyes when all the children sang “O Holy Night” and “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” I cried, too, and I caught Dad rubbing his eyes. For Kyle’s first tour of Afghanistan the soldiers sang “Silent Night” together on Christmas Day, and Kyle said nobody dared look at one another because there wasn’t a dry eye in the whole bunch. Seems like the songs of Christmas have the same effect no matter where you are in the world. I cried through the entire service again.

  Two days ago, Gloria asked Melissa and me if we’d help set up for Bake a Difference at the community center. We eat a quick lunch with Dad and the kids before driving across town to the civic center. The chamber orchestra is already in place practicing on stage as Mom, Gloria, Melissa, and I set up tables in the lobby. Gloria hands me a tightly rolled banner. “Could you figure a way to hang this, babe?”

  “What does it say?” I ask.

  “Bake a Difference. And right under that in letters that look like gingerbread it says, ‘To Benefit Glory’s Place.’”

  “Don’t you think if people see all these baked goods that they’re going to know it’s a bake sale, Gloria?” Mom asks, flapping a tablecloth out in front of her.

  Gloria helps her smooth out the tablecloth. “This is not just a bake sale, Miriam! People all over this community have been baking a difference! Do you see Rice Krispies treats here? Brownies? Overbaked cookies? Saran Wrap, for crying out loud?” Mom hangs her head, waiting for Gloria to finish. “No. That’s because this is not your run-of-the-mill bake sale. We have boxes and ribbons and bows! This is an event!”

  Mom looks down at herself. She’s wearing black slacks with a red chenille sweater and a strand of pearls. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I always wear an evening gown to an event.”

  “I was hoping you’d go home and change,” Gloria says, winking at me.

  Mom’s eyes are ablaze. “You are wearing a sweatshirt with a mouse dressed like Santa Claus, Gloria!”

  “Don’t worry. I got you one for Christmas.”

  Mom flaps her hand in the air as if brushing Gloria away, and Melissa and I work on figuring a way to hang the banner. A steady stream of women and men come into the lobby throughout the afternoon, delivering their baked goods, and as they do, Gloria makes a beautifully handwritten card for each one stating what it is. There is every imaginable cake: coconut, pistachio, chocolate rum, red velvet, white chocolate, cranapple, banana pecan, lemon, spice, apple, German chocolate, and more! There are yule logs, truffles, caramels, a chocolate hazelnut soufflé, pecan torts, pumpkin cream and cranberry tarts, a tower of cupcakes, countless cheesecakes that could be on the cover of Bon Appétit—pumpkin, toffee, gingerbread, eggnog, persimmon, turtle, and cherry amaretto—and a string of pies that could be displayed in any bakery: sweet potato, chocolate pecan, sour cream raisin, apple cheddar, orange meringue, lemon meringue, mincemeat, coconut custard, cherry crumble, caramel, and pear. But Gloria didn’t just write “apple” or “coconut” on each card. She wrote, “Apple Bliss Cake” or “Coconut Dream Pie.” Mom ripped up the card that said “Banana Bonzo Cake” because she said that anything with the word bonzo in it should not be taken seriously. She wanted Gloria to call it Banana Surprise Cake, but Gloria said she wouldn’t want to be surprised by a banana. They settled on Decadent Banana Cake.

  An older woman holds on to the arm of a middle-aged woman and delivers a cake. Melissa sees them and grabs my arm, pulling me toward them. “Mrs. Schweiger! You baked a cake!”

  “When has she not baked?” the other woman says.

  So this is Mrs. Schweiger? She wraps her arms around me and then holds me out by the shoulders, looking at me. “I know who you are,” she says. “You’re Gretchen.”

  “This is Mrs. Schweiger and Karla,” Melissa says.

  “I figured that out.”

  Mrs. Schweiger continues to eyeball me, and then she hugs me to her again. “I need your picture,” she says.

  “Okay. What kind of picture?”

  “A family picture.”

  “It’s been a while since we’ve taken a family picture, but I’ll get one to you. I could e-mail one when we have one taken again.”

  She holds on to my hand and squeezes. “I don’t do the e-mail. I need a picture for my box.”

  “Her box of prayers,” Melissa says. “You’re going in the box.” I don’t know exactly what that means but have a feeling that Melissa’s picture spent more time out of Mrs. Schweiger’s box than in it.

  * * *

  When Dalton and Heddy arrive from Glory’s Place we all work together placing each cake and confection into a box donated by Betty’s Bakery and then wrapping it with a ribbon and bow.

  Everything is in place at five o’clock, and we stand back and look at the tables. I have to admit that when Gloria first talked about baking a difference, I never thought of it turning out looking this good. She runs to her bag and pulls out prices she has slipped inside picture frames.

  Mom bends her head to read one sign. “Beginning donation of fifty dollars per baked good! Are you crazy, Gloria? Who’s going to pay fifty dollars for a pie?”

  “They’re not paying fifty dollars for a pie, Miriam. If they wanted a pie they’d go buy one at Betty’s for twelve bucks. They’re donating to a cause.”

  Mom shakes her head. “What in the world are we going to do with all these cakes and pies?”

  Dad drops the kids off an hour before the doors are supposed to open. Emma and Ethan take their place behind the tables to help Mom sell, and I know they’ll be doing more playing than working, but Mom gives me a look that says she has it all under control.

  I am in front of the tables and arranging a stack of cakes when the audience begins to fill the lobby. Dalton and Heddy take charge as Gloria and Mom have disappeared, and I realize Melissa isn’t nearby, either. A man writes a check to Glory’s Place for one hundred dollars for the Captivating Cherry Cream Cheese Cake, and I hand the box to him when I hear a voice somewhere behind me.

  “Do you have any Snickers bars?”

  Did he say a candy bar?

  “How about popcorn?”

  Can’t he see we aren’t a concession stand? I want to laugh, but the voice pounds at my heart and I turn around, screaming. The kids fly out from behind the table and slam into Kyle. I can’t move because I can’t feel my legs. Is it really him? Is he here? He’s wearing Kyle’s fatigues, so it looks like him, but I can’t think straight. Kyle is in Germany. A man and woman in front of me step aside, and I see Emma crying and gripping her dad around his waist. Ethan is jumping up and down, and I don’t think I’m breathing. Kyle uses some sort of crutch and walks toward me with Emma attached to him, and I fall into his shoulder. It is him. I reach my arms around him and try to say something, but it’s all lodged in the back of my throat. If people are around us, I don’t hear them. I don’t even know where I’m at anymore.

  Mom is a mess as she reaches for Kyle. “Welcome home, Kyle,” she says. “We are all so grateful to have you back. You just have no idea.”

  Melissa is videotaping the whole thing, and I signal for her to come closer. “This is…” I say, but it comes out in squeaks.

  “This is Melissa,” Kyle says, looking at her. “The brand-new sister and event coordinator.”

  Melissa’s eyes are smiling and she hugs Kyle; this part of the video is going to look like a train wreck. “Welcome home,” she says.

  Mom smiles, with her arm looped through Kyle’s. “It was Melissa’s idea to call the doctors in Germany to see if there was any way Kyle could come home for Christmas.” I look at Melissa and she shrugs, barely smiling. “Your dad called Tom and Alice.” She points to the side, and
I see Kyle’s parents, stepping toward us. “They talked to the doctors. And here is Kyle.”

  “You mean everyone knew about this?”

  “Not everybody,” Kyle says, pulling me into his side. “The hard part was keeping you from booking a plane ticket to Germany or Texas!”

  I’m still so confused. “When do you have to go to San Antonio?”

  “I don’t. The doc says I can do physical therapy right here.”

  I can’t keep the tears off my face, and someone finally hands me a tissue. Gloria and Marshall sweep in next to us and introduce themselves to Kyle, then Robert and Kate Layton and Betty Grimshaw from Betty’s Bakery. Word buzzes through the lobby of what happened and people I’ve never met in Grandon take the time to welcome Kyle home and thank him for his service. Mrs. Schweiger pulls a small camera out of her purse and holds it to her eye. “Smile,” she says. Several of us are clumped together for the photo, but I don’t think it matters to her. The picture’s going straight into the box. On and on people come to clap Kyle on the shoulder or shake his hand. Parents look at their children and say, “This man just got back from serving our country,” hoping they’ll understand, and some do, but most don’t know what that means.

  A woman from the chamber of commerce leads us to seats at the front that have been reserved for our family. Ethan sits on Kyle’s lap and Emma leans over onto his chest, wrapping her arms around him while I hold his hand. We’re just one big pile of flesh waiting for the concert to begin. Mom and Dad and Kyle’s parents are with us, along with Gloria, Marshall, Melissa, and the Schweigers. I try my best to capture their faces in my mind, hoping I’ll always remember, but I’m afraid much of this night will be a blur.

  Adam Clark, the chamber president walks to the front of the stage and greets the audience and tells a little about the Bake a Difference fund-raiser for Glory’s Place. In the next breath he looks at Kyle and welcomes him home. “He was wounded in September in Afghanistan and just got here today.” The place erupts in applause and whoops, and everybody is on their feet cheering. Kyle lifts his hand to wave, but I know he is embarrassed. I’ve never met a man or woman yet in the military who serves for this sort of thing; it’s just not in them. “Kyle and Gretchen and their two children chose Grandon as their new home for when Kyle finished his service in the army.” More applause and I feel Kyle’s hand clamping harder on mine. “So the welcome wagon has been busy. Well, Melissa has been busy,” he says, looking through the crowd of faces for her. Melissa’s not looking at me, afraid of what that will mean to her emotions, I suppose. The same woman from the chamber who showed us to our seats hands me a basket of cards. “Businesses in the community responded to your coming home, Kyle, and you’ll find discounts to Wilson’s, free meals at Betty’s Bakery, oil changes and tire rotation and balance at City Auto Service, passes to Jump World for the kids, a new deck that will be built onto your home courtesy of James Lumber, painting the interior of your home donated by Three Guys and a Paintbrush, and lots of other things to say thank you and welcome!” The music begins with “Sleigh Ride” and Kyle’s grip on my hand finally relaxes.

  * * *

  Gloria waves me away from the tables when I come back at intermission to help. Mom, Melissa, Dalton, and Heddy work alongside her, and Dad gives me a thumbs-up. The fund-raiser for Glory’s Place is going to be a success. Money adds up fast when someone pays one thousand dollars for Wonderland White Chocolate Cake or Visions of Sugar Plum Pie.

  Kyle and the kids and I leave after intermission. Kyle is exhausted, and in truth, he just wants to be home, to see it for the first time, and tuck the kids in bed, our bed. We all pile in it together and look through the gift cards and certificates to businesses I wasn’t even familiar with yet, strangers who are blessing us. Melissa solicited Mom and Dad, and they spread out across town, visiting businesses and telling them about Kyle. We open haircut certificates and free movie passes, massages and lawn mowing, weekend trips to a bed-and-breakfast and a vacation package to Florida. On and on they go and I try to envision Melissa taking charge of this, of her and Mom and Dad fanning across town to talk to local businesses. It seems impossible that that woman is the same woman we moved next door to, but like I said, she’s smarter than she thinks.

  Kyle falls asleep listening to the kids tell him everything from how Micah at school can put a spaghetti noodle in his nose and pull it out of his mouth to why pink is no longer Emma’s favorite color. The kids doze off soon afterward, and I watch them all, touching Kyle again to make sure he’s really with us.

  My insides are still shaking in the dark, and I don’t know if it’s from feeling grateful or overwhelmed. I know so many others have come home from a tour of duty and have not been offered a free car wash, let alone a word of appreciation. They come home and work themselves back into a community without much of a rustle one way or the other. It’s what I expected, but sometimes the unexpected can really take a bite out of expectations. I reach across Ethan, who is breathing heavy in sleep, lay my hand on Kyle’s chest, and close my eyes.

  Seventeen

  At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.

  —PLATO

  MELISSA

  I’ve never done anything for anybody and that’s the truth. I’ve lived inside myself, which is a pretty lonely and depressing place for thirty-nine years and I wanted out. I was scared to death when I walked into businesses in town and asked if they could do something to welcome Kyle home. Phillip and Miriam went with me on the first two visits, and then we branched out on our own. There was something mischievous, something that felt like electricity beneath my skin, in keeping this a secret from Gretchen and the kids. I went in earlier each morning to Wilson’s, and Robert gave me three days off so I could “work the streets” as Gloria said.

  I replay the image of Kyle walking through the civic center doors and watching Gretchen, unaware of his presence and helping someone buy a cake for the fund-raiser. Phillip was grinning and Miriam was crying. For the rest of my life I’ll remember Gretchen’s scream and her face. It was the best night of my life.

  The roll of wrapping paper I bought two days ago is on the kitchen table and I open it. I haven’t purchased a Christmas gift in years, so I never had a use for wrapping paper. Gloria helped me find a gift for Miriam: trouser socks. They sounded boring, but Gloria said nothing brings a smile to Miriam’s face like a good pair of trouser socks, so I bought her three pairs. I’m giving Phillip cigars, Emma a game that the lady in the toy department at Wilson’s said was popular, Ethan a football, and Kyle some gloves and a new winter hat to keep his head warm.

  I pick up Gretchen’s gift and stare at it; it’s a frame that says “sisters” at the top with a photo of us together in front of her Christmas tree, and below it is the note she found in Ramona’s apartment. I had it mounted and framed in town, and since I’ve picked it up, I can’t stop looking at it. What if Kyle and Gretchen had decided to move closer to his parents rather than Miriam? What if Ramona’s landlord had left the message about her death with someone else on the street or given up altogether? If one thing, however small, would have been different, I would have never known Gretchen as my sister and I doubt I ever would have known her as my neighbor. I would have just stayed behind my closed door and wished she and her children would do the same. If I strain, I swear I can hear that finger snap from heaven again.

  Once I finish wrapping the presents I grab a cup of coffee and a piece of Mrs. Claus Coffee Cake I bought last night and head to work. Wilson’s will be swamped today with last-minute shoppers.

  My cell phone rings at one when I’m on break and I assume it’s Gretchen because she wants me at her house after work for Christmas Eve dinner at six. I know she’s calling to pester me again about how to make pistachio salad. It’s pudding, marshmallows, pineapple, and Cool Whip! How hard can it be? I muster up a spring in my voice because she says I always sound grumpy when I answer the phone.

  “Melissa, it’s Robert.” He’s b
een out of the law office since Monday; his grandchildren are in town. My heart skips a beat, wondering if he has news. “It was a great night last night. You did tremendous work.”

  “Thanks, Robert,” I say, putting a dollar bill inside the slot of the vending machine. “Gretchen and her kids were surprised.”

  “They were,” he says. “And if you’re ready, I have one for you.” My heart starts that wild beating again as I bend down and pull out a bag of pretzels. “I received a call about your brother.” I’m smiling and flop down on a chair in the break room. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “He took a bit longer to track down because the name his adoptive mother used on his adoption papers was her stepfather’s name and not her birth name. That stepfather’s name tracked to several men with the same name, and long story short, we finally tracked her back to her birth name and came up with a little boy born in 1976 to Ramona McCreary and adopted by Les and Susan Linton.” My mind is racing as I try to write all this down on the back of a magazine lying on the table. “I have Bruce’s information if you want it.” I scribble everything down on the magazine and take a breath before I thank Robert and hang up the phone.

  I dial Gretchen’s cell but it goes to voice mail. I don’t leave a message because I want to tell her in person. I feel as nervous this time around as I did when Robert told me he’d discovered my sister. The names Les and Susan Linton bounce off my brain as I eat the pretzels, and I keep staring at their names written on the back of the magazine. I try calling Gretchen’s home and cell numbers again before I go back to work, but both phones go to voice mail. I put the magazine in my locker and try to keep my mind busy for the remainder of the afternoon, but it’s like putting a piece of candy in front of a kid and telling him not to touch it for four more hours.