Colors of Christmas

by Olivia Newport

  “Do you have any free time this afternoon?” The room was empty, and if there were any appointments during this hour, the therapists would have been at work.

  “A few minutes,” Carly said. “I have documenting to get done at some point today.”

  “I won’t take up too much of your time.” Astrid adjusted the angle of the scooter to enter the room. “I felt like I left off an important part of my story the other day.”

  “About Heinz?”

  “Heinz and Peter,” Astrid said.

  “Who’s Peter?” Carly tossed the towel she’d been using onto the corner of a desk.

  “The star of another Christmas story.” Astrid sat in a chair against the wall, and Carly angled another chair toward her. “I told you about Heinz.”

  “So awful for you! I can’t imagine.”

  “Neither could I, but one carries on. I had Heinz’s 1947 Plymouth, one suitcase with my clothes, a painting from my parents, and a box of family photos.”

  “The ones we looked at the other day?”

  “Yes, that was some of them.” Astrid didn’t tell this story often, but Carly needed to hear it.

  She had moved in with a girlfriend and worked in a department store. In the evenings, she went to classes of immigrants trying to learn English. One day at the store, her friend Elisabeth waited on a German man and called Astrid over to meet him. He had just graduated from Indiana Tech University and was hired by a company in Cleveland as an engineer. Elisabeth stepped away and gave Astrid the sale. Peter, his name was, bought a pair of leather gloves. By the time he left, Peter had both their names and phone number.

  Two days later, he called and asked Astrid for a date. They went to dinner to get acquainted. Peter told her about his life in the German army, his escape, and how he came to be in the United States. After that Peter came to visit nearly every day. A month after they first met—on Thanksgiving—Peter slipped an engagement ring on Astrid’s finger, and they planned to marry a couple of months later.

  Yet Astrid was unsure. She twisted the ring around her finger, starting to pull it off and then pushing it back on. She lay awake at night wondering if she was on the brink of a big mistake. Could she really become engaged to a man she’d only just met? Of course, she had done this with Heinz, but did that mean it was right to do with Peter? She was still only nineteen. Confused, Astrid returned the ring to Peter.

  The weeks passed and the season moved into Christmas—a time of making peace. Peter wrote to Astrid’s parents asking for her hand in marriage, and they replied with their approval. Astrid’s doubts thinned, and she put the ring back on her finger.

  “He sounds persistent,” Carly said.

  Astrid smiled, her gaze drifting over Carly’s shoulder as Peter’s face filled her mind. “He was. And I’m so grateful. He gave me a second chance at love.”

  “So you married him?”

  Astrid nodded. “It was Christmas that brought us back together. Christmas love and Christmas hope.”

  “That’s a sweet story.” Carly fiddled with her fingernails.

  “Everyone has a story,” Astrid said softly.

  “But not every story has a sweet ending.” Carly looked away.

  “No.” Astrid debated whether to continue telling this particular story. “But sometimes it helps to tell your story.”

  Carly squirmed in her chair.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” Astrid said. “I tell my story so you can understand that I have known both great pain and great joy. There will be a new chapter for your story. I’m sure of it.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Carly muttered. She stood up and replaced her chair in its spot against the wall. “Thanks for stopping by. I’d better get my desk work finished before my next appointment.”

  CHAPTER 19

  It was too early in the morning for a phone call, yet the cell phone on Astrid’s nightstand was ringing. She rolled over, realized that she was in peril of missing breakfast completely, and answered the phone.

  “Ingrid!”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  Astrid pushed herself upright in the bed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Ellie is pretty sick.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “We’ve been to the doctor a couple of times.”

  “Antibiotics?”

  “Yes. The liquid pink stuff that she hates.”

  “If she swallows enough it will do her good anyway.”

  Ingrid’s sigh into the phone was heavy. “That’s not all.”

  “What else?” Astrid snapped on the nightstand light to dispel the streaks of gray still hovering between stripes of daylight coming through the blinds.

  “The doctor thinks that maybe we shouldn’t travel for Christmas.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “I could just cry, Mom. In fact, I have.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, what a disappointment—for all of us.” Astrid would never tell the rest of her grandchildren, but she did feel a particular affinity for Ellie.

  “He thinks we might need a stronger antibiotic, but the main thing is that she needs rest.”

  “She could rest at Alex’s house when we’re together.”

  “She won’t want to,” Ingrid said. “Can you imagine me trying to convince her to stay in bed, or even on the couch with a movie, with everything else that goes on?”

  “I see your point.”

  “Anyway, the doctor wants to see her again.”

  “When?”

  “That depends on how the next few days go.”

  “I’m sure Ellie is as disappointed as the rest of us.”

  “She is. She keeps trying to prove she’s not so sick, after all, but that only lasts about twenty minutes before she starts coughing up a lung.”

  “It does sound like she needs to stay home where she can rest without fuss.”

  “Her sister is beside herself.”

  “Of course she is.” Astrid eyed the chair across the bedroom where she had placed the gifts she had ready for Christmas Day. Even if she could get them boxed up and to the post office today—which she couldn’t—there was no guarantee mailed packages would arrive in time without paying dearly for overnight delivery. If any of Betty’s Brood had a license and a car, they hadn’t yet mentioned it. Astrid didn’t even know where the post office was in this town, and she had already flattened and disposed of the moving cartons she’d unpacked.

  “It’s all a mess.” Ingrid’s voice sagged. “I am not the least bit prepared to make a nice Christmas here. We didn’t even put up a tree.”

  “I’m sure whatever you’re able to do will be lovely. Shall I talk with the girls and try to cheer them?”

  “Ellie’s sleeping—she was up half the night—and I put Ava on the bus half an hour ago.”

  “Later, then,” Astrid said. “I can call in the afternoon, when Ava’s home from school. How would that be?”

  “I’m sure they’d both like to talk to you.”

  “Then we’ll do it.”

  “Thanks, Mom. We have gifts for you, but …”

  “No worries. We’ll just call all our packages New Year’s gifts, and everything will arrive right on time.”

  Astrid set the phone down and reached for the scooter. Ravenous, she was in no mood to skip breakfast. In her years of living alone, she’d often slept as long as she liked in the mornings, or she’d make coffee and take the newspaper back to bed to peruse. A geriatric population shouldn’t be expected to conform to an early breakfast. The mental list of groceries she wanted to keep in the apartment grew steadily. How was it that she had moved into this apartment with a coffeemaker but without even a bag of ground coffee?

  Astrid hustled—as much as a person in a brace riding a scooter could hustle—to make sure she got downstairs in enough time to at least ask for a couple slices of toast and some coffee. She didn’t spot Betty and the others anywhere on her way down or while she sat in the dining room. Perhaps they’d gone back to their ro
oms to nap, as Astrid was tempted to do. To keep out of the way of the staff straightening the dining room at the end of the meal, she folded her toast into a napkin, set it in the basket attached to the scooter, and rolled into the bistro hoping to see Maureen.

  “The library?” Maureen asked.

  Astrid nodded.

  “Coffee with lots of milk coming right up.”

  Astrid smiled and kept moving. She wondered how many people ever used the library or read the newspapers there. Not a soul had ever been in there at the same time she was. Settling into a chair, she unfolded the napkin. When Maureen entered, steam was visible from the cup.

  “You spoil me,” Astrid said. “How do you always manage to be in the bistro making coffee at the exact minute I want some?”

  “It’s a special gift that I can’t divulge.” Maureen waved over her shoulder and left Astrid to her papers.

  She had finished the big city paper and had just opened the regional publication when her phone rang for the second time that morning.

  “Mom, it’s me, Alex.”

  “Good morning, Alex—or whatever time of day it is in France.”

  “Afternoon.”

  Alex sounded no more cheerful than Ingrid had an hour ago.

  “Is your deal not working out?” Astrid asked.

  “Everything is fine in that department. It’s a good solid deal that everyone is happy with.”

  “Then why do you sound so disconsolate?”

  “I’m afraid I have to delay coming home again.”

  “Oh?”

  “Another employee from my team was in on the meetings, and she’s found herself in some trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “She rented a bicycle to pedal through the countryside this afternoon, and a car hit her a few hours ago. Mom, she’s in critical condition. I can’t just leave her and get on a plane tonight.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I got hold of her husband and he was going to call her parents. I’m sure someone will want to fly over, but I don’t know when that will be. And she needs surgery. Somebody has to be here, and for now I’m that somebody.”

  “I understand,” Astrid said, leaning back in her chair and allowing her shoulders to droop.

  “It could take a couple days for them to get here,” Alex said.

  “Finding flights at this time of year, making arrangements to be gone indefinitely. They have small children to think of. Maybe the grandparents will help. I just don’t know what to predict. I might not make it home in time for Christmas Eve.”

  “You’re a good soul, Alex.” She might as well make the best of the situation. If Alex were the one in critical condition in another country, Astrid would like to think a coworker would stand by until the crisis passed.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I know there are things I promised to help with to get you settled in.”

  “No problem. These things can’t be helped.”

  “Hopefully I won’t completely miss Christmas Day.”

  “Hopefully. You still have a few days.” Despite this response, Astrid’s intuition suggested she must prepare herself for the possibility that she would be on her own at least for Christmas Eve. Alex’s wife, Gwen, would still come for her on Christmas Day, she supposed. “I expect to speak to Ingrid later today. I’ll let her know what happened.”

  “Thanks. Hopefully her trip will go smoothly.”

  Astrid didn’t answer. It seemed premature to dash Alex’s hopes. Gwen would need to know soon, though. If Ingrid’s family of four weren’t coming, it would change all the plans.

  “You stay as long as you need to,” Astrid said. “Of course your family wants you home, but you needn’t rush on my account. I am safe and warm and eating well.”

  They said their good-byes, and Astrid dropped the phone back into the bag. Christmas was sure to be different this year. Ingrid’s family made the eight-hour drive every year. The girls looked forward to a week with their grandmother and cousins. All the children disappeared into the wide-open finished basement of Astrid’s house, and the grown-ups barely saw them until hunger drove one of them upstairs. Astrid had imagined they would do the same thing now that the traditional festivities had shifted to Alex’s home, but it seemed that the whole season would be a series of adjustments.

  “Okay, then,” she said aloud to the empty room. “Christmas is still Christmas even if it looks a little different. We’ll survive.”

  She had been through worse. All the Christmases during the war when Papa put forth his best effort, but the family still knew that they could end up in the bomb shelter. All the Christmases after the war, when her family was impoverished and separated, each of them just trying to find a way to survive. The first Christmas after losing Heinz, confused by also being the first Christmas with Peter. All the Christmases when it was just her and the children, an ocean away from her mama and papa and Harald and Uta.

  It would be all right. After losing Heinz, she’d had a lovely life with Peter. She’d gotten the education she missed in Germany and raised two children she’d always wanted. Her own photo albums showed them every year hanging the gold ornaments. She had no regrets—only hope.

  CHAPTER 20

  Carly’s mother had canceled her newspaper subscription long ago. Between television news and their computers and phones, they had all the news they needed. What they didn’t have, however, was loose paper to stuff around gifts that might shake too hard. Carly headed to the library to find old newspapers that would soon enough be in the recycling bin anyway. And it wouldn’t hurt to have some of the older magazines in the therapy room for patients to pass the time. She hadn’t expected to find Astrid in there.

  “Oh, hello,” Carly said.

  Astrid looked up, tears gleaming.

  “Are you all right?” Carly crossed the room and pulled out a chair beside Astrid.

  “Perfectly fine,” Astrid said. “Although I find myself in need of a tissue.”

  Carly looked around the room, spotted a box of tissues, and got up to claim it. Astrid pulled one out and delicately wiped her nose.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Carly fixed her eyes on Astrid’s face, wondering if Astrid had been having crying fits ever since moving to Sycamore Hills. The last thing Carly would say to her was It will be all right. She hated when people said that about situations that had nothing to do with them. She already knew that Astrid had been through enough hardship that the phrase would hardly be reassuring.

  “I’ll be fine.” Astrid dabbed at her eyes with a second tissue. “I was just remembering the first Christmas with my husband.”

  “Oh.” Carly sifted bits of information in her mind trying to discern whether she should know how long ago Astrid’s second husband had passed away. For all she knew, it might have been only a few weeks ago. “Everyone grieves in different ways.”

  “Oh, I’m not grieving,” Astrid said. “Not anymore.”

  “Something else happened?”

  “Memories of a sweet life,” Astrid said. “How fortunate I was to have two great loves. It’s hard to believe that part of my life ended forty years ago.”

  Forty years?

  Carly tilted her head. “Peter died forty years ago?”

  Astrid nodded. “In February it will be forty years.”

  Carly sank back in her chair. “And you never married again?”

  “No. I had opportunities, but Peter was the man I built a life with. Our children were—and are—great comfort.”

  Astrid never struck Carly as being as old as her chart said she was, so Carly was stumbling over the math. By the time Astrid was barely forty, she’d been widowed twice.

  “I’m so grateful,” Astrid said.

  Grateful? To be widowed twice?

  “It snowed the day we married,” Astrid said. “Our witnesses were very late arriving. For a while I thought we would have to go out on the street and ask anyone we could find to be our witnesses. Whenever there�
��s a snowstorm, I think of that day.” They were happy. Most young brides might have screamed at the sight of a mouse in the kitchen, but for Astrid it only reminded her of Wenkheim, the village where her family took refuge after Würzburg was bombed and the war ended. Though she could speak German with Peter, Astrid worked on her English every day. She listened to tapes over and over. She translated everything she read for the practice. And finally she was ready to enroll in an evening school offering high school classes. She also worked for a bank as a bookkeeper and later as a teller. It took six years to earn a high school diploma, and once Astrid had that diploma in her hands, she entered university. Peter always encouraged her educational pursuits. Peter also went to evening classes. He worked on three different master’s degrees—physics, mathematics, and operation research.

  Eventually they had saved enough to purchase a home and make investments. Astrid stripped so much wallpaper that she became oblivious to the dripping dissolved paste, and if bits of wallpaper fell in her hair she left them there until she could clean up properly. Peter brought home gallons of paint and they freshened every room. Astrid’s favorite room was the nursery. The baby was on the way, and sometimes Astrid just wanted to sit in the room where she would sing lullabies to her child.

  Then came the job offer for Peter to work as an engineer on the Apollo space program—in Daytona Beach, Florida. The house was perfect, the baby was coming in six weeks, and they moved.

  Astrid hadn’t hesitated. The opportunity was Peter’s dream. Of course they would go. Within a week, the movers had come to load the household goods, and the house was rented out. The baby came right on time. Alex.

  Three years later, Ingrid arrived. Life was so leisurely in those days, enjoying the sunshine and the beach. Alex was an active toddler. He never walked but only ran, often falling facedown and ending up with scratches, bruises, and a swollen lip. Climbing on chairs to reach the cabinets caused him no distress, even though he fell more than once. If Astrid turned her back for a few seconds, she could never be sure what Alex would attempt. She traveled with the children to Germany to make sure they knew their family there. Harald, who had become a priest, showed Alex the bells in the church bell tower. Life was lovely.