A Legendary Christmas

by Jan Scarbrough

  “How can you not know?” she asked, taking the winged back chair facing him. She reached up and switched on a floor lamp.

  He blinked as the light hit his eyes, pushing the ache in his head up a notch. “I don’t know. I woke up in a hospital a couple hundred miles from here. All I had was Lisa’s letter, with this address to go on when I couldn’t figure out who I was.”

  Shock registered in the flashing from her eyes and tightening her lips. “What are you talking about? How do you know about Lisa?”

  The last was asked with near hysteria. He raised his uninjured arm and splayed his fingers to halt whatever was about to come from her lips. His head was zinging now, and a screaming woman was more than he could take. “Please. I need my pills. And more water. I’ll answer your questions as best I can, but my head is about to implode.”

  She rose from her chair, took his glass, and returned a moment later with it refilled. “Where are your pills?”

  His eyes closed now, he pointed to his chest. “Inside pocket.”

  She didn’t hesitate to pat him down, remove the pills, read the bottle, pop open the non-child proof cap, and hand them over. He swallowed them then chased them with the water, placing the empty glass against his forehead again, allowing the coolness from it to ease the pain that now completely encompassed his head.

  “You need to go to bed. Where are you staying?”

  He kept his eyes closed, allowing himself a moment to come to grips with the fatigue of getting himself here, dealing with the woman who may or may not be his wife, as he absorbed the pain of a body struggling to heal. He lowered the glass, keeping his lids closed, relaxing to allow the medication to do its thing.

  “I don’t know. Nowhere, I guess. I was hoping you’d know,” he mumbled, giving in to the fast acting pain pill. “I don’t know.”

  He didn’t hear her say anything more so he allowed himself to drift off to sleep, thinking the only words he ever spoke anymore, were, “I don’t know.”

  * * * *

  Frustration was something Christina had learned to live with in spades over the past couple of years, so she snagged the home crafted comforter from her couch and placed it over his unconscious body, then took the opportunity to study him closely.

  In repose he looked younger, more like the man she’d said goodbye to all those years ago, before the government sent men to tell her that her husband had either been captured and was a prisoner of war—something they doubted since their enemy simply executed prisoners and left the bodies to be discovered—or he’d deserted. Something they couldn’t prove as of yet, but were leaning toward.

  It had broken her heart to have those Marines that he’d loved think so badly of him when they should have all known better. His record, his volunteer spirit, his service, should have been enough. The men that had fought with him, that knew him, knew better than to believe the lies. But those who knew him best were all dead. She had never once believed them. Not for a second.

  But as she studied the man before her, she couldn’t help the questions flooding her mind. He looked so much like Johnny while sleeping. The manly features, the darker colored hair and skin of his Spanish ancestry, the slightly parted, full lips she’d always envied. But this man was older. He had wrinkles indicating additional years, or, she had to admit, perhaps just years spent in extreme dessert conditions. But, no. There were other differences as well. His voice. She knew she would know his voice anywhere… even if it had been well over two years since she’d last heard it. And his manner. He wasn’t the tough guy Johnny had been…

  Unless his spirit had been broken along with his body… No! It isn’t him! It can’t be him!

  Christina made herself leave the room and return to the kitchen where she pumped herself a large glass of water. She couldn’t do this. She had to get him out of her house and out of her life. This man was an imposter. A sad, lost, maybe even dangerous imposter. And she was giving him his walking papers just as soon as he awoke.

  She returned to him and slipped his bottle of painkillers into the outer pocket of his jacket. Her fingers hit something… Paper. Curious, she pulled the envelope from its hiding place and felt the thud of each heartbeat.

  At the upper left hand corner was Lisa’s name in Lisa’s careful print, and their address below it. She slid him a glance and pulled the single sheet out, flipped it open, and emitted a cry.

  As her legs gave, she backed into her reading chair and clutched the letter to her chest. How could this be? How had he gotten the letter? How had Lisa sent it? What the heck was going on?

  More shaken than she’d ever felt, Christina simply stared at him, knowing she had no choice but to take him in and prove to both of them that he wasn’t her Johnny. Or... maybe... prove that he was.

  Chapter Five

  “How are you feeling this morning?”

  He opened his eyes, disoriented, and looked around the room. He wasn’t in the hospital anymore. That much was clear. But he wasn’t entirely sure where he actually was. He turned his head, relieved one of his blinding headaches hadn’t formed, and searched for the owner of the soft southern voice. What he saw was a scene from a Christmas card.

  Backed by a large multi-pained window sat a decorated Christmas tree. Its colorful lights twinkled against handmade ornaments of various shapes, colors, and sizes. It was clear many of those had been made by a child’s hands, and that some were quite old.

  A few feet towards him sat identical beige and red plaid couches adorned with very red blankets thrown over the backs, and Christmas scene throw pillows strategically placed on the cushions. Though slightly angled open like a V, the couches faced each other and were separated by a large braided oval shaped rug which covered the wood flooring between then. It was a much larger version of the one that sat between his recliner and the winged chair across from him. On top of the larger rug was a round maple coffee table holding a paperback book, a thin rolled newspaper, and a six inch tall crystallized snowman and snowwoman, holding their tree branch arms out to each other so that they touched as if holding hands.

  Footsteps, then a smiling dark haired angel pulled his attention from the room’s décor. “Hi. Are you feeling better?”

  He nodded, mesmerized a little by the lovely vision before him. “Yes.” The events of the day before returned, reminding him that this creature could possibly be his wife. “How are you?”

  She smiled at him, but he could see the caution in her eyes. “Good.” She bit her bottom lip, glanced away, then back. “Confused. Frightened. This is awkward.”

  Relived that she felt as uncertain as he did, he nodded again. “Yes, it is. Speaking of which, I need the john.”

  “Oh, of course.” She pointed towards the house at his back. “It’s through there. I’m sorry but we just have the one.”

  He struggled to lean forward, but couldn’t get the chair’s footrest to close without sending arrows of pain flying up his legs. Frustrated, and shamed by his limitations, he still was relieved that the pain had lessened considerably. He glanced at her, wryly. “I have a slight back injury. Could you help me get out of this chair?”

  Moving as if she were on speed, Christina leaned across him and grasped the recliner’s handle, pulled it up, which launched him forward, then she counted to three, and hauled him to his feet.

  “Thanks.” He didn’t know what else to add as he held to her until the wobbling stopped. In the past couple of weeks he’d healed well enough, and other than being aggravated that he couldn’t do more, quicker, he’d pretty much accepted that time was required before he would regain his full strength and stop hurting so damned much. But being so needy in front of an attractive woman didn’t sit well at all.

  “Do you need my help?”

  He pointed to his cane, propped next to the stoned fireplace. “I still need the stick first thing in the morning because my muscles get stiff.” He paused. “And when I get really tired. But I’ll do better once I get moving around.”


  She released him and retrieved the cane. “How badly are you hurt?”

  He shook his head. “First, what’s your name? I need to know what to call you.”

  She smiled and nodded. “I’m sorry. It’s Christina. Chris, if you’d prefer.” She looked him over. “What do I call you?”

  He’d been wondering the same thing. “They called me John, as in John Doe, at the hospital, but I think that’s too close to Johnny. And I can tell that would bother you.”

  “Yes. It would. How about Jack? It’s a nickname for John. You know, like the Kennedys? The late President was always called Jack by his family.”

  Something flashed, but was gone before his mind could grasp it. But the name felt right. “That works for me. I guess I’m Jack until we figure out what my real name is. Now, Christina, first, thank you for letting me sleep here last night. When the meds kick in, I pretty much check out, though I think exhaustion was the main reason this time. I’m gonna hit the john and then we need to talk. If that’s okay by you.”

  “Of course. I’m making coffee. How do you like yours, Jack?” she asked, smiling nervously.

  He smiled back, relaxing for the first time since regaining consciousness back at the hospital. “Black.” He was sorry she was so nervous, and she certainly had reason, but he felt good. More secure. On a solid foundation. Though he had no idea why.

  She raised a brow. “How do you know?”

  “What?”

  “That you like it black.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just do. It’s weird. I know… things, except what is most important. It doesn’t make sense.”

  He took first one step, then another towards the bathroom, relieved his stay in a chair all night hadn’t worsened his condition. He wasn’t permanently damaged, which was a relief. But the deep bruising around his spine and lower back, were taking their time to heal, as were the nerves up the insides of his legs. But each day was better than the last. And all in all, he really did feel a lot better today.

  The fractured wrist had pained him less than the other injuries from the beginning so he’d ignored it completely, until he’d needed to use the hand, which he did now to pee. But he was adjusting, learning to do what was necessary. And the half cast was staying off more now than on.

  What really required adjusting to was the realization that he had no idea who he was and the lovely lady who may or may not be his wife had no idea either. Which confused the hell out of him. How could she not know? He stared at himself in the mirror, still adjusting to his features. He didn’t remember anything personal before the day he awoke in the hospital, including what he looked like. What he saw now was that he desperately needed a shave.

  “I need to ask you something,” he said, returning to the living room.

  Christina held the now folded blanket she’d covered him with the night before. “Yes?”

  “Why are you not sure about whether or not I’m your husband?”

  She started at him for several second, before shrugging. “I know you can’t be him. My Johnny was in Iraq. He died over there a couple years ago.”

  Jack frowned. “Then why would you think I could be him?”

  She walked across the room to an old roll-top desk, sliding the top open. She lifted a framed picture and brought it to him. Jack looked from her lovely face to the military photo in his hand. His legs nearly gave at the initial glance. The haircut was extreme, the small amount left at the top of the head as dark as his own. The deep skin-tone, the dark brown eyes, the straight nose and cleft chin were all the same features he’d just seen in the mirror, thought this man’s face was years younger.

  He glanced up to Christina. “I think it’s me. Younger, but me.”

  She shook her head as she backed away. “It can’t be. Johnny’s dead.”

  Jack shook his own. There was no way he could look so much like the younger man in the picture and not be him. It had to be him. “Are you sure? Could there have been a mistake? Did you actually get to see the body? Where is this man they said was your husband buried?”

  Christina held up her hand and he closed his mouth. He knew he was coming on too strong, but he was holding proof of who he was and she was denying it.

  Her eyes filled as she stared at him. “They never found his body.”

  Jack nearly sagged with relief. “Then how can you be sure I’m not him?”

  She turned and walked to the reading chair that faced the recliner. He made his way back to the chair he’d spent the night in and faced her. He could tell she was fighting an internal battle, and he gave her time. She finally looked up at him, searched his face, her own devoid of all expression.

  “I know you’re not Johnny,” she said, her voice flat. “Because if you are, you are not the man I married.”

  “What?”

  “There was some talk.” She looked down at her hands, then back up at him. “They said Johnny must have deserted. That he somehow escaped the bloodbath that took his entire unit. That he abandoned his men to die while saving himself, then he never reported back to his command post.”

  Jack heard each word like a punch in the gut. “I would never do something like that!”

  She leaned back into her chair. “Johnny wouldn’t have. But I don’t know you. You don’t even know you. How do you know what you would have done? How do you know if you were ever even in the Marines?”

  “That’s it,” Jack said, getting excited. “We can contact them. We can ask if I am him or not. They have to have records, blood tests, stuff, that could settle it one way or the other.”

  She bit her lip. He could see she was considering his idea, but shook her head. “We can’t. Not yet.”

  Jack frowned. “Why? It would answer so many questions.”

  She studied him for an eternity. “Because,” she finally said, “if you do end up being him, it’s going to ruin everything.”

  What could he say? She was right. If he was the man she had loved, then he had deserted not only his country, but a wife and child as well. What kind of person would that make him? He stood, forcing himself to ignore the slight pain shooting up his legs. “If you’ll give me time to find a place to stay, I’ll get out of your way.”

  Panic flashed in her eyes as she rose. “You can’t go! You can’t just leave!”

  Jack scratched his scalp through the thick curls, careful to keep from touching the still healing area at the back of his head. “Just what do you want me to do?” He gestured to the room at large. “You don’t want me to be the man you were married to. You don’t want me to leave. Just what do you expect me to do?”

  She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Damned if I know,” she said, then burst into tears.

  Oh, hell. Jack crossed the room as quickly as he could and then stopped short of touching her. He reached out and patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, blew out a breath, then pulled her into his arms where he silently held on until she cried herself out.

  “I don’t ever curse. I’m sorry for using such awful language, and crying all over you to top it off,” she said, pulling back.

  Jack tried not to notice that he’d liked holding her, even if she’d been crying uncontrollably. She’d felt right in his embrace. But she was distraught, and rightly so, so he knew what he’d have to do. “Look, I’ll leave. I’ll leave and I will never come back. I won’t let anyone see me. I’ll just disappear from your life as suddenly as I entered it.”

  She stared at him with red, brimming eyes. “Please don’t. I know I’m making you crazy, but please don’t go.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t know who you are. But I can’t let you go until I’m sure you aren’t… or are… one way or the other.”

  She moved towards him, her eyes pleading. “I don’t know what we’ll do if you are Johnny.” She looked him over. “I guess it’s possible he… you were injured and lost your memory over there and somehow made it back without knowing how.”

  Jack frowned. “I don’t kno
w. I was in a hospital in Kentucky, a couple hundred miles from here. They said someone found me unconscious in a snow drift. How would I have gotten from the Middle East all the way to Kentucky?”

  Christina shook her head. “I don’t know, either.” She reached up and ran her fingers over the contours of his face and stared deeply into his eyes. “How can you look so much like him?”

  “I know I sound like a broken record, but I don’t know. Did he have any special marks? Tattoos? Scars, Anything?”

  A light flashed in her eyes, then she turned deep scarlet. “There was one thing,” she admitted hesitantly.

  Jack nodded, encouraging her to continue.

  She swallowed visibly. “He told me he had… a half moon shaped birthmark on his bottom.”

  Jack had no idea if he had any such mark. But there was a way to find out. “Where at exactly?”

  Her eyes opened wide. “Between his… butt cheeks. On the left one. Almost at the… um, sack.” Her face flamed.

  “The what?”

  She glanced down towards his crotch, then back up, then down again. “There.”

  He raised his brows, wrinkling his forehead. “The scrotum?”

  Christina’s eyes widened and she nodded her head, quickly.

  He pressed his lips together, determined not to laugh. “And you want to look to see if I have the same mark?”

  Christina turned and walked away, then turned back. “I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to look at your… there! There must be some other way to find out.” She stared at him for endless seconds, opened her eyes as of an idea had popped in, left the room without another word. Seconds later she was crossing the room quickly with a small mirror in her hand. Looking at the floor, she held it out to him. “I’ll leave the room for a moment and you look.”

  Jack glanced from the mirror to the top of Christina’s head. He wanted to laugh but the woman was so clearly embarrassed she couldn’t even look at him. “Sorry, I can’t. I’m not sure I could have before my injury, since I’m pretty sure I was never a contortionist, but I know I can’t right now.”