Catching Christmas

by Terri Blackstock

  The secretary greets her, then gets the attention of the pastor, who hurries out of his office to welcome her. He rolls her into the office and sits down with her. “I’ll wait for her out in the hall,” I say.

  The pastor waves at me, so I go to the bench I passed in the hallway and drop down. I’m glad Callie is talking to someone if she’s upset. Someone better than me. I hope he offers her some comfort, maybe prays with her.

  I feel uncomfortable in this house of prayer, as if the people in that office are going to recognize me as an intruder. If they knew me, I’m sure I wouldn’t be welcome here.

  After a few minutes, I hear her voice and the pastor laughing as he rolls her out. “Miss Callie, I would love to come to your house for lunch. But Christmas Day is just impossible.”

  Are you kidding me? She’s here trying to set him up with Sydney?

  If Sydney only knew what this crazy woman is doing!

  “You only have to be there for an hour, Pastor,” she says. “Just one hour.”

  “My mother would never forgive me,” he says. “But seriously, I’m so glad you asked. I appreciate it very much. I’m sure Sydney’s very beautiful.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” she says with that coy smile.

  I’m ticked off as I take Callie back. She looks disappointed as I roll her into the hallway.

  When we’re on our way home, I look into the back seat. “Miss Callie, Sydney doesn’t need you to do all this. She has a lot going for her. Why are you so dead-set on fixing her up? Don’t you think she has men asking her out all the time?”

  “I just don’t want her to be alone for Christmas.”

  “She won’t be. She’ll be with you, won’t she? I’m sure that’s all she wants.”

  Callie grows quiet again. Finally, she says, “But what about next year?”

  I don’t know what to say. Callie doesn’t expect to be here next year. Maybe she did get bad news at the doctor’s after all. I wonder how long she has to live.

  A sudden sadness falls over me, and I can’t shake it away. It’s that same sadness I felt that day standing at my mother’s hospital door. The sadness that drove me back to my car and away from that place.

  But I can’t get away from Miss Callie.

  She’s sound asleep by the time I get her home, so I leave the car running, get the key out from under the mat, and unlock her door. Then I go back and lift her out, grabbing her purse to hook over my wrist. She weighs less than a child.

  I carry her inside, walk through the house, and lay her on her bed. Carefully, I slip off her shoes and cover her up with a blanket I find on the bench at the foot of her bed.

  I back to the doorway and stand there with tears in my eyes . . . tears that aren’t for her so much as they are for my mom.

  I wipe them on the arm of my jacket and go back out to the car. I get her wheelchair, bring it in, and set it up next to her bed.

  I don’t like my unsettled feeling as I lock the door and return the key to its hiding place.

  CHAPTER 17

  Sydney

  I’m having the answering service for Dr. Patrick search for him since he’s already left for the day, and I have to know why he’s been trying to call. I was in court until five, then had to go back to my office to prepare for tomorrow, and now I’m stepping out of the practically abandoned building into the night. In the parking garage, I’m almost to my car when a limousine pulls up next to me.

  A backseat window rolls down, and Mr. Darco peers out at me. “Get in,” he says.

  I can’t believe this. “Mr. Darco, I’m waiting for an important phone call, and I still have a lot of work to do before court tomorrow.”

  “Get in, I said. Now.”

  I want to remind him that we’re not the mafia or government spies, we’re just embroiled in a stupid lawsuit. But instead of talking back, I get in like an obedient puppy.

  The limo is almost the size of a bus, and I wonder why Mr. Darco feels he needs this. Does it help him wheel and deal?

  “Mr. Darco, what can I help you with?”

  “I got you some dirt.” He slides a file across the seat.

  “On what?”

  “On the witnesses against Steve. One of them cheated on a final exam. Another one abused his girlfriend.”

  “So . . . there’s documented evidence?”

  “No, not documented. But they don’t have time to dispute it.”

  “So these allegations are not true?”

  “Consider them true.”

  I almost laugh, but I restrain myself. “Mr. Darco, you’ve been a part of enough lawsuits to know about discovery. I can’t just introduce new evidence that hasn’t been shared with the other lawyers. And honestly, even if we discredit these witnesses, there are fifty more. Everyone at the party that night was a witness.”

  He bares his teeth like a bulldog, his lips wrinkling. I expect him to growl. “Lady, if you lose this case and make my son look bad, so help me, I will ruin you.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” I say. “Mr. Darco, I’m a good attorney. If I weren’t, they wouldn’t have put me on this case. You need to trust me. I have some evidence that will discredit these witnesses, or at least plant some doubt in the minds of the jurors, but I won’t lie.”

  He slams his fist against the leather wall, and I jump. “Where are the lawyers who know how to win?”

  I want to tell him that they’re all working on his corporate cases, avoiding this one with all their might.

  “If you don’t take care of this, I will take care of it myself.”

  I frown at him. “What do you mean by that, exactly?”

  “Never mind. But their stories are going to change before you get them back on the stands. I’ll take care of it. Get out.”

  I’m sick as I get out of the car and watch the limo drive away. He’s going to do something illegal, and I don’t know how to stop it.

  My head is cracking to migraine level as I drive out of the garage.

  CHAPTER 18

  Finn

  Tonight sleep is like a treasure that’s just out of reach. The light from the alarm clock seems magnified in my room, and the green light from my DVR shines like a beacon. I throw washcloths over both of them to block out the light and try again. But sleep won’t come.

  What if Callie isn’t okay? What if the doctor’s office hasn’t called Sydney, and Callie is stuck in bed, sick, with no one to take care of her? What if the news was bad? What if she’s terminal?

  I get up at three a.m. and make eggs Benedict, something I only do when I can’t quiet my brain. The act of cooking calms me, but I can’t get Callie out of my mind. What is wrong with me? I’m the prince of a guy who ignored his mother when she was dying and pushed away the guilt.

  But you’re thinking about it now.

  Where do these thoughts come from? Maybe they’ve been lodged in some corner of my brain for years. Maybe the guilt has metastasized until it’s popping up like a tumor, and I can’t push it away.

  Maybe Callie is my chance to set things right.

  I eat the eggs Benedict without even noticing the taste, and tell myself I’m losing it. Callie is driving me insane. She’s just an old lady who has wedged her way into my life, not some cosmic do-over that will absolve my sins.

  Still, I can’t get her out of my mind.

  Hours later, when I’ve logged in with LuAnn, I decide to go by Callie’s house and see if she’s okay. The front door is still closed, and I knock loudly enough for her to hear. I wait, but there’s no sound inside. I test the knob, but it’s locked.

  I start to return to my cab, but then turn back. I bend and look for the key under the mat. There it is, right where I left it.

  I unlock the door and step inside. “Miss Callie?” I call. “Hello? It’s Finn, the cab driver. I just wanted to check on you.”

  When there’s no answer, I step into the kitchen and see that there’s a plate in the sink and a pot of coffee that’s st
ill warm. That’s enough, my gut tells me. She’s fine. Go now! But I can’t make myself leave. “Miss Callie!”

  No answer, so I move cautiously up the hall and peer into her bedroom. Her bed is made, and there’s no sign of her.

  Where could she be?

  Could Sydney have taken her somewhere? Doubtful. I go back outside, lock the door, and return the key to its place. As I walk to my car, I see her neighbor in the yard, on his knees in the dirt. “Excuse me,” I say.

  The man looks up. “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for Miss Callie. She doesn’t seem to be at home. Have you seen her this morning?”

  The old man struggles to his feet, dusts himself off. “Yeah, I saw her wheeling off down the street on her scooter this morning.”

  “Down the street?” I ask. “Really? How long ago?”

  “Couple of hours,” the man says.

  “Does she do that often? Wheel off like that?”

  “Never saw her do it before, but you know Callie. She gets her mind set on something, and there’s no stopping her.”

  I get back in my cab and drive slowly up the street, looking for her. There’s no sign of her. I go around the block, then drive up and down the surrounding streets. She’s nowhere.

  Okay, this isn’t my problem. I need to stop this right now. But she’s clearly sick, and maybe out of her mind. She could be hurt or in trouble. Her phone battery could have died—or her scooter battery—or she could be lost.

  When I finally give up looking for her, I find Sydney’s number. Of course it goes to voice mail. I wait for the beep. “Voice mail, who would’ve expected that?” I say. “This is Finn, your grandmother’s personal driver. Your grandmother seems to have disappeared. She was seen wheeling off down the street on her scooter a couple of hours ago, and I can’t find her anywhere. She obviously shouldn’t be out by herself when she can’t walk and she’s sick and probably doesn’t know her own name, but hey, maybe you disagree. If you have any idea where she might have been trying to go, how about giving me a call? But if the whole job thing is just too much of a priority, we’ll wait until someone notifies you of what became of her, since you are her only family.”

  I’m talking way too loud as I finish the voice mail, and I catch my image in the mirror and realize my face is red. I click off the phone and try to calm myself. I picture Callie out on the street, confused, trying to find her way home.

  Maybe I should call the police.

  I drive around some more, not wanting to take another fare that might tie me up. Finally, my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Finn? This is Sydney, Callie’s granddaughter. We just recessed for lunch and I got your message. Have you found her yet?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “I’m on my way over,” she says. “Where could she be? She’s not in her right mind. I saw her this morning, and she was confused and weak. I don’t know how she would have even gotten that thing out the door without help!”

  “According to her neighbor, she was alone.”

  “Are you sure he’s in his right mind?”

  “I don’t even know the guy!” I yell.

  “Well, what are we going to do?”

  “We? Lady, I’m not responsible for her. I was just checking on her because she seemed so weak last night, and it was clear she got bad news at the doctor.”

  “Please. Meet me at her house. I might need to call the police. I need you there because I don’t know where you’ve looked.”

  I let out a hard, loud sigh and turn my car around. “All right. I’ll be there in a few.”

  Sydney’s car is in the driveway when I get there, and she’s sitting on the porch steps. She’s dressed in a severe navy-blue jacket and matching skirt that looks binding and restrictive on her.

  Why do professional women so often think they have to dress like men?

  I get out of the car and walk across the yard. “How ya doing?”

  “I’m worried,” she says. “I talked to her neighbor, and he told me what he told you. At least he’s sticking to his story. I guess he wouldn’t do that if he had short-term memory loss or something.”

  “You have a nice way of giving people the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Hey,” she says, getting to her feet. “I didn’t want it to be true, that she wheeled off down the street on her scooter that hasn’t been charged in days. I wanted to think that maybe she got another cab and went somewhere.”

  “She didn’t. I checked with dispatch.”

  “Maybe she got an Uber.”

  “Seriously? You think she could navigate an app on her phone?”

  “Maybe. If her mind is lucid.”

  “Sorry. Not buying that. She would have called me.”

  Her voice is getting weaker. “Well, maybe not, if she wasn’t lucid.”

  “Make up your mind. Was she making sense at breakfast?”

  “I couldn’t tell. She was quiet. I got her up and dressed and fed her. Then I put her in her chair and turned the TV on. She wasn’t herself.”

  “So you left her there? Nice going.”

  “I had court today! I’m trying—”

  “She needs full-time care. You know that, don’t you?”

  “She hasn’t been this bad until recently, and there’s not much money. I’ve been trying to do it myself, but I’m obviously doing a horrible job.”

  “Always some very good reason,” I say. “Take it from me. You can always justify not being with someone who depresses you because they’re not how you like to see them. But one day they’re just gone, and then there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  She clearly doesn’t appreciate that. “I don’t need to be lectured.”

  “I’m not lecturing you. Just sharing some experience.”

  She bursts into tears now, something I didn’t expect from someone who has tried so hard to look tough. I don’t know what to do. Do women want to be held when they cry, or do they want you to pretend you don’t notice? Do they even want you to look at them?

  I don’t know, so I go with my gut. I sit down next to her. “She’s probably just visiting a friend.”

  She wipes her tears. “She’s outlived all her friends, except for the ones at church. She’s home-bound, so she doesn’t see them that much, and I don’t think any of them live near here.”

  “Maybe she forgot someone died and went to see them anyway. Want to go look?”

  She nods. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  She clicks to my car in her heels and gets into my passenger seat.

  “So where should we go?” I ask, getting behind the wheel.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Which friends? Where did they live?”

  Tears well again, and she shakes her head. “I don’t even know.”

  I pull a tissue out of my console and hand it to her. “No one? You didn’t know a single one?”

  “Stop judging me!” She dries her eyes and pulls herself together. Taking a deep breath, she says, “I remember some man who lived down the street. He had all this yard art. Trolls and stuff around a fountain.”

  “Her boyfriend?”

  “No. He was the widower of a good friend of hers. But he died a couple of years ago. I guess she could have gone there to visit either one of them. Someone else lives there now.”

  I pull away from the house and head slowly down the street, looking for the yard art.

  “There!” she says about ten houses down. “That’s the fountain. They got rid of the trolls. I’ll go to the door.”

  She gets out, and I watch her knock on the door. She talks to a young woman who answers with ankle biters clinging to her legs and a tiny dog yapping at Sydney.

  She doesn’t look happy as she comes back.

  “No luck?”

  “No. They haven’t seen her.”

  I sigh. “Okay, where else?”

  “I don’t know. Wait, there’s a house on the main roa
d. Turn left up here.”

  I follow her directions. “The house up here on the corner. She’s mentioned that she used to have a good friend who lived there. I don’t even know her name.”

  I pull to the curb in front of the house, and Sydney gets out again. She goes to the door, but no one answers. She’s about to come back to the car when a woman comes around from the backyard. I roll down the window and hear Sydney asking if an old woman on a scooter has been here. The woman says she hasn’t seen her.

  Sydney is angry and red-faced as she gets back in. “Nothing. You would think that someone would have seen her rolling down the sidewalk on her scooter.”

  “Any other ideas?”

  “No! I don’t know who her friends were before I reconnected with her. I don’t know where she would have wanted to go!”

  “Take it easy,” I say. “We’ll just drive around and we’re bound to spot her. She can’t have gotten far.”

  I go up and down the streets parallel to and adjacent to her house, but there’s no sign of her. We stop every time we see someone out and ask if they’ve seen her. She’s vanished into thin air.

  The longer we look, the more upset Sydney gets. My idea that she didn’t care about her grandmother was wrong. She’s about to lose it.

  “I don’t know what to do. Maybe we should call the police.” She checks her watch. “Oh no. I’m going to be late for court. I’ll lose my job.”

  “If someone fires you because you were looking for your missing grandmother, you shouldn’t be working there anyway.”

  She turns to me. “Really? You think so? Do you know what would happen if I lost the first job I’ve had in a law firm? After all that education, all that hard work, all the student loans that I’ll work for the rest of my life to pay back . . . ?”

  “So you said there were layoffs, right?”

  “Yes. And I’m next. When my current case is over, they’ll decide whether to keep me. But if I don’t show up to court, it’s over.”

  “Surely you don’t think all those who were downsized are going to have to find another line of work. They’re attorneys, too. They’ll get hired by other law firms. So would you.”