CHAPTER EIGHT

 

 

After Sunday Mass, Ida retreated to bake more cookies. I dragged Dad to a round of caroling at Sterling Manor, one of the local nursing homes where some of my students worked on weekends. The kids and Dad and I serenaded a grateful audience in the dining room during their lunch and when we broke into four parts, a cappella, I knew we had talent among us. The room boomed when residents joined us singing the final song, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” and we were treated to gigantic sugar cookies and hot apple cider.

“Where to next?” Lorelei Calder asked. She tossed her blond hair and grinned.

“The children’s wing at the hospital,” said Brock. “I heard all about it at the shindig Friday while I was serving.”

Over the grumbling sarcasm and snide remarks about his not knowing how to work, he said. “Ain’t that right, Mr. Wilk?”

“Quite right, Mr. Isaacson. And a mighty fine job you did too. Next stop, Columbia Memorial.”

I stiffened. I hated hospitals. I hated everything about them. Dad gripped my hand but looked straight ahead. He knew what I’d been thinking. I’d almost lost him in the surgical suite, and he was still fighting his way back.

The horrific memory flashed across my mind. We’d been riding bicycles at a leisurely pace on the trail when Dad yelled, “Gun,” and sped ahead of us. He went down, Charles crashed into me, knocking us into a shallow ditch. His body covered mine. It jerked when the bullets struck. I fumbled with my phone. I watched the light leave his precious blue eyes and felt his fingers grow cold as they rested in my blood-slicked hand. Somehow the ambulance found us but arrived too late. Even though I promised him I’d live a good life, at times I struggled. I pressed the palm of my mitten against my right eye, stopping the tears that had begun to form.

Dad patted my arm when the hospital came into view. I knew I’d be safe. I trusted him and pasted on a smile.

The doors whooshed in front of us. Our parade stopped at the admissions desk to get permission to visit and directions to the ward. Halfway to our destination, a tall, stout, grumpy nurse with a pinched face and short steel-gray tufts of hair met us and marched alongside as if she herded sheep to their doom. Her nametag read, “Rachel.”

I strained to hear what she whispered to the front of our flock. She had them quiet and tiptoeing through the atrium. If only I knew those magic words for my classroom.

It took two elevator trips, packed to capacity, to accommodate our group. On my ascent, I could almost hear the grinding gears over the pounding of my heart. I really hated hospitals. We stepped into a receiving area and before our chaperone swiped the lock on the final door. She glared at us and ordered, “They’re just kids. Smile and sing happy.” With that, her plastic card snicked through the reader and the door whisked open.

We entered a commons area surrounded by expectant children and their parents parked in small groups. There were so many. Some were tethered to IV poles, and some wore huge colorful casts. Some had bandages, and some looked ready to go home. Set apart from the group sat a scowling boy in a wheelchair. He pulled a stocking cap over his ears and hunched his shoulders.

At first my students were silent. Life could be so unfair.

Then a single bell began to jingle. The tinkling sound is never wrong during December. Although Patricia was deaf, she could read a room, and her friends joined her rhythmic ringing in a boisterous “Frosty the Snowman” followed by “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” When the corners of Rachel’s mouth bowed up, I knew we’d made it. The kids and parents sang and clapped along, and the time flew.

We were in the middle of singing the verse about eleven pipers piping and the voices of our audience dropped off. They stared at us or, rather, through us. We never finished the final verse as one by one, members of our group found it necessary to discover what struck such awe. I feared we’d goofed up the song or one of us had something disgusting hanging on our face, but I followed the eyes behind me and spotted an elf.

Clad in a short green velvet dress with white fur around the collar, cuffs, and hem, she tugged a green-and-white hat over her long chestnut tresses. Catching her reflection in the glass divider, she smacked her lips, and straightened her wide, black, patent-leather belt. She lifted a matching satchel and slung it over her shoulder. The tips of her green-and-white felt booties curled over her toes, and the seamed black hose looked like they’d be more at home on the legs of Jennifer Lopez. Jealousy skulked in quietly and I clenched my teeth before taking a deep breath.

Dr. Pete Erickson’s nurse, muse, right-hand woman, and new fiancée flashed her too white teeth and shimmied her behind through my carolers to the front of our group. She sang the last line as loudly and off-key as I’d ever heard and flapped her arms to encourage singers to join her. I had nothing against Susie Kelton. Not much, at any rate. In fact, a few times I wanted to be her, a very few, but that wasn’t going to happen.

The children were agape. The stylish elf doled out thick red-and-white striped candy canes. She inspired glee in all but one patient. He sat in his wheelchair, scrutinizing the hands he held in his lap, moving one finger at a time. I’d have to give her credit. She got down on one knee so she could peer into his face, but gave up when he backed away, his chin quivering. She handed the treat to the woman standing behind his chair. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her.

Then Rachel whispered to nearby families. The murmur mushroomed as they shared the message. The words floated to the ends of the room. Susie sashayed to the elevator and pushed the button.

The doors hissed and out stepped jolly old Saint Nicholas himself. Lorelei intoned a starting pitch and our group joined her singing the song of the same name. Parents clapped. The children pointed. Rachel’s true self peeked through and she beamed.

The chubby man in red knelt in front of each child and drew a beautifully gift-wrapped present from his sack. Some kids ripped the paper from their package; some peeled back tape and folded the paper to reuse; some looked at the box as if it were unreal, something too strange to deal with. The little boy in the wheelchair continued to look down at his hands but turned to the woman next to him when Santa set a box in his lap. The woman smiled. I thought I knew her eyes.

With a grimace, the boy shredded the poinsettias decorating the wrapping paper, made a ball, and threw it at Santa who caught it in his left hand. The boy grabbed one cardboard flap and bent it back against the side. Then he stopped. He gazed up again and the woman nodded, tears shining in her dark eyes.

He bent over the box and reached in with both hands. His dull eyes took on a glow and his lips softened. The tension left his little body. When he lifted a writhing light-brown bundle from the box, the other children set down whatever was in their hands and tumbled toward him, wished him a Merry Christmas, and asked what its name would be. The woman huddled next to Rachel whose arm held her tight. Their heads touched, and their joy brought tears to my eyes.

I almost smacked my forehead when I recognized the woman who’d found the mannequin at the gala.

Lorelei cued us, and we sang a snappy, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” as we circled the room, shaking hands and taking hugs from the crowd. I stopped in front of the wheelchair and the little boy said, “Did you see my dog?” His brown eyes sparkled.

The little scamp crawled up the boy’s neck and nabbed the stocking cop. It fell to the floor, and I knelt to pick it up. “May I pet him?”

“Oh, yes.”

I rubbed the velvety ears and sighed. “I have a dog too. His name is Maverick.”

“This is Tucker.” He giggled under the tongue lashing given him by the squirming bundle and put out his hand. “I’m Ricky.”

“Katie.” I shook it.

“Come back any time, Katie.” Ricky flashed a smile and smashed the cap over his bald head. “Maybe bring Maverick.”

Santa sidled up next to me while I waited my turn at the elevator. “Nice singing. Rachel had this Santa visit set up to coincide with the first group that came caroling on the ward. She does this every Christmas. She keeps a stash of candy canes and has the parents pick out something Santa can deliver for each of her charges. She loves her kids, and you made them all very happy. Thanks for being here.”

“How did you get the puppy in?”

“Why do you think she marched you to the ward?” His eyes blazed with delight. I turned to look at Nurse Rachel through a new lens.

“She has gift cards for your students as a token thank you.” He handed me an envelope.

“My students don’t need anything, Pete.” I tried to return it. “They, rather, we’re having too much fun.”

“Rachel knows, but she’s hoping for a return engagement.”

I glanced at Rachel, who now looked like a pussycat, and I acknowledged her nod with a salute. Then I nudged Santa. “Nice duds, and good job, Pete.”

Pete’s brown eyes twinkled. “When did you know it was me?”

My eyebrows almost rose to my hairline. I’d always known.

He forced a hearty, “Ho, ho, ho,” and turned back toward the kids. “I’ve got a few more stops to make so I have to get going, but remember, you better watch out.”

The kids stopped what they were doing and gawked, wide-eyed. Most of the kids yelled, “Thank you, Santa,” or “I’ll be good.”

Ricky beamed and cuddled his puppy, ignoring the man in the red suit.

The elevator swallowed the first wave of my students as Santa’s elf flounced toward me with a Cheshire cat grin on her face.

“Great job,” I said. If Susie and Pete were happy, I’d be happy for them.

“Thanks,” said Susie.

I think she had more to say, but Rachel tapped her shoulder and said, “A word?” Susie followed her to the nurse’s station.

The elevator doors opened again. Dad, Pete, and I entered, and the remaining students squeezed in, forcing me to mash against the cushion around Pete’s middle. I hugged my arms and tried to make myself as small as possible. To keep my thoughts from wandering, I locked eyes on the control panel and read the capacity, then added the possible weight of each of us to make sure we wouldn’t crash to the bottom of the shaft. It would be a long four-floor descent.

“Hey, Doc,” Dad said.

“Hi, Harry.”

“Where do I get a getup like that? Do you need any helpers?” Dad was in good form and had saved the day—again.