Chapter 3

 

As she gazed at the storm raging outside the window, fierce snowflakes continued striking the glass which intensified her worried thoughts about her father’s safety coupled with his delay in arriving. Her lips pressed more tightly together. The snow, driven by a howling wind continued to blow horizontal. The entire landscape was almost pure white as the snow was now well over a foot deep. There were no cars or tracks to be seen on the poorly lit lane and she wondered if he would even be able to drive from the commuter train station where he had left his car. She knew the tires on his old Ford were bald. Wartime rationing made it neigh impossible to buy new tires, even if you had the money. Her concern for him was turning into frustration that threatened to transform itself into resentment. It was almost eleven o’clock, and she felt helpless. That feeling scared her. It made her feel so vulnerable and uncomfortable. She had so wanted this Christmas to be joyful like when her mother was alive as though through some miracle she might be there and heal all of her family’s heartache of the previous season. Now her dad was late arriving home and her little brother might have to deal with not getting any presents. It was not the Christmas spirit she had envisioned nor was it, she thought what her mother would have wanted for them. Merriment was nowhere to be found and she was only a heartbeat away from an emotional meltdown.

She pulled the quilt up around her shoulders and walked over to where Ben was sleeping on the couch and pulled the quilt off his head so he could breathe better. He was lying face down and all she could see was his unruly reddish hair—something he had inherited from his Scottish ancestors, her father always said. She needed to get him into his bed, but he was too heavy to carry.

“Ben,” she whispered softly in his ear while ruffling his hair with her fingers..

He didn’t respond so she gently pulled the quilt off him. That made him hunch up in a ball and pull his arms under his body.

“C’mon buddy, you need to go to bed.”

Slowly he got onto his feet but just stood there in a stupor with his eyes closed.

Rachel smiled at how lost he appeared to be, then put her arm around his shoulders and walked him toward his bedroom. While he stood teetering next to her she pulled back the covers and nudged him to lie down. She decided not to undress him but did pull off his shoes before covering him up. He hadn’t said a word and promptly fell back to sleep.

As she left the room it struck her again. What will Ben do if he wakes up to no Christmas? What if Dad doesn’t make it? What if there has been an accident? She sighed.

She walked back into the living room and looked at the tree that the three of them had decorated. It looked the same way her mother had always done. This gave her comfort and a sense of closeness to her mom even though she wasn’t there. She was also planning to cook a Christmas breakfast of Swedish pancakes, a tradition handed down on her mother’s side. She had already baked the Scottish short bread like her father’s McTavish’s side earlier that afternoon. Doing things the same way as her mother used to direct made her feel good and warm as if her mother was there to answer to. She leaned against the corner of the wall placing her head against the wood molding and paused looking more intently into the living room bedecked with all of the decorations along with the tree trimmed with the same ornaments as with previous Christmases. A smile formed on her lips and for a moment she slipped into the dreamy past where she didn’t have the empty hole in her heart. Her mother’s influence was clearly visible bringing back many sweet memories. As she shifted her weight to reposition her feet the veil of reality clouded her vision of cherished memories evaporating her temporary joy. She couldn’t help but feel her heart sink with the emptiness left by the reality of her mother’s absence.

The drafty old house was not well heated. It had a coal-burning furnace in the basement, but coal was also rationed so the immediate heat came mostly from a wood-burning cooking stove in the kitchen. She turned around and went to the stove and opened the fire door. She stared at the mesmerizing bed of glowing coals as they would often issue a hiss and a little spurt of flame when they found a pocket of sap. Then she loaded some more wood into the opening and watched as it flared to life. The heat not only warmed her face but also gave her an encouraging outlook which made her forget for a moment her anxiety. It won’t be long until he gets here, she assured herself.

She thought about what she could do if her dad didn’t make it back in time. She was well beyond the age when Christmas was still magical and mysterious, but at seven years of age, Ben was still a believer, although he was growing just a little skeptical. After the crushing loss of their mother the previous year, Rachel wanted him to keep his innocence for at least this Christmas, which was now only a few hours away. What could she do?

Just then, like a flash of genius, she remembered that two brethren from the branch had brought over a sack of apples and some Vermont maple syrup as a gift and Ben didn’t know about them.

Having a bright, red apple Christmas morning would be a real treat. The demands of the war had made fresh fruit including apples scarce and expensive in the stores. These apples, one of the men had said, came from his family orchard in Vermont. Each year he made a traditional visit to bring back enough for the winter. They had been kept in cold storage and were, he assured, especially crisp and juicy.

“Yes!” Rachel whispered, “Fresh, crisp apples will be an excellent surprise treat for Ben.” She went to the kitchen pantry and found a basket, which she lined with a red and white cotton gingham cloth napkin. Then she got the sack of apples from the enclosed back porch and polished six of them with a towel to fill the basket. The shiny red apples shone in bright with the color coordinated red and white design of the napkins. This isn’t quite what Ben is expecting, but at least it’s something, she thought, as she covered the apples with another napkin the same as the bottom and laid the basket under the decorated tree.

She then went back to the rocking chair and sat down pleased with her resourcefulness while covering herself with a handmade quilt her mother had quilted. Remembering she needed to get more wood for the stove, she hurriedly tossed the quilt aside and went back to the dark and cold back porch where her dad had made a substantial pile of split logs. She gathered up an armful and dropped them into the wood box at the side of the stove then wrapped herself up in her quiltt again and sat back down in the rocker. Staring at the glow from stove, she let her mind wander. She thought about the presents Ben might not get, and how getting a lot of presents was not that important to her anymore. Two years before, while her mother was sick but still able to function a little, Rachel had watched her mom and dad as Ben was tearing away the wrapping on a Christmas gift she knew he really wanted—a pair of twin-holstered, Tom Mix’s toy six-shooters. Her parents were sitting close together on the couch, holding hands. And each of them was smiling with delight at their little boy’s enthusiasm and excitement.

Rachel was twelve years old that year and just beginning to discover how enjoyable it is to give someone else a present. She had saved her money and bought what she thought were special gifts for her mom and dad—some inexpensive perfume for her mom and a pair of cufflinks for her father. In the midst of her own excitement Christmas morning she had suddenly remembered the gifts for her parents and hurried to hand each of them a wrapped package. She watched with anticipation as they opened them, then she glowed with happiness as they hugged her and raved over her thoughtfulness and generosity. For a few moments she had forgotten herself and her own gifts. She remembered thinking, Maybe it really is better to give than receive, as her mother had so often told her. Thoughts of her mother again permeated her heart as she thought of how her mother had lived. Her mother seemed to always be concerned with others and ministering to their needs. Maybe this was a source of her positive nature. Rachel used to think that doing service just didn’t give one time to think about one’s self, but when she was polishing the apples and just after she placed them under the tree she couldn’t help notice how good it felt. It wasn’t just forgetting about one’s self, it really felt good! It was a good thing to do. It was true that she wasn’t concerned about herself at that point. Yet, it had nothing to do with being too busy. It was a genuine good feeling knowing the joy that others would have because of her act.