Chapter 23

THE SECOND SUNDAY

It was the second Sunday of December, and Patrick was giving thanks.

Tomorrow morning Braden would have his heart operation. His arteries were large enough to sustain the procedure, his last MRI showed all other organs in good working order, and all food had been restricted until Braden woke from the anesthesia and could be thoroughly examined. So here they sat again, father and son, with a lone ginger ale between them on the hospital tray.

“Want some more soda?” Patrick asked.

“You’re learning, Pop. Soon you’re gonna be a real New Yorker.”

“And soon you’re gonna be out of here and back in school.”

“And back home with you, right?”

Patrick looked away out the window and reached for his son’s hand. “I wanted to talk about that when you were through with the operation and recovering. There might be a better place for you to go and heal, buddy.”

“It’s Mom’s dad, isn’t it?”

Patrick looked at Braden, who tried to pull himself up.

“I’m going home with you.”

“He’s got everything I can’t give you, like light and heat.”

“But you’ve made enough on the streets to cover that.”

“He can arrange a private nurse, take you on vacations, give you—” Patrick stopped mid-sentence and just stared at the boy. “What did you say?”

Braden lay back and smiled. “You’ve made enough on the streets as the Ghost of Christmas Present.”

“How did you figure that out from a hospital bed?”

“I watched Ms. Brody figure it out. She’s the one who’s going to decide where I go, right?”

“She’s just going to testify. A court’s going to decide the day after tomorrow, while you’re here recovering.”

“What is she going to tell them?”

“She said the truth.”

“Maybe the judge will be a Dickens fan.”

“That’s what I’ll do, put on my green velvet robe wearing a beard and wig with a wreath around my head and plead my case.”

“A wreath around your head? You’re joking, right? You didn’t! Oh, man, I wish I coulda seen that!”

“They loved me, I’m telling you.”

Braden became serious. “Dad. No matter what happens, I know you did everything you could for me.”

Patrick nodded. “I always will.”

“But there’s one more thing I want you to do for me.”

Two hospital orderlies finished lifting Braden from his bed to the gurney and wrapping him in tight with a blanket. Dr. Friedman looked down at the boy. “Are you ready, champ?”

Braden looked to the far side of the room. “Are you ready, Dad?”

And there Patrick stood in his green velvet robe, beard, and wig, two Christmas ornaments dangling from his ears and a wreath around his head. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he said.

“Nerves? Don’t worry. If you can play Broadway and 34th, you can play these hallways.”

Patrick took his place at the head of the gurney and then led it out of the room as the orderlies rolled it into the hallway and down past patients’ rooms. They proceeded for a couple of steps until Braden finally nudged his father with his bare foot. “Come on, Dad.”

Patrick cleared his throat as they passed nurses, doctors, patients, and families, who all stared at the passing vision of the Ghost of Christmas Present. “God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay.”

His song carried and echoed down the tiled hallway like a host of deep-voiced elves calling ahead to all who gathered. They came from sick rooms and hallways, staff desks and utility closets, to stand in doorways to watch Patrick and Braden pass by.

“Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas Day.”

Braden grinned at the people they rolled past. “That’s my dad.”

Medical staff, patients, and families all began to clap and join in singing the haunting, familiar old carol. “To save us all from Satan’s power when we had gone astray.”

And as the man in the green velvet robe and wreathed head walked on, they sang, “Oh tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy,” their voices filling the hospital hallways.

“That’s my dad.”