Christmas Lights Read online

  She thought back to the night before. The angry words raced through her head. Of course, it started over something small and stupid. Doesn’t it always?

  But at that moment for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what. Was it because she commented that he had brought home fresh cranberries instead of the dried ones she had asked for? From there one snip led to a snap and it escalated, until they were practically—no, not practically—until they were screaming at each other. He called her rigid, suffocating, and unbending. She called him immature, unreliable, and undependable.

  “Can’t you ever do anything spontaneous?” he yelled.

  “Well, give me a minute,” she had screamed back. “I’ll bake a cake and jump out of it for you.”

  Her eyes were wide with shock at her newfound courage. His eyes were angry as well.

  “Anything’s better than the way we live,” he hollered. “Always planned by the book according to the to-do list,” he sing-songed sarcastically.

  It seemed that lately he was always criticizing her like that. She always stayed quiet, but not this time. This time the hurt was a little deeper and she asked him the question she had been afraid to ask him for years. “Well, why in the world did you marry me then?” And that’s when he said it. He said the words she always feared to hear. The words that probably had kept her from speaking her mind all of those years. He said, “I don’t know.” The words stung her and took her breath away. She swore she wasn’t able to breathe. And then there really was no place to go from there. On the inside she felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach, but on the outside her eyes stayed firm. This was another thing she had never done before—stayed firm. Her insides were shaking, but without even a hint of a quiver, she said, “Well, maybe we ought to do something about it then.”

  And without even a hint of hesitation he said, “Yeah, we should.”

  “Fine,” she retorted.

  “Fine,” he agreed.

  He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. She looked around the kitchen, wanting to slam a door back. Not finding one, she just stood frozen. She didn’t let herself feel anything until she heard the garage door open then close again and she was sure he was gone. She was only able to stay mad for a while, then all of those feelings gave way to hurt.

  She wandered around the house for the rest of the night. Her eyes dripped. There is no worse feeling than having someone you love be unhappy with you. It’s surprising how easy it is to let someone go when you really love them. An odd paradox, she realized, but she knew she never wanted to see that look on his face again, the look that said he felt he was stuck with her.

  Inside the church, she shuddered, bringing her back to the present, the evening before disappearing like a slow-moving fog. She held herself tight in a hug with her own arms wrapped around her and her warmest red sweater.

  She dried her swollen eyes and sighed, then knelt and prayed. When she was done, she glanced around the church. A large wooden cross propped against the side wall caught her eye. It was the Cross of Christmas Blessings, a beautiful tradition in her church. People were encouraged to write their Christmas wishes on a small square of paper then nail it onto the cross. Then they were to take one of the squares already on the cross and pray for that person and their request throughout the Christmas season. It represented giving your problem to God, allowing Him to handle it. You were to give it with trust and faith. Then you were to carry someone else’s cross by taking another’s slip of paper, pray for them, and put yourself last. She got up and walked closer to the large cross. It was tilted up against a stained glass window. The deep rich colors of the glass were gently glowing. Scattered beneath the cross were a couple of tiny pencils and a few small squares of paper, and a miniature hammer and nails. The cross was bare. All the squares of paper had been taken. They had been written on with desperate hearts and taken by loving givers. All the prayers had been prayed. She was too late, she knew. Obviously it was too late for her to ask for a blessing. No one would be here to take it. But just the same, she knelt down and picked up one of the crumpled squares. She smoothed it out and scribbled her prayer, then took the hammer and a nail and carefully pounded it to the cross. Eyeing it, it looked sadly empty. She cocked her head sideways, kissed two fingers, then laid them on the slip of paper. Tears streaming down her face, she went back to the pew. Suddenly she was so tired. The sleepless night was catching up with her. She wrapped her arms more snugly around herself and drifted off to sleep, listening to the wind whistling through the church rafters.

  Across town, he woke with a start. He darted up to a sitting position. He was in his own bed, but it still took him a few seconds to figure out where he was. Where would he be? He had woken up on this very side of this very bed for the last three years. He rubbed his eyes, remembering the night before. He checked the other side of the bed. She wasn’t there. He leaned back, trying to see if she was in the bathroom. No light was on and the door was wide open. His head ached. He fell back onto the pillow and, when he did, his hand knocked into something on the night table. It was a gift, a Christmas gift. He sighed, relieved. She had forgiven him. He had spent half the night trying to figure out how he was going to apologize. In five years she had never made him apologize for anything, no matter how wrong he had been, so he had no idea how to. That’s why it took him so long to come home. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and removed the bow, then ripped open the wrapping, smiling to himself in anticipation. The smile disappeared when he opened the box. He swallowed hard but somehow his throat was dry. He blinked. The ring was still there. He had no choice but to believe his eyes. His head swam. He jumped out of the bed and darted downstairs, calling her name, knowing full well that she wasn’t going to answer. Knowing full well she wasn’t there.

  She woke up slowly, peacefully. She felt warm and safe. Her stomach wasn’t in knots anymore. She remembered where she was. In the middle of the empty church she listened. It seemed as if the wind had calmed. She breathed in deeply. She looked over at the cross to see her folded prayer but stopped suddenly. She looked back at the cross and blinked. She distinctly remembered nailing her prayer to the right side of the cross. She scanned the church as she walked to the cross. The church was empty. She was sure she had nailed her prayer to the right side of the cross. But now it seemed to be on the left side. Deciding that she was mistaken, she wanted to make sure her prayer was still there.

  At the cross, she stared at the paper. It looked like hers, but just to be sure, she pulled out the nail and unfolded the paper to find it wasn’t hers at all. Instead it was a prayer that read “I want no one but you.”

  She swallowed hard. The handwriting was familiar. She turned, and instead of being startled by his sudden presence, she felt relieved. Her husband was standing in front of her, holding her paper prayer in his hand. Her prayer that said, “I wish that just once he would say that he wanted no one but me.”

  Their eyes met and misted with tears. Only a few words were necessary. They both smiled a weak smile that spoke the volumes only married people can speak without words.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the present she had left him. He opened the box and removed her wedding ring. He smiled at her, big and boyish this time. She blushed and smiled back. He got down on one knee and took her hand. She giggled.

  “I want no one but you,” he said.

  And with just one tiny tear falling—a tear of joy this time—she simply said, “Okay.” With that, he slipped the ring onto her finger. Then hand in hand, they walked to the church door. She looked back up at the altar and mouthed the words “Thank you.” Once at the door, they looked out together at the snow that was now gently falling. She glanced down, noticing for the first time that he was still in his pajamas. She stifled a laugh.

  “Oh,” he said sheepishly, reaching into his coat pocket. “I think I got the right ones this time.” He pulled out a plastic bag of exactly the right kind of dried cranberries. Adrianna only smiled an
d nodded.

  “Let’s make a run for it,” he suggested. Holding hands with interlocked fingers, they ran across the parking lot as the snowflakes danced around them.

  Cassandra

  “I need a minute,” she said, trying unsuccessfully to force a smile onto her face that just wouldn’t come.

  As hard as she tried, she just couldn’t seem to open her pursed lips.

  “You okay?” he asked softly, avoiding eye contact to hide his own grim expression. He reached out and caressed the side of her face.

  “Yeah,” she said, willing her voice to sound perky. Instead it came out sounding more like a croak.

  “Are these the ones?” he asked, holding up the bag of almonds she had asked for.

  “They’re great,” she answered, barely audible. They stood in the hallway of their home, talking about everyday things like almonds, pretending that almonds mattered. Soon, thankfully, they were interrupted by the giggling and squealing of the two little girls who had just crashed into their legs and were now dancing and laughing in circles around them.

  “I’m fine. Really,” she said, this time her smile more convincing.

  “I’ll take them down to the car,” he said. “Take your time. We’re not due at your mother’s for a while.”

  She watched as he took each little girl by the hand and led them down the stairs. They looked beautiful in their matching green and red velvet dresses, their hair done up in curls with Christmas ribbons and bows, their black patent leather shoes jingling with the bells that were clipped to them.

  She turned and walked down the hallway, stopping when she got to the powder blue door. On tiptoes, she reached high and felt along the frame. Her fingers inched across until she found the key. She held it between her thumb and forefinger, feeling its cold smoothness. Her quivering hollow sigh was almost a shudder. Then she put the key in the lock and opened the door. “Merry Christmas, Doodle Bug,” she called cheerily as she entered the room. The lump beneath the blue patchwork quilt wrestled within the bed. Then a messy-haired, blue-eyed, blond little boy popped his sleepy head out from under the covers.

  “Hi, Mommy.” He giggled. “I the baby bear,” he announced proudly.

  “I’m sorry. Hello, Baby Bear,” she corrected herself. His smile broadened. She sat in the rocking chair and patted her lap invitingly. “Sit with me, Baby Bear.”

  “Okay, but just for a minute,” he warned as he climbed onto her lap.

  “Why just for a minute?” she asked.

  “ ’Cause in a minute I’m getting ready to be Superman.”

  “Oh, I understand,” she replied.

  “ ’Cause I might be Batman too,” he added.

  “Of course,” she agreed, smoothing his messy hair then mussing it again. “It’s Christmas. What do you think of that?”

  “It’s pretty,” he said.

  “Do you like the lights?” she asked. “On the tree and outside?”

  He nodded. “I saw them.”

  “Lots of snow.”

  “For Santa’s sleigh,” he reminded her.

  “Will there be a present?” she asked in a teasing voice.

  “A fire truck.” He nodded surely. “There will be a fire truck.”

  “A red one?” she asked.

  “A red one,” he said firmly. “Like your sweater.” He patted her sleeve gently. “I like red.”

  “Me too,” she agreed.

  “Hey,” he said, his eyes widening. “Maybe there will be two presents!”

  “I bet you’re right,” she said, giving his tummy a playful poke.

  “Would you like me to read a story?” she asked.

  “ ‘The Gingerbread Man!’ ” he yelled.

  “Oh, not that one again.”She groaned playfully.

  “It’s my favorite,” he squealed indignantly.

  “Oh, really?” His mother laughed. “I would never have known.” She picked up the worn, tattered book and he nestled back into her lap.

  She played with his toes as she animatedly read each word, stealing peeks at his beautiful face. His bright baby blue eyes, his round rosy cheeks, his long fluttering eyelashes.

  Pure innocence. Pure beauty.

  “I like that,” he announced when she was finished reading. Then he darted off her lap and ran around circling the room shouting.

  “Run, run as fast as you can. You can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man!” She laughed and caught him as he returned to her, jumping on her lap.

  “Do you know how much I love you?” she asked, tickling him. “Tell me, do you?”

  “I do. I do.” He laughed so hard he was unable to control his wiggling little body.

  “Then tell me,” she said, now kissing his tummy.

  “Up to the sky,” he squealed. “And down to China.”

  “You better believe it, baby. And Daddy loves you and so do Missy and Rachel,” she reminded him.

  “Daddy, Missy and Rachel, and you,” he repeated carefully. “Hey,” he said, turning to face her. He took her face in his two pudgy hands and looked deep into her eyes. “Am I still your baby?”

  “Of course you are, silly,” she said.

  “But I three,” he said in his gruff big-boy voice.

  “I know, but you’re still my baby forever.”

  “For big and little,” he reminded.

  “That’s right. For big and little. For always.”

  “For always,” he repeated.

  “Let’s look at your things,” she suggested. She picked him up and carried him around the room in his fire truck pajamas examining the photographs on the walls.

  “Here you are when you were born,” she explained.

  “I was a baby,” he noted.

  “A great baby,” she clarified. “Soft and sweet and tiny.

  “Here you are at the beach,” she said.

  “Big water,” he commented.

  “Big water,” she repeated. “And here you are on Halloween.”

  “Hey, I’m a pumpkin!” he said, looking at her, confused.

  “Everyone’s a pumpkin on Halloween,” she said. “Trust me. And here you are hunting for Easter eggs.”

  “Did I find any?”

  “Oh yes, many,” she assured him. “See, the basket is full.” He nodded, satisfied.

  “And here you are playing in the snow.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your snowman, silly.”

  He laughed then yawned.

  “I think my baby bear is getting tired,” she murmured. He didn’t protest.

  “Should we pray?” she asked. He looked deep into her eyes and nodded. He snuggled into her lap and stayed very still as she recited the Our Father, the Hail Mary, and the Glory Be.

  When she was done, she helped him make the sign of the cross with his hand, then kissed his pudgy fingers. Then she picked him up and hugged him tightly. His hair had the sweet smell of baby shampoo. She lay him in his bed, where he turned over and wiggled into position. She loved to watch him as he plugged his thumb into his mouth and prepared for sleep.

  “I love you, my baby,” she whispered.

  He took his thumb out of his mouth to say, “I love you, my mommy.”

  She gulped back tears. “I love you much.” She smiled softly, baiting him into a favorite exchange.

  “I love you mucher,” he exclaimed.

  Then he stuck his thumb back in his mouth and settled again. She watched his eyes close.

  In only moments his breathing became regular. He was sleeping peacefully. She covered him gently, took one long last look at his beautiful face, then sat down in the rocking chair and cried. When she was done, she looked heavenward and said, “Merry Christmas, Baby Bear. Mommy loves you … and misses you.”

  Then she got up and took one last look around the empty room.

  She closed the door and locked it.

  As she walked down the steps, she could hear the sounds of her daughters giggling.

  She was grateful f
or the laughter. It was healing. Heavenward she whispered, “Thank you.”

  Then she wiped the tears off her face and practiced her smile.

  Victoria

  “Did you put out the nativity scene I gave you?” the voice on the other end of the phone asked.

  “Of course I did,” she said, flinching with guilt while mouthing the words “I’m sorry” heavenward, begging forgiveness for her little white lie. She had not put the nativity scene out but would, she swore to herself. She would put it out the second she got home.

  “Does it look nice?” she asked.

  “Beautiful!” she gushed. Her mother was killing her with these questions. She hadn’t even unpacked it yet. The shame was suffocating her.

  “Good,” her mother said brightly. “Victoria?”

  Here it comes, she thought. That tone in her mother’s voice was undeniable. Her mother was about to lecture her about what was really important in life. She would tell her that the fact that Victoria was a doctor was absolutely wonderful. That she had chosen to follow in her father’s footsteps was so touching. And the fact that she spent her days helping others in their time of need was, well, almost saintly—“but” she would tell her. It was the “but” that she really wanted to impress upon her. There’s more to life than your work. You need to find someone to spend your life with. Victoria would protest that she was happy and fulfilled (a favorite word of her mother’s). Her mother would insist that she would never know how happy she could be until her prince arrived. “Mom, please!” she would groan. “What am I supposed to do, go out on the highway and flag down cars? No, I know, I’ll put an ad in the paper!” she offered in mock excitement. “Victoria,” her mother would say with a sigh, “just promise me you’ll try. Because you know you don’t even try.” They had been having these conversations for the last couple of years, and at first Victoria paid them no mind. But lately she had to admit she had been feeling a little lonely. Actually she had been feeling lonely for quite some time.