Christmas Lights Read online

  “I think we’re supposed to drink eggnog.” He laughed playfully.

  Her face colored and she laughed in relief. “Okay, then we’ll make it eggnog.”

  “Good,” he said. “I’ll feel a lot better about it that way.”

  He was gorgeous. She smiled at him. Then she turned and ever so gently laid the Baby Jesus in the manger. For a moment they looked at the beautiful scene together. The connection between them warmed her.

  “Well,” she said, wishing that the moment could last, “I guess I’ll see you at ten.”

  “I’ll be there,” he replied. “Be careful,” he added.

  She blinked, startled. The words had sounded completely natural from him. “I will,” she answered.

  Just then a gentle breeze blew over them, sprinkling a mist of snowflakes. It made them both smile. Squinting, they looked upward and paused.

  “Look at that cloud.” He chuckled. “It looks like a reindeer.”

  She closed her eyes and smiled upward and thought “Close enough.” When she looked, she could hardly believe it. It really did look like a reindeer. She saw it too. She gulped, her eyes misting a bit. Her tummy felt tickly.

  Daring one last look at him, she said, “See you at ten.”

  “See you at ten,” he repeated.

  Victoria was halfway to her mother’s house before she realized that the feeling inside her tummy was her long-lost Christmas spirit.

  Alexandra

  Alexandra peeled back the corner of the curtain, peering with one eye out the window at the mailman disappearing down the sidewalk. He was later today than usual—only four minutes, but still later. She sighed, thinking herself pathetic. Who in the world knows when the mailman is four minutes late? “You do,” she muttered, answering her own silent question out loud.

  She took a deep breath, her stomach tied in expectant knots. She opened the door to the harsh December wind. Ice crystals rushed in, swirling around the entry. She turned her face sideways, trying to escape the splash, and felt blindly into the metal box to gather the mail. After she grabbed it, the lid clanged shut and she closed the door with a thud. She shivered and sat down on the staircase. She hesitated, closing her eyes, wishing for just one small sign of hope. The Christmas Eve mail that she held in her hand was her last chance for hope until after Christmas, and she needed so badly to feel hope for Christmas. And the way she saw it, her only chance for hope would come in that day’s mail or not at all.

  She made herself look. Slowly she began to riffle through the stack of envelopes. One at a time she tossed them onto the marble floor as her heart and hopes sank. Then she stood up, turned and walked up the steps as the tears streamed down her face.

  Sniffing, she entered the darkened bedroom. She leaned against the wall, her shoulders heaving. Then she slid down and sat with her knees tucked to her chest. After a while, all cried out, she sat calmly with her chin on her knees. She reached over to the wicker trunk beside her and opened the lid. Then she gently pulled out a tattered gray sweater.

  She held it on her lap, carefully touching each of the pearl buttons. Closing her eyes, she pressed it to her face.

  “Oh, Nunnie.” She sighed. “Please be with me. I just needed to hear from you,” she explained. Still clutching the sweater, she relaxed into a lazy daydream. She remembered all the times that her grandmother had been there for her. Her happy childhood was speckled with pleasant memories of her sweet words, loving touches, gentle laughs. Her face darkened as she remembered her untimely, sad death. But she knew her grandmother was still with her. She recalled the times throughout the years that she felt her grandmother’s presence, the times when like a heaven-sent feather she had thrown down a comforting whisper. It had always felt like a gentle comforting kiss had been planted softly on her cheek, a kiss from her beloved grandmother. That she was the favorite was not spoken aloud, of course. But Alexandra and her sisters had known. Her grandmother was a wonderful woman who truly loved each of her granddaughters dearly, loving each for her uniqueness. She found the very best in each of them. It just happened that Alexandra was the granddaughter most like her, with qualities and interests that made them kindred spirits.

  Her grandmother had tried to teach all of them the dying art of crocheting. With bundles of multicolored yarn and dozens of hooks, they sat before her in a semicircle around her rocking chair, chatting and giggling about glorious items they were surely going to crochet. Forty minutes later the only one left at her grandmother’s knee was Alexandra, determined to manipulate the yarn and the crochet hooks, the others finding it too hard or boring when it didn’t come to them instantly. So to this day it was Alexandra who everyone in the family calls when a new baby arrives and a blanket is needed. More than proficient now, Alexandra was happy to oblige. One year for Christmas her grandmother had given them each a small poinsettia plant. Trying to impart her love of gardening to her granddaughters, she said, “There will be something special for the one who brings it back alive at Easter dinner.” All of them were sure they would be the one. “How difficult could it be to keep a silly old plant alive for just a few months?” “What’s a little sun and water?” “Heck, to get the prize I’ll even talk to it.” Three months later only Alexandra had a blooming poinsettia to grace the table. And it was only Alexandra who walked out with the golden locket that her grandmother had awarded her.

  When her grandmother had passed away, each of the granddaughters shed genuine tears, but Alexandra’s came from a deeper place. All grown up by then, her sisters understood and respected this. When it was time to decide who would inherit their grandmother’s house, they unanimously agreed that it should be Alexandra. Each gave her just one penny, with Alexandra giving them a quarter in change. This was a favorite game of their grandmother’s. As children, whenever they wanted something from the corner candy store, they would say, “Grandma, I need more money.” She would reply, “Nothing in this world is free. But sometimes a girl gets a bargain. Give me a penny and I’ll give you a quarter.” And she would. And off they would go to the candy store to collect their treats, with their grandmother laughing behind them. Later they would marvel at how none of them ever noticed that there might be something amiss in these transactions. Alexandra also was the only sister who inherited her grandmother’s love for baking. It was Alexandra who took the time to sort through her grandmother’s recipe box, experimenting with each cookie, cake, or pie again and again until she had re-created her grandmother’s masterpieces. Alexandra would surprise them, showing up at holidays with something from long ago, something that brought back the flood of memories of sweet childhood times. In Alexandra, her grandmother was alive. Right down to her green-flecked eyes. Each sister had been blessed with a different combination of greens and blues, but only Alexandra’s contained the flecks of gold that her grandmother’s had.

  And when her grandmother passed away, she had left them all—all except Alexandra, because in small ways her grandmother had stayed with Alexandra. Alexandra had made her grandmother’s home her home. And inside it she felt her presence. She felt her presence in the usual ways that people tend to feel the presence of lost loved ones—in a blooming flower, a colorful sky, a fresh-fallen snow, a church hymn. Alexandra “heard” from her grandmother in all of these ways, but she also seemed to hear from her in a unique way. Not often—only when she seemed to really need to, at times when all hope seemed to vanish, when no one else’s comfort could ever help—she would get mail from her grandmother. Just when she was sure that whatever life situation she was struggling with was not going to work out, she would reach into that old tin mailbox (she never dared change it from her grandmother’s original) and pull out hope, a piece of mail addressed to her grandmother, a sign telling her that everything would be okay. And no matter what the situation, when she got the letter it never failed her. Whatever the problem was, it worked itself out somehow.

  When she first moved into her grandmother’s house, of course there was loads of mai
l for her. And of course Alexandra thought nothing of it. But after about a year, as the normal progression would have it, the letters all but stopped. Then for the next couple of years maybe one or two letters slipped by. By the fifth year, she got nothing.

  She never gave it a thought. She never made the connection between mail for Nunnie and comfort when she seemed to need it most until it happened when she applied to graduate school. She so desperately wanted to get in. On the last day of the selection process, having received no letter or call from the university, she had lost hope. In that day’s mail was a letter for her grandmother. Although she enjoyed seeing her name and thought it strange, it wasn’t until the next morning, when the registrar’s office called inviting her to register for classes, that she put the two together. She said a prayer of thanks to her. The next time was a year later, when she was struggling with her fiancé’s horrendous betrayal and their breakup. Again she received mail for—or as she always saw it, mail from—her grandmother telling her that there would be another greater, more worthy love, and there was. A week later the man who was now her husband presented himself at a church dance. No more mail came, and she hadn’t needed any until two years later, when she was struggling with infertility. The more they tried to get pregnant, the more anxious she became. Then one day out of a clear blue sky came mail from her grandmother. It touched her instantly, calming her. She knew exactly what it meant, and it helped her to put her worry exactly where it should be, exactly where it should have been all the while: in God’s hands. Eleven months later she became a mother to the love of her life, her son, John. That was the last time.

  But she had never wanted and needed mail from her grandmother more than this week. She pressed her swollen eyes to the tattered sweater one more time, then stood up. Then she stood directly in front of the full-length pedestal mirror, took a deep breath, unbuttoned the top button of her red sweater, and pulled down the neckline to reveal a deep red scar where her left breast used to be. She had breast cancer. Her battle with the brutal disease had begun several years earlier, when she felt a lump. After a bit of denial, she rushed to her doctor. After that it was mostly a blur—of tests, surgery, doctor’s visits, and treatments. But eventually she was patted on the back and pointed toward the door with the instruction to live life to the fullest. It took Alexandra a while to feel like the survivor they labeled her, but after another three months she was on her way to really feeling it, and after another three months she really believed she had made it. But when after almost three years of clean mammograms they found a pea-size lump in her right breast, all the life had fluttered out of her like a punctured balloon.

  On this Christmas Eve she was waiting for the results of the biopsy. The doctor’s office had assured her that they made test result calls between twelve and three. But somehow she felt sure that they would call only with good news on Christmas Eve; they would wait to call the rest the day after Christmas. She was almost certain she would fall into the latter group. She prayed and cried and wished and cried and cursed and cried. And although she felt completely devoid of hope, something inside of her—maybe just one tiny cell of her—still was holding out for some hope because every day she desperately wished for mail from her grandmother. She had rushed to the mailbox for six days straight with her heart pounding and her throat so dry she was unable to swallow. And each day she walked away from the mailbox in tears.

  She looked at herself in the mirror one more time, then buttoned up her sweater. She was counting her gray hairs when the harsh ringing of the doorbell startled her. She jumped, then waved it off and sat down in the wicker rocking chair. She wasn’t expecting anyone and she wasn’t going to answer it. Her husband and son were gone until the evening.

  Whoever they were, they had no business being there, and she had no use for them. By now all of her family was on their way to her mother’s house for Christmas Eve dinner. She would forget the fresh, made-from-scratch vinaigrette and croutons she had made just in case she had a change of heart and decided to not go. She had never missed a Christmas Eve. None of the sisters ever had, but she just didn’t think she could do it this year. They wouldn’t like it, but they would understand and forgive her. She would probably call at the last minute with some made-up flu story. They wouldn’t believe her but would pretend to. The doorbell rang again, then rang again much too quickly. She was annoyed but unmoved. “Whoever it is, they sure are persistent,” she grumbled to herself. She was not moving. It rang again. “I am not moving,” she said out loud. It rang again. She was becoming exasperated. They were rude and persistent, she thought. When it rang the next time, she swore whoever it was must be lying on the bell.

  “Fine,” she huffed angrily. “You asked for it!” She stomped down the stairs and angrily flung open the door. Standing before her was a boy of about twelve dressed in a blue jacket with the word “Vikings” embroidered on it, a gray snow hat, and lumberjack boots. Behind him was a red wagon full of pine wreaths with plaid Christmas bows on them. She glowered at him. His gender and youth prevented him from reading her signals.

  “Hey, do you wanna buy one of these Christmas wreaths? I’m selling them for football. We’re trying to go to camp this summer.” There was a pause, then he said, “I’m Dan from down the street.” He said it like he thought it should clinch the deal.

  She breathed in a huge gulp of air, not realizing that in her anger she had been holding her breath. “No, I do not want to buy one of your wreaths,” she said through gritted teeth. “And I would appreciate you being easier on the doorbell next time.” She had expected him to cower, and when he didn’t, it took her a bit by surprise.

  “Well, I saw the light on,” he said. “And I knew you were in there.” He wasn’t belligerent, he was just twelve. Everything that went through his head came out of his mouth.

  “Well, I don’t want a wreath,” she said again firmly, turning to close the door.

  “Why not?” he asked. “Your door’s empty.”

  “Because I don’t!” she almost shouted.

  “The wreath will die, but you can use the hanger and bow next Christmas.”

  “I won’t be here next Christmas,” she blurted. That was the first time she had verbalized her greatest fear, and it almost took her breath away. Even though she knew she would never tell him why she wouldn’t be here next year, part of her still wanted him to ask why. But he didn’t.

  “But you’re here now,” he said, as if he were pointing out something so obvious that she was stupid for not realizing it herself.

  “Excuse me?” she said, starting to resent his tone.

  “I said you’re here now,” he repeated.

  “I heard you,” she said, her voice rising.

  “Then?” he said, raising his palms out in a motion that said “So what’s the problem?”

  “I won’t be here next year and I don’t want a wreath,” she gritted again.

  “Fine,” he said. “Don’t buy a wreath, lady. Mrs. Pisera always buys two,” he grumbled, starting to turn his wagon around. She had her hands on her hips now and was determined to relish her victory by watching him march back down the sidewalk with every single wreath he came up the sidewalk with, but after he took a few steps he turned around.

  “Oh, wait,” he said with a sour look on his face. “My mom told me to give this to you. It came in our mail. It’s not your name, but it is your address.” He pulled an envelope from deep within one of his jacket pockets and all but tossed it at her.

  She gulped as she reached for it. Her heart raced and her mouth was as dry as sand. It took her eyes a few blinks to focus. It was a letter addressed to her grandmother. She clutched her chest. Her legs were wobbling and her eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh, my,” she said, holding her hands to her trembling mouth. She let the tears of joy and hope fall. “Thank you,” she tried to say, but no sound came out. She looked up; he was halfway down the walk by now.

  “Wait!” she croaked. “Wait! Come bac
k!”

  He looked at her, annoyed, as if to say “I don’t need any more of your grief, lady.”

  “Come back,” she said, trying to sound friendly. “I want to buy one,” she called cheerily. “I want to buy a wreath. Wait while I get my purse!” She ran into the house and grabbed her wallet from the entry table.

  “I want to buy them all,” she squealed, running back to the doorway. She ran too fast and found herself nose to nose with the boy. He just stared at her in the way that only a twelve-year-old boy can. His face said it all. He thought she was completely crazy.

  “Don’t look at me that way,” she said perkily, not really caring at all if he did. “How many do you have?” she asked, pulling bills out of her wallet.

  “You don’t gotta buy them all, lady,” he said, annoyed. “I didn’t mean that. You just gotta buy one.”

  “But I don’t want one,” she said, her voice way too happy. “I want them all. I’m sick of Mrs. Pisera’s place always looking better than mine. And besides, it’s a good investment. I’m going to use the hangers and bow next year too!”

  “I thought you weren’t going to be here next year,” he said flatly.

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” she said. “I’ll be here next year.”

  He shook his head in disgust.

  “So how many do you have? Oh, forget it. Here, just take it all. There’s more than enough. The rest is for you for being a great little—oops, I mean, a great big salesman.”

  His eyes were wide. She was definitely out of her mind. He couldn’t believe she just called him a great big salesman. He didn’t look as if he could take another minute of her.

  “Good-bye!” she called happily, watching him rush down the sidewalk. With one last wave she yelled, “Tell your mother I said Merry Christmas.” He didn’t even turn around. In one swoop she grabbed the huge pile of wreaths that he had dumped on her doorstep and tossed them in the hall. She shut the door with a thud. A flurry of ice crystals followed her into the house.