A Callahan Carol (3 page)

“My name is Samantha Callahan. My cousin Johnny Callahan is with me. We’re from Brazos Bend, Texas. We need a miracle, ma’am.”

“A miracle? Two days before Christmas?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Johnny said.

“Well, children. I have a feeling that you’ve come to the right place.”

#

Branch Callahan floated in a misty place. He wasn’t dead; he was sure about that. But he wasn’t exactly brimming with life, either.

He might be asleep, but he doubted it. He had no sense of the passage of time. At first, he’d believed he was dreaming but that didn’t feel right anymore. He had no recall of anything after he’d pulled down the Christmas tree in his library, when, today?

Yesterday? A year ago?

The uncertainty was unsettling.

As was the fact that he couldn’t move his body. Not his legs or his feet. Not his arms or his hands. He couldn’t roll over or sit up. At least he didn’t hurt anywhere for a change. He did have that going for him. Still, he sure would like to wake up. Or die.

Dying would be good–unless the redemption he’d been trying to earn the last few years fell short of the mark.

He wished something would happen. Anything.

As soon as the thought formed, he got his wish.

He heard a sound, a rumble that slowly grew louder.

Branch attempted to turn toward the sound . . . and to his surprise, he could do it. He spied a dark shadow in the white-gray mist. The noise intensified. A motor, he identified. A motorcycle? He tried to sit up and this time, his body accommodated him.
Well, what do
you know.

He focused on the shadow, holding his breath, until first a black tire emerged from the mist. It
was
a motorcycle. A Harley?

No, a Honda Gold Wing. Driven by a figure dressed in white leather trimmed in gold and wearing a golden helmet.

Could he be dead, after all? Had Elvis come to drive him off to the Land of Jelly Donuts?

The motor switched off and in the sudden silence, he’d have sworn he heard harp music. The figure heeled down the kickstand, dismounted, pulled off white leather gloves, then reached up to remove the helmet.

Not Elvis, Branch thought as a face was revealed, but a woman. A woman of indefinite age.

Her silver-gray hair suggested she was older, but her face remained unlined and her rosy complexion had a youthful glow.

She moved her gently rounded body in a sprightly manner as she advanced toward him and smiled. “Hello, Branch Callahan.”

Suddenly, he felt a tingling in his throat and tried to speak.

His voice emerged raspy and weak, but he did have a voice. “Who are you? Where am I? What the hel-uh–heck is going on?”

“My name is Celeste Blessing. I have been sent here on a special mission.”

“Sent here by whom?”

“A great and powerful force. A force that–if you allow it– can make an enormous positive impact upon your life. First, however, you must open your heart to it.”

“A force?” he asked warily. “What kind of force?” She wasn’t carrying a pitchfork and he saw no signs of a pointy tail on her behind, but hey, the Trickster came by that nickname honestly.

“Love. You must open your heart to love, Branch Callahan.”

Branch scowled. “What sort of nonsense is this. I have plenty of love in my heart. I have so much love in my heart that it’s killing me.”

“Ah. Do you? Or is something else dousing the flame of your love?”

Her smile was beautiful and warm, and Branch could feel it deep within his bones. She held out her hand toward him. “Come with me, Branch Callahan. Let me show you the truth.”

Suddenly, he was standing–without pain, without needing his walker. He glanced down and noticed he was wearing his own set of leathers, only his were black. Now that was keen.

Celeste handed him a black motorcycle helmet, then climbed onto the motorcycle and motioned for Branch to take the passenger position. She started the engine, and they took off through the mist. Branch heard “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” piping through the helmet into his ears.

Christmas. Okay, maybe he hadn’t drifted as long as he’d thought. Or, maybe this entire thing was a dream.

The music segued into “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.”

Branch frowned. Surely he wasn’t having a Jimmy Stewart
It’s a
Wonderful Life
moment!

Even as the thought formed, the Gold Wing emerged from the mists onto the street in front of Callahan House. The blasted Christmas Wonderland was still up on his lawn, lit up and blasting Christmas cheer all over town, but something about the scene was different. That something bothered him, nagged at him, but he couldn’t put his finger on the problem until the front door opened and four little boys burst from within, followed by their mother.

That’s when he got it. The Christmas Wonderland was missing some of the newer displays and the trees and shrubs around the house were smaller.

Branch swallowed hard. Oh, no. He was already haunted by enough things in life. He didn’t need this.

This wasn’t a Jimmy Stewart moment. It wasn’t even a dream about the Grinch. He wasn’t dealing with Clarence the friendly angel or the Whos of Whoville. Gathering in his front yard were the Ghosts of Christmas Past.

Branch’s stomach rolled. He was about to be Scrooged.

#

Two days before Christmas on the second day of the elementary school’s holiday break, Margaret Mary Callahan called to her sons. “All right, you little reindeer. If you’ve run off enough steam and are ready to settle down, the Christmas cookies are ready to be decorated.”

“Hooray!” Matt Callahan replied.

“Dibs on the red icing,” Mark said.

“No fair,” Luke protested. “You got to be red last time.”

John nodded briskly, his little boy’s eyes round and wide.

“He’s right, Mom. Remember? Mark put it all over me and said it was blood.”

Margaret clicked her tongue. “Yes, I remember. He got into trouble for it, too. This year we’re not going to fight over frosting colors. You each have your own set of colors.”

“Yeah.” Matt darted toward the door. “We can all get bloody.”

“The Christmas Spirit is alive and well at the Callahans,”

their mother joked.

The children slid into their customary chairs around the kitchen table and for the next hour, with Christmas carols playing softly on the stereo, labored over turning sugar cookie Christmas trees into works of iced art. Branch came home just as the boys were finishing up the last of the cookies, and as his sons competed to offer him first taste of their edible works of art, he stacked the four cookies, and did a Cookie Monster impression by shoving them all into his mouth at once and saying, “Cookies.”

The children dissolved into fits of giggles. Margaret sighed, shook her head, then poured him a glass of milk. After Branch washed down the cookies, he asked his family about their day. The older boys told him about the pick-up football game they’d had at the elementary school playground. Margaret relayed a story about the Angel Tree project the church did for the local nursing home.

Branch then shared details about his workday but as soon as he shifted to the subject of mineral rights acquisition, the older boys wandered off.

John hung around. Pretty soon, he crawled into his father’s lap. “Would you read me a story, Daddy?”

“Sure. What do you want?”

“The Grinch!” John exclaimed. “He’s my favorite!”

“Why is that?” Branch asked his son as if this weren’t an exchange they held every single time Branch read the book to the boy.

“Because he reminds me of you.”

At that point, as always, Branch attacked with tickles. John giggled, squirmed, and giggled some more. When his mother finally handed the beloved book to his father to read, he curled against Branch, stuck his thumb in his mouth, and listened quietly and intently.

When Branch finished, he shut the book and expected John to scramble down and wander away or ask for a second story.

Instead, his youngest son remained where he was.

Branch glanced down at John. The boy wasn’t asleep.

Branch could tell by his expression that something was bothering him. “What’s wrong, Buddy?”

Another thirty seconds dragged by before John spoke.

“Daddy, Brett Parker said Santa Claus isn’t real. I asked Matt and Mark and Luke if he was fibbing, but they wouldn’t tell. Was he, Daddy? Is Santa Claus just a story?”

Branch sucked in a breath, then lifted his head to gaze with wild, worried eyes toward his wife.
Santa Claus? What was he
supposed to do? This wasn’t his job!

Margaret took care of the hard stuff with the kids. She handled these sorts of questions. Shoot, she probably knew the complete text of “
Yes, Virginia there is a Santa Claus”
letter by heart!

But judging by the sympathetic smile she gave him, she had no intention of handling this one.

Branch gazed down into his son’s pleading eyes, and sent up a silent prayer.
Just one more year. One more Christmas.

Please?

Quickly, he arrived at a plan. “You don’t listen to Brett Parker, John. What you need to know is that I believe in Santa, but I understand how a man can have doubts. Tell you what let’s do.

I’ll put on my thinking cap and try to come up with a way to prove it. Would that help?”

The boy brightened. “Sure, Daddy.”

“Good. Now, go find your brothers and tell them I’m in the mood to play catch. I’ll meet everyone in the backyard in ten minutes.”

“Yippee!”

When he was alone with his wife in the kitchen, he took her in his arms, buried his face in her hair, and groaned. “That was awful. I want one more year. I want this Christmas.”

“I do, too. You did a great job, Daddy.”

“Do you think so?”

“I do. I want one more Christmas, too. I can’t wait to see what you come up with for your proof.”

He shrugged. He’d need to think of something fun. Get the older boys involved somehow. Make it a family project.

He pressed a firm, quick kiss against his wife’s mouth, then said, “It makes me sad. John is our youngest. Our last to believe in Santa Claus. They’re growing up, darlin’. Growing up way too fast.”

“I know.”

“I just love this part of our lives.”

“Me, too,” she agreed. “We went so long without being blessed with children and they’ve filled our world with joy.”

“We’re within sniffing distance of the teenage years. I know those years will bring their own joys, but I’ll miss having little kids. I’ll miss having Santa Claus on Christmas morning.”

“I know. But growing up, growing old, is part of life. It’s okay to be a little bittersweet about what’s gone before, but there’s a better way to look at it. A way you and I especially should look at it.”

“What’s that?”

She cupped his face in her hands and smiled up at him, her gorgeous green eyes warm and loving as she said, “To quote John’s favorite philosopher Dr. Seuss: ‘Don’t cry because it’s over.

Smile because it happened.’”

Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.

As the echo of the Dr. Seuss quote rang in Branch’s head, the vision before him turned misty. “No!” he cried out, reaching for it, trying desperately to grab hold of it and preserve it, even as the images evaporated. Loss pierced his heart, the agonizing pain as fresh as it had been the day his precious Margaret died, fresh as the instant when he’d learned his John had been taken from him.

Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.

The white-leather-clad woman on the Gold Wing eyed him and said, “Well, Mr. Grinch? ‘What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.’”

His emotions churning, he shot her an angry glare. “Would you please keep your fiction straight? Is this Dr. Seuss or is it Charles Dickens?”

The blasted woman laughed aloud, gunned her engine, and in an instant, Branch found himself back astride her motorcycle.

As they sped off down the street and across time, the echo of his wife’s words remained with him.

Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.

A heartbeat later, the scenery changed. Branch recognized the surroundings. They were out at Possum Kingdom Lake approaching the marina where Luke and Maddie kept their new cruiser, the Miss Behavin’ III.

The world was back in order, with buildings, trees and everything the way he remembered them when he visited last August. The Miss Behavin’ III floated in her slip and to his surprise, the cabin lights glowed.
Strange. Why would anyone be
aboard this time of night, this time of year? It wasn’t exactly
boating weather. Fishing, either.
But when he looked closer, he saw the shadowy figure at the stern casting a line into the water.

“That’s Luke,” he said.

“Maddie is with him.” Celeste switched off the engine and they both dismounted.

“The question is what are
we
doing here?”

“We’re here to observe.”

Branch took a step backward as another thought occurred to him. “My son sometimes uses his boat as a romantic get-away spot. I don’t think we should intrude.”

Celeste flashed another smile and again warmth washed through Branch.
Wow. That smile of hers is better than a shot of
Kentucky sour mash.

“Unfortunately for them, Luke and Maddie aren’t indulging in love play tonight,” Celeste said. “Come, Branch. Listen.”

At that, Branch found himself seated on the deck railing aboard the Miss Behavin’ III, Celeste Blessing perched beside him.

Luke stood three feet away, but showed no sign of noticing that his old man had come to visit.

Okay, so maybe this
was
an
It’s a Wonderful Life
, George Bailey dream. “Are you sure your name isn’t Clarence?” he asked Celeste.

Her laughter sounded like church bells. Luke didn’t appear to hear that, either.

Maddie came out from the cabin carrying two glasses of red wine. She set one on the table beside Luke, then leaned against the railing and asked, “What are you thinking about?”