A Carol Christmas (3 page)

All the other Christmas decorations were in place. The two-foot-tall Santa stood by the fireplace, turning this way and that, looking for good little girls and boys. At this house, he could be looking a long time. Mom’s lighted village glowed along the shelf Dad had put up for it years ago. On another wall hung the stocking with the big, Styrofoam candy cane and the scary clown doll sticking out of it. I still remember when Grandma first brought that family heirloom over for Mom.

“Who’s Tim?” Ben had asked, looking at the embroidered name running down the stocking.

“Tiny Tim, honey,” Grandma had explained.

Ben was still looking confused, so Mom added, “As in, ‘God bless us, every one.’ ”

Ben still looked blank.

“Dickens,” Mom elaborated, “A
Christmas Carol
.”

“Oh.” Then he got it. “The Disney cartoon.”

“You’re raising Philistines,” Grandma had said.

It turned out Mom had married one too. When he came home, Dad looked at the new decoration and asked, “Who’s Tim?”

Mom gave up explaining, but she hung the stocking up every year.

“Go ahead and put your things in your room,” she said to me as she slipped off her coat. “I’ve got Christmas cookies and eggnog waiting.”

I hoped Aunt Chloe wasn’t driving home tonight, not with her history with that particular drink.

By the time I came to the kitchen to help, everything was pretty much done, and Keira and Aunt Chloe were sitting on stools at the counter, watching Mom pour 7-Up into mugs of eggnog.

“I like it better with rum,” Aunt Chloe said.

“Well, it likes you better with 7-Up,” Mom told her. “This way I know you’ll get home in one piece.”

Here was a good change, I thought, and took hope that my Christmas in Carol would be nostalgic, peaceful, and uneventful.

That was right before I heard the strangled cry and saw the booted foot crash into the living room window.

Chapter Two

Aunt Chloe let out a scream that was almost as terrifying as seeing my brother crash into the window like some kind of movie stunt guy. Well, a bad movie stunt guy, because instead of coming all the way through the glass and landing gracefully on the floor, Ben smashed the window to smithereens, then fell backward into the azaleas.

“Someone call 911,” Mom cried, and raced for the front door with all of us stampeding behind her in a panic.

We stumbled into each other at the door, then regrouped long enough to get it open and rush outside.

I had visions of finding my brother in the bushes and his severed leg in the flowerbeds. Poor Ben. Could the doctors get him a prosthetic in time for his big concert?

Happily, we found Ben’s leg was still attached to the rest of him, but it was a bloody mess.

“Oh, Ben!” Mom cried. She rushed over to him and tried to haul him out of the bushes.

“Don’t move him,” Aunt Chloe commanded. “He could be in shock. Wait ’til the ambulance gets here.”

“Did anyone call 911 yet?” Mom asked.

Of course not. We’d all been busy freaking out.

“I’ll call,” I said.

As I went in the house to grab my phone I heard Ben moan, “Sorry, Mom. The ladder tipped.”

Okay, I told myself. No need to panic anymore. He can talk and his foot is still attached. As I dialed, I felt a very nippy breeze coming into the house. I didn’t know anything about fixing broken windows. Maybe Mom would have to call Dad.

He’d ride to the rescue and make the necessary repairs. Mom would take a look at him in his tool belt and get a zing. Maybe she’d talk to him in something other than a growl, and maybe they’d find their way back to, if not love, at least friendship. And maybe I was dreaming.

I was giving the dispatcher our address when Aunt Chloe rushed into the house. “I need a blanket!”

She disappeared down the hall and came back a moment later, dragging the handmade quilt Grandma gave Mom for Christmas five years ago. Oh, boy. If Ben bled on that and wrecked it, there’d really be trouble. Grandma would let Mom have it for not appreciating a family heirloom, and Mom would blame Aunt Chloe, who would burst into tears and claim that no one appreciated her, and it would all escalate from there.

As soon as I got off the phone, I ran into my old room and snatched the spread off the bed. It was a mauve floral number. The blood would blend right in.

When I got back outside, Ben was crashing out of the bushes and throwing off the quilt Aunt Chloe kept trying to drape over him. Okay, forget the spread. I opened the front door and tossed it inside.

Some of our neighbors had come over to comment on the broken window, Ben’s stupidity, and his state of health. “I’ve got some plastic,” Mr. Winkler from down the street said to Mom. “I’ll cover that window for you.”

“Thank you, Bill,” Mom said. “That’s very sweet of you.”

“You know why he’s doing that, don’t you?” Aunt Chloe said as Mr. Winkler walked back across the street.

“Don’t go there,” Mom warned.

Bill Winkler—Aunt Chloe referred to him as Wee Willie Winkler—was single. He had the hots for Mom, and ever since Dad left he’d been trying to find ways to get into her good graces. He was a skinny, bow-legged chain-smoker who looked like a Marlboro Man reject, and Mom never did anything to encourage him, which, according to Aunt Chloe, was why he was so hot for her. “Bake him cookies,” Aunt Chloe advised. “That’ll make him think you’re husband hunting and scare him off.”

I was glad Mom hadn’t gotten around to scaring him off yet. At least it meant tonight we’d be warm.

Two aid cars and a fire engine pulled up at our curb, their lights circling the neighborhood, sporadically bathing everything and everyone in red light.

The EMTs put Ben on a gurney, and one examined his leg.

“Oh, I think I’m going to faint,” Aunt Chloe whimpered, clutching Grandma’s quilt.

Keira put a hand on her head and bent her in half. “Put your head between your legs, Auntie.”

That made quite a picture. Now I was going to faint.

“Hanging Christmas lights, huh?” guessed the older EMT as they worked on Ben.

“How’d you know?” he asked.

Well, duh. There was the tipped ladder and the dangling string of lights.

The guy shrugged. “It happens a lot this time of year. Usually not this close to Christmas, though.”

“It would have happened sooner if he’d done this when I first asked him,” Mom said, giving Ben one of those looks moms use on their kids when they’re bad. Now that the crisis was over, Ben had been taken off Mom’s critical list and moved to her doo-doo list. He’d have gotten a lot more sympathy if he’d chopped off his leg.

“I think you’re probably going to need a few stitches,” said the EMT.

Mom let out a faint moan at that.

“It’s okay, Mom,” Ben said.

Okay or not, we all trooped down to the hospital to wait while Ben got his leg stitched. Everyone had a reason why she needed to tag along. Aunt Chloe brought the quilt. After all, it was cold in those emergency operating rooms, and besides, something homemade would bring him comfort. Mom knew her son would need her by his side to comfort him with questions like, “How could the ladder have tipped?” and “Why didn’t you do this when it was daylight so you could see what you were doing?”

Keira was the bearer of the clean jeans and tennis shoes. “They’ll probably have to cut his pants and boot off,” she predicted as she got into the car.

And me, well, I thought maybe my brother would like someone who could hold his hand and keep her mouth shut.

The doctor wouldn’t let us keep Ben company while he got his leg stitched, though, so the only thing that went into the nether regions of the hospital with him was his pants. And the shoes. We, his ministering angels, sat in the emergency room waiting area, the quilt keeping us company.

As we waited, I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair and tried to stave off boredom by people-watching.

An old couple huddled together in one corner. I couldn’t tell which one was supposed to be sick. They both looked bad: pale, frail, and red-eyed. The man didn’t say anything, but every once in a while, the woman spoke. Loudly. Either he was deaf, or she was. Having to listen to her was enough to make the rest of us wish
we
were.

“I just can’t do it this year. I don’t feel good, and I don’t want all the kids over.”

Hmmm. A mother-of-the-year award nominee.

Her husband nodded but didn’t say anything. Maybe he figured she wouldn’t hear. Maybe he’d given up talking to her years ago.

“I just wanted a quiet Christmas,” she said after a minute.

And I just wanted to stay in New York, I thought. We don’t always get what we want, although it seemed by the time a person got to be that woman’s age, they ought to.

“Wendy never watches the kids,” the woman said after another minute of silence. “She lets them run everywhere. My nerves can’t take it. You’re going to have to call them, tell them I’m sick.”

So, that was why they were in the emergency room. This woman was faking illness to get out of seeing her obnoxious family. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

I checked out the other occupants of the waiting area. A few chairs down, a woman sat trying to quiet a fussy baby. I hated to assume the man next to her reading the paper was her husband, but he probably was.

A guy about my age sat slumped in the row of chairs across from us. He wore glasses and was overweight. Or maybe it was the heavy jacket and the sweats that made him look big. He wore a muffler around his neck, even though it was plenty warm inside, and he was sniffling like he had a cold. I guessed he had no medical insurance, which would explain why he was hanging around the emergency room. He eyed Keira for a long time until she finally glared at him. Then he opted for watching his toes.

These were our companions in misery. I sighed. What would I be doing right now if I was still in New York? Having dinner at Sardi’s? Seeing a Broadway play? Who was I kidding? I’d be in bed by now, snoring with a half-digested mystery lying across my chest.

“So,” Aunt Chloe asked me. “Have you met anyone special in New York yet?”

Oh, great. The third degree on my love life was starting already. Why do people always have to pump you to see if you’ve found anyone? It’s as if there’s nothing more to life than men.

Not that I had no men in my life. I’d had dates, just not with anyone I felt a connection with.

Mom jumped in to explain my manless state. “Andie’s busy with her career. She doesn’t have time for men. She could barely schedule in a trip home for Christmas.”

“A woman can always find time for men,” put in Keira. “New York’s a huge city. There’s got to be tons of available guys there.” Underlying message:
So what was taking you so long?

Okay, so I’m picky. There’s nothing wrong with that. “I’ve met a few people,” I said.

“Anyone rich?” Aunt Chloe wanted to know.

“If they are, they haven’t told me yet,” I said.

“So, are you Internet dating?” Keira asked. “Hitting the bars?”

“Of course she’s not,” Aunt Chloe said. “She’ll probably meet her dream man in an art museum.”

“I bet you can find a lot of cute guys to get close to on the subway,” Keira mused.

Oh, yeah, sure. The subway is one big speed-dating sardine can. “Be my guest,” I said.

“I’ve already got mine,” she said back.

“Lots of creative people in New York,” Aunt Chloe observed. “Of course, it’s so big, so impersonal, so far from your family. You must get lonesome.”

“Lonesome,” I repeated, and nodded. I tried not to wonder what my friends were doing right now.

I picked up a worn copy of
People
to distract myself and started thumbing through it. I was just starting a juicy tidbit on Ryan Reynolds when a middle-aged man with silver hair, a worn pea coat, tattered jeans, and dirty tennis shoes sat down next to me.

“Home for Christmas,” he muttered.

It almost sounded like a question, but not quite. Because I couldn’t tell if he was telling me his story or asking mine, I just nodded politely.

“Hate coming home for Christmas.” He hacked out a nasty cough, the kind that gives you images of yourself keeling over from SARS or Bubonic plague or that flesh-eating disease.

I gave him another nod, from one sufferer to another, and leaned away from him, hoping the germs would float the opposite direction.

“Things got broken,” he said in a gravelly voice.

I thought of the living room window.

On the other side of me, Aunt Chloe was getting protective and giving him a scowl that looked about as threatening as something from the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

The man didn’t see. He was too busy making eye contact with me. He had the most intense blue eyes I had ever seen. “Got to mend them, you know,” he said. “If you don’t pull down the walls you can’t build something better.” The expression in those eyes was suddenly probing. I felt the hair at the back of my neck start doing the wave. What kind of woo-woo thing was going on here?

Just as I began squirming in my seat, he looked away. I decided I’d been imagining things. The poor man was simply talking to himself. Maybe there was no one in his life to listen.

Ben came out, wearing the jeans and the shoes Keira had brought for him and limping. We all rose like a chorus of handmaidens.

I hated to leave the poor, muttering man with no words of cheer, so I wished him Merry Christmas.

“It is what you make it,” he said as I hurried after my family.

Mom was at Ben’s side now, an arm around him for support.

“I’ve got to stop by the pharmacy and get some pain medicine,” he told her.

She nodded. “Then we’ll go home and wash it down with eggnog. Do you want to sleep at the house tonight?”

He shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

As we left the waiting room, I took one last glance around. Good-bye, germ-breeding ground. Good-bye, grumpy old lady. Good-bye poor, stressed-out mom with the jerk for a husband. Good-bye lonely guy with no insurance, good-bye . . . where was the crazy man? I stared at the empty seat where, only a moment ago, he had sat muttering.