A Christmas Hope (2 page)

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Authors: Joseph Pittman

BOOK: A Christmas Hope
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How time can change your life.
Earlier this afternoon I was blindly happy in my own innocence, the idea of brightly wrapped gifts dominating my thoughts as my birthday neared. Now, as the cold evening fell and darkness enveloped the farmhouse, life felt blacker, as though I'd just discovered that you don't always get what you want, a hard lesson to learn at age five. Because in that attic I discovered not a new bicycle or that desired model train set. What I found was a thinly wrapped package. I picked it up, shook it. It made no sound, and why should it. I knew what it was: a book.
“So, you found it anyway,” I heard.
I looked up and there was Papa, on the top step.
“I'm sorry . . .”
“I was just coming up for it,” he said.
“Is this for me?”
“It's for all of us, the three of us,” he said, “it's for our family.”
 
For a time that night, the Van Diver family was one, the troubles of tomorrow forgotten for one special moment. Fluffy white snowflakes fell outside, coating the frozen land, and the cold wind impotently blew past our farmhouse, the three of us impervious to the elements as we sat around a crackling orange-tinged fire. Papa had made warm cider with cinnamon, and we drank from ceramic mugs and we ate Papa's favorite sugar cookies, that last chunk of white chocolate the final morsel we would pop into our mouths. That's how Papa preferred to eat them, and so of course that's how I ate them. Our fresh Christmas tree smelled of pine and sparkled with lights and tinsel, giving the room a warm glow, a festive feeling. I knew it was just make-believe, like a stage set. But sitting in Papa's lap, Mama close at our side, I felt the loving embrace of my parents and for one night I was assured all would be right.
I'd been allowed to unwrap the book, my face aglow with what I saw.
“But why is Santa wearing a green suit?” I asked with surprise, starting at the unusual illustration on the front cover.
“It's an antique, Thomas, a rare book that almost no one else in the world owns,” Mama explained with clarity. “And that means it's very old and very special. Back before you were born there were many legends about Santa Claus, who is also called Saint Nicholas. Your papa found this, picked it out himself.”
“Enough of the history lesson,” Papa said. “Let's tell the story.”
I settled in, joy widespread on my cherubic face as he began to read the familiar words: “Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse . . .”
It wasn't the rhyming words I was concentrating on, but rather the deep, masculine tones coming from Papa as he read to me Clement Clarke Moore's famous Christmas poem, finding security in his confident voice. As he read each line and as he turned the pages, all of which were filled with colorful images of Santa (still green-suited), his flying reindeer, a cavalcade of holiday scenes came vividly to life. For a moment it felt like magic spun inside our house, and I settled in as I asked Papa to read it again, and then a third time, and finally during the fourth time I fell asleep, dreaming of my own sugar plums and dancing fairies.
It was a Christmas Eve I would remember forever.
Mostly because our family would never again spend Christmas in Linden Corners, and though I took many memories with me, what I left behind . . . was the book. Youth are foolish, not knowing what they have when they have it. With age grows a certain wisdom. You realize what you have lost, and you miss it dearly. You want it back.
 
And so here I am. That's the reason I've returned to Linden Corners, to rediscover the lost magic of Christmas all over again, to be able to revel in its joyful spirit. While the early steps of my journey were done so at your urging, it is just mine now to complete. Only when I hold that antique book in my embrace again will I consider my mission complete, not only for me but for you, for us. The last gift I ever received from my father, a gift that needs to be rediscovered and shared with the world, it is that which I must find. For me, but most especially for you, my dear.
P
ART
1
RETURNING HOME
C
HAPTER
1
N
ORA
“
H
ow come it's snowing . . . it's only October.”
“Because, honey, we're in the thick of Upstate New York and in this neck of the woods they only have two seasons, winter and August.”
“That makes no sense, one's a month and the other is a season.”
No argument there. She nodded agreeably. “Welcome to Linden Corners.”
The boy looked dubiously at his mother. “Am I going to like living here?”
Good question, she thought. Was she? Did she ever like it?
The drifting snowflakes falling all around the fire-red Mustang were only the first hint that she was nearing the tiny village of Linden Corners, but it wasn't until she crested over the rise in the highway and came upon the spinning sails of the old windmill that she knew she was truly home. Home, she thought, afraid to taste the flavor of the word on her bitter tongue. What other notion instilled such a juxtaposed sense of both comfort and failure? Being back here was reason enough to sigh, and not in a relaxed way. Her name was Nora Connors Rainer, and she wasn't pleased by any of this, not the snow and not the sight of that windmill, not to mention the idea of Linden Corners itself. Returning to the place of her childhood meant only one thing: Her adult life was an utter disaster, and given the fact that her car was overstuffed with her belongings—what some might call “baggage”—a jury would render a verdict within minutes of deliberating. Guilty, Your Honor, of grossly mismanaging her life, as well as that of her twelve-year-old son. She was a lawyer by trade, unable to even win her own case. How she wished she could just continue driving through the village, it was small enough it would only take a minute or so. A one-blink-and-you-miss-it kind of town.
There was also a sense of claustrophobia about the town, too, or so thought the worldly Nora, who had traveled the globe and seen many beautiful sights, now seeing the world spit her out from whence she originated. Just when she needed her street smarts the most, home was calling, the comfort and security and understanding that you could only find inside the walls of your parents' house, now just a mile away and creeping ever closer. No doubt a couple pieces of her mother's famed strawberry pie awaited them both. With the windmill now fading to small in her rearview mirror, Nora felt her heart beating with nervous anticipation. Home meant many things to many people, but at this moment Nora needed its sense of reassurance. Knowing those old walls came complete with a supportive mother to hold you tight and tell you everything was going to be just fine, her mind told her maybe all would be okay.
But then she knew it wouldn't be, not initially.
Her homecoming would no doubt be seen as an occasion for her mother. So she had to assume the house would not be empty, since the sweet-natured Gerta Connors enjoyed having company. And said company would ask questions, and said company would expect answers. Suddenly Nora saw a houseful of guests, all of them stuffing their faces with pie, their smiles sweeter than sugar, but digesting gossip at her expense.
“Please, do me this one favor and don't let her have anyone over, I can't deal with . . . this, not now,” Nora said aloud. “Don't let her think my homecoming is a celebration.”
“Uh, Mom, are you talking to me?”
“Sorry, honey, Mom's weirding out.”
“No kidding.”
Her son's sarcasm, which had been coming on strong in the past six months, actually produced a rare smile on her tight face. Normally she'd reprimand him for his tone, but not today. He'd earned the right to vent as much as she deserved its wrath, she'd turned his life upside down. Still, Nora knew her mother, just as much as she recognized the friendly confines of Linden Corners, both the good and the bad. Having grown up here, she was well acquainted with the village's quirky tendency toward parties and parades, the happiest of holidays and heart-spun happenings, her mother, Gerta, oftentimes at the center of planning the numerous, joyous celebrations. Heck, it was only the end of October and the fallen snow already had a layer of ice beneath this fresh coating of snow, no doubt the residents had a name for such an occasion. “Second Snowfall” or something cheekily homespun like that. Winter in this region came early, stayed often, and you needed the patience of a saint and good driving skills to navigate its literal slippery slope. This year, Nora herself would be like the ever-present season, setting up roost for some time to come, though even she didn't know for how long. She could one day decide to leave, then a storm inside her could erupt and she'd be trapped. Again. Nestled in the lush Hudson River Valley, cocooned from the outside world, she could easily lose herself.
That part she liked.
Of course cocooned was just a nice word for hiding.
Nora Connors Rainer and her one son, Travis, had left the flatlands of Nebraska five days ago, enjoying the long drive and each other's company, if not necessarily looking forward to their final destination. They could have easily flown to Albany, had the car shipped or just sold it and bought a new one when they arrived, but Nora wasn't ready to sell off everything from her past life. Call her shallow, but she'd worked too hard to buy her sporty red Mustang. Too bad she hadn't worked as hard at her marriage. But hey, a car allows you to just turn on the engine and steer it to where you wanted to go. A husband tended to have his own ignition, liked to drive by himself, go off on his own, embracing the unexpected surprises around winding curves. So then why was she the one on the open road, heading into the tiny downtown of a village whose future best existed in a rearview mirror?
Not that the village was all that empty at four o'clock in the afternoon. She recognized several stores like Marla and Darla's Trading Post—twins she'd gone to school with, inseparable then, business partners now, sisters forever—and guarding the storefront, under the porch and seemingly oblivious to the snow, were two golden retrievers who lay quietly, sleeping the afternoon away in that lazy, entwined way shared only by our canine friends. Of course, too, there was the Five O'Clock Diner, run by the sharp-tongued, quick-witted Martha Martinson, plus the reliable Ackroyd's Hardware Emporium and George's Tavern, which she had known her entire life as Connors' Corners. It was where her father had happily toiled for much of his adult life. She'd heard about the renaming in e-mails and phone calls and how that wonderful Brian Duncan continued to honor George Connors's traditions and she'd seen pictures of the new sign, but the sight of it now made her heart ache for the loss of her father, for her still-living mother who had to live with the daily memories of her late husband.
But the store that most caught Nora's attention was darkened, a C
LOSED
sign posted on the locked front door. The building was in need of a paint job, flakes peeling off its sides. Elsie's Antiques it was called and had been for the better part of her life. But that was about to change.
Even in Linden Corners, change occasionally happened.
“Hey, Mom?”
“Yeah, baby?” Nora said, her eyes drifting away from Elsie's shop with reluctance.
“You know what today is?”
“It's Thursday, I think. Wait, what day did we leave . . . ?”
“No, not day. Today. It's Halloween.”
Nora looked out her driver's side window and wondered how she had missed them. Too focused on seeing the village her way, she failed to notice how her son's eyes would view it. Seemed the sidewalks of the village were currently peopled with tiny ghosts and goblins, witches with straw brooms, vampires with fangs and tight abs, bums (though, truth be known, that last one might have not been a disguise), all of them carrying orange plastic pumpkins, winter coats unfortunately partly covering their clever costumes. Adults accompanied them to ensure nothing untoward happened to their ghoulish charges, or that they got too cold while out trick-or-treating. The allure of Halloween had lost its appeal years ago, just another foolish pseudo-holiday. She remembered dressing up as a ballerina when she was a kid; but heck, it's not like she played the part of a ballerina. People today, they tended to embody their costume rather than just simply wear it. As though everyone was starring in their own movie, stopping at makeup before stepping before the camera. While Nora may not like it, Travis always enjoyed planning his costume.
“Sorry. You were gonna be Batman this year, right?”
“Nah. Robin.”
“How can you have Robin without Batman?”
“Dad was going to play Batman.”
Well, that comment shut her up but good. And she felt worse than before, a sharp pain stabbing at her empty gut. Not only was Travis missing out on one of his favorite holidays, but he was missing it along with his father. She hated disappointing her only child—taking him from his home and school and friends, all he'd ever known, to return to . . . here. She looked again at the kids dressed in costume, one in particular covered in a white sheet with two eyelets. Ghosts indeed, they were all around, and not just on the sidewalks, but in the trunk of her car and inside her mind. Oh yes, those phantoms never left, did they? They never needed the arrival of a single day of celebration to come out and haunt.
“I'll make it up to you,” she said.
“What, you'll be Batgirl?”
She smiled over at him, relieved to see he still had a streak of sweetness underneath all that almost-teenage sarcasm. “I promise to make the next holiday real special, okay, sweetie? I know how much you like Christmas, too.”
“Uh, Mom?”
“Yeah, honey.”
“The next holiday is Thanksgiving.”
She actually laughed, loud enough to rattle the windows inside the car. The sudden release felt good, and at last she allowed her shoulders to drop. For Nora Connors Rainer, this new life they were starting here in Linden Corners, it was going to be harder than she envisioned. Good thing her mother was there to help, and not just with Travis's expected adjustment. Nora knew she needed all the help she could get.
“Oh, and one other thing?” Travis asked.
She was concentrating on the snowy roads ahead, yet she managed to sneak a quick look at her young son. She felt an overwhelming sense of love, knowing she would do anything to ensure a happy childhood for him. She knew how lucky she was to have him at her side. It might have been different.
“Sure, love, what's that?”
“Can you just call me Travis from now on? All that baby, honey, sweetie stuff,” he said, “it doesn't suit the man of the house.”
Nora's easy laughter from moments ago dissipated, like she'd opened the window and let her joy grow brittle in the cold air. Now she just wanted to cry.
How was it that her son was growing up when she wasn't?
 
She turned off Route 20, which served as the village's main artery, and wound her way up Green Pine Lane, remembering each curve of the road as well as she knew herself. When she caught sight of the old house, Nora felt herself retreat back to Travis's age, a helpless twelve-year-old girl with brown pigtails and hand-me-down clothes from her three older sisters and a sour, uncertain expression on her face. Only the hairstyle and clothes had changed. Oh, and her age.
Forty and moving back in with Mom.
Good job, Nora, she thought.
“Mom, I know you're still talking to yourself . . . even if I can't hear it.”
“This is hard, Travis. Just give me a moment.”
She pulled to the side of the road, tires crunching in the fresh snow. The house looked small, even though it had three floors, four bedrooms, and lots of space in the basement and attic. After all, her parents had raised four girls there—she the youngest, along with older sisters Victoria, Melanie, and Lindsay, so clearly the house had been big enough to accommodate them, big enough that if you wanted to hide you could. And Nora was a hider, even back then. Down in the basement or cuddled up on the old sofa, she could easily get lost in the fantastical world of whatever book she was reading, or the drama found in the pretend lives of her dolls. She wondered if her mother would insist that she take back her old room. Nora wasn't sure she could handle that, but also questioned where else she would hide. This was the first time she'd been back to the house since her father, George, had died, almost a year and a half ago. She took a deep breath. Yup, this was hard, harder than she'd anticipated.
“Okay, kiddo, you ready?”
“That's a new one.”
“What is?”
“Uh, hello, kiddo?”
“Sorry, mother's instinct,” she said. “Ready, Mr. Rainer?”
Travis just rolled his eyes.
“Got it, sorry, let's go,” she said with another laugh; her emotions were a jumbled mess, there was no telling how fast her mood could turn. She guided them back onto the slick, snow-covered road, steeling herself for the final steps. It was just another three hundred feet before she would turn into the short driveway, their journey complete yet somehow also just beginning.

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