Remembering Christmas (18 page)

“Is your mom always forgetting things?”

“No, not always. But she’s been real worried lately.”

“You’re a good little girl.” Such a cliché thing to say. “She must be worried about Art’s surgery.”

“That and one more thing, I think.”

“Really, what else?”

She leaned over and whispered again. “She didn’t really tell me, but I heard her praying last night in her bedroom. I came in to ask for a drink. She was telling God she needed more money but didn’t know where to get it.”

“More money?”

“She said she’s afraid she’ll have to get a third job at night, but she didn’t want to leave me any more than she already does.” She sat back and pulled Annabelle close. “I don’t want her to leave me any more, either.”

Rick looked down at her catalog lying open on the coffee table. The left page was blank, awaiting, he supposed, the final two cutouts from the Penney’s catalog. But on the right page Amy had pasted an ad for Disney World, and above it, she’d written “Mommy.” “What’s this one?” he asked.

Amy leaned toward him again and whispered. “That’s what Annabelle wants to get Mommy for Christmas.”

“Your mom wants to go to Disney World?”

Amy nodded.

“How does Annabelle know?”

“We asked her. Last week. I said, ‘What do you want for Christmas?’ And she said she didn’t want anything. I said, everybody wants something for Christmas. I asked her to just pretend. If she could have anything she wanted, what would it be?” She pointed to the Disney World ad and whispered, “She wants to go to Disney World and go on nothing but E-ticket rides the whole time.”

Just then Andrea came walking toward them. Amy closed her catalog. “Okay, you two,” Andrea said, “no fair telling secrets.”

“I was just asking Amy what you wanted for Christmas,” Rick said.

“Rick, you better not get me anything for Christmas.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t even know where I’m getting Christmas money for—” She paused. “Let’s just don’t, okay?”

“Fair enough. But how about you let me take you and Amy out for dinner after we close up here? You’ve had a rough day. I’m sure you don’t want to go home and have to cook after this.”

“Can we, Mom?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Please, Mom.”

“C’mon, Andrea. It would be great for me too. Not having to eat alone again.”

She thought about it a moment. The little brass bell rang. “I better go up front.” She turned and walked away.

Rick quickly followed and stopped her halfway down the aisle. “Don’t think of it as a date, Andrea,” he said quietly. “Just a meal between friends.”

“I . . . I don’t think so, Rick. Maybe another time.” She seemed to force a smile then walked toward the counter.

Rick stood there confused. Almost stunned.

He hadn’t even considered the possibility of being turned down.

“Put your seat belt on,” Andrea said, instantly regretting her edgy tone. She turned on the car.

“Why didn’t you say yes to Mr. Rick?” Amy asked. “We haven’t been out to eat . . . forever.”

“I know that,” she snapped. She pulled the car onto the street. She didn’t look over but could almost feel Amy wilting beside her. “I’m sorry.”

Amy sat up and turned around. “Then it’s not too late. There he is now, just locking up the store. We can still turn around.”

“No, Amy, we can’t. I didn’t apologize for saying no to Mr. Rick. I apologized for the way I talked to you.”

Amy plopped back down in her seat. “So why did you?”

“Why did I what?”

“Why did you say no?”

One day Andrea hoped she and Amy could talk like friends, but they were nowhere close to that now. “It’s just hard to explain. I didn’t want to give him the wrong . . .”

“You didn’t want him to think you like him?”

Is she already able to catch things like this?
“In a way, yes.”

“But don’t you like Mr. Rick?”

“I do but—”

“So why not say yes?”

Andrea looked at her, the edginess subsiding. She tried to read her eyes. She could tell that Amy really was too young to grasp the situation. She couldn’t think of any collection of words that would help her understand.

Or, for that matter, any words that would help her with her own feelings right now.

A wasted moon.

Far too beautiful to be viewing alone.

It had begun to rise above the horizon two hours ago, all of its light perfectly contained within the borders of a glowing orange sphere. Except for a shimmering golden path that rolled out across the sea to the water’s edge. It was mesmerizing. He could see the outline of every crater on the lunar surface.

Rick was sitting on a sand dune three blocks down the beach from the Howard Johnson’s. His bare feet felt cool in the soft white sand. A night breeze rustled across the dunes, swishing through the sea oats like the wind through a field of wheat. The calming influence was aided by tiny waves that lapped against the shore.

A fried clam dinner from HoJo’s sat heavy in his stomach—the third clam dinner he’d eaten this week. If Andrea had agreed to join him for dinner, he’d have taken them someplace nice. Maybe the new steakhouse out by the highway or Abe’s Crab Shack right on the water down by the inlet.

But she said no.

He had failed. Frozen clams, shipped in from HoJo Central HQ, thawed and fried in a vat of day-old grease, was his punishment.

But he knew why Andrea had said no. The reason was as obvious as the full moon staring back at him. She was a grown-up. He was not. She wasn’t looking for short-term adventures, moments of happiness with no strings attached. That had been a basic requirement for all the girls he’d dated. And there had always been a strong and steady supply. Especially since he’d started making serious dough.

Andrea was almost broke, by the sounds of it. Thinking of taking a third part-time job just to buy her daughter a few Christmas presents. She wasn’t stupid; she knew Rick was loaded. She had a lot to gain by saying yes.

But still she said no.

He stood up. The moon was high overhead now. He brushed the sand off his pants and walked down the dune. He should just let it go. He wasn’t planning on sticking around. As soon as Art got past this surgery thing and was well enough for his mom to come back to the store, Rick would be out of here, back to Charlotte where he belonged. Why did he even care?

But he did care.

As he walked along the edge of the dunes, felt the breeze blowing at his back, he realized he cared a lot. He was keenly aware of a strong desire beginning to form inside him. He wanted to become the kind of man someone like Andrea would say yes to.

Yesterday had been terrifying for Leanne.

It was the day they had moved Art from the little hospital in Seabreeze to Shands, the huge teaching hospital in Gainesville, almost three hours away. Every time the ambulance turned a corner, at every traffic light, at the slightest noise or smallest bump, she’d tense up and stare at Art. Afraid if his eyes opened, the shock of the situation might instantly cause another bleed in his brain and kill him.

An RN and a paramedic had ridden in the back of the ambulance with her, monitoring his vital signs the entire way. They had remained steady. She wondered how many alarm bells might have gone off if they’d hooked her up to the same machines.

Shortly after they’d arrived at Shands and admitted Art to their ICU, Dr. Valencia had surprised her with a visit. She instantly liked him. He was tall, maybe ten years younger than her, with thick dark hair that turned gray along the edges. He seemed to sense her anxiety, asked how the ride over had been. When she’d told him of her fears, he told her he was sorry no one had informed her, but that Art had been heavily sedated before making the trip. They didn’t want him to awaken, either.

Leanne had asked if Art would remain sedated until his surgery, and the doctor said probably not. They just wanted to keep him that way until Dr. Valencia could confirm that Art had stabilized from the trip. He’d asked her if she wanted something to help her sleep.

It was now a little past seven in the morning. Sitting there next to Art, less than thirty minutes before they would bring him to the operating room, she was glad she’d accepted Dr. Valencia’s offer. She never would have slept last night, with all the thoughts and fears colliding in her head. The greatest was also the most obvious . . . and the most dreaded. Would Art survive the surgery? Would her last conversation with him on earth be the chat about nothing last Friday morning as he’d headed out the door? Had her last kiss been that peck on the cheek?

“Can I get you something, Mrs. Bell? Some water, coffee?”

Leanne looked up at the pleasant face of the nurse who’d been looking in on Art for the last twenty minutes. About an hour ago, they had taken Art from the ICU and wheeled him into this holding room on a different floor, to prep him. “Do you have any orange juice?”

“I think I can manage that. Anything else?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“If you change your mind, just let me know. Did they say how long your husband would be in surgery?”

“Dr. Valencia said he couldn’t be sure until things got underway, but it would be at least three or four hours.”

“Dr. Valencia’s the best. I’ve seen him work miracles.”

“Thanks.” Leanne managed a smile. The nurse turned and walked away. Leanne sighed then looked back at Art.

His eyelids fluttered. She must have imagined it. She sat up, staring at them for several moments.

Nothing. She sat back.

A few moments later, he squeezed her hand. It startled her, felt almost like an electric shock. She looked back at his eyes. Nothing.

They fluttered again. “Art,” she whispered, leaning forward. “Art . . . can you hear me?”

His eyes blinked, then opened just a little.

Her face became hot; she felt a rush of emotions. It took all her strength not to yell out loud. Calm down, she told herself. She took a deep breath. “I’m here, Art. It’s Leanne. I’m right here. Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

He did.

Tears fell down her face. He understood. She should go tell someone, maybe get the nurse. He blinked a few more times then opened his eyes wider and turned his head, looking to one side then the other.

“You’re okay, hon,” she said. “You’re in the hospital. But I’m right here. Squeeze my hand again if you understand me.” Keep squeezing back, she thought. Don’t ever stop.

“Leanne,” he said feebly.

She reached out her other hand and gently stroked his cheek. “Right here, Art.” She tried to remember the instructions Dr. Halper had told her at the beginning.
Try to keep him calm. Don’t talk about anything that will make him think too deeply. He probably won’t remember what happened
.

“Where are we?” His voice sounded a little stronger. His eyes seemed to be focusing on hers.

“We’re at Shands Hospital in Gainesville.”

“Gainesville?”

“You had a little accident. Well, not an accident. A sudden illness.”

“A stroke?”

She shook her head no. “It was an aneurysm. You know what that is?”

He nodded.

“The doctor says it’s very important that you remain absolutely calm, so your brain doesn’t bleed again.” He seemed to understand. “It happened six days ago, the day after Thanksgiving. Do you remember?”

“No. Six days ago. Have I been lying here that long?” His voice was quiet but clear and steady.

“You’ve been in bed that long, but mostly in our little hospital back home. The doctor there wanted you to come here for the operation. He said the surgeon here is the best he’s ever seen.”

She saw his throat swallowing, felt him squeeze her hand harder. “When?” he asked.

“This morning, in a little while.” She hated saying such things to him. She didn’t want him to worry. She wished somehow she could just make it all stop. He was back now. She didn’t want it to end.