Remembering Christmas (23 page)

This was going to be strange.

Rick drove his Celica to a part of town he hadn’t seen in over ten years. On purpose. He remembered feeling the sensation of fleeing the last time he’d been here.

Just before leaving the store, he had called his mom back. She’d asked him for a favor. She knew it was a big one and apologized for even asking. Would he stop by her house—his old house—to pick up some prayer journal Andrea had forgotten yesterday and bring it out to the hospital?

He was in the neighborhood now, just a few blocks away. Nothing had changed. Except all the trees were bigger. It was an older section of town, the homes all built shortly after World War II. Rick thought they certainly knew how to build things in those days. Seabreeze had been hit by at least a half dozen big hurricanes since then, but every house still stood strong. Most were in pretty good shape. He found himself admiring the homes, the manicured yards, the flower boxes in the windows. He waved at a number of middle-aged and elderly people as he drove by. He wondered how many might be older, balder, grayer versions of people he’d known in his teens.

He turned right onto his old street, Waverly Road. His eyes instantly veered to the left, to the fifth house. Right where it was supposed to be. He pulled into the driveway, stopped the car just a few yards in. He sat there a while to take it in.

Why had he hated this place?

It might be the cutest house in a neighborhood of bungalows. That’s what they built back then. Art hadn’t changed a thing. Even kept the same shade of yellow. The house sat comfortably on the left side of the driveway, surrounded by large shady oaks, moss hanging down from every limb. It had this high-pitched gable roof with dark green shingles. A charming little dormer poked out, facing the street. A porch stretched across the front. The whole thing trimmed in white. The driveway went straight back to a freestanding garage, a small replica of the house itself.

He got out of the car and walked toward the front door. Four steps led up to the porch. On opposite ends of each step sat large clay pots, the flowers shriveled from last week’s freeze. He found the front door key under the second pot on the left. Right where his mom said. He opened the door and stepped inside.

My, Rick thought. Nothing had changed. All these years. Except the sofa and recliner. But even they were the same color. There was the stone fireplace in the corner. Art’s old wooden rocker off to the side. He used to hate what he saw in here. Embarrassed at how small it was. He’d never invite in friends from high school. Most of the time when he’d catch a ride, he’d have them drop him off at the corner. All his friends lived in modern subdivisions, miles from here. Closer to the beach. In ranch-style houses with central heat and air. More than half had pools.

He walked through the living room all decorated with Christmas colors and knickknacks. Santas and snowmen sitting on every shelf. It
was
small, so was the dining area. He looked at the kitchen. His condo kitchen was bigger than this. But none of it seemed to matter now. Instead of feeling small, it felt . . . cozy. That was the charm of a bungalow. Nice little home with nice little rooms. No wasted space. Was it a memory or did he smell coffee? His mom always made the best coffee.

He looked over at the little dinette set, where he’d eaten ten thousand bowls of cereal.

That’s right, the prayer journal. Mom said it was in her bedroom, next to the nightstand or on her chest of drawers. He walked back through the living room and into the small hallway connecting the two bedrooms, the one bath in between. He flicked on the light and was almost startled by the dozens of picture frames hanging in the hallway.

He took a few minutes to study them. Art or his mom, or the both of them, were in every one. They all seemed to have been taken since Rick had left. He wasn’t in a single one. But then, why would he be? There were pictures of them at the store. Gardening in the backyard. In St. Augustine. At Disney World. Standing next to Niagara Falls.
When did they go there?
On a big fishing boat; Art was helping his mom hold up a three-foot-long fish. There were several pictures of them with Father Charlie and another woman. Rick supposed his wife.

Rick couldn’t help but notice how happy they were. His eyes zeroed in on his mother’s face, beaming in every shot. He was about to turn, head into their bedroom, when one picture caught his eye. It was a picture of them in the living room, standing in front of the Christmas tree. Had to be taken the past year or two. Art stared ahead at the camera, smiling away. But his mom was looking sideways at Art. She was smiling, but she had another look on her face. Rick knew what it was.

The look of a woman in love. Art really had made his mother happy. All these years. And he had taken really good care of her.

Rick stepped into their bedroom, grateful that Art seemed to be pulling through this ordeal. He looked to the far side of the bed. There was a little black book, too small to be a Bible. He walked around the bed and picked it up. As he flipped it open, he instantly recognized his mother’s handwriting.

Mission accomplished. He closed the book and headed for the door. He stopped in the hallway, aware of a strong curiosity to open the journal and read a few pages. Just a few.
No, you can’t do that. That’s like reading someone’s diary
. He walked a few more steps and stopped.
Just a look, what could it hurt?
He opened it from the back, flipped till he came to the last entry.

At the top, she’d written “Thanksgiving Day, 1980.” The day before Art had collapsed.

Thank you, Lord for a wonderful day. Thank you for giving up your life for me.Thank you for Art, for giving me such a wonderful man. Thank you for giving us so many good friends. Thanks for helping us get the store all decorated yesterday. Thank you for the store itself, for using it to provide all our needs and allowing us to be a blessing to others.

Thank you for my wonderful son, Rick. Be with him today. Open the eyes of his heart, Lord. I pray he would know you and know all that you have done for him. I pray I’d be able to talk with him today. Please have him call or let him be there when I do . . .

Thank you for my wonderful son, Rick?

How had he been a wonderful son to her? Rick felt a ripple of guilt as he realized where his head had been on Thanksgiving Day. For starters, he’d woken up with a hangover. He’d watched the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade in his pj’s, then eaten his Thanksgiving dinner with some friends. He’d hardly thought of his mom, except to dread the inevitable phone call with her that day.

He closed the journal. Just before he entered the living room, another surge of curiosity came over him. His old room. The door was half open. He walked in, flicked on the light switch. It was remarkable. Like the day he’d left it, everything the same. Even the surf posters thumbtacked to the walls. The big Atlanta Braves pennant over his bed. His bedspread was the same, light green with little cottony puffs. He used to pull them apart when he talked on the phone. Sitting on the nightstand was the same phone, the old rotary kind.

He walked to his dresser, a dark wooden thing, probably an antique. If not then, certainly now. He wondered what was inside. He yanked on the knobs of the top drawer. One side came out first, the other side stuck, same as ever. He pushed it back and pulled harder on the weak side till the drawer broke free.

What he saw surprised him. It was filled with greeting cards. He grabbed a small handful and set them on top of the dresser. They looked familiar. As soon as he opened the first one, he knew why. They were cards he’d sent his mom over the years. On her birthday, Mother’s Day, her and Art’s anniversary. After opening a few, he put them all back. He knew there was nothing to read. He’d never written a single note in a single card. Just signed them “Rick.” Once in a while, “Love, Rick.”

He’d never spent more than a few moments picking out a card. Sometimes he wouldn’t even read what the card said. Just signed it. Sometimes he’d forget to mail it. Then send it days later.

Thank you for my wonderful son, Rick.

He couldn’t believe she’d saved every single one. He closed the drawer, but it stuck as usual. As he shoved it harder, a small wooden box sitting inside the drawer slid forward. He opened the drawer the rest of the way, lifted the box, and set it on the dresser. Looked like the kind of box you put keepsakes in. But it wasn’t his. He’d never seen it before.

He wondered what was inside.