Remembering Christmas (4 page)

“I can call there and see.”

“Would you please try? I’ve driven all the way from Charlotte.”

She slid her chair across a plastic mat and dialed a number, then began flipping through some papers stapled together. He could hear it faintly ringing, over and over, but no one picked up. “Let me try the nurses’ station.” After a few rings, a click. “This is Doreen down at the information desk. I’ve got a young man here who’d like to see his mother, if at all possible.” She listened a few moments. “No, she’s not a patient. His father’s the patient.” She looked up at Rick. “What’d you say your mother’s name was?”

“It’s Bell, Leanne Bell. Her
husband’s
name is Art Bell.”

Doreen relayed the information. “That’s okay,” she said in reply. “I’ll wait right here.” She covered the mouthpiece and said, “They’re going to go get her. The nurse confirmed your mom is in the room with your father.”

“I’m sure she’s going to want to see me. She was pretty frantic when she called.”

“Tell you what, just go on up the elevator, down the hall there on the left. Intensive care is on the third floor. They’ll have to buzz you in, but I’ll tell her you’re on your way.”

“Thank you.”

Rick walked down the long carpeted hall, found the elevators about halfway. Didn’t see another soul. Probably just a skeleton crew on duty because of the holiday. When the elevator reached the third floor, his stomach started to tense. He stepped out and found the glass doors blocking the hallway, the entrance to intensive care. He pressed the intercom button and gave his name. One loud buzz and he was through.

He hated hospitals, everything about them. Especially the smell. He kept his gaze straight ahead as he walked along a curving hallway. To his left were floor-to-ceiling glass panels leading to the various rooms. He knew there were beds inside them and lying on them were people, all dying or about to die. He heard clicking sounds and little beeps going off at different intervals.

Who could work at a place like this?

Just up ahead to the right was the nurses’ station. A tall middle-aged woman in white stepped out from behind it and walked his way. “Mr. Bell?” she asked in a whisper.

“No, my name’s Denton, Rick Denton. My mom’s married name is Bell.”

“So, Mr. Bell is not your father?”

“No, I just came to see my mother. She asked me to. I just came in off the highway from Charlotte.”

“Your mother is the sweetest thing. If you don’t mind, could you go back through those glass doors? The first door on your left is our waiting room. We need to keep your father’s—I’m sorry—your stepfather’s room very quiet. I’ll get your mother and tell her to meet you there.”

“Fine,” Rick whispered back. “Thanks.”

He did as instructed and took a seat in the waiting room. A few moments later he heard the glass door open then footsteps. He looked up at the doorway just as his mom walked in. She looked exhausted; her eyes were red. She rushed toward him and started to cry. He held her for a few moments, patting her back. “It’ll be all right,” he said a few times.

She regained her composure a bit then looked up at his face. “Thanks for coming.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said. He led them to the row of chairs. “Have a seat and tell me . . . what’s the latest news? What are the doctors saying?”

She started from the beginning of the day, when she’d first gotten the call about Art being found at the store unconscious. Then walked right through the events of the entire day, providing more detail than he cared to hear. But talking seemed to help, so he didn’t hurry her. He grew more alarmed when she shared about the aneurysm development and the anticipated surgery. It wasn’t so much the added danger for Art but the added amount of time she was hinting that he’d need to stick around.

“So, you’re saying the doctor wants you here at his bedside . . . the whole time?”

“Pretty much, that’s what he said.”

“For how long?”

“We don’t know just yet. I’m sure we’ll know more tomorrow.”

“More than a few days?” he asked.

“Sounds like it. Oh, Rick, I’m so scared.” Tears began to form again.

“It’s okay, don’t get yourself all upset again. I’ve got the whole weekend off, including Monday.”

She looked down.

“What?”

“I’m afraid I might need you longer than that.” She looked up. “Is there any way you could stay longer? I’ve just got Andrea to work at the store. But this time of year it takes all three of us to keep up. And she’s only part-time.”

“You want me to work . . . in the store?”

“I didn’t mention that?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry, Rick. But . . . I don’t know who else to call.”

“I don’t know anything about running a store. I don’t know any of your . . . merchandise.”

“It’s mostly just books and music albums, some small gifts. Andrea knows the inventory really well. She could help you.”

“I’m not sure how much more time I could get off.” He knew that was a lie. He had over three weeks of vacation time saved up for the last two months of the year. All pegged for skiing trips.

“Any time you could spare would be such a help. I can’t leave Art. And if we have to close the store now, at this time of year . . .” She looked down. “We always count on the Christmas season to pay all our bills. Art says we make more than 50 percent of our income between Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

Rick sighed. This was quickly becoming a nightmare.

She started sobbing, almost uncontrollably. For a moment, he just sat there looking at her. He reached his hand out and put it on her shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do. Let’s don’t worry about it now.”

She reached for his hand and squeezed, then looked up. “Thank you, Rick. I’m so sorry to have spoiled your plans. If there was any other way—”

“Don’t apologize. What do I need to do?”

She reached for her purse. “Here are my keys. This one here is for the store. We open at 9:00. This one here, with the octagon shape, is for our house.”

“Just take the store key off the chain. I’ve made reservations at the Howard Johnson’s, the one on the beachside.”

“I don’t want you to spend your money.”

“It’s okay. It’s off season, they gave me a great rate. Besides, I haven’t seen the beach since I moved away.”

“All right,” she said, removing the key. “Here.” She handed it to him. “I better get back there with Art.” They stood up.

Rick added the key to his chain and put it back in his pocket. “You need anything?”

“Not right now. I’ve already spoken with Andrea. She normally works on Saturdays anyway, so she should be there when you arrive tomorrow.”

“And she knows what she’s doing?”

“Pretty much,” his mom said, a slight smile appearing. “It’s not very complicated, Rick. Nothing compared to what you do every day.” She hugged him tightly. “I’m so proud of you. How well you’re doing. You know you’re the first one in our family to ever get a degree.”

“Thanks, Mom. And don’t worry. We’ll figure this out. Is this the number I should use to call you, the one on this phone?”

“Yes, just leave a message and I’ll call back as soon as I can. Thank you, Rick.”

“It’s okay.” He hugged her again and walked out. As he rode the elevator down, he knew all his hopes and holiday plans were heading in the same direction.

Rick had planned to take a walk on the beach at sunrise.

Maybe tomorrow.

At the moment, he sat on one of the padded orange benches in a booth at the Howard Johnson’s, hurrying through some scrambled eggs and sausage. In about ten minutes, he’d head over to the store; he hoped Andrea would be there as promised. Howard Johnson’s looked just like he remembered, except for the part where he was the only one in the restaurant. He glanced toward the back wall at the ice cream bar, the sign above still boasting “28 Luscious Flavors.” A handwritten sign taped below it said: “Sorry, only 13 now.”

The hostess who’d greeted him and led him to the table now served as his waitress. It appeared that Rick’s tip would form the bulk of her morning salary. He saw one old fellow wearing the traditional orange and blue HoJo hat, working by himself in the kitchen. November was typically a slow season, but this seemed a little nuts. Last night the guy at the front desk told Rick things were tough at Howard Johnson’s all over the country. Gas prices had slowed tourist travel to a crawl. Last year, the Johnson family sold the whole chain to some British outfit.

There were only four other people staying at the Motor Lodge. It was kind of sad. Howard Johnson’s had been his father’s favorite motel. They’d stayed at three of them when they moved down here from Ohio, when Rick was eight. As soon as he’d see a billboard saying it was one mile away, Rick would stick his head out the window like a hound dog. His mom would yell at him to get back inside. He’d let out a shout the moment he saw that bright orange roof sticking out in every direction, the weather vane pointing at the sky. Two wonderful things came next: ice cream and a swimming pool. All the Howard Johnson’s had them.

A kid’s dream.

Best of all, his dad always made sure they got a room with Magic Fingers. His mom hated that. But he and his dad would lie there, popping quarters in the little gray box every fifteen minutes. The bed would rattle and shake, and their teeth would chatter away. Couldn’t fathom now what was so fun about it. It just was. It was a perfect way to end a long day on the road.

Rick smiled, thinking about last night. The Seabreeze HoJo still had three rooms with Magic Fingers beds. One of them faced the ocean, cost five dollars more. The Magic Fingers bed still only cost a quarter. So Rick had just laid there, unwinding, trying to remember when his dad was still with them. Before his mom had run him off two years later.

That was the conclusion he’d come to, but, actually, he wasn’t really sure what happened. His mom would never talk about it. But he remembered that he’d had a great dad for a while, and that he was a lot of fun to be with. And he had a mom who seemed mostly concerned about doing the right thing. Bedtimes, vegetables, and chores. Toward the end, he’d hear them yelling behind closed doors, seemed like every night. He could never hear what they said, but it was clear his dad just couldn’t take it anymore.

One night, he’d just gotten up and walked out. Rick had called out to him, chased him out the door. But he sped off down the road. Rick had run down the sidewalk until his dad drove out of sight.

It was the last time Rick saw him.

“You want a refill on that?”

Rick heard the words, but they didn’t connect. “What?” he said, looking up at the waitress.

“Want me to top off your coffee?”

He glanced at his watch. “No thanks, I gotta get going.”

Their ice cream might be luscious, but the coffee was just awful.

Rick thrummed the dashboard and looked at the clock. He would be at least five minutes late to the store. He was stuck on a little drawbridge, waiting for this sailboat to mosey on by, as cars backed up for blocks on either side. The bridge tender had started opening the bridge when the guy was half a mile away. He couldn’t be going more than five mph, sitting on deck sipping his morning coffee, stopping traffic all the way down the intercoastal waterway.

Rick put his car in park; it was obvious he was going to be there a while. He barely noticed the red and silver garland wrapped around the lampposts like a barber pole. The fake boughs of holly tied just below the light fixtures, like Christmas bow ties. He looked beyond the railing toward the big houses lining the water’s edge. They were really something. He remembered doing a term paper about them back in high school.

Most were built in the 1920s. Big sprawling affairs. Wraparound porches. Manicured lawns and hedgerows. The riverfront estates of the rich and famous. They’d escape the snow and ice for a few months then head back north in the spring, leaving a small staff behind to swat mosquitoes and fight the summer heat. The crash of ’29 forced most of them into foreclosure.

They fell into disrepair from the 1930s through to the ’60s, right up until the mass production of central air-conditioning. That’s what Rick’s paper had been about: “How Central Air-Conditioning Created the State of Florida.”