The 13th Gift Read online

  “Maybe we’ll have a snow day tomorrow,” she says hopefully. “Snow days all the way to Christmas break would be lovely.”

  “Is it still snowing?” I ask.

  Megan opens the front door and flips on the porch light. A small package sits in the snow outside the door.

  “It’s here! The seventh gift!”

  Ben and Nick hear Megan’s announcement and race back upstairs to confiscate the card. A debonair little snowman with a colorful string scarf and big red shoes smiles at us from the front cover. Inside, there are pictures of pine trees, and our family’s special version of the Christmas carol.

  On the Seventh Day

  of Christmas

  Your true friends give to you …

  Seven golden apples

  Six holiday cups

  Five angeled note cards

  Four gift boxes

  Three rolls of gift wrap

  Two bags of bows

  and

  One poinsettia

  For all of you

  I let the boys fuss over the card. I’m pretty sure Terry’s visit later in the week will end the mystery, at least for me.

  My daughter is admiring the seven gold apple ornaments, when Nick tries to grab them from her.

  “Let’s put them on the tree,” he says.

  She refuses to give them up.

  “These are special,” she says. “I know where they belong, and it’s not on the tree.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Eighth Day of Christmas

  WITH MEGAN OVERSEEING our progress, the transformation of our home from everyday to holiday is nearly complete. It has taken an all-out Smith family effort to accomplish. By late afternoon the day after the golden apples arrive, I am surveying the house room by room, making sure it’s ready for our first holiday guest. Rick’s friend and coworker Terry Molnar is on his way.

  Megan and I have exhumed my collection of Santa figurines, who now stand at attention on the sideboard in the living room. The ones that don’t fit are spreading the spirit of the season in some unexpected spaces. Made of glass, carved from chestnut, molded in porcelain and plastic, or hand sewn, each figure is a vessel of Christmas memories. A foot-tall Santa dressed in a green coat flashes the peace sign from behind a shower curtain in the guest bathroom, and I park a rotund Père Noël beside our bathroom scale, a reminder not to overindulge.

  Rick and I had few contentious moments in our marriage, but the extent of my Santa collection definitely created several.

  Once, as we were packing the figurines away for the season, Rick asked me which of the jolly old elves was my favorite. We were running out of storage space in the basement, and he thought it time to thin down the collection. I looked around: my sister Carol—Aunt Sugar to my kids because she always carried candy for them in her purse—had made weekly payments on the hand-carved, pipe-toting Santa dressed in red long johns. She believed paying for presents on the installment plan kept loved ones close to her heart all through the year, or at least until their gifts were paid off.

  Her motto: “I don’t just give gifts, I make memories.”

  Not all of my Santas are store-bought; several of my favorites are made of construction paper and cotton balls, presents from my children in the early stages of their artistic careers. Rick gave me only one, a weary little fellow with sad eyes. The blue-robed Saint Nick always seemed out of step with the rest of the happy crowd, and I asked my husband why he had selected that particular one for me.

  “He carries the burdens of the world, so the rest of us don’t have to,” Rick had said. “Give him troubles. Give me your troubles.”

  Then he had kissed me and whispered, “I love you.”

  As the origin of each Santa pinballed around in my brain, I realized Rick’s question wasn’t that difficult to answer.

  “All of them,” I said.

  Rick had thrown up his hands then at the thought of finding room to store my seven boxes of chubby little dudes. He was the closet organizer, the cupboard cleaner, the guy who drew a diagram to pack a suitcase or rearrange furniture. I’m more of a “shove, stuff, and close the door quickly” kind of girl.

  “You want me reorganizing the storage closet?” I had asked.

  “My place in the family, right?” he had said.

  I gave him a polite “yes dear,” and handed him the largest box.

  This year I will repack the decorations myself, but I have the feeling his spirit will be standing there with me, especially if I fall back on my stuff-and-slam method. And while it’s painful to think about, I realize that I will cherish the moments that remind me of him.

  I rearrange several of the Santas, then do a 360-degree scan around the room. The evergreen illuminating the front window still needs trimming, but the lights make the room festive. Nick has fashioned the pine sprigs that broke off its frozen trunk into a centerpiece for the table. I dig out a peppermint-scented candle and place it amid the greenery. When I light it, the minty aroma fills the house.

  “Smells like candy canes,” Megan says, surveying the room approvingly. “We should buy some.”

  I had driven to Bellbrook Chocolates earlier in the day and had walked right past a display of candy canes on my way to purchase six boxes of candy for Terry to bring back to the folks at Gem City. I don’t want to seem ungrateful if they are the source of our mysterious gifts.

  “Next time I go to the grocery,” I promise my daughter.

  Megan insists on greeting our guest in a too-small red sweater adorned with a polar bear dressed in Santa attire. The sleeves miss her wrists by two inches. I try to coax her into a lovely purple sweatshirt I bought last fall.

  “This is the only Christmas sweater I have,” she says, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m wearing it.”

  The boys are less concerned about their appearance. They wear dress shirts scented with Easy-On Speed Starch. I add extra under-eye concealer to my makeup regime.

  Earlier in the day, I had scrubbed the family room floor, the kitchen, the bathrooms. I want Terry to see a mother in charge, a family recovering, kids under control. We are not perfect, but we are better. Christmas is hard work; I’m tired but also energized. If we learn Rick’s coworkers are orchestrating this game of Secret Santa for our family, I want them to know they have made a difference. I half expect the lot of them to show up on our doorstep, just like the gifts.

  Even Ben agrees to be part of the welcoming committee, and I wonder if he shares my suspicions that his father’s coworkers are not just being friendly, but are true friends.

  “I want to hear what Terry has to say” is all he acknowledges.

  In the kitchen, my eldest and I fill green and red bowls with chips and pretzels for our guest. The offerings look paltry on the dining room table.

  “We should have baked cookies,” Ben says.

  I look at him and raise my eyebrow to say that none of us could have fit another chore into this day.

  “Next year,” I tell him. “We’ll make cookies.”

  He is fiddling with a twisty tie on the potato chip bag, but the darn thing keeps falling off. When it lands on the floor a third time, I pick it up.

  “What’s on your mind, Kiddo?”

  I rethink the old nickname when Ben lifts his face and looks at me. The maturity I see chiseled there is a new work of art.

  “It won’t be long before he leaves me, too,” I say to myself. “But he will come back … with a wife, maybe grandchildren.”

  “Is Christmas always going to be this hard?” he asks quietly. “We won’t have the gift givers to help us through the holidays next year. How do we make it without them, without Dad?”

  “We’re learning,” I tell him.

  We lean into each other.

  “We will hold each other up.”

  The doorbell rings, and we step away from each other.

  “Let’s go meet our gift givers,” I say.

  “You really think it’s the guys from Gem Ci
ty?”

  “Yep. We’ll know for sure in a minute.”

  But Terry arrives alone, carrying Christmas stockings filled with candy, small toys, and gadgets for the kids. Though he has been my friend for more than twenty years, Rick was our connection. My husband’s absence makes the conversation between us awkward.

  “I remember when I first met him,” Terry says, still standing by the door. “I went over to his house on a Friday night with his brother Tom. Rick was sitting cross-legged on the floor in between two huge stereo speakers. He was bouncing up and down to the beat of the music. I’ve never laughed so hard. I just loved him.”

  Megan sits on the couch beaming, her large smile encouraging Terry to share more tales of her dad.

  “Please, let me take your coat. Sit down,” I say.

  Terry shakes his head.

  “I can’t stay long.”

  He pulls an envelope from his coat pocket and hands it to me.

  “This is from the guys at the shop.”

  The envelope bulges with cash and gift certificates to a local superstore, one that carries everything from groceries to electronics and toys. Terry tells us the company gave the gift certificates to its employees as a Christmas bonus. Eighty-eight people had regifted them to us.

  The idea started with Steve Hey, a Gem City employee who had worked for Rick for many years. In the weeks following his boss’s death, I learned Steve had replayed old messages left by Rick on his answering machine just to hear his voice.

  When Steve shared the idea of taking up a collection for us, the shipping department built ten wooden donation boxes and painted them red. The design team created signs for the boxes, which were placed throughout the shop.

  During this season when most people were counting their pennies to fulfill the holiday dreams of their own children, the people at Gem City had remembered mine.

  “This means so much,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “Buy something special for the kids this Christmas,” Terry says.

  Nick doesn’t hide his enthusiasm.

  “That’s a great idea.”

  Terry laughs. “He’s just like his dad.”

  My mind is blank as new paper. I forget the refreshments out in the kitchen. Thankfully, Ben is thinking more clearly.

  “We didn’t have time to bake cookies, but we have some chips.”

  “I’m good. Thanks.”

  I set the envelope down on the coffee table and walk Terry outside. As I exit the room, I imagine Nick mentally calculating the contents of the envelope based on size and approximate weight. I know Ben is holding him back.

  We hear a scuffle as we walk out the door, and I suspect the kids are diving for the envelope. Terry and I both smile. He hugs me good-bye.

  “I was on sick leave the day Rick died. They called me at home,” he says. “When I heard, I just sat there in the chair. I can’t even tell you what I thought.”

  Terry leaves me standing on the front porch. As he opens his car door, I remember there’s a question I haven’t asked him. I think about calling out to him, but change my mind.

  “If the gifts stop now, I will know,” I whisper, and somehow talking to myself doesn’t seem so worrisome anymore.

  By the time I step back inside, Ben and Nick are separating the cash into similar denominations. All total, Rick’s Gem City family gave us $3,453 in cash and certificates.

  “This is freakin’ awesome,” Ben says. “I can’t believe it.”

  Megan kneels on the couch watching as her daddy’s buddy drives off.

  “They really liked him, didn’t they?” she asks.

  I sit beside her, picking cat hair from her sweater.

  “He was easy to love.”

  Ben stops counting the cash after a third tally and asks if I mentioned the anonymous gifts. I’m embarrassed to say no.

  “Do you suppose this is it? Are the gifts history?” he asks.

  “It’s only the eighth day of Christmas. Our true friends would never stop now,” Megan says confidently.

  While the boys begin debating how the money should be spent, I stuff it all back into the envelope.

  “We should do something special for the people who gave it to us,” Megan says, and I agree.

  “Send a thank-you note,” Nick suggests. “Thank goodness you’re a writer, Mom.”

  “My place in the family, right?” I say, echoing Rick’s words.

  How do you thank someone for supporting your children through the worst Christmas of their lives? Eight days ago the world looked different. I thought we were alone. Today, I know true friends surround us. The kindness shown to our family humbles me. I drop spare change in the Salvation Army kettle every Christmas, but I’ve never really gone out of my way to help anyone. I’m not a bad person; I just never thought about what it means to be good. Is it really giving if it comes easy? I don’t think so anymore.

  Nick pulls me back into the conversation.

  “Are you going to do it, Mom? Are you going to let us pick something special out for Christmas, like Terry said?”

  “Maybe, but there’s something I want each of you to do first.”

  A trio of groans interrupts me.

  “No more housework,” Nick pleads. “The floors squeak they’re so clean.”

  I have something else in mind.

  “People have been so generous to us since Daddy died, cooking meals, shuttling you guys to practices. Now we have this wonderful gift from Gem City and the others from our true friends. How about we try to do something that honors them all? Let’s make Christmas merry for someone else.”

  I watch as the three kids mull it over. Ben speaks up first.

  “I’m going to need cash,” he says reaching for the envelope from Gem City in my hand. “It takes money to make merry.”

  That’s not what I’m going for here.

  “It doesn’t have to involve money, or presents. When you see someone in need, don’t walk away. Do something.”

  Megan likes the idea.

  Nick rejects it outright.

  “I don’t know anybody who needs anything.”

  My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but I don’t want to let this conversation drop.

  “How about we go out to dinner and talk about it?”

  “That’ll give our gift givers the opportunity to drop off today’s present,” Megan says. “Let’s get Italian. That’s Dad’s favorite.”

  The idea is tempting, but I take a different approach. I grab paper and pencils from the junk drawer and give one of each to the kids.

  “Everybody write down your favorite restaurant.”

  We put our selections into Ben’s baseball cap, and then I reach in and pick one.

  “Ponderosa.”

  All three cheer. I take a peek at the other selections for future reference. They are all the same. Ben grabs the car keys from my purse, tosses them in the air, and catches them.

  “Can I drive?”

  We wait in line at the restaurant for half an hour, then grab a table so far away from the buffet line that Nick insists he will need to consume extra carbs to compensate for the walk. We lay our coats over the chairs so other table hunters will know this one is occupied. Nick, naturally, is the first in line and the first to return to our table. I take my time making food selections, lots of salad, a baked potato, and my absolute favorite, brussels sprouts. I am so focused on the feast before me, I don’t immediately notice the young man wearing military fatigues sitting at our table until he stands and pulls out the chair for me.

  “How do, ma’am,” he says.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve been the recipient of such chivalry. It is nice, but I’m not sure why this soldier is seated at our table.

  Nick swallows a mouthful of mashed potatoes and then introduces me to his new friend John.

  “He was standing in the corner, and his plate of food was getting cold. He had no place to sit,” Nick says. “We had a
n empty chair.”

  Nick goes back into food-shoveling mode, this time attacking a plate of chicken wings.

  “I don’t want to be a bother,” John says apologetically. “It’s just that Nick here, he insisted.”

  “Please, join us!” I motion for him to sit down, smiling to myself that despite his earlier protest, Nick obviously did know how to reach out to others. “Sit. Eat.”

  As we eat, John tells us his family lives nearby. Granted leave two days ago, he had planned to surprise his mother.

  “I took a cab from the airport. No one was home,” he says. “Food sounded like a good way to pass time, so I walked over.”

  John’s excitement over seeing his family grows more evident as we get to know him.

  “Mom was disappointed when I told her I might not make it home for the holidays,” he says. “The whole family goes caroling on Christmas Eve, except for her. She stays home, roasting the turkey, making homemade dressing, all the trimmings.”

  He grows quiet, but his smile broadens. When he speaks again, his eyes are closed.

  “The smell of our house on Christmas Eve sticks in my memory more than any present I ever received. That’s home to me. That’s the holidays.”

  The kids remain quiet while John sits with eyes closed. Even Nick sets his fork down and stops munching.

  John’s memories draw me back to my own childhood and the meals my mom prepared on Christmas Eve. Fried whitefish, Polish sausage, cabbage rolls. The feast was a precursor to midnight mass, where Mom sang Polish Christmas carols with the choir. Though my dad, who was of Hungarian descent, didn’t understand a word of the lyrics, he had memorized them over the years and belted them out as if native-born.

  I am wondering what holiday memory will linger with my kids, when John opens his eyes and catches us staring at him.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Who wants dessert?”

  The kids flock to the buffet line. That’s when John asks me about their dad.

  “Was he sick long?”

  I don’t want to go there. I don’t want to be sad or feel bad about how much I am enjoying this evening. But Rick is part of our story, and I can’t deny his existence any more than John could forget his mom.