The 13th Gift Read online

  A cardiologist had tried multiple medications and procedures to coerce Rick’s rapid heartbeat into a normal rhythm. On a late September morning at Miami Valley Hospital, a technician had even stopped Rick’s heart in the hope it would restart itself at a normal pace. Rick needed surgery to replace a leaky heart valve, a birth defect that could no longer just be monitored at age forty-five. We could have scheduled the surgery immediately, but Rick wanted to postpone it.

  “Can I wait a few weeks?” he asked the doctor. “I want to time my recovery with the kids’ Christmas vacation.”

  I dig a thumbnail into the palm of my hand until it bleeds. The pain makes me feel better, slows the rapid pace of my heart. I can handle this kind of pain. I dab at the blood with a wad of toilet paper, thinking how I would freak out if one of my kids did this.

  I imagine spending the rest of my life in the store bathroom. I can see the headline: MOTHER BECOMES RESTROOM RECLUSE.

  “Mommy, I have to go to the bathroom,” a little voice whines outside my stall. “I’ve got to go now.”

  A mop of red curls peeks under my door.

  What am I doing in here?

  It takes me a few minutes to summon the nerve to open the door. I exit the bathroom just behind my stall peeper and her mother. A tall man with carrot-colored hair sweeps the child up into his arms and my heart aches.

  “Ready to go see Santa?” he asks.

  I walk past the family with my head bowed, hoping the child doesn’t mention me to her daddy. While the family gets in line for a photo with Santa, I backtrack to the bike aisle to retrieve my shopping cart. My stalker clerk has beaten me to it. She is holding the blow-up Santa in one-hand and talking to the bicycle stock boy.

  “There was something strange about that lady,” I hear her saying.

  “For sure. Who doesn’t like Christmas music?”

  I sneak out of the aisle. The crush of shoppers seems to be multiplying as I head toward the exit, and it’s difficult to maneuver through the crowded departments, even without a shopping cart. People are grabbing merchandise off shelves as if their lives depend on buying this gift or that.

  “Won’t Cindy love this doll?”

  “How about a tie for Uncle George, or maybe slippers?”

  “Grandma needs a new robe.”

  Their enthusiasm defeats me.

  I spot the old guy, mom, and toddler in a checkout lane on my way to the door. They appear to have reconciled and are talking to each other, laughing. Both hold a copy of the video game. Their smiling faces somehow manage to annoy me even more.

  Back in the car, I navigate to the nearest drive-through restaurant, order two hot fudge cakes with extra whipped cream, pull into a parking space, and devour them both in the dark. The food comforts me. It’s something I can control. I go back through the line for two double-decker cheeseburgers with extra pickle. By the time I gobble down the last bite of my fast-food feast, I am late for my rendezvous with the kids. I head out to my sister-in-law’s house with a black hole in the trunk of my car where presents should be. By the time I pull into Tom and Char’s driveway, the fudge cakes and burgers are warring in my stomach, incited by a full on attack of failure. I dread facing Charlotte.

  She meets me at the door with a hopeful look.

  “Did you buy a bike?”

  I don’t want to lie to her, but I also don’t want to tell her the truth.

  “They didn’t have the right color … checking other stores.”

  The expression on Char’s face tells me she isn’t buying my excuse any more than I bought the bike, but she drops the conversation as we enter the kitchen. Nick and Meg are sitting at her table gorging on homemade peach cobbler oozing with heaping scoops of vanilla ice cream.

  “Hey guys, did you get your homework done?”

  “Mom, you’ve gotta try this,” Nick answers with his mouth full, and I know he hasn’t opened a book.

  “I did mine twice,” Megan chimes in, and I don’t doubt it.

  While the kids bundle themselves up for the car trip home and collect their backpacks along with the remaining cobbler, Char pulls me aside.

  “How about tomorrow? Should we try this again?”

  She’s not giving up.

  “I could shop for you. Just tell me what to buy?”

  The tone in her voice gives me pause: she loves my kids so much and so obviously wants them to have a good Christmas. “We’ll see,” I tell her, then feel ashamed by the joy my response gives her. I appreciate that she’s trying to help, but I don’t know if I can face another shopping disaster. Maybe she is the secret Santa who left the flower on the porch yesterday.

  “I’ll make lasagna for dinner, and we’ll bake Christmas cookies while you shop. Meggie will love that.”

  “We’ll see,” I tell her again, but with firmness in my voice signaling an end to the conversation and all possibility of a repeat performance tomorrow.

  “Just think about it,” she says, and we both know I won’t.

  It is after ten p.m. when we pull into the garage at home. The house is dark, and I have no idea where Ben is, as usual. Nick and Meg empty the car of backpacks and gym bags. I send them into the house via the front door so that I can secret the remains of my binging into the trash.

  “I’ll be in right behind you.”

  Nick grabs the house key from my hand and announces his intent to polish off the cobbler as soon as he gets inside, but Megan lingers.

  “You’re going to hide Christmas presents aren’t you?” she asks. “Did you buy one for me?”

  Her innocent question fills me with regret, and I choke on my reply, feeling as if Rick and Father Christmas have their hands clenched around my throat.

  “Into the house, you. You’ll find out on Christmas morning.”

  She skips toward the front door and is almost bowled over when Nick comes charging back into the garage.

  “We got another present,” he shouts, holding up two packages of Christmas bows.

  The homemade card, heralding the Second Day of Christmas, gives no clue to the sender.

  On the second day

  of Christmas

  Your true friends give to you,

  Two bags of bows

  for all of you.

  “Wonder what we’ll get tomorrow,” Nick says, with a kid’s confidence that more gifts will follow. “I hope we get the five golden rings like in the song.”

  Megan’s immediate reaction is ecstasy way out of proportion to the bows themselves, which are lovely but completely ordinary.

  “Momma, you can put them on our Christmas presents!”

  The fudge cakes congeal in my stomach.

  “We’ll probably just get the bill,” I answer, prodding them both into the house and slamming the door behind us. I try to remember if I had mentioned my evening plans to Joann while I was at the office, wondering if she had known that our house would be empty for a few hours so that she could deposit the gift.

  The excitement over the arrival of a second gift and a sugar high from the cobbler and ice cream keeps them both awake long past bedtime. Nick is tented under a blanket playing a video game in his room, while Megan curls up in bed like a cat and asks me questions about her daddy.

  “I miss him” has become her evening standard, instead of “good night.”

  After talking for a little while, I turn off her light and go downstairs to make up my bed on the couch. It’s not long before I hear the floorboards creaking overhead. It is Megan, tiptoeing downstairs to look at the bows again.

  “Who do you think is leaving the gifts?”

  She opens a bag of the bows and begins to pair them up. She selects two with red and white stripes for her presents, blue for Nick, and green for Ben. I try to hide my tears, but she is a smart kid.

  “Will they leave a gift tomorrow? Nick is so sure.”

  Unable to answer, I shrug my shoulders.

  She curls up beside me on the couch and makes x’s and o’s on my nig
htgown above my heart.

  “Are they leaving the gifts … because of Dad, because we’re alone this Christmas?”

  I respond with a harsher tone than I intend.

  “Sometimes, adults don’t have all the answers, Meg, and I can’t answer that one. I do know you’ll be yawning in math class in the morning, if you don’t get to bed.”

  “I always yawn in math class,” she responds, not taking offense. “Besides, my science teacher says it’s a kid’s job to ask questions. I’m just doing my job.”

  “And it’s my job to make sure you get plenty of rest. Now scoot.”

  She gives up just after midnight when I threaten to ground her from basketball practice.

  “Don’t forget the red-and-white bows are for my presents,” her parting comment.

  “I won’t forget.”

  I listen for a few more minutes for her sock-padded shuffle coming back down the landing, but silence at last envelops the house.

  The neon glow of the toggle switch on the computer offers the only sign of life in the family room. The reflection of the pulsating beam on the package of bows casts a rainbow of dancing shadows on the wall. I think maybe it’s a sign. I wrap a quilt around me and sit down at the computer. My intent is to try online Christmas shopping, but the endeavor ends just as my shopping trip did. I’m in no mood for jolly, and the pair of dancing elves directing me to toys, bikes, and basketballs is beyond my level of holiday cheer. I hit the Escape key and bring up a blank page.

  “Make a shopping list,” I order myself. The cursor blinks and fades, twenty times, sixty, one hundred, so I flip back to a search engine and type.

  “Are you there, Rick?”

  My fingers hover over the Enter key, and I think how embarrassing it would be if Ben should walk in on me right now. I thump on the key anyway.

  An ad flashes across the monitor: “You can find everything on eBay.” Frustrated, I toss the bags of bows in the trash. The image of Megan’s hopeful smile delivers a flying forehand smash to my gut. I go to bed before I have a chance to change my mind.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Third Day of Christmas

  THE CHRISTMAS BOWS from our true friends rematerialize the next morning, shifting from the trash can in the laundry room onto Megan’s nightstand.

  When my daughter finishes her cereal, I run my fingers through her hair, working out the tangles, a morning ritual we both enjoy. She closes her eyes and leans back into her seat, cascading her hair over the back of the chair.

  “Sleepy?” I ask.

  “Just thinking,” she replies.

  Ben joins us. I know that I can’t let another missed curfew pass without comment. I plan my attack while he heats instant oatmeal in the microwave. I let him take a few bites before charging.

  “I didn’t fall asleep until after midnight. What time did you get home?”

  “Way before that,” he says. “You were in the bathroom. I went straight to bed.”

  I want to believe him.

  Megan rolls her eyes but doesn’t challenge her brother. Even a little bit of rebellion is out of character for her, and I fear something is brewing between them.

  Ben has one very loud word for his little sister, “What?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all,” she says.

  Nick wanders into the dining room playing his Game Boy. He eats dry cereal out of the box so he doesn’t miss a minute of playing time. He is unaware of the tension at the table but defuses it anyway.

  “We got a second gift last night,” he tells his brother. “Two bags of bows.”

  “Where are they? Did you see who left them?”

  Megan flashes me what I think is a disappointed look.

  “The Christmas bows are in my bedroom,” she says. “Mom doesn’t want them.”

  The boys speak simultaneously, “Why not?”

  I walk out of the room in search of my purse to avoid answering the question. Megan responds loud enough for me to hear.

  “She’s getting a cold.”

  “Another one?” Nick asks.

  I pull ten dollars from my wallet and hand it to Ben, moving the conversation away from the gifts and onto dinner plans for the evening. I have a late meeting to cover for the newspaper and won’t be home in time to cook. The honor falls to him.

  “Can you go to the grocery after school? We need milk and butter.”

  I wait for Ben to erupt, but he just pockets the cash.

  “There’s a box of macaroni and cheese on the counter.”

  Megan gives Nick a pleading look, and I’m not sure what it means, but her brother’s attention is tethered to Super Mario.

  “I can walk to Dot’s Market after school,” she volunteers. “I’ll get the groceries.”

  “How about, no,” Ben says.

  Since the market is more than a mile away, I agree with my son.

  “Why don’t you take your sister with you,” I suggest.

  The look on Ben’s face is far from filial. My mom radar starts beeping when Megan melts back into her chair and closes her eyes again, but I attribute the mood to her late bedtime and my trashing of the bows.

  I know what’s going on. Instead of fanning her joyous spirit, I am stomping it out. I want to make amends, maybe take her to a movie this weekend.

  “How about we—” The arrival of Ben’s school bus outside the house ends the conversation and sends everyone scrambling. Nick’s and Meg’s buses are never far behind. As Ben walks out the door, I ask him to spend time with his sister this evening.

  “She’s ten. She doesn’t need a babysitter,” he says.

  Though she isn’t her usual chatty self, Megan gives me a long hug before she walks out to wait for her bus. The hug is reassuring and makes me feel a little better about the bows.

  All three kids make it to the stop before their buses leave without them. I congratulate myself with a Diet Coke and hope the caffeine will inspire me to whittle away at the heap of dirty clothes in the laundry room. While throwing used dryer sheets into the trash, I discover Megan didn’t rescue all the bows this morning. The ones made of red-and-white striped ribbon—the two she selected for herself—lie in the bottom of the bin. My heart melts, and I know with certainty that I am the worst mother in the world.

  “She’s losing Christmas.”

  Instead of piddling around home until noon getting the Smith house in shape for Christmas as planned, I arrive at the office just after ten. I tell myself this is where I need to be right now. I am building a career to support my family, but that is only partly true. I spend more time in the office than at home. It’s just easier.

  By the time I get back home, it is around seven p.m. I walk in the door regretting having gone into work so early. The extra hours at the office resulted in an additional story to write. I am tired. My feet hurt. Nick and Megan are sitting at the table with bowls of mac ’n’ cheese before them. Ben is not around, but his car is in the driveway, and I am encouraged to see that food is on the table.

  “Smells yummy.”

  The kids look at each other and freeze. I get no hello, or “how was your day?” The sense of relief I experienced walking through the door evaporates. I dump my coat and purse on the couch and sit down with Nick and Megan. Upon closer examination, the concoction in front of them looks like steaming bowls of cellulite. Nick’s dinner is smothered in Frank’s Red Hot sauce. Megan’s is garnished with more dill pickles than a McDonald’s uses in a day.

  “It’s not horrible,” Nick says feebly.

  “Where’s your brother?”

  “Basement.”

  In the kitchen I find the source of the cellulite. An empty jar of mayonnaise sits on the counter. There is no butter or milk in the refrigerator. I stomp off to talk to my eldest.

  I had promised Ben at his father’s funeral that I would not allow this death to force him into adulthood. I think that was the last time my son really listened to me. I try talking to him, but he is so angry—with me, his dad, li
fe. His rage fuels mine, and we both explode with hurtful words and creep away exhausted by the effort. I don’t fear my son, but I fear what we will say to each other at moments when the truth of our family’s loss hits us broadside. When I hug him, he shirks me off. When I tread gently, he ignores me. When I yell, he yells back. I fear lightning will strike. Contemplating when it will happen or where keeps me on high alert and on edge.

  I can still hear the kids talking upstairs, and their conversation confirms there is a problem.

  “I hate this,” Megan says to Nick.

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Not just the food, everything. We used to talk at dinner, about school and sports and stuff. I miss Mom’s roast beef sandwiches, and chicken and noodles.”

  “Tacos with black olives,” Nick adds to the list.

  Family meals used to be special. The television got turned off. Telephone calls went unanswered. Each of us shared the best of our day and the worst. Now dinners consist of cold-meat sandwiches, salads, hamburgers from a bag, and apparently mac ’n’ cheese made out of mayo. There is very little conversation without Rick to lead it.

  “Tell me about your day, princess.” Nick gives his best impression of their dad. “How about you twirl some macaroni on that fork for me.”

  Of Italian descent, their father had given his fine-art-of-eating-pasta demonstration every time spaghetti appeared on the menu. Megan’s utensil scrapes against her bowl, and I imagine my children attempting to spin the mac ’n’ cheese around it, even though the elbow noodles aren’t twirling material.

  “No cutting spaghetti noodles in our house,” Nick continues his dad impersonation.

  The sound of Megan’s laughter weighs me down, and I pause. I want to go upstairs and share these memories with my children. I want to march downstairs and get Ben to fess up about the dinner, but my body is stone. I can’t move. I just lie down on the couch and listen.