The 13th Gift Page 7

  “It may be the smallest room, but it’s going to be special,” Rick had said.

  I can’t imagine Nick in any other bedroom.

  My brain vaults across all the reasons why the move to the basement isn’t a good idea for Nick, and I stick the landing on a big one.

  “Have you mentioned this to your brother?”

  Nick shakes his head reluctantly. “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  My two younger children have mostly ceded the basement rec room to their older brother since their dad’s death, avoiding clashes with Ben and his buddies, who have claimed the space for themselves. I don’t want Nick to start a territory war, but on the other hand, the proximity of their rooms could help strengthen Nick’s relationship with his big brother. I am torn.

  “After the first of the year, Nick. We can talk about it.”

  True to his nature, Nick persists.

  “It’s all I want for Christmas, Mom. A new room. It’s all I want.”

  I hand him the platter, minus the toaster pastry.

  “I get it, Nick. I’m not saying, no. I’m saying not right now.”

  Nick plops the platter on the kitchen counter, and it spins like an off-balance top. We both pounce to keep it from falling, but it slips and crashes to the floor. Nick’s face is ashen as he immediately begins picking up the pieces.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.”

  I don’t hear the apology. The words of the women in the store this morning are ricocheting around in my brain: “the family is falling apart, falling apart, falling apart.”

  Their hurtful words intertwine with the message on Rick’s note: “Christmas will be special.”

  The tears I’ve been hiding for two months come rushing out of me.

  “Everything is broken. We’re broken.”

  My outburst sends Nick fleeing to his room—his small, green, constellation-ceilinged room. I sit on the floor, picking up the pieces through blurred vision, and I cut my finger on a shard.

  I sit on the floor, thinking, while I watch the blood drip from my finger onto the pieces of the plate. I woke up this morning feeling like I might be able to get through the day in one piece, yet I had let myself get derailed by the women in the grocery store. But if Megan can believe that we aren’t broken, if Nick can find a way to move forward, then I can, too. Rick had wanted this Christmas to be special, and I am the one here to make his wish come true. When the blood clots, I stand, wash my hands, and then wrap a bandage around the cut.

  “Do what you can,” I tell myself.

  The mess on the kitchen floor is a quick cleanup.

  With new resolve, I head downstairs to assess the state of things. The rec room is littered with boxes, but there is a narrow path leading to Ben’s basement hideaway. When I flip on the light switch, his room comes alive. The television turns on and so does the fan.

  Rick’s beige coat is lying on the floor next to the bed. A plastic bag from Dollar Tree sticks out of the pocket. I can’t help but look inside. There is no booze. No pot. No cigarettes. The bag holds a foam ball and a kid’s basketball hoop that attaches to the wall with suction cups and two comic books in a plastic sleeve.

  “Christmas gifts for Nick and Megan?”

  It’s enough to make me cut my search short. Only my guilt leaves the room with me. For months I have been suspicious of Ben’s actions, wary about his late nights, suspecting that he may land in a scrape with the law. Now, I know where the grocery money went. Could he be our Secret Santa? Or is he buying Christmas gifts for his siblings because he knows I have not.

  This has been a day for lessons, and I don’t like learning any of them, but in my heart I know I need to.

  I spend an hour in the rec room looking for good reasons why Nick should not move down here, logical ones that he will accept without argument. There are bins of outgrown clothes and broken toys, bundles of old newspapers, and boxes holding the remains of Rick’s office at Gem City Engineering: pencils, pens, family photos that used to sit on his desk. All is protected under double layers of bubble wrap.

  Crates of Rick’s record album collection are stacked in piles, just as he left them after he replaced our favorites with compact discs. Leo Kottke, Pink Floyd, Yes—the groups set the early years of our marriage to music. The song lists feel like old friends, and the cardboard album jackets, individual pieces of art. I start sorting through them and set several aside to share with Ben, who inherited his dad’s taste in music. This room is crowded with memories that would need a new home if Nick’s bedroom displaces them, but perhaps that wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen.

  The doorbell rings, giving me an excuse to escape from my contemplation.

  By the time I reach the living room, Nick is running up the driveway with a gift bag in his hand.

  He reenters the house excited, but hesitates when he sees me. I suspect he is gauging whether my meltdown has reached nuclear magnitude, or if I’ve cooled off. In truth, I’m somewhere in the middle, but I smile and motion for him to have a seat beside me on the sofa.

  “I didn’t recognize the car,” he says, slightly out of breath.

  He pulls five angel note cards from the gift bag and hands them to me. He notices my bandaged finger.

  “What happened?”

  “It’s just a little cut. I’m clumsy.”

  “Mom …”

  “We’re good,” I tell him. “Let’s see if we can find a clue on our Fifth Day of Christmas card.”

  We compare the new card to the earlier ones.

  “This one’s a lot different, simpler,” Nick observes. “It doesn’t look like the same person made them.”

  “You could be right,” I agree.

  There are no hand-drawn holly leaves or embellishments. The card is made of green construction paper cut with pinking shears, so the edges are zigzagged.

  “The date is written at the top. That’s different,” Nick says. “And the words are printed, not in cursive.”

  The message on the card is similar to the others.

  12-17-99

  On the fifth day

  of

  Christmas …

  your true friends

  give to you …

  5 angel note cards

  4 gift boxes

  3 rolls of gift wrap

  2 bags of bows

  &

  1 poinsettia …

  for all of you.

  “Who would do this for us?” I say out loud, not really questioning Nick, but the universe.

  He shrugs his shoulders.

  “Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, might as well be the bogeyman for all we know,” he says.

  Our conversation lulls, until Nick spots the stack of albums I carried up from the basement. He folds his hands as if praying, then silently mouths the word please. But his face is already splitting into a big grin, and I can tell he knows he’s made his case.

  It feels good to see my son smile. I let the words spill out, before I have a chance to rethink them.

  “We’ll have to clean, gut it completely, and paint,” I tell him, feeling the weight of Christmas pressing down on my chest. Now, though, I can at least appreciate the light in Nick’s eyes as he realizes he might get the gift that he wants.

  “You won’t have to do anything,” he insists. “Leave it to me.”

  We descend the basement steps, together this time.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Sixth Day of Christmas

  I WAKE WITH aching muscles from sorting through pounds of debris in the basement the night before, but for the first time in months I feel good about all we accomplished. Nick and I had decluttered part of the rec room, taking only a short break to collect Megan from basketball practice and then to gobble some chicken wings—not most kids’ idea of a great Friday night, but my kid was up for the challenge. By midnight we had filled thirteen trash bags and four boxes of clothing to donate to charity. All told, we had cleared out about a qu
arter of the room.

  While Nick and I were sorting and organizing, Megan carried the Christmas decorations up to the family room under the ruse of getting them out of our way. By the time we went to bed, she had created a haphazard wonderland around the house. Sleighs, snowmen, Nativity scenes, and strings of white lights sparkled from every spare inch of shelf space, except in the basement.

  “As soon as you’re done with the painting, I’ll work some Christmas magic down here,” she had promised her brother before we turned in for the night.

  The next morning, I’m lounging on the couch giving my muscles a break before attacking the basement once again, when Charlotte rings the doorbell and lets herself into the house. I presume she’s here to talk about the success of my Christmas shopping, or to expose my utter failure at it.

  “Anybody home?”

  When I hear her footsteps on the stairs, I pull a blanket over my head. My sister-in-law tugs the coverlet off.

  “Gracious, Jo. Do you know what time it is?

  “Noonish?”

  Charlotte throws up her hands.

  “It’s Christmas time, girl!”

  She walks around the room, noting the thrown-together look of the Christmas decorations, and guesses my daughter has had more to do with their placement than me.

  “You can’t expect Meggie to pull Christmas off all by herself.”

  “I was up late working on Nick’s gift,” I say in self-defense.

  “Did you buy the bike?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Video games?”

  “No.”

  “Then what did you get him?”

  I share our plan to move Nick’s bedroom to the basement with Charlotte, and I tell her why we need to rush the project.

  “Once Nick makes up his mind, nothing changes it,” she agrees. “He’s like his daddy that way. Rick always got a project going right before Christmas, and as I recall, you were never happy about it.”

  “I’m not thrilled now, but Nick and the gift givers got the better of me.”

  “Did you get another gift?”

  I retrieve the five angel note cards from the kitchen and show them to her.

  “If you know anything about these, please tell me. Nick said the gifts inspired him to help Megan haul out our holiday decorations. That’s when he got the idea to move his room. Honestly, these gifts are taking on a life of their own, and I’m not sure I like it.”

  “If these little gifts help your kids heal, what’s the problem?”

  I don’t have an answer for her, but she has one for me.

  “Help comes in all kinds of packages, Jo. Don’t worry about who delivers it. Just accept.”

  Her words are like an instruction book written in a language I am just beginning to understand. My mind tells me all the information I need to get by is right there; I want to take it all in and believe, but I’m not ready yet.

  “I don’t need anyone confusing my kids. They’re confused enough already. Megan is convinced we’re experiencing some sort of Christmas miracle, and now this thing with Nick.”

  “What about Ben?”

  “He still doesn’t talk to me.”

  “Well, at least he’s immune to their magic,” Char says, then walks over and gives me a hug. “The holidays will pass. The gifts will stop coming, and you will figure out how to get on with your life.”

  I break her hold on me.

  “I’m just trying to survive the next seven days.”

  Charlotte rearranges a Nativity scene on the bookshelf, pairing Mary with Joseph instead of with one of the three kings, and then turns to speak to me.

  “Quit trying to be Wonder Woman,” she says. “I’m on my way to the mall. What can I do to help?”

  I’m tempted to take her up on the offer.

  “Nick wants a television, a computer with a ‘monster-sized monitor,’ and a new bed.”

  Charlotte laughs.

  “That sounds like our Nicky. I was thinking more along the lines of Legos,” she says, marching upstairs to wake Nick and Megan. “I’ll find out what they want.”

  I follow Char upstairs, intending to take a shower while she talks to the kids. I’m glad for a few minutes on my own. A part of me knows she is right. What harm would it do, really, if I give in to Christmas for the sake of the kids? Is it disrespectful to Rick’s memory, or is it what he would have wanted me to do? I keep playing both scenarios over in my mind. I am so confused. Rick promised we’d grow old together. He left us, left me. But he is the one man who ever made me feel truly loved, besides my dad. I’m not sure if this longing I’ve been feeling lately to get a grip and move on is natural, or if I am somehow betraying him.

  Behind the safety of the bathroom door I can hear Char talking with Nick and Megan, laughing. I sit down on the bathroom floor, and lean against the door, listening. With Char around, I’m like a patron in a movie theater. I can be an observer, rather than a part of the action.

  In our house, making a Christmas list has never been something left to the last minute. It’s a process that evolves from the first snowfall to the arrival of the newspaper sale ads on the morning of December 24. Getting the good stuff involves persistence, patience, and hours of studying store catalogues and circulars. Each time a new wish book arrived at the house, the kids would crowd around me, vying to see their favorite sections.

  “Doesn’t anyone want to sit next to me?” their dad would tease, knowing that for the moment his parental appeal couldn’t rival the slick, colored pages. Eventually, he, too, moved from the far end of the sofa to sit beside us, looking at new seasonal offerings and sale merchandise.

  The ads have been recycled this year without dog-eared edges.

  Nick assures Char he needs a fog machine, a black light, and glow-in-the-dark posters for his new room, all additions to the wish list he gave me. Megan says she wants one thing.

  “A Christmas tree. It won’t be the same if we don’t get one.”

  The veil of sadness that began lifting last night as Nick and I worked on the basement tries to slip back down, but this time, I push it back. This holiday season won’t be the same, whether or not we get a tree.

  Ready or not, Christmas will come.

  Twenty minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom showered and dressed. Charlotte is sitting in the living room waiting for me.

  “What’re you doing tonight?” she asks.

  “I got nothing.”

  “We’re getting those kids a Christmas tree, and don’t you tell me no. I’ll pick you up at seven. Tell Nick and Meg to dress warm. Ask Ben to come along. He can carry the tree.”

  My sister-in-law leaves before I can give her a reason I can’t go tonight. In truth, I’m grateful she has taken the decision out of my control. And she’s right. I don’t want to let Megan, or any of my kids, down. With her in charge of the expedition, we’ll get the tallest, fullest tree in town, and probably for less than anyone else would have paid. I wonder if I can persuade her to decorate the thing once we get it home, too.

  Ben walks up from the basement just as Charlotte backs her truck out of the driveway.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  Time to tell him about the bedroom switch.

  “Your brother’s been struggling since Dad died. He needs a change. We’re cleaning out the front of the basement and turning it into a room for him.”

  I brace for a confrontation.

  Ben sits down next to me and lays his head back on the couch. For the first time in months, he looks me in the eyes, and I see the sweet little boy who once asked Santa to bring him a sibling in his Christmas stocking.

  “It’s a good idea,” he says finally—to my surprise. “I can’t imagine what it’s like sleeping up there. I don’t even like going upstairs to take a shower.”

  While I sit mute, marveling at the fact my son is communicating with me and showing concern for his younger brother, he brings up another issue.

  “What about Megan? I
s she going to be all right sleeping upstairs alone?”

  “She knows the plan, and she hasn’t complained.”

  “She never does,” Ben says, and I acknowledge he is right. “Maybe she and Nick should both move downstairs for a while, just a couple of months until you feel comfortable sleeping in your room again.”

  “You wouldn’t mind having both of them downstairs?”

  “I’ll hate it, but I understand.”

  He’s being so agreeable, I decide to push my luck.

  “Does this mean you’ll help us clean out the rec room today?”

  Ben grimaces but agrees. So I pose one more question.

  “Char is taking us to get a tree tonight. Come along?”

  My question dams the goodwill that is flowing.

  “I’ll do anything for you, Mom, but not that. Leave me out of the Christmas plans.”

  I feel very much the way I did on Ben’s fourth Christmas, when he was so excited about a gift he had made for me that he unwrapped the present himself. His eyes had glowed when he handed me the red scarf cut from the folds of my very best dress with kid scissors.

  “I made it for you,” he had said.

  What mother can resist that kind of love?

  Now he offers me this new gift, the first real expression of love he’s shown since the death of his dad. But, this gift, too, cuts like the scissors on the scarf. I am worried about the anger he harbors, but relieved the angst is not directed toward me.

  Yesterday, when I found the Christmas gifts he bought for his siblings, I thought maybe he had come to terms with the holidays on his own. Now, I know that he still has a way to go.

  I don’t press him, though; honestly, I know how he feels, and I’m glad that I can give my son a little relief from the barrage of Christmas that I can’t seem to escape. I shift our conversation back to the basement project.

  We hear mumbling and turn to see Nick and Megan sitting on the steps.

  “So we’re going to be roomies?” Ben asks his younger brother.

  “I won’t get in your way,” Nick says.

  “I know, ’cause I won’t let ya.”

  I end their banter with one word, “Breakfast.”

  I scramble a dozen eggs, and the four of us eat in the rec room surveying what needs to be done to make the space livable.