The Christmas Note (11 page)

Each day a physical therapist worked his limbs to help him regain strength, and Kyle grew more determined to get out of bed on his own. On Thanksgiving Day, I sat on the bed beside him and we called Mom to check on the kids. It was more than two months after the bomb exploded and the first time Kyle attempted to talk to the kids, and in his head he thought he was talking fine but they struggled to understand him. He was quiet when we said our final good-byes to the kids, and I knew what he was thinking. “It’s hard to understand over the phone,” I said.

He was still the rest of the day, and I knew the phone call had taken a lot out of him. The next day he woke up, looked at me, and said, “You need to go home.”

I put my hand on the little sprouts of hair on top of his head. “What?”

His eyes were liquid blue. “The longer you’re here—” He stopped, reaching inside his brain for the next words. “They’ll think I’m dying.” I knew he meant the kids, and I started to say that Mom would assure them that he was getting stronger every day but he stopped me. “My mom and dad are here. Go move. Get them in school.”

I swung my legs off the side of the bed, looking at him. “No, Kyle!”

“They’ll be rushing—” He stopped, thinking. “Working—” He looked at me. “When you do a lot?”

“Busy?”

“They’ll be busy and won’t think I’m dead. Now they’re home thinking the worst.”

In a way, I knew he was right. The kids and I were always nervous when he returned home after being away for months at a time. We got into a rhythm of how things worked without Kyle and worried that he’d feel left out or that we didn’t need him on a daily basis. I couldn’t imagine how Emma and Ethan felt about his coming home now with so many injuries. They weren’t even sure what those injuries were or what Kyle could or couldn’t do. I dreaded leaving Kyle, but he was right. After the kids heard his voice they needed to know that he was okay.

He moved his hand to my leg and squeezed. “They need you. Go move and then—”

I put up my hand to stop him. “Hey! I’m the General, remember? I’ll get us moved, but then I’m coming back.”

He smiled. “I’ll be walking for you.”

“You mean you’ll be walking
to
me!”

I had been e-mailing pictures of Kyle all along, but before I left, his mom took several of Kyle and me together to show the children that we were still a team and he was doing okay. Although I didn’t really know what okay would look like for us now, I could tell Em and Ethan that he was alive and getting stronger every day. What more can any of us ask?

Eleven

In faith there is enough light for those who want to believe and enough shadows to blind those who don’t.

—
B
LAISE
P
ASCAL

MELISSA

The ringing makes me jump and I stumble out of bed, racing to the kitchen. “Hello,” I say into the receiver.

“Melissa, it’s Pat.” My supervisor at Wilson’s. I squint to see the clock on the microwave. It’s five in the morning. “Josh has been in an accident.” My brain struggles to remember who Josh is. “He was on his way to work.” Josh in the mail room! “Can you come in this morning?”

I haven’t worked on a Saturday in ages and try to recall what I have to do today but come up blank. “Sure. Yeah. I’ll shower and be right in.” Images of Kyle fill my mind. “Wait! How bad was he hurt?”

“All I know is he’s at University Park Hospital.”

At least four inches of new snow lie on the ground, and my tires slide when I back out of the garage. The roads are icy as I make my way slow and sure through the town square. For the first time in my life I can say I love it here. I love the sleepy streets and the three fir trees that are decorated for Christmas next to the gazebo. I love the dorky plastic Santa in the drugstore window and the evergreen wreaths that hang on each window of the fire station. Ramona died and I finally feel at home. I hope someday someone can explain that to me. Snow falls as if it’s sluggish, taking its time, and I think of Kyle, his legs no stronger than these puffs of snow and I realize I’ve never known anyone who has served in the military, let alone someone who has fought in a war. I’m embarrassed because I’ve never thought about what they do or the families they leave behind, who try to maintain some sort of normal without them.

I enter Wilson’s through the loading dock doors and make my way to the mail room. The shipping manifest shows a shipment is due at six this morning. I prep the shelves in the stockroom, although I know the shipment will be late due to the roads. When I finish, I walk to the office to see if by chance anyone is in yet. The office is dark and I check the door. It’s open. I walk inside and flip on the lights, looking around. I know if I call the hospital that they’ll never give me any information about Josh. Several file cabinets sit behind Judy’s desk, and I wonder if one of them contains phone numbers for Josh or if his information would be on the computer.

I move to one of the file cabinets and try my luck there. I pull open a drawer, and it contains names of others businesses—vendors, I assume. I pull open each drawer and scan the files, looking for names I recognize. The third file drawer contains some names I recognize as employees, and I search for Josh, realizing I don’t know his last name. A file for Joshua Dumont catches my eye and I pull it out, reaching for a sticky note and a pen off Judy’s desk. I scan the file for phone numbers and write down his cell. For some reason, I take down the number for one of his emergency contacts, his parents, Mike and Karla Dumont, and jot down his home address. I slip the file back into the drawer and turn the lights off as I leave the office. Somewhere, the night security guard is either watching the cameras or walking through the store, so I act as if I was supposed to be in the office at this hour in the morning.

It’s six fifteen when I make it back to the mail room, and I take my cell phone out of my coat pocket. I set the sticky note on the countertop and call Josh’s cell. I don’t know if I’m thinking he’ll answer or someone else will pick up his phone, but for some reason I need to know what happened to him. His phone rings one time and goes directly to voice mail. I hang up and look at the other number on the paper. I can’t call his parents. I’m not his supervisor calling to check on him. I’m not anybody.

It’s one o’clock when the shipment is unpacked and the mail is distributed, and I clock out for the day. I’m heading toward home when I find myself sitting in the parking lot of University Park Hospital. I kept telling myself that I wouldn’t come, that I’d drive straight home and watch something on TV, but I wandered onto the highway and ended up here. I’ve never visited anyone in a hospital before and am not sure how to find Josh. Two women sit behind a huge C-shaped desk in the entryway, and I walk toward them, hesitating, ready to go back to the car because I’m not sure what to say to Josh. “Can I help you?” the younger of the two women asks.

“I’m here to visit Josh Dumont. He was in a car accident this morning.”

“Are you a family member?”

My palms feel sweaty, and in a stupid way I feel as if I’ve done something wrong. “No. I’m a fr—I work with him.”

She holds a pencil with both hands and lifts it right in front of her face. “We can’t give out that information. A family member would have to let you know if he’s here.”

I turn to leave, feeling embarrassed and ridiculous. Deep down, I knew it was a dumb idea to come.

“Do you know Josh?”

A middle-aged man holding a small white sack is standing beside the desk. He looks familiar, and then it hits me. I blew him off when he asked which sweater would look better on his wife. “I work with him at Wilson’s,” I say, hoping he won’t remember me.

“I’m Mike. Josh’s dad.”

He doesn’t remember me. I don’t shake his hand or hug him or do anything but stand here. “Our supervisor said Josh was in an accident this morning and I wanted to…”

“Come on up,” he says, walking toward the row of elevators. “He had surgery first thing, but he’s out of recovery and in his room now.” The elevator doors close and Mike pushes the number eight.

“What happened?”

“Icy roads. A van lost control, slamming into Josh on the passenger side. He stepped on the brake when he saw the van sliding toward him and because his leg was braced for impact”—he straightens his leg to demonstrate—“when the van hit him, the force broke the low part of his tibia. They got him right into surgery, and it took a couple of hours. They put a pin in. They’re keeping him for two or three days.”

The doors open and I follow Mike down a bright hallway. “He probably doesn’t want any visitors,” I say, dragging behind him.

He stops and looks at me. “Who wouldn’t want to see a friend after coming out of surgery? He’ll love it. My wife went home to pick up Lyda, Josh’s grandmother.”

Josh’s leg is raised in some sort of sling, and he’s propped up on pillows when his dad and I walk into the room. “Melissa!”

I stand at the foot of the bed and lift my hand to wave. “I heard what happened and just wanted to see that you’re … come say hi.” Mike hands Josh the sack, and Josh pulls out some fries. A tray with traces of something brown and bland sits at his bedside.

“They made me eat that,” Josh says, grinning. “But I had to have some fries to chase it down.”

“I’m sorry about your leg.”

He takes a bite of a fry and smiles. “I’m hoping I’ll have years of fun setting off airport security.”

“How long do you have to be off it?”

His mouth is full and ketchup sits on his upper lip. “Six weeks.”

“So I guess your days are done at Wilson’s?” He shrugs, eating. I swing my arms, looking around. “I should have brought you something, like a magazine or a bag of chips or something.” I shove my hands in my coat pockets to keep them from moving and realize I must look as awkward as I feel. “Well, I need to get going. I just wanted to check on you and make sure you’re okay.”

“Come back anytime,” Josh says. “I like jalapeño kettle chips.”

He grins while eating, and I wave good-bye to Mike. I wait for the elevator and stand aside when it opens. Four people step out and I watch as two of them, a middle-aged woman carrying a suitcase and a white-haired elderly woman, make their way as quickly as they can down the hall. Josh’s mom and grandma. I let the elevator doors close without getting on and strain to hear them in Josh’s room. I can’t make out any words but I hear laughing and the rise and fall of voices. My eyes fill and I press the button for the elevator.

*   *   *

I knock on Gretchen’s door when I get home because, well, just because. I’ve been alone so much of my life that I’m sick of it. “Did you have to work today?” she asks, opening the door. It smells like something chocolaty in her house, and I hear the kids down the hall; it sounds like they’re dismantling their room.

“I was called in this morning because a kid was in an accident.”

She leads me to the kitchen. It’s a mess of dirty bowls and lunch plates. “What happened? Was he hurt?”

“Broke his leg. I saw him in the hospital.”

“Did he have to have surgery? Is he okay?” I sit down at the table and look at her. “Is he okay?” she asks again.

“How many times have you asked that in your life?”

She looks at me like I’m crazy. “What are you talking about?”

“Do you know how many times I’ve asked that?”

She leans against the counter and crosses her arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever asked if someone was okay.”

“Sure you have.”

“No! I haven’t. I’ve never visited anyone in the hospital, shown up at anyone’s funeral, baked a cake for a fund-raiser, or batted an eye when I heard someone in the military had died.”

Gretchen turns on the light in the oven and mumbles as she peers inside at what I know is another cake for the Bake a Difference fund-raiser. She sits down across from me. “You just said you went to the hospital, so you
have
visited someone in the hospital.”

“First time.”

“And you
have
baked a cake for a fund-raiser.”

“One time.”

She gets up and crosses to a cabinet, pulling out two glasses. “There’s a first time for everything.” Her voice sounds strained as she puts ice in each glass and fills them with water.

I watch her and know that Gretchen is my friend. She is my friend for no particular reason other than she moved next door and cleaned out a crappy apartment and showed up at the graveside of a stranger, invited me in for spaghetti, and asked me to bake a cake. “Ramona never…”

She hands me the glass of water. “Ramona’s dead.” She is blunt and seems frustrated. “I don’t know what you’re going to say … that she didn’t make you be a caring person because she was so self-absorbed or whatever. It doesn’t matter. Whatever she did or didn’t do … you can’t change your past. Not even God can change your past.”

She stops short of telling me to shut up and grow up. Two weeks ago I would have gotten up and walked out, but today I feel relieved. Gretchen is my friend for no particular reason at all and most particularly because she puts up with me.

*   *   *

I awaken at three, thinking of Josh. I roll over, rearranging the blankets, and see his mother and grandmother scurrying down the hall toward his room. “What’s happening? Show me,” I say aloud in what I realize is a prayer. It’s three fifteen when I look at the clock again and I roll over to my other side, the image of Josh’s grandmother running through my mind. What did his dad say her name was? At three thirty I’m frustrated because I can’t sleep. What was his mom’s name? The grandma’s name? At four thirty I sit bolt upright in bed. Mike said her name was Lyda!

My heart is racing as I lie back down. I smile in the night and feel like a kid again. I’ll never get back to sleep now.