Christmas In Heaven
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When I came out of the kitchen after my mother had gone, there was a small crowd gathered around the piano. Father was holding forth on some topic or other, and Mrs. O’Grady was trying to keep him from getting too rambunctious – which she usually failed at miserably.
“And that’s why they call it ‘The Hanging Garden,'” he declared suddenly, and everyone laughed. “I’m glad you all could come down for Christmas,” he said when we were in the dining room with him. He turned back to face our table and smiled broadly at us. “You know, I used to wonder why this day was so special.” His smile faded as if something dark had crossed his mind.
He looked over at Mother, but Mother wasn’t smiling. She frowned at the dishes stacked in front of her, each one piled high. The silverware gleamed like stars against the snowy cloth laid over the table. A single candlestick burned on either side of a plate that held a large wedge of cake. But even then, no matter how pretty the meal might be, the candles would never shine brightly enough.
Our family sat quietly and watched them eat. There was always a sense of sadness at these times. Each person seemed to have their own private memories of happier Christmases past. And now those days were lost forever.
Now we just sat around waiting for death to claim us, one by one. It was hard not to feel bitter about all of it, and yet it was a tradition, and a part of life in a way that I didn’t understand at that moment.
I think we felt it more keenly than did our parents. We knew that there could be no change. Nothing ever changed, nothing ever got better, and nothing ever went away. It was an endless repetition of what happened before.
So it made no difference if we cried or tried to ignore everything; eventually, we ended up doing the same thing as always: sitting and staring at each other silently while everyone ate.
It was almost time to go home again. I glanced out the window at the snow-covered hills and fields outside, thank god it’s Christmas time again. Then I realized that this year things would be different; this time we wouldn’t get to see Grandma or any of the rest of my relatives. Not until next Christmas. For me, this meant another long stretch of time alone.
My father had been talking, but his voice sounded far away. I couldn’t hear what he was saying anymore. My mind wandered off into thoughts of summer, of swimming lessons in the river behind the house, and of how much fun I’d had last spring during my first real season of baseball.
We’ll make a good team, Tommy and I. We’re both left-handed hitters and pitchers who can throw fast. You’ve got a pretty good arm, but your throws are too wild. I need to work on that.
Tommy and I will hit the ball so far over the fence, you won’t believe it!
Father’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Well, I’m glad to have a chance to catch up with you all again,” he said, and everyone nodded and murmured their thanks.
Mother was looking tired and sad again like she’d dozed off in the middle of dinner.
“Merry Christmas,” she managed to say. Her eyes met mine briefly, but I quickly looked away because her face reminded me of what we were going to lose soon – and the only hope that remained.
As if on cue, Father began clearing away the dishes after supper and everyone helped put the food away. I was surprised by how quickly we cleaned up. Maybe it was because we were all used to working together, or maybe it was just the holiday spirit making us act differently than we normally would.
Then I saw my sister Anne sitting by herself near the living room. I remembered her being with Mother earlier and asked where she’d gone. Dad told me. I hadn’t noticed her leave the table. She must have known I’d ask about her. I don’t know why I cared that much. I guess I knew that she needed someone else to talk to and that there was nothing I could say to help ease her pain.
Anne was staring out the window with a glass of milk in her hand. I wondered if she was waiting for her mother. I wanted to go sit beside her and comfort her somehow, but I was afraid of what I’d find once I was close enough to touch her.
“What is it, Anne?” I asked softly. She jumped like I’d startled her.
“Nothing.” She shook her head quickly. “Don’t worry about it. Go ahead and play with Tommy before you leave,” she told me. Then she stood and hurried out of the room without even saying goodbye. I stared after her until I heard her footsteps fading down the hallway. I turned around and Tommy was standing right behind me.
“Hey!” he said. “I thought you were playing with Anne. What are you doing here? Did you want to watch me bat too?” He was grinning and excited to show me off, but I felt myself tense up.
There was something in his manner, some quality that made me nervous. His smile looked forced and I didn’t like how I was feeling at all. It wasn’t the way Anne had acted. But then I realized that it might be that I simply felt bad because of Anne.
Perhaps my sister’s actions made me feel like Anne must be trying to get attention from me when she was really just being hurt. That was how I usually handled things; I figured people out by seeing what they wanted and gave it to them, so as not to cause anyone else any unnecessary pain.
I shrugged my shoulders slightly to let Tommy know I didn’t care and headed back toward the stairs, leaving him to go downstairs and wait for Father to come home. I hoped that Tommy would forget about me now.
When I reached the top of the stairs, I saw Anne sitting on the floor between the two bedrooms, hugging one of the dolls we still had. The other doll lay discarded nearby.
She was sobbing quietly. I stopped walking and walked slowly toward her. I tried to think of something comforting to say to her. How do you handle grief at Christmastime, especially when it seems so far away in the future? Do you tell yourself that things will get better? Or is the whole idea of time supposed to dull your suffering?
Suddenly I was angry with Anne and I wanted to yell at her. Why did she have to be so selfish? Wasn’t this a special time of year for her too, filled with family and friends and good cheer? And what about her new baby, who would never know her mother and wouldn’t get to spend Christmas with us next year?
Why am I thinking like this? Anne needs me now more than ever. There’s no way I can stand watching her suffer while knowing we’re all going to die in less than twenty-four hours. I took a deep breath to calm myself.
I knelt down beside Anne and laid my hand gently on her shoulder. “Are you okay?” I asked quietly.
Anne nodded, then turned and wrapped her arms around me in a hug. She buried her face against my chest, and I closed my eyes and rested my chin on her head as she cried.
That night, I dreamt of Anne and her mother. They were riding bikes down a hill toward an abandoned mine shaft. A group of young boys followed them down into the darkness of the pit, laughing and jeering.
I ran after Anne’s mother, but she refused to look back and kept pedaling faster and faster. I couldn’t catch up, and the ground grew farther away beneath our feet. At last, the earth fell away completely and the two of them tumbled over the edge of the cliff, and their screams echoed through the mountains.
I woke suddenly, my heart racing. As much as I tried to ignore everything that had happened in the past day, my imagination was still running wild, filling every spare moment with horrible thoughts. What if Anne dies tonight, alone in her room upstairs?
The thought made me nauseous, and I threw off the covers and stumbled across the dark bedroom to the bathroom. It was cold there too, and as I washed my hands quickly under the hot water faucet, I could hear my own teeth chattering.
I dried myself off and went back into my bedroom, pulling my sweater and pajama top from the drawer where I always keep them and throwing them on quickly. I left the lights off and slipped out of my shoes and socks before climbing under the covers.
I pulled my knees close to my chest and hugged them tightly. It felt like a tight ball of ice and fear pressed against me. I didn’t dare fall asleep now. I would stay awake and worry about Anne and her mother until I knew they were safe. Then maybe I could stop worrying about anything else.
***
Father found me in the kitchen the following morning, standing on a chair and peeling potatoes. He smiled at me, and then noticed the potato peeler in my hand and frowned. “You can’t use that knife,” he said. “It’s too big.”
I set down the peeler. “Yes sir,” I said automatically. My voice sounded strange and I wondered why I couldn’t seem to control the words that came out of my mouth right now.
Tommy was sitting in front of the television in his usual spot, and Father handed him a glass of milk and a plate of eggs that he’d been scrambling in the kitchen. Tom had already eaten most of his breakfast when we arrived, and now he looked at me without interest as I took the seat next to him.
Father put an empty coffee cup on the table, poured himself some milk, and sat down at the end of the couch.
“Have you heard from Mary Ann?” Father asked.
I shook my head. She hadn’t been by since yesterday evening, and I felt guilty like she had come to visit just to see us, and then we would die, and now she would miss it all.
“Do you want us to try calling her?” Tommy offered.
I shrugged. “Not unless there’s a reason.”
The phone rang and Tommy jumped up eagerly, ready to answer it for the first time in weeks. But Father pointed to the kitchen phone instead. “Answer that,” he said.
“Hello?” Tommy said. I leaned over his shoulder to hear what was happening on the other side. There was a long pause before Tommy spoke again. “Oh, hi Aunt Lillian! What a surprise!” His voice was cheerful and I could tell that he wasn’t telling his aunt the truth about where we were or why he was talking to her.
After a few moments of chatting, I picked up the phone and dialed Mother’s number in Atlanta. The answering machine picked up before anyone answered, and I hung up after giving Mother my message. Then I dialed Grandma’s number, and when she finally picked up, I heard the same heavy breathing behind me that was so familiar from the old recording machine back home.
Grandma’s voice crackled over the line, sounding faint and far away. “Hi, honey,” she said, and I recognized her voice immediately. It reminded me of Mother’s, only deeper and more mature. “I’m glad you’re staying here with your father while he’s sick. You know, that’s not good for him. We talked about this. If he needs help—”
Mother’s voice cut in loudly. “No, I don’t think I will be needing any help,” she snapped.
“What is this?” Grandma asked in her calm, measured tone. “Are you trying to get rid of me? Do you hate me so much?”
My stomach turned over. I hadn’t realized how angry Mother must have become toward her parents to say something like that. “We love you very much,” I said quickly, thinking of my sister.
“That doesn’t change the fact that you’ve done nothing to support me, nothing except take care of Anne.”
I bit my lip hard to keep myself from shouting back at her. How could Mother even say that to their parents? She sounded so awful, accusing them of being selfish for taking care of Anne, who was dying of leukemia.
“Anne needs her grandparents,” I said quietly. “She has no one else.”
“Well, then,” Mother continued, “you should both move away. Take jobs in Florida, wherever you like, and make sure she sees neither of us.”
“Why are you doing this?” Grandma asked. “You know that Anne’s condition is terminal.”
“And I also know that you haven’t given her your blood since she was four years old.”
“That’s true,” Grandma agreed slowly.
“Is there anything you need from me?” I asked quickly, wanting to change the subject.
“Honey, I wish we had money to send you,” Grandma replied sadly. “But we never did, and we can’t now. And we’re still struggling to pay off our mortgage.”
I thought of the old house back home, full of memories, that we could never go back to now because we weren’t allowed. My eyes filled with tears and I wiped them away with my sleeve.
“Maybe someday,” I managed to say.
“Yes, maybe someday,” Mother said.
“We’ll talk soon, dear.”
“Bye.”
I hung up the phone and sighed. That had gone better than expected, at least. But it felt wrong to be speaking to Mother like this on the phone, so I decided to wait until she visited in person before calling back.
Father had finished eating and was looking at me with concern. Tommy was playing with his toy soldiers again. “Did they call you back?” he asked.
I nodded. “It went pretty well.”
Tommy smiled broadly. “Good news always feels good.” He set down his toy soldiers and took my hand, squeezing it lightly.
I squeezed back, but I couldn’t hold back a shudder. Tommy looked up at me with wide blue eyes, and I wondered how he knew that I had felt sick.
Then Father said something I couldn’t ignore: “Hey, I’m going to the grocery store today. I want you all to go out for lunch somewhere nice after your nap, okay?”
I looked back at him curiously. I’d noticed that he hadn’t been going outside as often in the last couple of weeks; I assumed it was because he was too weak to climb the stairs and didn’t like to leave me alone with Tommy. But now he wanted me to come along with him on his errand, something that would usually have been impossible.
“Okay,” I said. Tommy nodded happily and jumped up from his chair. I pushed my glasses up onto my face and followed him upstairs to take a bath. After that, I went down the hall into the kitchen to get dressed in some loose clothes.
“Aren’t you coming?” Father called to me from the living room.
“Um… I can’t right now,” I replied. “I just put Tommy down for his nap and I have to wash my hair first. I’ll see you later.”
“Wait! What time is Tommy napping?”
“Two o’clock,” I told him, turning around and heading toward the bathroom again. As I reached my bedroom, I heard Mother’s voice, raised in anger once more: “You won’t give her any money, so what are you expecting? For us to move closer? We don’t have enough money for that either.”
I stood still in front of my dresser for several long moments. Then, shaking my head and wishing she were dead, I picked up the phone and dialed Grandma.
The End