tags made to look like wrapped packages atop every clean plate.
He walks me down the hall to Mom’s room, good old #74-C.
“Wish your Mom Merry Christmas for me, Molly,” he says as he lingers in his crisp khaki pants and a bright red Christmas sweater, the kind his Mom probably gave him once upon a time. “And you have one yourself. I know it sounds sappy but… it does get better with time. When my wife passed eight years ago, well, I thought I’d never get over it. Eight Christmases later, it’s still hard. You thanked me for helping you through last night, Molly. I should have been the one to thank you.”
Without another word the big man spins on giant brown sneakers, moving swiftly down the hall until he disappears around the corner at the front entrance and out the double doors to the Snowflake Senior Center Parking lot.
I wipe my eyes once more, count to 10 and slip into Mom’s room, wearing a cheery smile that, unlike previous years, is only half-forced.
She is up and bustling merrily around the four-foot tabletop tree I brought over and helped her decorate just after Thanksgiving. She is, as always, in her shoulder to ankle maroon Christmas housecoat, a gift from years ago that she keeps, in plastic, in the back of her closet until this very day each year.
“Merry Christmas, Mom,” I squeak, softly, from the doorway.
“Oh honey,” she says, opening her arms until I sink into them, even though I have to stoop over and embrace her gently to do so.
At eighty-four her body’s frail, even if her spirit’s still strong.
“How’d you make it through last night honey,” she asks perceptively once we’re both seated in the leather wingback chairs she insisted on bringing from home. “Was it utterly miserable?”
“It started out that way,” I admit. “But a… friend… helped me through it.”
“How nice, dear,” she says, sipping a cup of morning tea from the breakfast tray the staff deliver every morning promptly at 6 a.m. “Was it that nice neighbor of yours? What’s her name? Sylvia?”
“No, mom, not Sheryl. Actually, it was your chef here at the home: Jim.”
“Jim?” Mom cries, a smile passing over her face. “Isn’t he a dear? But, how did you two ever wind up spending Christmas Eve together, honey?”
I tell her about my own “senior moment,” of showing up at the front desk insisting on spending the night, on sleeping over, or at least visiting, and Jim stepping in to avoid me getting thrown out!
Mom shakes her head, eyes red with brimming tears. “How desperate you must have been, Molly, at home all alone! I’m glad you came here, even if they wouldn’t let you see me. It’s a nice place, with nice people. Jim especially…”
I nod. “If only I could have thanked him properly,” I interject, the long night making me suddenly heavy with a kind of content, soft weariness.
“Well, you know dear,” Mom says, her voice hesitant as her tiny fingers worry the hem of her burgundy Christmas robe. “Jim always puts on a big spread for us on New Year’s Eve. Why, they even let us have champagne! I’d love to have you join me and, that way, you’d be able to give Jim a proper thanks!”
Mom finishes her tea and I take her to Christmas brunch; our yearly tradition. It feels odd without my husband Max along as third wheel, getting Mom to laugh out loud when no one else could, and we make quiet small talk through the brisk meal to cover up for the fact that neither of us has much to say to each other anymore.
Back in her room, as she lays down for her afternoon nap, I sit quietly on the edge of the second bed I bought, and have yet to use. I stare at the small tree, blinking in the corner, and lie down just to rest.
As my head hits the pillow, as my dry eyes blink away the melancholy, I smile to think of what I might wear to see Mom – and Jim – again.
On New Year’s Eve, that is…
* * * * *
About the Author:
Rusty Fischer
Rusty Fischer is the author of several published novels, including Zombies Don’t Cry (Medallion Press) and A Town Called Snowflake (Musa Publishing). For more FREE romantic holiday stories, visit him at www.rushingtheseason.com.
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