His existence was centered in nothingness and nightfall.
He rounded the corner and through the wet darkness he saw his home. It was barely noticeable, tucked beneath an old wrought-iron stairwell deep in the heart of a forgotten alley. Hanging from seven rusty bolts along the underside of the stairs was the plastic tarp. He lifted the bottom of it off the ground and crawled inside. No matter how wet it was, rain almost never found its way beyond the tarp. His pillow and pile of old blankets were still dry.
He’d been waiting for this moment all day.
His fingers found the zipper in the lining of his parka and lowered it several inches. He tucked his hand inside and found them, right where he’d left them this morning. As soon as he made contact with the soft wool, the layers began to fall away, exposing what was left of his heart.
Carefully he pulled the gloves out and slipped them onto his fingers, one at a time. He stared at them, studied them, remembering the hands that had knit them a lifetime ago. Then he did something that had become part of his routine, something he did every night at this time. He brought his hands to his face and kissed first one woolen palm and then the other.
“Good night, girls.” He muttered the words out loud. Then he lay down and covered himself with the tattered blankets. When he was buried far beneath, when the warmth of his body had served to sufficiently warm the place where he slept, he laced his gloved fingers together and drifted off to sleep.
The next morning he was still half given to a wonderful dream when he felt rain on his face. Rain and a stream of light much brighter than usual. With eyes closed, he turned his head from side to side. What was it? Where was the water coming from and why wasn’t his tarp working?
He rubbed his fingers together——and sat straight up.
“No!” His voice ricocheted off the brick walls of the empty alley.
“Noooo!” He stood up and yelled as loudly as he could—a gut-wrenching, painful cry of the type he hadn’t uttered since that awful afternoon five years ago.
His head was spinning. He grabbed at his hair, pulled it until his scalp hurt. It wasn’t possible. Yet…
He’d been robbed. In the middle of the night someone had found him sleeping and taken most of what made up his home. His tarp was gone. Most of his blankets, too.
But that wasn’t all. They had stolen everything left of his will to live, everything he had to look forward to. Nothing this bad had happened to him since he took to the streets. He shook his head in absolute misery as a driving rain pelted his skin, washing away all that remained of his sleep.
He stared at his hands, his body trembling. The thing he’d feared most of all had finally happened.
The red gloves were gone.
CHAPTER TWO
The hardest part was pretending everything was okay.
Brian Mercer held tightly to Gideon’s small hand and kept his steps short so she could keep up. With all his heart he hoped this would be the day the doctors looked him in the eye and told him the good news: that his precious eight-year-old daughter was in remission.
It was a possibility. Gideon seemed stronger than last week at this time. But Brian had felt that way more than once and each time the report had been the same. The cancer wasn’t advancing, but it wasn’t backing off, either.
Brian stifled a sigh as they made their way from the car to Doernbecher’s Children’s Hospital. If only Tish were here with them. Tish was wonderful at raising Gideon’s spirits. Optimism and laughter rang out in every conversation between them. It was something the two of them brought out in each other.
Tish would have found a way to make the doctor appointment fun. But she couldn’t miss even a day of work. Not with Gideon’s medical bills piling up. Not with his boss threatening layoffs and more hourly cuts at the lumber mill. No, Tish couldn’t possibly be here. Her two cashier jobs were sometimes all they could depend on.
At least the neighbors took little Dustin whenever Gideon had an appointment.
They stepped into the elevator and Gideon looked up at him, her head cocked to one side. “What’s wrong, Daddy?”
“Nothing.” Brian gave Gideon’s hand a light squeeze. “I was wishing Mommy could be here.”
“Me, too.” A shadow fell across Gideon’s face and her eyes took on that soulful, deep look—the look that had become a permanent part of her expression since her diagnosis six months ago. They fell silent for a moment. “Do you think I’ll be better today?”
“Well … ” Brian bit the inside of his lip. There was no point getting her hopes up, but at the same time he had a feeling. Maybe … just maybe … “How do you feel?”
Her eyes lit up. “Better.”
“Okay.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her woolen beret. “Then, yes. I think today might be the day.”
The routine was the same every time. Once they reached the right floor, they checked in at the lab and a technician drew a vial of Gideon’s blood. In the beginning-when she’d first gotten sick—the needles had scared her. But she was used to them now, poor girl.
After the blood draw they made their way down a long, glassed-in catwalk, fifteen floors above Portland’s hilly downtown. Halfway across, they found their bench and stopped. At first they had used the bench as a resting point, because Gideon tired so easily. Now it was just something they did. Besides, Gideon’s test results always took awhile, so there was no hurry.
The bench was placed at a point where the view was breathtaking. There were still sailboats on the Columbia and Willamette, and the sun glistening off a dozen tributaries that crisscrossed the city. And, on a clear day like this one, the towering white presence of Mt. Hood.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Brian slipped his arm around Gideon’s shoulders.
Gideon’s eyes narrowed. “Sometimes I feel like a bird up here. Like I could fly over the city and down along the rivers.” She looked up at him. “And never, ever be sick again.”
Brian swallowed hard. Something about this part of their routine always made Gideon pensive. It was the hardest part for Brian. The time when he wanted to cry out to God and ask “Why?” Why an eight-year-old little girl? Why his daughter? How was it he and Tish could help strangers, but do nothing for their own child?
All he wanted was his family back. Tish and Gideon and Dustin and him. Laughing and loving and taking walks on crisp winter mornings like this one. Just a series of days where none of them had to wonder whether Gideon was getting better. Whether she’d live to see the following Christmas.
There was nothing Brian could say to his daughter, no promises he could make. Instead he hugged her and cleared his throat. It was time to pick a topic. Since her first doctor visit, the two of them had always chosen this time to discuss special things. So far they’d covered a dozen subjects: how mountains were formed, why rivers flowed, and where exactly was heaven. But today, the second of December, Brian had a specific topic in mind. A happy one. One he and Tish had talked about the night before.
“Let’s talk about Christmas, Gideon.” He took her hand once more and they continued down the catwalk toward the doctor’s office.
“Yeah.” A slow smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Let’s do that.”
They checked in and found their usual spot, on a sofa near the back of the waiting room. Brian angled his body so he could see her, study her wispy brown hair and unforgettable eyes. She was a miniature of Tish. A more serious, ethereal miniature. She’d been that way even before the cancer. As though she carried something deep in her heart—an innocent wisdom, an ability to see straight to the soul of a person. It was what set her apart from other children.
And what he and Tish would miss most if—
Brian blinked. He had ordered himself never to think such things. Nothing could be gained by worrying and dreading the future, borrowing tomorrow’s pain for today. Still, there were times when fear didn’t bother knocking. Times when it kicked in the door and tramped right in. Times like these.
&nbs
p; “Okay.” He exhaled slowly. “Christmas.” He reached for Gideon’s hand once more. “Where should we start?”
Her eyes danced like the twinkling lights on the hospital’s Christmas tree. “Let’s talk about the perfect Christmas.”
“Hmmm … The perfect Christmas.” Brian leaned into the sofa and gazed out the glass-panel window at the brilliant blue sky beyond. The answer was an easy one. They would find enough money to get Gideon a bone-marrow transplant. She would recover quickly and find her place once more among her little friends at school. And they’d never, ever again have to talk about Christmas from the corner of a cancer doctor’s office.
He shifted his eyes to Gideon. “You go first.”
“Okay.” The twinkle in her eyes dimmed somewhat. She suddenly looked a million miles away, lost in a world of imagination. “We would have a real tree, a tall one that almost touches the ceiling. With lights and decorations and a star on top for you and Mom.” She released his hand and stretched her arms over her head. “A big turkey. And a fire truck for Dustin.”
Brian could feel his heart breaking. Gideon’s perfect Christmas was the kind most kids expected. But money had never come easily for him and Tish. This Christmas—like so many others—they would assemble a four-foot green-plastic tree and cover it with a seventy-cent box of tinsel. Toys would be secondhand and maybe missing parts. Dinner would be chicken and mashed potatoes.
But it was more than many people had, and he and Tish were grateful. Christmas was always wonderful, despite the lack of material trappings. And the children never complained, never made mention of the fact that their Christmases were any different from that of other children.
Until now.
Of course, Gideon was hardly complaining. She was just playing along, talking about the topic he’d suggested. Brian clenched his jaw. If there’d been a way to find the money, he would have done just that—found the biggest, best, most fragrant, Christmas tree and all the trinkets and toys to go with it. But the mill had cut his hours down to twelve a week. It was barely a job. And Gideon’s medical bills—
Brian pushed the thought from his mind. He met his daughter’s eyes. “Didn’t you forget someone?”
Her expression was open, unpretentious. Then it hit her and she giggled. “You mean me?”
“Yes, you.” Brian twirled a lock of her hair around his finger. “What would you get on this perfect Christmas?”
She lowered her chin. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Well … ” She let her gaze fall to her hands for a beat. When she looked up, the twinkle was back. Brighter than ever. “In my perfect Christmas my gift would be a brand-new dolly. The kind with pretty hair and eyes that blink and a soft lacey dress.”
“A new doll, huh?” Brian tried to sound surprised, but he wasn’t. “How come?”
“A doll never gets sad when you’re sick.” She looked up and smiled. Her knowing expression spoke volumes. “Sometimes a friend like that would be nice.”
From the time she was old enough to talk Gideon had wanted a new doll. A few years ago she’d even cut a doll photo from a catalog and taped it to the wall beside her bed. The clipping still hung there today. From time to time Brian had come across a used doll and brought it home for Gideon. It always smelled funny or was missing its dress or shoes. But Gideon didn’t mind that. No, the problem was that in very little time she always loved the doll into nonexistence. A leg would fall off, or an arm, or the doll’s head.
And Gideon would talk about her new doll again.
Each year Brian and Tish considered the possibility, and each year it was out of the question. New dolls like the one Gideon wanted were expensive. As much as a week’s worth of groceries.
Gideon seemed to sense his thoughts. “It’s just pretend, Daddy. No big deal.” She leaned closer and let her head rest on his shoulder. “What’s your perfect Christmas?”
The answers that had come to mind earlier returned. “That’s easy.” He kissed her forehead. “In the perfect Christmas we never have to come back here again.”
Brian felt Gideon nod against his arm. “Know what my teacher said last week?”
“What, baby?” He stayed close, his face nuzzled against the top of her beret.
“She said Christmas miracles happen to those who believe.”
The words played over again in Brian’s mind. “I like it.”
“Me, too.” Gideon sat a bit straighter and stared at the doctor’s office door. “I believe, Daddy.”
“We all do.”
“Then maybe that’s what we’ll get this Christmas. A miracle.” She turned to him. “That would be better than anything, wouldn’t it?”
“You mean like finding out that you’re better today?”
“Well, that.” She giggled. “But I mean something really big. Something so big it could only be a Christmas miracle.”
A lump formed in Brian’s throat as he studied his daughter. She has no idea how sick she is, God. No idea. He struggled to find his voice. “Then that’s what we’ll pray for.”
“Let’s pray now, Daddy. Right here.”
He gave her a slow smile. “Thata’ girl, Gideon. That’s the way to believe.”
Then, with cancer patients coming and going around them, Brian took hold of Gideon’s hands, bowed his head, and prayed for something so big, it could only be a Christmas miracle.
An hour later Brian had the answer that mattered most to him.
Gideon was in remission!
Her blood results were better than they’d been since she was diagnosed with leukemia. The doctor was cautious. Remission was a tricky thing. It could last weeks or years, depending on the patient. There was no way to know. And a person with her type of leukemia was never really cured until they’d had a successful bone-marrow transplant.
Still, it was the answer Brian and Tish had been praying for since Gideon got sick. Brian blinked back tears as they walked back to the car.
“I can’t wait to tell Mom.” Gideon skipped a few steps and then stopped and faced him. “If I’m not sick, it’s going to be a great Christmas!”
“Yes, it is.” Brian stopped and held out his hands. Gideon knew the sign well. She took a running jump and he caught her, sweeping her into his arms and holding her close. “We even got our miracle.”
Gideon giggled. “Daddy, that’s not the miracle.” She rubbed her nose against his. “Remember? We asked God for something really big.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Brian chuckled as he set her back down. They had reached the parking lot, and he took hold of her hand. “Something tells me Mom will think it’s pretty big.”
On the way home, Gideon fell asleep and Brian turned off the radio. Traffic moved along slowly. God, you’re so good. Gideon asked for a miracle and we got one. Just like that.
Memories of Gideon filled his mind. The time when she was two and shared her pacifier with the neighbor’s cat. Her kindergarten year when a little boy didn’t bring a snack for two months straight and Gideon gave him hers. The way her perfect Christmas involved a fire truck for Dustin before anything for herself.
The loss of any child would be devastating. But Gideon—
Tears clouded his eyes once more. Thank you, God. Thank you a million times over. He was consumed with gratefulness the whole way home. But as he neared their apartment building, a passing thought hit him.
If this wasn’t the miracle Gideon had prayed for, what was? What could possibly be bigger than the news that she was in remission?
Without warning, a chill passed over Brian.
If Christmas miracles truly happened to those who believed, then maybe God wasn’t finished handing out miracles to the Mercer family. Somehow, someway, Brian had the uncanny certainty that some other amazing thing was about to happen. Some sort of direct response to Gideon’s prayer.
Something so big it could only be a Christmas miracle.
CHAPTER THREE
The hardest part about bei
ng sick was this: Her parents thought she was helpless.
As Gideon played cards with Dustin and waited for her mother to come home that afternoon, she hoped the doctor’s news would help change their feelings. After six months of hardly ever going to school, and of sleeping all the time, she was ready for a change. Ready to join her parents in the thing their family loved most.
Their helping work.
As far back as Gideon could remember, she and Dustin had been part of their parents’ helping work. Sometimes they met with other people from church and visited hospitals or homes where old people with gray hair lived. Lots of times they painted a church or picked up dirty pop cans and hamburger wrappers along busy roads. Other days they knocked on doors and collected canned food for hungry people.
She couldn’t explain it to her friends at school. But working with her parents and helping people was the happiest thing Gideon ever did.
Right before she got sick her parents had talked about serving dinner at someplace called “the mission.” Then she’d started getting bruises and colds, and every time she brushed her teeth there was blood in her spit.
After that she had to see the doctor a bunch of times and finally they told her she had leukemia. Gideon still wasn’t exactly sure what that was, but it was very bad. Worse than a cold or a flu or even chicken pox. Leukemia didn’t always hurt like those things, but it lasted longer. Sometimes it lasted forever. Gideon knew that because she’d heard her mom and dad talking about it.
But now she was better. That’s what the doctor said. Maybe not better all the way, but better than she had been. And that had to be a good thing.
The card game ended, and an hour later she was sitting by the window waiting when her mother came home. Gideon raced to the door and flung it open.
“I’m better, Mommy. The doctor said so.” She wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist and held on tight.
“Gideon.” Her mother dropped to her knees. Gideon felt her hair move with her mom’s warm breath. “Are you sure?”