Kate James - A Child's Christmas

Despite her father’s illness, joy and love emanated from the simple little house.

Paige felt guilty about bringing sadness to her parents’ door, especially at this time of year. How was she going to do this? For once, her father’s loss of memory might be a blessing, if it spared him the cruelty of the news she had to impart.

Now that she was here, she was terrified of the impact her revelation about Jason’s condition would have on her mother, who’d been so eager for Paige to visit. In a few short hours, she’d be breaking her mother’s heart.

Paige took another fortifying breath and let herself in. Almost immediately, a sheltie scrambled out of a room on the right, bounded over to Paige and took little leaps all around her in greeting. Paige put her bag next to the front door and bent down to scratch the dog. “Hey, Iris. How’re you doing? Have you been a good girl?” Paige was rewarded with an energetic face wash.

The greeting ritual completed, Paige straightened. She brushed some dog hair from her pants, pulled off her boots and simply stood where she was. The combined living/dining area was to her left, the kitchen ahead of her, and a small den and powder room to her right. Pretty Christmas touches were everywhere—the poinsettia on the hall table beside a photograph of her, Jason and her parents, the mistletoe hung from a chandelier, and a plastic snowman they’d had since she was a child, which stood as a friendly sentinel in a corner of the hallway.

From her vantage point, she could see the Christmas tree in the living room with its bright decorations and more flickering lights, a half dozen neatly wrapped packages beneath it. A miniature tree, no more than eight inches high, with a dusting of fake snow, sat on the coffee table beside a dish of sugar cookies.

Although the fireplace was out of Paige’s sight, she could hear the logs crackling, smell the rich aroma of applewood and see the dancing reflections of the flames.

Just as she had when Paige was a child, her mother made every occasion special. All of a sudden, Paige had an overwhelming need to be held by her. She took a few steps forward, the dog at her heels. “Mom! I’m here.”

Charlotte Brooks emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. “Hi, honey.” Her hair was snow-white, short and stylish. Behind her glasses, her eyes were clear and bright, and the same shade of cornflower blue as her daughter’s. Her face was remarkably unlined for a woman approaching seventy. She wasn’t as tall as Paige but had a slim, youthful figure. She wore neatly pressed black pants and a pale pink sweater. A white apron was tied around her waist.

Love and admiration swelled in Paige’s chest, as they never failed to do whenever she saw her mother.

They hugged, swaying gently together. “It’s so good to see you, Mom.” Paige held on, taking strength from her mother.

When they parted, Charlotte grasped Paige’s shoulders and stepped back. “Let me have a look at you.” After a moment’s hesitation, she asked, “What’s wrong, honey?”

“We’ll talk, Mom. But I’d like to see Dad first.”

“He’s in the den. Reading, I think.”

Charlotte followed Paige into the cozy room. There was a fireplace here, too, faced in green marble, with a small fire sputtering in the hearth. The room, paneled in deep, rich oak, had ample bookshelves. There was an upholstered bench seat in the bay window, with forest-green brocade drapes tied back on either side. A large, overstuffed reclining chair was positioned near the hearth.

Her father sat in the chair, his hands linked across his slightly protruding belly, his head bent forward. His chest rose and fell rhythmically with his breathing. A book was splayed open on his lap. Seeing her father like this, still youthful looking and so peaceful, Paige found it even harder to accept his illness.

Iris bolted past Paige and skidded to a stop at her father’s feet, tail thumping against the side of the chair. Paige followed her in and bent down to run a hand along her back. “Watching over Dad while he sleeps, are you?”

Charlotte had moved over to stand beside her husband. It was never lost on Paige that after nearly five decades of marriage, her parents’ love had not only endured but seemed to intensify year after year. With a loving touch, her mother brushed back the still-thick lock of salt-and-pepper hair that had fallen over her father’s forehead. When he stirred, she murmured softly, “Stephen, honey, look who’s here.”

Appearing disoriented, he gazed up at his wife and smiled. “Good morning.” Charlotte didn’t bother to correct him about the time of day. Rather, she took one of his hands in her own, gesturing with the other. “Stephen, it’s Paige.”

Stephen turned his bright smile on his daughter, and Paige’s heart melted as she crouched down so they were eye to eye. “Hi, Dad.”

Confusion flitted across Stephen’s face, but his smile didn’t waver. “Hello, young lady.”

Still uncertain whether he recognized her, Paige reached for his free hand. “How’re you feeling?”

“Oh, just fine, thank you.” His eyes cleared, and Paige held her breath. “You must be the new nurse.”

Charlotte was about to interject, but Paige shook her head. She didn’t want to cause discomfort for either of her parents, or further pain for herself. She spoke quietly with her father for a few minutes about generalities, the weather and a TV show he remembered watching. When it was evident that he was struggling to keep his eyelids from drifting shut again, she rose. By the time her mother replaced the book on the end table next to the chair and tucked a light throw around his lap, he was sound asleep.

Paige kissed his forehead and skimmed her hand over his. With a final longing glance at her father, she accompanied her mother out of the room. Iris gamboled after them to the doorway. There she paused, considered and did a quick shuffle. With a small sigh, she returned to the foot of the easy chair to curl up by her master again.

Paige prepared a pot of coffee while her mother set out mugs, plates, napkins and—despite Paige’s protests—some homemade biscuits.

With their hands joined across the kitchen table, Paige told her mother everything there was to tell. When they finished the first pot of coffee, Charlotte brewed another. Painful as it was for Paige to share her burden, she did feel slightly better. They sat at the table, eyes brimming with tears.

“Honey, what can I do to help?”

“Just be here for me, Mom.”

Charlotte squeezed Paige’s hands. “Have I ever not been?”

On a long breath, Paige turned her hand over and curled her fingers around her mother’s.

“Do you need money?”

Paige heaved a huge sigh. “Of course. But I’ll manage.”

“How much do you need?”

“Mom, you can’t. Where would you get it?”

“Our savings. If need be, we can borrow against the house.”

“Mom, no! You need your savings to live on. And how would you repay a loan? You’re already stretching your retirement benefits as it is.”

Charlotte patted Paige’s hand. “Let me worry about that. Jason is our priority.” She gave her daughter a firm look. “If you need money, you tell me.”

Paige sighed again. “I will, but I can’t let you use your savings or take any equity out of the house.”

“What about Mark? Does he know?”

“No.” Paige realized her answer sounded abrupt, but given how things had ended with her ex-husband four years ago—over Jason’s initial diagnosis—she couldn’t help it. “I can’t see him offering any assistance.”

Charlotte peered at Paige over her glasses. It was the look that had put fear into Paige as a child. “Maybe not. But he is Jason’s father.”