Joanne Smith - The 13th Gift - Part Two

Placing my hand on the doorknob, I find myself wishing one of those true friends were here beside me now. The thought surprises me, and I don’t feel so alone. I was angry when we received that first gift, now I am curious about who they are and grateful for their attention.

This room is another demon they will help me conquer.

The hinges of the door squeak as I push it open. I peek inside from the safety of the hallway, where the chill of the room is already starting to creep.

I force myself to see what my children see every time I send one of them in here to fetch a blouse from the closet, or a necklace from my jewelry box. I always have an excuse not to go myself; tonight, as I wait for my son to come home, there are no more excuses.

A thick layer of dust covers the pine frame of our king-sized waterbed. The fitted sheet Rick died on is still tucked around the mattress. His too-small slippers, with the smashed-down heels, sit next to the bathroom door. The gym bag my husband planned to pack for his hospital stay stands empty in the corner.

It is as if the room is waiting.

I tug the sheet off the bed, the pillowcases, the blankets, and stuff them into the gym bag. They will go, unwashed, to Goodwill. I fetch one of the boxes Megan emptied of Christmas decorations from the family room and carry it upstairs. The old slippers go in first, then I thin out Rick’s closet of everything except his favorite sweaters. Those I leave hidden among my own clothes. Rick’s watch, Swiss Army knife, key chain, and wedding ring go into the bottom of my jewelry box, keepsakes I will give to our kids someday. I find something else that needs to go; flushing the contents of four bottles of Rick’s heart medication down the toilet seems an appropriate end. I toss the containers in the trash.

In less than half an hour, I have erased Rick’s presence from the room. I have no idea what to do with the waterbed. I will never sleep on it again. I draw a heart in the dust with my finger on the top of its wooden frame and print Rick’s initials inside it along with mine, then I wipe away the past with lemon furniture polish.

Tomorrow, I will ask Nick to help me drain the mattress. It’s just a piece of plastic, but even it holds Christmas memories.

I can still see Ben, Nick, and Meg rushing in here on Christmas mornings to join their dad and me on this bed. After a late night of assembling trains or bikes or remote-control cars, Rick and I were usually still dozing when our Smith herd charged into the room. Pumping our water-filled mattress with their hands and knees, our kids would create a tsunami that forced us from slumber.

Small gifts stuffed into their Christmas stockings—candy, comic books, hair ribbons, maybe a wristwatch or baseball cards—got opened on our bed, while Rick waited for his coffee to brew and I for the tea kettle to boil.

Everyone would be wearing new pajamas, a tradition I started when the kids were small and began begging to open one gift on Christmas Eve. Rick always demanded the kids put on warm socks and brush their teeth, before visiting Santa land downstairs in the family room, building their anticipation.

When I hear the front door open, I go downstairs to talk with my Ben. I leave the bedroom door open, hoping life will spill back into the room.

Ben stands in the entryway, leaning his back against the door. A car drives by, and its headlights cast a ray of light around the room. I see tears glistening on my child’s face. Mama Bear wants to step aside and let Mother Hen do the talking, but I think we each could use a dose of both.

“I’m glad you’re home.”

Ben jumps, startled. He wipes at his face with the sleeve of his coat.

“What are you doing up?”

“Waiting for you.”

“I’m tired. I need to go to bed.”

Ben walks toward the steps. His intent, I’m sure, is to escape to the basement.

I block his path and give him a hug.

“Neither one of us can go on like this, Ben.”

He tries to shake free, but I don’t let him.

“Not tonight, Mom. Please, not tonight.”

I pull back enough to look at his face, though he turns to avoid my gaze.

“I went to your uncle Tom’s this evening. I was stopped at Little Sugarcreek when a red car flew through the intersection.”

Ben doesn’t admit he was the driver, but guilt flashes like a neon sign from the muscles in his jaw.

“Hand over your car keys.”

“Mom …”

“Give them to me.”

Ben holds the keys in his fist, debating, and then drops them into my open palm. He will never know my fear at that moment, while I waited to see whether he would comply or defy me. His acquiescence gives me grit to keep going.

“Now sit,” I say. “You’re going to tell me what you’ve been up to tonight.”

We sit down on the couch. He says nothing.

“We can sit here all night,” I say, nudging his shoulder with mine.

The words spill out, slow at first and then building speed as if he were still driving the car.

“I had to get out of here,” he says. “I needed to drive. Robert came with me.”

“Where’d you go?”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“You’re probably right.”

Ben tells me he kept a close eye on the speedometer as he cruised residential streets toward the hills on Little Sugarcreek Road. Out in the country, the hum of the car engine turned into a roar.

“I could drive that road with my eyes closed,” he says. “I must have driven it one hundred times with Dad.”

Ben tells me that he and Robert rolled down their windows and let blasts of wet December wind smack their faces.

“When the car jumped over the first hill, I felt like I was flying,” he says. “We were screaming this song.”

“Pantera. Great Southern Trendkill ,” I say.

“Yeah, from that album. How’d you know?”

“I heard it.”

Ben makes a face, but he continues with the confession.

A mile or two passes before he turns onto an open stretch of country road: no hills, no stop signs, and not much traffic. If homeowners glanced out their windows as the car passed, all they would have seen is the red glow of his taillights.

“When the speedometer hit ninety, I wasn’t afraid or sad. I felt free.”

I clasp my hands together, willing them to stop shaking, and then ask, “What made you slow down?”

“You won’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

“It was Dad.”

Ben tells me that he and Robert, in unison, spotted a deer leap across a fence and stop in the road just ahead of them.

“I could hear Dad’s voice telling me to downshift and hit the brakes. Then as fast as that deer appeared … it was gone. There was no crash, just twenty feet of tire burn. Dad was there in the car with me, Mom, just like before.”

I wrap an arm around Ben and pull him close. This time, I know what to say.

“Your Dad is always going to be with us. He’s probably listening right now and wondering if I’m ever going to give you back these car keys.”

We sit quietly for a few minutes, but Ben wants an answer.

“So, are you?”

I toss the keys up in the air just out of his reach, and I catch them.

“Red Baron’s grounded until the first of the year, then we’re going to have a talk with the guidance counselor at the high school.”

Ben starts to argue, but changes his mind.

We talk a while longer, but our conversation turns into a duel of yawns.

“Bed?” I ask.

While I lock the front door, Ben notices the empty tree stand in the corner.

“So the tree shopping was a bust?”

“Not with your aunt Char in change. It’s in the garage thawing.”

“Out there with our busted tree stand?”