Remembering Christmas Read Free

ends. How come you’re here?”
    “Still under thirty days, so I only got yesterday off. But I don’t mind. Getting a lot done with no one around.”
    He opened his office door and stepped inside.
    “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said. “Hope you don’t mind, but I left a note on your desk. The phone kept ringing every few minutes, so I figured it must be something important. Guess you forgot to turn your answering machine on.”
    “Thanks.” He walked to his desk and set his briefcase down. He lifted a pink phone message from a brass spike, saw it was written at 10:30 a.m. About thirty minutes ago.
Your mother called. Said it was extremely urgent. Something about your father having a stroke and being in the hospital. She left this number, the hospital waiting room.
    “Great.” Rick had spoken with his mother yesterday on Thanksgiving. It was like pulling teeth. She went on and on about the latest things happening down at their little store, how cute it was with the new Christmas decorations they added. Then she asked him all about the things going on in his life. He never knew what to say or how much. He loved her; she was his mom, but they had nothing in common. And he knew she wouldn’t approve of half the things he did if he told her the truth. He didn’t go to church. He drank too much and too often, had too many girlfriends, not the right kind.
    He sighed, dialed the number.
    “Hello?” A woman’s voice.
    “Hi, my name is Rick Denton. Is this a hospital waiting room?”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “I’m looking for my mother, Leanne Bell. Is she there?”
    “I’m not sure. I don’t work here, but let me check.”
    He heard her voice, away from the mouthpiece, asking if anyone named Leanne Bell was there. Then some muffled reply.
    “Someone said she’s here, but she’s in the room by her husband’s bed. They don’t allow phones back there. I’ll go ask the nurse to get her.”
    “Uh, ma’am. If you don’t mind—” He heard a bump. Clearly, she had set the phone down. He waited for what felt like fifteen minutes.
    “Hello?”
    “Mom?”
    “Rick? Is that you?” She started to cry.
    “It’s me, Mom. I got your message.”
    “I’m so scared, Rick. I’ve never seen him like this.”
    “Mom, just tell me what happened.”
    She paused. He could hear her trying to catch her breath. “It’s your father. They think he had a stroke. I guess it happened sometime this morning, just after he got to the store.”
    My father . . . “How bad is it?”
    “They don’t know yet. He isn’t responding at all. He’s alive. They’re saying his vital signs look good. But . . . I can’t talk to him, Rick. His eyes won’t open. He doesn’t even look at me when I talk to him.” She started crying again.
    Rick knew that his plans to hit the slopes that afternoon had just collapsed. “Okay, Mom, listen.” He sighed. “Is anyone with you?”
    “I’ve called some friends from church, but so far I haven’t been able to reach anyone.”
    “Do you want me to come down there?” Of course she would, why even ask?
    “I hate to bother you, Rick, but I’ve never been so scared. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him. And then there’s the store—who will run it? The doctor said it could be days before we know anything for sure, maybe longer. That’s if he survives.” Now she was sobbing.
    “Well, I guess I could get down there for the weekend.”
    “You’ll come?”
    “Yes. I’m not sure I can get a plane because of the holiday. Probably take me the rest of the day to drive there.”
    “I’m so sorry to put you through this,” she said. “But I’m glad you’re willing to come. And I know your father would be—”
    “Mom, please. I’m gonna come, but you need to stop calling Art my father. He’s your husband. He’s not my father.”
    “I’m sorry, Rick. I wasn’t thinking. I understand.”
    Now he felt awful. But it had to be said. “Well, don’t worry about it. How can I