The hospital felt much cheerier than usual. The Christmas tree in the waiting room had presents under it. Lots of families were visiting patients, spilling into the hallways. Cries of “Merry Christmas!” rang out everywhere.
When we reached Squirt’s hallway, I sprinted to the door.
“Surpri—”
My voice caught in my throat.
Squirt was gone.
Mama, Daddy, and Aunt Cecelia walked up beside me. Their smiles vanished.
Not even his crib bed was there.
“Where is he?” Mama asked.
“Now — now —” Aunt Cecelia was starting to hyperventilate. “Don’t panic!”
“Was he okay this morning?” Mama asked Daddy.
“Seemed so,” Daddy replied. Then he cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, “Nurse!”
Around the corner walked a nurse we’d come to know, named Gina. “There you are!” she called out. “Didn’t they tell you?”
Mama swallowed deeply. “Tell us what?”
“Follow me,” Gina replied.
She began walking briskly back down the hallway. Following her, I felt queasy. Where was she taking us? An operating room? Had something awful happened?
Gina stopped at a closed door marked Nurses’ Lounge. “He’ll be so happy to see you.”
She pushed open the door. Inside, the furniture had been pushed aside to make room for a Christmas tree. A group of adults was gathered at a table with food and beverages. A couple of kids, about five years old, were chasing each other around the room. A small group of younger children were setting up a wooden train track near the wall. Over a set of speakers, a chorus was singing “Haaaaallelujah!”
In the corner, some nurses were playing with three babies in crib beds.
Squirt was in one of them, biting on a big rubber spider.
Boy, was I relieved. I felt as if a cement mixer had been lifted from my shoulders.
“The staff is having a little party for the children,” Gina explained.
I set down the present and ran to Squirt, my arms outstretched. “Squirt! Merry Christmas!”
He looked up at me, then back down. When I reached for him, he squirmed away.
“How’s my big boy?” Daddy scooped him out of the crib.
“No! No!” Squirt yelled. “Keeb! Keeb!” (That’s Squirt talk for “crib.”)
Daddy kissed him, then passed him to Mama and Aunt Cecelia. “Look what we brought!” Mama said. “Your favorite! Bananas!”
“And beautiful slippers,” Aunt Cecelia said. “Even though your parents wouldn’t let me wrap them.”
“Keeb! Keeb!” Squirt repeated.
“All right, all right …” Mama set him down in the crib.
“Why so fussy, John Philip?” Gina said. “It’s your family!”
I leaned into his crib and gave him his present. “This is from my friends.”
Aha! A spark of interest! He grabbed it and began ripping off the beautiful hand-printed paper.
Inside was a lovely scrapbook held together with pipe cleaners. Its pages were red, black, and green construction paper, covered carefully with zippered plastic bags. Its cover was made from a brown paper bag, and it looked like this:
“Wow,” said Daddy.
“Very special,” agreed Mama.
“So much work,” added Aunt Cecelia.
I set the book down near Squirt. He took a look.
Then he pushed it away and went back to his spider.
“Well,” Gina said, “why don’t we wheel him back to his room so he can have a nice, quiet visit with his family?”
She took hold of one side of the crib and began to push.
“N-O-O-O-O-O-O!” Squirt was reaching back toward the other kids, as if he were being taken away to prison.
“It’s okay,” Daddy said. “We’ll stay here with him.”
Gina wheeled him back. We all found metal folding chairs and sat around the crib.
“He’s punishing us,” Aunt Cecelia whispered.
Mama gave her a cross look. “What do you mean by that?”
“For leaving him every day,” Aunt Cecelia replied.
“We have sacrificed for a week and a half to spend as much time as we can here,” Daddy spoke up.
Aunt Cecelia shook her head. “Makes no difference to him.”
“Cecelia, I don’t see what good you are doing by casting blame!” Mama said.
Their voices were no longer whispers. I was sure the other grown-ups in the room could hear. I buried my face in my hands.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey?”
I looked up. Dr. Bradley was walking into the room, smiling, as usual.
“I have news for you,” she continued. “Your son’s tests have stabilized. The EEG and CAT scan are consistently normal, and he’s been alert and happy lately, no blackouts …”
I had heard speeches like this before. I knew what the next words would be. So we’ll keep him for just a few more days …
“So,” Dr. Bradley went on, “you will be able to take Squirt home tomorrow!”
I jumped out of my seat.
“Haaaaaaal-le-lu-jah!” blared the speakers.
Or maybe it wasn’t the speakers.
Maybe it was me.
“Why do I have to stay home again?” Becca whined.
“Because Dr. Bradley said so,” Daddy replied. “You still have the flu, honey.”
“Dr. Bradley doesn’t know everything!” With a fork Becca stabbed a clump of scrambled eggs on her breakfast plate.
Mama leaned down and gave her a hug. “Sorry, sweetheart. We’ll bring Squirt home as soon as we can. Meanwhile, don’t make trouble for Mallory.”
“Rrrwwf,” Becca grunted.
“Thanks, Mallory,” I said as we headed for the door.
“You’re welcome,” Mallory replied. “ ’Bye!”
Mallory is amazing. She knew how important this day was for us, so she insisted on baby-sitting again. She said, “Squirt might as well have as many of his family with him as he can.”
“Did you have a nice Christmas dinner?” Mallory asked.
“Mmm,” Becca replied.
“The Christmas tree looks beautiful,” Mallory said.
“Mmm,” Becca agreed.
“I guess you’re really excited about Kwanzaa,” Mallory continued.
Becca nodded silently, chewing on some bacon.
This was ridiculous. Mallory sighed and looked around. “Well, I guess I’ll be hanging out in the living room, if you need me.”
As she stood up, she noticed two big cardboard boxes in a corner of the dining room, one opened and one closed. The opened one had contained the Christmas tree decorations we’d used. The other was marked HOLIDAY/HOUSE DECORATIONS.
“Becca?” Mallory said. “Did you guys finish putting up your holiday decorations?”
“No,” Becca called out.
“Do you want to?”
Becca peeked out into the dining room. “But it’s after Christmas.”
“So? Don’t you want the house to look nice when your family comes home?”
A smile slowly worked its way across Becca’s face. “Can I wear my Christmas dress, too?”
“Sure!”
As Becca bounced upstairs, Mallory began unloading the box. She took out two strings of indoor lights and began taping them around the front windows.
She was almost finished by the time Becca came down in her red-and-green velvet dress. She had pulled her hair back with a black satin ribbon, and she was wearing black patent leather shoes.
“Who-o-o-oa!” Mallory said. “Christmasy!”
“Kwanzaa-y,” Becca corrected her. “And we have to replace some of those lights. Only keep red and green. The official Kwanzaa colors are red, black, and green. And there are no such things as black lights.”
Becca and Mal pulled replacement lights out of the cardboard box. They were able to make only one string with red and green lights, so the lights didn?
??t go all the way around the window. (It looked a little weird, but no one cared.)
The box was full of stuff that hadn’t been touched for a year, such as a stained-glass Santa-with-reindeer we’d made the Christmas before, and a plastic snowman. Both of them were hung right on our front windows.
Mallory found a bag of pinecones and arranged them on our mantelpiece. Becca opened an old bag of tinsel and flung it onto the tree. Mallory frosted the windows with “snow” spray paint. Becca distributed little elf figurines around the living room.
Finally, from the bottom of the box, Becca pulled something wrapped in newspaper. As she ripped the paper off, she cried, “Ooooh, here’s our kinara — and some candles!”
During the crazy week, we’d never found our wooden Kwanzaa candleholder. Becca made sure to display it prominently on the mantel. “Daddy and Mama will be sooo surprised.”
“I’ll get a match,” Mallory said.
“No!” Becca protested. “I want the whole family to light it. Besides, we have one more thing to do.”
“What’s that?”
Becca darted away to the family room and returned with some oaktag and a box of markers. “A sign for Squirt!”
They laid the oaktag on the dining room table and quickly drew this sign:
We arrived just as they were taping the sign to the front door.
I had the honor of carrying Squirt inside, but he was feeling tired and cranky. “Here he is!” I announced.
“Hi! Hi! Hi!” Becca shouted.
“WAAAAAAAAHH!” cried Squirt.
“He needs a nap,” Mama said wearily.
“I need a nap,” Daddy added.
“Rebecca, adjust the bow on your dress,” Aunt Cecelia commanded.
We all walked right past the sign, through the house, and into the coat alcove by the kitchen. None of us said a word about the decorations. (Squirt had been a real handful, and we were exhausted.)
Mallory could see Becca’s face fall.
“WAAAAAAH!” Squirt screamed as I took off his jacket.
Mallory and Becca followed me into the kitchen. “He sounds hungry,” Mallory said. “I’ll feed him.”
As I hung up Squirt’s jacket, Mallory opened a cupboard. Becca snatched up Squirt and smothered him with kisses.
“WAAAAAAAHHH!”
“Rebecca, stop that!” Aunt Cecelia said. “You have the flu!”
“Ease up, Cecelia,” Daddy said. “She can’t still be contagious.”
“Oh?” Aunt Cecelia replied. “And why, pray tell, do you suppose the doctor did not allow her into the hospital?”
“She’s right, John,” Mama said.
Mallory cut up a banana and poured a cupful of apple juice. As she brought it to the table, Becca was trying to get Squirt settled in his high chair. He was kicking so hard, his legs were like little pistons. Becca kept lifting and lowering his body, trying to aim his legs into the proper place. “Come on,” she said.
“Careful!” Aunt Cecelia warned her. “He has had a head injury! We are supposed to be vigilant and gentle.”
“She is being gentle,” Mama insisted.
“He is not a jack-in-the-box,” Aunt Cecelia said.
“Cecelia, will you knock it off?” Daddy thundered. “You haven’t stopped grousing since we left the hospital. This is supposed to be a happy day —”
“And this is how you express your happiness?” Aunt Cecelia asked. “By yelling at your own sister in front of the children?”
Mama took Aunt Cecelia by the arm. “Kids, excuse us, please.”
The grown-ups marched out of the kitchen.
I tried to feed Squirt his banana.
“No! No! No!” he shrieked.
“He’s tired,” Mallory said.
“He’s confused,” I guessed.
Becca gave me a pouty look. “You guys didn’t even say anything about our decorations.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll look now.”
As I ran toward the living room, Mallory put her arm around Becca. “Give them a chance to settle down.”
“Some first day of Kwanzaa,” Becca muttered. “Remember what the theme is? Umoja. Togetherness.”
“I will not apologize!” Daddy’s voice boomed.
“No-o-o-o-o-o-o!” Squirt swept his arm across his tray, knocking the bananas to the floor. His apple juice went flying against the wall.
Mallory grabbed a sponge. Becca stomped off toward her bedroom.
Hoo boy.
Some umoja.
“Habari gana?” asked my uncle Charles.
He held a lit match to our kinara, and the second green candle from the end burst into flame.
Daddy looked at Mama. Aunt Cecelia tucked her napkin under her chin. Keisha and I exchanged a glance. Becca started giggling. Squirt flung peas at Kara Ramsey. Billy Ramsey reached over to tickle Squirt. (Billy is five and Kara’s two. They are Keisha’s siblings and my cousins.)
“Well?” Aunt Yvonne said. “Doesn’t any body remember?”
Habari gana is Swahili for “What is the news?” Someone is supposed to say it at the beginning of each night’s Kwanzaa festivities.
Then everyone is supposed to give the answer: the theme for that day.
The trouble was, everyone had forgotten except Uncle Charles and Aunt Yvonne.
“Uh, which day of Kwanzaa is it?” Becca asked.
Uncle Charles smiled and counted slowly: “One, two, three, four …”
“Five!” Becca said. “That’s … that’s …”
“Nia!” Keisha said.
“Porpoise!” Billy blurted out.
I cracked up.
“Ehhhhh … ehhhhh …” Keisha bleated like Flipper.
“Keisha, please!” Aunt Cecelia said. “Behave.”
(Yes, she acts like that with everyone.)
Keisha’s family had arrived just in time for Monday dinner. They were rested and thrilled to see us. Boy, did they change the glum spirit in our house.
How did it feel to see so much happiness? Weird. Our lives had been kind of cheer-challenged for a long time.
Uncle Charles laughed at Keisha’s imitation. “Well, at least he tried. It’s purpose, Billy. Tonight we talk about what we plan to do in the year ahead.”
Sleep.
Buy Aunt Cecelia a new ankle so she wouldn’t complain so much.
Make a time machine so I could go back to December 15 and leave Squirt’s belt buckled.
Invent a volume control that would shut out my dad’s arguments with my aunt.
Turn life into a ballet so at least I could have a little fun.
Those were all the things I wanted to say. What a strange holiday season it had been. I’d thought things would improve after Squirt came home and Becca recovered. I mean, it was December 30, two days away from the new year and the Kwanzaa festival. And Keisha’s family was visiting for three whole days!
I should have been happy. Was I? No way.
I felt as if we’d been fighting the holidays instead of enjoying them.
What had our Kwanzaa been like?
Well, first let me tell you how Kwanzaa is supposed to be.
Each night the festivities start with a candle lighting. The kinara holds seven candles, one for each day of Kwanzaa. The black candle in the middle is the longest, and it is always lit on the first night. The three smaller candles to the left are red, and they remind us of the struggles African-Americans have had to face. The three to the right are green, and they represent hope for a prosperous future.
On the second night, you light the red candle next to the middle one. Then, day by day, you alternate lighting green and red candles until the whole kinara is ablaze.
Kwanzaa is a family holiday. Each day’s festivity usually starts whenever the family can come together (usually it’s at dinnertime).
After someone asks “Habari gana?” you talk about the day’s theme. Then you do an activity based on that.
The first day is easy. For umoj
a, togetherness, you just do family activities.
We did that, all right. We argued together about why Squirt was cranky. We worried together that he might black out again. We fought together about who was supposed to make dinner and clean up the Christmas garbage. We collapsed into our beds at the same time.
Day Two is kujichagulia, or self-determination. That’s when you learn new African traditions or enjoy ones you already know — braiding hair, playing African musical instruments, dancing.
Squirt caught a traditional cold that day. He made traditional war cries from dawn to dusk. And we practiced our two newest Ramsey traditions: worrying and bickering.
On the third day (ujima, or collective work and responsibility), you’re supposed to do a big family chore.
Aunt Cecelia must have misunderstood. She was a family chore. After an argument with Mama and Daddy, she stormed out of the house, yelling, “That’s it! I am going for good. You can reach me at the Stamford YWCA!”
(Don’t worry. She came back forty-five minutes later.)
I was really looking forward to the fourth day. The theme is kind of boring: cooperative economics, or ujamaa. But we actually had a fun theme activity planned. Since Keisha’s family was arriving the next day, we had to do some shopping. (Get it? Shopping … economics?)
Daddy took in the mail just as we were about to leave. In it was a bill from the hospital. A huge bill. When Daddy read it, his jaw nearly made a dent in the floor.
Whoosh. Off to the phone. Daddy was able to use all the arguing skills he had practiced that week.
We left an hour later. Daddy said we had a “possible insurance limitation problem.” I had no idea what that meant. But I noticed Mama crossing a lot of things off our shopping list before we started. And we had to buy store brands for every little thing.
I guess Becca and I were lucky. We actually escaped the house on Saturday and Sunday afternoons, for Kwanzaa festival meetings.
The festival was about the only thing going well in my life. Malindy was coming along. The kids had made more delicious food and some nice-looking crafts.
I couldn’t wait to see Keisha’s family. But you know what? Seeing them so happy and carefree made me depressed. All I could think was, why couldn’t we have been like them? We had wasted the whole month being gloomy.
Oh, well, back to the dinner table.