That about did me in—I didn’t have as much energy as I’d thought—but it was a good evening. I didn’t do much decorating because I still felt sort of yucky and weak, but it was fun to sit in Dad’s easy chair in my robe and pajamas and give directions.
“A little to the left,” I told Sylvia as she held the tree upright in one gloved hand. “Now a little toward the closet—more toward the door … oops, too much… . !” All the while Dad, on his hands and knees below, wrestled the trunk into the holder and fastened the screws.
The nice thing about Sylvia is she just throws herself into whatever she’s doing. She makes it fun. In the past Dad would always get irritated if he couldn’t get the tree to stand straight, but with Sylvia there, laughing and clowning around, we had Dad laughing too, and it wasn’t long before the tree was straight, the branches were sprayed, and we were sitting around eating popcorn and drinking hot chocolate before starting with the lights and ornaments.
We decided to go all blue and silver this year. So while I removed all the red and yellow and green bulbs from our string of lights and replaced them with blue, Dad and Sylvia went through the box of ornaments, selecting the silver and blue ones, then wound the string of lights around the tree.
When it was finished, we turned out the lamps and, with “White Christmas” playing on the CD player, sat together on the couch—me in the middle this time—and studied our masterpiece. I wouldn’t say it was the most artfully decorated tree in the world—we didn’t have enough silver ornaments, for one thing—but at least we did it as a family and for once, I was included.
On Thursday, I felt well enough to go to the shops on Georgia Avenue for a few last-minute gifts. I already had a pair of small opal earrings for Sylvia, a Greek sailor cap for Dad, and a beer cookbook for Lester. What I didn’t have were the funny little toys we put in each other’s stockings on Christmas morning, the wind-up kind—a hopping kangaroo or something. I wouldn’t have to go all the way to the mall for those.
The bank building on the corner has a huge tree in the foyer at Christmas, and there are envelopes on the tree, each with the name of a needy child. Inside each envelope there’s a letter from that kid to Santa saying what he or she most wants for Christmas. People and organizations choose an envelope, buy something for the child, then wrap it and place it under the bank’s tree, with the envelope attached, so it can be delivered on Christmas Eve.
Dad and I usually stopped in and chose an envelope each year, then shopped for a gift, wrapped it, and put it under the tree. This time I went alone, looking at the names in childish scrawl. I was attracted to an envelope marked Becky, each letter printed in a different color. I opened the envelope.
Dear Santa,
You can bring me whatever you want.
I think you are nice.
Becky
Age 5
I smiled and tucked her letter and envelope in my jacket pocket, then walked to the shops on the next block.
Stores often have fun presents to buy near their cash registers—wind-up spiders that race up walls, snowmen with little clocks in their bellies, plastic ice cubes with flies embedded in them. But as I was leaving one store I saw among the stuffed animals a little brown monkey that suddenly made me stop.
The monkey at home on my bed and a stuffed bear I used to have are the earliest toys I remember, but the monkey was my favorite because I could feed it from a bottle and the water would come out a hole in its bottom.
And suddenly I had this memory of Mom cutting little diapers for my monkey out of old dishtowels. I hadn’t thought of that for so long, but now I could almost see us standing together at the kitchen table while she cut out little squares of cloth with pinking shears, then pinned one around the monkey’s bottom.
Some things I hardly remember about my mother at all, but that memory is as clear as anything. I looked at the price on the monkey—a lot more than I felt I could afford—but I bought it anyway, and the girl behind the counter gift wrapped it for me.
I taped Becky’s envelope to the package and went back to the bank to place it under the tree.
Dad and Sylvia went to the Messiah Sing-Along at our church that night, but I stayed home to wrap presents. I put on all my favorite carols while I wrapped and enjoyed the lights on the tree.
It really was beginning to feel like Christmas at our place. I had even begun to feel that we were a real family, especially the next day when Sylvia and I spent the whole day in the kitchen together baking: Swedish butter cookies, pecan rounds, peanut butter fudge, chocolate roll-ups.
When Dad came home, we cut fresh holly from our bush in the backyard and decorated our mantel. We were going to have a special candlelight dinner on Christmas Eve before we went to church—Dad and Sylvia and Lester and me—and on Christmas afternoon one of Lester’s roommates, Paul Sorenson, was coming over for Christmas dinner. Our whole house seemed brighter, livelier, busier, merrier with Sylvia around. Dad looked so much younger, I couldn’t get over it. I’d have to say that Sylvia Summers was one of the best things that ever happened to him.
On Christmas Eve morning I got up early, feeling the best I had all week, and set about whipping up eggs to scramble. But when Dad came downstairs, he said, “Don’t make any for Sylvia, Al. I’m afraid she’s got the same thing you had. She spent half the night in the bathroom.”
I stared. “She’s sick? It’s the day before Christmas!”
“I know,” said Dad.
I thought of the candlelight dinner we’d planned. The service at church. Lester coming over Christmas morning and Paul joining us that afternoon. I thought of the gifts and the fudge and the …
“What are we going to do?” I said, still holding the frying pan in one hand.
“We’ll just have to delay Christmas,” said Dad.
16
Caring for Sylvia
I can honestly say that my first thought was not that Sylvia was ruining Christmas, but how sad it was that she was sick on the first Christmas she and Dad would spend together as husband and wife. And I knew exactly what she was going through when I heard her rushing footsteps in the hall, the close of the bathroom door, and the flush of the toilet—a second and a third time.
“Al,” Dad said before he left for work, “this is going to be one of the busiest days at the store. We’re closing early, but until then I just have to be there. I’m going to count on you to take care of Sylvia, but I want you to call me if you think she’s getting worse.”
“I can do it, Dad. Don’t worry,” I told him.
He kissed my forehead and went out to the car. I saw him look up toward their bedroom window and knew he’d rather be here taking care of Sylvia than anywhere else in the world.
I went up to my room and waited till Sylvia was back in hers. Then I tapped on her door. “Sylvia?”
“Yes?” came her weak voice.
I opened the door just a crack. “Can I come in a minute?”
“Sure.”
All I could see was a lump under the covers.
“I know just how you feel,” I said.
“Only I had to go and get sick at Christmas, with everyone invited for dinner,” she said.
“Well, as Dad says, we’re simply postponing Christmas,” I told her. “Now what can I get you? Anything at all?”
“Some ginger ale later, maybe,” she said.
“Just let me know,” I said, and went back downstairs.
I did the breakfast dishes, picked up magazines and things in the living room, folded the morning paper. It occurred to me suddenly that Christmas this year would sort of be up to me. Dad was working, Les was probably doing last-minute shopping, Sylvia was sick, and I was in charge.
I decided to set the table for our first holiday meal, whenever it might be. So I put on our best tablecloth and napkins, the centerpiece we used each Christmas—a bouquet of small red felt reindeer that look like red flowers from a distance—and the snowmen-shaped salt and pepper shakers that Lester ga
ve Mom when he was ten. I hung the twirling red-and-gold paper swirl decoration from the light fixture over the table, so that it dangled, glistening, and I sorted through our Christmas CDs to find the ones by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and the Choir of King’s College and the Robert Shaw Chorale. We’ve played those for as long as I can remember.
Upstairs the toilet flushed again, and I wondered if Sylvia was dizzy like I had been. I went to check. She was back in her room. There weren’t any soiled pajama bottoms on the bathroom floor that I could wash for her, but the toilet bowl was splattered, and I cleaned it up. As I was putting the brush away, I thought that maybe this is what being a family is all about—being able to be yourself without apologizing. You just are. You just be. Be sick, and your family accepts you.
Dad called at noon, and I told him I thought Sylvia was sleeping. The next time I went upstairs, I took her an ice bag and a glass of ginger ale. I was placing them on her nightstand when Sylvia came back from the bathroom.
“Do I look as bad as I feel?” she asked, her lips dry and cracked-looking.
“You look exactly like you’re supposed to look when you’re sick,” I said, and she gave a little laugh. She lay down on the bed but didn’t pull the covers up. “I’m so warm, and I ache all over. That’s a symptom of flu, isn’t it? My arms, my legs, my shoulders …”
“Let me give you a back rub,” I said, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
She glanced over at me, and I felt sure I’d gotten much too personal, but I was surprised to hear her say, “Would you, Alice? I can’t think of anything I’d like more.” She turned away from me then, on her side, and unbuttoned the front of her pajama top so it slid halfway down her back and shoulders.
I gently massaged her neck, then moved down to her shoulders and back, remembering how achy I had felt, not rubbing too hard. I could tell by the way her body relaxed under my palms that I must be doing it right.
“Oh, that feels so good,” she said. “Right now I hardly have the strength to move, but if I had a tail, Alice, it would wag to thank you.”
We both laughed then.
“Dad called to see how you are,” I said. “I told him you were sleeping. He said to tell you he’s stopping at a diner and bringing home some split pea soup for dinner, that you’re not to lift a finger till you’re better.”
“That’s why I married that man,” said Sylvia. “He’s the most considerate guy in the world, Alice. I never knew a man who was kinder. I wonder how many others would wait a year for me to make up my mind and then wait another three months while I took care of my sister. He came into my life at exactly the right time. And look what I got! You and Lester, too! Three for the price of one!”
I smiled and, as an extra bonus, got some lotion from my dresser and rubbed it onto her back and shoulders. Then I pulled the sheet over her and told her to sleep.
Lester called around three. “So what are we doing tonight?” he asked. “Dad left a message that Sylvia has the flu.”
“Yeah, and you and Dad are probably next in line,” I told him.
“Well, you’re Little Miss Sunshine, aren’t you?” he said.
“We’re just going to celebrate Christmas when everyone’s up to it,” I told him.
“Oh,” said Lester. And then, after a pause, “so if I wanted to take in a movie, that would be okay?”
“Perfectly,” I told him. “Unless you want to eat pea soup with us.”
“I’ll pass,” said Lester. “Check in with you again tomorrow.”
Sylvia came downstairs to eat pea soup with us around seven, but none of us went to the midnight service at church. Instead, I lit the Christmas candles in the windows and a fire in the fireplace, and then I turned off all the lights except those on the tree. Sylvia lay on the couch, her head in Dad’s lap, as we watched the sparkles on the tree, shadows dancing on the walls, and listened to a CD Dad had brought home of handbells playing carols.
“You know,” Sylvia said around nine, “I may be feeling better. I think I might be able to cook dinner tomorrow night.”
“I’ll help!” I said.
“We won’t make any decision till tomorrow,” said Dad. “We’ll see how you feel in the morning. But I’m going to make breakfast for anyone who cares to come to the table—pecan pancakes, my specialty.”
After Sylvia went to bed, Dad and I slipped the funny presents we’d bought into the four stockings we hung from the mantel. And the next morning, as promised, Dad was in the kitchen making his famous pancakes, and there was Lester at the table. We’d sort of skipped Christmas Eve this year and jumped right into Christmas Day, but that was all right. It would have been all right if it had been a couple days later or even a week, because what was important was that we were all here together.
• • •
Sylvia spent Christmas morning in her robe and pajamas. She didn’t eat any pancakes, but she squeezed orange juice for the rest of us and looked as though she really did feel much better. We gathered around the tree about eleven to open our gifts. I seemed to have chosen well, because Dad looked great in his sailor cap, Sylvia loved her opal earrings, and Lester declared he would try one of the cooking-with-beer recipes on his friends.
The way Lester presented his gift to me was a surprise. It came in a package half the size of a shoe box, and when I opened it, I found a miniature Mercedes Benz.
“Oh, Les!” I joked. “I’ve always dreamed of owning a Mercedes.”
He grinned. “It’s a 1936 convertible,” he said. “Open the hood.” I did. There was a tightly rolled twenty-dollar bill attached to a slip of paper that read, This certificate entitles Alice McKinley to six driving lessons or as many as it takes her to get her license. The twenty she can use however she likes.
I reached across the couch and hugged him.
“There,” I said. “You just got my germs if I have any left.”
Sylvia had knitted a sweater for me—a really neat green sweater with a sort of ruffled edge on each cuff and around the boat neckline.
“It’s gorgeous!” I said. “When in the world did you have time to make it, Sylvia?”
“While I was in New Mexico taking care of Nancy,” she explained. “It helped keep my mind off her, so I called it my ‘lifesaver sweater.’”
“I’ll call it my ‘lifetime sweater’! I’ll wear it forever!” I declared, and hugged her, too.
It was Dad’s present that really shocked me, though. It was wrapped in birthday paper, because he always picks up the first roll of paper he finds in the closet. Sometimes it says HAPPY ANNIVERSARY on it, and once he even gave me a present wrapped in Father’s Day paper.
I opened the lid of the box. Inside was a little silver cell phone.
“Dad!” I said. “I don’t believe this! I didn’t think you’d ever let me have a phone of my own!”
“Well, Sylvia convinced me it was time,” he said. “After you went out with that Tony boy on Halloween and I told you to call if you needed me, I realized you couldn’t call if you weren’t near a phone, and I figured a cell phone was the way to go. I do hope you’ll reserve it for important calls, though.”
“Yeah, Al. Don’t be one of those people on the bus who calls a friend and tells her every street she’s passing,” said Lester.
“Or everything she ate for dinner,” said Sylvia.
“Or every store you’re going to stop in at the mall,” said Dad.
“I won’t!” I said excitedly, knowing that I would call every single friend I had, though, and give them my cell phone number.
We had our Christmas dinner around seven that night. Sylvia dressed and did a rib roast, and the rest of us pitched in and cooked everything else. Paul Sorenson came, bringing a chocolate silk pie for dessert. He was a tall, thin guy, taller and leaner than Lester, and far more serious, it seemed—at least around our table. He looked to me as though he could be majoring in chemistry or geology or something dry and academic, not exactly the type of guy Pamela or Elizabeth
would go nuts over. But I could tell that Dad liked him, that he was glad Lester was rooming with somebody responsible and mature.
I was right about his major.
“What are you studying, Paul?” Dad asked as the roast went around the table a second time, followed by the garlic mashed potatoes.
“Geology,” Paul said, and I couldn’t help myself. I laughed out loud, and everyone looked at me.
“Oops! Sorry!” I said. “It’s just that I guessed …”
Lester can read me like a book. “He also is a part-time dance instructor and plays bluegrass,” he said.
We all laughed then, even Paul. What is it they say—you can’t tell a book by its cover?
“So what’s George Palamas like, then?” I asked about the third guy in their apartment.
“Majored in business and listens to Bach,” said Lester, and now we did laugh.
“It was a good dinner, Sylvia,” I told her later when we went to the kitchen to serve the pie.
She smiled. “And to think I made it all through dinner without going to the bathroom once.”
The rest of us did the dishes and cleaned up the dining room while Sylvia stretched out on the couch. We put all the wrapping paper in the trash, started a fire in the fireplace, and after Lester and Paul said good-bye, I sat in a chair across from Sylvia, wondering if the little girl named Becky liked the brown monkey I had bought for her. Wondering too about Latisha, an angry little girl I’d counseled at camp last summer. I guess I hadn’t noticed Sylvia get up and go upstairs, but when she came down again, she was carrying another present. She sat down on the couch and patted the cushion beside her.
“Come sit by me, Alice,” she said. “I have one more gift for you. It’s not finished, of course, and I don’t think I’ll ever really get it done …”
I couldn’t imagine what it could be. I got up and went over, wondering if she meant she’d been embroidering something for my wedding, should I ever marry.