The Christmas Box (The Box Books #2)

8. December 9

December 9

Travis

I spend the day doing detail work on the soap shelves, which are turning out well. The dog keeps me company, and following some advice from the internet, I put her on a leash I picked up yesterday, keeping her confined to the area near the layered “puppy pads” I also bought, to replace the newspaper . Each time I see her start to go, I guide her over. So far, she’s not really catching on, but at least I have less messes to clean up.

Late in the day, I pick up some burgers and head to the manor.

Once there, I pop in on Shannon and ask if she needs anything moved today. She shakes her head and looks at me like I’m a moron and why would I think she needed anything moved?

Then I take Dad his usual hamburger and fries—and all hell breaks loose.

“Here you go,” I say, holding the bag up as I walk into his room. “Medium well and greasy, just the way you like it.”

“Who are you and why are you trying to poison me?” he asks.

I just gape at him, dumbfounded. He’s thrown me off yet again.

At a loss, my heart sinking in my chest, I simply turn back around, exit the room, and head to the nurse’s station. Without preamble, I announce at large, “My father just asked me who I am and accused me of trying to poison him.”

Helen looks up from the computer screen she’s studying, her expression troubled. “Oh dear. I was hoping to see you come in so I could warn you. He’s not himself today.”

Or maybe he’s back to his old self. But I don’t tell her that.

“He’s not recognizing anyone, I’m afraid.”

“Is this a sign of progression? Of the brain cancer?” Something in me stiffens as I ask, though. Despite myself, maybe I have started liking this guy I don’t really know anymore. And maybe I’m not ready for him to disappear just yet, especially if it means dealing with a mean, nasty guy going forward. Coming here sucks, but being met with a smile each day has at least made it tolerable.

“Yes and no,” she tells me. “Certainly, it’s indicative of progression, but we had days like this before you got to town, too. His cognition is unpredictable. And maybe that will grow more prevalent over time or maybe it won’t. When it comes to diseases like this, every journey is different, so I don’t try to predict what’ll happen next.”

I draw in a deep breath and blow it back out, again stunned to realize how much I want today to be just an anomaly, and how wounded I was by his hateful tone. It felt like being seventeen all over again, something I never expected. Steeling myself as best I can, I ask, “What should I do? Leave and hope he’s better tomorrow?”

She tilts her head in that calm, thoughtful way of hers. “That’s up to you, Travis. But if it were me, I’d probably take the food back in and try to reason with him, just remembering that he’s not in control of his own mind right now. If it’s too much, then leave. But maybe give it another shot.”

I sigh. Helen has a flair for pushing a person to do the right thing. Because I definitely want to take off, get away from this situation. I’d much rather be at the apartment with my dog and my Christmas tree, neither of which I like very much, so that’s saying a lot. But I finally murmur, “Okay,” and head back to Dad’s room, each step filled with dread.

“I said, ‘Who are you?’” He repeats when I come back in, as if no time has passed at all.

“I’m your son,” I inform him, perhaps a little too forcefully. Maybe I should be gentler, more understanding, but this is jarring

“My son lives far away and never comes home,” he tells me, “so you ain’t him.”

Where to go from here? “Well, I brought you lunch from Winterburger if you want it.” I’m back to holding up the bag.

“That nurse tried to poison me earlier. Saw her put something in my scrambled eggs. I refused to eat it, I’ll tell ya that much.”

Do you try to correct someone at a time like this, or do you just move on? Without any training in this area, I’m stumped. “Look,” I say, “I have two hamburgers and some fries here, and I’m gonna eat one of ’em. You can pick which one if you want. That makes it safe, right? And if you don’t want yours, I have a dog at home who’ll be more than happy to eat it.”

“You have a dog?” he asks with the sudden wonder of a child.

And that’s when I realize: Crap, I just said I had a dog. Which I guess means I have one. Again, I blame Lexi for this.

That woman has intruded into more than just my private space—she’s managed to meddle in multiple aspects of my life. She’s lucky she makes good coffee or I’d be avoiding her like the plague. Of course, she has a pretty smile, too. And warm blue eyes. I’m seriously not sure why I didn’t notice her in high school—how cute she is, I mean. And even though I never thought I cared about anything like this, I guess the way she looks on the bright side of life makes her…well, nice to be around. When she’s not forcing dogs and Christmas trees on me, that is.

“I miss my dog,” Dad announces then, drawing me back to the moment at hand.

He doesn’t have a dog, but I don’t tell him that since I’m still not sure of the proper way to handle his delusions. I could use Helen right about now. “What’s your dog’s name?” I ask.

“Blinker. He’s a good boy.”

Ah. Wally mentioned years back that Dad had taken in a stray, a little beagle, and called him Blinker. Apparently that’s what we Hutchins men do, take in strays. Strange for two guys I don’t think of as having big hearts. I’m pretty sure the beagle got old and passed away since then, so I guess Dad is in another place in time.

“Maybe you’ll see him again soon,” I suggest. I’m not sure what I even mean by that, but maybe I’m suggesting some form of an afterlife I have no idea if I believe in.

“Don’t think so,” he says sadly. “They don’t let you bring your dog with you in here.”

As I’m busy unpacking the bag, Dad snatches up one of the burgers, unwraps it, and starts eating like poison doesn’t exist. I’m relieved but confused.

“Wow, this is a good burger,” he says as if he hasn’t had one every day since I got here. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Travis,” I answer.

“That’s my son’s name.”

Rather than get sucked into some kind of Abbot and Costello Who’s On First conversation with him, I let it go and just eat.

Twenty minutes of confusing conversation later, I’m mentally exhausted and decide to leave. Once I’m out the door of dad’s room, I’m eager to reach daylight. I don’t say goodbye to anyone at the nurse’s station—instead I’m bobbing and weaving between wheelchairs like a man possessed, the door within sight.

That’s when my eyes fall on Dottie, the old woman always cradling the babydoll. She looks up at me from her wheelchair with her usual sad expression, but this time I see a tear roll down her wrinkled cheek. That’s a first, and a disturbing one.

I want to keep walking; I’m desperate to get out of here. But her eyes get to me, same as they have since the moment I first encountered her.

It’s then that I realize she doesn’t have her doll. Another first.

“What’s wrong, Dottie?” I ask even though I’ve never heard her speak.

With anguish still spilling from her gaze, she points up the hall.

I turn to see a dark-haired man padding along in slippers and yet another saggy robe. The babydoll dangles from his hand—he’s holding it by the ankle.

The sight ignites a fire in my chest. I’ve never been a parent, and I’ve never suffered from dementia, but I instinctively feel Dottie’s horror at what she thinks is happening to her baby. I march up to the guy, placing my hand on his shoulder to spin him roughly around.

Once he regains his footing, he gives me a little smile that strikes me as smug, mocking.

“That’s not yours,” I growl, snatching the doll from his hand. “Don’t let me catch you bothering her again. Got it?”

To my surprise, nothing about his attitude changes—he’s still giving me that weird little smile. We standing face to face, me feeling like I’m about to explode and him looking cool as a cucumber.

That’s when a touch comes on my arm and I turn to see Helen. “Travis,” she says gently, “he doesn’t mean any harm. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

Oh my God. Of course he doesn’t. It wasn’t a mocking smile—it was a docile one. Why did it take Helen to make me see that? Nothing here is predictable; no one here is as you’d expect them to be. But even after a trip through the Twilight Zone with Dad, I’m still slow on the uptake. And part of me wants to protest the situation, complain that Dottie shouldn’t have to put up with this, that this guy should be locked up in his room—but I already know that’s not right, either.

I’m sure Helen can see my response in my eyes, but I say nothing in reply—I just walk the babydoll back to where Dottie still sits in her wheelchair. I hand it down to her and watch her hug it to her chest as if I have, indeed, just given her back her abducted child.

“She thinks its real,” Helen says quietly, stepping up next to me.

“I know. That’s why I had to get it back for her.”

“She lost a baby girl in an accident when she was young and never had more children.”

Oh, good—this just went from sad to tragic. Makes a guy with brain cancer who misses his dog seem like child’s play.

“Thank you for helping her—we try, but we can’t be everywhere at once. We’ve been short-handed for a while now—we have openings, but no one to take them.”

I don’t blame anyone for not wanting this job, but of course I’m not going to tell her that. She’s a saint. Instead I just say, “I gotta go.”

“I know it’s hard,” she says, squeezing my hand before I start toward the door.

I’ve never felt freer than I do stepping out into the cold, wintry air, sucking it deep into my lungs. But my heart hurts when I think of all the people inside who can’t just walk away.

Lexi

Most of Main Street closes on Monday—it’s pretty much me, Janie’s, and Winterburger that bother to open. So today was a slower day, and one of Dara’s off days. I like to envision a time when I’ll close on Mondays, too, but that time is not now—now is when every sale counts.

After turning off the overhead lights to leave the shop illuminated by only the ones on the artificial trees and those lining the windows, I step outside and sit down on a park bench out front. Darkness has fallen on a clear, crisp December night and I want to breathe in some fresh air for a few minutes. My whole life now is inside the building behind me—I live there and I work there. Convenient, yes, but maybe I didn’t factor in what life would be like never having to go anywhere. Other than a recent trip for groceries, I’m not even sure when I last drove my car, which stays parked out back.

A glance at the Lucas Building reminds me of the guy who won’t plug in a Christmas tree, but I’m glad he didn’t stay mad at me.

And speak—or think—of the devil, that’s when a familiar red pickup comes rolling up to the curb across the street.

As he steps out, I call across to him, “Mr. Scrooge, I presume?”

He slants me a look in the shadows from streetlights. “And if it’s not Mrs. Claus, the Christmas queen herself.”

I just offer up a small smile.

“I better not find any boughs of holly decking my halls when I go inside or you’re in trouble.”

“Nope,” I tell him.“I’ve learned my lesson and stayed on my side of the street today.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Can I interest you in some free hot chocolate? Slow day and I’m about to throw it out when I go back inside.”

I’m not even sure why I asked, and I expect him to say no. He looks like he’s going to, hesitating. But then he shrugs. “What the hell—why not?” And starts in my direction.

My skin ripples slightly beneath my parka, and as much as I still want to think Dara is wrong about me being into him, I’m worried she’s right. Which is a nightmare. Polar opposites and all that.

Inside, I turn the lights back on and get him a mug of cocoa. “Whipped cream?” I ask as he takes a stool. “Tiny marshmallows? A peppermint stick? We have a whole little shelf of fun add-ons over here.”

He shakes his head. “None of that—I take it straight.”

It draws a smile from me. “Of course you do. God forbid you get festive with your hot chocolate—someone might accuse you of being jolly.”

“No threat of that happening anytime soon,” he says with a small, self-aware smile.

After I make myself a cup, too, spraying a dollop of whipped cream on top and adding a few sprinkles for fun, I turn to him.

“Should we toast?” he asks, lifting his usual green Santa mug.

The simple suggestion surprises me. I don’t point out that they’re possibly the merriest three words I’ve ever heard my Scroogy neighbor speak, and instead reply, “Only if I get to decide what we toast to.”

He rolls his eyes teasingly, somehow getting more handsome to me all the time. “That feels dangerous. But have at it.”

It takes me only a few seconds to come up with the perfect thing. “To wishes,” I say. “In boxes and on stars.”

He bumps his mug against the candy-cane striped one I’m holding and says, “I guess that’s not too bad. To wishes then.” After which he glances across the shop to the white box. “So you say people are into this, huh?”

I nod. “Got a few more wishes today, in fact. I don’t think anyone has come in since the box arrived who hasn’t put one inside.”

“Well, I’m glad it’s what you wanted it to be.”

“You should put a wish in, too,” I tell him.

He looks like I’ve made an outrageous proposal. “Me? I don’t think so.”

“Why not? You just toasted to wishes.”

He shrugs. “That was because I was thankful you hadn’t toasted flying reindeer or snowmen coming to life when you put old hats on their heads,” he tells me with a grin I feel in my solar plexus.

But he should know by now that it’s going to take more than that for me to give up such a good idea. “Seriously,” I persist. “What would be the harm in writing down a wish and dropping it inside? Everyone wishes for something, whether you write it down or not.”

He lowers his chin, looking as if he’s about to tell me a secret. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t approve of anything I’d wish for.”

“Like what?” I challenge him.

“Hmm.” He plants one elbow on the counter and props his chin on top. “That the Christmas Box lady would quit trying to make me wish for silly things when I choose to live in reality? Or that my dad would bite the dust already so I can get back to my real life?”

I flinch at that last part—it’s impossible not to.

“See?” he says. “I can still be a jerk.”

I almost protest—maybe because I just don’t want it to be true. He took in Marley, after all. I’ve seen the good in him. There’s got to be more to this story. So instead I ask, “Why do you feel that way? About your dad.”

He takes a drink of his hot chocolate while narrowing a suspicious gaze on me. “What, are you gonna psychoanalyze me now? Pursuing therapy as a fallback position?”

“I’m just curious,” I explain. “I mean…I’d have given anything to grow up with a dad.”

“But you’re forgetting something,” he says, pointing a finger my way. “Not all dads are created equal. If you’d had mine, you might wish you had none at all. There’s a wish for you—I could put that one in the box.”

Despite the harsh answer, I counter, “If he’s so awful, why are you at the manor every day? I mean, surely you could be here doing your duty without going that often.”

He takes a moment before telling me, “He’s…a different guy now. Closer to how I remember him being when I was a little kid. I’m guessing it’s the brain cancer mixing things up. But just a little while ago, he was all over the place—didn’t even recognize me. And I guess it just reminded me of the bad old days.”

“What was so bad about him?” I ask softly. “Back then.”

At first I think he’s not going to answer. I’m prying, after all, and I know it. And he doesn’t seem like a guy who opens up to just anyone—and maybe, in fact, no one.

But after a minute, he says, “Okay, here’s a for instance. I’m thirteen years old, the grandparents and cousins are over, and we’re hosting Christmas dinner. My grandfather on my dad’s side, who could also be kind of an ass, says, ‘This turkey’s too little. Ain’t gonna have no leftovers.’ My mother says she got the biggest one we could afford this year with dad out of work. And that insults my dad, so much that he stands up, starts raving about how he’s doing the best he can but she’s never satisfied, and he keeps right on going until he’s picking up the gravy boat and sending it flying across the room to shatter into pieces against the kitchen wall.

“Everybody freezes—except me. I go start cleaning up the mess—just trying to somehow fix the situation. But then he yells at me— tells me to sit back down, that she’ll clean it up. And then he and I end up in each other’s faces—until Uncle Wally gets between us and calms things down.

“The upshot was—everyone left and I locked myself in my room the rest of the night. The mess was still there the next morning—I knew she wasn’t gonna clean it up, on principle. So I did—but I caught hell for it later, from both of them if you can believe that.”

I tilt my head as understanding dawns. “Oh. I get it now. That’s why you hate Christmas.”

But he only shoots me an annoyed look. “Of course you’d bring it around to that, but no, that’s not why I hate Christmas .” He mimics me.

I’m wholly unconvinced, though, and slant him a look right back. “Are you sure? I mean, if that happened to me, who knows, maybe I’d even hate Christmas.”

“Well,” he admits, thinking it through, “it was always worse then. The fighting. There were money troubles, like I said, and the holidays shine a light on that. And Christmas puts people on edge—so many expectations—so when you’re already in a tense situation, the holidays just amplify it.

“After she was gone, we kind of just quit having Christmas altogether. Wally and Edie would invite us over, and Dad would go, but I refused. I didn’t want anything to do with it.”

I’m pretty horrified by all he’s just said—he’s right that not everyone’s home lives growing up are the same. But I’m afraid if I tell him how sorry I am he went through that, he’ll realize how much he just confided in me. So instead I move on to, “So you’re telling me you don’t think any of this is connected to your feelings about Christmas?” I slant him a knowing look.

Yet rather than answer, he turns it around and says, “Can I ask you something personal?”

Given everything he’s just shared, I reply, “Sure.”

“I know your memories of Christmas with your family are good ones. But…isn’t it hard without them? To keep enjoying it so much? I mean, I lost my dad—in a way—when I was twelve and the construction outfit he worked for went belly up. This was back before he started his own business—he was out of a job with no warning. Money was tight, he took to drinking, it eventually drove my mom away—and nothing was ever the same after that, Christmas or anything else. You lost your dad, and then your mom and grandma, so I’m sure your Christmases aren’t what they used to be, either. How do you keep loving it the way you do?”

For some reason, the question makes me feel vulnerable, an emotion I thought I’d long ago outgrown. Maybe because I’m about to tell him something I haven’t told many people. I do it almost bashfully, from beneath lowered eyelids. “The holidays were hard for me afterward. But sometimes ‘fake it ’til you make it’ is good advice. You just pretend to feel a certain way until you really feel it.”

He looks confused. “Are you telling me you don’t really love Christmas?”

“Of course not!” I object as if he’s suggested something preposterous.

“Thank God,” he says, “because you were about to blow my entire worldview to bits.”

“What I’m telling you is that it took a while,” I explain. “It took remembering the good times, but accepting that those days were over and figuring out how to make new good times. It took finding my way. And it’s not perfect. Believe it or not, even I have moments during the holidays when I feel a little down. You’re right—there is a lot of expectation and buildup.

“But what I came to realize is that Christmas is…whatever you make it. You can dwell on hard memories and things that aren’t what you want them to be—or you can focus on everything good and warm and uplifting about the season. For me, it’s become about things like hope. And giving. And wishing. Like all the wishes in the box. Wishing keeps hope alive. And Christmas keeps wishing alive. And wishes are prayers. So even if Christmastime isn’t perfect, I still think it’s the most wonderful time of the year—not just because a song says so.”

Travis

I cross the street a little while later, thinking about my conversation with Lexi. Sure, she’d told me about losing her mom and grandma before, but maybe this is the first time I’m realizing she has struggles, too. She sure handles them differently than I do, though. It’s hard not to admire the way she just moves forward through it all, still seeing the good in every day.

What happened at the manor still has me on edge, though. Hot chocolate and talking with Lexi was…well, a nice balm after that—I’m glad I took her up on the invitation. But no amount of cocoa can fix what happened this afternoon.

Climbing the stairs to the apartment, I flip on a light and greet the dog. “Hey, girl,” I say as she comes trotting over, tail wagging a thousand miles an hour. I bend over, scratching and nuzzling her. “Yes, you missed me, I see that,” I tell her in a silly voice I’m not sure I’ve ever used before. I’ll have to get better about leaving lights on for her if I won’t be back before dark. “Bet you’re ready for supper, huh?”

I need to pick up a sack of dog food, but for now, I start breaking some deli turkey from the fridge into bite size pieces in a bowl.

It’s then that I notice her beginning to squat. “No,” I say quickly. “No, no.” I point to the puppy pad. “Paper,” I say. “Go on the paper.”

And that’s when something downright shocking happens. She trots across the room and goes on the paper.

“Oh my God,” I whisper. Then I walk over and stoop down beside her. “Good girl! Such a good girl. You did it—you really did it. It’s a miracle. What a good girl you are.”

And then I remember: treat! I’m supposed to give her a treat when she does it. I even bought some little doggie snacks just for this purpose—so I rush to the kitchen counter, grab one out of a box, and hold it down for her to take from me. “That’s for being such a good girl.”

I’m still petting her when I realize the word I just used. Miracle. I was kidding, exaggerating—but hell, what do I know? “Maybe Lexi’s right and Christmas miracles really do exist,” I murmur. “Maybe every single good thing that happens, in a way, is a miracle.”

Then I catch myself. I’m holding Marley’s face between my hands. And I’ve just told a dog I believe in miracles because she peed on the pad. I must be losing it. “I take it back,” I tell the pooch. “It’s not a miracle that you used the puppy pad. You’re clearly just a very smart, trainable dog.”