The Christmas Box (The Box Books #2)

12. December 13

December 13

Travis

I pick Dad up early before the festival, to make sure I beat the crowd and get a parking spot on Main like usual. Every time I’ve seen him, he’s been in pajamas or a sweatshirt and drawstring pants, so when I find him sitting in a wheelchair in a half-zip pullover and blue jeans, I’m caught off guard.

“Whoa, check you out. Mr. GQ all the sudden.” He looks healthier in normal clothes. But I can’t deny he’s gotten thinner just since I’ve been in Winterberry, despite all his beloved hamburgers.

He casts me a cocky grin. “I still clean up pretty good, don’t I?”

Gabbi enters the room behind me and says, “Hey there, Travis. After I get your dad’s coat and gloves on, I’ll walk you out and help get him in the truck.”

My instinct is to say I’m sure I can handle it—since she’s much smaller than me, downright petite, in fact—but I hold my tongue. I always step out when she or Helen helps him to the bathroom, and I guess I don’t really know how that goes, but maybe the fact that he can’t maneuver himself at all didn’t hit home for me before right now.

I push him out through a wet, snow-plowed parking lot, and when I open the truck’s passenger door, Gabbi leans down over Dad and he wordlessly places his arms around her neck. “Here we go,” she says, hefting him to his feet. “Now we’re gonna turn, Tom.” After she positions him near the seat, together they get him up into it.

Closing him inside, the small woman in scrubs and a fleece zip-up asks me, “Think you can manage it?”

“Yeah,” I tell her, softly, surely—but I wonder if she can see that I’m a little dumbfounded. He’s weaker than I realized. And she’s stronger, both in ways you can see and ways you can’t.

She shows me how to fold up the wheelchair and says, “You two have fun.”

The decision to go early was a good one because there are only a few spaces left when we arrive. The closest is marked handicapped, and despite not having one of those official things hanging from my mirror, I take it. Normally I would never do that, but if my father doesn’t qualify as handicapped, who does?

“Well, will you just look at all the people,” Dad declares, pointing out the window. “And that tree! Sure is pretty. Whole street is, in fact.”

Until this moment, I never really noticed how all the storefront windows are lined with colored lights, or took in the pine boughs wrapped around the streetlamps. Glimpsing it through the eyes of a man who hasn’t left his nursing home in weeks, a man about to have his last Christmas on this earth, I can see the beauty in the bright, twinkling lights in a way I couldn’t have only an hour ago.

After I get the wheelchair from the truck bed, I open his door and ask, “You ready?”

“More than!”

He thinks I’m talking about the festival, but I meant ready for us to maneuver him into the chair.

Turning toward me, he doesn’t hesitate to loop his arms around my neck, same as he did with Gabbi. Then I lean in and grip his shockingly-skinny hips as he slides gently from the seat to a standing position on the sidewalk. It’s the closest we’ve been, physically or otherwise, since I was a kid. It’s almost like we’re slow-dancing. He smells like Irish Spring and the coffee he probably drank with dinner. He’s lighter than I even expected. And it’s all very awkward for me, but the fact that he’s clearly gotten used to such help and takes it in stride makes it easier. Lowering him into the chair feels strange, backward—the parent becomes the child.

What I didn’t factor in when taking the spot directly across the street from the park was that I’d have to wheel him down to a corner for handicap access. Suddenly I have profound admiration for caregivers and handicapped people who have to work so much harder to do the things most us take for granted.

As I wheel him toward the nearest crosswalk, past the Lucas Building—where I left a light on in back—he glances through the plate glass window. “Say, why don’t you take me in there, let me get a look at your work.”

I’ve forgotten to snap the pictures he asked for, and wheeling him into his brother’s old place seems easy enough. I pull my keys from my pocket and, though it takes a little finagling with the chair, I get him inside and flip on the lights.

“Still early in the project,” I tell him, then start pointing and explaining. “Both walls will be lined with cabinetry and shelves from front to back when I’m done.”

He begins examining some cabinet doors I’ve just finished, laid across two sawhorses. “Damn fine workmanship,” he says, running his index finger along one edge. “Gonna be real nice, I can tell.”

He sounds proud, like any normal father might, and despite thinking I didn’t care about that, it makes me feel good inside.

I almost say I’ll bring him back to see it when it’s done, but then I think better of it. It’ll probably be only another few weeks, but what if he’s too frail by then?

“Ready for the festival?” I ask a little while later.

“Sure thing. But I’m glad we stopped here.”

“Me, too.” Then, thinking about how much he enjoyed the Main Street lights, I tell him, “Wait right here—I need to run upstairs for a sec.”

Heading up, I pet the dog—who I finally remembered to leave a dim lamp on for before I left—and then I walk over and plug in the tree lights.

By the time Dad and I near the park entrance, busy with people moving this way and that, their talk and laughter echoing, lights glowing and holiday music playing, I begin to experience an old, familiar sensation, something in my chest expanding as we grow closer. It’s…anticipation.

It’s what I felt as a kid walking into an amusement park or even just the county fair. I have no idea where it sprung from—maybe I’m still seeing it all through my father’s eyes. But whereas during that tree-lighting party I wanted to stay as far away as possible, right now I’m surprisingly okay with being in the middle of it all.

“Well, hey there, Tom—how ya doing?” asks a man I don’t know. I stop pushing so Dad can say hello.

Which is when a woman I vaguely recognize from my childhood but can’t place greets him with, “Tom! It’s good to see you out and about.”

“You both remember my boy, Travis,” Dad says, his voice brimming with pride.

Each of them tells me who they are, and I pretend to remember as Dad goes on. “He was nice enough to bust me out of the manor tonight so I could kick up my heels a little.” He laughs at his own joke and the rest of us do, too.

We don’t make it much farther before more people are greeting Dad, asking him how he’s feeling, saying all the right things. It’s kind of like taking Marley into a rest home—you’ve just started moving forward again when someone else stops you. But this is why we came and it’s fine with me.

While Dad chats, I find myself scanning the park for Lexi, since I’m sure she’s here somewhere. I see Santa Claus with a little kid on his knee in the gazebo, and Janie from the bakery selling fancy, iced cookies, and families posing for pictures in front of the big Christmas tree—but no Lexi Hargrove.

After Dad finishes a conversation with someone and informs me, “I built a deck for that fella a few years back,” a teenage girl in an elf costume appears before us wearing a big smile.

“Happy Holidays! Come over by the tree and I’ll take your picture.”

I start to object, out of the sheer habit of not wanting to commemorate our broken relationship, but when Dad looks up hopefully, I say, “Sure,” and push the chair in that direction.

The elf takes my phone and snaps a few shots of us, my hand on his shoulder.

When that’s done, I ask Dad if he wants a cookie and wheel him over to Janie’s table near the gazebo. He selects one shaped like a mitten. And as he talks with still more friends I never knew he had, I step back to lean against one of the gazebo’s thick white posts.

“Pssst,” I think I hear someone say nearby, but I ignore it.

A few seconds later, though, there it is again. “Pssst. Pssst, little boy.” Now it comes with a weirdly deep voice. “Little boy, come tell Santa what you want.”

I turn my head to see that Santa, sitting a few feet away in a big chair, is indeed talking to me . He’s smiling at me, in fact, and it’s getting fairly creepy—until he reaches up to pull down his beard, revealing a familiar face underneath.

“It’s just me, Travis.” Helen’s bold grin tells me she’s extremely amused with herself.

I give her a small ya-got-me smile in return. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised—Helen always seems to be at the center of all things Winterberry. But I keep my voice low as I reply, “There’s nothing I want for Christmas, Helen.”

“But there’s something I want for you.” She sounds mysterious as she reverts to her deep Santa voice, the fake white beard back in place.

“What’s that?” I indulge her to ask.

“It’s a secret.”

I only shake my head and arch an eyebrow in her direction. “Have you been dipping into the eggnog, Santa?”

At this, she just laughs. Then she glances across the park in a way that makes me follow her eyes, until my gaze falls on none other than the person I’ve been looking for: my pretty neighbor from the Christmas Box.

Ah, I knew she’d never miss a Winterberry Christmas event—heck, she probably created the event. She’s manning the hot chocolate table, currently helping a little kid spoon chocolate chips on top of a whipped cream-covered paper cup as she wiggles her hips to Kelly Clarkson’s Underneath the Tree.

Watching from a distance, it’s hard to miss what a vibrant woman she is. And a resilient one, too. Some people who’ve suffered losses—like me— go through their existences angry and bitter. While Lexi somehow still manages to soak up all of life’s little joys every single day.

That’s when I realize Helen is eyeing me, waiting for some kind of response. I simply say, “Santa, I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I have to go push a man around in a wheelchair now.”

“You’re a good egg, Travis Hutchins,” she calls softly behind me, back in her normal voice.

I toss her a wink as I start toward Dad. “Don’t let it get around.”

A few seconds later, Dad is filling me in on the guys he was just talking to, and saying he heard someone is selling some tasty pumpkin pie over by the cocoa booth.

“You want a slice?” I ask.

“That sounds real good. In fact, think I’ll save my cookie for later and eat some pie right now. I’m not real hungry, but I’ve always loved pumpkin pie.”

“I remember,” I tell him.

I have no idea if Lexi sees me as Dad and I approach the booth next to hers. But I stay very aware of her . She’s wearing a white puffy vest over a fuzzy red sweater, her long hair falling in gentle waves from beneath a red knit hat with a fluffy ball on top, and now Dara is at her side sporting her usual antlers as both sing along with Kelly.

As Dad digs into his pie a minute later, she catches me looking—so since eye contact has been made, I roll Dad over to her table. “If it’s not Mrs. Claus herself,” I say with a smile.

“Mr. Scrooge,” she greets me. “Behaving less Scroogier tonight than usual, though.”

I ignore the teasing accusation in her voice, instead asking, “Do you know my father, Tom? Dad, this is Lexi Hargrove.”

“Yes,” she says, “we’ve met here and there along the way. How are you tonight, Mr. Hutchins?” She holds her hand out to him across the table.

He lowers his fork to the paper pie plate to briefly squeeze her mitten-covered fingers in his. “Doing pretty good, thanks. Sure am enjoying this evening. I knew your grandmother from the diner.” Then he takes another bite and asks her, “Have you tried this pumpkin pie? Mmm, mmm, mmm.”

“Not yet,” she tells him.

“You do like pumpkin pie, don’t you?” he teases her.

“Do I like pumpkin pie?” she jokes back. “Do reindeers fly? Does Santa say ho ho ho?”

I can’t help thinking that the only Santa I know doesn’t seem to go ho ho ho as much as she tries to play holiday matchmaker. As if I need Helen to point out how cute Lexi is. As if she isn’t already on my mind enough without that. As if I don’t find myself flirting with her without meaning to. As if every time we touch in some tiny way doesn’t make my skin tingle and my chest tighten. Somehow, she’s even cuter tonight than usual—a complication I don’t need right now. But a question lingers in the back of my mind: How long can I ignore all that?

When yet another friend of Dad’s walks up, pulling him into the next conversation, Lexi says to me, “Sweet of you to bring him.”

“He wanted to come,” I inform her. “Wasn’t my idea.”

But she just shrugs. “Well, it’s still nice. He looks happy. Even if I’m sure you hate this.”

I want to say that I do—a knee-jerk reaction. At this point, I kind of have a reputation to uphold. But as I look around at the laughing kids, a snowman someone built near the gazebo, and the tree—its lights sparkling, its boughs glistening with snow—I can’t quite do it. So instead, I’m honest. “It’s not awful.”

Lexi

A little while later, after Travis has waved goodbye and wheeled his father away, a tap comes on my shoulder and I turn to see Brenda, a friend of my mother’s who waited tables at the diner back in the day. Her long, silver hair is pulled up into a high ponytail atop her head, a sprig of holly tucked in as an accoutrement. “Who was that man, Lexi?” she asks, sounding all dreamy and suspicious.

“What man?” I blink, playing dumb.

Beside me, Dara has tuned in to the conversation, too.

“The very handsome one who sent you this,” Brenda replies, holding out a paper plate on which rests a perfect triangle of pumpkin pie heaped with fluffy whipped cream.

“He sent me pie ?” I scrunch up my nose, feeling both smitten and a little confused.

Brenda nods as if I’m keeping some secret from her, but I just take the plate.

“Is this…like when a guy sends a woman a drink in a bar?” Dara suggests, one fingertip to her lips as she ponders it. “Just the small-town version?” Then she addresses Brenda. “Oh, and he’s the long-lost Travis Hutchins, who once stood Lexi up at a high school dance and is now rehabbing the Lucas Building, while keeping watch over his father, Tom, who has a terminal illness.”

We both just gape at her dramatic yet concise explanation.

“What can I say?” she goes on. “Mom and I like to watch the few daytime soaps still on. Sometimes I view things through that lens. Especially when the shoe fits. And now that I think about it, this one definitely does. All he needs is a little romance with the girl whose heart he once broke to help him through a difficult time.”

But at this, I draw the line. “Don’t be ridiculous. He did not break my heart.”

She casts me a doubtful look.

So I add softly, “He only bruised it a little.”

“Well, all I know,” Brenda says, “is that he was a looker. I’d eat pumpkin pie—or pig slop, for that matter—with him any day.”

As I try the pie—which I can’t deny tastes a little sweeter just knowing where it came from—Brenda is drawn away by another customer, leaving Dara to lean close and say privately, “Don’t look now, but I think he likes you, too.”

“It’s just pie,” I tell her.

“And gingerbread buildings and...well, who knows what other scrumptious treats are in your future.”

Despite my denials, I can’t help feeling a little giddy inside—even if it is just pie. I love that he brought his father here tonight—although, wow, Tom looks so much thinner than when I last saw him. I love that he made the gingerbread shop for me, and that he took Marley to visit with people who surely needed it. And I love that he plugged his tree lights in again tonight.

Only…it’s hard to let myself feel happy for long when I remember why he’s here. Because how am I going to feel when his time in Winterberry comes to a close and he gets in that truck and goes back to Chicago for good?

No, he didn’t break my heart when he let me down at the Christmas Ball—but if I’m not careful, he might soon.

Travis

After I lift Dad back into the truck, collapse his chair, and get behind the wheel, I glance over to see he’s leaned his head back against the seat and is about to conk out. He looks much older than his fifty-five years.

“You okay?” I ask. Though I want to call the words back as soon as they leave me, because of course he’s not okay—he’s dying.

But he takes the question in stride, telling me, “Think maybe I stayed out past my bedtime.” He chuckles a little as he says it. It’s 8:30 and we’ve only been gone a couple of hours.

“Well, I’ll have you back to the manor in no time.”

As we travel in silence, I’m aware of how small he seems next to me, how frail and docile. I felt the skin and bones of him as I got him back in the truck. But what’s consuming me at the moment is the awareness that…it’s almost over for him. I feel him dying.

Odd, because he’s been dying the whole time I’ve been here, yet suddenly I sense it in a new way. I wonder what it feels like to know this outing might be his last, the last time he talks and laughs with friends, the last time he sees a park, watches kids playing, hears the wetness of the road under tires. Or maybe his feebleness swallows all of that right now and is the only thing that matters–maybe his exhaustion overshadows every thought.

If so, I think he’s lucky. Because I’m not sure I’d be handling the situation so well. Despite myself, I admire this ability of his I’ve witnessed—to live fully in the moment.

Back at the manor, we do that same dance to get him in the wheelchair, and it’s harder this time because he’s drained and even weaker. When his skinny body is fully in my embrace, the weight of him on me, I experience a rush of emotion I have to push down fast. I don’t even know what it is—just a heavy sadness I never expected to feel when I got here.

As I push him through the sliding glass doors, I’m glad to see Gabbi not far up the hall. She’s spotted us, too, and heads our way with a smile. “How was it? Did you boys get up to no good?”

We laugh and Dad tells her it was a great time, but he’s ready for bed.

“It was nice hanging out with you tonight,” I say to him unplanned. The truth is, for all the time I’ve spent here the last couple of weeks, a lot of it has been the two of us watching TV, and he naps a lot—partly because he’s dying and partly due to pain medication that makes him drowsy. I’m glad he held up tonight as well as he did.

“You, too.” It comes out as a murmur—he’s struggling to stay awake.

That’s when I remember the mitten-shaped cookie in my pocket—I put it there for safekeeping. I pull it out and say, “Don’t forget this.”

His eyes open a little wider. “That’s right. A snack for later.” He takes it from me, looking as pleased as a little kid.

As I turn to go, I hear him call, “Son?”

Son . When was the last time he called me son ? I don’t even know. I look back. “Yeah?”

“Tonight was real nice. Real special. Thank you for that.”

I just nod. I’m not good at this stuff. This I-love-you-I-hate-you-but-now-I’m-starting-not-to-hate-you-quite-so-much-anymore stuff. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Neither of us say anything more, but our eyes meet. It’s enough.

Then I turn and head back out into the cold.