The Christmas Box (The Box Books #2)

17. December 19

December 19

Travis

I wait in Winterburger for my to-go order, a few of the booths and tables around me filled with lunch customers.

As I plodded up the snowy sidewalk to get here, the town felt entirely different than it had just hours before. Snowplows have come through, scraping away snow angels and leaving behind slush, and boot prints have pressed down any snow on the sidewalk not yet cleared away by shopkeepers. Kissing Lexi in the middle of the street last night feels almost like a dream.

But I know it really happened. Even though I tried to resist the urge.

I wanted to ask her to invite me in. I almost did. But same as when we were ice-skating, I’m not sure I should start something with her I can’t finish.

Though on the other hand, much as I hate to admit it, something about this place has started feeling almost like home again—and not in the bad way it once did, but in a warmer sense maybe I can only appreciate now, as an adult. Or maybe that feeling is about the woman who runs the Christmas Box. Maybe she’s just gotten inside me and made me begin to wonder what in Chicago I’m in such a hurry to get back to.

I’ve always been happy there, and I make a comfortable living. I have friends, and interests. I belong to a classic car club. I play pickup basketball every Tuesday. But…when was the last time I dated a girl who gets under my skin the way Lexi does, makes me laugh like Lexi does, warms up everything inside me like Lexi does, makes me see the world through through a more hopeful, giving lens the way Lexi does?

Yep, I should have asked her to invite me in.

That’s when Nick exits the kitchen into the dining room to take a seat, still in his apron, a soda cup in hand. Must be on a break.

The sight of him reminds me of the one wish on our list I haven’t done anything about yet. Christmas is coming fast, and I don’t have a plan, but I decide to wing it.

Uninvited, I slide into the booth seat across from him. Then I lean closer and speak in a low tone, like I’m some kind of holiday secret agent. “Listen, don’t ask me how I know this, but if your son is thinking of proposing, Christmas would be a great time. And if he’s not, maybe he should. But you didn’t hear this from me.”

I wait for the guy to tell me to mind my own business, or maybe look at me like I’m a lunatic—since that would be fair. But instead, concern knits his brow. “Is Marissa getting tired of waiting? I mean, I don’t blame her. Cash loves her—he’s just…”

When he trails off, I plow ahead, not needing to know any more about his family’s personal affairs than I already somehow do. “Look, I have no idea,” I tell him. “And I’ve said all I can say. We never had this conversation.”

“What conversation?” he replies smoothly, like a fellow spy.

“Order up for Travis,” Gail announces behind the counter.

I get up, grab my burger bag, then head toward the door. But then I stop and look back at Nick. “Hey,” I tell him, “if I don’t see you in the next few days, have a merry Christmas.”

“You, too,” he says.

And I walk out into the cold shaking my head. Since when do I wish people a merry Christmas? Who am I?

I shrug off the questions as I head down the street to my truck, though—because I have other, more important things on my mind. The woman at the Christmas shop, for instance. The fact that maybe it really is failing, and the look in her eyes when she told me that. And I’m also dreading the end with Dad. It’s all suddenly a little overwhelming.

Though back in high school, Mr. West once counseled me that when you’re going through something hard, you should just take one day at a time. “Concentrate on the steps in front of you today, not the whole journey,” he said. It stuck with me and helped me get through the rest of senior year, and then leaving home. Maybe I need to heed that advice now.

I walk into the manor toting my Winterburger bag and start my usual bob and weave through the residents roaming the hallways.

“Hi, Dottie,” I say, spotting her as I move past. Only then do I notice the anguish in her gaze and realize she’s not carrying her babydoll.

Just like the last time this happened, a protective fury rises in me, making it so I can barely see straight. And also just like last time, I spy a familiar old robe down the corridor—the man wearing it padding away in worn slippers, her “baby” dangling from his fingertips.

What is it with this guy? What’s it gonna take for him to leave Dottie alone?

I make a beeline toward him, determined to make him listen this time.

Though it’s only as I step into his path, only as he looks at me with that strange, innocent little smile, that I remember what Helen told me: He doesn’t know what he’s doing; he means no harm. And I realize that no amount of yelling at this guy is gonna make any difference.

Probably no amount of kindness or reasoning will, either, sadly—but it at least stops me from flying into a rage in the middle of Bluegrass Manor.

“Hey, Henry,” I say, having long since learned his name. “You can’t keep taking Dottie’s doll.” I reach down, gently removing it from his grasp. And for Dottie’s sake, because she’s watching all this, I make sure to hold the doll upright between both hands. “It’s very important to her. She loves it very much. It’s hers, not yours—okay?”

In the weeks I’ve been coming here, I’ve yet to hear Henry utter a single word and today is no different. He just keeps giving me that same empty smile.

Walking back to Dottie with the doll, I know I haven’t fixed anything long term, but…all I can do is deal with the steps in front of me today “Here you go,” I tell her, gently lowering the doll into her arms. Cradling it, she strokes its little face with withered fingers.

“See, she’s okay,” I tell the old woman soothingly. “She’s all right.” And as I stand over her, I feel the strange absurdity of the moment: How did I get here?

Maybe everyone here wonders that sometimes.

That’s when Helen comes rushing up from behind. “Ah, Travis to the rescue once again,” she says, sounding relieved. “I was just on my way to deal with that situation, but I appreciate you beating me to it.”

After she does a sort of silent check-in with Dottie, rubbing her arm and giving her a comforting smile, she and I start walking together.

“Is there no way to stop that guy from taking the baby?”

I realize too late that I’ve called it a baby, like Dottie’s reality has overtaken mine, but Helen seems entirely unfazed.

She just shakes her head. “Can’t lock them in their rooms—they have to have what little freedom we can give them here.” Then she lets out a sigh. “I don’t know why he’s started doing that lately, but we’re keeping an eye on the situation as best we can. We don’t like the stress it puts Dottie under any better than you do.”

She sounds so calm the whole time she speaks—she always sounds calm. I turn to peer down at her as we make a jagged path between wheelchairs. “How do you do it, Helen?”

I can tell by her gentle smile and knowing eyes that she understands exactly what I’m talking about, even as she feigns ignorance.“Do what?”

“You know what.”

At this, she only shrugs, coming clean. “Someone has to,” she tells me. “It’s my calling in life, I suppose. So many people become…forgotten here. It’s heartbreaking, really. As I’ve told you, I’m often the one with them when they take their last breaths. It shouldn’t be that way—everyone should feel loved. But for those who aren’t, I’m happy to fill that role.”

It hits me that my dad could have been one of those people and I’m glad he’s not; I’m glad he knows I’m here for him. Even if I’m dreading when that time comes.

“Isn’t it hard on you?” I ask. “Dealing with so much death?”

“I’ve grown used to it over time. I see it like someone going on a trip, or moving away. They’re here with me for a while, and then they go, with me wishing them good travels, and perhaps missing them when they’re gone, but knowing they’re just someplace else now.” With that, she reaches down and takes my hand in hers, giving it a warm squeeze as she smiles up at me. “Your dad’s having another good day today. Still not eating a lot, but maybe that scrumptious-smelling burger will change his mind. Go have a nice visit with him.”

As we part ways, I sense that her smile for that last part was a bit forced. Maybe she’ll miss my father. Maybe she’s warning me the end is near. I can’t decipher it and resolve not to try too hard. One day, one step, at a time.

Half an hour later I’ve watched Dad take only a few bites of his burger and pick at the fries while I’ve been telling him about the wishes Lexi and I helped grant the last few days.

“That’s real nice, son,” he says softly. “I’m proud of you for being so good to others.”

But I’m uncomfortable taking credit and point out, “It’s really her making it all happen.”

His look of doubt catches me off guard. “Don’t sound that way to me. You made the box. It was your idea to read the wishes. You made the wheelchair ramp and toted the tree.”

And all that’s true, but still I insist, “I wouldn’t have done any of it without her, though. She kind of brings out the best in me. Even as her business is failing, she’s spending all her time looking out for other people.”

“She’s a nice young lady. Sorry to hear about her shop.”

“I want to do more to help,” I tell him, “but this is one thing I don’t know how to fix.”

“Need to get more folks in there,” Dad says, stating the obvious.

“Got any ideas on how?” I don’t expect him to come up with anything—for a guy with advanced brain cancer, I’m amazed enough that he’s sitting up talking to me entirely lucidly—but the words left me out of frustration.

“Shame ya can’t just point a big arrow to her place from I 75,” he muses. Winterberry sits directly off the major expressway that runs from Michigan to Florida. “I remember a time when billboards lined the interstate, but these days I think there’s a bunch of rules and regulations around it.” He shrugs. “Reckon it does look nicer without, though.”

Dad’s rambling now, but it gives me an idea. Probably a far-fetched one that would never work, something that would take way longer to pull together than I have.

But I hear myself asking him anyway, “Does Richard Hargis still own the farm where we used to visit him when I was a kid?” He was my father’s boss, running the construction company where Dad worked until it went under, starting our financial troubles.

“I believe he does,” Dad answers. I remember fishing there, in a pond so close to 75 that it felt like the cars were whizzing past right next to me. It wasn’t a peaceful spot, despite the woods and pastures in all other directions—but it suddenly seems like the exact place I need.

Although now that I’m thinking through it, there would be other big things to figure out—I need more than just the place. And even so, I hear myself trying to dredge up ways it could work, no matter how crazy the idea probably is. “Am I remembering correctly that his kids were both artistic?”

Dad squints slightly, cocking me a sideways glance. “Um, yeah, think so. Both a few years ahead of you in school if I recall.”

I nod. “Do they still live locally?”

With that same questioning look, he replies, “Believe his daughter built a house on the property, near his.”

Well, this feels like a long shot, but for Lexi, it’s better than no shot at all. “Still got his number?”

“Reckon it’s in the phone book at the house, on the shelf above the microwave.” Then he grins. “And maybe I just got a notion about what’s percolating in your brain. If I’m right, and if Richard gives you any guff, you tell him it’s my dying wish.” He finishes on a wink and I’m still astounded he can be as stoic—and even jovial—about his impending demise as Helen is about everything else that goes on here.

“Listen,” I begin, “do you mind if —”

He cuts me off to say, “Nope—do what ya gotta do, and take all the time you need. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

Something about the simple words reassure me.

As I get to my feet, I wrap up his burger and say, “I’ll put this in your fridge. Maybe you’ll want one of the nurses to reheat it later.”

Dad nods. “Maybe.” Unlike usual, he didn’t even say it was good, and I almost got the impression he’s lost the taste for it. But I can’t worry about everything at once. One step at a time; deal with what’s directly before you.

On my way out, Helen exits one of the resident’s rooms in front of me. “You look like you’re on your way to a fire,” she observes.

“No, but something that feels almost as urgent,” I tell her, striding past. Only then I stop and look back. “Hey Helen, could I borrow that Santa suit of yours?”