I wake up before dawn on Christmas morning and realize I don’t dread the day as I usually do. There’s a difference between waking up to Forensic Files reruns on Christmas morning and waking up with someplace to go.
But as I’m sipping on my coffee, I realize I don’t have any gifts to take to Callie’s. What do you get someone who’s in her final days of life? Besides, who is even open on Christmas morning?
I check on my phone and see that the local grocery store is open 24/7, even on Christmas. Maybe there’s something I can pick up there.
After I shower and shave and put on a button-down shirt instead of my usual T-shirt, I almost don’t recognize myself. I can’t wear a backward baseball cap on Christmas. My mother would turn over in her grave. But that means I have to work a little harder on my hair. I hate that, but I do it.
When I’m presentable, I go by the grocery store. The floral section is at the front, though I’ve never noticed it before. I scope the place and find two poinsettias. Perfect. One for each of them, and it’s not an awkward gift that has to be opened and reciprocated.
I put the plants into my basket and go up and down the aisles, picking up a few more things I can use to improve our Christmas meal. When I’m done, I realize that I don’t know what time I’m supposed to go over there. Callie never told me a time. She only said we were eating lunch. It’s ten a.m., so I figure I might as well go on.
When I get there, Callie’s front door is open. I look through the screen door and don’t see her, so I knock and call out, “Miss Callie?”
I hear her calling something back, so I step inside, carrying my plastic grocery bag and the two plants. Her tree is still lying on the floor in the small formal living room area. I set the poinsettias down and poke my head in the kitchen.
Callie is sitting in her wheelchair in front of the sink. The turkey is in the pan, but I can see that she’s having trouble with it.
“Miss Callie?”
“Hello, sweet boy,” she says. “You’re just in time. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m weaker than I thought I was.” She laughs as if she’s not bothered at all. “It’s cooked but needs to be warmed. I didn’t know how I was going to get it in the oven.”
“I got it, Miss Callie. You mind if I spice it up a little?”
“You know how?”
“Sydney didn’t tell you that I used to be a chef?”
“I . . . don’t know. Did she?”
“I picked up a few things from the grocery store. I thought maybe I could take it up a notch.”
“Well, aren’t you talented?”
I laugh. “Why don’t you reserve judgment until you taste it?”
She watches, relaxed, as I work on the turkey, making a basting sauce and reworking the stuffing. “I had hoped to spruce the place up some,” she says, “but for the life of me I can’t find my decorations.”
“They’re in the attic,” I remind her.
“They are? How do you know?”
“You told me. And some jerk refused to get them down or put up your tree. But as soon as I get this food in the oven, I’ll go up and get them.”
She claps her hands. “Oh, you are precious!”
“Yeah, that’s what they always call me.” I laugh to myself. “Hey, where’s Sydney?”
She looks around, confused. “I’m not sure.”
“But it’s Christmas. She’s not still working, is she?”
“Yes. Yes, that’s where she is.”
“Are you sure?”
Callie looks a little disturbed. “She said she’d be here.”
Irritation sweeps over me, but it’s quickly chased away by sympathy for Sydney. Something bad must have happened.
I decide I’ll just do my best to distract Callie until she arrives.
I set the oven to warm up the turkey, then I pull the steps down from the ceiling and climb the rickety ladder up into the dark, dusty attic. There’s a light up there, but the bulb is out. I take my phone out and use its flashlight to see my way, hoping I don’t step through the ceiling.
I see a big box that says “Christmas” not too far from the opening, and I grab it and take it down. Then I go back up and find a wreath and a plastic bin containing lights. Another box has the Christmas tree stand, ornaments, and tinsel. I get them all down.
Callie has a grand time looking through the box and pulling things out as I get the tree set up. I wheel her to the tree, and she helps hang the ornaments at seat-level as I string the lights onto the branches. I see a bunch of ornaments with little girls’ pictures, and she handles them delicately.
“Those girls. Who are they?”
She gets a confused look in her eyes. “I don’t know,” she says. “But aren’t they pretty?”
I help her hook a vintage one onto the tree. “This looks kind of old. Could this be a picture of your daughter? Sydney’s mom?”
Her face lights up. “Yes, it probably is.”
“What was her name?”
She looks into the air blankly. She doesn’t remember. I quickly change the subject. “This one has to be Sydney. What was she? Three? Four?”
“Yes, must be,” she says, smiling again.
I plug in the lights, and she laughs aloud and claps her hands as the tree lights up. Her joy seems so intense that I want to prolong it. “We need some Christmas music, don’t we?”
“That would be lovely. Do you think you can find a radio station playing it?”
“I guarantee it. But we can do better than that.”
I find a station on a radio app on my phone, one that plays older Christmas songs around the clock. Today is the one day it doesn’t bother me. The sound isn’t that good without speakers, but I have a hunch that Callie doesn’t care. She claps her skinny, vein-clustered hands with the music.
I go back into the kitchen and work on the casseroles. I should have planned to cook myself. I could have made my confit de canard. Duck is always better than turkey, especially store-cooked turkey. And they both would have loved my tarte tatin for dessert instead of Sara Lee’s frozen pecan pie.
But I do the best I can with what I have to work with. I just wish I knew when Sydney will be here. There’s nothing ruder than expecting someone to cook Christmas dinner for you and not telling them when you’ll come. I fight back my indignation, and then it hits me. I wasn’t feeling upbeat about Christmas with Callie. I was really just looking forward to being with Sydney.
Funny how things like that sneak up on you.
It’s just a little while later when Sydney rushes in like a brisk wind, carrying a shopping bag with a couple of gifts in it. I’m in the kitchen stirring my cinnamon mixture into the pumpkin pie filling and trying not to crack the crust.
“You’re cooking!” she says.
I glance back at her. “You go shopping?”
“No. I had these already.”
“So you were working?”
“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
I take the turkey out to make room for the other food that needs to be warmed, and cover it with tin foil to keep it warm until the casseroles heat up.
“When did you get here?” she asks.
“Couple hours ago.”
“You decorated the tree for her?”
“Yeah, it was no big deal.”
“Thank you, Finn.”
I give her a tight smile. “No problem. Did you get Trust Fund Kid out of jail?”
She doesn’t answer right away. As she takes off her coat, she says, “I knew it was unlikely that a judge would release him, because he’s already built himself quite a reputation for having unparalleled gall.”
“Not to mention a penchant for driving drunk.”
“Right. Oh, and he coldcocked the arresting officer, gave him a black eye. That didn’t go over well.”
I’m not mad anymore. I spoon out some pumpkin pie filling and give her a bite. She takes it, then has the exact reaction I hoped for.
“Oh, that’s so good. What is that?”
“Old family recipe.”
“Really?”
“No.”
She laughs and takes another scoop. “It’s fantastic. I didn’t really expect you to cook.”
“Well, I can’t eat store-bought food without at least trying to fix it up. It’s not so bad now. So the kid . . . did you get him out?”
“I got a judge there, and he set bond at fifty thousand dollars.”
“No hill for a climber like his dad.”
“Right, except that he was hungover from the night before, and he demanded to know what they’d done with his car, which was now in the impound lot, and he threatened to sue the city . . .”
“For letting him drive drunk?”
“No, for putting a dent in his car, even though he was the one who put it there when he ran into the electric pole, knocking out electricity to an entire neighborhood.”
“You’re kidding. On Christmas Eve?”
She steals another taste of my pie filling. “And when the judge told him that he was responsible for that damage, he took a swing at him, too.”
“Over the bench?”
“No. The judge was standing in the hall. It’s informal, this whole thing, but I’m guessing the judge might rethink that in the future. Gave the judge a bloody lip, after which he revoked bond and said he was a danger to himself and others, and ordered him to spend Christmas in lockdown, on suicide watch until after the holidays.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah.” Her smile fades, and she grabs a paper towel and wipes her mouth. “So then the dad comes to the jail to chew me out and everyone else involved, and my bosses, two of the partners, come up there and rake me over the coals. But as hard as I tried, I couldn’t do anything about it. He wasn’t getting out today.”
“He shouldn’t be out today.”
“They don’t see it that way. They accused me of ruining a simple thing like bond for a DUI—”
“Like you were the one who swung at the judge?”
“Yeah, and the dad made a big show of leaving our firm, and the partners in turn . . . fired me.”
I suck in a breath. “What?”
She’s still smiling. “They said I had an attitude problem, that I’d been uncooperative lately, that I was costing the firm too much money.”
“They cost themselves all that money by making you take that stupid case in the first place.”
“Right? Even Gloria Allred wouldn’t take a case with a client like that.”
I stare at her more seriously. The red rims of her eyes make sense to me now. I feel bad for thinking the worst of her. All I can think to say is, “Well, at least you got the rest of Christmas off.”
“Yeah. And New Year. All of next year too, as a matter of fact.”
I try to think of something pithy to say, but nothing comes. “I’m so sorry,” I say finally.
She swallows and shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. You were right. I should have left there a long time ago. You told me I could do better. You were right. It’s just that none of those who got let go have found jobs yet. So . . .”
“You will.”
She gazes into my eyes for a moment. “Let’s not think about it today, okay? Let’s just think about Grammy. She’s in there singing and clapping. You made her happy when I was at the jail beating my head against the cinderblocks. You’re a nice guy.”
“Don’t tell anybody.” I turn back to the oven and check the turkey.
We go into the living room where Callie is still admiring her tree and clapping to the Christmas songs. When the food is ready, Sydney and I bring it in to the dining room table, and if I say so myself, it’s all pretty good. I wouldn’t have minded serving any of this at Christmas in my restaurant.
And then it gets awkward. “Thank you, Jesus,” Callie says, and this time I know she’s not talking to me. “You have always been there for me,” she says as she claps her hands again. “And look at us. Sydney here, and this sweet boy.”
I suspect that she still doesn’t know my name, so I smile and wink at Sydney.
“We had some lonely Christmases. Oh, my church friends were always sweet to invite me, but it wasn’t the same as family. But I always knew you’d get me back with my girl. You’re good to me. And you’ll be good to both of them, too.” She giggles a little, then adds, “I like them together.”
I close my eyes to keep from meeting Sydney’s.
Callie doesn’t end the prayer with amen. She just claps her hands again and says, “Isn’t this fun?”
There’s a lot of laughter during the meal, and I remember that first day I had to drive Callie. Never in a million years would I have expected to be here today, enjoying every second.
When we finish dessert, Sydney asks Callie if she wants to open her gifts. Callie is like a child as we move her from the dining table to the tree, and I know she’s excited because she wants to give Sydney her gift. She insists that we start with that, and I find the gift for Sydney on a table. Callie sits up straight in her wheelchair and grins at me. “That other gift, young man, is for you.”
I look down at the other box, crudely wrapped by Callie’s own hand. There’s a tag on it that says “Finn.” I look up at her, surprised.
“Go on, open it!” she says.
I wait as Sydney opens hers, and she looks shocked as she unwraps the top-of-the-line iPad. “Grammy!” she says. “How did you know to do this?”
Callie laughs with pure joy and shakes her finger at her. “I finally got you something you like?”
“Grammy, I’ve always liked what you got me. This is fantastic, though. Really fantastic.”
They both look at me, and I take my cue and tear into the wrapping. When I get to the box, I see what it is. Another iPad, just like Sydney’s. I just gape at it. “Miss Callie, no. You got me one when I went outside?”
“I wanted you to have one, too.”
I feel tears misting my eyes, and I rub my mouth. I don’t cry. I won’t do it in front of them. “Nobody’s ever . . . This is great, Miss Callie. Thank you.”
She laughs again and leans back in her chair, as if she’s accomplished everything she set out to do. “You’re a good, good boy. Your mama would be so proud of you.”
Now I lose it. I lean, elbows on my knees, and look at the floor as I fight whatever this is that’s twisting at my face.
When I gather myself, I remember that I brought gifts, too.
I give Callie her poinsettia. Sydney seems surprised when I give her one, too. She gives Callie a new robe and bedroom slippers and some little wheelchair accessories to make her life easier.
When we’re done, Sydney and I both take our iPads out of their boxes. Sydney’s is rose gold and mine is black. I don’t even know how to turn it on.
“Here, let me see it and I’ll show you,” Sydney says.
I wait as she clicks around on my iPad. After a moment, she hands it back. “Here’s my Christmas gift to you,” she says.
“What is it?” I ask.
She points to an app she’s just added.
“Uber.”
Her laughter has become a calming influence on me, I have to admit.
“In case you ever get stranded again. I’ll put it on your phone, too.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say.
“And if you want to drive for them, you can do that through the app, too.”
“Great.”
Sydney laughs out loud. Callie closes her eyes, still smiling.
“Grammy, do you want to lie down?”
“Maybe for a few minutes,” the old woman says. “I just need to close my eyes for a bit.”
Sydney takes her to the bedroom, and as she gets her down, I clear the table. Sydney comes back and helps me do the dishes.
“So you’re the one who helped her buy the iPads?”
“No, I just took her there. The Apple guy sold them to her.”
“I don’t know why she thinks I haven’t liked the other gifts she got me.” She smiles as she dries a plate and puts it into the cabinet. “One time she gave me a scrapbook of my mother’s. I had never seen pictures of my mother as a child. Another time she gave me an old stuffed animal that my mother slept with when she was a little girl. I got all emotional and couldn’t say anything, and maybe she thought I just didn’t like it. But I still have it. It’s a treasure.”
“She almost got you towels.”
“Really? That would have been fine. Everybody needs towels.”
“They were plaid.”
“Oh. Yeah, she does have a thing for plaid. She got me plaid sweaters last Christmas. Those were probably the gifts she thinks I didn’t like because she never saw me wear them.”
“She agonized over those towels. Actually did buy them. I wonder what she did with them. Maybe she forgot.”
“Well, I love the iPad.”
“So do I, but I feel bad about it. She shouldn’t be spending that kind of money on someone she hardly knows.”
Sydney grins. “But you’re her sweet boy.”
“I’m the cab driver. Does she realize that?”
“You’re way more than that.” She puts the last dish on the shelf and makes another pot of coffee. “I hated you the first day I met you. I’m sure you hated me, too.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Yes, you would. You made me feel so guilty. But I don’t blame you. You had gone way beyond the call of duty.”
“Was Callie like a big powerhouse CEO or something when she was young? Because she can get anybody to do anything she wants.”
“She should have been one.”
“I’m serious. All those men she made me take her to see. I can’t believe she didn’t convince some of them to come.”
“I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. I don’t think any of them blamed you.”
“But they must think I’m some homely spinster who can’t get a man on my own. If I had time for a man, I could have one.”
“Oh, I told her that myself.”
She looks up at me. “You did?”
“Of course. After I met you, I knew you didn’t need a matchmaker. But she was worried about you. Didn’t want you to be alone.”
Sydney’s cheeks flush to pink. “Oh well. Grammy has always wanted to make a great Christmas for me. This year she really got it right.”
“Yeah, iPads make great gifts if you can afford them.”
“I wasn’t talking about the iPad.”
I look down at her, trying to think of something quippy to say, but then I realize this isn’t a quippy moment.
Suddenly I want to kiss her, and in spite of myself and the warring responses in my brain, I lean over and just do it.
As our lips touch, she sucks in a breath and pulls back, and just as I think she’s going to turn away or slap me, she takes my face in her hands and kisses me again.
Those warring voices in my head instantly go silent, and all I can think about is the feel of her lips and the taste and the smell of her . . . I touch her hair, something I haven’t even realized I wanted to do.
The kiss is long and lazy and sweet . . . just right. You don’t always know it’s going to be. I’ve kissed people before and known instantly I didn’t want to do it again. But Sydney pulls me in, igniting a craving that scares me a little.
And all I can think as I hold her is that Callie Beecher rocks.