“I came back to get Jenna some dinner,” she said, falling into my arms. “I am so exhausted,” she cried. “And so sad.”
I held her tightly. “How is she?”
“Not very good.”
“Why don’t you lie down, I’ll put on some soup and get Jenna ready for bed.”
Keri stretched out on the sofa while I dressed Jenna, fed her, then carried her downstairs to the den.
It was dark outside, and in absence of a fire, the room was bathed by the peaceful illumination of the Christmas tree lights. Strands flashed on and off in syncopation, casting shadows of different shapes and hues. I held Jenna in silence.
“Dad, is Mary coming home for Christmas?” she asked.
I ran a hand through my hair. “No, I don’t think so. Mary is very sick.”
“Is she going to die?”
I wondered what that meant to my little girl.
“Yes, honey. I think she will die.”
“If she is going to die, I want to give her my present first.”
She ran over to the tree and lifted a small, inexpertly wrapped package. “I made her an angel.” With excitement she unveiled a petite cardboard angel constructed with tape, glue, and paper clips.
“Dad, I think Mary likes angels.”
I started to sob quietly. “Yeah, I think she likes angels, too.”
In the silence of the lights we faced the death of a friend.
In the outer hall I could hear the ringing of the telephone. Keri answered it, then found us downstairs.
“Rick, that was the hospital. Mary is dying.”
I wrapped Jenna up warmly and set her in the car with Keri. We drove separately, so that one of us could bring Jenna home when the time came. We arrived at the hospital and together opened the door to Mary’s room. The room was dimly illuminated by a single lamp. We could hear Mary’s shallow breathing. Mary was awake and looked toward us.
Jenna rushed to the side of the reclining bed and, inserting her tiny hand through the side rails, pressed the little angel into Mary’s hand.
“I brought you something, Mary. It’s your Christmas present.”
Mary slowly raised the ornament to her view, smiled, then squeezed the little hand tightly.
“Thank you, darling.” She coughed heavily. “It’s beautiful.” Then she smiled into the little face. “You’re so beautiful.” She rubbed her hand across Jenna’s cheek.
Painfully, she turned to her side and extended her hand to me.
I walked to her side and took it gently in mine.
“How do you feel, Mary?”
She forced a smile through the pain. “Do you know yet, Rick? Do you know what the first Christmas gift was?”
I squeezed her hand tightly.
“You do understand, don’t you?”
“Yes. I understand now. I know what you were trying to tell me.”
Tears started to fall down my cheeks. I took a deep breath to clear my throat.
“Thank you, Mary. Thank you for what you’ve given me.”
“You found the letters in the Christmas Box?”
“Yes. I’m sorry that I read them.”
“No, it’s all right. I’m glad the letters were read. They were meant to be read.” She fell silent for a moment.
“I’d like you to have the Christmas Box. It’s my Christmas gift to you.”
“Thank you. I will always treasure it.”
The room was quiet.
“Andrea waits,” she said suddenly.
I smiled. “She has been very close,” I said.
She smiled at me again, then lifted her eyes to Keri.
“Thank you for your friendship, dear. It has meant a lot to me.”
“Merry Christmas, Mary,” Keri said.
“God bless you, child,” she said back lovingly. “Take good care of your little family.” She looked at Keri thoughtfully. “You’ll do fine.”
Mary closed her eyes and lay back into her pillow. Keri’s eyes watered as she lifted Jenna and carried her out of the room. I stayed behind, caressing the smooth, warm hands for the last time.
“Merry Christmas, Mary,” I whispered. “We’ll miss you.”
Mary’s eyes opened again. She leaned forward toward the foot of the bed. A smile spread across her face as a single tear rolled down her cheek. She said something too soft to hear. I leaned my ear near to her mouth. “My angel,” she repeated. I followed her gaze to the foot of the bed but saw only the green cotton hospital gown draped over the end rail. I looked back at her in sadness. She was leaving us, I thought. It was then that I heard the music. The gentle, sweet tines of the Christmas Box. Softly at first, then as if to fill the entire room, strong and bright and joyful. I looked again at the weary face. It was filled with peace. Her deep eyes sparkled and the smile grew. Then I understood and I too smiled. Andrea had come.