The Christmas Hope(15)

Greta and Hal knew the landlord of Emily’s duplex would want to rent it out as soon as possible and they didn’t want anyone else to go through Tracy’s and Emily’s things so they loaded their car with empty boxes and drove down the street. Hal emptied the refrigerator as Greta packed personal items from Tracy’s house into boxes: a few photo albums and home movies, some of Tracy’s clothing she thought Emily might like to have someday, what little costume jewelry Tracy owned, and all of Emily’s toys. As Greta packed boxes filled with sheets and towels from the hall closet a small package dropped to the floor. She picked it up, opened the box, and discovered a small silver cross covered with pink stones. She turned it over and saw there was an inscription: “For Emily—Love, Mom.” Greta looked at the bottom and saw that it had been inscribed with the word “Christmas” and the year. “She was a good mother,” Greta whispered. When the house was clean and organized and Greta felt certain that she had packed away everything that would one day be important to Emily, she stood with Hal in the doorway and took one last look inside the tiny kitchen and living room she’d been in so often over the past four years. She wiped her eyes and Hal pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. They both wished they could have done more for Emily and Tracy but what they didn’t realize is that taking the time to show love to someone is more than some people will ever choose to do.





Ten days later I was sitting at my desk in the office when Greta called. The landlord of Tracy’s duplex needed the rest of her things to be removed so he could make repairs and rent it out. I had told Emily that I would take her back to say good-bye and now that time had come. I picked her up at the Delphys’ and held her hand as we walked through the front door of the small rental. The walls were bare, boxes were scattered throughout the kitchen and living area. It smelled like cleaning agents and stale air.

“Where is everything?” Emily asked.

“Greta and Hal packed everything,” I said. “They have several boxes of things for you. Why don’t you look around and see if there’s anything else that you’d like to have.”

She held my hand as she walked toward her bedroom. The closet and chest of drawers were empty, the bed was stripped and the toys were gone. I looked at Emily’s face and wondered if she really understood what was happening.

“Can I have my bed?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll have Hal come pick it up.” We walked into Tracy’s room and Emily sat on the edge of the bed. Her forehead crinkled but she didn’t cry. I knew that she and her mother had probably spent many nights giggling or reading together in this bed.

She looked underneath the bed. “All my books are gone.”

“Greta has them,” I said. She opened a box sitting next to the dresser and began to rummage through Tracy’s clothes. Near the bottom of the box she pulled out a pink sweatshirt with Mickey and Minnie Mouse on it. She took off her coat and put on the sweatshirt.

“Can I have this?”

“Of course,” I said. “You can have anything. It’s all yours.” She pulled out another sweatshirt, a gray one with frayed cuffs, and held it. Tracy’s favorite, I was sure. We found a box marked “Christmas” and Emily opened it. There were a few bulbs and tinsel and a tiny Nativity set. I watched as she walked through the boxes, dragging her fingers over the tops of them. We spent an hour filtering through boxes, sitting in the quiet, looking out the windows, and collecting things. When she was finished we walked toward the door. I turned to grab the handle and felt Emily’s arms wrap around my leg. She didn’t want to leave. She let out a highpitched cry and fell to the floor and I knew then that she understood that she would never see this tiny duplex again. She’d never see her mother wearing her favorite gray sweatshirt and putting on makeup in front of the bathroom mirror. There were no more Disney videos while sitting on Mom’s lap or snuggle time in Mom’s big bed with her favorite books. She now had the impossible task of saying good-bye and she couldn’t. I held her as she cried. We sat together in the front entrance and looked out over the boxes into the home that would now exist only as pieces in her mind. I wanted her to remember what it looked like and how it smelled and the love that had filled its tiny space. I prayed that she would never forget because it held her first memories. Nothing can prepare a five-year-old to say good-bye to her mother, but Emily did. I don’t know how long we stayed; it doesn’t matter. We left when she was ready. She held on to my hand and closed the door behind her.