Page 24 of The Christmas Box

As I’m busy unpacking the bag, Dad snatches up one of the burgers, unwraps it, and starts eating like poison doesn’t exist. I’m relieved but confused.

“Wow, this is a good burger,” he says as if he hasn’t had one every day since I got here. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Travis,” I answer.

“That’s my son’s name.”

Rather than get sucked into some kind of Abbot and Costello Who’s On First conversation with him, I let it go and just eat.

Twenty minutes of confusing conversation later, I’m mentally exhausted and decide to leave. Once I’m out the door of dad’s room, I’m eager to reach daylight. I don’t say goodbye to anyone at the nurse’s station—instead I’m bobbing and weaving between wheelchairs like a man possessed, the door within sight.

That’s when my eyes fall on Dottie, the old woman always cradling the babydoll. She looks up at me from her wheelchair with her usual sad expression, but this time I see a tear roll down her wrinkled cheek. That’s a first, and a disturbing one.

I want to keep walking; I’m desperate to get out of here. But her eyes get to me, same as they have since the moment I first encountered her.

It’s then that I realize she doesn’t have her doll. Another first.

“What’s wrong, Dottie?” I ask even though I’ve never heard her speak.

With anguish still spilling from her gaze, she points up the hall.

I turn to see a dark-haired man padding along in slippers and yet another saggy robe. The babydoll dangles from his hand—he’s holding it by the ankle.

The sight ignites a fire in my chest. I’ve never been a parent, and I’ve never suffered from dementia, but I instinctively feel Dottie’s horror at what she thinks is happening to her baby. I march up to the guy, placing my hand on his shoulder to spin him roughly around.

Once he regains his footing, he gives me a little smile that strikes me as smug, mocking.

“That’s not yours,” I growl, snatching the doll from his hand. “Don’t let me catch you bothering her again. Got it?”

To my surprise, nothing about his attitude changes—he’s still giving me that weird little smile. We standing face to face, me feeling like I’m about to explode and him looking cool as a cucumber.

That’s when a touch comes on my arm and I turn to see Helen. “Travis,” she says gently, “he doesn’t mean any harm. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

Oh my God. Of course he doesn’t. It wasn’t a mocking smile—it was a docile one. Why did it take Helen to make me see that? Nothing here is predictable; no one here is as you’d expect them to be. But even after a trip through the Twilight Zone with Dad, I’m still slow on the uptake. And part of me wants to protest the situation, complain that Dottie shouldn’t have to put up with this, that this guy should be locked up in his room—but I already know that’s not right, either.

I’m sure Helen can see my response in my eyes, but I say nothing in reply—I just walk the babydoll back to where Dottie still sits in her wheelchair. I hand it down to her and watch her hug it to her chest as if I have, indeed, just given her back her abducted child.

“She thinks its real,” Helen says quietly, stepping up next to me.

“I know. That’s why I had to get it back for her.”

“She lost a baby girl in an accident when she was young and never had more children.”

Oh, good—this just went from sad to tragic. Makes a guy with brain cancer who misses his dog seem like child’s play.

“Thank you for helping her—we try, but we can’t be everywhere at once. We’ve been short-handed for a while now—we have openings, but no one to take them.”

I don’t blame anyone for not wanting this job, but of course I’m not going to tell her that. She’s a saint. Instead I just say, “I gotta go.”

“I know it’s hard,” she says, squeezing my hand before I start toward the door.

I’ve never felt freer than I do stepping out into the cold, wintry air, sucking it deep into my lungs. But my heart hurts when I think of all the people inside who can’t just walk away.

Lexi

Most of Main Street closes on Monday—it’s pretty much me, Janie’s, and Winterburger that bother to open. So today was a slower day, and one of Dara’s off days. I like to envision a time when I’ll close on Mondays, too, but that time is not now—now is when every sale counts.

After turning off the overhead lights to leave the shop illuminated by only the ones on the artificial trees and those lining the windows, I step outside and sit down on a park bench out front. Darkness has fallen on a clear, crisp December night and I want to breathe in some fresh air for a few minutes. My whole life now is inside the building behind me—I live there and I work there. Convenient, yes, but maybe I didn’t factor in what life would be like never having to go anywhere. Other than a recent trip for groceries, I’m not even sure when I last drove my car, which stays parked out back.

---