Page 37 of The Christmas Box

After I lift Dad back into the truck, collapse his chair, and get behind the wheel, I glance over to see he’s leaned his head back against the seat and is about to conk out. He looks much older than his fifty-five years.

“You okay?” I ask. Though I want to call the words back as soon as they leave me, because of course he’s not okay—he’s dying.

But he takes the question in stride, telling me, “Think maybe I stayed out past my bedtime.” He chuckles a little as he says it. It’s 8:30 and we’ve only been gone a couple of hours.

“Well, I’ll have you back to the manor in no time.”

As we travel in silence, I’m aware of how small he seems next to me, how frail and docile. I felt the skin and bones of him as I got him back in the truck. But what’s consuming me at the moment is the awareness that…it’s almost over for him. Ifeelhim dying.

Odd, because he’s been dying the whole time I’ve been here, yet suddenly I sense it in a new way. I wonder what it feels like to know this outing might be his last, the last time he talks and laughs with friends, the last time he sees a park, watches kids playing, hears the wetness of the road under tires. Or maybe his feebleness swallows all of that right now and is the only thing that matters–maybe his exhaustion overshadows every thought.

If so, I think he’s lucky. Because I’m not sure I’d be handling the situation so well. Despite myself, I admire this ability of his I’ve witnessed—to live fully in the moment.

Back at the manor, we do that same dance to get him in the wheelchair, and it’s harder this time because he’s drained and even weaker. When his skinny body is fully in my embrace, the weight of him on me, I experience a rush of emotion I have to push down fast. I don’t even know what it is—just a heavy sadness I never expected to feel when I got here.

As I push him through the sliding glass doors, I’m glad to see Gabbi not far up the hall. She’s spotted us, too, and heads our way with a smile. “How was it? Did you boys get up to no good?”

We laugh and Dad tells her it was a great time, but he’s ready for bed.

“It was nice hanging out with you tonight,” I say to him unplanned. The truth is, for all the time I’ve spent here the last couple of weeks, a lot of it has been the two of us watching TV, and he naps a lot—partly because he’s dying and partly due to pain medication that makes him drowsy. I’m glad he held up tonight as well as he did.

“You, too.” It comes out as a murmur—he’s struggling to stay awake.

That’s when I remember the mitten-shaped cookie in my pocket—I put it there for safekeeping. I pull it out and say, “Don’t forget this.”

His eyes open a little wider. “That’s right. A snack for later.” He takes it from me, looking as pleased as a little kid.

As I turn to go, I hear him call, “Son?”

Son. When was the last time he called meson? I don’t even know. I look back. “Yeah?”

“Tonight was real nice. Real special. Thank you for that.”

I just nod. I’m not good at this stuff. This I-love-you-I-hate-you-but-now-I’m-starting-not-to-hate-you-quite-so-much-anymore stuff. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Neither of us say anything more, but our eyes meet. It’s enough.

Then I turn and head back out into the cold.

December 14

Lexi

The next morning, the Christmas Box is pleasantly busy. I handed out ten-percent-off fliers last night, and the festival got people in a merry, shopping mood. And while offering a discount felt a little desperate, with just over ten days until Christmas, I need to get people through the door.

The wishing box continues to entice shoppers, but even with good days, I’m fighting an uphill battle after all the subpar ones due to snow—or…to the fact that maybe this shop was just a bad idea. My stomach churns every time I allow myself to acknowledge that maybe Travis’s initial gut reaction was correct. Then I try to ignore it and keep on believing in wishes.

After all, the wish I made on that star seems a little closer to coming true every day. And it took a while to see any evidence of that. So don’t I just need to have faith?

During a break without customers, Dara is tidying up ink pens and paper slips and I’m washing some mugs at the sink. From across the room, she casually asks, “Have you put any more wishes in the box since you and I dropped the first ones in?”

I flinch, glancing up. It’s never crossed my mind to. “No. Have you?”

She nods.

I don’t know why it surprises me, but it does. I know other people have put multiple wishes in, but maybe to me it seemed…what? Greedy? Which I realize now makes no sense. I go around saying wishes are prayers, but I’ve never thought anyone was limited to just one prayer. I ask, “What did you wish for?”

I’m surprised, though, when she hesitates—we’re usually open with each other. “Isn’t this sort of like wishing on birthday candles? That if you tell, it won’t come true.”

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