Page 39 of The Christmas Box

She shrugs. “Maybe I’m imagining it. Or maybe not. People start eating less toward the end.”

“Ah.” I tip my head back, trying not to react. A couple of weeks of ago I couldn’t stand the man, after all. And now…now I’m not surewhatI feel. But it’s a lot closer to affection than disdain.

While he sleeps, I watch the TV at the foot of his bed. I think how odd it was to walk in here a few weeks ago and find him treating me like we’ve been buddies all along, like nothing bad ever happened between us and we didn’t spend my whole adult life estranged. But he has brain cancer, so maybe it’s one more thing that just isn’t gonna make logical sense to me.

And I suppose there are things I wish he’d say, like acknowledging that he wasn’t always a good dad, maybe even apologizing for being such a bad one that I left as soon as I could. Unless maybe I’m supposed to just somehow hear that in the kindness he shows me now—maybe I’m supposed to read between the lines? Or maybe that kind of logic, too, is lost in the mist of a brain that’s being rapidly eaten by disease.

“You watching ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ without me?”

I switch my gaze from the TV to the man in the bed. “What?” It was our favorite old movie as a family when I was a kid—we watched it together every Christmas. But that’s not what’s on right now.

“‘It’s a Wonderful Life’,” he repeats. “You should have woke me for it.”

“Dad, this is a Clint Eastwood movie,” I inform him.

At this, he manages to look both disappointed and relieved at once. “Well, see if you can find out when it’s on. We’ll watch it with your mother like always.”

I glance over at him, jarred. Where is he in time right now? Or is heherein time, but in a different reality, one where Mom never left? Not sure what to say, I hesitate, then settle on a quiet, “Okay.”

That’s when he spots the mitten cookie, and for a moment looks confused, or surprised, but then points toward it. “Can you hand me that?”

After I do, he takes another bite. Then he shakes his head, as if clearing out the cobwebs. “There for a second, thought I was somewhere else.”

I nod, thankful it was only a second.

“Know what?” he asks more cheerfully. “I’m in the mood for something Christmasy after the festival last night. Why don’t you find something Christmasy for us to watch.”

Inside, I just laugh, thinking I should get Lexi to come visit him—they could really Christmas it up together. But then I reach for the clicker and start through the choices.

“There,” he says a minute later. “The Christmas Chronicles. That’s a good one. You like that one?”

“Never seen it,” I say. I haven’t a Christmas movie since…well, since leaving home at eighteen.

“Settle in,” he says. “It’s a fun one. Kurt Russell is Santa Claus!”

It’s after dark by the time I get home. Town is quiet and the streets are messy—it’s been snowing all day and it’s still coming down.

The Christmas Box is still open, and I glance over to spot Lexi behind the counter, as well as a mom and daughter who appear to be shopping. I sit in my truck for a minute, trying to see a little better—and am pretty sure I can make out the little girl, maybe around ten, adding a wish to the box I made.

After I head inside, feed the dog, feed myself, and then change the pee pad, I walk to the window and look out, surprised to see Lexi’s shop still brightly lit. But it ignites a fire in me.

Reaching for the coat I hung on a wall hook just a little while ago, I glance to Marley, currently curled up under the tree like a furry present. “Sorry to take off again,” I tell her, “but I have to deal with something.”

Something that’s bothering me. About the wishing box. About that little girl I saw from my pickup. It’s lingered in the back of my mind since I built the box, but seeing a kid actually drop a wish into it just brought my concern to the forefront.

Crossing the quiet street in workboots that have had to double as snowboots lately, I wipe my feet on the mat inside the shop’s door as the bells announce my arrival.

The place is empty now and Lexi looks up from where she’s restocking some serving plates on a table. When she smiles at me, I feel it low in my gut. “Coffee’s still hot,” she tells me. “Or cocoa, too, if you prefer.”

“Actually, some hot chocolate sounds good.” I haven’t been out in the cold much today, but it still feels that way for some reason. “Was surprised to see the store still open, all things considered.”

“Yeah, I know. Mostly, I’ve spent the afternoon restocking and cleaning—and I read half a book. But I’ve actually had four customers since the snow started, which is four more than I expected. All people who live within walking distance.” She sighs. “I’m pretty sure most people are curled up by their fireplaces, filling their stockings online.” She punctuates the thought with a little shiver. I guess online retailisthe worst fear of a small town shopkeeper. “How wasyourday? Spend it with your father?”

I nod, helping myself to a mug of cocoa. “He slept for a while, and then we watched a couple of Christmas movies.”

At this, she stops what she’s doing to let her blue eyes widen on me.

“His choice, not mine,” I’m quick to point out.

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