Page 56 of The Christmas Box

Maybe everyone here wonders that sometimes.

That’s when Helen comes rushing up from behind. “Ah, Travis to the rescue once again,” she says, sounding relieved. “I was just on my way to deal with that situation, but I appreciate you beating me to it.”

After she does a sort of silent check-in with Dottie, rubbing her arm and giving her a comforting smile, she and I start walking together.

“Is there no way to stop that guy from taking the baby?”

I realize too late that I’ve called it a baby, like Dottie’s reality has overtaken mine, but Helen seems entirely unfazed.

She just shakes her head. “Can’t lock them in their rooms—they have to have what little freedom we can give them here.” Then she lets out a sigh. “I don’t know why he’s started doing that lately, but we’re keeping an eye on the situation as best we can. We don’t like the stress it puts Dottie under any better than you do.”

She sounds so calm the whole time she speaks—shealwayssounds calm. I turn to peer down at her as we make a jagged path between wheelchairs. “How do you do it, Helen?”

I can tell by her gentle smile and knowing eyes that she understands exactly what I’m talking about, even as she feigns ignorance.“Do what?”

“Youknowwhat.”

At this, she only shrugs, coming clean. “Someone has to,” she tells me. “It’s my calling in life, I suppose. So many people become…forgotten here. It’s heartbreaking, really. As I’ve told you, I’m often the one with them when they take their last breaths. It shouldn’t be that way—everyone should feel loved. But for those who aren’t, I’m happy to fill that role.”

It hits me that my dad could have been one of those people and I’m glad he’s not; I’m glad he knows I’m here for him. Even if I’m dreading when that time comes.

“Isn’t it hard on you?” I ask. “Dealing with so much death?”

“I’ve grown used to it over time. I see it like someone going on a trip, or moving away. They’re here with me for a while, and then they go, with me wishing them good travels, and perhaps missing them when they’re gone, but knowing they’re just someplace else now.” With that, she reaches down and takes my hand in hers, giving it a warm squeeze as she smiles up at me. “Your dad’s having another good day today. Still not eating a lot, but maybe that scrumptious-smelling burger will change his mind. Go have a nice visit with him.”

As we part ways, I sense that her smile for that last part was a bit forced. Maybe she’ll miss my father. Maybe she’s warning me the end is near. I can’t decipher it and resolve not to try too hard. One day, one step, at a time.

Half an hour later I’ve watched Dad take only a few bites of his burger and pick at the fries while I’ve been telling him about the wishes Lexi and I helped grant the last few days.

“That’s real nice, son,” he says softly. “I’m proud of you for being so good to others.”

But I’m uncomfortable taking credit and point out, “It’s reallyhermaking it all happen.”

His look of doubt catches me off guard. “Don’t sound that way to me. You made the box. It was your idea to read the wishes. You made the wheelchair ramp and toted the tree.”

And all that’s true, but still I insist, “I wouldn’t have done any of it without her, though. She kind of brings out the best in me. Even as her business is failing, she’s spending all her time looking out for other people.”

“She’s a nice young lady. Sorry to hear about her shop.”

“I want to do more to help,” I tell him, “but this is one thing I don’t know how to fix.”

“Need to get more folks in there,” Dad says, stating the obvious.

“Got any ideas on how?” I don’t expect him to come up with anything—for a guy with advanced brain cancer, I’m amazed enough that he’s sitting up talking to me entirely lucidly—but the words left me out of frustration.

“Shame ya can’t just point a big arrow to her place from I 75,” he muses. Winterberry sits directly off the major expressway that runs from Michigan to Florida. “I remember a time when billboards lined the interstate, but these days I think there’s a bunch of rules and regulations around it.” He shrugs. “Reckon it does look nicer without, though.”

Dad’s rambling now, but it gives me an idea. Probably a far-fetched one that would never work, something that would take way longer to pull together than I have.

But I hear myself asking him anyway, “Does Richard Hargis still own the farm where we used to visit him when I was a kid?” He was my father’s boss, running the construction company where Dad worked until it went under, starting our financial troubles.

“I believe he does,” Dad answers. I remember fishing there, in a pond so close to 75 that it felt like the cars were whizzing past right next to me. It wasn’t a peaceful spot, despite the woods and pastures in all other directions—but it suddenly seems like the exact place I need.

Although now that I’m thinking through it, there would be other big things to figure out—I need more than just the place. And even so, I hear myself trying to dredge up ways it could work, no matter how crazy the idea probably is. “Am I remembering correctly that his kids were both artistic?”

Dad squints slightly, cocking me a sideways glance. “Um, yeah, think so. Both a few years ahead of you in school if I recall.”

I nod. “Do they still live locally?”

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