Page 62 of The Christmas Box

Lexi looks up to greet me from behind the counter. “Good morning.” Her smile fills me with warmth, despite the cold outside, despite where I’m about to go. But at the same time, it tightens my chest. Because of that wish she made.

“Morning,” I say. No smile from me—I’m too stressed.

“Coffee?” She sounds happy to see me. Normally, I’ve come to like that. Today, though, every feeling inside me is twisted up into a confusing knot.

“No,” I say. “Can’t stay. Have to get to the manor. Helen called. Said it might not be long now.”

Stunned compassion fills her gaze. “Travis, I’m so sorry.”

“Knew it was coming,” I say woodenly. I realize I probably sound like the guy who walked in here almost a month ago. A little on the grumpy side, and bitter. I haven’t felt those things in a while, but apparently they’re still there, lurking just beneath the surface. Maybe they just got covered up in layers of Christmas wrapping and snow and other things I can’t quite put my finger on.

“Still,” she says. “Things have changed between you and him, and even if they hadn’t, such big losses are hard. Take it from me, I know.”

She does. I just don’t have her grace when it comes to dealing with things like this. So I move ahead with why I crossed the street. “Do you have any little stuffed animals?” I hold up my hands to indicate the size I’m seeking, not more than four or five inches tall.

She looks understandably perplexed by the request, but leaves her spot behind the bar as she says, “Over here.”

She leads me to a table with a small selection of tiny plush toys, and I pluck up a stuffed gray kitten wearing a Santa hat. “This’ll do.”

She’s eyeing me peculiarly, and as we walk to the checkout, she says, “If this is for Marley, it might be better to get her a proper dog toy.”

I press my lips together, for some reason reluctant to explain, but then I do anyway. “Remember Shannon from the manor? She collects little stuffed animals.”

I’m not looking at her as I talk—I’m pulling out my wallet—but I feel that smile again just the same. Yesterday I loved that smile. Today I’m still overwhelmed by knowing how Lexi feels about me. And by knowing this thing I came here for is finally happening: My father is really about to die.

“That’s very sweet of you,” she tells me.

Instead of replying to that, I say, “If I get hung up at the manor over the next day or two, could you feed the dog?” It’s just occurred to me that I’m not sure what to expect and I’ve somehow become responsible for keeping another living thing alive.

“Of course,” she says. “Just text me if you’re not coming home.”

“Thanks,” I say, picking up the little red bag she just topped off with candy-cane-striped tissue paper—and then I’m gone, out the door.

Not my finest moment. But I know she understands.

Well, at least when it comes to the part she knows about: my dad. As for the part shedoesn’tknow about, me finding her wish…I haven’t gotten to digest it yet, and I suddenly have more pressing things on my mind. Death and dying, for instance.

I drive to the manor on auto-pilot, and I stay that way as I move up the hall, weaving between wheelchairs. I’m forced to be more present, though, as I step up to Shannon’s open door and knock on it, peeking in to see her sitting by the window, probably watching her birds.

She looks up as I approach, and I hold out the bag. “I got this for you.”

Taking it, she reaches inside to pull out the stuffed cat. Her face doesn’t change, and at first I feel a little stupid to have possibly picked something she doesn’t like. But then her eyes turn glassy, and I realize that maybe her facecan’tchange, and that hereyesare telling me how she feels. She’s clearly working hard to enunciate as she grabs onto my hand, tight. “This is very nice. Very nice. Thank you.”

I give a short nod and tell her, “You have a merry Christmas if I don’t see you before then.”

There I go, wishing someone a merry Christmas again. But I can’t examine stuff like that right now—instead I have to go face a reality I’m not ready for.

Mostly, he sleeps. He’s entered hospice care, just hours ago, which Helen informed me is necessary for the increased level of pain medication to keep him comfortable now.

I sit next to his bed, wondering if I’ll ever hear his voice again or if he’s said his last words—when he opens his eyes and rasps, “Water.”

There’s a cup with a straw in it on the table, so I hold it down for him to drink from. “I’m here, Dad,” I tell him.

And I am. The dread, the fear, the wall that seemed to be rising up inside me before I got here…it all takes a backseat now to doing whatever I can for him. Which isn’t much. But I can be here.

Christmas Eve

Lexi

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