Page 65 of The Christmas Box

A few hours later, darkness has long since fallen outside the window in Dad’s room, I’ve eaten a tray of ham, green beans, mashed potatoes, and cornbread for dinner in the recliner, and I’m using the remote to flip around on TV. I stop when I see Jimmy Stewart in black-and-white and know I’ve stumbled upon “It’s a Wonderful Life”. For some reason, it nearly makes my heart skip a beat. Maybe because I haven’t watched it since I was a kid. Part of hating Christmas after Mom left, I guess. Now it brings back memories I’d rather face than keep running from.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been watching in the dimly-lit room when dad asks, “Is that ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’?”

I flinch, then flick my gaze to him. I honestly thought I’d never hear his voice again. And this time he even got it right about the movie. “Um, yeah,” I answer, completely thrown.

On the screen, Mary’s singing about buffalo girls, and George is trying to deny his feelings for her.

“I like this part,” Dad says.

“Me, too.” The part where George begins to figure out that life can be great even if it’s not turning out the way he expected. But I’m still dumbfounded by Dad’s sudden alertness. Despite short exchanges with him over the last two days, clarity has been lacking.

“Can you sit me up?”

I barely know what to make of the request—it almost feels like I’m dreaming—but I reach for the controls, raising the back of the hospital bed until he’s upright enough to see.

We keep watching together, but my attention is split between the movie and my astonishment that Dad is suddenly awake, despite the morphine, and glued to the screen. How can this be?

Just as it goes to a commercial, Helen peeks in, and I dart my gaze over in time to see her eyes go wide. “Look who woke up!” she says by way of addressing Dad. She and I share glances of surprise.

“Watching my favorite holiday movie with my boy here,” Dad tells her as cheerfully as he would have a week ago.

“That’s wonderful,” she says. “Want me to make some popcorn?” She tosses a wink in my direction.

Dad just laughs. “Maybe later. Not hungry right now.” Again, he says this like a man who didn’t stop eating three days ago.

I get up from my chair, tell Dad I’ll be right back, and step out into the hallway to speak with Helen. “What’s happening here?” I ask.

But she simply holds her hands out, palms up. And though she’s surprised, she’s clearly not as surprised as me. “I’ve told you before, these things are hard to predict. I’ve seen crazier occurrences, believe it or not. Sometimes they’re just not quite ready to say goodbye, and they linger for longer than any medical professional can understand. Sometimes lingering even turns into rebounding for a while.”

I let out a long sigh, thoroughly confused. “So you have no idea what will happen now,” I say to clarify.

“Sorry,” she tells me, “but not really.”

In one way, I’m happy—he’s not gone yet. But I’m also worn out by riding an emotional rollercoaster. I run a hand back through my hair, wishing…I don’t even know what. That I was somewhere else? That the mother who deserted us fifteen years ago was here with me through this, like she should have been? That life wasn’t so damn complicated?

“Listen,” Helen says, “know what I think? You’ve been here around the clock for two days and you’re exhausted. Like I said, you need a break. Why don’t you keep your plans with Lexi, after all. After you finish the movie with your pop, that is.” She gives me another wink, I guess because she’s delighted by this sudden change in Dad—but I’m still not feeling quite as merry. My emotions are shredded at this point.

“Are you sure?”

She nods. “Take an hour or two. I can call you with any changes.”

As I ease my tired body back into the recliner, I send Lexi a text.Crazy thing. He’s suddenly rebounding. We’re actually watching “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

She answers quickly.Really? That’s amazing!

Helen said maybe he just wasn’t quite ready to go yet, that things can change,I text back.Be there after the movie.

I’m still not ready to think about Lexi’s wish. Could I stay here? Could I be with her in the way she wants? These remain questions too big for me to handle right now. But the idea of seeing her tonight—maybe snuggling up with her next to the Christmas tree—sounds…well, like the best end to this day I can imagine.

After the movie comes back on, Dad says, “It’s nice getting to watch this with you again. Like old times. Better times.” Then he surprises me even further by reaching out for my hand.

His touch is warm even if his grip is almost non-existent. It makes me sad all over again that this man who not so long ago swung a hammer with this same hand can now barely grasp mine. And I don’t ever remember a time when we held hands, father and son, other than out of practicality—him not wanting to lose his little kid in a crowd at the county fair or to keep me from running out in front of a car in a busy parking lot. But if he wants to hold my handnow, it’s okay with me.

Not long after George Bailey jumps off a bridge into icy water, only to be rescued by a second-class angel, the movie goes to commercial again, and though he’s been silent a while now, Dad says quietly, “I wasn’t there when you needed me, back when you were just a boy. Nothing was your fault if I ever made you feel that way. Wish I’d had the strength to do things different, better. I always loved you, though. Still do.”

I’m speechless for a second—I didn’t see this coming. I’d long since given up on it, in fact. And now, I almost wish he hadn’t brought it up, because a few sentences doesn’t fix years of mistakes that drove me away.

But the words that instantly spill out of me are, “It’s okay, Dad. It’s okay.” Partly because a lot of forgiveness has come these last few weeks. And partly because, my conscience tells me that when a man is dying, you absolve him so he can move on in peace. You just do. You let things go, no matter how big, no matter how much you never thought you would. “I love you, too.” We weren’t people who said ‘I love you’ a lot, but it’s good we’re saying it now.

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