Page 7 of The Christmas Box

It rests near a TV, and I’m instantly relieved this is all he’s asking of me. I grab it up and hand it to him.

“And I need to go to the bathroom.”

He’s looking at me like I’m the guy forthisjob, too, but I say, “I’ll let the nurses know.”

Then I make a beeline down the hall, weaving between the wheelchairs and one spry lady using a walker, who says, “Hi, handsome,” as I pass by.

“Hi,” I say at a bit of a loss. That’s my general feeling so far when under this roof—at a loss. I keep moving, pleased to see the nurse’s station dead ahead.

“A guy up the hall needs help to the bathroom,” I announce at large to Helen and two other nurses in the general vicinity.

Helen just laughs in her big, comfortable-with-the-world way. “Well, hello to you, too, Travis.” Then, to a large, balding guy in scrubs with a goatee, she says, “Brent, wanna take this one?”

Brent turns toward me with gentler eyes than his stature led me to expect. “Which room?”

Great question. I didn’t notice in my rush to get away. “About halfway down on the left. Guy in a robe.” Then I roll my eyes at my own reply.Mostof the guys here are wearing robes. I add, lamely, “I think it was plaid.”

As Brent goes in search of Plaid Robe Guy, I ask Helen, “How is he today?”

She smiles. “Good. Looking forward to that burger—it’s all I heard about this morning.”

I nod and head to Dad’s room, just a couple of doors away. But I stop and take a deep breath before going inside. That’s just how it is—I have to brace myself, then push forward. Unlike that Christmas dance in high school, this time I can’t just choose not to go.

“Got your burger and fries,” I announce, holding the white paper bag high as I stride into the room.

Dad glances over, looking frail, but then he smiles. “I can smell it from here. Bring it on over.”

I take a seat in the same old reclining chair he used at home when I was a kid—Wally brought it in, but I know from Helen that he’s mostly in the bed and wheelchair now. As I unpack the bag on the rolling table like they have in hospital rooms, he asks, “Hope you got yourself one, too.”

“I did,” I inform him.

“Good—we can eat together.” He points toward the mini-fridge at the foot of the bed, also courtesy of Wally. “Grab us a couple soft drinks, will ya?”

I brought in a twelve-pack yesterday, so I get two out. As he happily scarfs down a burger and fries while watching a rerun of a sitcom from before my time, all I can think is: This is not the father I remember. This must be the guy Gail at the burger place is praying for, and the man who brings a smile to Helen’s face whenever I ask about him—but I don’t know this guy.

The father I remember was always fighting with my mother, usually about money. The father I remember was often drunk—worst case scenario, he was screaming at me or Mom over nothing; best case, he sat passed out in the very chair in which I now reside, an empty beer can still clutched loosely in his fist. It The father I remember actually drank less but became more sullen and listless after my mother left us, making me feel mostly alone in the world. And the father I remember told me she’d left because of me.

I knew it wasn’t true. It made no sense. I wasn’t the one bitching at her all the time.

But it still stung, just the same. Especially when I was forced to acknowledge that shedidleave me, too, not just him. She left her kid without even a goodbye. All of itstillstings, if I’m honest with myself.

“Sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?” Dad asks as I stand up to leave. “Your mom’s making meatloaf tonight.”

I flinch. Despite Helen’s warnings, it’s the first time I’ve heard him say something out of time.

“No, I gotta go,” I answer. “Lot to do.”

“Be back tomorrow? It’s bingo day in the cafeteria.”

And that fast, he’s back in the present. I’ve seen the bingo game advertised on white boards around the manor. “Yep, I’ll be back tomorrow,” I tell him. But probably not for bingo. I’m challenged enough by my interactionsinsidethis room, so I prefer to keep the ones outside it to a minimum.

I’m sheepishly glad Helen isn’t at her station as I pass by, as if I think she’s keeping tabs on me, maybe feeling I should stay longer. I’ve been here most of the afternoon, and that’s enough. And I have shelves and cabinets to build. I’m grateful for the task, for other things to focus on. Actually, a lot of my job in Chicago has become more about management lately and less about actually constructing things, and just the few hours I got to work this morning made me realize I kinda miss it.

I turn the corner only to meet up with the thin-haired lady holding the babydoll. She peeks up at me with sad, childlike eyes. Our gazes connect and I wonder if she has the awareness to see the horror in mine.

“Have a nice day,” I say, skirting past her. What do I even mean by that? They’re just words spilling out of me, trying to fill a strange, painful void.

“Travis Hutchins, is that you?”

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