Page 54 of Meet Me at Christmas
“Of course.” Mr. Ferguson shifted on the sofa. “I have a cat named Lucy. I started to panic at times, wondering if I’d fed her or let her inside for the night. One night, I had to get out of bed, just to check. She was always fine, but it was enough to worry me. But as the weeks went on, I struggled terribly with things like remembering my family members’ full names, my birthday…”
“That sounds stressful,” Stella said as she typed quickly before giving him her full attention again.
“You can’t imagine.” Mr. Ferguson cleared his throat, his beard wobbling with the quiver of his lips. “Lucy is all I have…”
Stella glanced at Ms. Barnes.
“Herbert lives alone and has no family, so Lucy is his only companion.”
Stella closed her laptop, her interest getting the better of her.
“I do have the people from my church. After my wife passed away last year, I’ve needed their support.”
“I’m so sorry. I lost my dad about a year ago.”
Mr. Ferguson gave her a sympathetic nod. “I try to keep positive. I swear the more positive I remain, the better my memory is.”
“I actually just read an article about that,” Stella told him.
Mr. Ferguson nodded. The man’s sadness was evident and Stella could tell he wanted to talk about his wife, but it was time to get started, so she shrank back in her spot and allowed the therapist to take the lead.
Mr. Ferguson’s session was uneventful. He complied, answering all questions asked of him. He was open, kind, and good spirited. Stella found herself typing madly to compare him with her experience with Henry in therapy, the article she’d read the night before guiding her thoughts.
When the session had ended and they were parting ways, Stella felt drawn to Mr. Ferguson. She had a million things to do, but he clearly needed someone. And she understood a little of what he was going through with the loss of his wife.
“I’m sorry if this isn’t appropriate, Ms. Barnes, but, Mr. Ferguson, would you like to do something today? Maybe we could take a slow stroll through one of the museums or art galleries.”
The excitement in his eyes revealed how lonely the old man must have been. “I’d love to,” he replied excitedly.
Ms. Barnes nodded. “I think that would be a wonderful idea.”
Mr. Ferguson canceled the bus for seniors he usually took home and the two of them crossed the street from the parking deck.
“Oh, look at that!” Mr. Ferguson pointed to a white horse-drawn carriage covered in fairy lights and red bows for the holiday. It twinkled against the gray city sky.
“Let’s take a ride. My treat.” Stella had lived outside Nashville her whole life, but she’d never taken a carriage ride in the city. She started to open her purse, but Mr. Ferguson batted her hand away.
“Absolutely not. I’m paying.” He pushed his walker down the sidewalk toward the carriage. When they made it safely to the other side of the street, he pulled a wad of bills from a weathered wallet and paid the coachman. The man folded his walker and slid it in the front of the carriage, then helped them both into the back. Before Stella knew it, she was moving down the main streets of Nashville, enjoying the Christmas decorations, while the horses’ hooves clopped against the pavement. Tiny bells on the sides of the carriage jingled, adding a festive feel that was only now taking hold. She’d been so caught up in work and grief that she hadn’t stopped to really take in all the festivities.
“I love it here,” Mr. Ferguson said.
“Have you always lived in the area?” she asked.
“My wife, Margaret, and I moved out to the countryside a few years before she died. She wanted a place where she could sit on her porch and watch the sunrise in the mornings. We sold everything we had in Nashville, including the upholstery business I owned, and retired in the Tennessee hills, right next to a peaceful little brook that she fell in love with. Sometimes I still go out there and take walks beside it, but it’s been getting harder lately.” He patted his hip.
“It sounds beautiful.”
His lip began to wobble again, and he leaned forward to address their driver. “It’s chilly. Do you have a blanket?”
The coachman handed him one, and Stella covered their legs, bunching up the rest of it at their waists.
“This will be my first Christmas without her,” Mr. Ferguson said. The creases in his forehead deepened as he blinked away his emotion. He turned toward the garland-draped buildings, all lit up for the holiday. “We never had children, and I don’t know how I’ll get through it alone.”
“I understand. This is mine and my mother’s first Christmas without my dad, and my mom’s having a tough time.”
As she told Mr. Ferguson about Mama, Pop’s voice whispered a message he’d always taught her growing up.“If I teach you anything at all in this life, it’s to be kind. We’re all one big family, really.”
She considered this. “I have an idea. Why don’t you spend Christmas with us?” she asked.
