The 13th Gift: Part Two

The clock on the mantel chimes twice: two a.m. I stand at the window watching the darkened street, praying every time I see headlights creeping toward the house that they will be Ben’s. I have been worried ever since I saw the red car speeding through the intersection on the way home from Tom’s house.

There have been too many nights like this, with me waiting at the window, enforcing no consequences when Ben comes home way later than his midnight curfew. I’m so afraid of driving him further away from me that I stay mute, not giving my son what I know he needs—parenting and love.

Shame on me.

Since Rick’s death, I have been emotionally absent from our children, blind to Nick’s nightmares, unable to fill Megan’s need for Christmas. Ben is drifting, walking alone with his grief.

If someone had asked me how we were getting along a week ago, I would have said fine, under the circumstances. I work. Pay bills. The kids attend school. Most days, someone remembers to feed the dog and cat.

But we weren’t fine, and our true friends knew it.

Now I do, too.

I have been sleepwalking for more than two months, hardly conscious of a family falling apart. It wasn’t until I nearly stumbled over that poinsettia that I began to see how much my kids needed me.

My eyes are open now.

Thanks to our true friends, Momma Bear is back. My gusto for Christmas may not be the same as in years past, but my kids will know they are not on their own. We’ll order a pizza. I’ll buy a few presents, and we will decorate our tree, provided it thaws out.

I flip the porch light on and off to make sure it is working, then patrol the house, careful not to wake Megan and Nick, who went to bed hours ago. When I reach my own closed bedroom door, I hesitate. I haven’t been in there for weeks. My clothes hang on a rack in the laundry room. I sleep on the couch. I shower in the guest bathroom. Though I tell myself there is nothing to be afraid of, the room frightens me. I have not dusted in there or vacuumed since before October 8.

Placing my hand on the doorknob, I find myself wishing one of those true friends were here beside me now. The thought surprises me, and I don’t feel so alone. I was angry when we received that first gift, now I am curious about who they are and grateful for their attention.

This room is another demon they will help me conquer.

The hinges of the door squeak as I push it open. I peek inside from the safety of the hallway, where the chill of the room is already starting to creep.

I force myself to see what my children see every time I send one of them in here to fetch a blouse from the closet, or a necklace from my jewelry box. I always have an excuse not to go myself; tonight, as I wait for my son to come home, there are no more excuses.

A thick layer of dust covers the pine frame of our king-sized waterbed. The fitted sheet Rick died on is still tucked around the mattress. His too-small slippers, with the smashed-down heels, sit next to the bathroom door. The gym bag my husband planned to pack for his hospital stay stands empty in the corner.

It is as if the room is waiting.

I tug the sheet off the bed, the pillowcases, the blankets, and stuff them into the gym bag. They will go, unwashed, to Goodwill. I fetch one of the boxes Megan emptied of Christmas decorations from the family room and carry it upstairs. The old slippers go in first, then I thin out Rick’s closet of everything except his favorite sweaters. Those I leave hidden among my own clothes. Rick’s watch, Swiss Army knife, key chain, and wedding ring go into the bottom of my jewelry box, keepsakes I will give to our kids someday. I find something else that needs to go; flushing the contents of four bottles of Rick’s heart medication down the toilet seems an appropriate end. I toss the containers in the trash.