Page 2 of Her Counterfeit Christmas
Is Owen here today with his dog Greta? This isn’t his week to visit. I lean against the wall and peek inside the room. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him standing twenty feet away talking to a resident. I don’t know who because I can’t look away from him. Especially not when he leans his head back and laughs.
His dark hair could use a trim and curls around the collar of his baby blue t-shirt. Over the past few months, he’s grown a beard. It shadows his jaw and highlights his sharp cheekbones. I thought he was handsome before, but facial hair takes him to the next level of gorgeous.
As usual, he’s wearing shorts in winter. The audacity of it makes me smile. As do his nicely shaped, athletic calves.
What’s even more attractive is how patient he is with the residents. He’s a big, broad-shouldered man. The type that probably excelled at college football. Instead of this frightening them, they flock to him. After his visits, they chat more about his kindness than they do about his therapy dog.
I have told no one about my massive crush on Owen, especially not my roommates. They would want to know everything and bring him up after each one of my visits to Nana. I’m not ready for that kind of long-term commitment to someone I’ve never spoken to. Instead, I secretly look forward to when he brings his therapy dog: a few hours inthe afternoon every other week on Monday, Tuesday, and Friday. This is his week off. Why is he here?
Greta puts her front paws on the chair’s armrest and licks the resident on the face. I’m pretty sure that isn’t appropriate behavior for a therapy dog, but the resident giggles.
If I was close to Owen’s broad chest in that snug, cotton t-shirt, I’d be giggling too. That wide grin of his is dangerous. Every time I catch sight of it my stomach swoops.
Owen scans the room, and I quickly pull back fully into the hallway so he doesn’t see me peeking.
The first time I saw him was this past summer. June twenty-first, if I want to be specific. I stumbled into the recreation room in a rush because I was late for the scheduled singalong, when a dog bark startled me, and my sheet music slipped out of my arms and onto the floor. A golden retriever stood on the other side of the room, an unusual sight here at Brock Pine Home, but not any more unusual than the man holding her leash.
Everyone in the room must have heard my gasp. Or maybe not; most of them wear hearing aids. Owen heard at least, because he turned and looked at me. His eyes widened, and his smile had enough wattage to brighten the entire room. My fingers and toes tingled with electricity.
He took a step in my direction, his eyes intense and shining with interest. I fled as fast as my thrifted Louboutin sandals allowed. Shame pumped through me for finding him breathtaking when I was dating another man. My boyfriend at the time, Spencer, was handsome and suave, but he couldn’t compete with Owen’s tough and rugged looks.
From that moment on, I’ve avoided Owen, even afterSpencer and I broke up. I don’t know why except that on the inside I’m a ridiculous fangirl. If Owen were in movies, like the Christmas Hallmark ones (‘tis the season and all), every woman in America would be infatuated, just like I am.
I dare another peek inside the room. Owen looks directly at me, shooting me one of his toe-tingling smiles. I jerk back, my heart pounding. Caught.
That’s my cue to speed-walk down the hall toward Nana’s room. To do so, I have to pass in front of the open doors. Without turning my head, I look out of the corner of my eye. Yep, his attention is on me, a big old gorgeous grin on his face. Once I’m past the doors I can breathe again. I only look back twice to see if I’ve been followed by dog or man.
In this instance, everyone isnotgetting a candy cane.
I stuff the last of my candy canes in my coat pocket before I knock on Nana’s door. I open it to find her sitting in her chair watching an old black and white movie while she knits, her hands moving so fast the needles blur.
Her eyes sparkle at seeing me. “Layla, you’re here.”
She remembers who I am today. My shoulders relax. Sometimes she thinks I’m a staff member. Other times she believes I’m my mom. Worse was the time she thought I was breaking into her room. I never know if her confusion will make her sad or mad; either response is difficult for me to witness. On her angry days, I feel like a wadded up, used tissue. She’s always been the most even-keeled person I know, and witnessing her erratic behavior is devastating.
“I’m here.” I kiss her cheek.
“Care to watchBringing Up Babywith me?”
“Of course.”
This is Nana’s favorite Katherine Hepburn film. Shewatches it regularly and still laughs at all the same parts even though she’s seen it hundreds of times. I have every line memorized, and I haven’t watched it nearly as much as she has.
Two laundry baskets sit along the wall. One for yarn, the other for completed knit items. Essentially, all she does is knit, watch movies, sleep, and eat.
I upend the bag of yarn I brought into the almost empty basket and pack up the projects she’s completed over the past few days from the full one. There are two scarves, a pair of fingerless gloves, and a teal cable-knit sweater. The Merino wool is soft and I hug the sweater to my chest. It smells like the lavender soap I bring her. It’s something I want to keep for myself, but it will end up on my website to sell because we need the money.
For as long as I can remember, Nana sold her knitted items at craft fairs. I can’t count how many weekends I spent with her, listening to music on my headphones while people flocked to her table. That ended six years ago when she decided she was too old. That doesn’t mean she stopped knitting. It was her surplus of knit items that gave us the idea of opening an online store. I sell things I make as well, mostly special-ordered items. The added income doesn’t help as much as I wish it would, but every little bit is appreciated.
Nana’s room is only big enough for her bed and Opa’s old recliner. Since she’s on the chair, I sit on the end of the bed and take my knitting from my purse. I’m working on a pair of rainbow striped knee socks since they sell well online. I’ve shipped all of our Christmas orders, and our shop is closed until the New Year so I can bulk up our inventory.
“You look beautiful this morning,” Nana says. “Did you get your haircut?”
Not in the last few months, but I always agree with whatever Nana says. It’s easier on both of us. “Yes. I’m glad you like it.”
“How is school? Is your voice coach still picking on you?”
This clues me in to what year she thinks we’re in—my sophomore year of college when I took private voice lessons. My hair was longer then. Nana’s time-shifting is another thing that’s been hard to get used to.
