Page 83 of Forever Christmas
“He is.”
“Sorry I—” He clears his throat again. “Sorry I didn’t get a chance to meet him when I was down.”
“He’s not going anywhere,” I say.
“I ’spect not,” Dad says. “I sure hope I get a chance to see him sometime.”
The room falls quiet again and I know I’m supposed to say something encouraging. Like “Sure, when you’re no longer a raging asshole,” or “Hey, absolutely,when I know you aren’t going to threaten him with a wrench.”
The radio next door has switched to “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” and I remember Christmas mornings as a child. We had stockings, and Mom made us wait until everyone was up to open any presents.
The old man was jovial, pretty much always easygoing that one day of the year. We didn’t have much, but we always had gifts. And that pleasedhim.
If I could look at the one day a year, every year, I could see a man worth knowing, one I could stand to have around. Maybe he can make himself into someone who is that version of himself all the time.
So I manage to say, “Yeah, I’m sure you’ll see him eventually,” and I mean it. We’re all works in progress. I sure didn’t deserve Corabelle for a long time.
As the old man mumbles thanksand my mom hugs me, I realize a lesson I’ve never recognized before:
Something is only unforgivable if no one is willing to forgive.
I won’t forget, and I will always be watchful. But if he can do it for a day, then maybe he can do it for a visit. And my newborn son will get to know his grandfather. And maybe this whole cycle will get broken for good.
The doorbell rings, and I head out intothe living room. We’re not expecting anybody else.
Corabelle’s dad opens the door. It’s carolers, all young men between the ages of sixteen and twenty or so. They are dressed in board shorts and flip-flops. They sing “Let It Snow.”
We all clap when they’re done, and Corabelle asks, “Who are you? I’ve never seen carolers in San Diego. And certainly not in apartment complexes.”
They look ateach other.
A young man with dreadlocks speaks up. “We’re actually a youth choir. We were told to come here.” He hands her a scrap of paper. “We got a donation in exchange for showing up when you arrived home with a baby one day. Enough to send us to a competition in New York last year.”
He shrugs. “It happened to be Christmas, but we were down with that. Some of us got nowhere else to be.”He gestures to the ragtag group. “We’re headed to the beach!”
They start to walk away, singing “Santa Baby” as they go.
“I can’t believe it,” Corabelle says. She’s laughing and crying at the same time as she stares at the paper. “It was Albert.”
“Who is Albert?” I ask. Then I remember. The old guy Tina was friends with. The artist.
“Albert sent them?” Tina asks. Now she’s crying and takingthe note from Corabelle.
I peer over her shoulder.
A hospital staffer will call you when a certain family has a baby. He will provide the address and you are to sing for them. Make it a happy memory. They’ve waited a long time for good news.
Our address is scribbled on the bottom.
We all look out the door. The group is still singing as they walk, hamming it up so loudly that some ofour neighbors come out to hear.
“He thought of everything,” Corabelle says. She walks back into the living room to sit on the sofa. “He was amazing.”
Tina drops next to her and wraps her arm around her. “He sure was.”
I glance at the picture of Finn. Someone, probably Mom, has already framed a small photo of Ethan and hung it next to his brother.
It might not be snowing. And the carolers mightbe headed out for a swim instead of sleigh-riding. And we might be pretty poor and our family going through a lot.
But we have what matters. One way or another, we’ve touched everyone we care about today. The baby has come home. We’re a family. And that is precisely the beauty of Christmas.
~*´♥`*~
