The Last Christmas

Early Christmas morning, Edward kissed Helen’s hand, just as he had on their honeymoon fifty-four years earlier, and laid it back on her chest. His thumb brushed the heart-shaped birthmark on the side of her throat. For a painful second, he believed his eyes when they told him her faint lashes had fluttered on her cheek. He knew it wasn’t so.

 

His Helen was gone and had been for an hour. He sat talking to her after her final soft exhalation of breath, holding her hand and ignoring the way her skin lost its warmth as the minutes passed.

With tears spilling from his rheumy eyes, he explained all those days he’d risen in the morning with dark circles betraying a sleepless night.

“You always believed my excuse of insomnia—didn’t you? I was too embarrassed to tell you why I didn’t sleep…. I would lie next to you, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest on nights when the moon was full, watching your lashes flutter against your cheek while you dreamed. In the quiet, I watched you sleep, still unable to believe, after five years or ten or forty, that you had chosen me and loved me despite my bad habits and big nose and quiet ways. I never got over that disbelief, and I studied you at night to memorize the line of your jaw, the slight upturn of your nose, the precise color of your lips—afraid one day you might come to your senses and find a man without so many faults. You were too loyal for that, I know, but I watched you sleep just the same.”

Now he would have to face the nights with only the memory engraved by thousands of moonlit hours.

Edward grabbed his cane and pushed himself up from the bedside chair. The dull ache in his knees flared brighter, his hands seemed to tremble more, the color of the sunrise appeared muted and flat as he shuffled from the hospital room. Nurses offered condolences, but he hardly heard them. He made his way down to the lobby, aware that the sharp antiseptic smell had vanished from the hallways. Reaching the bus stop, he lit his pipe, but the tobacco had no flavor. Helen had taken the essence of everything with her.

 

He went through the motions of life: rising in the morning, eating at the proper times, and keeping the house neat. But the days held no meaning, and the moon illuminated nothing. More and more, Edward sat in his easy chair, staring at nothing, with no one to notice.

On a Sunday, as Edward walked home from the bus stop with his small bag of groceries in one hand and his cane in the other—going through the motions—he was woolgathering, wondering how long he would have to endure his faded imitation of life before death would finally embrace him. A weak whimper interrupted his thoughts. He paused on the sidewalk and tilted his head, thinking the noise might have come from his own lips. The cry came again, from a solitary lilac bush growing wild at the park’s edge.

He bent to see deeper into the thick shadows. Curled in the dirt, a patch of darkness whimpered again. Edward lowered himself, pushing away the pain and stiffness, until he kneeled beside the bush and parted the profusion of heart-shaped leaves. An Irish Setter puppy peered back at him. The animal trembled and whined, shrinking back.

“Here, pup,” Edward whispered. He tried to suppress the palsied tremor in his hand and held it out to the puppy.

The dog watched him with wary eyes for several minutes, gaze darting for an escape. It started to lean forward, pulled back, started toward him again. Edward kept his hand out and waited. Inching toward him, the setter stretched its neck out, and ventured a nervous lick at his hand. He let it sniff until it came out further. The puppy wagged its tail as it slinked into the gap between Edward’s legs and huddled there. The perfume of lilac came to him then, overwhelming in its dizzying sweetness.

The pup wore no collar. Edward carried it home, and made it a small bed, and cooked some food for it, grumbling that he didn’t want the burden. He told himself he had no business keeping a dog and would find her another home. He scanned the paper for days and checked the neighborhood for flyers. In case someone called, he left his name and number with the dog pound, but the phone stayed silent.

 

On the fourth day, as he sat in his easy chair and the dog lay at his feet, he felt her eyes on him. He resisted the urge to meet her gaze. Her head lay on her paws and she crept closer and closer. He wouldn’t give in. Soon she lifted her head, slow and sneaky, until it touched the hand resting on the chair’s arm. She nuzzled it and insinuated her head under it. Edward sighed and let his hand smooth the silky hair, then scratched her ear. As his hand drifted lower, she lifted her chin, asking for more. Her head tipped back, exposing her throat. For the first time, he noticed a tiny white patch there. Shaped like a heart. His resistance melted away, tears dampened her hair, and he named her Ellie.

He chastised her for getting on the bed and nosing through the trash. Ellie followed him around the house and sat patiently by the door when she needed to go out. They went on walks, neighborhood children begged to play with Ellie, and she obliged. Edward and Ellie watched old movies on Saturday nights, with her in the spot beside his chair and his hand resting on her head. She lay next to his bed every night. When he woke, he would find her soulful gaze on him, watching.

The color seeped back into the sunset. Food tasted better, and his pipe, left in its stand on the mantel for ages, found its way back into his shirt pocket. Smells returned, sounds became richer once more. Ellie brought the essence of everything back to him.

 
Early Christmas morning, Ellie snuck onto the bed with Edward. Her big dark eyes watched him sleep. And when the last soft breath left his lips, she licked his hand as it lay on his chest.

On Christmas Morning

He claps his hands, his face suffused with joy, and runs off to write a Christmas wish list. He's giddy at the idea of waking up there; he wonders what they'll have under the tree, and how they'll spend the day.

I sit alone, smothering the bitterness roiling at the one disrupting our lives after years of indifference and absence, and instead focus on the happiness it will bring the one I love.

I sit alone, avoiding thoughts of the deafening silence I'll hear when I wake at a reasonable hour, instead of at the crack of dawn with warm little hands nudging me and a squeal of delight, "Santa came!"

I sit alone, refusing to listen to that slithering whisper in the back of my mind. What if he likes it better there?

I sit alone, wondering if he'll come home and ask, innocent and unaware of the rending of my heart, "Mom, can I go live with him?"

I sit alone, anticipating silence.

Lonely Sea

Wind buffets my face and steals my breath. I hear only a distant, quiet susurration as the ship slices through the water with rhythmic waves of spray. Flags ripple overhead but I can’t hear them—the wind whips that away too. Salt in the air, and all around. It coats every surface like slippery, crazed icing.

I stand at the bulwark, preparing for my watch. I slip the strap of the binoculars over my head and let the heavy weight dangle from my neck. After a while, that weight will burrow into my skin and my shoulders will ache. For now, the familiar tug goes unnoticed, a necessary part of the routine.

I hate midwatch. It’s so boring. At least it’s not freezing tonight.

The top of the ship sways and I steady myself. I lower the large, padded earpieces of the sound-powered phone onto my head and adjust them over my ears. Suddenly all sound evaporates, but I still hear the ocean waves crashing in my ears, as if from a seashell. I press the button on the receiver to speak.
“Bridge—Starboard Lookout, back online.”
Propping my elbows on the bulwark, I pick up the binoculars and scan the ocean. The water reflects the moonlight in soft glimmers between peaked white caps of small waves. I can see for miles and miles, to the edge of the earth.
Nothing to report. I lower the binoculars and my eyes squint against the breeze.
“Bridge—Starboard Lookout, no contacts.”
I shift my gaze to the endless expanse of milky river flowing across the sky. The stars look different at sea, with no light pollution. I can identify a few bright, burning individuals, but the rest of the sky billows with the wispy, cottony glow of millions of other worlds. I grow dizzy trying to contemplate their multitude. It’s wondrous, yet intimidating, and arouses a feeling of intense loneliness.

I am such a small, insignificant being.

Those worlds out there care nothing for me. They revolve and change and will never even know of me. My presence, or absence, is meaningless to them. My family cares, of course. But in this moment, thousands of miles away, they seem a hazy memory. Beyond those few people, does my existence matter? I remind myself of the hundreds of people sleeping and working underneath me. They know me—at least some of them—and would miss me if I were gone. Wouldn’t they? But they don’t really know me, nor I them. I spend all twenty-four hours of every day with them. We crack jokes, complain about the Chief, and hit the bars together on liberty, but I’ve never confided my deepest hopes and fears to any of them. Would they care if the wind carried me away and let me disappear beneath the rolling swells? I have no answer.

During the day, I wish I could be alone. I want to silence the endless clamor of voices, boots, music, and equipment. I crave an escape from the constant suffocating presence of people. I ache for a quiet moment of privacy and peace.

I am alone. It’s quiet now. I have escaped.

To what? A lonely pinnacle atop the deserted ocean. The sea mocks me with singular solitude and I curse the hollow granting of my wish.

A flash of iridescent turquoise shimmers in the water. The glowing bioluminescence of a million companions reveals their presence. I could whisper all my secrets to them, and they’d never tell a soul.

There! Off the starboard side, just behind the bow. Silvery silhouettes emerge from the water and time stops as they float over the passing waves. No flapping of wings, just a smooth glide brings them into my airy world. I smile at the flying fish. They too would harbor my most private musings, if I chose to speak them. The fish plunge under the shroud of their world, the only trace of their flight a brief wrinkle in the waves.

Perhaps I’m not so alone in this bounding main. Creatures big and small permeate the ocean surrounding me, swimming and floating in a silent ballet. Knowing they are there soothes my sense of desolation.

My melancholy mood fades and I scan the surface again. My eyes track the movement of the swells, looking for any objects.
Nothing to report.
My eyes droop and I look at my watch. Zero-three-thirty. Almost done.

The wind dies down, but the night is cooler now. Puffs of air still flow over me as the ship steams to its destination. I shiver and pull my collar up.

The infinite liquid plain stretches before me. The calm before dawn settles the white-caps. Suddenly, the sea clears and turns glassy. No ripples mar its perfect stillness. Tranquility descends upon me, too. The darkness no longer seems overwhelming; rather, it feels open and liberating, full of possibility.

Movement at the edge of my vision catches my attention. I turn my head and focus my gaze a hundred yards away, beyond the ship’s wake.

The water rises up. No, not the water. Something under the water pushes up from below. A large, rounded shadow breaks the surface and silky, black fluid cascades from its sides.

My lips part in a gasp of ecstasy. My heart renders galloping thumps in my chest and I start to breathe in great, heaving gulps. Tingles rush over my skin and I shiver again, overcome with joy and awe.

The behemoth expels a blast of air and rides the wake for a glorious moment, before it sinks back into the depths.

I smile so wide my cheeks hurt. I search intently, hoping to see the beast surface again. Stillness returns.

My throat tightens and I try to swallow. Salty droplets spring to my eyes and spill onto my cheeks as if the sea has filled me to overflowing. I perceive a connection to the leviathan that transcends the barriers of our worlds. He knows me, and I know him.

My breathing slows but the thrill of wonder remains. My spirits buoyed, I see the depths with a new sense of intimacy. I know its secrets now, and I can share mine.

I lean over the bulwark and speak to my companions under the waves.
“I’m not alone!” Passion adds power to my voice.
“What?...Lynn, go to bed.”
I slowly pull myself back and turn around. My relief stands before me, eyeing me with unease.
I give him a sheepish grin and hand him the binoculars.
“Who were you talking to?” he asks with a dubious glance over the side.
“Nobody you know.”