It’s an odd thing to gift-wrap a pair of pajamas for your dead mother for Christmas. But that’s what grief does to you. Since the day the pallbearers laid the body of Mildred E. Worthington into the ground two months ago, Billie can’t seem to let go. They say time heals.
Billie sat at the kitchen table unrolling wrapping paper printed with red candy canes and glittery gold snowflakes. She measured twice and slid the scissors through the paper, just as she was taught as a child. The fireplace crackled in the background, the holiday tree twinkled, and the red wine met her tongue with the smooth hint of cherry. Harold, the lazy dachshund, slept on his bed. Occasionally he’d lift his head and his long ears would twitch when he heard voices, or car doors slamming, as one guest after another arrived at the neighbor’s house for Christmas Eve dinner. That old boy knew something was out of place tonight.
Billie didn’t like the buzz in her head, but she figured a little wine might make the night easier to endure. Harold looked at her with a concerned eye.
“Harold, it’s just us now, sweet boy. I know you miss her. I miss her too. But I’m still here.”
Billie gently placed the warm, fuzzy, lemon-colored pajamas on top of the festive paper, folded both sides of the wrap into the middle, and sealed them with Scotch tape.
The house never used to be this quiet – or lonely – even after her husband upped and left. Now ex-husband, thank God. But she’s a strong girl, an accountant, who can take care of herself. She was raised that way for sure.
Billie sipped her wine and stared at the electric chair lift she had someone install after the stroke. She hasn’t heard the hum of that motor in sixty-two days and misses watching it ascend and descend the stairway.
Her cell phone rang. She let it roll to voicemail but later listened to the message.
“Hi, Honey. It’s Aunt Mave. I’m just checking on you. I know you said you didn’t want to be around anyone tonight, but the offer to join us for dinner still stands. Call me and let me know you’re doing ok, please. Love you.” The recorder clicked off.
Billie folded the creases of the wrapping paper into perfect triangles and taped them down to create a symmetrical and flawless package. She poured another glass of wine. Harold’s eyes stayed on her as she clumsily walked from the table to the lit-up tree.
“You would have loved these, Mom,” she whispered as she placed the lone present beneath the branches.
It wasn’t long after she finished wrapping that the scent of garlic and basil from homemade lasagna filled the house. Meat-filled lasagna, a simple tossed green salad, and crème caramel has been a holiday tradition for years in the Worthington household and a tradition that should continue.
Billie’s vision blurred, so she poured the rest of the wine down the sink, took out the lasagna, and turned off the oven. Harold shifted to his side and stretched his short back legs. Billie wasn’t hungry. She just needed the aroma in the house.
She plunked down into the oversized chair in the living room, and Harold got up off his dog bed and lept into her lap. It was only seven o’clock on Christmas Eve, but with all the wine and the warmth of the fire Billie hoped she could drift off to sleep and put this evening behind her. A loud knock made her sit straight up, and Harold let out a loud bark. A cold blast of air billowed into the hallway when Billie pulled open the front door. A young man stood on the porch holding a small brown box.
“Merry Christmas, Ma’am. I have a package for Billie Worthington.”
“I’m Billie. Are you out delivering this late? On Christmas Eve?”
“Yes, Ma’am. This is my last stop. I’m headed home for my mother’s turkey dinner. Could you sign here?”
Billie took the pen from the young man’s red, chilly hand. “Enjoy your time with your family,” she said, signing the receipt.
“I will. Happy holidays!”
Billie looked at the sender’s address: Stone’s Jewelers. She saw the package was addressed to her, but she hadn’t ordered anything. Despite being told a thousand times not to use a knife to open packages, she used one anyway. Inside was a puff of red tissue paper, and inside the tissue paper a smaller, velvet black box with a note tucked on each side. One was sealed in an envelope, and the other was on a Stone’s postcard. The postcard reads:
Ms. Worthington,
Before your mother passed, she came to our store, purchased this gift, and asked us to send this to you for a December 24th delivery. She was a lovely woman. Our condolences on your loss.
The Staff at Stone’s Jewelers
Billie opened the second box. Inside was a silver watch with a white face encircled with pave’ crystals. She tore open the envelope and unfolded a handwritten note in penmanship she could recognize anywhere.
Billie,
You are, and always have been, the love of my life. I won’t be with you this Christmas. The cancer is too far gone, and the pain has become too much to bear. The first Christmas is always the hardest one, but you will get through it. I remember when we lost your father. You were too young to remember him when he passed, but it was hard.
I am so proud of the woman you have become. Though I have been sick for some time, I hope you remember my better days, too. I hope you remember our trips to Hawaii and Cape Cod, and all our Friday night dinners out when I got around a bit better. I hope you remember all the joy you brought me. Even as a child, you got me through many dark times.
I want you to have this watch on Christmas Eve. Not only because it’s beautiful, but because it signifies something important that I need to remind you of – time. You need to know that there was nothing more you could have done. It was my time to go. And, you need to know that it’s your time to live. Go see the world. Maybe write that book you’ve been talking about or say yes to Charles when he asks you to dinner- yet again.
You took great care of me in my later years when I had one ailment after another. Do one last thing for me and take as good of care of you. And know that you were more than a daughter, you were my best friend.
Love Forever,
Mom
Hot tears streamed down Billie’s face. The watch sparkled in the fire-lit room. She gently turned it over and saw it was engraved You Are My Whole World.
She looked at the lone gift under the tree and bent down to place the watch in its velvety box beside it, smiled, then eased back into her comfortable chair. Harold promptly retook his spot in her lap. It wasn’t long before both nodded off to sleep. The fire slowly began to burn out. Only the holiday tree and the moon peeking in the window lit the room.
This was Billie’s hardest Christmas. But for me this was a beautiful Christmas. I am pain-free, and I got to spend it watching over my daughter. Just like when she was a baby, I get to be the caregiver again. Some call it the circle of life. All I know is it’s the stuff you don’t understand until you’re on the other side. Things get much clearer here.
Tomorrow will be a better day for Billie. Holidays will get easier. She’ll have a tough time when Harold dies, but I can’t wait to see her smiling face when her book gets published.
Our relationship will be different than it was before. She can’t see me or hear me. She can’t feel me when I hug her. I know she’ll always miss me, but I’m still here.
