December 24th, West Virginia

The neon lights of a gas station appear out of the snowy fog. As Lorne eases the town car under the 1950’s style metal awning he feels as though he’s entering a snow globe, and if he isn’t careful, someone might shake it.

An attendant in a Santa hat strolls towards him from a frosty hut. When he notices his license plate, he says: “You’ll want to avoid the storm, to be sure. Stay west and travel around Lake Erie.”

 Lorne isn’t sure he can trust a man who jingles as he works. Besides, he’s used to going through Pittsburgh. Ohio might as well be the wild west. Lorne is disoriented enough as it is. It’s Christmas Eve.

            “I’m supposed to be home by now,” he mutters under his breath.

            “Course you are,” replies the attendant, who grows jollier with every gallon of gas he pumps. He replaces the nozzle and pushes a cellophane bag through the window onto Lorne’s lap.

            “What’s this?”

            “How long it gonna take you to get home?” the man asks.

            Lorne looks at the dashboard clock. If he’s lucky, he’ll be back in the Valley by midnight. He stares at the bag. There are a couple cans of Jolt cola, some beef jerky and a Hershey chocolate bar.

            “You got a missus?” Sunoco Santa inquires.

            “Yeah,” says Lorne.

            “Well then take one of these, too,” he tosses a candy cane through the window. “That jerky will make your breath stink for days.”

            Would Monica even want to kiss him right now? What on earth was he doing in Lost Creek, West Virginia?

            “Merry Christmas, traveler.”

Lorne puts the car in gear and heads north.

 

December 2nd, Valley Midwives

“Bedrest?” Sharanne says. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Her customers liked to have one final trim or touch up before the holidays. She can’t stop working, not yet.

The midwife shakes her head. “Your blood pressure is way too high. Delivering twins isn’t the same as bringing a singleton into the world.”

Sharanne sighs. Next, the midwife will remind her she that isn’t eighteen anymore. As if she doesn’t know. Her ankles have all but disappeared and her hips ache when she waddles from the kitchen to the den. In all honesty, she’s ready to crawl into her bed for a couple weeks, but her customers…

“Could your mother come and stay with you?”

“I’ll be fine. Chuck can help, and my daughter Ella, too. She’s not a kid anymore.”

“I’m serious, Sharanne. I don’t want you to just stop working at the salon. No standing at the stove cooking turkey, no cleaning the house. I want you in bed, resting, that’s it.”

 

And so, she tries. She does, truly. The first day of bedrest, she washes her face in the morning, has some toast, and goes straight back to bed. She dozed through two morning shows by the time her mother arrived. Without bothering to knock, Lois waltzes into the bedroom.

“Good morning, I brought you a cup of tea,” she says, setting a tray down beside Sharanne. Lois sits down on the edge of the bed. “So. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“Look at those ankles! You used to have such skinny ankles. You’re eating chips before bed, aren’t you? I know Chuck loves a midnight snack but really, all that sodium…you have to watch it, or you could end up with Gastrointestinal diabetes­––”

“Gestational diabetes, Mom. They test for that. I’m fine.”

            “Hmm. Maybe I should make you some homemade soup. You look a bit pale.”

            Sharanne sighs. It would take Lois at least an hour to make soup. Meanwhile she could go back and watch Dini Petty interview Kurt Browning. She is beginning to enjoy her new morning routine.

            “Sure, Mom. Soup would be great.”

            “And meatballs. You’ll need more iron, certainly.”

            One of the babies kicks her hard in the ribs and she cries out.

            “What’s wrong? A contraction?”

            “No, Mom.” She takes her mother’s hand and places it on her belly. “Just someone saying hello.”

            Lois’ face softens. “I bet they’re coming soon.”

 

            No, not yet. Sharanne thinks. I’m not ready. She looks out her window onto the snowy lawn. Chuck and a couple neighbours are playing pick up on the laneway. His lawn care company sponsors a tournament on Christmas Eve at a rural arena and he likes to hone his shot before then. She tries to imagine him teaching two little ones how to skate, and it just doesn’t seem real yet.

 

December 10th, Valley Hardware

Lorne has been restless. He isn’t a man who bores easily, but lately he’s been a unsettled. Between his ex-mother-in-law, Lois, who runs the cash most days and his daughter Ella, who comes in after school, he has time on his hands.

            When a customer needs help with a snowblower, he can always lend a hand. But lately, perhaps because it hasn’t snowed much yet, it’s been quiet. Lorne tucks himself in the back of the shop and starts fooling around with some old springs.

            He remembers when Ella was little, he put her in a cloth seat suspended from the door frame. She bounced for hours, her eyes dancing, her giggle infectious. It broke all the tension in the room between him and Sharanne. They were so young. He can’t believe he has a teenager. He’s so lost in thought he doesn’t hear her calling.

            “Dad! There’s someone here to see you!”

            Lorne wipes his hands on his coveralls and walks into the store. Ella is trying to sell an older man an elastic headlamp—each year they place bets on what kind of random stuff would be a top selling stocking stuffer. Ella’s selection has had low sales, so she made a few homemade signs to help move inventory. It doesn’t seem to be working on Mr. Wilkinson.

            “Good morning, Lorne.” Mr. Wilkinson reaches out his hand. He’s wearing a foam bootie on his right foot and leaning heavily on a cane.

            “What happened?” Lorne asks.

            “Broke my ankle…and at the worst possible time. I’m supposed to be in Florida!”

            “I’m sorry to hear that,” Lorne says.

            “Lois mentioned to my wife at Bridge club that things were slow around here this month, and I wondered if I could convince you to drive my Winnebago down to Florida. I’d compensate you, naturally.”

            Lorne laughs. Was he getting on Lois’ nerves? It was unusual to work alongside his ex-wife’s mother, but things had been unusual since the first moment he moved to the Valley. He shook his head.

            “I’m sorry, Mr. Wilkinson. I don’t think I can be away right now.”

            He motions for the older man to follow him into the back and shows him the contraption he’d been working on. It was, he thought, better than the original. He’ll bring it over that afternoon.

            “Call me if you change your mind,” Mr. Wilkinson says.

 

December 10th, Sharanne and Chuck’s Home

           

Sharanne was drifting into a post-dinner nap when Lorne knocked on the bedroom door. Unlike Lois, he waits for her to invite him in. He stands awkwardly at the foot of the bed. They’ve spent plenty of time together, she and her ex, but not in her bedroom.

            “You good?” he asks.

            “Yeah, we’re fine.”

            “Any cravings?” he says.

            She smiles at that. Fifteen years ago, she’d craved pickled beets, or beans, or asparagus…anything crunchy and pickled except pickles.

            “What are you doing here?” she says, sitting up in bed and staring at him.

            He takes a step back.

            “Sorry. That came out wrong. I just meant­­––”

            “I built a double-jumper, for the twins.”

            “The kind that hangs from the doorframe?” she asks. “With springs?”

            “Yeah,” he smiles, encouraged. “You remember.”

            She doesn’t want to dampen his enthusiasm by noting that her babies wouldn’t be able to hold their heads up until March, so she says nothing.

            “You’ll probably want it in the living room, eh?” He has his toolbox with him. Suddenly, she’s much too tired to argue. She hears her mother and daughter laughing in the kitchen. Chuck must be around somewhere, too. There are a lot of people in the house, and she’s very sleepy.

            “Alright…that might be okay.”

            Lorne closes the door, and soon she hears a drill. A moment later, Chuck is beside the bed.

            “What’s Lorne doing now?”

            “He brought a gift for the babies.” She yawns.

            “And you didn’t think I could install it? He’s putting holes in the middle of the dining room entrance!”

            “I’m sorry, he just showed up and he was so keen—”

            “Is it always going to be like this?” Chuck asks, his voice rising.

            Suddenly, Sharanne just wants to be alone, and for her house to be quiet.

            “I don’t know when to tell him to leave. He’s Ella’s father!”

            “If I tell him to leave, I’m the bad guy,” Chuck says. “So, what am I supposed to do?”

            “I don’t know. Take care of me! I’m supposed to be on BED REST, but I am NOT RESTING!”

            The drill in the dining room stops. A ladle clatters to the ground on the kitchen floor. Lorne packs up his toolbox and Lois hops in the cab beside him and they drive off. Only Ella stays to clean up the drywall dust. She warms up a couple of pizza pockets and offers one to Chuck, who is watching television beside her mother, who has fallen fast asleep.

 

December 10th, Valley Hardware

 

December was a month of rehearsals. Monica loves the choirs and the pageants; she loves all of it, but every year, in the midst of everything, she has to remember to rest so she doesn’t get sick. Plates of gingerbread, fudge and squares arrive on her doorstep, and she battles the temptation to eat sugary treats or candied nuts for dinner. Thankfully, tonight, Lois has left her homemade soup, so she feels quite buoyant, on the winning side of December, as it were. Until her beloved Lorne walks in the back door.

            “What’s wrong?”

            He slumps into his chair ignoring the dogs, who rest their heads on his lap waiting patiently for a quick pet. She dishes some soup into a bowl for him, and the story about the homemade twin jumper and Sharanne and Chuck’s argument comes pouring out.

            Monica’s at a bit of a loss. She’s grateful that Lorne and Sharanne have an amicable relationship. But it’s obvious to her the old adage rings true: familiarity breeds contempt. Lorne has to figure it out how to navigate the reality of Sharanne’s new children on his own. If it weren’t December, she’d have more energy. They would go on long walks with the dogs, and she’d ask him all kinds of questions. But Advent and Christmas are busy times in the parish. So instead of gently probing, what comes out of her mouth surprises them both.

            “Maybe you need some space,” she says. She’d meant to say, they need some space.

Lorne doesn’t notice that his wife cleans up the kitchen, feeds the dogs and folds the laundry. He doesn’t notice that she goes to bed early without saying goodnight. He isn’t used to sulking. He is, even if at a slower pace than some, a man of action. He dials Aubrey Wilkinson.

“Alright. Tell me where to be. I’ll drive your Winnebago south.”

           

December 20th, I-95 South

 

It had been fun, at first, driving to Bradenton. Aubrey Wilkinson loved to talk, and for a while it was relaxing to sit up high in the driver’s seat and watch the scenery roll past. Aubrey had been a long-haul trucker––bringing flowers south and citrus north––and knew every diner and road stop from Fort Erie to Miami. His wife, Eileen, tailed them for the first fifty miles and when they lost her, Aubrey said not to worry. If he knew every sandwich shop across five states, his wife knew every outlet mall.

 “Can’t pass up a deal,” he said with a smile. “That’s how I got to be so well dressed!”

Lorne laughed. The Wilkinsons’ RV was fancy. But their attire could only be described as a half-step down from “golf tournament swag.”

On the final day of the drive, Lorne asks Aubrey what he was hoping to do that winter. To his surprise, the older gentleman was a little pensive. It takes him so long to answer, Lorne wonders if he’s nodded off.

Finally, he replies. “There was a time when I always needed to do something. I’d get home from a three-day journey and help my neighbour build a fence, or I’d take the kids biking or renovate the basement…”

“Were you restless?”

Aubrey nods. “More or less.”

Lorne understands, but he couldn’t imagine lying around in the sunshine relaxing for the rest of his life. He couldn’t imagine Monica doing that either. They both liked to be needed. Who needed a body soaking up the sun in Florida?

“But then Eileen got sick,” Aubrey continues. “And suddenly all I wanted to do was be with her. I wanted to take care of her. That’s all.”

Monica’s face appears in Lorne’s mind’s eye. He sees her standing over her weekly diary, wondering aloud how she would squeeze her regular visits in between the demands of the additional services that month. He sees her white shirts drying over the vent because she washes them every night. Why didn’t he offer to wash her clothes for her?

They arrive at the Whispering Pines RV park just before dinner. Lorne watches as Aubrey and Eileen are surrounded by old friends, welcoming the snowbirds for happy hour. In no time, the RV is surrounded by lawn chairs and laughter. He breathes in the thick, salt-tinged air and thinks, I need to get home. Now.

He stays for one drink, drives Mrs. Wilkinson’s town car to the beach for a quick dip, and then points it north.

 

Christmas Eve

 

Monica stops in at King’s Buffet and orders the special combination B. After the holidays, soups and salads, but for now, egg rolls are the antidote to not eating another slice of shortbread. She has been eating shortbread for three days.

She finishes her meal, it’s quiet in Mr. Tang’s establishment tonight, and heads to the church. She’s in the final stretch, and she reminds herself she loves Christmas.

“Chin up. Joy to the world. Do your job.”

By the time she’s shaken the last parishioner’s hand, and turned off the lights in the sanctuary, she’s energized. There are another four plates of goodies on her desk, but she’ll leave them for the Christmas Morning crowd. She walks home down the hill. The snow is falling in thick flakes. She’s left a light on in the living room and from the bridge, the street scene looks like a snow globe.

When she settles in on the couch, she notices Ella’s stocking is still on the mantlepiece. For some reason, this bothers her. She meant to send it home with her and forgot. Ella should have her stocking on Christmas morning.

“It’ll only take a few minutes,” she tells herself. She’ll settle in and watch “It’s a Wonderful World” when she gets home. She grabs her coat, Ella’s stocking, a fancy headlamp that’s sitting on the counter and heads back into the night.

A few minutes later, Lorne calls, and the machine tells him to leave a message at the beep.

Christmas Eve, Somewhere South of Lake Erie

 

He has heard “I’ll be home for Christmas” nine times, and “Blue Christmas” seven times. He turns the radio off each time “Santa Baby” or “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” blares over the airwaves. Of the many different channels he toggles between, they are all the same tonight.

He should be with his wife, snuggled up on the couch with the dogs, in their cozy apartment above the store. When he stopped for gas and tried to call, the machine picked up. He imagines her alone, scrounging for something other than shortbread to eat; he usually made potpies on Christmas Eve, served with sparkling white wine. He closes his eyes for a minute and can hear the tinkling of their glasses.

“Cheers! Merry Christmas!”

 

Christmas Eve

Main Street

 

Monica blinks in surprise at the amount of snow swirling in the street. The road is deserted, and she wonders if driving up the hill is a good idea. A couple young boys ride down the middle of the street on snowmobiles. On impulse, she flags them down with Ella’s enormous red stocking and her lit up headgear.

            “Any chance you could give me a lift?” she asks. She recognizes them as Ella’s schoolmates.

            She explains where she needs to go and discovers she couldn’t drive if she wanted to. The roads closed right after mass. Further west, a plow ran into a hydro pole and power was out over six concessions. The boys head up the hill and towards Chuck and Sharanne’s. The house is dark.

            “Can you wait for me for a minute?” She runs inside.

            Sharanne has lit candles and there’s a fire in the hearth. But she doesn’t say hello to Monica. She’s holding onto the counter for dear life. And Chuck, Ella  and Lois are nowhere to be seen.

            “Boys! Go get the midwife, and if you find a telephone that’s working, call an ambulance.”

            Monica heads back into the house and helps Sharanne into Chuck’s easy chair. Her forehead is damp.

            “Why isn’t Chuck home?” Sharanne asks. “They went to the arena hours ago.”

“I don’t know sweetheart. A storm came in quickly.”

“I can’t do this by myself.”

“I’m here. You don’t have to do anything by yourself.”

“You’ve never delivered a baby before!”

“No, and hopefully I won’t have to.” Monica wonders if Mary and Joseph had a midwife, or if Joseph caught his own son. She’d never thought about it before.

“I haven’t had a moment by myself… for a month, and now, NOW the babies are on their way….and everyone is gone and…” Sharanne gasps.  “… my water just broke.”

“I’m going to find your camping gear in the garage.”

“You can’t leave me now!”

“I need to boil some water,” Monica says firmly.

“Like in the movies?” Sharanne asks.

“Yeah.”

This seems to settle Sharanne for a moment. “Towels! We need towels too. Oooohhhh. Hurry!”

Monica runs around Sharanne’s enormous house like a woman playing laser tag and collects everything she imagines might be useful in case the babies come before the ambulance. At the slightest noise, she looks towards the road to see if the plow has gone by. It is way too quiet outside. She looks at her watch.

“Your contractions are coming in close.”

“I feel like I need to push…ahhhh. It’s too soon. Isn’t it? This is happening too quickly!”

Monica tries to remember what happens in these situations on Dr. Quinn. “May I take a look?”

 “It’s coming!”

Monica adjusts her headlamp. “I see the head!”

Sharanne groans.

 “Is this when you pant? Try panting.” Monica suggests.

 “I.don’t.remember!”

 Suddenly, all the fatigue of the past month melts away, and Monica feels wide awake. She is going to deliver a baby tonight. There is no one coming to rescue Sharanne right now. She hears her Dad’s voice in her mind.  You can do this.

“I’m here to catch it whenever you’re ready. You’re doing great. C’mon…one more push and the shoulders will come through.”

The first one is born face up. Monica wipes his nose gently and they hear his first cry. Sharanne falls back into the chair. Monica swaddles him and places him on Sharanne’s chest.

It’s a perfect little boy.

Just then, the door opens and the midwife rushes in.

“Well done you! One down, one to go. Now, let’s get you settled.” The midwife checks Sharanne’s body, peeks at the baby and then gently passes him over to Monica. “Alrighty then, let’s see about baby No 2.”

            The midwife quietly mops up the floor, puts on some gloves and six minutes later, another little boy gives his first cry.

            Sharanne holds him for a moment, wiping his face and laughing. Monica holds his brother close. They look identical, but it’s hard to tell by candlelight.

           

When Chuck, Ella and Lois finally make it home, after the young boys go and get them at the arena where they’ve been stranded and bring them home on snowmobile, it looks like a nativity scene in the living room. The babies are swaddled side by side in a bassinet by the fire, Sharanne is curled up on the couch, and Monica and the midwife are leaning over the babies, counting and re-counting all twenty fingers and toes.

They are perfect.

           

Christmas Morning, All Saints Church

 

Monica doesn’t even go home to shower. How do you return to the mundane after you’ve witnessed a miracle? She has no idea.

Heading straight for the church, she puts on her robes and leads the Christmastide service by memory. She’d written a sermon for this morning, but it was too prosaic, too sanitary for the total mystery and wonder of the birth of a child.

“Have you ever wondered,” she asks. “Who cut the cord when Jesus was born?”

Some of the congregants look at one another uneasily. Perhaps Reverend Monica has had a bit too much mulled wine. She does look a tad dishevelled.

The door opens in the vestibule and a stream of light floods into the sanctuary. Lorne sneaks into the back row and nods at his wife. She looks beautiful to him. He can’t wait to hug her.

Monica clears her throat.

“I mean, I love the pageantry and tradition of Christmas as much as anyone, but have you ever imagined the blood, the soaking wet clothes, the totally ruined armchair?”

She sighs. “I’ve never seen anything more vulnerable looking than a naked baby boy. The cord is so thick with blood…its purple, a royal colour. And how do you know when to cut it? You must gauge the colour of the baby, and the colour of the cord. And the moment that cord is cut, that’s it. Now the baby is an earth creature and must move through the dust of the world. Outside the womb, a baby will learn to eat, laugh, cry. Its very mortal-ness is astonishing. It’s no wonder they sleep so much. The world is a lot to take, isn’t it?”

She pauses. The congregation is quiet. Someone finally coughs and she snaps out of her reverie. She returns to the story. Of shepherds, boys who just happened to be out in the night, of a star, of a stable.

“The Good News is this: Immanuel. God with us. Among us. In us.

The Good News arrives as soft as a baby’s first cry: I’m here.”

 

When the choir rises, so does Lorne. He walks down the aisle and sits in the front row beside his wife. He smells like unwashed clothes and beef jerky. She smells even worse.

            “Merry Christmas,” he says, squeezing her hand. “Next time I’m acting like an insecure idiot, just tell me to go out and walk the dogs, okay?”

            “Florida a bit too far to go to figure it out?”

            “Too far to go without you.”

            She links her arm through his and listens as the choral harmonies rise into the rafters.

The earliest moon of wintertime
Is not so round and fair
As was the ring of glory
On the helpless infant there.*

 

Closing her eyes, she recalls the child in her arms a few hours earlier. The sound of the wobbly sopranos, the overbearing bass and the beauty of it all washes over her. They’ll sleep soundly above the store that night, and stay in their pyjamas the next day until Ella calls wondering when they’re coming to snuggle her new brothers.

 

The End

 

"Jesous Ahatonhia"  Jean de Brébeuf