A Christmas Story for You

She read the letter again, her eyes eager and hungry, like a child’s in a line to see Santa. She missed their webcam conversations, where she could see his face and hear his voice.

She had noticed, the last few times, that he didn’t laugh as often, except when he was speaking directly to Missy. Then he assumed his voice of Daddyclown or Daddymonster that threw her into gales of 3-year-old giggles. Just thinking of those calls made her smile now, her brows relaxing.

Her eyes drifted to the top of the thin, almost transparent paper. Just the date. No indication of where he might be. Did he volunteer again for a top secret mission? No, they’d agreed that he was a family man now and his life was in enough danger just being over there. He would not disrespect their decision.

She read the uneven, downward slanting script from the beginning—again.

My Darling Darling Linda,

She gulped the heartbreak in her throat. The extra Darling told her how desperately he was missing her. He wrote about her and Missy, not about himself or what he was doing.

Do you have the tree up and decorated? What was Missy’s reaction to that? I hope you let her “help” you decorate it. (I can say that now because I’m not there to juggle hanging the lights and keeping her from dropping the ornaments.)J  But oh, honey! How I wish I were!

Remember that ornament we bought on our honeymoon? They transferred photos of our faces onto the faces of the couple on the little surfboard? (Like either one of us could surf at all!) Can you leave that one off the tree this year? I’d like us to put that on the tree together every year—just like we said we would.

Linda looked at the bare spot on the tree, right where they would have put it had he been here with her. She nodded, clenching her teeth.

Gotta go, hon. I love you—so much. You keep me going, you know. Here are my BIG hug and kisses for Missy. J

He signed it, “Yours, always and forever, Terry.”

Missy whimpered awake from her nap, and Linda sighed as she climbed the stairs. She entered Missy’s room, went to the trundle bed and Missy’s outstretched arms.

“Hush, honey. Mommy’s right here,” she crooned. “What’s the matter? You never wake up crying.” Linda put a lilt in her voice, smiling.

Missy buried her face in her mother’s shoulder and rubbed it back and forth, as if she were scratching an itchy nose. “Daddy’s coming home for Christmas,” she said. “But I want him here right now.” Her eyes brimmed and her lower lip quivered.

Linda hugged her daughter, harder. “Missy, honey, you know we’ve talked about this. Daddy is away, being very brave protecting our country, and he won’t be home for a long time.” Linda closed her eyes, as if that would change the reality.

Terry’s words came back to her:  You keep me going, you know. But Linda wondered how long she could do this. And she knew something was going on with Terry. She could feel it.

She swayed back and forth to soothe herself as much as Missy. After a few quiet moments like that, she gave Missy an extra squeeze and then a big, sloppy smooch on her cheek.

“That’s from Daddy,” she leaned back and spread a wicked grin on her face.

Missy giggled and wiped her hand down her cheek several times. “Did Daddy visit you, too, while I was sleeping?”

Linda’s eyebrows knit, like two dragonflies bumping into each other, and her eyes squinted. Then she smiled again, completely clearing her face of any traces of worry, concern, or… dread. She ignored Missy’s question.

“We got a real letter from Daddy today and wait till you see his message to you!” Linda twirled her around before leading her to the bathroom.

Downstairs, she showed the letter to Missy and pointed to the drawing at the bottom of the second page. “See? His hug is so-o-o-o-o big, his arms went right off the paper!” It was easy for Linda to smile as she looked at the stick figure with a soldier hat and arm lines stretching across and off the page on either side.

Missy laughed, like tiny bells tinkling, and ran to her drawer of pencils, crayons and paper. “I’m going to draw a picture for him now,” she said. In the middle of her preparations, she stopped and her head popped up to look at her mother.

“Did it snowed yet, Mommy?” Linda laughed and bent to touch her nose to the tip of Missy’s.

“No, it didn’t ‘snowed’ yet, sweetie.”

Missy had already drawn a tree in green crayon on her paper:  a vertical line with several lines crossing it at varying angles. Concentrating on her art, she selected a bright red crayon and cocked her head, saying softly, “Snow and Daddy. That’s what we’re having for Christmas.” Then she scrunched her mouth to one side and pressed the crayon onto the paper, forming dots of red all around the “tree”.

Linda went to the window and looked at the landscape for any signs of snow. The sun was low in the sky and radiated no heat, like a hug without arms. The days were so short this time of year, yet they seemed to last forever for her. The sky was blank, so no promise of snow. She turned toward the kitchen, sighing.

She glanced at the paper Missy was working on and saw the Daddy stick figure next to the tree she had drawn.

Shaking her head back and forth, Linda said, “Missy, Christmas is a wonderful time of year and we’re going to have lots of fun. But, honey, Daddy is not going to be here with us. Don’t ruin your Christmas by planning on him being here and then being so disappointed when he isn’t here.”

Missy put the crayon down and looked up at Linda. “But Mommy! Daddy told me he’d be here for Christmas—he just won’t be perfect.” She turned back to get another crayon.

Linda froze. “What do you mean, he won’t be perfect? You couldn’t have spoken to Daddy. I’ve been right here.”

“I told you, Mommy. He visited me while I was taking my nap.”

“Missy. Look, honey.” Linda held both Missy’s shoulders in her hands. “You had a nice dream about Daddy, maybe, while you slept. But that does not mean that Daddy will be here for Christmas.” She filled with dread thinking about the “just not perfect” part. “Of course, his heart will be with us, especially on Christmas. But Daddy’s way far away from us and can’t possibly get here—not for a long time yet. He’s very busy working over there.”

Missy shook her head at her mother and mimicked her father. “You just don’t get it, do you, Mommy?” Linda had to laugh.

“No, you’re the one who doesn’t get it, cutie.” She smiled as she continued into the kitchen.

Linda opened the refrigerator and pulled out the chicken breasts and broccoli. She set out the box of Rice Pilaf and the pans she would need for the meal.

A movement in their back yard caught her eye and she looked just in time to see the small white tail of a deer disappear into the pines there. Is that what it was like for Terry? she wondered. Trying to dart to safety before someone catches the movement in just the blink of an eye? She thought of the deer running for cover but ending on the highway beyond, into the jaws of danger and often sudden death.

She rinsed the chicken breasts, watching the water-blanched blood pouring into the sink and down the drain. She continued to hold the breasts under the tap, wanting the water to run clear. Wanting no more blood.

The sudden sounds of Jingle Bells—the ring tone on her phone—startled her and she dropped the chicken breasts with a thud. Water, not yet clear, she noticed, splattered her sweater. Missy looked up from her drawing. “That’s Daddy!”

“Missy! Stop that right now!” Linda pulled her phone out of her pocket, frowning at Missy. She knew Missy’s insistence was getting under her skin, but she should be stronger.

“Hello?” she said into the phone, still frowning at Missy.

“Hello, Ma’am. This is Dr. Chuck McGuire. I’m the doctor treating your husband, Staff Sergeant Terry Murphy.”

“Oh! Oh no!” Linda said, barely above a whisper. She felt the room spin around her and quickly grasped a chair to sit.

“Ma’am! Are you alright? Terry’s not wounded, Mrs. Murphy. Really. But I’d like to talk to you about him. Are you alright? Can you talk?”

Linda looked into the other room where Missy, eyes wide with questions under a wrinkled brow, watched.

Linda turned, leaning heavily into the chair, and said softly, “I’m alright, Dr. McGuire. Please. Go on. Tell me about Terry. Is he safe? Injured?”

“First of all, Mrs. Murphy, Terry is safe. Yes, he’s injured…”

“Oh my God!”

“No-no, Mrs. Murphy. I’m telling you the truth. He’s okay. But he does have a good case of PTSD—Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I’ve been treating him for several weeks now, since he was brought stateside.”

“You mean, he’s here? In the States?”.Linda felt like she was swimming in a rip tide

“Yes, Ma’am. He’s at Walter Reed right now, but this is what I’d like to talk to you about. We’re both from Rochester and I have a 3-day leave. I asked Terry if he’d like to be home for Christmas…”

“Of course, he would!” Linda interjected, a guillotine of words.

“Ma’am, listen. You’ve got to hear me out.” He sucked in his breath. “Terry is still very fragile. Any loud noises or sudden bursts of light really disturb him. And it isn’t a fright, or a minute’s scare, like the rest of us can have. These sudden changes throw him right back in the middle of deadly combat, where enemy fire is coming at him from all sides, where he can do nothing more than keep a sharp eye out for the enemy, to protect himself, and his buddies.” He inhaled and exhaled and Linda knew he was smoking.

“I’ve talked to Terry about coming home and he said you’d have to know about him and be willing to work through it with him should he have an attack.”

“Of course, I would,” Linda said, hope softening her voice.

“That means,” Dr. McGuire continued, “that you’d have to remain perfectly tranquil, level-headed, under all circumstances, just keep him calm or return him to calm, speaking softly and evenly until he relaxes. That’s especially true if he has one of his nightmares. You’re the strong one right now, Mrs. Murphy.

“I’ll drive us home. He’ll have two nights there with you, Christmas Eve and Christmas night. The day after Christmas I’ll pick him up at 0500 hours so we can beat the heavier traffic and all its noises and lights.”

There was a pendulous silence. Linda’s head was whirling with Missy’s certainty, with her statement that “he won’t be perfect” but would be home, and then her own denial of it all.

“Mrs. Murphy? Ma’am?” Dr. McGuire asked.

“We…” Linda faltered, cleared her throat, straightened. “We will treasure having Terry home with us and I will keep him safe.” Her voice held direction and strength, like a lighthouse in a storm.

“Good,” replied Dr. McGuire. “We’ll see you in two days, at about 1500 hours.” She heard another drag on his cigarette. “From what Terry has told me, I know you can do this, Mrs. Murphy. Merry Christmas.”

For the next two days, Linda searched the internet for all the information she could get on PTSD. She prepared Terry’s family, arranged a quiet small get-together with them, right here, where Terry would feel comfortable, and she and Missy talked about how they would be gentle and quiet with Daddy.

On Thursday afternoon, while Missy and she were taking cookies out of the oven, the front door opened. There, standing in the doorway, outlined against thick, falling snowflakes, stood Terry, in fatigues.

He grinned. “They told me women can’t resist a man in uniform.”

Missy charged toward the door and whispered, “Daddy!” Linda knew she was already trying to be brave and quiet for her hero-daddy. Linda rushed forward, her heart pumping in her throat, her eyes blurring. The three of them hugged each other, alternately laughing and crying. Then, Missy poked Linda and said, “See Mommy? Daddy and snow for Christmas!”



My Book’s Released!

Yes. It’s true. My latest work, a novella entitled Roar of Revenge, was released this morning by Soul Mate Publishing. It’s available only in e-book format right now, but will be in print at a future, yet unnamed date.

So what does it feel like to have a book published? Sleep-disturbing comes to mind first. Late last night, I saw that it was actually released then. Big mistake! Not that it was released, but that I saw it just before bedtime. Of course, it was impossible to come down from that Cloud to sleep. Questions ran through my mind:  Will it sell? Will people like it? Will it get good reviews?

And these intermingled with a to-do list:  Put it on facebook. Write about it on my blog. Tell people! Let’s see, emails, phone calls… the whole marketing blitz. And in today’s world, the author is as responsible for marketing as much as the editor/publisher is.

I’ve done the first two on the list. On my FB page, one of my adult sons commented, “WOW! That’s my Mommy. .. Not the elephant… the Roar.” Hmmmm. Me? Roar??roarofrevenge2_850 (2)

This isn’t the first time I’ve had something published, but it’s been a couple years or more. I’d forgotten the thrill and excitement. Actually, I didn’t think I’d be so “giddyish” about it. After all, the experience is not new to me. But here I am, overjoyed, exhilarated, and downright thrilled.

So where can you get this author’s gem? On your computer, Kindle, Nook, or whatever electronic gizmo you function on (okay, on which you function), go to one of these sites:  www.soulmatepublishing.com, www.amazon.com, www.barnesandnoble.com, or KOBO. It would be wonderful if you then wrote a review—on whichever site you purchased the book. All that takes is a few words. I know Santa will be very good to you if you do all the above.

He’s already been good to me!

‘Tis the Season 2

This morning I was baking Christmas cookies. Not as a fun, holiday activity, but as a pressured hostess gift job. I was attending a holiday luncheon later at a friend’s house and wanted to bring some homemade cookies as part of my hostess gift. So I got up early and started the “job” before I took my shower.

I’m happiest when I’m busy doing something—almost anything—so my mood, as well as my attitude, picked up as I worked. I had one batch of about three dozen cookies cooling on some waxed paper when I began my next recipe. I was even multi-tasking successfully! I spun around to get an ingredient, or put something away, when an ugly thought hit me out of the blue.

This is probably what one of the mothers in Newtown was doing when she got the phone call.

Because that’s how Life happens. You’re baking cookies, or arranging a large supply of flowers into individual bouquets for teachers and ballerinas, or (fill in the blank). A devastating phone call shatters your day and your whole life changes forever.

I went to the luncheon—with my hostess gift—and had a good time. Because I’m well into my new life now and I can do that. But the thoughts keep niggling at me:  what is that mother doing now? Did she throw out the cookie dough? Or did she preserve it as a forever reminder of when her own life stopped and she began the one where she puts one foot ahead of the other? A bucket of flowers is easier to preserve. The bucket can stay in the exact same spot in the garage where it was when the phone call came. But cookie dough?

Her days right now are filled with arrangements and calling hours and friends and relatives phoning, bringing casseroles, and memorial services. But her nights! Oh, her nights. Reliving like a repetitive ticker tape the phone call, the terrifying trip to the school, the unspeakable horror of realizing her child isn’t at the firehouse, and that awful, AWFUL moment of seeing her child in the early (hopefully) stages of rigor.

Morning will come for her and that brings tomorrow. Her other children need her and that makes her strong. This new life is not the one she planned on nor the one she wanted, but she begins the climb.

She begins the climb because that’s the only thing she can do.

‘Tis the Season

I don’t know about you, but I am just about partied out. I mean, seven parties in two weeks, one of which was right here, with me doing all the food preparations? That, I think, constitutes “partied out.”

The problem with attending so many parties is that you lose sight of what this season is all about. Yes, being with family and friends is good, is a really good example of the joy of family, of special occasions.

But Christmas, specifically, has always been and will always be the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ. Somewhere within all the folderol and commercialism and, yes, parties, should be some moments of contemplation. What are we doing here? And why?

The story of Jesus being born in a stable is particularly poignant this year, especially if you consider the many people made homeless and/or destitute by Hurricane Sandy, by the ugly hatreds in Syria and Egypt (his birthplace, for Pete’s sake!) and by the poverty in Africa. One wonders how many other babes are born in like circumstances.

I’m not going to suggest thoughts or concepts for you to ponder during this season. I’m sure you get this from all around you. (And although Christmas itself is about Christ’s birth, there are other holy days being celebrated now as well.) But I will ask you some questions.

Do you take care of your lawn and gardens with our future in mind? Do you help your friend/neighbor when he/she is ill or in need? Do you ever make a call to an aging relative? Do you think of Mother Earth in terms of you/us in it? Or it as a tiny part of a huge universe, which will surely be affected when we finally kill our planet?

Did you ever think that if each of us did all of those things on a regular basis—each of us all over the world—there would be no more war or conflict or maybe even no more poverty.

It’s really so simple. The season and the solution it offers, I mean. Do you think we’ll ever get it?