I spent the next two days wondering whether I should call Adam.
Several times, I picked up my phone.
Each time, I put it down again.
I wasn't waiting for him to apologize.
At least, that's what I told myself.
The truth was less flattering.
I wanted him to understand why his words had hurt.
And I wanted to understand how things had become so difficult for his family without my knowing.
Patricia was not a stranger to me.
She was Renee's mother.
We had spent birthdays together.
We had sat beside each other at school events.
We had watched Lily and Noah open presents.
I knew she had separated from her husband.
I knew she had lost her job.
But I didn't know she was so far behind on rent that she might lose her apartment.
That frightened me.
It also made me feel ashamed.
I had assumed that because nobody had asked me for help, nobody needed it.
I knew better now.
On Monday, I called Clare.
I asked whether the donation was already being used.
She told me much of the money had been committed to urgent housing needs.
Eighteen households had received assistance.
Eighteen.
I repeated the number to myself.
I imagined eighteen front doors.
Eighteen kitchens.
Eighteen households waking up with one less financial disaster hanging over them.
Clare sounded relieved.
She said the fund had allowed them to act much faster than usual.
I was glad.
Very glad.
But I also thought about Patricia.
I wondered whether there was something else I could do.
The center had its own process for deciding who received assistance.
I respected that.
I didn't ask Clare to favor anyone.
I didn't even mention Patricia's name.
I simply thanked her.
Then I hung up.
The house was quiet.
There were decorations in the living room, but fewer than Walter would have put up.
His Santa hat was folded on a shelf.
I had been looking at it all week.
I wasn't sure whether to take it out.
Walter had always worn it.
Without him, it looked like a piece of red fabric that had lost its purpose.
I left it where it was.
On Christmas Eve, my phone made a small sound while I was clearing the kitchen counter.
It was a message from Lily.
She wanted to know why I wasn't coming to Christmas dinner.
Her father had told her I was busy.
I stood reading the message.
Busy.
That was easier to explain to a ten-year-old than being excluded.
I understood why Adam might have said it.
But it still hurt.
I sat down and wrote back.
I told Lily that I would be serving food at the place where Grandpa Walter used to volunteer.
I said I hoped she would have a lovely Christmas.
A little later, another message arrived.
She wanted to know who would give out the presents.
I read that question several times.
Walter had been gone two years.
Yet Lily still expected someone to continue his tradition.
I looked toward the living room shelf.
The Santa hat was still there.
I remembered how Walter would adjust it before choosing the first present.
He took his job seriously.
Or pretended to.
He would clear his throat.
He would announce a name.
And the children would laugh before he even finished.
I wished he could have seen Lily asking about it.
That evening, I baked my pecan pie.
I hadn't planned on making it after Renee canceled Christmas.
But I had already bought the ingredients.
And something about spending Christmas without it felt wrong.
I took my mother's old glass baking dish from the cupboard.
Walter used to joke that the dish had probably been around since before he was born.
I used it every year.
I measured the ingredients.
I mixed the filling.
I rolled out the pastry.
The familiar work helped.
When the pie came out of the oven, the kitchen smelled like Christmas used to smell.
For a moment, I expected Walter to wander in and ask whether he could have a piece.
He always asked too early.
I always told him to wait.
I placed the pie on the counter to cool.
Then I stood there looking at it.
There was nobody to steal the first slice.
I covered it and put it in the refrigerator.
Christmas morning arrived quietly.
I woke before my alarm.
There was no sound of children.
No wrapping paper being torn.
No Walter calling from the kitchen.
I made coffee and sat at the table for a while.
Then I went upstairs to get dressed.
I chose jeans and one of Walter's old red flannel shirts.
It was soft from years of washing.
The cuffs were a little worn.
I had kept it because it still reminded me of him.
I buttoned it carefully.
Then I put on my coat.
At ten o'clock, I arrived at Westdale.
Cars filled the parking lot.
People were carrying food through the entrance.
Inside, the building was full of activity.
The dining room had been decorated for Christmas.
Paper snowflakes hung near the windows.
Small trees stood along the walls.
Bright tablecloths covered the tables.
The decorations were simple.
Nothing expensive.
But the room looked welcoming.
I recognized Clare near the kitchen.
She greeted me warmly.
Then she handed me a red apron.
She said they needed someone to take care of the mashed potatoes.
I laughed.
I had made enough mashed potatoes in my lifetime to serve a small town.
I told her I could manage.
She showed me where to work.
The kitchen was crowded.
There were turkeys.
Large trays of stuffing.
Pots of gravy.
And more potatoes than I had ever seen in one place.
Volunteers moved around one another carrying dishes and asking questions.
Nobody had time to be self-conscious.
I liked that.
I tied the apron over Walter's flannel shirt.
Then I began working.
We prepared food throughout the morning.
I peeled.
I stirred.
I checked trays.
When something needed carrying, I carried it.
My back started aching a little.
I didn't mind.
It felt good to be useful.
By late morning, people began entering the dining hall.
Some came alone.
Others arrived with children.
There were elderly people who walked slowly and young parents balancing toddlers on their hips.
A few looked nervous.
Others greeted the volunteers as though they had been coming for years.
I was serving potatoes when the first trays came through.
I smiled at each person.
I wished them a pleasant Christmas.
Some smiled back immediately.
Others seemed too tired to manage more than a quiet thank-you.
I understood.
Not every Christmas is happy.
Sometimes the most important thing is simply having somewhere to go.
The serving line stayed busy.
I lost track of time.
Someone brought me water.
Another volunteer took over for a few minutes so I could rest my hands.
Then I returned to the potatoes.
Around half past twelve, I looked up.
A woman stood on the other side of the counter holding a tray.
She wore a navy winter coat.
Her head was lowered.
At first, I saw only her hair.
Then she raised her face slightly.
I knew her immediately.
Patricia Gorski.
Renee's mother.
For a moment, I wondered whether I had mistaken her for someone else.
But I hadn't.
"Pat?"
She looked up.
Her expression changed so quickly that I almost wished I hadn't spoken.
"Joanne?"
We stood facing each other.
Neither of us knew what to say.
Then she glanced toward the other people waiting for food.
I understood that she didn't want an audience.
I put a serving of potatoes onto her plate.
I told her Walter had once volunteered there.
Then I asked whether we could speak after she'd eaten.
She hesitated.
Finally, she nodded.
I watched her carry her tray away.
She sat at a table in the corner.
Alone.
That was the detail I couldn't stop thinking about.
Renee had told me Christmas was supposed to be focused on her mother.
Adam had explained that Patricia was going through a terrible time.
Yet here she was.
Sitting alone at a community dinner.
I kept serving food.
But my mind wasn't on the potatoes anymore.
At one o'clock, I asked another volunteer to take over.
I poured two cups of coffee.
Then I carried them to Patricia's table.
She looked up when I approached.
I placed a cup in front of her.
"Mind if I sit?"
She shook her head.
I sat down.
For a little while, we drank our coffee without speaking.
Patricia looked thinner than I remembered.
Her hands were wrapped around the cup.
She kept her eyes on the table.
Finally, she spoke.
She said Renee didn't know she was at Westdale.
I waited.
Then she explained that her daughter believed she was preparing Christmas dinner at her apartment.
But she hadn't been able to afford the groceries.
She had come to the center hoping to collect a holiday food box.
I looked at her.
I didn't know what to say.
Patricia had always been a proud woman.
She wasn't unfriendly.
But she rarely talked about her problems.
She preferred asking how everyone else was doing.
I realized how little I really knew about what had happened to her.
She told me the past few months had been difficult.
After losing her factory job and separating from her husband, she had struggled to keep up with expenses.
She had fallen behind on rent.
But she'd told Renee she still had savings.
She had also told her daughter the landlord was willing to give her more time.
Neither was true.
Patricia looked ashamed as she said it.
"I didn't want her carrying all my worries."
I reached across the table.
I put my hand over hers.
She tried to smile.
Then she admitted that things had become worse than she could handle.
I listened.
I didn't tell her she should have said something sooner.
I didn't tell her she had been foolish.
Those things would not have helped.
And after what had happened with Adam, I understood something about pride.
It can keep a person silent long after silence becomes dangerous.
Patricia took a tissue from her pocket.
She dabbed at her eyes.
Then she told me about the eviction notice.
She had been terrified.
She had filled out an application for emergency housing assistance through Westdale.
Her name went onto the waiting list.
She wasn't sure whether help would arrive in time.
Then, on Monday morning, Clare called.
Her application had been approved.
The program would cover her overdue rent and her January payment.
Four thousand two hundred dollars in all.
I stared at her.
I knew Westdale had started using the donation.
I knew eighteen households had received help.
But until that moment, those households had been people I couldn't picture.
Now one of them was sitting across from me.
Patricia continued speaking.
She said Clare had explained that a generous contribution made the assistance possible.
The donation had been given in memory of a man who used to volunteer there.
I felt my eyes fill.
Patricia looked directly at me.
She had already connected the story to Walter.
And to me.
She said the money from his collection had kept her from losing her home.
For several seconds, I couldn't answer.
I had given thirty-one thousand dollars to help strangers.
And one of those strangers turned out to be the very woman my son and daughter-in-law had been trying to protect.
Patricia began crying.
I moved my chair beside hers.
Then I put my arms around her.
She held on tightly.
Neither of us said anything for a while.
I thought about Adam standing on my porch with his phone.
He had believed the donation destroyed their chance to help Patricia.
But some of that money had already reached her.
Not through a house they hoped to buy someday.
Not through a conversation they had been afraid to have.
Through an application she had submitted because she was desperate.
The help had arrived before Christmas.
Patricia wiped her face.
Then she told me Renee believed I'd made the donation out of spite.
I nodded.
"I know."
She shook her head.
"She doesn't know the whole story."
"Neither did I."
We sat there for another minute.
Then Patricia took my hand.
She asked me to come to Christmas dinner with her.
I looked at her.
I reminded her that Renee had explicitly told me not to attend.
Patricia straightened in her chair.
She said Renee had been wrong.
Then she admitted that she herself had made mistakes by hiding how bad things had become.
"We've all kept too much from one another," she said.
I couldn't disagree.
I thought about Lily.
I thought about Noah.
I thought about Walter's old Santa hat.
And I thought about the pecan pie waiting in my refrigerator.
Finally, I nodded.
I told Patricia I'd go with her.
But first, I needed to stop at home.
She asked why.
I told her about the pie.
For the first time since I'd sat down, she laughed.
Then she told me something I hadn't known.
Pecan pie was Renee's favorite.
I smiled.
Perhaps Christmas wasn't finished with us yet.
Source: kaylestore.net
