Engaging Father Christmas: A Novella Page 7

  From behind a stately rise of the unaltered medieval forest, we saw it, all at the same moment. The golden moon. That eternal orb, broken in half, teetering in the velvet night like a crown cast at the foot of a throne.

  Ian stopped the car. The engine purred. The three of us stared without speaking.

  Mark sat up straight in his seat of honor and quietly sang in Latin. I have never heard anything so piercingly beautiful.

  His boys’ choir voice wasn’t cooperative on the high notes, but it didn’t matter. Mark wasn’t performing now. It was just us — Ian, me, Father God, and all the hosts of heaven bending down to listen to a song that rose from a true heart.

  Ian took my hand, and a line from a Christmas carol rode over the top of Mark’s canticle, blending perfectly. Let heaven and nature sing. . . .

  At that moment, I felt as if I were experiencing a snapshot of heaven. The glorious beauty and sense of perfection and wonder felt like a glimpse of that which is true and lasting. It was as if I were viewing a wallet-sized photo of eternity.

  For so many years I had gazed at the snapshot of my father. The photo, in all its curious wonder, was still only a flat, frozen image of a real person I had never met. The photo carried with it a clue about a place called “Carlton Heath.”

  Now here I was, experiencing the immenseness of Carlton Heath in all of its beauty. It was far beyond the sketchy speculations that had risen in my imagination from the one simple photo.

  As Mark’s voice rose into the night air, I wondered, was everything around us more or less a fixed snapshot that alluded to a greater beauty? A deeper mystery? A hint of what was to come? How many unknown layers were there to life — to the eternal life that was hidden in Christ? What glorious surprises awaited us in the real land of which this earth was only a snapshot?

  Let heaven and nature sing. . . .

  Mark’s song ended on a note that he sustained much longer than I would have thought possible. Then all was silent except for the low rumble of the car’s engine.

  Without any of us trying to define what had just taken place, Ian edged the car back on the road and continued our short journey to the hospital.

  I watched the moon as we drove down the lane and thought of how the upturned golden curve of light resembled a smile. I liked the imagery that Father God was pleased with our spontaneous worship and was smiling down on us.

  Keep smiling, Father God. Keep smiling on us, I pray.

  Mark scooted down into the narrow space behind the bucket seats and bundled up in a plaid wool blanket Ian earlier had pulled from the trunk. My guess was that Ian made the blanket available just in case Mark came down from his high and needed more than his fame to warm him.

  The blanket was the MacGregor tartan, of course. I remembered the blanket fondly from a picnic Ian and I had last summer. We took off with plans to spend the day on the coast of southern England. I wanted to picnic beneath the fabulous White Cliffs of Dover. However, we only made it as far as Windsor before the car began to sputter. Ian found a repair service, and we spent the day strolling around the castle grounds, waiting for the fuel line to be replaced.

  Ellie had packed us a picnic lunch, which we carried along with the MacGregor plaid blanket to a grassy knoll on the public grounds of Windsor Castle. There, within view of the British guards with their tall fur hats strapped under their chins, I learned about the MacGregor crest and the clan motto, “Royal is my race.”

  As Ian turned the steering wheel and headed for the hospital on this cold winter night, it did indeed seem as if he was part of a “royal race.” His white hair and beard shone in the moonlight. All the gold and silver trimming on his robe stood out with regal shimmers. His jaw was set. His face directed straight ahead. The Scottish warrior was on his way to see his father.

  All was calm. All was bright.

  Oh, how I wanted to believe this was how life was going to be. Once I had a few significant pieces of the plans for my future lined up, I could nestle into this place of beauty and hope. Carlton Heath was not yet fully my home, but I wanted it to be — soon.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The hospital staff at the front desk had big smiles and hellos for us when we entered and they saw Ian in full costume.

  “What did you bring us, Father Christmas?” the admitting nurse asked.

  “Good cheer and merry greetings,” he said in a robust voice. Some of the faithful employees seemed to be looking behind Ian for his sack of gifts. A childlike shadow of disappointment crossed their faces when they didn’t see a bag slung over his shoulder filled with goodies.

  “We do have biscuits left over from the play tonight,” Mark said. “My mum is bringing them.”

  A few minutes after Mark announced the biscuits, Ellie, Edward, and Julia entered the hospital carrying the promised goodies.

  The lobby suddenly became cheerier. Night staff appeared from behind swinging doors and file cabinets.

  “We’re going to visit my father,” Ian said to the head nurse. “You won’t mind if we’re above the limit for visitors, will you?”

  Ellie held out the bag of cookies as potential bribe material.

  “We’ll look the other way this time.” She reached for one of the shortbread stars. “Katharine is already in there.”

  Ian led the way down the hall of the quiet hospital. Mark looked up at the sign that read Children’s Ward over the doorway of the first wing we passed. As we kept walking, Mark asked Ian, “Are children staying in there, in the children’s ward, tonight?”

  “I would imagine so.”

  “Will they be going home for Christmas?”

  “Perhaps. If they’re too ill, though, they will be staying here.”

  Julia, who had been holding my hand as we made our way down the hall, asked, “If the children don’t go home for Christmas, how will they get any presents?”

  “I’m sure they receive their presents here,” Ellie said in her optimistic voice.

  Mark stopped walking. “How many children are in the children’s ward?”

  “Hard to say,” Ian said.

  “We need to find out how many children there are, and we need to bring them some presents,” Mark said decisively.

  “That’s very considerate of you, Mark,” Ellie said. “It’s a lovely idea. First, we must pay a visit to Uncle Andrew, though. Shall we do that? We can check on the children’s ward on our way out.”

  Mark picked up his feet, still deep in thought. All six of us entered Andrew’s room quietly. As soon as weary Katharine saw us, she motioned for us to enter and come closer.

  “How’s the patient?” Ian asked.

  Andrew’s distinct voice rose from the bed. “The patient is growing impatient. That’s how the patient is.”

  We gathered around, all saying our hellos at once. The rhythmic drips and beeps of the machines seemed as hypnotizing as a swinging pocket watch. Andrew’s deep-chested breathing carried the steady ruffles of air flowing in and out at a comforting pace.

  “You’re looking more yourself than you did earlier,” Ellie said.

  “Am I, now?” Andrew smiled weakly.

  He looked up at Ian in the convincing costume and added, “What’s this? A visit from the man himself?”

  “It’s really Uncle Ian,” Julia said with a twinkling grin.

  “Is that so? Well, I was convinced he was Father Christmas himself.”

  Julia giggled.

  “The role is only temporary,” Ian said. “You do know that you’re expected to pick up where you left off next Christmas, don’t you? I was only a fill-in.”

  “Aye, you’ve been talking to Katharine, haven’t you? She refuses to accept my resignation.”

  “Good for her,” I said.

  “The play went off wonderfully well,” Ellie said. “But you were missed.”

  “Mark was the star of the show,” I said. “And Julia was superb.”

  Both children beamed in the light of the praise as Andrew added, “Go
od job, you two.”

  His eyelids drooped. Apparently he had used up all his personal visiting hours and was ready to sleep some more and heal.

  “You are getting better, aren’t you?” Julia patted Andrew’s shoulder.

  “Yes, Uncle Andrew is getting better,” Ellie answered. “We should let him rest. He’s had a very long day.”

  We said our good-byes to a sleepy-eyed Andrew and made our way out of the room.

  “Father,” Mark reached for Edward’s arm as soon as we were out the door. “May we go for a visit in the children’s ward now?”

  Edward and Ellie looked surprised that Mark hadn’t forgotten his request on the way in and dropped the subject.

  “We really should be on our way home,” Ellie said. “It’s been a long day. And tomorrow is Christmas Eve, after all.”

  “Yes, but, Mummy, what about the children here at hospital? Tomorrow is Christmas Eve for them as well. Not all of them will be going home for Christmas, though, will they?”

  “Possibly they will,” Ellie said hopefully.

  “I think we should visit them the way we visited Uncle Andrew. It won’t take long.”

  The rest of us looked at each other, trying to gauge our collective thoughts on the possibility. I hadn’t realized Mark was a young man of such compassion.

  “Look,” Mark continued as firmly as a diplomat, “Uncle Ian is already dressed like Father Christmas. Why could he not take some gifts to the children tonight?”

  “Yes, Mummy!” Julia tugged on Ellie’s hand. “Can we do it, please?”

  Edward was facing Katharine. “I would imagine Father Christmas already has made his rounds for this year in the children’s ward.”

  Katharine shook her head. No alternate Father Christmas had come. Since my father had played that role in years past, it seemed no replacement had picked up the part.

  “Well,” Ellie said brightly, “how about if next Christmas we make a visit to the children’s ward as a family project? We’ll have time to pick lots of presents. And we’ll bake lots and lots of biscuits. Won’t that be lovely?”

  “We can’t wait for next Christmas,” Mark said firmly. “Not all the children in there will get better, will they? This might be their last Christmas.”

  Mark’s evaluation seemed to hit all of us in the same soft spot in our hearts.

  Edward remained the voice of reason. “We aren’t prepared this year, though, Mark. We don’t have gifts for the children. If we plan for next year, we can arrange to have lots of gifts. That would be better, wouldn’t it?”

  Julia gave a little wiggle-hop. “Mummy, you can give the children my presents. I don’t need any new toys.” Her sincere expression was enough to melt any heart.

  The first heart it apparently melted was her daddy’s. “I suppose . . .”

  “The children can have all of my gifts as well,” Mark added.

  Edward appeared too choked up at the moment to respond. Clearing his throat, he said, “Ian, would you mind keeping the costume on a bit longer?”

  “Not at all,” Ian said robustly.

  “Right, then. It looks as if we’ll be back shortly with some gifts to distribute.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  By the time the Whitcombe clan returned to the hospital with all the gifts and a round of rosy cheeks, it was after ten. The excitement had kept the children going. Ellie had managed to tuck two dozen gifts into a large laundry sack. Edward looked more invigorated than I had ever seen him. I was seeing an entirely new view of my half brother and finding he wasn’t as stodgy as I had thought.

  I knew his father — our father — convincingly carried out the role of Father Christmas right up until he passed away. Locals told tender stories of how they had whispered their Christmas wish into Father Christmas’s ear when they were tiny and how, magically, their wishes always came true.

  Now it was Ian’s turn. He adjusted his beard and the holly wreath on his head. Ellie brushed off the lint from his brocaded velvet robe, and Ian slung the laundry sack over his broad shoulders. Mark and Julia flanked his sides, and the rest of us trailed him as an unconventional group of elves.

  “I’ve brought my camera,” Ellie said with a sugarplum twinkle in her eye. “Might be a lovely gift for the parents, don’t you think? Snapshots of the look on their children’s faces when they see Father Christmas.”

  “What a great idea, Ellie.”

  A gathering of night nurses and a doctor stood waiting for us at the door that opened to the children’s ward. They ushered us in, and Ian’s deep, golden voice called out into the dimly lit hallway, “Happy Christmas, one and all!”

  A nurse adjusted the light switch so that the ward glowed with a Christmas morning sort of brightness. Through the doors we could see the children rubbing their eyes and trying to see what was going on. One of them, a little girl in a neck brace, was the first to get a full view of Ian. Her squeal alerted the entire ward as she called out, “It’s Father Christmas!”

  Ellie snapped pictures. Edward hung back, his eyes looking tenderer than I had ever seen. I wondered if in his childhood he had been like Mark, accompanying Sir James in his Father Christmas robe. Was Christmas a time of tender memories for my half brother?

  Ian and Julia strode over to the bedside of the delighted little girl in the neck brace. Ellie kept snapping pictures. Mark assisted Father Christmas by looking for a gift inside the sack.

  “That one.” Julia pointed to a present wrapped in paper that was dotted with silver stars and tied with a pink ribbon.

  The little girl’s eyes were wide as she stared at Father Christmas. “I hoped you would come. I was afraid you wouldn’t know where I was.”

  “I’ve come indeed. And I have a gift for you,” he said.

  “Open it!” excited Julia said.

  The dazzled little sweetheart didn’t seem to be able to overcome her amazement enough to tear the wrapping paper from the box. “May I hold it for a while?”

  “You may hold it as long as you like.” Ian placed his hand on the girl’s forehead and said, “God bless you this day, dear child. You are His special gift. May He hold you ever close to His heart.”

  She closed her eyes and eagerly received the blessing. As we left her room, the darling was still hugging the silvery box with her eyes closed and her lips pressed into an endearing smile.

  We went from room to room down the hall and watched Julia and Mark as they assisted Ian in distributing gifts. Ellie snapped dozens of photos. Ian placed his hand on each child and blessed each one. Every child responded differently, but all of them seemed mesmerized and delighted. Even the older children.

  In one of the last rooms we entered, a boy who looked to be about ten years old stared at the doorway. The pillow behind him seemed to be swallowing his bald head. His mother sat beside him, holding his hand and telling him what was happening. “He’s come into your room now, Bobby. It’s Father Christmas! Do you see him? He’s come to see you! It’s Father Christmas!”

  The young boy was too weak to respond with more than a slight rising of his upper lip. Ian went to his side.

  “Happy Christmas, young Bobby. My helpers and I have brought you a gift.”

  “Can you see his white beard, Bobby?” the mother said. “And the wreath of holly on his head. Do you want to feel his robe? Here. Look at the velvet trim stitched in gold. Very regal, isn’t it?”

  The little boy’s hand lifted and rested on Ian’s arm. A brightness appeared in his eyes. I wondered if the weakened state of this poor child would be too much for Mark and Julia to handle, but both of them moved closer instead of shrinking back.

  Ellie continued snapping pictures. The tenderhearted mother, with her face glowing in the diffused light, leaned over her son and helped him engage with Father Christmas.

  “Father Christmas has brought you a gift,” Mark said. “Shall I help you open it?”

  The boy nodded weakly. His delighted expression was fixed. Mark opened the gift
, and I saw him hesitate as if this was the one item he had wished for and now it was going to this frail child.

  “It’s a junior microscope.” Mark held up the box.

  The boy’s chest quavered, and he released breathy, happy sounds and reached for the box.

  His mother looked up at Ian and the rest of us. With a stunned expression she said, “How did you know? You couldn’t possibly have known. That’s all he’s wanted for months. How did you know?”

  “We didn’t know,” Julia said plainly.

  All of us tried very hard to keep our wobbling lips from giving away how surprised and touched we were.

  I felt as I had when we watched the moon in Ian’s car. Leaning closer to the mother, I said, “This is the part of Christmas when we can hear heaven and nature sing.”

  She nodded. “Bobby, tell Father Christmas what you want to be when you grow up.”

  With an expansive exhale, Bobby wheezed, “A doctor.”

  I looked at Ian and saw two glistening tears race down his ruddy cheeks, dampening his beard. All of us, except perhaps Julia, realized it would take a miracle for Bobby to win the battle against whatever it was that had invaded his young body. The chances were slim that he would live long enough to become a doctor.

  Katharine drew close to Bobby’s mother and placed her calm hand on the woman’s shoulders. This was what Katharine did best. She was a comforter. This mother’s Christmas gift was having Katharine there with her at this moment to support her.

  Ian reached out his hand and placed it on Bobby’s forehead. He blessed the young boy and continued with a prayer, asking the Lord to heal his body and to fulfill all His purposes for Bobby’s life.

  Edward stepped out of the room, and I wasn’t far behind him. I felt a reservoir of tears building up, and I wasn’t sure I could contain them. Sniffing and swallowing in the corner, I saw Edward speaking with one of the doctors. He was handing over his business card. I heard him say, “Whatever expenses this family doesn’t have taken care of, I would like to cover. Anonymously.”

  “Yes, of course,” the doctor said. “I did this often for your father. I know how to proceed.”