Finding Noel (28 page)

CHRISTMAS EVE

I woke early the next morning with Macy still asleep in my arms. Joette was awake and looking at us. In the predawn morning light I could see the jaundiced tint of her skin and eyes. Still, she looked peaceful.

“Hi, Joette,” I said softly.

“Hi, Mark.”

I reached for her hand. It felt small and fragile in mine. “How are you?” I asked. In the history of stupid questions this had to be the atom bomb of them all.

She forced a smile. I gently rubbed my thumb across her hand. “I'm sorry.”

“Me too,” she whispered.

She closed her eyes and appeared to fall back asleep. Twenty minutes later she opened her eyes again. Her speech was slurred but coherent. “Did you see your father?”

I nodded. “Yes. All is well in Oz.”

She smiled.

“Thank you, Joette. You've done so much for Macy. And for me.”

She ran her tongue over her teeth. “Take care of my girl.”

“I will.”

She closed her eyes again and fell back to sleep. Macy also continued to sleep. Around eight a nurse came in and checked Joette's vitals. She didn't say anything to me but didn't need to. Joette's final journey had begun.

Macy woke shortly after nine. She jerked upright, afraid that Joette might have slipped away while she slept. I guessed her thoughts and squeezed her hand. “She's still here,” I said.

Again, Macy seemed surprised to see me, and I suspect that earlier she may have thought my return a dream. Macy got up and used the restroom, then returned to her vigil in the plastic chair next to Joette's bed. I went down to the cafeteria and got Macy an orange juice and a bagel with cream cheese, neither of which she ever touched.

The next eighteen hours crawled by. Joette slept, waking a few times to look for Macy. Macy periodically rubbed Vaseline on Joette's parched lips and moistened her mouth with oral swabs. Through it all Macy never left her side.

After midnight the nurse on call began upping Joette's dose of morphine, and she became less coherent and less aware of her surroundings. At one point Joette looked up to a corner of the room and just stared. Then a tear fell down her cheek and she spoke in a clear voice: “Not yet.”

“Do you see someone?” Macy asked.

Her voice was a whisper. “Angel.”

“You see an angel?” I asked.

“No,” Macy said. She leaned close to Joette's cheek. “Is Angela here?”

Joette silently mouthed a yes.

Macy's eyes filled with tears. “Go with her, Mom. You can leave. I'll be okay.”

Joette turned and looked into Macy's eyes.

Macy began sobbing softly. “I love you.”

After a few minutes I came over and put my hand on Macy's back. Then I leaned over and kissed Joette on the forehead. “Merry Christmas, Jo,” I said softly. “To you and Angela.”

I don't know exactly how long we sat there that Christmas Eve, in the dim little room on the sixth floor of Holy Cross Hospital, but somewhere in the night, for the second time in her life, Macy lost her mother.

The world is a little darker today.

MARK SMART'S DIARY

JOETTE'S FUNERAL

Joette was buried two days after Christmas. I offered Macy some of the money my father had given me to pay for her service, but she didn't need it. Joette had already made all the arrangements and paid the funeral home in advance. Even in death she was looking after Macy.

The service was beautiful. It was held at a nearby Mormon church, and the burial was at a small suburban cemetery called Elysian Fields.

There were more than a hundred people at Joette's service, most of them former Denny's employees and her customers. It was an eclectic bunch. Some wore traditional suits or dresses, but there were also those in Harley-Davidson leathers, old men with tweed slacks and cardigan sweaters and truck drivers in denim and flannel. Joette belonged to all of them. She was waitress, marriage counselor, therapist and for a few of them, dream girl. One gruff-looking truck driver who wore broad-lens aviator glasses to hide his grief left a ten-dollar bill on her casket. I guess he wanted to leave her one last tip.

After the funeral we were stopped on the way to our car by a man who introduced himself as Joette's ex–brother-in-law. Without an explanation, he handed Macy a manila envelope, expressed his condolences, then walked away.

I drove Macy back to her house. I knew that going home without Joette would be especially difficult, and I was right: Macy nearly collapsed as we walked inside. I carried her to the couch and I held her as she wept. Her grief was inconsolable.

We sat there in the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights, grieving the loss of a friend. The only thing Macy said was, “This was meant to happen at Christmas. That's the way Jo would have wanted it.”

It was several hours later before Macy opened the envelope. Inside was a copy of Joette's will. Not surprisingly, Joette had been planning her departure for some time. She had saved a decent nest egg and purchased a small insurance policy that paid off the mortgage on the duplex. Not surprisingly, she had left everything to Macy.

There was also another envelope containing a letter that had been written during Joette's final weeks. Macy opened the envelope and unfolded the linen stationery. The paper was embossed with two ruby slippers set above the words
There's no place like home.
Just seeing Joette's handwriting caused Macy to cry. In between her tears she slowly read the letter.

To my Sweet Macy
,

When you receive this letter, I will be gone. But not forever. One night, as I struggled in the midnight hours with my
pain and fear, I prayed with all the energy of my heart to know what awaited me on the other side. God spoke to my soul, and I knew for a certainty that all would be well—that I would not only be reunited with my Angela but, someday, with you as well. From that moment on I've felt at peace. I know your heart is breaking right now, but fear not. God has conquered death. And one day we will all be home again. Together. I'll be waiting for you, my darling. But in the meantime make the most of every moment you are blessed to have. Love. Hurt. Laugh. Cry. Dance. Stumble. And drink lots of chocolate!!!

There's one more thing I wanted you to know. I have always looked forward to the day when you had a child of your own. It is one of the greatest disappointments of my life that I won't get to share that with you. Let me tell you now—you WILL feel inadequate. You will wonder how you can do it right, especially since you never really had a good role model of your own. But don't worry, you'll do fine. Any child would be lucky to have you as a mother. Remember, in the end what really matters is that you love. You'll make mistakes every day, but somehow love just washes them away like a wave cleansing the beach, and each day you start anew.

My sweet Macy, your heart abounds in love! I know, because I've been the lucky recipient of it for these wonderful years we've shared. I have been the luckiest of women. You were God's gift to me. I have grown to respect and revere you in so many ways. I once told a customer that I wanted to grow up and be like you. Thank you for teaching me what
it means to be a friend. All I've ever given you was a small portion back of what you've given me. I'll be waiting. But don't come too soon. You still have a lot of life to live! Eternally yours
,

Your mother
,

Jo

I am grateful for new years and new beginnings. It is a great human need to be periodically reborn.

MARK SMART'S DIARY

NEW YEAR'S EVE

The living room fireplace crackled and hissed as Macy and I sat together on the couch watching Dick Clark and the crowds in Times Square. It was not even ten o'clock when Macy asked to turn off the television. She wasn't in the mood for festivities, televised or otherwise. I had made us dinner—barbequed ribs, my mother's recipe—and we had eaten in the living room. Macy took our plates back into the kitchen and began filling the sink with water, when the doorbell rang.

“Are you expecting someone?” I asked.