Unwrapping Christmas (3 page)

This morning the sun had all the warmth of a candle flame, but it was sunshine, and she appreciated it. Slipping the key into the lock, she opened the shop and stepped inside, pausing to glance with silent pride at the racks of clothing with sizes and prices precisely marked. Someone had left a couple of black trash bags sitting by the front door. People weren’t supposed to leave donations when the store was unattended, but she had a feeling the person who left the sacks didn’t want to be noticed. Most folks made nice contributions, knowing they would be resold to county residents who couldn’t afford to buy new, while others found the shop a convenient disposal for annual closet cleaning. The winter season brought an influx of new business.

Rose dragged the overstuffed bags inside and went to hang up her coat in the volunteer break room. She put a fresh pot of coffee on and went back to open the trash bags. A light pink polyester blouse looked fairly nice. She held it up in front of her, inspecting for flaws. No spots, no visible tears — and then her jaw dropped so low she could have stepped on it.

No buttons. Every button had been neatly cut off, leaving short stubby threads that stuck up like orphaned tufts.

She dropped the blouse, reached in the sack, and pulled out a blue jacket. Again she held a garment in good condition. Size ten. They had a lot of requests for jackets like this one.

But no buttons.

She could not believe this. Surely it was a fluke. She upended the bag, dumped the contents out on the counter, and pawed through the items. A flowered skirt that looked vaguely familiar. No buttons. A white blouse with a touch of embroidery on the collar. No buttons. Did Nokomis have a button thief in town? What kind of Scrooge donated clothing to a thrift shop and cut off the buttons? Did they think the customers were flashers? Someone should put up a sign stating the thrift store was not the town dump.

A dark green suede jacket caught her eye, and in an instant she knew the identity of the button clipper. There were only two jackets like this in town — one of them hung in her closet at home. The other belonged to Jade Patterson.

Blonde, blue-eyed, tall, thin. Attorney’s wife, Jade. A social trendsetter who’d rather be caught without makeup than be seen out in public wearing a garment identical to someone else.

Rose sighed. She loved Jade, but she could be a bit dramatic at times. Both had worn their jackets to ser vices one Sunday, and they sat on the same side of the auditorium. At first, Rose had tried to pretend that she hadn’t noticed she was infringing on Jade’s fashion, but with practically every woman in the congregation switching their eyes back and forth between the two, that strategy went down the drain in a hurry. The coincidence was a minor thing, not exactly a world-shaking event when you considered the daily news. She’d smiled when someone pointed out the fashion faux pas, but evidently Jade had been compelled strongly enough to donate a perfectly adorable jacket to the thrift store and cut off all the buttons.
Why?

Rose folded the clothing, putting the items aside for the time being. Maybe someone would donate buttons. She tossed the blouse onto the counter, glancing up when the door opened and her coworker, Blyth Samuels, entered. Blyth was always well groomed and tastefully dressed. But today she looked like a fire sale. Her orange and blue flowered blouse clashed with a fuchsia skirt. Rose’s gaze traveled to the woman’s feet. Flip-flops. In Minnesota in early December? This wasn’t like Blyth. Her expression was blank, as if she wasn’t aware of her surroundings.

“Hi!” Rose said.

“Yes, hello.” Blyth wandered past, heading toward the back room. She looked neither to the left nor right. Her rubber soles flapped against the concrete floor.

Rose stared after her, curious. Blyth had never been particularly chatty, never inclined to gossip or comment on items brought in, but she usually paused to pass the time of day. Was she ill?

Her coworker disposed of her coat and wandered past again, hollow-eyed and passive. Rose shoved a box aside and decided to investigate, but Blyth was so distant, it took a moment to find an opening to broach her bizarre behavior.

“Can you believe this?” Rose showed her the blouse. “Why would Jade strip buttons off her donations?”

Blyth shrugged. “People are odd.”

Yes, they were, and Blyth was certainly doing her share to perpetuate the behavior. Rose kept a close eye on her and noticed she was going through her usual routine with careless mistakes. Judging by the vacant look she occasionally cast around the room, it was easy to see she had something on her mind.

Rose priced and hung new contributions while keeping her worried eye on the other woman. Her behavior was almost frightening, but obviously she didn’t want to talk about whatever was disturbing her.

Finally she’d had enough. Around noon Blyth spread her brown bag fare on the red Formica-topped table in the break room. Rose decided she should stay longer today. Obviously Blyth wasn’t herself. “Are you okay?” she asked the other woman.

Blyth looked up. “I guess so, why?”

“You seem distracted.”

“Distracted?” Her smile didn’t quite surface. “No, I’m not distracted.” She picked up her fork and mechanically started eating.

Rose eyed Blyth’s green salad and wished she’d brought something. Though she barely would have had time to whip up more tuna salad before she’d run out the door that morning. What happened to the days when the kids were smaller and she’d plan and prepare balanced meals?

Blyth mechanically chewed, but Rose realized the woman could be eating cardboard for all she knew. She took a bite, stared into space, and took another bite. Stared. After minutes of robotic movements, Rose sighed and reached over to take the fork from Blyth’s right hand. “I have a soft shoulder, and you’re more than welcome to lean on it.”

Sudden tears formed and rolled
down her coworker’s cheeks. She didn’t look like she was crying. Her face didn’t get all red and crumply the way most people’s faces did. She just sat there with rivers of tears streaming from her eyes.

Concerned, Rose bent forward. “I won’t bite. I promise.”

Blyth shook her head no and Rose swallowed her relief, hoping Blyth hadn’t noticed. Whatever it was, she wanted to help, but she just wasn’t sure she could. Her shift was over, and she really needed to leave. So much to do . . . Yet Blyth looked so tortured.

Her heart skipped a beat when Blyth’s mouth opened and the dam broke. “It’s my son, Frank. He’s using drugs.”

Drugs
. Every parent’s nightmare. Her Eric was a good kid. He’d never given them a moment’s trouble, so she didn’t know what to say. First Jean, now Blyth. Was God testing her compassion this holiday season? She had compassion, but she had never found adequate ways to express it. Yesterday, Rose thought if she took a cake to an ailing friend, she was ministering. Today, two women needed more than flour and sugar; they needed the oil of understanding, and she was completely out of her comfort zone as she sat there feeling helpless.

She cared, of course she cared. But what more could she do?

Platitudes raced through her mind as she searched for the most comforting responses.
God is always near. Everything
will be fine. Just pray about it
. None of them held water. Blyth’s son was a druggie. Words couldn’t erase the horror.

“Frank doesn’t come home until the wee hours of the morning. I pace the floor, waiting for him to come in, praying. I’m so afraid he won’t come, terrified the police will arrive and tell me he’s been in a terrible accident, or worse, that he’s overdosed.” Blyth fished in her pocket for a clean tissue.

“I’m so sorry,” Rose whispered. This woman’s son’s life hung in the balance, and all she could think to say was “I’m sorry”?

Only God could change the situation. Rose wasn’t God. Blyth was a member of her church, but in a different Sunday school class, and the church was large. They only knew each other through volunteer work. Blyth needed someone she knew and trusted to console her, to help her through this tragic time.

Rose awkwardly patted the other woman’s hand, sneaking another quick glance at her watch. Her shift was over, and customers were already gathering at the checkout counter. “Is there anyone you can talk to? Pastor Ralph —perhaps a fellow Sunday school class member?”

Blyth looked up. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t your problem.”

“Oh no, I
want
to help. Do you have a good study Bible? I can provide one, and you’re welcome to talk to me anytime. I mean it . . . ”

Blyth lifted a silencing hand. “Frank was a good kid until he got involved with the wrong group. He’s a joiner. He wants so much to be accepted by his peers. My husband died last year, and it’s just the two of us. I pray for him with every breath, but it’s easy to feel God has forsaken us.”

Rose sobered. “God never forsakes us.” She was on solid ground now. The bell over the door chimed. She glanced to the front of the store, relief and guilt filling her when she realized the intensely private conversation was over. They couldn’t talk and wait on customers at the same time. “I’m sorry. Customers.”

Nodding, Blyth wiped her eyes on the tissue and pushed back from the table. “Thanks, Rose. Unless you’ve had the problem, you can’t possibly know how good it is just to talk to someone.”

Reaching for her coat, Rose wondered why she wasn’t feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, confident that God had put her here to minister to a sister in a time of need.

She was here. Blyth surely had a God-sized problem. She had offered a study Bible, a good study Bible that could address many of the worried mother’s concerns. She made a mental note to drop the Bible off at Blyth’s house even if she hadn’t requested it. She was only scheduled to work a half day, but she couldn’t leave Blyth alone and upset. She couldn’t. She laid the coat aside and waited on a customer.

Twenty minutes before quitting time, Rose cornered Blyth in the back room. Blyth’s words had lingered with her, haunted her. “Blyth, I know I haven’t been through what you’re experiencing, but I can pray for you.”

Blyth offered a weak smile. “Right now?”

“Well . . . yes.” Actually, Rose had thought more along the lines of each praying in her own private element. But now that Blyth had mistaken her offer for immediacy, she guessed they could pray right now. Her mind churned with all she had yet to accomplish today — dinner, choir practice tonight, laundry. She had always been uncomfortable praying out loud. Maybe Blyth would take the initiative, and she could squeeze her hand in support.

Blyth bowed her head and waited.

Rose bowed her head. “Please — feel free to start if you’d like.”

“I’m so emotional, can you?”

“Sure.” Clearing her throat, Rose grasped both of Blyth’s hands in hers. “Lord.” Her mind searched for the poetic — beautiful, comforting, profound petitions uttered to offer peace. She even heard an echo of David, the mighty king of Israel’s anguished cry, “O my son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom!” For a moment, she experienced a faint revelation of what Blyth must be going through. If this were Eric, she’d be on her knees, begging for grace, but in search of the eloquent, her mind went blank. What came out was anything but profound, it was lame. “Lord, we ask that you take care of Blyth’s son. Thank you for our blessings and this lovely weather. Bless this holiday season and . . . Amen.”

“Amen,” Blyth softly echoed.

Well, she might as well have asked God to throw in a box of buttons for all that prayer accomplished. Yet she was sure he knew the words when the burden was too much, and the Holy Spirit uttered the petition for her.

All things considered, neither people nor problems had changed that much since King David’s time. An anguished prayer for a wayward child. A parent’s vulnerability. Hopefully what Rose felt and couldn’t verbally express, Blyth sensed.

They lifted their heads and let go of each other’s hands. Blyth wore a naked expression, like she wanted to linger and talk, just talk, but she got up to wait on an older woman. Rose got her coat and purse.

“Everything will be fine,” she told Blyth at the door. She leaned forward and awkwardly hugged her.

“Thanks, Rose. I’m so thankful you stayed through the afternoon. I know you’re busy.”

“Never too busy to help a friend.” Her eyes softened. “Call me anytime, Blyth. I don’t have the answer, but I can always listen.”

Rose walked slowly to her van, hefting the bag of buttonless clothing. She had decided that even if she was weak in ministerial skills, she was confident with a needle and thread. She would store the bag in the hall closet to work on later, knowing she would be hard-pressed to get to choir practice on time. Practice was every Thursday until the church cantata, scheduled for the eighteenth. And then there was the Advent church bulletin project — that needed attention too.

Something about Blyth’s lost expression lingered with Rose. Had she helped? Or had she merely slapped a BandAid on a torn artery? She pushed the thought aside. Everyone was rushed these days. Blyth understood.

Rose whispered a quick prayer of thanksgiving that Eric wasn’t on drugs. A faint glow of self-righ teousness raised its head, and she promptly squelched it. She wasn’t a better parent than Blyth. God didn’t love her more. She had no idea why Frank had chosen drugs and Eric had not, but she was grateful. She said a prayer for Jean and Blyth, making a mental reminder to call Jean for lunch this next week. She didn’t want to put that off for too long.

So much trouble everywhere she looked — children rebelling, illness, despair. What must
God think of the chaos?

At least she and Joey were on solid ground. Maybe their relationship was not as exciting as the marriage manuals advocated, but it was solid. They didn’t spend a lot of time together, with him working day and night and her involvement in the church and community.

But Joey was a rock. A hard worker, a deacon in the church.

Trouble had barely touched her family; she prayed life would stay that way.

chapter 4

Dinner. If Rose could talk her family into one less meal a day, life would be simpler. She reached for the phone to call in an early pizza order. Everyone liked pizza. They wouldn’t mind having it again tonight. Better than tuna. Food ordered, she threw a load of clothes in the wash. With the second load sorted and piled on the floor, ready to go, she checked phone messages. Just the usual stuff. Patsy Baker, two houses down, wanted her to watch their place over the holidays while she was away. She’d already agreed to do that. Patsy couldn’t remember up from down, but she was a good ole soul.