Sway (27 page)

It doesn’t take long before we’re joined by a few more children that match Ben’s enthusiasm, squeal for ear-splitting squeal. In spite of the truckload I brought and the half-dozen packages Kimball splurged for and brought in his own vehicle—a gesture that would have made me cry if I were a lesser man because the guy makes pennies and doesn’t have much extra to spend—we manage to unload everything in two trips.

I’m shoving the last package under the tree when I hear the front door open. The door to this place always opens—kids get picked up, workers come and go, Pastor Chris or one of the associate pastors like myself stop by for a visit. It’s like a revolving door for the down, out, and socially needy all wanting to hang out in one place for a while, so I’m used to it.

But I’m not used to Ben getting so excited when it happens. Or the words that come out of his mouth when I’m completely unprepared. “Hey, pretty lady, what are you doing here?”

I freeze at the same time Ben taps my arm and Kimball sucks in a breath and Matt’s eyes go wide. It’s like Mt. Rushmore with a rumbling stomach and I’m wondering how long until the explosion. But there’s nothing, nothing but silence for the longest time, so I do the only thing I can do…the thing I’m
dying
to do…and turn around.

Kate stands just inside the doorway holding an armload of packages.

Kate

“Cry a River”

—Amy Grant

I
try to imagine everyone naked, because that’s what people say helps to alleviate stage fright. It’s worked in the past, in the early years of making speeches at my parent’s rallies, back when it was no longer an option to merely stand onstage with my pink blanket and big hair bow and just look cute. For me, adorable ended at age six, when my father coaxed me with bubble gum and Tic-Tacs to say a few words.
I don’t like God
. Those are the words I whispered into the microphone that day…the only words I could make myself say even with additional prompting from him and my mother. Even when she pulled out the orange kind, the Tic-Tacs that don’t actually freshen your breath but taste like Pez in its best form, minus the fun dispenser. I sucked down candy for the rest of the rally, completely forgetting that I had two lines left to speak. But orange sugar dripped down my chin in a sticky trail, so I no longer cared.

I try to imagine everyone naked now, but of course all I conjure up is a naked Caleb in my mind and something tells me a church Christmas party isn’t the appropriate place to be thinking about this. Suddenly my face feels hot and my mouth goes dry and my legs really really don’t want to carry me away from the doorway.

“What are you doing here?” Caleb doesn’t move from the tree. Thank God he’s wearing a sweater.

He doesn’t sound angry, he sounds like…nothing. Numb without the anesthetic. Surprised without the gasp. Confused without the scrunched forehead. He continues to look like that, through my three awkward blinks that pass for an excuse-finder. Coming up with none, I tell the truth.

“I brought gifts.” I shrug. A mistake when one package shifts position and falls from my grasp. It’s just a Scrabble game anyway. Nothing broken. Nothing damaged. That honor still only belongs to me.

“For what?” He isn’t going to make this easy, even though I’m fairly certain he isn’t trying to make it hard.

“For Christmas. Hence the red and green wrapping paper.” I’m hoping that sounded confident, but I’m pretty sure everyone in the room heard the way my voice wobbled on the last word.

“You don’t do Christmas.” That statement further isolates me from everyone, all the people clustered around the tree to share, laugh, and celebrate the holiday I don’t
do
. I heard the excitement from the parking lot. I noticed the way it died at the exact moment I walked inside.

Caleb still hasn’t moved from his spot in front of the tree. I think he’s afraid.

I’m afraid, too, and press my back against the door. “I don’t do trees either, but that didn’t stop me from putting one up in my bedroom last week.” That surprises him, and an eyebrow shoots up. He shifts from one leg to another, and there’s a lot of distance between us so I can’t be sure, but I’m almost positive I see his mouth twitch in unbelief. Just like that, defensive mode kicks in and my chin comes up. “I bought a stocking, too. And hung it in my doorway. I even put candy canes inside, just in case.”

His mouth opens slightly and he takes a step toward me. “You’re kidding me. You’ve just broken the cardinal rule of Christmas: ‘Never fill up your own stocking.’ It’s like taking a baby bird from its nest and then trying to put it back. Santa won’t touch your stocking now.”

I nearly roll my eyes. “The bird thing is a myth, you know.” Inch by hopeful inch and without actually moving at all, we’re drifting back to where we were last week. I’m starting to wonder if we really left, or if we were just temporarily sidetracked. As if to echo my thoughts, he moves even closer. I try to swallow my nervousness. Speaking around it isn’t easy. “Mother birds don’t shun their babies just because human hands touch them. That’s cruel. Birds aren’t cruel.”

Breathing is impossible when he keeps coming toward me. He’s close.
Close
close. If I could take a step back I would, but this stupid door is in my way and I really don’t feel like going back outside.

“Well, too bad for you that Santa is,” he says.

“Hey!” Ben shouts, thankfully jolting us out of this semi-standoff. “Why are you sayin’ Santa’s mean? Santa’s not mean!” He stares open-mouthed, outraged and unbelieving, like Caleb has destroyed every holiday vision the kid has ever had. I’m wondering how Caleb will dig himself out of this one.

“Not to you.” He cuts his gaze to Ben. “It’s just that Santa doesn’t like people who don’t believe in him, and Kate never has. Can you believe that? She’s never even celebrated Christmas. What gives her the right to start now?”

He winks at me, and just like that I’m no longer the enemy. I can’t even pretend to get mad anymore because I’m too relieved to try. It’s all I can do not to break out in a huge smile. We may still be on opposite sides, but this is a start. One I can work with.

“Caleb…” Ben blinks up at him, all wide-eyed and serious. “Because it’s Jesus’ birthday. Everyone has the right to celebrate Jesus, birthday, even her. You should know this already. You’re the one who told me.”

Caleb has the decency to look chagrined. It’s genuine, like he can’t believe he’s just been put in his place by an eleven-year-old. A little color creeps up his neck, and I almost feel sorry for him, except I’m too busy mentally high-fiving Ben for knocking him down a few notches.

“Yeah, Caleb. I have a right to celebrate too.” That gives me the courage I need to push off from the door and make the long walk to the tree. I may only have a few board games a couple packages of play-dough in my hands, and they might be wrapped so elegantly that the kids are bound to be disappointed when they open them, but I have as much right to be here as anyone.

At least that’s what I tell myself as everyone watches me. I refuse to let their stares affect my fragile confidence. Not when I lay the packages down. Not when I pretend to organize them. Not when I feel Caleb’s stare like a hot branding iron on the back of my neck.

And definitely not when I see the little fist pump he gives himself when he thinks I’m not looking.

*

One hour later and all we’ve done is play a little basketball, drink some water, arrange a few chairs around the room, throw some tablecloths on tables, and stand around. Matt and Kimball—I finally learned their names—have already left, so it’s just me, Ben, Caleb, and a few kids who haven’t been picked up still left in the building. I discovered today that Ben is always the last to leave.

But the sun is going down, and we haven’t opened a single gift, and I want to. I’ve never opened a Christmas present before. I’ve been given them—by my grandparents on my mother’s side and by an aunt I’ve never been allowed to see who I think might be married to a pastor of some Mega-church in Toledo. I saw her once on television and asked my mother about her because they looked so much alike, and the lady had the same first name as my mother’s sister. My mother went all rigid and wouldn’t answer even though her eyes kept flashing to the screen until she turned the set off altogether. Bottom line: I’ve never been allowed to have the gifts. My parents always sent them back unopened. Even when I was little. Even when I cried.

I know nothing here is for me, but I want to watch the whole Christmas present-opening ceremony, just to see what all the hoopla is about. I’ve seen it on Hallmark commercials. I’ve heard about it in school. Finally, I can’t take it anymore.

“What time do we open these?” I’m next to the tree looking down at the sea of gifts swirled across the ground in front of me, and I’m vaguely aware that I just did a couple knee bends like a toddler who’s doing all she can to repress her excitement. But there must be fifty in all, and twinkling lights are hitting them in a way that makes them practically shine, and all I can envision is sparkling paper shredding and flying everywhere—like Mardi Gras in December. I can’t stand the anticipation. Guilt follows right behind it because years of believing this is wrong won’t go away overnight, but excitement is winning out so I shove the guilt down.

Ben drops the basketball he’s bouncing and Caleb looks up from tying a little girl’s shoes. Both look at me with open curiosity. Both look like they’re laughing without sound or smiles.

“What?” I say.

“We don’t open them until tomorrow night.” Caleb answers me.

“Yeah. We gotta wait a whole ‘nother twenty-four hours,” Ben says with a slight whine.

They’re kidding.

“What?” I say again, this time with force. “Tomorrow night?” I look around the room. “Then why are you setting out all these tables and chairs? Isn’t everyone coming back for dinner? I smell food cooking.”

Caleb suppresses a grin and pats the little girl on the foot, her permission to run and play. He stands up to stretch his legs. “Yes, everyone’s coming back for dinner. And food is cooking. A beef tenderloin. For tomorrow night.” He says it all like he has to explain it slowly so I’ll get his meaning. I don’t.

“But that’s stupid. When I stopped by the church earlier, Scott said you were taking gifts for the kids to open later.” I’m grasping at air, but my dream of an Oklahoma Mardi Gras—right here, right now—is fading. Plus, my courage to come here might be a one-time thing and I’m worried I won’t find it again tomorrow. A door opens and two kids run to it. Caleb grabs a couple of backpacks, hands them off to a woman, says a few parting words, then locks the door behind them as they leave. He turns back to me.

“You stopped by the church?”

I give him a dismissive nod. “Yes, but what about the gifts?”

“Before you came here?”

I make a longsuffering sound. “Yes, Caleb, I went to the church before I came here. Big deal. Now what about the gifts? Why aren’t we opening them tonight?”

But he fixes his eyes on mine, and it’s obvious he isn’t going to be deterred by talk of presents anytime soon. He stares for so long that I start to get uncomfortable, as if he sees inside me to the parts I don’t want anyone to view. But Caleb is Caleb and I can’t look away, and we stay that way so long that even I can no longer remember what we’re talking about. Then his look changes into something like respect, and my discomfort vanishes. He could stare at me like that all day, and I doubt I would ever get sick of it.

“I’m proud of you.”

“For what?” My voice sounds thick. Hopeful.

“For walking inside the church by yourself. For showing up the other night. For sitting in front of Joseph and throwing rocks at me and not running away. For being your own person no matter what your parents, or me, or anyone else thinks. But mainly for walking in here,” he nods toward the front door, “without having a clue what to expect. We could have thrown ornaments at you, yelled at you, or told you to leave. Yet you still showed up with gifts.”

He does this a lot. Compliments me for things he should hate. I’ve met a lot of people in my life—thousands, even. He’s the kindest soul I’ve ever met, despite what his rough exterior tries to camouflage.

“You and I both know you wouldn’t have thrown ornaments at me,” I say, my heart hovering somewhere between apprehensive and relieved. “You’re not that mean, despite what you try to project with your shaggy hair and weird body art.”

He smiles the softest smile, and I smile too. And all is right with the world. If only I could say the same about my heart. He rubs the back of his neck and looks at me through his lashes.

“Okay, maybe I wouldn’t have thrown them at you. But I might have refused your gifts. You probably just bought a bunch of dumb things, anyway. Like Play-dough.”

I blink, flustered and trying to work up some irritation all over again. “Stop being so critical. Now when are we opening gifts?” I’m a two-year-old again, because a tantrum is all I can manage right now and I bought stupid Play-dough like an idiot.

Caleb laughs. “Tomorrow. Now go in the kitchen and check on the tenderloin. It still has another hour to bake, but I don’t want it to burn.”