The Paper Bag Christmas (7 page)
“With all due respect, I really prefer to be a wise man.”
As he spoke, Madhu pulled out a copy of the Bible from his jacket pocket. It had the name Gideon printed in bold letters on the front cover.
“I read last night in Matthew chapter two, and it states: ‘Behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.’ It does not say, or even imply, that there were three. But it definitely affirms they were from the east. Yes, on that point the text is clear. I, too, am from the east and would very much like your permission to be the fourth wise man in your pageant.”
Nurse Wimble looked around at the gathering crowd, who all appeared very anxious to see how she would respond.
“But . . . there were only three gifts,” she whined. “Gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Three gifts and three wise men. What on earth would a fourth wise man bring the Savior anyway?”
“Nurse Wimble, I assure you if I am allowed to be a wise man in your pageant, I will think of a most wonderful gift indeed to give to your baby Jesus!”
It was clear she did not want to allow such a change, but Nurse Wimble finally consented, making Madhu the first fourth wise man in the history of the children’s hospital annual Christmas pageant. Now all he had to do was think of a gift.
I
T WAS MONDAY
, December 15, before I was allowed to go back to visit the children at the hospital, though I was hampered by my cast and head bandages.
Dr. Ringle was still out of town, but Christmas was in full swing at the hospital, even without his jolly presence. Aaron and Madhu had tried to visit Katrina during the week I was absent, but she wouldn’t let them in no matter how hard they tried. So my first visit of the evening was to her room while Aaron and Madhu went off to a rehearsal for the pageant.
“Katrina, are you in there?” I said as I knocked lightly on the door.
“Yes. Is that Molar?”
“Yep,” I replied.
“How’s your arm?”
“My arm is fine. It’s just everything else that hurts,” I joked.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. Can I just come in so we don’t have to talk through the door?”
“Just a minute.” There was a light shuffling sound like ruffling of paper, and then she opened the door. She was wearing a new pair of pajamas and a pair of pink slippers, plus the usual white paper bag to cover her head.
Over the next thirty minutes I got to know Katrina better than I’d thought possible. For the first time she opened up and began to talk about herself, sharing some things that were sad and difficult for me to hear, but important for me to understand. The conversation began mildly enough with a few laughs about our brush with death on the gurneys, but then it took a more serious turn.
“Katrina, how come you don’t talk about your sickness?” I asked. “I don’t even know what kind of cancer you have?”
“I used to talk about it more when Grandpa was around. He made me feel better. He always told me everything would be fine.” A new sadness reverberated in her words.
“Did he, you know . . . die?” I asked.
She told me he had died four months earlier of a heart attack, and that now she was a ward of the state under the immediate care of the hospital for medical treatment. She never knew her father—even her mother wasn’t fully sure who her father was—and tragically, a drunk driver killed her mother on the way to work when Katrina was four years old. So for nearly as long as she could remember, she had depended on her grandfather for everything, especially after she was diagnosed with a brain tumor in July 1979.
As she recounted the horrific details of her life, I couldn’t help but reflect on how good my own life was. It was a thought I’d never considered before, that there were people far less fortunate than myself. I realized that I had things really easy. I had people who loved me, parents who cared for me, and friends who took interest in me and wanted to be with me. Katrina had none of that.
All she had was a fading memory of a mother and a grandfather who she now missed more than anything in the world.
“Grandpa didn’t care what I looked like,” she said at one point. “He just loved me. I always knew he loved me no matter what. Other people aren’t that way.”
“Katrina, I’m sorry about your granddad and your mom, too.”
“Thank you, Molar. I guess not having my grandpa around is why I wouldn’t let anyone put up Christmas decorations this year. He always used to love doing that with me, and I’d hate for him to think I was enjoying Christmas without him.”
“It’s Mo,” I corrected. “My friends call me Mo.”
“What?”
“My friends call me Mo,” I repeated. “You said Molar.”
“So
I
can call you that?” she asked timidly, almost doubting that someone would ever be willing to count her as a friend.
“Of course you can. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I can’t be sure, but I thought I glimpsed a trace of a smile spreading across her face through the mouth hole in her large paper bag.
“Mo,” she said proudly. “I’ve decided something. Even though I technically didn’t lose the gurney race, I didn’t exactly win either. So I’m going to keep our bargain and join the Christmas pageant.”
“Really!?” I would have jumped out of my seat but the lingering pain in my ribs kept me restrained.
“Really, really. Do you think they still have a part for me?”
“I’m sure they do. And if they say they don’t, we’ll just have Madhu talk to Nurse Wimble for you!”
Christmas began in the heart of God. It is complete only when it reaches the heart of man.
—Author unknown
W
hen we entered the large rehearsal room, the first thing I heard was Aaron. He was standing near the edge of a makeshift stage shouting his lines into the corn dog he was using as a microphone.
“And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, to be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child!”
Nurse Wimble was seated on a chair directly in front of the stage giving directions as loud and fast as her Southern twang would allow.
“Okay Mary and Joseph, Ah want y’all to look tired, very tired. Especially you Mary! Remember, this ain’t no walk in the park, y’all! And hold your belly like this.”
The girl playing the part of Mary nodded and wrapped her hands around the pillow she was using as an inflated abdomen.
“Donkey? Where’s our donkey?” bellowed Nurse Wimble.
“C’mon,” I said to Katrina, grabbing her by the shirt with my good arm. “Let’s get you a part!”
Katrina dragged her feet a bit as we went, but we still managed to make our way up to the stage. Many of the children stopped to look as we approached. They had all seen Katrina and her bag plenty of times before, but it was clear they weren’t completely comfortable with her appearance. Nor were they accustomed to seeing me with my head wrapped in bandages and my arm in a cast. The sight of us brought a new quiet over the crowd.
“Uhhmm, hi, Miss Wimble,” said Katrina softly once the nurse stopped barking at the kids on the stage who were watching us instead of listening to her. “I was wondering if you had room in the pageant for one more?”
“Ah’m sorry, Katrina, but your friend has already been told he cannot participate on account of his injuries. We wouldn’t want him falling off the stage or something terrible like that in his current condition.”
“Oh no, Ma’am,” I interjected. “She’s not asking for me. Katrina wants to be in your play.”
“Oh, Ah see,” she said curtly. “Well, Ah’m afraid there are simply no more parts available. Ah suppose one could say there’s no more room at this particular inn.” She laughed openly at what she thought was a brilliant, if callous, play on words.
Some of the children on stage snickered and whispered too, and I heard Katrina’s name used several times along with the words “stupid bag.” I suppose some of them were glad there was, according to Nurse Wimble, no room for Katrina.
“But Nurse Wimble,” I protested, “I’m sure there are lots of parts she could do real well!”
By the look in Katrina’s eyes she had already given up and would have much preferred that we not push the matter any further, but I didn’t think it was fair so I just kept on talking.
“She promised me she’d be in the pageant, and if you don’t let her, then she’ll be breaking a promise. There must be something she can do! You must need more of
something
.”
Nurse Wimble made a huffy noise through her nose in contempt.
“Well, does anyone have any ideas?” she asked. “Can anybody think of a part that is suited to our little Katrina?”
Sadly, no one said anything. I looked around frantically, hoping someone would come up with a part—any part—for Katrina, but the silence continued. Finally, just as Nurse Wimble was crossing her arms to settle the matter, a familiar voice piped up.
“Nurse Wimble, I think it would be a most excellent idea if we added a fifth wise man—or wise woman, as the case may be—to the Christmas pageant.” Madhu was grinning mischievously as he spoke.
“Absolutely not!” she hollered. “Four is already one more than Ah should have allowed, Mr. Amburi. But thank you ever so kindly for the suggestion. Anyone else?”
Again silence followed.
“Well then, Ah’m afraid Katrina will not . . .”
“An angel!” a voice shouted from the stage. It was my brother, still yelling into his half-eaten microphone. “She should be an angel. We can never have too many of those!”
Amid the lingering echo of Aaron’s suggestion, one particularly snide girl with curly brown hair, who was part of the angel chorus, added her two small cents under her breath, which happened to be just loud enough for everyone to hear.
“An angel?” she scoffed. “With that bag she looks more like the Holy Ghost to me!”
Nearly everyone laughed. Even Nurse Wimble chuckled out loud at the ridiculous comment. Katrina’s eyes burned with humiliation as the crowd continued their shameless jeers. Here they all were practicing a pageant about Jesus Christ, yet completely ignoring the fact that they were behaving completely un-Christ-like.
Aaron, Madhu, and I stood helpless, wondering what else we could do to help our bag-headed friend out of this most cruel circumstance. Katrina turned, her shoulders slumped and shaking, and began to walk away. I turned to follow but was stopped by another voice yelling above the ruckus of the crowd.
“I quit!” It was a girl’s voice screaming at the top of her lungs. I turned back to the stage to see a beautiful girl standing beside the manger, yanking a pillow out from beneath her costume. Her name was Lynn, and she had been awarded the lead role of Mary, mother of Jesus. Her eyes were on fire, and I couldn’t help but notice how delightfully determined she was as she strode forward to face Nurse Wimble.
“I quit,” she said again, pulling the remainder of her costume over her head and tossing it at the feet of the director.
“But you can’t quit,” said Nurse Wimble. “You’re the only one who can manage to sing the solos.”
“Well that’s just too bad,” she said. “This hospital is supposed to be a place where we are all cared for, and where we look out for and support one another. I’m sick about the way you all treat Katrina, and I won’t stand for it anymore. If there is no room at the inn for her, then there is no room at the inn for me either.”
Katrina’s eyes glowed with gratitude and admiration as she stared up at Lynn. It was the first time another patient had stood up for her in public, and it gave her spirits a much needed boost.
“Very well,” said Nurse Wimble, breaking the silence. “If you’ll kindly put your costume back on, we can probably see fit to find a place for Katrina. Besides,” she backpedaled, “Aaron was right. We can never have too many angels. Katrina, you’ll join that group over there and they’ll tell you what to do. Alright?”
Katrina nodded with excitement.
“Now then,” she said through a forced smile, “let’s pick up where we left off, shall we?”
Surprisingly, everyone continued on as though nothing had happened. Once Katrina had been introduced to the angel chorus all else was forgotten.
I sat watching the practice for the remainder of the evening, which was more interesting than I had expected. The highlight of the rehearsal came when the innkeeper, played by a short redheaded boy with bright freckles, tripped on his own crutch while trying to walk and read his lines at the same time. He ended up landing on top of a little girl who was supposed to be a sheep in the stable. Fortunately no one was hurt. However, the little girl was nibbling on a sandwich while she waited for her scene to begin, and when the innkeeper fell, the sandwich was inadvertently hurled toward Mary and Joseph, who were hovering in awe over their baby-doll Jesus. Joseph took the brunt of the incident when one mustardy slice of bread hit him in the face and then slid off and dropped to his shoe. At the same time, a juicy piece of ham and the other slice of bread plopped squarely down on top of the doll in the middle of the manger.
Aaron, who was still chewing his empty corn dog stick, ad-libbed a quick line into his script.
“And when Mary and Joseph looked upon the babe in swaddling clothes,” he said in an artificially deep voice, “they saw that he was hungry, and they did feed him ham on rye.”
Everyone laughed. Everyone, that is, except Nurse Wimble.
Yes . . . there is a Santa Claus . . . Thank God! He lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now . . . , nay ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.
—Francis Pharcellus Church,
The Sun,
September 21, 1897
W
ith only one week left before Christmas Eve, much of our remaining time at the children’s hospital centered around practicing for the Christmas pageant. At least that was the case for Katrina, Madhu, and Aaron, who were fortunate enough to participate. I was forced to find other activities to fill my time, because as soon as Nurse Wimble began her rehearsals, she would scoot me unceremoniously out the door.