Comfort & Joy

“Tell ’er where we’re goin’, Dad. ”

“The church serves brunch at the nursing home,” Daniel answers.

It’s what I do on my own holiday. It’s a tradition my mom started long ago. For all the years of my childhood, I spent Christmas Eve afternoon at the nursing home with Grandma Lund. In my adult years, I volunteered on holidays.

Fate.

“You better hurry,” Daniel says to Bobby and me. I race down to my room, tame my riotous hair, brush my teeth, and make my bed. Then we all go out to the truck.

Between the Christmas lights and the remnants of an early morning rain, the town glistens with water and light. People fill the sidewalks; cars clog the streets.

Daniel pulls into a parking lot and stops. We are at the Rain Shadow Convalescent Center. It’s a lovely little brick building set well to the back of a deep lot. A few older trees, bare now, flank the sides, and giant rhododendrons and azaleas grow out front. Christmas lights outline the windows, and a fully lit menorah sits on the sill.

Inside, the center is a hive of activity. In the lobby, several white clad attendants are pushing people in wheelchairs toward a room marked “Christmas Eve Brunch. ”

“I’ll go meet the guys and get breakfast ready. You can help get people to the tables, okay?” Daniel says to us.

“I’ll go get Mr. Lundberg!” Bobby cries out, rushing down the hall.

When I turn to ask Daniel something, he’s gone, but I don’t need his direction. I’ve spent plenty of time in nursing homes. I know how to help.

I walk down the busy hallway, looking in to the various rooms. Most are empty now. That’s why the hallways are so full.

In the very back of the building, I find an elderly woman sitting in a chair, all by herself, facing a window that looks outside. She wears a pale pink ruffled dressing gown, with ribbons in her snow white hair. Her small, heart-shaped face has been overtaken by wrinkles, and bright red lipstick doesn’t quite match her lip lines, but her eyes reveal a woman who was once gorgeous enough to stop traffic.

“Hello, there,” I say, stepping into the small room. “Merry Christmas Eve. Would you like to go to the brunch?”

She doesn’t answer me. I’ve probably spoken too softly. I enter the room, make my way past the bed, and kneel down in front of her.

She’s muttering something, playing with a red satin ribbon. The thin strip of fabric is coiled around her knobby, veiny knuckles.

“Hey,” I say, smiling up at her. “I’m here to take you to the brunch. ” I have to yell the words.

The woman frowns. Her fingers still. She blinks down at me. “Is it my time?”

“The brunch starts in ten minutes. ”

“My sister is supposed to come for me. ”

“I’m sure she’ll meet you in the dining room. ” I stand, offer her my hand.

She looks up at me. Her eyes seem huge in her tiny face. “Walk?”

“Let me help you. ” I help her to her feet and coil my arm around her. It’s easy. The woman is almost impossibly frail. Together, moving slowly, we shuffle down the hallway. It’s less crowded now. Only a few people are lingering about.

We pass a nurse, or orderly, someone in a white polyester outfit who stares at us, then frowns. “Mrs. Gardiner?”

“It’s time to plant tulips,” the woman beside me says, tightening her hold on my arm.

We go the last bit to the dining room and turn. At our entrance, I notice how everyone looks up sharply. More than a few gasp. A heavyset nurse rushes toward me. “Mrs. Gardiner, what are you doing here? You know an aide would have brought you a wheelchair. ”

“She walked really well,” I say, holding her steady.

“My sister?” she croaks, looking up at the nurse.

“Now, Mrs. Gardiner, you know Dora is gone. But your son is here, and your granddaughters. ” The nurse points to a table in the back of the room where a good-looking gray-haired man is seated between a pair of twins. All three of them get to their feet when they see us. Even from here I can see the tears in their eyes.

The man rushes forward, takes his mother’s hand. “Hi, Mom. ” His voice is shaky.