One More for Christmas

Ella pulled away and stroked her sister’s coat. “Love that red. You look wonderful.”

“Is it too much?”

“What? No! It’s perfect. And the white is stunning.”

Gayle lay there, listening, superfluous. An outsider in her own family.

Samantha hadn’t wanted Gayle’s opinion on her outfit, but apparently she wanted her sister’s.

She stroked the sleeve. “Well, you know how I hate black.”

Samantha hated black?

Gayle wore black. Every day. It was her uniform. She hadn’t known Samantha hated it.

Samantha stood back. “I love your hair that length. Suits your face shape. It’s better than the bob.”

Ella had once had a bob? When?

They talked, words flying to and fro, a verbal game of tennis in which each player knew the rules and was comfortable with each other. Gayle wanted to say Hello, I’m over here, but she was too busy registering the change in Samantha.

Gone was the tension, the stiffness, the wariness that had filled the room the moment she’d walked through the door. Instead she was relaxed a

nd comfortable. Warm.

She took Ella’s hand and gave her a reassuring smile.

Gayle wondered what it was that required such a visible gesture of support, and then realized it was her. She was the threat in the room.

“Hi, Mom.” Ella walked to the bed and gave a nervous smile. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better. Thank you for coming.”

“Of course. I mean, you’re our—” Ella paused and then gave a brief smile “—mother. What happened?”

“I fell. I was holding an award.” That stupid award. Pride had quite literally come before the fall.

Did they even know about the award? She’d been up there on the stage, applauded by thousands. She’d given a speech on empowerment and designing her life. Her daughters hadn’t even known. They weren’t impressed. “It hit my head as I fell.”

“Right. That’s horrible.” Ella fiddled with her scarf. “Are they keeping you in?”

“For tonight.” Why were both girls still hovering? Were they braced to race through the door if she said something wrong? “Why don’t you take off your coat and gloves and sit down?”

“I—gloves? No.” Ella wrapped her arms around her waist. “I have—cold hands.”

“But it’s so hot in this room.”

“I’m fine. I’m not hot.”

Don’t argue, Gayle. Don’t argue.

Kind.

“Won’t you at least sit down?”

Ella sat without question. She rubbed her hands nervously along her legs. “Have they said when you’ll be discharged? Will you need someone to take care of you at home? We should sort something out. But only if you want that, of course.”

It was the first moment of brightness in a dark, dark day.