Another Christmas Carol A story from something that happened in 1998: My little sister Amanda, who has Down Syndrome, was staying with my husband and I through Christmas. He did not appreciate our holiday cheer. But, with a little help from Dickens, we conspired to change his attitude. My husband Bruce was in a foul mood that year. He’d worked long hours all that month, and he just wasn’t up to the festivities as my sister Amanda and I decorated the tree and crooned along with Bing Crosby. Amanda had Down Syndrome and lived at home with my parents, but this year she was spending a few weeks with Bruce and me. Even though Bruce wasn’t participating, we were having a great time. Lights twinkled on the stairway. Wreaths hung on the doors. We even decorated the bathroom. We’d been shopping all that day, and Amanda was busy making a long red and green paper chain to hang over the window. My cat, Miss Clairol, on a break from her pile of kittens, batted the end of the chain as it dragged on the floor. We’d tried joking Bruce out of his mood, baking cookies and decorating them all to look like him. We had little snowmen, angels and Santa Clauses all with his round head, dark eyebrows and moustache, each with a sad expression. He was not amused. He watched TV throughout the evening and then went upstairs. “Goodnight Bruce,” Amanda called. He had reached the upper landing, and for a moment I thought he wouldn’t reply at all. Then he muttered, “Night.” Amanda folded her arms and whispered, “Did you hear that? He didn’t say goodnight. He just said, “Night.”” “I heard. That’s a bad sign.” “Yes it is. He needs to lighten up.” “What should we do?” “I don’t know. He needs to get a little Christmas Spirit, that’s for sure.” She shook her head ruefully. An idea suddenly glimmered in my mind. “Come with me.” Later that night, Bruce was awakened by a loud, “Chink, chink, chink”. I heard him stir, but he said nothing. I was crouched on the floor at the end of the bed, out of sight and waiting. I held a flashlight ready in my hand and when the door swung open, I hit the button. Illuminated suddenly in the doorway was a rotund form wrapped in white, with a chain around its belly. It entered the room with a wobbly, familiar gait. It held a framed baby picture of Bruce, brandishing it in the flashlight beam so the light bounced off the glass. The voice came. “BROOOOOOOOOOOOOOCE!” The flashlight beam quivered a little, as I clapped my hand over my mouth. What a perfect name for a ghost to be wailing, I thought. “Yeah?” His voice sounded not so much annoyed, as confused. “I…. am the GHOST…… of CHRISt-mas PAST…….” She stepped forward, holding up the photo. “This….is……your……..past!” He was silent, so she waved the picture for emphasis. “Do you SEEEEEE this?” She roared. “Oh.. Um, yeah,” he said. “Good.” The Ghost turned and shuffled back through the door. I switched off the light. Bruce had to know I was there, but he said nothing. Predictably, within moments, the Ghost was back, illuminated again in the flashlight beam. This time she carried two squirming kittens. “BROOOOOOOOOCE!” the voice again implored. “Uh huh?” came the reply. “I am the GHOST of CHRISt-mas PRESENT!” When this announcement received no response, she held up the kittens. “These are your kids! You must take care of them! They are depending on you! Think about it! You said, “Night!” Not, “Goodnight!”” “Oh,” he said. “Remember, it’s, “Goodnight!”” She turned and carried the kittens carefully out. The door slammed behind her. I switched the light off. A few moments later, the Ghost was back. This time, she carried a picture. It was a red piece of construction paper with a crude drawing in the shape of a headstone. It read, “BRUCE, 1960 -?” This Ghost was attempting to be ominous, despite the sheet that now sagged below her knees and dragged along the carpet. She said nothing. She suddenly thrust out an arm and pointed a pudgy finger straight at Bruce. She stood silently in the light, holding the piece of paper and pointing. She turned then and waddled back out. After this last spirit’s visit, I sneaked out of the bedroom. I met Amanda in the hallway, the sheet now bunched up in her arms. We high fived and went downstairs for a celebration of milk and Bruce cookies. “You were great!” I said. “Do you think it worked?” “I don’t know. We’ll see.” Having more shopping planned, Amanda and I were up early the next morning. She made coffee and I put bread in the toaster. Suddenly, two pennies hit the floor next to us, bouncing and rolling across the room. Startled, we looked up and saw Bruce watching us from the top of the stairs. “You girls run into town and get a turkey,” he said. “Buy the biggest one they have!” “WOO HOO!” Amanda yelped. We got up and did a little dance, holding the paper chain between us. Addendum: Actually, that’s not the real ending. In real life, when Bruce got up the next morning, he just looked at us grumpily. We shrugged and had a nice Christmas anyway. (But it makes for a better story, doesn’t it?)
Posted on: Tue, 06 Jan 2015 03:58:09 +0000
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