The unexpected kindness shown me burrowed its way into my heart and stayed. It stayed long after Wayne and I drifted apart. It stayed after I married another and raised a son and daughter to adulthood. The memory would come to me each Christmas Eve, and just for a moment I would remember.Steven Hughes/The Globe and Mail
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It's a mystery why some simple experiences linger complete in the mind long after more significant events have become buried in the unsorted laundry of the subconscious. A certain evening of my girlhood never paled in my memory, and through the years would be brought back anew every Christmas Eve.
It was late afternoon Dec. 24. The snow blew against the windows, ice particles pelting like sharp stones. I was alone in the residence except for the house mother. The other eight nursing students had headed home on trains or buses or in the back seats of fathers' cars. Loudly they had departed, calling their farewells over slender shoulders. I alone had drawn the unenviable Christmas Day duty on the hospital ward.
In our small living room I stared at the black phone hanging on the wall willing it to ring. Miss Murphy, my spinster guardian, watched me from under pale eyelids, her knitting needles flashing. "He ain't gonna call, Kitten. He done forgot about you."
Kitten, we were all kittens to her, years upon years of girls in her charge for a while and then gone. She could never remember us all. When she left the room with a sigh, I lifted the phone from its anchor and dialled Wayne's number.
"You can't be alone on Christmas Eve," he said firmly after listening to my story. "My family will be attending church at 7 o'clock. I want you to come."
So I called a taxi and headed out into the night. My driver was from some island where snow never fell, where Christmas was warm and gentle and mild like the babe whose birth it celebrated. I gave him an address on the other side of the city and, trusting he knew the route, settled back in my seat, nervously anticipating seeing Wayne again.
"He must still like me," I thought. "He wouldn't have asked me to come if he didn't."
An hour later the cab driver and I were still navigating the slippery streets and I could tell by the reflection of his face in the rear-view mirror that he was lost. He saw me watching and smiled. I stared at my watch as the minutes tumbled by, each one making it more certain I would be late.
"Perhaps you should call for directions," I suggested, my voice timid and small. The static that came over the radio, the broken crackle from some distant depot, only made him smile more widely. "I will get you there, missy. Don't fear."
It was nearly 9 p.m. when we finally pulled to a stop in front of the church. The lights were out, the congregation long returned to the comfort of their hearths. Young children were by now asleep in their beds, their parents done stuffing stockings and laying bright boxes under the trees. But Wayne was still there, standing under a street lamp, his fraternity scarf wound carelessly around the collar of his best coat, the tip of his cigarette a dot of bright light. He'd missed the service with his family waiting outside for me, yet he smiled and held out his arms. He smelled of English Leather aftershave and smoke and wet wool. He kissed me. I wanted that kiss to last forever.
We went to his home where his father met us at the door, his mother just a step behind. "Come inside, you poor thing!" she said. "I have coffee ready for you." I smiled apologetically as I was gathered into their midst. Two teenaged boys joked and laughed, the younger one fascinated by my sudden appearance, a new girl whose small hand his eldest brother held in his own.
We drank our coffee and I explained what had happened, thanked them for understanding. Then each of the three sons opened a present drawn from the pile under the tree. I watched them closely, this family I'd never met before, felt the love they shared. There was a pause while Wayne's mum reached for one last gift. She held it out toward me and said, "This one's for you."
I hesitated, not certain I'd understood. There couldn't be anything for me. They didn't know I was coming until after the stores were closed. I glanced at Wayne and he grinned and nodded. "We always have extra presents beneath the tree, just in case we have visitors."
Tears appeared unbidden behind my lashes and my throat ached unbearably. The unexpected kindness shown me burrowed its way into my heart and stayed. It stayed long after Wayne and I drifted apart. It stayed after I married another and raised a son and daughter to adulthood. The memory would come to me each Christmas Eve, and just for a moment I would remember.
Many Christmases have come and gone since then and miraculously Wayne and I have found each other again. His parents didn't live to know that the girl they met that stormy night would one day marry their son. But the gift they gave me, the gift of welcome and warmth that is the true blessing of Christmas, remains with me even now. And in our home, though we no longer put up a Christmas tree, there is always a present tucked away in a drawer in case a stranger stops by.
Jean Fournier Johnson lives in Perth, Ont.