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Brian went outside to warm up the car while we finished getting ma's belongings together. I rummaged through a wicker basket for a couple old Reader's Digest magazines while Robbie darted down the hall after our coats and mittens. If it hadn't been for the mechanical gasp and click of the respirator, I might have forgotten ma was nearby. She sat on the sofa with her hands folded neatly in her lap and smiled placidly as I finished and looked up. I asked if she was ready to go and she simply nodded yes.
It had snowed during the night. The first snow of the season, and so close to Christmas. The field across the road was a delicate white as far as I could see.
Robbie stood by the door peering outside like a little garden gnome. I half-smiled at the thought of him standing guard against anything, and helped ma with her coat. She needed help with almost everything now, but I had come to terms with that when I offered to take her in. It was all I could do to help, but sometimes I felt bad for not being there sooner.
Brian parked the car near the foot of the porch steps. He got out and opened the passenger door as I helped ma down the snowy steps. Robbie soon followed, bundled in thick snow pants and a bulky winter coat. He could hardly walk, but, amusingly, waddled just fine.
The drive to the hospital in the inner city would give us all a chance to rest. It had been many years since the family was together. The last time I saw Robbie he was three and about to start school. Brian looked good, but tired. It lined every expression in his face. He didn't seem to laugh much, but then again he never really did. He was the older brother, and it seemed like his charge to be the somber one, endlessly concerned with arriving on time, doing the right thing, and now, being a good dad. Idly, I wondered when the last time he laughed was, and about what.
We quietly pulled onto the main road and started toward the city. I watched the house fade from the rear-view mirror. The quaint red and green Christmas lights blinked until they were lost in the white morning fog.
I love the country. Getting older is funny that way. I used to drive these roads through the country every day for school, and, later on, for work. I've seen them at every hour of the day, in every season, and never thought much of it until I moved away. I like seeing it all now, even if it is nothing but dead trees and snow. More meaningful than the alternative, which these days seems to be a strip mall and an unrelenting assault of shops.
I heard laughter -- childish squeals -- followed by a bout of hard coughing and hacking from ma. It was only then that I was aware of the conversation -- and fun -- everyone else seemed to be having. Robbie had a plushy green Tyrannosaurus Rex out and had been terrorizing Brian from the backseat. He nudged me jokingly, but when all I could manage was a half-hearted smile, he lost interest and stared out the window.
My mind wandered again. Most of the buildings along the road had some sort of Christmas decoration, but it was obvious not a lot of effort went into any of it. Strangely, the beaming whites, reds, and greens did little to cheer up the landscape; it just made things look more tired. Thin strings of light sagged along each rooftop gutter. Reindeer pranced around crookedly. Even Santa took a day off.
I thought of my childhood and all the stories I'd heard about a white Christmas, about the magic of the Christmas spirit. It only ever felt like a dream, and as the years passed and I got older, it seemed that it was only true in someone else's life. Someone rich in friends and family, rich in health. Rich in every sense of the word.
I felt bad for Robbie. Everything was magical now. Life was mysterious and wonderful. But I knew there would be a day when the curtains are abruptly pulled back, and he'll see the world as it really is. The cold will carve itself into the lines in his face, and he'll see that not even the snow can be pure for long. In the end, like everything else, it gets driven to sludge by the side of the road.
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right on through
