The Christmas Gift
by D.A.Bastian
It was the last Wednesday before Christmas and I was driving my city transit bus along Fourth Avenue. I was thinking about my wife’s wonderful turkey dinner with all the trimmings.
As I approached the stop at Fourth and Wallace I saw someone standing at the bus stop. It was my very favourite passenger, Mrs. Grace Smith. Although she had never spoken of it, I guessed her age to be somewhere around the 80 year mark. She stood barely five feet tall and slouched somewhat probably due to arthritis or something which made her tilt her head upward slightly in order to see clearly who she was talking to. Besides the ever present smile, her most identifiable feature was that every time I saw her she wore a bright red tam pinned jauntily to one side which very much complimented her silver grey hair. Mrs. Smith reminded me so much of my own mother who had lost her battle with cancer just a year ago not in the physical sense but more her demeanor and attitude toward life.
I still missed my mother terribly and found myself in tears at the most inappropriate times when I saw some little old lady who even loosely resembled my mother. I was often grateful for sunglasses during those moments.
During the last ten years of her life I had become very close to my mother and loved her dearly. It hadn’t always been that way though.
Throughout my childhood my Mum suffered from a serious drinking problem that I had struggled to deal with ever since I was a young lad. Because my father was also a practicing alcoholic at the time my home was filled with constant drunken brawls and arguments. It was not a good environment for a young child and I longed to get away from it as soon as I could. After running away from home a couple of times prior but returned due to having no place to go, I finally got away when just by chance I passed by a military recruiter’s office and quickly signed up. I promised my tearful mother that I would write often and even send her a few dollars to help out at home of which neither promise was kept.
While in the military I met a young girl, got married and settled down into a military life 3500 miles away from my family. The few words I did write in next twenty years were to my mother and simply scribbled with meaningless chatter on the inside of a generic Christmas card.
After discharging from the military I managed to find a bus driving job no further than 300 miles of my now 68 year old mother. At the urging of my wife who said I should try and patch things up with Mum, I reluctantly agreed to try one phone call. During the next two years I forced a monthly call but my heart really wasn't in it as she continued to drink. I hated hearing the slur in her voice and listening to the meaningless, jumbled conversation.
Then suddenly my father passed away so I and my wife drove the 300 miles to attend the funeral. When I arrived I was happy to see that my mother was sober. We talked face to face for the first time in more than twenty years. Two weeks after the funeral she called to say that she hadn’t had another drink since the funeral and that she wanted to talk about things. Without the barrier of alcohol a new relationship began to grow between us. I felt like I had found my real mother for the first time in my life. I began phoning her every week and travelled to visit as often as I could. It was a wonderful time for both of us.
Shortly before her 79th birthday she was diagnosed with stomach cancer. I drove up to visit her in the hospital more than regularly during the next two months. One particular Saturday afternoon I expressed my concern over the lack of colour in her face. It seemed a little ashen and weight loss had made her facial skin loose and wrinkled. She assured me that it was just a temporary side effect of the new medication the doctors were trying. She said it seemed to be working and that things were progressing along so well that her doctor was thinking about letting her go home next Monday. Perhaps that’s exactly what I wanted to believe because I accepted her explanation with some relief. At the end of the visit I kissed her cheek and said I would be back soon. Mum reached out and took my face in her hands. She pulled me close to her and spoke calmly, “Don’t worry about me. Really, I’m fine.” Three days later I was devastated to get a phone call from the doctor saying that Mum had passed away in her sleep the night before.
It was a few months after my mothers passing that I met Mrs. Smith. I had pulled over my city bus to pick up some passengers at a stop near Market Street. I noticed by the logo on the plastic bag that Mrs Smith was carrying that she had been shopping at the super market directly across the street.
She smiled warmly as she struggled to climb the up the three steps to board the bus, “Pardon me driver," she began, " if it’s not too much trouble could you please announce the stop at Wallace Street for me? I don’t see as well as I used to.”
I smiled, “Of course I can ma'am. No trouble at all.”
After that initial meeting Mrs Smith was a regular on my route. By the second Wednesday she insisted that I stop addressing her as ma’am. “My name is Grace Smith but you can call me Gracie," she stated emphatically, "and you are….?”
“I’m Denny,” I answered.
After that, much to my surprise, Gracie began sharing personal insights into her life with me. She told me that since her husband Herb had passed away several years ago, she lived alone in an apartment building called “The Montrose” near Alexis Beach Park. “You know, even after 50 years of marriage together Herb still took my hand when we walked. I always loved that about him. I do miss him,"she said.
She talked about her “beautiful” daughter who lived back east. “I received a lovely phone call from her last night. She is just so thoughtful you know. She wants me to move back east with her but I don’t know. I don’t want to be a burden to her family and besides I quite like it here.”
Each and every week I continued faithfully to announce her stop for her. Gracie began to reward me with the gift of a few candies that she had purchased at the super market just for me. “See you next week Denny,” she chimed as she dropped them gently in my hand. It became a wonderful routine that I always looked forward to.
The last Wednesday before Christmas, everything happened as it always did. I picked her up and dropped her off across from the super market. On the return trip I picked her up, chatted with her for awhile until we arrived at her stop at Wallace Street.
Before Gracie started down the steps she reached into her coat pocket for the candy she wanted to give him. Not finding them there, she switched the grocery bag to her other hand and dug into the other pocket. “Oh my goodness!" she said, "I think I may have forgotten your candy.”
I smiled and waved a hand toward her, “That’s quite alright Gracie. I’ll see you again next week. You can catch up then," I quipped.
Gracie fumbled back and forth between pockets, searched her grocery bag, and even checked her purse. “Goodness! I truly forgot your candy and right before Christmas. I can’t let my favourite driver go home without a gift for Christmas.”
Gracie still quite flustered reached into her grocery bag, briefly shifted items around then pulled out an object and handed it to me. It was a small multicoloured piece of cardboard that held in place a shiny stainless steel metal ball with many holes within it. A short thin chain hung loosely from the top of the ball. Directly above that in bold black letters were the words “DELUXE LOOSE TEA HOLDER.” She placed it gently in my hand and said, "It's almost Christmas and I'm not going to let my favourite driver go home without a gift from me. I smiled happily very much appreciating the gesture she had just made to me. This sort of thing doesn't happen often here in the impersonal city.
As Gracie stood on the sidewalk waving her goodbyes, I called out as I closed the door “Thank you so much Gracie, Merry Christmas."
A week after Christmas, I was quite disappointed when I didn't see Gracie waiting at her usual bus stop. I I was disappointed again the following week and once more on the third Wednesday in a row. I became concerned for her health. “Was she sick? Maybe she had a fall.” I just knew I had to find a way to check up on her.
On my day off I drove to Fourth and Wallace to search that area for the Montrose Apartments, the apartment complex she had mentioned she lived in. I found it quite easily just a block away from her bus stop. At the entrance to the tall grey building I scanned the security panel for occupant names. Running my finger down the list I could not find a listing for Grace Smith.
As I was checking for the second time, an elderly gentleman exited the building. “Pardon me,” I said. “Do you live here?”
The fellow nodded.
“By any chance do you know an elderly lady named Grace Smith who lives here?”
“Sorry,” he said. “I don't, try buzzing the manager.”
I pressed the button to call the managers suite. “Manager here” a husky voice answered.
“I'm looking for one of your tenants, Mrs Grace Smith. Could you please tell me her apartment number?” I asked.
"Just a second," he said. A short delay and a rustle of paper later he replied, “Sorry, nobody by that name lives here.”
I was confused, “Are you sure?” I said. “She’s an old lady with grey hair. Always wears a red tam on her head. Surely you must know…….”
The voice cut him off, “Ya, I’m sure. Sorry buddy.”
I walked back to my car and drove to the super market. I asked every check out girl working that day and even spoke with the manager. No one remembered seeing an old lady of that description shopping in their store.
I drove home thoroughly confused and asking myself tons of questions. Why would she lie about where she lived? Did she go to her daughters back east? No doubt she would have told me if she was going. The whole situation made no sense whatsoever.
Later that evening I was sat at the kitchen inspecting the unopened tea holder package she had given me for Christmas and thinking about her. I undid the little twist ties holding the little ball to the piece of cardboard. As I rolled the ball around in my hand something caught my eye. When I separated the two sections of the ball a small piece of paper fell to the table in front of me. I slowly unfolded it. In a familiar scratchy handwriting, the very same I remembered by my mother were words I would remember with love for the rest of my life.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine," it said and nothing else.
I loved this story the first time yeu published it, Denny. It is so good to come back to it.
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