Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Susanne Shaphren

Blue Christmas

When I wake up in the ER, my first thought is that I've ruined Christmas for everybody by getting shot ... NOT!

That's actually way down the list. First is to say a little prayer of thanks that I woke up at all. Second is to thank my dear departed Irish grandfather for the legacy of blarney that helped me talk the paramedics into passing the closest trauma center and taking me to the hospital where my OB-GYN has privileges.

Somebody who sounds an awful lot like me screams when the baby in green scrubs digs to China via my shoulder.

"Sorry, ma'am. Just need to probe to see how deep that bullet is. I'm sure you understand that we need to be cautious about how much pain medication we give you because of the baby."

I bite my cheek to keep from blurting out that I'm sure he understands the only reason I don't kill him is that I already have three homicide cases on my desk.

No Christmas angel could possibly look more beautiful than my overworked OB-GYN hovering over me as the gurney creaks down the hall toward surgery.

"Michaela, I just reviewed the ultrasound. We've got the first of two doses of steroids on board to give us an edge if the trauma causes you to go into premature labor, but I'm confident those little lungs are mature enough. The anesthesiologist will take every precaution to be sure the babies aren't in jeopardy during your surgery."

Did she say babies, as in more than one? Something in the IV sends me floating before I can ask.

When I wake up again, the three most important men in my life are in the room.

Gregg leans over, kisses me on the forehead and grumbles that his mother warned him not to marry a cop. The usually stoic ex-Marine doesn't make excuses for his wet cheeks, doesn't have to repeat what the doctors told him about how lucky his wife is. I overheard the nurses talking about the bullet fragment that missed my heart by a fraction of an inch.

Sucharskey, my partner for more years than I've been married, brushes away the 'sweat' that magically gathered only under his eyes and whispers in my ear that one of the dead perp's accomplices is safely in Madison Street Jail. That means the other two are still out there.

Shorter than most seven-year-olds, my stepson proudly reports that he read the sign forbidding visitors under twelve and figured out how to get in anyhow. "I just told 'em I was thirteen, Mom."

Even though he's lived with us ever since the honeymoon and I've always considered him more son than step, this is the first time Stevie ever called me "Mom." He has more than a trace of 'sweat' under his eyes too.

"I'm sorry I gave you guys such a scare. When can I get out of here?"

"They want to keep you overnight at least."

"Gregg, your mother will be in here three days. I haven't got anything near ready!"

"Michaela, you aren't going to jump up out of that bed and do Christmas. The doctors say you'll need a lot of therapy before you'll be able to bathe and dress yourself. When I told them you were left-handed, they couldn't even promise you'll be able to write again."

The social worker/case manager/God in a red velvet skirt and shiny green blouse demands I go to a skilled nursing center. I nod obediently until she disappears, then pick up the phone and arrange for in-home therapy and some part-time help.

Stevie's grandmother will have a Merry Christmas, enjoying every minute of making me feel like a total failure ... again! She's been the mother-in-law from hell ever since Gregg put the wide gold band on my finger.

I'd promised myself that this visit would be different. Surely her heart would melt when she saw my belly bulging with Gregg's baby. Then I would impress her by cooking the turkey to perfection (HER way of course). Slow-roasted in a low oven all night long, then turned up for the last hour to brown it to a food editor's picture-perfect crisp. The buffet of intricate side dishes I'd practiced one by one all year long would convince her that I was a worthy daughter-in-law after all.

Just this once, I wouldn't even whine that my idea of a perfect Christmas would be waking up to the heavenly aroma of Mom's special orange cinnamon rolls with caramel icing. Looking forward to ending the day with a big pan of her secret recipe lasagna to enjoy with everything-but-the-kitchen-sink tossed salad and garlic cheese bread.

Best-laid plans and all that. Trying to find a comfortable position in the hospital bed, I convince myself the "helper" I hired will produce a real Christmas miracle, the perfect dinner I planned down to the last perfect radish rose.

Reality crashes like Santa's sleigh when I finally get home and it takes me almost an hour to guide this anything but Martha Stewart through the simple steps of making Stevie a grilled cheese sandwich.

I can only pray that "light housekeeping" means she can at least shovel through the top layer of clutter and stash it before Gregg's mother arrives. Surely, two days will give us enough time for that.

It doesn't take a seasoned homicide detective to figure out whose freshly polished fingertips are drumming on the doorbell barely an hour later.

"Grandma Gypsy!" Stevie helpfully lets her in.

"Michaela." Is it imagination or is there the slightest trace of 'sweat' and mascara trickling down her cheeks? No candy apple nail polish! Her favorite spa is slipping. No wonder she cut her annual stay short.

"Gypsy, I'm so sorry. I'd planned the perfect Christmas dinner ..."

"Not to worry, dear. I'll take care of everything."

"I didn't even get to pick up the fresh turkey or do the rest of the shopping."

"I rented a car. Took the liberty of doing a bit of shopping on my way over. Stevie, could you help unload the bags?"

Too tired to even worry about what Gypsy must think of the clutter, what she's doing to my kitchen, I drift in and out of sleep.

The occupational therapist wakes me to introduce me to the torture of range of motion exercises.

"Nothing over your head until you see the surgeon next week. You'll do twenty reps of each of these exercises three times a day." He hands me a plastic tub of neon red goop. "This is TheraPutty. I'll leave you a sheet of suggested exercises, but the important thing is to keep your fingers moving as much as possible. Try to form a ball with just the one hand. Roll a string on the bedside table. I'll be back Friday to check on your progress."

Sleep again. This time, it's Gypsy waking me with a delightful steaming bowl that smells like ginger and garlic. Perfectly clear broth almost overwhelmed with cilantro, carrots, crunchy Chinese peapods, light-as-a-feather noodles and moist chunks of chicken. If my ever-so-perfect mother-in-law weren't sitting right here, I'd lick the bowl!

It seems a shame to have to follow it with the dreadful supplement drink the doctors insist I force down with every meal. Where is that deceptively small can that seems to grow larger with every horrible sip?

Gypsy disappears with my empty bowl and comes back with a tall glass topped with whipped cream. "Try this."

"What is it?"

"The can of sludge from the hospital mixed with chocolate syrup and ice cream. Did it work?"

"Like magic. Thank you. You're going to spoil me."

"My pleasure. That's what mothers are supposed to do."

"But I always thought ..."

"Michaela, it wasn't your fault we didn't get along. When Gregg married Stevie's mother, I turned myself inside out to be the mother that girl never had. It broke my heart every bit as much as it Gregg's when she divorced him. I just couldn't let myself get hurt like that again."

"I would never do anything to hurt Gregg or Stevie. Or you. You must know that by now, Gypsy."

"Not on purpose."

"Gypsy, I've been a cop for over a dozen years. Until this happened, nobody's ever shot at me. I've only fired my gun for practice or skills recertification. I'm not sure I'd change anything if I could. If my partner and I hadn't stopped at that convenience market, the manager would be dead. She's got a family, too!"

"I didn't mean to start an argument. We've had more than our share of those over the years. I decided before the shooting that it was high time I stopped protecting my backside and started being a good mother-in-law. It may take me a while to break some bad habits."

"We've got all the time in the world. Is there anything a beached whale with one good flipper can do to help with Christmas dinner?"

"Everything's under control."

"Should have guessed. My poor kitchen must be in a state of utter shock to have a pro on premises."

"Surely you don't think that I'm a whiz in the kitchen just because I've been a food editor since God was a boy? I'll bet your mother and you could cook circles around me. Gregg always said he would have starved to death if it weren't for frozen fish sticks and hot dogs."

"But Christmas ..."

"Was the one meal I HAD to get right. The Dragon Lady drilled it into me, one recipe at a time. Unless there was tinsel in my living room and a mother-in-law in the guestroom, most of my 'cooking' was done in front of a computer. You forget I was a working mother just like you."

"But the wonderful soup ..."

After Gregg's father passed away, I discovered it wasn't much fun to go out to eat alone so I started puttering in the kitchen. Practice makes perfect, as they say."

Santa comes early. Sucharskey drops by with a brand new laptop fully equipped with software and a connection to the department's database.

"It's for the boss. His wife decided my apartment was the one safe place to hide his gift. He surprised her with a ski trip so I figured we'd just get it all ready for him to use when he gets back. While you're testing it, you might pursue a few leads on our perp's known associates. There are a bunch of convenience store employees who'd consider that the best Christmas present of all."

"Deal. Why don't you join us for the traditional Christmas Eve dinner of take-out pizza and peppermint ice cream? I ought to have some pretty solid information to share by then."

I carefully pick around the green pepper that conspires with the tomato sauce to create a Christmas colored pizza. Ever since I've been pregnant, peppers give me heartburn. Not the slightest bit of guilt when I ask for an extra piece of pizza and two more scoops of peppermint ice cream. Plenty of time to worry about getting back into a size 6.

Gypsy takes Stevie for a ride to see Christmas lights so Santa and I have a chance to make sure everything will be ready for tomorrow morning. Sucharskey makes a couple of phone calls to be sure the right people know just where to look for our suspects. With any luck at all, they'll have lowest responsive bidder bracelets to wear by Christmas morning.

My Irish grandfather's blarney fails me miserably. Despite my very best wheedling, Gregg refuses to even consider taking me to church tonight. He insists midnight mass will be celebrated on TV this year. I'm too tired to protest, fall asleep long before I hear the familiar words and beautiful music.

Sunshine filtering through the curtains insists it's morning. I can hear by the muffled squeals and rustling of paper that Stevie didn't wait for me to open his presents.

Something's wrong! There's not a hint of slow-roasted turkey aroma no matter how hard I sniff. Must still be dreaming. It smells exactly like my mother's special orange cinnamon rolls.

Gypsy says Sucharskey called to share the wonderful news; all the perps are in custody. She hands me a Santa Claus tray. A perfectly folded green napkin with a real candy cane ring around it. Two still warm orange cinnamon rolls drizzled with caramel frosting on a bright red plate. A Christmas tree mug with more milk than coffee. Freshly squeezed orange juice. Who could ask for more?

"Merry Christmas!" Gypsy's lips aren't moving. It's not her voice either.

"Mom! What a wonderful surprise. You even made your wonderful rolls."

"And ruin this beautiful manicure? Not on your life!" My mother waves her candy apple frosted nails just like she's a Hollywood star showing off her diamonds.

"Gypsy?"

"Taste them, Michaela; the suspense is killing me."

"Exquisite!" I proclaim, far too happy to worry about talking with my mouth full.

"The real test will come later. I THINK I made your mother's lasagna."

"You gave my mother your annual week at the spa."

"Absolutely correct, Detective. When I knocked on her door to beg her to teach me to make your favorite dishes, we started talking. Turns out your mother had never been to a spa. We decided to trade ... my cooking classes for her spa vacation."

It's not sweat running down my cheeks. I'm not even going to pretend it's hormone overload. "Gypsy, nobody has ever given me such a special Christmas present. I don't know how to begin to thank you."

"Let me stick around and help a bit until after the babies are born. Your mother and I can share the guestroom."

Babies. Did she say babies, as in more than one? With all that's been happening, I never got a chance to ask my OB-GYN.

Copyright © 2004 Susanne Shaphren

About the Author
Susanne Shaphren's articles and fiction appear in a wide variety of print and online venues. She has an essay in the December issue of Dana Literary Society Online Journal, a story in the December Monthly Short Stories, and a mystery in the Winter edition of Futures Mysterious Anthology Magazine. Her short story, "Arrangements," appears in the book, Mystery Writers of America Presents Show Business is Murder.