The Red Gloves Collection (6 page)

G
ideon was quiet while they set her up in a room. A stream of nurses came to draw blood, hook up monitors, and start an IV line. Thirty minutes later a drip bag was hooked to her other arm. This one contained the chemicals that would ravage her small body and maybe—if God smiled down on them—leave her cancer free one more time. But God had let the cancer come back. And he hadn’t done much to help Gideon’s surprise with Earl.

Why ask him for help now?

When the nurses were gone, Brian and Tish moved to Gideon’s side. Tish leaned over the bed and kissed her on the forehead. “How’re you feeling, honey?”

Gideon’s eyes were flat. “I don’t wanna be here.” She looked at the monitors stationed around her. “Can’t they do this stuff at home like last time?”

Brian wanted to rip out the needles and tell her it’d all been a mistake. That she had a cold, nothing more. He gritted his teeth and willed himself to smile. “You won’t be in long, Gideon. A few days maybe.” He took her delicate fingers in his. “One of us will be here until you come home, okay?”

“Okay.” Her voice was slow and tired. “But there’s one thing I wish I knew.”

“What’s that, honey?” Brian could only imagine the questions that had to be running through her head. Why her? Why now? Why, when it had looked like everything was going to work out? Of course even those would be nothing to the one burning question that had shouted at him every moment since their meeting with the doctor: How were they going to find the money?

Tish brushed her fingers lightly over Gideon’s hair. “What, sweetheart? Tell us.”

“I wish I knew … ” Gideon stared out the window. “ … if Earl opened my gift.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

E
arl must have passed a hundred trash cans since the Christmas dinner.

Each time he told himself to take the kid’s bag and throw it out—toss it in with the rotting food and wet pieces of paper and empty beer bottles. Forget about it the same way he’d forgotten everything else.

But each time he couldn’t do it.

Stupid kid.
Why’d she have to give him a present, anyway? He was past that, past the need for caring or being cared for. He was supposed to be planning his death, not worrying about what to do with some Christmas gift.

He wandered down the alley. It was Sunday, three days before Christmas. If he hadn’t been so preoccupied he might already have been dead by now. Instead—against every bit of his will—the gift had come to mean something to him. Maybe it was the child’s drawings, the crooked way she’d colored a Christmas tree on the bag or the wobbly letters of his name scrawled across the middle.

Somehow it reminded him of the life he used to lead. And that was the most frustrating part of all. Earl didn’t want to remember the past. Without the red gloves, it was over. Dead. There was no hope, no history, no family to conjure up in the cold of the night.

There was nothing.

Until he took the girl’s gift.

He felt in his jacket. It was still there, the scrunched-up package tucked into a deep pocket of his parka. He hadn’t opened it—didn’t plan to. Especially not three days before Christmas.

He leaned against a damp brick wall and stared at a slew of trash cans across the alleyway. The rain had let up, but it was colder than before. Icy, even. Back when he’d had the red gloves he would have been asleep by now, savoring the hours until daybreak. But without them, time ran together. One meaningless hour after another.

A breeze whistled between the buildings and made the cans rattle. Earl barely heard it, barely felt the cold against his grizzled face.

December 22.

No matter how distant he became, how changed he was from the man he’d once been, he would never forget this date. It was hard to believe five years had gone by.

He narrowed his eyelids and there in the shadows of the alleyway he could see them. The people he’d once loved. His mother and father, his sister and brother and their children. But most of all his girls: Anne and Molly. The women who had been everything to him.

Memories played out before him, the way they had constantly played out since he’d received the child’s present. A dozen Christmas Eves during which Anne had wanted only one thing: for Earl to join them at the annual church service.

“Come on, honey. Please?” She’d smile that guileless smile of hers and weave her fingers between his. “Your family won’t go with us. Please?”

But Earl wouldn’t hear of it. “I won’t be a hypocrite, Anne. You know how I feel about church. I wasn’t raised that way.”

“Think about Molly.” She’d wait, holding her breath, probably praying he’d change his mind. “She’s going to grow up without a single memory of her daddy sitting beside her in church.”

“That’s better than having her grow up knowing I’m a hypocrite.”

Anne would sigh. “Okay, Earl.” She’d plant a kiss on his cheek. “But one of these days, God’s going to blow the roof off your safe little box and you won’t have any choice but to believe.”

The memory faded.

Yes, Anne had known how he felt about church. His whole family knew, because they felt the same way. If a person didn’t believe in God, they shouldn’t go. And Earl’s people didn’t believe. It was that simple. He bit his lip and pulled his jacket tight around his neck.

If only he’d gone with her. Just once. What had he been thinking, denying her that simple pleasure? His belief system wasn’t the most important thing.

Anne was. Anne and Molly and the rest of his family.

Earl stared at his boots. Memories like that one came all the time these days. Morning, noon, night. It didn’t matter. Ever since he’d shoved the kid’s gift in his jacket there’d been one memory after another.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the brown bag. It was flatter than before, more wrinkled. Earl studied it—the trees, the angels, his name. He gave the contents a few gentle squeezes. What would a little girl buy for a mean old man like himself? Probably something homemade, like cookies or a tree ornament. Something childish like that. Whatever was inside certainly couldn’t make a difference in his life, couldn’t change him.

So why was he hanging onto it?

Open it, Earl. Open it.

The voice sliced through Earl’s consciousness. It sounded like Anne. But that was impossible. Who else could …

He spun around, staring first one direction, then the other. The damp alleyway glistened beneath the city streetlights, but it was completely empty. Where had the voice come from? And why now? It had been years since Earl had heard Anne’s voice that clearly. Certainly he’d never heard it over the cold winter breeze of a deserted back alley.

The words played again in his mind.
Open it, Earl.

This was ridiculous. He was obviously delusional. Maybe the cold was getting to him. Or his constant thoughts of death. Maybe he was fighting a virus. Whatever it was, he had no intention of standing there waiting for more voices. If the child’s gift was causing him that much grief, then fine. He would open the bag, and get it over with. Then he could toss it in the nearest bin and get on with dying.

He started to pierce the brown paper with his fingers, but the girl’s drawings stopped him. A burst of air escaped his pursed lips. Dratted child. Why’d she have to give him the gift in the first place? He fumbled with the string around the mouth of the bag and finally worked out the knot.

Leaning against the brick wall once more, he angled the bag toward the streetlight and peered inside. The darkness made it difficult to see, but it looked like a scarf, maybe. Or a wooly hat. He reached inside and felt a piece of paper. Earl’s hands were big and awkward, and the paper wrinkled as he pulled it out.

What was this? He unfolded it and found a colored picture of an old wooden stable and a manger that glowed like the sun. Around it stood different crayoned characters Earl couldn’t quite make out. But the most striking part was the girl’s message, scrawled across the bottom of the page:

Christmas miracles happen to those who believe. Love, Gideon

Earl’s heart hesitated. They were the same words the girl had shared with him that first night when she worked at the mission. He blinked and read the words again. What was he supposed to feel? Sadness? Truth? Hope? Those things had died from his life years ago. Yet, something strange and unfamiliar stirred in his soul. Hadn’t Molly drawn a picture like that the Christmas before she—

That was enough. He had promised himself he wouldn’t let the gift get to him. He folded the picture, careful not to add any creases. Then he tucked it carefully into his pocket and reached inside the bag for the gift.

The moment his fingers made contact with the soft material of whatever lay inside, Earl knew it wasn’t a scarf or a hat. The feeling was almost familiar. And it wasn’t one thing; it was two. He peered inside again and this time pulled out the contents.

As he did, as he stared at the matching items, the ground beneath him gave way. His head felt disconnected from his body, and he dropped to his knees.

I’m dreaming.
He blinked hard several times, but still the gift was there. How could it be? It was completely out of the question.
Impossible.

The child had never met him before that first mission dinner. She couldn’t possibly have known. Besides, how had she found them? They’d been stolen seven weeks ago. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Nothing made sense.

But still there was no disputing the evidence in his hands. The child had given him a pair of handmade red gloves. Gloves that looked exactly the same as those he’d lost.

They … they couldn’t be. Could they? How could she have found them? Earl leaned back on his heels, his body trembling. He peeled back the cuff of one of the gloves … and his heart sank. Anne’s initials weren’t there. Instead, stitched inside was this message:
Believe.

He blinked three times, but still the words remained. What was this? These gloves were exactly like his gloves. His red gloves. There couldn’t have been two pairs like this. They were Anne’s very own creation, the work of her hands. And yet, where were her initials?

He reminded himself to breathe. And then he brought the gloves to his face and breathed them in. They were his; they had to be. They hadn’t changed since the last time he’d worn them.

A sudden downpour of memories overtook him as he buried his face into the red wool. What was it Anne had prayed for him? That God would blow the roof off his safe little box and leave him no choice but to believe? Yes, that was it. That’s exactly what Anne had prayed all those years ago.

He peeked at the inside of the glove once more.
Believe.
It was still there. With a sudden thought, he pulled back the cuff on the other glove. It was the same as the last. Anne’s initials were gone, but the single word was there—in clean, new white thread.

Believe.

A chill worked its way down his spine.

Oh, Anne.

No wonder he could hear her voice as plain as the hum of nearby traffic. God had blown the roof off. Somehow this God he hadn’t wanted to believe in had done the one thing that left him no choice but to believe.

“God?”

He opened his eyes and stared toward heaven. No matter that the sky above Portland was flat and utterly dark. In that moment he could see beyond it to a place that wasn’t a figment of other people’s imagination. It was real. As real as God and miracles and life itself.

As real as Christmas.

Tears spilled from his eyes and he covered his face with the gloves once more. Suddenly he remembered the little girl. Gideon. He pictured her face, her piercing, innocent eyes. She’d spoken to him when most people would have avoided the idea, cared for him even after he’d shouted at her. And bought him the greatest gift of all, without receiving either a thank-you or even a smile.

What had he told her? That he didn’t like people and he didn’t like her. His insides tightened at the memory. What a wretched man he’d become. Anne wouldn’t even recognize him. Neither would Molly.

He clutched the red gloves in his fists and slipped them onto his hands, one finger at a time. Next he carefully folded the brown bag and found a pocket where it would stay dry. Poor little girl. She’d worked so hard on the gift. How could he have been so mean hearted?

His tears became sobs and he looked up once more. He had been terrible to the child, his behavior unconscionable. He’d told her to get lost. And when she’d wished him a Merry Christmas, he’d barked at her that he hated the holiday.

As though even God was grieved by his terrible behavior, a steady rain began to fall, splattering on his face and mingling with his tears.

“What have I done, God?” His words echoed down the alley. “Forgive me. Please, forgive me!”

The rain fell harder, but he didn’t care. He stayed there, his gloved hands tucked deep inside his jacket, allowing himself to be drenched by the downpour, washed clean from all he’d once been. The wetter he grew, the more layers melted away. “I believe in you, God! I do!”

God was real. The red gloves proved it. No matter how badly he had messed up, God wasn’t finished with him. Not yet. Right there and then, in the middle of a freezing downpour, a burst of sunshine exploded in his heart. He didn’t want to die; he wanted to live—to make his life good and wonderful and true, something Anne and Molly would have been proud of. The flame of their faith hadn’t gone out that terrible afternoon. It lived. First in the memory of how they’d loved him, and now in the burst of life deep within his soul. No wonder he had felt compelled to open Gideon’s gift. Look what it had done to him.

The rain continued, but he no longer cried. His face felt strange, pinched almost, and in a burst of understanding he realized why.

He was smiling.

A smile so big and bold it stretched into uncharted areas of his face, places that had forgotten the feeling. He had his red gloves back! They had to be his; he was determined to believe it. The unfathomable had happened. Somewhere in the city of Portland that little sprite of a girl had found his gloves. Maybe in a bin of old clothing or at the mission or maybe from a secondhand store. However it had happened, she’d found them. Then—not knowing what they meant to him—she’d made a decision to take them home, wrap them, and give them to him for Christmas.