The two girls sat at the desk like bookends. Shiny colored paper, fancy ribbons and bows littered the floor. Their hands moved swiftly and deftly. Scissors sang out in concert, clipping, cutting and snipping; changing plain brown and white boxes into beautiful presents flecked with golds and greens and reds. A candle flickered, filling the room with cinnamon scent.
"I don't like Christmas anymore, Alison," Paula suddenly said. "It's just not the same since . . . "
"Maybe it's meant to be that way when you grow up," Alison interrupted, using her best grown-up voice. In six short months when you become 13 like me . . . "
"I'm serious, Alison. It's already Christmas Eve and it doesn't even feel like Christmas. I'm just not in the mood. What does your mother call it? 'Touched with the Spirit of Christmas,' right? Right now, I feel more like Ebenezer Scrooge. Bah humbug!"
Alison giggled at Paula's funny expression. "Don't say that, Paula."
"Alison, I can't help but wonder if my parents' separation is my fault. You know, like maybe I should have kept my room cleaned. Or maybe I should have picked up after myself more. Maybe I should have eaten all my peas or something," she said, plopping down on the floor.
"Christmas is about family. It's all about the things you do with your family that lead up to Christmas Day. That's what makes it special. Family. We'd ice-skate in Rash Field. Or we'd go all the way to a Christmas tree farm in Westminster just to cut down our tree. This year, nothing's right!" Paula was so angry she wanted to cry, and soon a hot tear rolled down her cheek.
"Paula, it's not that simple. Nothing is ever that simple," Alison said, tugging her friend's sleeve.
"Hey, what time is it, Alison?" Paula asked, looking at Mickey's hands on the desk clock. She wiped her face on her sleeve. "It's already 3 o'clock. I've got to get out of here. I'm supposed to meet Mom. Alison, this was the best sleep-over ever."
"Yes, it was sort of like old times," Alison agreed.
"I've got to get to the corner of Union and LaFayette and fast. You remember, my mom's the one who doesn't like to wait," Paula said, giving her friend a hug.
Alison's family was in the kitchen. Her mother was dressing the turkey. Her dad and little sister, Jessica, were busy rolling out cookie dough. The baking made the house smell like Christmas. Paula remembered happier times like these.
"Merry Christmas!" she said, trying to make her voice seem cheery. She hugged Mr. and Mrs. Matthews tightly. "Thanks for everything."
"Wait," Jessica said, smiling a toothless grin. "I baked some cookies for your mom and you, Paula."
The little girl handed her a cookie tin. Paula held it to her chest. "Thank you, Jessica," she said, giving her a hug. "Thank you all," she told them and headed to Alison's room to pack. Alison helped.
"So long, I'll call you tomorrow," Alison said reassuringly when they were done.
In the living room, Paula put on her backpack, grabbed the handles of a shopping bag full of wrapped gift boxes and rushed out of her best friend's house and down the lighted streets of historic Havre de Grace. Now that she was living in Columbia with her mother, she felt as if she didn't belong here anymore. She felt like some lonely traveler carrying her worldly possessions on her back, miles from her home and family.
But no matter what, Havre de Grace would always be her home. It was her safe harbor. What did the French General Lafayette call it? "Harbor of mercy," she thought to herself.
She wanted to sightsee on her own before her mom arrived, so she'd actually left Alison's house before she had to. She loved how the older homes were dressed up for the season. The lights in the windows were on and awaiting the coming night. Alison could see this at anytime. Paula wasn't so lucky.
But there was something about the somber skies that made her feel the heaviness of the season rather than the joyful spirit of the lights.
She wound her way up the Promenade past the Decoy Museum and back toward the Maritime Museum to the Concord Point Lighthouse. The lighthouse always gave her comfort. Today, she needed comfort. Putting her bag at her feet, she stood on the point behind the lighthouse, staring out into the immense, lonely sky.
She wondered how sailors of old felt in this seafarer's town rushing home at Christmas from their journeys. She marveled at the thought. The straight, true light from the lighthouse would protect all souls at sea. It would bring them home safely to their loved ones, to their safe harbor. That's what Paula wanted now -- her own safe harbor.
The thought of it all held her. She knew she would include this wish in her evening prayers. She would pray for a light that would shine on her family and bring it back together again.
She heard herself humming. She hummed the song her father always sang to her: "This little light of mine, I'm going to let it shine. . . . "
She missed her dad. She wondered if she could really believe what he had told her for so many years. He always said, "Everyone has a little light. Let your little light shine as much as you can, whenever you can." He told her that over and over again.
Never before having a reason to question what he'd said, she was questioning it now. Did people really have a little light inside of them? Did she? Could she let her light shine on her parents' hearts the way the lighthouse beacon shone on the murky waters and showed the sailors the way home? She looked up at the lighthouse and wondered. Standing straight and tall, she quietly sang the words to the song.
* This little light of mine,
I'm going to let it shine.
This little light of mine,
I'm going to let it shine.
This little light of mine,
I'm going to let it shine.
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.
She pointed her light in the direction of the Aberdeen Proving Ground, where her dad worked. She imagined he was working there now. She let her light shine toward his heart. It was all she could do right now. She did the same thing while thinking of her mother, loving her and shining on her as much as she could. Could she make a miracle happen? she wondered.
The sky looked as though it might be breathing. The cold December wind blowing off the bay pressed against her. She pulled her coat closer. Like the lighthouse, she would not be moved.
As dusk came upon the sky, the lights around the lighthouse began to flicker and illuminate the building. Then the lighthouse itself came on. It looked like a giant candlestick, all decked out with boughs of holly and a big red ribbon tied like a bow, thanks to the Friends of the Concord Point Lighthouse.
A sea gull swooped in big circles overhead. The wind was beginning to stir again, lapping around her with its icy fingers. Then, suddenly, it looked as if the stars were beginning to fall. It was snow. What a wonder, she thought: snow on Christmas Eve. Too bad it wasn't visiting hours in the lighthouse; she wanted to climb the staircase and see the beautiful scene from on high.
Instead, she grabbed the handles of the shopping bag, adjusted her backpack and started walking toward Union and LaFayette streets. Her mother would meet her there.
Mrs. Bowen arrived on time, just as her daughter knew she would. Paula climbed onto the warm leather cushion of the car seat, putting her backpack and parcels in the back and buckling her seat belt. She kissed her mother's cheek.
"Did you have a good sleep-over with Alison?" Mrs. Bowen asked.
"Uh huh."
"How are Peggy and Hank?"
"Fine."
"Should I ask what you guys did?"
"The usual, you know, shop, listen to music, stuff like that."
"Oh. Did you deliver their presents?"
"Yes, they are under their tree. They sent us stuff, too. It's in the shopping bag in the back."
They got on Interstate 95. With the snow falling in big, fluffy
flakes, the route home to Columbia resembled a postcard.
"Isn't the snow beautiful?" Mrs. Bowen asked.
"You never liked driving in the snow before," Paula was quick to remind her mother.
"I know," her mother said sighing, "but tonight, for some reason, I just don't mind."
They drove down 95 without so much as a slip or slide. Paula was glad. She let the rhythm of the windshield wipers keep her attention so they drove mostly in silence. But finally she broke
the quiet, humming the little tune:
This little light of mine,
I'm going to let it shine.
This little light of mine . . .
"Mom, I've been thinking a lot about Dad. I miss him."
"And I have a feeling he misses you a lot, too," her mother said. "He would be with us if he could."
"Riiiight," Paula heard herself sarcastically say.
Mrs. Bowen turned into the driveway and parked the car in front of the garage door.
"Why don't you park the car inside the garage? Won't it get all snowy?" Paula asked.
"It'll give us something to do tomorrow," her mother answered cheerily.
Paula felt disgusted. She walked to the front door and opened it. She flicked on the lights. The room was immediately illuminated. The air was full of pine scent. Little pink twinkling bulbs adorned the 6-foot-tall Christmas tree. It was beautiful. The Christmas train was set up around the base of the tree.
Paula turned to her mother. "Why didn't you wait for me?" she complained, almost in tears. "You know I love trimming the tree!"
"We got started so late into the season," Mrs. Bowen tried to explain. "Dad and I decided . . .
"We've been talking, Dad and I, while you were at Alison's. . . . " her mother continued hesitantly.
Paula shot her mother a quizzical look. "What? Dad and you?!"
She heard noise coming from the basement.
"That must be your dad," her mother said. "He's probably getting more lights for the Christmas tree."
+ Paula's father was singing:
This little light of mine,
I'm going to let it shine . . .
"Dad? Daddy's here?" Paula cried. Her heart was racing.
"Your dad and I have had a chance to talk things over," her mother answered. "I don't know what it all means right now, but we thought we would at least try to have Christmas together, you know, as a family."
Her mother continued to speak but most of what she was saying was lost to the din made by Paula's feet rushing down the basement stairs.
JERDINE NOLEN, a Baltimore teacher and writer, is author of "Harvey Potter's Balloon Farm" (Lothrop, Lee & Shepard).