Hot Chocolate for Christmas Eve

Paul

"HOW COULD WE forget to make sure we had hot chocolate? It just won't seem like Christmas Eve without hot chocolate." Connie Hansen was so upset her voice was starting to quiver." Paul had agreed the first time she said this an hour ago. The second time, not 15 minutes ago, he had impatiently told her they would just have to live without it.

This time, with barely an hour left before it was time to go to Midnight Mass, he lost his temper. "If you're so upset about no hot chocolate, Connie, why the hell don't you go get some? There's bound to be a Starbucks open somewhere!"

"Fine! I'll do just that, but I'm damned if I'll bring you any!" With that she leaped up and headed for the kitchen door.

Why are we fighting like this? The damn chocolate isn't that important. He wasn't about to give in, though, not if she wouldn't. As she tore down the driveway, he was dismayed to see it had started snowing, snowing hard. He tried to call and ask her to be careful, but it went straight to voice mail. She must have turned her cell off.

Would we have such a silly argument on Christmas Eve if we had any children? But three miscarriages in less than three years—the last one putting her in the hospital for two days—had caused Connie's Ob-Gyn to strongly advise a hysterectomy.

After much soul searching and many tears, they had agreed and gave up the dream of family. The two years since then had been difficult. Sometimes Connie was moody, even snappish. A few times he came across her crying for no reason, but she said it was nothing and wouldn't talk about it. He sat and stared out the living room window, watching the snowfall through the reflected lights on the Christmas tree and worrying that they were growing apart.

Fr. Mike

FR. MICHAEL MURPHY (please call me Mike), pastor at Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Community, walked across the sanctuary making sure all was ready for Midnight Mass. As usual, a few were already in the pews, even though it was just past 8:00 and Mass didn't start until 9:00. Why do we still call it Midnight Mass? We haven't started that late for what, 45, 50 years? People just don't want to stay up that late any more.

The Family Mass at 4:30 on Christmas Eve was by far their best attended Christmas Mass. The church was packed with people who came for the procession with children costumed as the characters from Luke's beloved tale, the familiar carols, the re-enactment of the birth in the stable that took the place of the homily. He chuckled quietly at the last thought. I wonder who's happier about no homily, them or me?

As he walked down the aisle to make sure extra Christmas offering envelopes were available next to the bulletin, he shook his head at the irony of how important the Christmas collections were to the parish budget. But our Received Wisdom still insists that the crass commercialization of Christmas is because holiday shopping is so important to merchants' bottom line.

He returned to the sacristy to vest, hoping the snow that had started falling would stop soon. They had plenty for a white Christmas and he wanted those who came to Mass to have a safe drive home.

Connie

CONNIE SAT in her idling car at the Starbucks drive-through window, clutching and releasing the steering wheel in frustration. Hurry up! I need to get home and apologize. And get ready for Midnight Mass. Just as she was about to leave without getting her two hot chocolates, the barista—who looked to be more Connie's age than a recent high school or college graduate—slid open her little window and held out the two paper cups.

"I'm sorry it took so long. It's hard to find someone to work on Christmas Eve, and I'm the only one here. I won't charge you for them. I hope you have a very merry Christmas." Connie took the cups without comment and the barista started sliding the window shut.

Come on, Connie, it's not her fault. Quickly putting the cups in the holders, Connie turned to the window. "Wait!" The barista stopped, then slowly slid her window back open. "I didn't thank you. I'm sorry. I was rude. I know it's not your fault. Thank you very much. I wish you a very merry Christmas, too."

As she drove back toward the street, she didn't notice a pickup in the oncoming lane spin out. She carefully nudged onto the snow-covered street, only to watch in helpless horror as the slowly spinning pickup slammed into her right front fender, knocking the car against the curb.

Connie lowered her head to the steering wheel and visualized her mantra. I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry. The man driving the pickup got out and walked over to Connie. She lowered her window.

"Are you okay?" She nodded, still too upset to talk. "I'm really sorry. Once it started spinning I couldn't control it. It's so damn slick out there. I'll call 911. Are you hurt? I've got insurance. Shit—oh, sorry—I've really messed up your Christmas. I'm so sorry. I hope you can forgive me. Are you really okay?" He said all that without seeming to take a breath.

"I'm fine, but I really have to get home. Could we just exchange information without waiting for the police?" Just then a police car approached slowly with flashing lights. The cop carefully walked over and commented on how slick the streets were.

"I saw it happen, no one was driving too fast for the conditions, there's not much damage, was anyone injured?" They both assured him they were fine. "It's Christmas Eve, why don't you just exchange insurance information and go home?" He wished them Merry Christmas and started to leave, then walked back to Connie.

"Your car looks drivable, but the tire took a pretty good hit. Better be real careful driving home." She thanked him and started driving off before he reached the cruiser. The fellow in the pickup had already left. After she had driven less than three blocks, there was a loud noise from the right front and the steering wheel started shaking. Oh no! She pulled to the side and got out. The right front tire had blown.

She opened the trunk, but it was empty. She didn't know where the spare was, or even if they had one. She tried her mantra again. I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry. This time it failed. Tears welled as she took out her phone to call AAA. When she found it turned off, she remembered turning it off just after she left because she was so angry at Paul. Stupid! It was getting really cold, so she got back in and called AAA.

Connie realized she hadn't called Paul yet to tell him what happened. She called, not knowing whether he had left for Mass yet, but there was no answer, then it went to voice mail. "Please forgive me, Paul. I'll be home as soon as I can get there." She started crying, but regained control long enough to finish. "It was all my fault. I love you so much. Please forgive me." Please God, forgive me. Intending to end the call, she accidentally turned the phone off.

When AAA showed up, she thanked the driver for being so quick. He shrugged. "It's Christmas Eve, not many people out and about. What's the problem?"

She got out and showed him the flat tire. He went around to the trunk and lifted the floor, revealing a small tire and tools. He replaced the blowout with the toy spare, put the flat back in the trunk, and asked her to sign the paperwork. Suspicious of the tiny tire and unnerved by the slick streets, she took 30 minutes to drive home.

Paul

PAUL WAITED until 8:30, tried one last time to call Connie, then quickly wrote a note and taped it to the kitchen door. Grabbing a jacket from the hall closet, he reluctantly went out to his Prius and headed for the church, not noticing that he had left his phone on the kitchen counter. Snow was starting to stick to the streets, and what was usually a half-hour drive took closer to 45 minutes.

He got to Midnight Mass late, just as Fr. Mike started reading the Gospel. He kept looking where Connie should be sitting next to him, but for the first time in almost 10 years she wasn't there. He couldn't get into the spirit of the Mass, the rote prayers and responses faded to the back of his mind. Why'd I have to lose my temper tonight? What a stupid argument, about hot chocolate on Christmas Eve!

The sound of people standing and starting to shuffle down the aisle for Communion roused Paul and raised his anxiety level. Why didn't Connie come home? Is she still angry? Where could she be? She was a good driver, he wasn't especially worried about the snowy streets, but she could be stubborn. Just like me.

He received the wafer, passed by the cup, and with a slight twinge of conscience left before the Mass ended. Sometimes he complained to Connie when others did this, but this was different. I've gotta get back to Connie and apologize.

Connie

WHEN CONNIE pulled into their drive, she was dismayed to see the tracks Paul left when he drove to Mass, already half-filled with fresh snow. She found his note taped to the kitchen door: SORRY I WAS SUCH A STUBBORN IDIOT. PLEASE DON'T COME TO MASS IF IT'S STILL SNOWING. GOD WILL UNDERSTAND. I LOVE YOU.

She was torn. Mass had probably already started, but she was anxious to apologize. She'd been a bigger stubborn idiot. Ignoring his plea to stay home and her unease about the weather, she set out very carefully for the church.

Paul

IT WAS SNOWING harder now. He was anxious to get home, and County Road 21 was almost five miles shorter than his usual route. He seldom drove that way because the road was so poorly maintained, but with everyone going so slowly tonight it would be a quicker trip. Besides, he wouldn't be going fast enough for the potholes to matter. He pulled out of the church parking lot and turned left instead of right.

Still upset about their argument, he drove too fast. The black ice on the curve caught him by surprise. The anti-lock brakes chattered when he hit the pedal, but the Prius just kept skidding across the road until it came to a dry patch at the edge. It flipped, rolled twice while plunging 50 feet down the steep, snow-covered slope. Still sliding fast on its tires, it slammed into a large pine at the driver's door.

When it rolled, the windows shattered and the air bags deployed. The collision with the tree slammed Paul's head into the door frame and he lost consciousness. When he came to, he wasn't sure how long he'd been out, but he was already cold. His left arm and leg were pinned by collapsed sheet metal, his left eye didn't seem to be working very well. Everything hurt.

It hurt the worst above his left eye. He reached up with his right hand to explore, but snatched it back at the explosion of pain when he touched his forehead. His fingers were wet with blood, he could feel blood flowing down the left side of his head. He drifted back into unconsciousness.

Connie

FR. MIKE WAS locking the side doors when she walked into the church. It had taken Connie almost an hour to get there; she was still rattled by the fender-bender, and the snow got heavier. "Connie? What...why was Paul—"

"It's a long story, Father, and embarrassing. We had a silly argument...how long ago did Mass end?"

"Paul left right after Communion, which he hardly ever does, but I figured it was probably because of the snowstorm. That was about 15 or 20 minutes ago. Would you like me to get you Communion—"

No, no, I have to find him. "No thank you, Father. I'll come to Mass tomorrow morning. Maybe. It all depends. Right now I want to find Paul and apologize to him."

Fr. Mike blessed Connie and made the sign of the cross on her forehead. "Be careful, Connie. The roads must be pretty slick by now."

"Thank you, Father, I will." Bless Paul, too. She went back out to her car and turned right out of the parking lot. She drove part way home, then took her foot off the gas. There were no other cars on the street. If he's as sorry and upset as I am, he's in a hurry to get home. I'll bet he took the shortcut. She slowly pulled to the edge of the street, made a U-turn, and departed for home another way, toward CR21.

Fr. Mike

FR. MIKE LOCKED the front and side doors, then walked back to the sanctuary. He picked up the Book of the Gospels from the ambo to return it to the sacristy, but it slipped from his hands. When it hit the floor it flew open to Epiphany. The Gospel reading was verses 1 through 12 of the second chapter of Matthew. As he picked up the book and closed it, he read the last two lines: And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed for their country by another way.

He put the book in the sacristy, removed his vestments and put on a jacket, then went out and locked the door behind him. As he walked to the rectory, something nagged at his mind. He stopped to think—And having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed for their country by another way.

He shivered with a chill that had nothing to do with the cold and snow. Hurrying the last few steps to the rectory, he quickly unlocked the door, went to the phone on his desk, and dialed the sheriff's office.

—Mineral County sheriff, how can we be of service?

"Are you the dispatcher?"

—Yes. Who is calling, please?

"Oh, sorry, this is Fr. Mike Murphy from Our Lady of Sor—"

—Hi, Fr. Mike! This is Donna Shepard! I was at the Family Mass this afternoon. How come you're calling on Christmas Eve?

"This might sound strange, but are deputies on patrol tonight?"

—Yes, but only two. Things are usually pretty quiet on Christmas Eve, thank heav—

"Would you please ask the one closest to the church to meet me at the front door? And ask him, please, to hurry. I'm afraid a parishioner might need help."

—Well, sure, Father. Can I ask—

"I'll explain later, Donna. I'm pretty sure it's very important. Could I stay on line while you call him?"

—Of course, Father.

She radioed both units and asked for their location. Deputy Sam Goode's response made him several miles closer to the church, so she asked him to meet Fr. Murphy on the front steps of Our Lady of Sorrows and please hurry, but no lights or siren. He replied that he was turning around and would be there in 20.

After Fr. Mike heard both sides of the transmissions, he thanked Donna and hung up. Please, dear God, let me be wrong. He headed back to the church to wait.

Paul

PAUL'S MIND didn't seem to be working right. He was having trouble guiding his thoughts. Where's Connie? Why is it so cold? Why does my head hurt so bad? He started remembering the evening, a quiet dinner, arguing with Connie about not having any hot chocolate...Connie! Why didn't she come home? Did something happen to her, or maybe she's still mad...no, that can't be, not over some silly argument over not having any hot chocolate. The thoughts just tumbled forth beyond his control, racing so fast they seemed to crash into each other.

There had to be something else bothering her, something that hurts her, something really strong...what else could be bothering her, especially on Christmas Eve? What, ...oh God, it's probably babies! She can't have any more babies! I was so busy feeling sorry for myself I didn't pay enough attention to how it was affecting her.

Not just thoughts, but images, too. Connie in her hospital room after the surgery. She said "You'll never have a son or daughter, Paul. I'm so sorry." And I said "That's okay, Connie, the only thing that's important is for you to get better." I figured that would make her feel better.

But that was a lie, it wasn't okay with me. I was very unhappy. She knew I was lying. It made her feel worse, not better. We've had something in common ever since then: We both feel sorry for me.

Oh God, Connie, I'm so sorry I didn't think about you in my self-pity.

Another image, almost a year later, after a wonderful candlelit dinner, a very nice Cabernet Franc, coffee and brandy in the living room after. "Paul? You've been awfully quiet the last few days. What's troubling you?"

Yes, I'd been quiet. I'd been troubled. I'd been thinking about adopting. Connie would be a wonderful mother, and I would welcome the chance to be a father. Sure, it would be better if they were our own flesh and blood, but they'd be next best. And after a while they wouldn't be next best, they'd be the best. At least that's what the storybooks said.

But I was afraid to bring it up with Connie. Wouldn't that mean that every day she'd have to face her inability to have babies? To mourn the loss of her womanhood? How can I ask her to do that? My selfish desire to be a father overcame my worries about Connie. It's obvious now that I wasn't worried about Connie's feelings, I was worried she'd say no. That's why I fixed that wonderful dinner with candles and wine, then coffee and brandy in the living room.

I tried to make it her idea, not mine. "Connie, have you thought about adopting?" Her look told me immediately that my worry was right, she wanted no part of it.

"Adopt? N-no, I really haven't..." She looked frightened, like she'd heard a strange noise in the night. "Have you?" She looked at me, terrified to hear my answer, her eyes willing me to say anything but yes.

I was immediately overwhelmed with shame. I knew that I had hurt her badly. I knew it would hurt her when I planned that dinner to soften her up. When I chose the wine and brandy to seduce her into making my wants more important than her grief. So I said what she wanted to hear, and we've spent the past two years growing a little bit apart every day.

What did we do, God, that you would punish us like this? Oh God, Connie, I love you so much! I'm so sorry!"

The flicker of consciousness faded, and Paul's body continued to shut down non-vital functions. It's only job now was survival.

Connie

CONNIE DROVE slowly along CR21, barely aware of the potholes that, thanks to the snow, were mostly invisible and much less bone-jarring. As she approached the curve where Paul skidded off, she thought she saw headlights down off the other side of the road. She took her foot off the gas and touched the brakes, but the road was very slick.

Slowly stopping without pulling over, she turned on the flashers and got out. Leaving the engine running and the door open, she hurried as best she could across the road and saw Paul's car bashed up against a tree. Oh dear God, let him be okay, please let him be okay!

She took the phone out of her jacket pocket and started to press 911, when a wave of dizziness made her lose her balance. She flailed her arms, flinging the phone from her hand. Her feet flew out from under her and she slid face down to the bottom. Snow forced its way under her jacket and blouse, her face bounced along the frozen ground beneath the mantle of snow.

She kept sliding fast, until her left ankle wedged in the snow under the passenger-side rear tire of Paul's car. The trapped ankle stopped her, but her leg twisted and she heard something snap. Pain shot from her foot to her hip. It was so intense her brain blocked all sensory inputs. For a few moments she lay senseless in the snow.

Sam

MINERAL COUNTY Sheriff's Deputy Sam Goode turned left in the all-wheel drive SUV cruiser. I wonder what a priest wants if there's no emergency? Oh well, it might be more interesting than this. There wasn't much excitement this Christmas Eve. He went around the block and headed for the church.

The priest was waiting outside by the front door, even though the temperature was down to 10° and still falling. He described his concern and asked Sam to please hurry. Sam thought the story sounded pretty unlikely, but he looked forward to driving CR21 back to the other side of town. At least it'll be more interesting.