Christmas Bells Page 11

  Charlotte remembered precisely the last time they had been able to speak with him because Mrs. Collins had announced the Christmas story contest the day before their scheduled chat, and Charlotte was eager to tell him about it. But the next day, her mom couldn’t get him online at the proper time, and after testing the connections and emailing back and forth with some tech-services guy somewhere between Boston and Kabul, she had told Charlotte and Alex that they wouldn’t be able to chat with their father after all. She shook her head slightly as she gave them the bad news, her brow furrowing, which told Charlotte that their mom was puzzled but not worried.

  “That’s not fair,” protested Alex. “Dad said we could, and we waited patiently.”

  Charlotte agreed, but she knew that whining to their mother wouldn’t help. “Can we try again tomorrow?”

  “I’ll see,” their mother replied. “It can’t hurt to ask.”

  The next day, their mother informed them that she had been in touch with the people in charge, and they had told her that their Internet was down and they did not know when the problem would be resolved. This time her face was pale and her mouth was strangely pinched as she delivered the bad news, but while Charlotte paused to wonder about that, Alex blurted, “It wasn’t our fault we missed our turn, so they should let us go to the front of the line as soon as they’re back online.”

  “That’s right,” said Charlotte. “Did you tell them that?”

  “I did,” said their mother carefully, “but other families before us had the same problem, so we have to go after them. We may not be able to talk to your father for quite some time.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Alex slowly. “Does this mean we won’t get to talk to Dad on Thanksgiving?”

  Charlotte could not believe Alex had figured that out before she did. “Well?” she demanded shrilly, turning an accusing look upon their mother. “Does it?”

  “I’m so very, very sorry.” Her gaze dropped to her hands in her lap, and as she turned her wedding ring around her finger, Charlotte realized that she was fighting back tears, and she felt horrible for causing them. Quickly she apologized, and Alex surprisingly did the same, and their mother nodded wordlessly and held out her arms to them and they all clung to each other tightly.

  At that moment, Charlotte resolved that she would try even harder not to upset their mother. Her mom missed her dad too. She wanted to chat with him as much as they did. Complaining wouldn’t make the Internet expert work any faster. Charlotte would have to be patient, and she would have to remind Alex to be patient too.

  “It’s so hard to be patient,” she confessed to Emily over lunch on the last day of school before Christmas. “I was really counting on talking to my dad at Thanksgiving, and when I couldn’t I just wanted to cry, but I didn’t want to make my mom sad, so I had to pretend that I was fine. ‘Oh, this turkey is so good! Yum! Pumpkin pie! Sure, I haven’t talked to my dad in forever, but who cares when I have all this food to distract me?’”

  Emily shook her head, sympathetic. Charlotte trusted Emily with all her secrets. Of all her friends, only Emily knew how long it had been since Charlotte had heard from her father. Only Emily had seen the nasty note Mrs. Collins had scrawled at the bottom of her Christmas story. And only Emily had heard Charlotte say that the only good thing—and it wasn’t even that good—about the broken Internet in Afghanistan was that she could delay telling her father about her disgrace.

  “Charlotte?”

  “What?”

  Emily drew in a breath and carefully asked, “Are you sure the Internet’s broken in Afghanistan?”

  “It’s not broken in the entire country. Just where my dad is.”

  “I know that’s what you mean, but . . . are you sure that’s true?”

  Charlotte studied her, uncomprehending. “What do you mean? My mom says it’s broken.”

  “I know but . . .” Emily looked pained. “Do you think it is, really?”

  “You mean you think she might be making it up?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe?”

  “That’s impossible. My mom hates lying. She never lies. Why would she lie?”

  “Don’t get upset,” Emily begged. “I just—it was just—I don’t know. I’m just saying, it’s really, really weird that no one over there has been able to fix it yet. I’ve seen the commercials for the Army. Don’t they give the soldiers lots of training in electronics and computers and stuff like that?”

  “They know how to fix it. My mom says they’re probably just waiting for a part to be delivered or something.” As Charlotte heard herself say the words, she realized how ridiculous they sounded. “Oh, my gosh. I’m so stupid.”

  “I shouldn’t have said anything—”

  “I am so incredibly stupid. I’m the stupidest person in the sixth grade. No, in our entire school. Our entire school district.”

  “No, you’re not.” Emily touched her arm. “Charlotte, I’m so sorry—”

  “You don’t need to apologize. You’re not the liar.” The bell clanged. Charlotte bolted to her feet and seized her lunch tray. “I can’t believe my mother thought I wouldn’t figure it out.”

  She might not have, if not for Emily. Would her mother have told her eventually? It was so insulting to be treated like a little kid—

  Then her heart plummeted. She gasped and stopped in the middle of the cafeteria so abruptly that a seventh-grade boy bumped into her and knocked over her carton of milk. As it dribbled onto the floor, onto her cute, retro navy-blue Mary Janes, as Emily scrambled for napkins, Charlotte was struck by the only question that mattered.

  Why had her mother lied?

  Had her father been injured? Before he left, he had assured her and Alex that he would be in a safe place fixing broken trucks and equipment far from any actual fighting, but later, when they were alone and Charlotte had pressed him, he had admitted that accidents happened and the base wasn’t invulnerable. Was he, even at that moment, lying in a hospital bed somewhere? Was he— Could he be—

  The thought was so horrible she could not let her mind hold it.

  At last the school day ended. When her mother pulled up to the curb in their blue minivan, Charlotte scrutinized her through the window, hard, but nothing in her mother’s expression suggested terrible grief, just the usual worry and strain. Maybe a bit more than usual. Charlotte opened the door and slid into the front seat, dropping her heavy, overstuffed backpack onto the floor between her legs.

  “Hi, sweetie.” Her mother leaned over to give her a swift kiss on the cheek, which Charlotte tolerated in silence. Her mother threw her a quizzical glance as she merged into traffic. “Rough day?”

  The car was overheated; Charlotte loosened her scarf. “Same as usual.”

  “How was English class?”

  Charlotte felt her stomach lurch. “Fine. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. It’s always been your favorite subject, but you haven’t mentioned anything lately about books you’ve read or papers you’ve written.”

  “It’s not my favorite anymore.” Feigning boredom, Charlotte slouched down in her seat, heart pounding. Her secret was apparently still safe.

  Before long they pulled into the elementary school parking lot and spotted Alex on the snow-covered lawn, goofing around in the center of a circle of friends. When her mother beeped the horn, Alex high-fived his friends and bounded over, backpack mostly unzipped and bouncing wildly from the strap on his shoulder. “Hi, guys,” he exclaimed as he climbed into the backseat. “Mr. Donaldson said it’s supposed to snow tonight.”

  “I heard that too,” their mother said, reaching back to ruffle his hair as he buckled his seat belt.

  Charlotte dug a book out of her backpack and read as they drove to St. Margaret’s, listening to Christmas carols on the radio and trying not to cry. “You can just pull up in front and let us out, Mom,” C
harlotte said when they arrived, closing her book and wedging it into her backpack.

  “Thanks, honey, but I’d rather walk in with you.”

  Charlotte glanced over her shoulder at Alex. “You mean, to make sure we get there.”

  He scowled. “It was only that one time.”

  Charlotte sighed inwardly. Of course it had been only that one time, because their mother had never again trusted them enough to drop them off at the curb. It seemed unlikely that she ever would again. Suddenly her anger flared. Her mother didn’t trust her, but Charlotte wasn’t the one who had lied. In that way her mom was like Mrs. Collins, who punished the entire class when one student talked, who made everyone take a pop quiz when the first few students she called on didn’t know the answers. Legend had it that once upon a time, a student had stolen a test from her electric typewriter and had made copies for the entire class so everyone earned an A the next day. Ever since, Mrs. Collins had expected the worst of every student she met, especially the high achievers, and she caught genuine cheaters so often that the principal accepted her judgment without question.

  It wasn’t fair, to use Alex’s favorite phrase.

  Father Ryan was sweeping the sidewalk by the side door as they approached the church. “Hi, Father Ryan,” Alex shouted, waving. “Nice hat. The Bruins are gonna crush the Penguins tomorrow.”

  “You’d better believe it,” the priest said with a grin, though Charlotte noticed it faded a little as he turned to their mother. “Hey, Laurie. How’s everything going?”

  “Oh, everything’s fine,” their mother said, giving him a huge, bright, obviously fake smile. “The usual.”

  The concern in his eyes told Charlotte that he was in on the secret. “Have you heard from Jason?”

  “Oh, sure. We hear from him all the time, don’t we, kids?” Their mother looked to Alex and Charlotte for confirmation, nodding, but although blissfully ignorant Alex nodded happily back, Charlotte stared at her boots and shrugged. “But you know how it is. The Internet over there is always breaking down, and it takes forever to get online again, but as soon as it’s fixed, we’re going to get to chat with him again—”

  “I get to talk with him first,” Alex interrupted. “Mom promised. I want to make a rocket for the science fair and I have to ask Dad some stuff.”

  Father Ryan nodded, obviously concerned. How could their mother think Charlotte wouldn’t notice these things? “That’s wise. I’ve heard about you and rockets. It’s best to consult with an expert first.” Gently, to their mother, he added, “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Thank you, Ryan. I will.”

  “And tell Jason Merry Christmas from me when you speak with him,” Father Ryan said.

  “Of course.” Looking close to tears, their mother gave him a small, forced smile, placed her hands on Alex’s and Charlotte’s backs, and steered them toward the door.

  “Wait a minute,” said Alex as they entered the stairwell and started up the steps. “Why can’t Father Ryan tell Dad Merry Christmas himself? Isn’t Dad coming to church with us?”

  “Of course not, honey,” their mom replied. “Your dad is in Afghanistan.”

  “I know that, but isn’t he coming home for Christmas?”

  Charlotte couldn’t bear to have it all out in the stairwell, so she threw Alex a warning look. “Dad won’t be back until next summer.”

  Bewildered, Alex halted abruptly. “But he’ll miss the concert.”

  His mother held open the door at the top of the stairs. “He’s missed a lot of things. Come on, honey. We can’t be late.”

  Alex obeyed, for once. “But who will make gingerbread pancakes? Dad always makes us gingerbread pancakes on Christmas morning.”

  “I know you’re disappointed, honey, and I am too.” Her eyes were filling with tears. “Maybe we can get something special from the bakery instead, okay? Would you like that?”

  Alex reluctantly agreed that bakery treats would be all right, and they took off their coats and left them on the pew with their mother. “Nice going,” Charlotte scolded him in a murmur as they went to join the choir. Alex’s face fell, and with a pang of guilt, Charlotte quickly put as many singers between them as Miss Sophia’s seating arrangement allowed. She wished she hadn’t scolded him. He was just a little boy, and he had no idea that their mother had much bigger problems on her mind than gingerbread pancakes for Christmas morning.

  Eventually Lucas announced that they were going to begin rehearsal even though Miss Sophia hadn’t arrived. Charlotte and her friends exchanged significant glances, acknowledging the strangeness of it. They all agreed that Lucas was handsome for someone so old, and they all knew that he was totally in love with Miss Sophia, and they thought it was funny that he thought no one knew. To be fair, most people didn’t, including Miss Sophia.

  With Miss Sophia absent, Charlotte had no conductor to watch as they warmed up their voices, so she let her gaze travel over the pews, coming to rest on her mother, sitting pale and motionless in the third row, still in her coat and hat. She was probably concentrating on making up new lies to cover up the old ones.

  When Charlotte’s voice began to quaver with anger and worry, she tore her gaze from her mother. Sister Winifred was tidying up the pews, smiling to herself; Charlotte always thought the little nun looked as if she were whistling merrily inside her head. Some other kids thought Sister Winifred was crazy and were a little afraid of her, but Charlotte thought she was nice. Once, long ago, she had overheard her parents agreeing that the elderly nun was eccentric, perhaps, but harmless. If she occasionally seemed to be chatting with someone no one else could see or hear, at least they were cheerful conversations punctuated with occasional merry laughter.

  One day in late November, as Charlotte and Alex waited for their mother to pick them up after rehearsal, Charlotte had mentioned her Christmas story, which she had turned in earlier that day. “I should like to read it,” Sister Winifred had remarked. “Would you email it to me?” Charlotte, astounded to discover that nuns used the Internet, had sent it to her that very day. Soon thereafter Sister Winifred had said that she had enjoyed the tale very much and declared that Charlotte was “a natural storyteller.”

  Charlotte had glowed from the praise, but it brought her no comfort now. What if the kindly nun asked what grade she had received on the assignment and how she had fared in the contest? Charlotte could imagine the sparkle fading from her eyes, sorrow and disappointment driving away all merriment from her expression. What would she think of Charlotte then? Grown-ups always believed one another before trusting a kid. If anyone found out, Sister Winifred or her mother or—

  At that moment Miss Sophia hurried in and quickly shrugged out of her coat and scarf. She had just draped them over the back of a pew when a door closed at the back of the church and in walked the rich lady, the senator’s wife. When Charlotte had first joined the choir, the senator and his wife used to show up at rehearsals together and sit near the back, listening and watching, always leaving before the end. For a long time, though—Charlotte couldn’t remember exactly how long—the wife had come alone. Whenever Charlotte saw her, she was reminded painfully of the day her father had left for Afghanistan. The senator had been scheduled to speak, but he had been sick so his wife had filled in for him. She had done pretty well too. She had been funny when she could be and serious when she had to be, and she never said “Um” or lost her train of thought.

  Maybe the lady could ask her husband the senator to look into the stupid Internet problems at her father’s base, Charlotte thought fleetingly, before remembering with a sickening jolt that their Internet was probably working just fine.

  Charlotte was so upset that her voice cracked on a high note. The other sopranos were kind enough to pretend not to notice, but she was so mortified that she clamped her mouth shut and stared stonily at the back of the head of the girl i
n front of her. She didn’t utter another note until Miss Sophia picked up her baton and announced “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” and she only sang then because Miss Sophia would notice if she didn’t, even if she mouthed the words. And yet, as much as Charlotte had once loved that simple, beautiful carol, at that moment she would rather sing anything else.

  It was that carol—or, rather, the poem that had inspired it—that had gotten her into so much trouble.

  For as long as Charlotte could remember, she had loved to write stories. Her mother said that she had begun writing as soon as she could hold a crayon, but since she hadn’t known the alphabet, she’d had to read her stories aloud since only she could interpret the colorful marks on the paper. She always received the highest grades on her school compositions, and at the fifth-grade graduation ceremony the previous year, she had won a special award for the best historical essay in the entire class. Her name had been printed in a special place in the program and everything. So, in early October when Mrs. Collins had announced the student Christmas story contest, Charlotte was elated. If she won first place in her school, her story would go on to the district competition. If it won there, it would be sent to the newspaper to be judged by a team of experts. The top three stories would be published in the Christmas Day edition of the Boston Globe, and the week before, the winners and their parents would be invited to a special lunch with the editors and judges, where they would read their stories aloud and receive an engraved plaque.

  What a wonderful Christmas gift this would be for her mother, Charlotte thought. Mom always said that the best gifts were homemade because they were unique and came from the heart. Charlotte could give her mother her plaque and tell her that she owed her success to her, because her mother had read aloud to Charlotte from the time she was a baby and had never refused to drive her to the library no matter how busy she was. Her mother would be so proud. She would smile again like she hadn’t smiled since her dad left. She might even forget, if only for a moment, how lonely she was without him.