Katie awoke that morning with the faint strains of a
strange melody echoing deeply in her brain. She blinked a few times then sat
straight up with a start. My God! she thought. What a dream!
She looked around her room. Everything was as it had been
the night before. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she got up and
walked over to the mirror above her vanity. She looked a mess. Her hair was
sticking out every which way from Tuesday and her eyes were still swollen from
all the crying she’d done the night before. Still, her heart felt different,
lighter.
Katie turned to look at the clock beside the bed. It read
7:25 a.m. Glancing out the window, she saw it was a beautiful, clear morning.
The sun was glistening off the new snow that fell during the night, turning it
into a white field of a million sparkling diamonds. Then it dawned on her: it’s
Christmas Day!
With a last look in the mirror, Katie decided she could do
better than what she saw. She slipped her sweatshirt over her head, discarding
it on the bed as she went to her closet. She studied her clothes; finally
deciding on an emerald green dress her mother bought her in the fall to attend
a cousin’s wedding.
She stepped out of her jeans and pulled on her bathrobe.
Going back to the mirror, she noticed the swelling around her eyes had subsided
a bit. She opened a drawer to look for a pair of pantyhose when suddenly, an
image of bright red and baggy Spandex tights flashed across her brain. “It was
just a dream, wasn’t it?” she asked no one in particular. After a few seconds,
she thought, Yeah, but what a dream. Katie found what she was looking
for in the drawer and headed towards the bathroom for a quick shower.
Emerging from the bathroom later feeling a little awkward
in her dress, her damp hair combed and pulled back into a ponytail, Katie was
ready to go downstairs and face the music, so to speak. Normally, she wore very
little makeup but she decided to forego it all together that morning.
Katie dreaded facing her parents after the way she acted
the night before. On the other hand, she felt compelled to find her father. She
walked softly down the stairs, making her way to the family room. As she
entered it, the room looked like it always had. The tree was ablaze with her
father’s beloved lights. Every decoration was where it should be. The area
under the tree was more than doubled with the number of presents from the night
before. And the stockings bulged like fat sausages.
In his favorite chair was Katie’s dad sleeping, his chin on
his chest and has hands folded in his lap. She smiled as he snored lightly.
Something was missing, however. Something wasn’t right. For an instant a wave
of panic shot through Katie until she realized what it was. The stereo was
silent. Evidently, her father fell asleep listening to a CD, which had played
out.
Katie walked over to the machine and switched it to the
radio. Immediately, strains of The First Noel came from the speakers.
Her father stirred at the sound and opened his eyes. Katie turned to face him,
fidgeting with the sides of her skirt nervously, not quite knowing what to say.
John focused his gaze on his daughter for a moment.
Finally, he said, “My goodness, Katie. You look beautiful in that dress. To
what do we owe this honor?”
Katie was clearly embarrassed. “Well, daddy,” she said in
voice edged with a little girl’s shyness, “it is Christmas. Merry
Christmas, daddy.”
“Merry Christmas to you too, sweetie.”
Not being able to hold herself back any longer, Katie
rushed over to her father. She sat on the arm of his chair, putting her arms
around his neck and hugging him hard. “Oh, daddy, I’m so sorry about the way I
acted last night. I really am. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
John slipped his arms around his daughter and said, “It’s
okay, Katie. I know you didn’t.”
“I love you, daddy. Don’t ever think for one minute that I
don’t.”
“My God, sweetheart. Hearing you say that is all the
Christmas I need. I love you, too. And don’t you ever forget that for one
minute, either.”
She looked her father in the eyes and smiled. “Merry
Christmas, daddy.” With that, she kissed him on the forehead.
“Merry Christmas to you, too, sweetie. Well, I must say
this is quite a change from last night. What happened?”
Katie stood up and started to walk over to the tree. “I
don’t know. I had this dream – you were in it. So were mom and Colleen. It was
weird, but it made me think about things.”
“Dreams can do that,” said John rising and joining his
daughter by the tree.
“It’s so beautiful, daddy. The tree – you do such a good
job with it every year.”
“Thank you honey. It’s nice to hear you say that. Hey, I bet if we look under it, there might just be a present or two for you.”
“That’s okay, daddy,” said Katie, slipping an arm around
his waist and leaning her head against his chest. “I’m just happy to be here
with you and mom. Colleen, too.”
“Well,” he said, a smile on his face, “this is a change – a
nice one. You’ve made my Christmas, baby.”
Katie gave him a little squeeze. Her eyes went to an
ornament on the tree, an ancient one that Grandma O’Houllihan had when she was
a girl in Ireland. Katie reached out and touched its delicate shape with the
tips of her fingers. “Connections,” she said softly.
“Hmm?” asked her father looking down at her.
“Nothing,” answered Katie. “I was just thinking about
grandma.” Her eyes started to drift up the tree till they came to rest on
something at the very top. She let out an audible gasp and stepped away from
her father.
“What’s wrong, Katie?” asked her father.
“At the top of the tree, daddy. How did that get there?”
Her father followed her gaze to the top of the tree where
the angel in the white lace robe should be. She had adorned the top of the
O’Houllihan trees since they were in Ireland. John saw what Katie was staring
at. “Gee, I don’t know, baby. I guess your sister put it up there.”
Katie shook her head slightly, her eyes never leaving the
top of the tree. “I don’t think so, daddy. I really don’t think so.”
At the top of the tree in the place where the angel should have been was a bright electric-blue baseball cap.