It’s me and Emery. Just father and daughter enjoying each other’s company. An overprotective dad and his lightly freckled, strawberry blonde princess, eating Shepherd’s pie for Christmas dinner at the family cabin. And lest I forget, joining us is a mechanically geared stowaway, my temperamental watch which I haven’t taken off since Emery first put it on my wrist 12 Christmases ago today. It’s my gateway to the past, although it hasn’t worked in 10 years, since the accident. I can’t bear to take it off. So many memories tucked away in every analogue tick.
Laughter—tick.
Joy—tick.
Happiness—tick.
Family—tick.
Christmas—tick.
And heartbreak—half a tick.
For some strange reason, pain seems to get stuck in-between ticks, holding its breath before the full effect of suffering catches up to it, while joy seems to spin a little faster on a person’s wrist.
Ten years ago, my parents, Robert and Sheila, were killed in a car accident on Christmas Day. A head on collision with a drunk driver took them away from me. It turned out that both front airbags were defective. They were coming back from looking at Christmas lights. My seven-year-old daughter was in the back seat. She was not wearing her seatbelt. She was thrown from the wreckage. She died instantly.
A Good Samaritan spotted her helpless body stretched across the gravel. He administered CPR to my dead daughter. Minutes later, Emery was alive again.
However, Emery has suffered excruciating pain ever since the accident. Flying through the front windshield at 80 miles an hour, her twisted frame was catapulted 50 yards from the car. Nine facial reconstructive surgeries later, Emery fights to fit in at school, wearing masks to hide her disfigured face. Her skull was fractured in 13 places. The only positive thing that came from this life-shattering situation is the softball-sized tumor that was discovered in and removed from the frontal lobe of her brain. Because of the tumor’s long tentacles, however, healthy tissue was removed along with the cancer, causing several symptomatic casualties, such as difficulty controlling impulses, memory loss, and a reduced sense of taste and smell.
On the 10th year anniversary of my mom and dad’s passing, I keep myself ridiculously busy by making Emery’s Christmas as festive as possible, while keeping mine as superficial as humanly possible.
I pour myself a fifth cup of eggnog as I think to myself: I would give anything to have one more Christmas with my mom and pop.
Emery leaves the table to go to the attic. As part of our tradition, we exchange one last gift after Christmas dinner. So she went up to procure my present. Not long after, I hear a scream. I rush to see if she’s all right. She assures me she’s fine. But her index finger pointed directly at a Christmas snow globe atop a small, round wooden table leaves me feeling simultaneously curious and confused.
“Dad, look!”
“Did you shake it?”
“No! I didn’t touch it,” says my 17-year-old daughter.
Tiny flurries fall without the catalyst of being agitated. No causal mechanism in sight. So I pick up the globe to take a closer look. What I see inside is, well, frankly impossible. I witness the scene of the accident as it happened 10-years-ago today. Emery shuts her eyes not wanting to relive the…
Vehicular collision.
Shattered glass.
Shallow breathing.
Bloody asphalt.
And broken dreams.
My heart palpitates. I can feel the rapid thumping ascending up into my throat and pounding in my temples. My extremities feel cold but my brain hot.
(There’s nothing more painful than watching the ones we love suffer, knowing there’s nothing we can do to stop it.)
I do the first thing that comes to me. I shake the rounded-glass violently. To my surprise, the scene changes. I look at my daughter whose curiosity has plucked her out of her paralysis. Her eyes open. The scars on her face disappear. I look back at the magical sphere. I see my family leaving the mall at the same time the drunk driver stumbles out of a bar. This is incredible, I think to myself. But I’m helpless to stop the inevitable. I look back at my daughter whose eyes are now fixed on mine. Suddenly, I realize what I must do. I shake it, again. Stop. And stare.
Emery finds my hands. Contagiously, her tears elicit a trickle from my tear ducts until our tears fall onto the globe at the same time.
The scene changes, once again. But this time the past is being rewritten. Together we look inside and see our tiny selves at the hospital, sitting in a cramped room waiting to hear from the oncologist about the results of Emery’s MRI and CT scan.
“The golf ball-sized tumor,” we’re told, “is malignant but operable.”
The surgery is a success. The cancer is removed without sacrificing healthy tissue. Our younger selves sigh in relief.
But then, in real time, Emery’s hands start to shake holding the ball.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I don’t know… But something doesn’t feel right.”
I hold the snow globe to give her hands a break. We watch the scenes inside continue to rewind until a new scene is set.
A woman gets into her car after working a double shift at the hospital. It’s been a hectic, stressful night for the ER doctor struggling to keep a little girl alive after she’s suffered a concussion, three broken ribs, a punctured lung, and massive internal bleeding, falling off her roof as she plotted to take a picture of Santa and his reindeer to assuage her curious mind. Sadly, the miniature mythbuster died in her arms. This is the fifth child she’s lost in the last month. The medical intern can’t shake the image of the last helpless creature spitting up blood onto her X-Small, green Whoville pajamas. It all feels like a cruel, cosmic joke: the blood on the girl’s pajamas complements the classic Christmas contrast of red and green.
She drives to Patsy’s Bar and Grill after her shift. A familiar watering hole which she has purposefully neglected to frequent on account of her recent sobriety. Until today.
It dawns on Emery and me that this woman is the drunk driver who devastated our family.
We forget we’re holding the glass ball. It drops and cracks when it hits the ground. To assess the damage, we move onto the floor. Then, something even crazier happens: as the liquid leaks out, it gets all over our hands. We find ourselves disappearing into the snow globe. Emery is five-years-old again as I’m also 12-years younger.
I drive to my parents’ cabin to see them. Unaware of any strange activity to their own personal timelines, they greet me as if nothing bad has happened or will happen. But I hold on to them a little tighter and a little longer. As I let go, it becomes clear to me that I must find the woman responsible for the soon-to-be sudden death of my mom and dad, and the long road to my daughter’s painful recovery.
I walk into Patsy’s not sure what I’d say if I see her. But I know I need to be there. I’ve never believed in God. But this strange situation has made me rethink my fate in relation to divine providence.
I see her sitting alone. I sit on the stool next to her. “I’ll have what she’s having,” I tell the bartender.
She looks straight ahead but sees me out of the corner of her eye. “Go spend Christmas somewhere else,” she says a little louder than a whisper.
I realize that confronting her about something she hasn’t yet done will sound crazy. So instead of attempting the juggernaut approach, I try to gently and empathically climb over her guarded wall.
“I know your work has robbed you of your joy… That’s why you’re here. That’s why I’m here.”
She turns to me with curiosity. I look up from seeing her C-shaped hand clutched around her drink to the baffled expression on her face. A round, soft face carved out of ivory beset with jade jewels for eyes. As her eyes water, she blinks in my direction, revealing flashes of intelligence, sensitivity, trauma, and fear.
No one in the bar says a word. It’s as if we’re stuck in a painting inside a snow globe.
I look closer. I see green mountains and canyons and valleys and plains. Her ruby red lips part and speak. “I’ve always wanted children. But I couldn’t have any of my own. And recently, I’ve been helpless to save them.” She pauses. “I know I’m not making any sense.” She looks me up and down, and resumes. “So, what’re you, some kind of psychic?”
“No… Just a man who’s had a lot taken from him. Grief has struck me. I haven’t been the same since. I’ve avoided feeling happy because I’ve felt like I didn’t deserve it… Truth is, I’ve never met anyone as sad as me … until today.”
“I don’t need your pity.”
“It’s not pity. Call it self-discovery.” I stop to enjoy the awkward silence between us. “For the first time in years, I want to be happy. I don’t want suffering to steal my joy anymore.”
She takes the drink out of my hand and slides it out of reach. “Then stay away from this.”
I reach for her hand guarding her drink and slide it away. “I will, if you will.”
Her demeanor softens. Amber specks resembling buttercups fill the forest in her eyes.
I bring her to my parents’ cabin to meet them and Emery. They welcome her to dinner.
At the table, she confesses, “I feel like … like I already know all of you. Is that strange?”
My mother answers, “No, Dear. I was thinking the same thing.”
I look at my daughter who’s smiling back at me. Her smile only gets bigger.
“What is it my Li’l Juniper?”
She points at the snow globe on a small wooden table in the family room. I can’t help but laugh out loud.
“Are you alright?” asks Amy.
I nod. “I’m fine. Just a tickle,” I say pointing to my throat. “Dust from the attic.”
“Attic?” my dad questions out loud.
I smile at Emery. She covers her mouth, holding back a chuckle.
“What time is it?” asks Amy.
I look at my watch, which is ticking again. “It’s 7:09.”
“I’m late for my second shift.”
“Before you go,” I say with an ironic smile, “how do you feel about snow globes?”
Emery stealthily slides out of her chair to grab the magic ball off the table. She hands it to Amy. “Here. Shake this one.”
Being a good sport, she plays along. The next thing I remember, Emery and I are back in the attic staring at each other from across the ball of glass.
My father opens the attic door and announces, “Your mom and Amy made your favorite—Shepherd’s Pie for Christmas dinner.”
My daughter answers, “Smells good, Grandpa. Can’t wait to taste it.”
I think to myself, Not only did God grant my heart’s desire. He went above and beyond.
Christmas—tick.
Family—tick.
Happiness—tick.
Joy—tick.
Laughter—tick.