“I can walk,” she insisted. “But wheel me down, please.” The nurse stepped behind the wheelchair and navigated the old woman through the doorway.
They shuffled along until they got caught behind a crowd of nurses and patients.
Tucker stepped next to the nurse. “I’d be happy to wheel her down. Looks like you have your hands full today.”
“That would be great. Yes. Thank you.” The nurse turned to Sheila and hugged her. “It’s so good to see you. I was really doubtful she’d give in today. I was so worried you’d be disappointed, but we just never know.”
“Please don’t ever feel bad about that. I understand and I appreciate you being here with her all the time. Thank you so much.”
“Your family is very special to me.”
“We love you like family. Cassie will be here on Christmas Day, but I brought you a little something. I know they say we can’t do this, but if you don’t take it, I’m putting it in your car, so just tuck it in your bra and say thank you, okay?” She slipped a tiny envelope into the nurse’s hand.
“Merry Christmas. So nice to meet you, Tucker.”
Sheila looked at her mother, sitting demurely with her hands in her lap. And although that lost look was still there in her gaze, she looked happy at the moment.
Tucker pushed the wheelchair toward the activities, again greeting people in the kindest way as they wove between workers, a Santa in full getup, and other patients heading to the large community room where piano music was already filtering out into the hall. Tucker commandeered a spot for the three of them near the makeshift stage.
Sheila sat in the chair next to Mom’s wheelchair. Mom reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. A treasured moment.
The show began, and Sheila was sniffling back tears as nonchalantly as possible as an elderly man played “O Christmas Tree” on a lap steel guitar. At the end of the instrumental, someone flipped the switch on the Christmas tree and it lit up.
Mom’s eyes lit up too, and she clapped and clapped, as did many of the others as if it were the first time they’d ever experienced a tree lighting.
One of the doctors pointed to the man with the lap steel, and he started playing again, the doctor leading them all, belting out three verses of “O Christmas Tree.”
Tucker, seated on the other side of Mom, reached behind Mom’s wheelchair and passed Sheila his handkerchief.
She took it with a smile, dabbing at her eye makeup, andfeeling her heart rise into her throat as he rested his gentle hand on her shoulder.
For the next thirty minutes the staff led the entire group in the most popular carols. There was pitiful participation at first, but by the third song it was loud and quite fun.
The Carol Channing look-alike repeated her number from last year, and Tucker even wolf-whistled following her performance, which garnered a long gloved hand draped in his direction for a kiss, which he happily obliged.
“You are too much,” Sheila said.
“It’s joyful,” he insisted. “Where’s your Christmas spirit?”
“Alive and well, thanks to you,” she said.
An eighty-five-year-old man stepped to the piano. Although they’d announced that he’d be playing “Let It Snow,” he began playing “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.” People didn’t seem to notice, though, and since others were dancing, Tucker asked Mom to dance.
Her eyes lit up, but she looked at Sheila for approval.
“It’s fine. Go on. He won’t let you get off-balance,” Sheila assured her.
Tucker took Mom’s frail hand and danced right there in front of her wheelchair. Mom beamed. Before the song was over, he bent down and whispered something in her ear. She nodded, and he gracefully spun her. The others clapped and cheered.
Sheila’s heart never felt so full.
The old man at the piano moved into a brilliant rendition of “Silent Night” with extra runs. He must’ve been an accomplished musician in his younger years.
Mom fell asleep in the wheelchair, so Sheila and Tucker wheeled her back to her room to tuck her back into bed.
They wrote on her whiteboard and left a piece of cake on her nightstand.
They shut the door behind them to leave, and Tucker stopped her to give her a hug. “I know this must be so difficult.”
