Christmas Fiction: The Fix-It Box

Trees are going up, Santa is on every corner and parties are everywhere.  But Christmas is also a very difficult time for so many people.  Please remember to keep them in your hearts.  

I wrote this short story ten years ago and thought I would share it this week.  I hope you enjoy.  

The Fix-It Box

by Kelly Gamble

Poker in hand, I watch as the small fire burns in the fireplace. I can attack the logs and attempt to stir the flames, or I can let them die naturally. This is my first fire, and I'm not very good at it. Frustrated, I lie in the middle of the floor, small bicycle parts surrounding me, strung in every direction. With Christmas morning only hours away, I am considering giving up. I am not much of a single parent, and would have never chosen to be one. But David made that choice for me.

Slowly, the fire burns, hanging on to what life it has. I try not to focus on the dancing flames. They entrance me and keep me from the task at hand.  As is typical of this time of year, my mind is flooded with memories and although I am trying to focus on the assembly of my son’s bicycle, I am overwhelmed by the thoughts of those who have tried to help me over the past year.   

My family has tried to convince me that I am not to blame. They tell me that I should get on with my life and try to forget the past. My father calls David a coward; my mother never mentions his name. Jacob, my brother, at a loss for anything else to say, simply reminds me in his cheerful tone to ‘keep my chin up.’  None of them will be over for Christmas this year.

I look at the directions again, this time attempting the Spanish version. I don't speak Spanish, but it sure can't hurt. My anger grows as I realize what a waste of time this is. I at least need tools, but I can't bring myself to go to the shed where David kept his fix-it box. That was his place, and I'm not ready to enter it.   

I have talked to three counselors. They wait while I voice my questions, then wait again for me to answer them myself. If I had the answers, why would I spend what little money I have on them?   I have quit going to therapy, quit trying to make sense of the nonsensical.  There are no answers.  He left no note, he showed no sign that he was unhappy. Although I have never considered death a choice, it is the choice David made.

I consider throwing the directions in the fire.  There are too many pieces; the puzzle is too much for me.  Instead, I regain my supine position amongst the parts and cover my eyes with the paper.

I try not to think selfishly, but it's the little things I miss the most. Someone to change the light bulbs, to fix the television, to make sure the oil is changed in the car; someone to put a bicycle together for our eight-year-old son. Jimmy. He's now the man in the family and tries to protect and comfort me. It's hard for me to look at him sometimes. I can't remember when I last saw him smile.

As I lay among the pieces, I scream. "I hate you for what you did to us!" Then I curl into a ball, crying myself to sleep as I often do; missing David's smile, his scent, his touch.

I wake when I feel a cold chill as the front door opens. I turn as I hear it close, and see my husband, dressed for the weather, standing in the entry.  As he removes his coat, he looks at me and forces a smile. I cannot speak.  Closer, closer he moves toward me and sits with me amongst the puzzle.  He looks into my eyes, and touches my cheek.

"I'm sorry," he whispers with finality, as if there is nothing more to say.

I have no way to respond. I watch silently as he begins putting together the bike, using the tools from the fix-it box he thought to get from the shed. He talks as he works, showing me how to use the many gadgets that are in his precious box. "You can fix just about anything with this stuff," he says as he begins replacing the tools in their designated slots.

"But not everything," I manage to whisper.

I want to know why he chose to leave us, but I am afraid to ask. More importantly, desperately, I just want him to stay. Without looking into his face, I say, "I can't do this without you."

He leans toward me, gently kisses my forehead and traces the tear that runs down my cheek. "I will always love you," he whispers as he stands and turns to leave.  As I feel the cold chill of winter rush in again, I realize David has no answers.  There is no reason, no resolution.  If he cannot account for his actions, why do I continue to expect an explanation?  I cannot continue to allow myself to die inside because he chose not to live.  Suicide was David’s choice; it is not mine.   

I wake Christmas morning to the sound of Jimmy running down the hall. I'm sure I look a fright, still in my clothes from the night before, but Jimmy's eyes are focused on the bike: or what resembles one.  He kisses me on the forehead, just as his father used to do, and says “Merry Christmas, Mommy.”

It is our first winter without David. The laughter that had always filled our home on Christmas Day isn't present this year. I go to the restroom to clean myself up and take a long look in the mirror.  I am here, I am alive, and I can do this.  I dress and comb my hair, and Jimmy and I make the best of our party of two. 

The gifts are all open, but one small box remains under the tree. Jimmy picks it up and hands it to me. "It's for you."

I tremble slightly, holding the small gift in my hand. "Open it," Jimmy urges.

Inside the box is a small key, one that I recognize. I pick it up, hoping its weight isn't more than I can bear.

"It's the key to Daddy's fix-it box," Jimmy says softly. "If we learn how to use all that stuff, maybe we can fix some things, too." He glances briefly at the bicycle, and then lowers his eyes, cautiously waiting for my response.

I gently take him in my arms, feeling a tear trace the same path that it had the night before. "Thank you, Jimmy. It's perfect."

As I rock my son, I clutch the key tightly in my hand, wishing the items inside the box could fix everything. I glance at my fire, which struggled through the night but survived. I have to smile.

I have the tools. It's time to learn how to use them.

 ******************

'Paradise' A Bit of Fiction

 I've written hundreds of short stories over the years.  Paradise took second place in the Writers Weekly 24 hour short story contest and is still, ten years later,  my husbands favorite.

Paradise  

 

Katie tried to ignore the passersby as she hurried through the unfamiliar streets of the city.  A young woman, her face illuminated by a weak street lamp, looked at her and grinned; it was obvious Katie didn’t belong here.  She tried not to draw attention to herself, but it wasn’t easy.  “I will have to hide before daylight comes,” she whispered to herself, careful not to let anyone hear her speak.  It had only been four hours since her escape, but she was sure they would be looking for her by now.

           

She had never seen the city before, and the unfamiliar images that surrounded her were frightening.  Her fear, however, was outweighed by her excitement.  She was determined to find Benny’s Bookstore and inside, hopefully, the key to her destiny.  She glanced at the street sign above her head.  She was almost there. 

           

Katie dreamed of being someplace where she felt she belonged.  It certainly wasn’t this city, and, although the place where she lived was not necessarily a bad place, it wasn’t a home.  Her place of existence, as she liked to call it, was an institution: a sterile, white environment surrounded by medical staff.  She had been taken away from her parents at a very young age and sent to live with Dr. Bailey.  She had never understood why; no one had ever told her.

           

Dr. Bailey was very kind, as were the others that helped take care of her, but they were not family.  Rebellion became her way of coping.  She would not read what they tried to give her.  She played ignorant when they wanted her to speak.  If she knew they expected her to react one way, she acted just the opposite.  Her lack of cooperation had led them to assume that she was of low intelligence, incapable of learning even the basics.

           

But, Katie wasn't stupid.  In fact, she was extremely intelligent, far beyond what Dr. Bailey could ever imagine.

           

Katie had learned how to exit her locked room at night without being detected.  Because of her 'learning disability', no one ever suspected that she was capable of escaping after night call, so no one ever checked.  She knew the night nurses’ routines and could easily run throughout her home without any interference.  And on her own, she learned.

           

She had read every book in the library, some twice.  She had even managed to hack into Dr. Bailey’s computer and frequented the internet at night.  She often laughed at how sly she was, and how easily Dr. Bailey and the others were fooled.

           

Katie’s only knowledge of her family had come from information she had read in her own medical chart.  She didn’t remember them, being taken away at such a young age, and she wept when she read her own history.  Her grandfather had been an astronaut, one of the first.  Her parents worked for a major university, and after reading about them on the internet, she found that they were well respected in their field.  She had no brothers.  She had no sisters.  She had only Dr. Bailey, and her friend George, who truly was ignorant.

           

While she rarely pondered her dreams, Katie had been having the same one, every night, for several weeks.  She and George were on an island surrounded by palm trees.  Majestic mountains bordered their haven and a white sandy beach separated the land from the crystal blue of the ocean.  She was highly respected by the other inhabitants for her intelligence, and she openly shared her knowledge with them.  Astronauts.  Teachers.  Doctors.  It was a different world in her dream.  It was paradise.

           

When she told George about her dream, he had, as usual, quizzed her for every detail.  Katie called him Curious George, although he didn’t understand the meaning behind the nickname. George needed to be here, Katie thought.   

           

“It’s your treasure,” George said.  “Katie’s treasure!”

“Someday I will find such an island,” Katie told him. 

One summer afternoon, Katie and George sat together in the dayroom.  George played with the television remote control as Katie tried to concentrate on the various programs that appeared as the channels changed.  Suddenly, she grabbed the remote from him. 

She went back several channels, slowly, searching for something.  She glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to hear her speak.  “George,” she whispered, “Look!  It’s my island.  It’s on the television!”  They sat together in silence and watched as the wonders of Katie’s dream world unfolded before their eyes.

“Katie, you must find it.  You must.  Then you can come back for me.” George said as he gazed at the screen.  But Katie required no prompting.  She had already made up her mind.

She spent a week researching before she ventured out on her quest for paradise.  She searched the internet and found that there were several books about her island, but none were in Dr. Bailey’s library.  She sent messages to every bookstore within fifty miles of her home, looking for someone who had one of the books.  Three nights into her search, she received a response.

“Yes, I have one of the books you are inquiring about, but no one has asked for it in years.  I would be happy to reserve it for you.”  It was signed “Benny” from Benny’s Bookstore.  Katie wrote down the address and decided that her journey must begin there. 

           

Late the following night, after everyone was in bed, Katie dressed in the dark and left her tiny room for the last time.  She stole to the kitchen and collected provisions for her journey.  She went back to the area where she lived, opened George’s door, and kissed her sleeping friend goodbye.  “I will come back for you, I promise,” she whispered.  Then with one last look around, she escaped into the darkness, into the concrete jungle that she had only seen in books and on television.

           

Katie didn’t like the idea of breaking into the bookstore any more than she liked the thought of stealing the book.  But, as she stood in front of Benny’s she felt drawn to the dusty shelves inside.  She found a window in the back that had been left slightly ajar.  She was small and extremely agile and she managed to enter without a sound.

 

In the darkness of the old store, she relied on her night vision, which was exceptional.  She searched the shelves, reading the cover of each book.  After hours of searching, she was exhausted, both mentally and physically.  She sat on the floor beginning to feel as if her journey may have been in vain.  Some of the titles on the bottom shelves were difficult to read due to months, possibly years of neglect.  She began to wipe the covers gently, her last hope. 

And there it was.  What George had called her treasure.

           

She pulled the dusty volume from the shelf and quickly made her way to the antique cash register at the front of the store.  She had seen one similar to it before, and had no difficulty opening the drawer.  Forty dollars.  She grabbed the money quickly, thinking she may need funds for the next leg of her adventure.  She made a promise to herself that she would someday pay Benny back, and then darted out of sight, as a young man walked by the front window. 

           

She was anxious to begin the next leg of her journey, but knew once she started reading, she wouldn’t be able to stop.  She didn’t dare open the book.  Not yet.  Not here.  Holding the book tightly, she headed back into the night.

***

“Dr. Bailey?  Officer Scopes, here, NYPD.  I’m calling about the escapee you reported last night.”

“Her name is Katie.  Do you have her?”  Dr. Bailey had been up most of the night, worried about her alone in a strange world.

“No, no, I was just told to call you if I heard anything.  Actually, I doubt this is anything at all.”  Dr. Bailey noticed an aloof, almost jovial tone in the officer’s voice, which irritated him.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he replied.

“Well,” the officer began, “Didn’t you say she was stupid?  I mean, she can’t read, right?"

“No, Officer, Katie cannot read.  Please, don’t waste my time. Do you have a lead on her whereabouts or not?”

“Like I said, probably not.  I picked up a drunk in the park this morning that swears he saw a monkey that matches her description.”  He paused. “He said she was sitting under a tree reading a book.”

“A book?” Dr. Bailey said. “What kind of a book?”

Officer Scopes words were barely audible through his laughter.  “Planet of the Apes.  What else?”

Christmas Fiction: The Fix-It Box

Trees are going up, Santa is on every corner and parties are everywhere.  But Christmas is also a very difficult time for so many people.  Please remember to keep them in your hearts.  

I wrote this short story ten years ago and thought I would share it this week.  I hope you enjoy.  

The Fix-It Box

by Kelly Gamble

Poker in hand, I watch as the small fire burns in the fireplace. I can attack the logs and attempt to stir the flames, or I can let them die naturally. This is my first fire, and I'm not very good at it. Frustrated, I lie in the middle of the floor, small bicycle parts surrounding me, strung in every direction. With Christmas morning only hours away, I am considering giving up. I am not much of a single parent, and would have never chosen to be one. But David made that choice for me.

Slowly, the fire burns, hanging on to what life it has. I try not to focus on the dancing flames. They entrance me and keep me from the task at hand.  As is typical of this time of year, my mind is flooded with memories and although I am trying to focus on the assembly of my son’s bicycle, I am overwhelmed by the thoughts of those who have tried to help me over the past year.   

My family has tried to convince me that I am not to blame. They tell me that I should get on with my life and try to forget the past. My father calls David a coward; my mother never mentions his name. Jacob, my brother, at a loss for anything else to say, simply reminds me in his cheerful tone to ‘keep my chin up.’  None of them will be over for Christmas this year.

I look at the directions again, this time attempting the Spanish version. I don't speak Spanish, but it sure can't hurt. My anger grows as I realize what a waste of time this is. I at least need tools, but I can't bring myself to go to the shed where David kept his fix-it box. That was his place, and I'm not ready to enter it.   

I have talked to three counselors. They wait while I voice my questions, then wait again for me to answer them myself. If I had the answers, why would I spend what little money I have on them?   I have quit going to therapy, quit trying to make sense of the nonsensical.  There are no answers.  He left no note, he showed no sign that he was unhappy. Although I have never considered death a choice, it is the choice David made.

I consider throwing the directions in the fire.  There are too many pieces; the puzzle is too much for me.  Instead, I regain my supine position amongst the parts and cover my eyes with the paper.

I try not to think selfishly, but it's the little things I miss the most. Someone to change the light bulbs, to fix the television, to make sure the oil is changed in the car; someone to put a bicycle together for our eight-year-old son. Jimmy. He's now the man in the family and tries to protect and comfort me. It's hard for me to look at him sometimes. I can't remember when I last saw him smile.

As I lay among the pieces, I scream. "I hate you for what you did to us!" Then I curl into a ball, crying myself to sleep as I often do; missing David's smile, his scent, his touch.

I wake when I feel a cold chill as the front door opens. I turn as I hear it close, and see my husband, dressed for the weather, standing in the entry.  As he removes his coat, he looks at me and forces a smile. I cannot speak.  Closer, closer he moves toward me and sits with me amongst the puzzle.  He looks into my eyes, and touches my cheek.

"I'm sorry," he whispers with finality, as if there is nothing more to say.

I have no way to respond. I watch silently as he begins putting together the bike, using the tools from the fix-it box he thought to get from the shed. He talks as he works, showing me how to use the many gadgets that are in his precious box. "You can fix just about anything with this stuff," he says as he begins replacing the tools in their designated slots.

"But not everything," I manage to whisper.

I want to know why he chose to leave us, but I am afraid to ask. More importantly, desperately, I just want him to stay. Without looking into his face, I say, "I can't do this without you."

He leans toward me, gently kisses my forehead and traces the tear that runs down my cheek. "I will always love you," he whispers as he stands and turns to leave.  As I feel the cold chill of winter rush in again, I realize David has no answers.  There is no reason, no resolution.  If he cannot account for his actions, why do I continue to expect an explanation?  I cannot continue to allow myself to die inside because he chose not to live.  Suicide was David’s choice; it is not mine.   

I wake Christmas morning to the sound of Jimmy running down the hall. I'm sure I look a fright, still in my clothes from the night before, but Jimmy's eyes are focused on the bike: or what resembles one.  He kisses me on the forehead, just as his father used to do, and says “Merry Christmas, Mommy.”

It is our first winter without David. The laughter that had always filled our home on Christmas Day isn't present this year. I go to the restroom to clean myself up and take a long look in the mirror.  I am here, I am alive, and I can do this.  I dress and comb my hair, and Jimmy and I make the best of our party of two. 

The gifts are all open, but one small box remains under the tree. Jimmy picks it up and hands it to me. "It's for you."

I tremble slightly, holding the small gift in my hand. "Open it," Jimmy urges.

Inside the box is a small key, one that I recognize. I pick it up, hoping its weight isn't more than I can bear.

"It's the key to Daddy's fix-it box," Jimmy says softly. "If we learn how to use all that stuff, maybe we can fix some things, too." He glances briefly at the bicycle, and then lowers his eyes, cautiously waiting for my response.

I gently take him in my arms, feeling a tear trace the same path that it had the night before. "Thank you, Jimmy. It's perfect."

As I rock my son, I clutch the key tightly in my hand, wishing the items inside the box could fix everything. I glance at my fire, which struggled through the night but survived. I have to smile.

I have the tools. It's time to learn how to use them.

 ******************