Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [95]
Joe had gone to the food court to get them all a bite to eat. Her little girl seemed happy just to look around, leaning back in her wheelchair to take in the group of angel statues, her eyes wide with wonder.
“They’re so pretty, Mommy. And look at all the little ones.”
“Yes, I see,” Carol said abstractedly, peering into the crowd to look for Joe.
“No, you don’t. You’re not looking where they are.”
Carol made an effort and snapped out of her preoccupied state. “I’m sorry, honey. Which little angels do you mean?”
Maria pointed. “Right there. Those paper angels stuck in the green stuff. Aw, one’s broken.”
“That’s easy to fix.” Her mother reached out and reattached a dangling wing with a quick fold of the paper. She smoothed her daughter’s hair. “All better.”
Maria smiled. “When is Santa coming back?” she wanted to know.
“Soon,” her mother lied, wishing she knew herself. “Very soon.”
“Can I make an angel if we have to wait?”
“Ah—sure.” Carol rummaged in the large handbag slung over the back of the wheelchair. “I usually carry your art pack—yes, I brought it.”
“You can cut it out for me,” Maria said.
“All right.” Carol was glad to have something to do. When Joe got back, she was sending him up to the main offices to raise hell. She took out a piece of white paper and folded it in half, using a crayon to draw the outline of one side of an angel. “Now, you know I’m not too good at this, sweetie,” she said. “Remember the snowflake I cut out for you?”
Maria nodded and wriggled in her chair so she could watch her mother better. “It fell apart in a million billion little pieces.”
“Exactly. But an angel is easier.” Carol found the blunt-tipped scissors in with the markers and began to cut out the angel, holding it up and making it flutter. Maria laughed happily. The sound brought tears to her mother’s eyes.
“It’s beautiful, Mommy!”
“Do you want to color it?”
“No. I like it white. But can I write a wish?”
“Of course.” She pulled out a thick magazine so Maria had a surface to work on and positioned it and the paper on her daughter’s lap. “There you go.”
Maria thought for a minute, then carefully printed in block letters.
HAPPIE HOLLIDAYS TO AL
“Who’s Al?” her mother asked, mystified.
“All. It says happy holidays to all.”
Carol laughed. “Oh, I get it. But ‘all’ has two l ’s. Anyway, that’s a nice wish to make, honey.”
“Cut out another angel,” the little girl insisted. Carol obliged. Maria concentrated on her printing, then handed the angel to her mother to read.
PLEESE MAKE ME ALL BETR
“Did I spell it right?” she asked anxiously.
“Close enough,” her mother said, tears welling in her eyes again as she gave her daughter a hug.
“Put it in an empty spot where the big angels can see it,” Maria instructed.
Her mother nodded and tucked the two new angels into the surrounding greenery. Then she looked up, relieved to see that their Santa was coming back.
His face was almost expressionless. Offputting, although maybe Maria wouldn’t notice that he didn’t seem to have the holiday spirit, as far as Carol could tell. She gritted her teeth, wanting to get this over with and get her sick child safely back to the hospital.
He passed them by, to her astonishment, and vanished in the crowd. Next, not quite running but not walking either, came an intense-looking young woman—a girl, really—and a man with her who had to be her father.
The girl looked down at Maria, and Carol would have sworn you could hear a click, as if the girl instinctively knew how ill her daughter was. At least one person in this crowded, overwhelming mall cared about other people. That was something, Carol thought, straining to see where Santa had gone.
The young woman stopped by the wheelchair, over her father’s brief protest, and knelt so Maria didn’t have to look up. “Hello,” she said. “My name is Angela. I saw you make that angel.