His Mistletoe Family. Ruth Logan Herne

to ask. But she knew if she called, he’d figure it out. He always did. “I’ll be right there. Which road are you on?”

      She breathed deep, the sensitive mic telling him she was moving. Turning, maybe? Finding her bearings? “I’m near the library.”

      “In Wellsville?”

      “Yes.” The lisped word drained energy from his meager middle-of-the-night stash. “It’s raining.”

      Pouring, actually. He grabbed a heavy jacket from a hook, his keys and a blanket to warm her. “I’m on my way. Go up the library stairs and wait. The rain can’t soak you there.”

      “Okay.”

      She wouldn’t do it. She’d be afraid someone would come along in the shadowed overhang. Find her. Make trouble. No, she’d feel more secure out by the street, with streetlights guiding her way, despite the teeming rain and lack of cover.

      She hadn’t called him in weeks. He’d hoped things were better. And he knew she’d gone to AA a couple of times, but he also knew overcoming addiction was hard work. Many a soldier under his command had fought addictive behaviors. Some succeeded. Some didn’t.

      But his mother’s angst and depression made her a prime candidate, and she’d resumed old habits once his younger brother Ben had died in a military chopper training run over rugged California mountains.

      Ben gone.

      Joe gone.

      And his mother had no one but him around to help pick up the pieces. She only called when desperate, but maybe this time he could make a difference. Maybe this time...

      He headed through Jamison, the picturesque little town buttoned up for the night. The Highway Department had strung lights and affixed wreaths on old-style lampposts. The whimsical effect proffered charm and invitation, and Jamison specialized in charismatic appeal. But tonight the prettiness of the Christmas season mocked him. He’d let down his son. His brother. And his mother wanted little to do with him most days.

      But that hadn’t changed much in four decades, so he wasn’t exactly looking for a miracle. More like peace of mind. Atonement.

      He pulled up to the library fifteen minutes later and found no sign of Joanna Stanton anywhere.

      He parked the SUV, climbed out and took the library steps at a quick clip, but no one waited under the overhang.

      “Mom?”

      He kept his voice soft and low. The neighbors living along North Main Street wouldn’t appreciate being awakened at three in the morning. “Mom?”

      Nothing.

      He took out his phone and punched in her number on his speed dial.

      “Hellooo?”

      “Mom, where are you?”

      “Who is this?”

      Brett hauled in a breath, looked around and still couldn’t find her. “It’s Brett. You called me for a ride. I’m here at the library in Wellsville. Where are you?”

      She hiccupped. “In Wellsville? At this hour? Why?”

      “Because you called me.”

      “Did I?” A long pause stretched thin before she spoke again. “Oh, I got a ride, but thank you very much for calling.”

      Click.

      She got a ride?

      From whom?

      And where was she now?

      He climbed back into the SUV and headed toward her apartment complex on the north side of town, then idled the engine outside, debating a course of action.

      No lights. No movement.

      He rang the bell, but wasn’t sure how far to go. Was she in there, passed out? Had some good Samaritan taken her home? Or had she decided to spend the remainder of an awful night with someone from the bar?

      He had no way of knowing, and not enough information to call 9-1-1. His mother was a grown woman with choices. He wished she’d make better ones, but that hadn’t happened while he was growing up. And her fifteen-year stint of sobriety had ended with Ben’s death.

      He got back into the SUV, drove home, gave up on the idea of sleep, stared at his bookshelves and moved right past the row of books on how to be a better person, settled on a new action thriller and pretended his mother was safe and sound in her apartment, cozy and warm.

      It was a form of make-believe he employed in childhood. It didn’t work any better now that he was a man.

      * * *

      No way would she make it to the church on time. Or even close, Haley determined as the boys took forever to get ready.

      “Do we haaaaave to go?” Tyler whined. “I’d rather stay home and play with toys.”

      “Me, too.” Todd plunked himself down and sent her a most serious look. “I don’t want to go to stupid old church. Ever.”

      “Church isn’t stupid,” Haley corrected Todd as she grabbed his coat from the back of a chair and tossed Tyler’s across the small sofa. “It’s nice.”

      Tyler snorted.

      Todd followed suit.

      Neither made a move to put their coats on.

      Haley decided reasoning might help. “And you’ve never been to this church—”

      “We’ve never been to any church,” Tyler interrupted. He folded his arms and braced his legs, a miniature man-in-the-making and too stubborn for his own good. “And if my mom and dad wanted me to go to church, they’d have taken me.”

      Not to be outdone, Todd mimicked the action and the out-thrust lower jaw. “Me, too.”

      Nothing in Psych 101 prepared Haley to argue with Tyler. So she wouldn’t. “Mom and Dad were busy. I’m not. Therefore we’re going to church.”

      “But!”

      “But!”

      “No buts. My house. My rules. And Sunday morning is time for God. For worship. For music.”

      “Could just get a stupid radio,” Tyler muttered, but he grabbed his jacket, slung it over his head and opened the door.

      “I hate this jacket,” Todd whined as Haley bent to help him connect the zipper. “It’s dumb. And Panther doesn’t like it either.”

      “Inanimate objects can’t be dumb, but it is a pain-in-the-neck zipper. And I think you’ve almost outgrown it, kid. And Panther’s a pretty smart cat.” She directed her gaze down to the worn stuffed animal. “He wants you warm.”

      “Really?” Todd’s face lit up. “Well, that’s nice.” He clutched the black cat tighter. “I can get a new coat maybe?”

      “As soon as I find time to shop,” Haley promised. She’d checked her bank account that morning. No transfer of funds as yet, and that meant she’d still have to invent time in her Monday schedule to find out why the second draft of the bank loan hadn’t been initiated. Concern tweaked her. What if the bank backed out? What if they wanted to renegotiate terms? Would her lawyer charge her more? Would the bank do that? Could they do that?

      She wasn’t sure, which meant she’d be working under a cloud the rest of the day, wondering. Waiting. Hoping the draft would be released in time to pay her subcontractors by midweek. Contracted workers didn’t take kindly to being stiffed anytime of year, but at Christmas? While finishing up the final phase of a large contract?

      Praying nothing was amiss, she got the boys into the car, drove the three-quarters of a mile into Jamison, found a parking spot and realized she’d be almost twenty minutes late for the first service at Good Shepherd, but ten minutes early for the White Church at the Bend.

      The