My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(102)

“Hulda! Ethan!” Ethan’s mom whispered, motioning to where the family was saving us a pair of seats.

“Good evening, everyone!” I looked up and, for the first time, noticed Aunt Mary standing behind the pulpit, a hymnal in her hands. “Merry Christmas,” she said.

The entire congregation echoed her. “Merry Christmas!”

The room was lit entirely by candles and the white twinkle lights of a half dozen Christmas trees. Mistletoe hung on the end of every one of the old-fashioned pews. It wasn’t like walking into a church. It was like walking back in time. The people of Bethlehem had been celebrating Christmas Eve in that way for a hundred years. There was a comfort in knowing they would probably celebrate it that way for a hundred more.

“You okay?” Ethan whispered, and I nodded. At the front of the room, a pianist began to play.

“Let’s begin with hymn number 101,” Aunt Mary said as Ethan and I sat down on the end of his family’s pew.

There was a fluttering of noise as people picked up songbooks and turned to the page, but I didn’t need to see the music. I knew every word. Every note. And yet, when Aunt Mary sang “O Holy Night,” there was no way I could join in.

“The stars are brightly shining…”

Suddenly, I wasn’t in that little church in the middle of nowhere. I was in a hospital room singing for the small, frail woman on the bed. I was picking out the song on my keyboard. I was watching her eyes fill with tears as she asked me to sing it again.

“It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth…”

I was glad for the dim lights and crowded room. No one was watching me. No one noticed how my eyes began to water and my hands began to shake. And, most of all, no one looked at me and expected me to dance or sing. No one in that room cared if I ever sang again.

“Long lay the world, in sin and—” Aunt Mary’s voice cracked. The words faltered. She moved her lips, but no sound came out as her face turned white and she seemed lost, frozen.

“This was Daisy’s favorite,” she said after awhile, her voice so soft it was barely a whisper. It was like Aunt Mary was lost in a fog of memory and regret and the realization that she would never again share that hymn with her daughter. The pianist kept playing, but no one sang. No one moved.

Ethan’s mother wiped her eyes, and I felt the overwhelming wave of emotion that was rushing through the room. It was about to overtake us. And when the pianist reached the chorus, I felt it overtake me.

It was like when I offered Hulda my ticket; I didn’t make the decision to stand. I didn’t will myself to sing. But before I knew it, I was standing, walking to the front of the room.

“Fall on your knees…” The words came pouring out of me, my voice filling the tiny church as I stared into Aunt Mary’s eyes and realized she was no longer crying. She held out her hand, and I took it and sang louder.

“Oh hear the angel voices!” I sang like I hadn’t sung in years.

And I kept singing. I sang just for the joy of it. For the moment and the music and for me. I sang for Aunt Mary and Daisy and for all the people who couldn’t sing anymore. I sang because not singing would never bring them back but singing might make us all remember.

I sang because that is what I do when I am happy and when I’m sad. I sang because it is who I am when I am being the best possible version of me. I sang because I wasn’t alone as I held Aunt Mary’s hand.

I sang because it was Christmas.

*

When the song was over, I went back to sit by Ethan, who had his phone out. He was looking between it and me as if something didn’t quite make sense.

“It’s you!” One of the twins spun around and looked at me from the next pew, her voice was almost vibrating. “We knew it was you. We knew—”

“Hulda.” Ethan’s voice was cold, and I could tell he wasn’t calling me by my fake name. He wasn’t acting along. Instead, he held out his phone so I could read the message on the screen.

From: Hulda

Tell Liddy they’re coming!

“What are you doing here?” the other twin asked. “How did you meet Ethan? Where—”

But I couldn’t make out the words. The packed room was suddenly freezing. I swear I felt a chill. And when I looked up, I saw someone standing by the back door of the church. His hair had been blown askew by the strong wind. He wore a dark overcoat and a red scarf, Italian loafers that were perfectly polished. He didn’t belong in that place. In that world. But I also knew that there was no way he was leaving.

“Who’s Liddy?” Ethan’s voice sounded a thousand miles away. “Look at me.” He took my arm. “Who is Liddy?”

“I am,” I had to admit.

“You said your name was Lydia.”

“It is. I mean, it was. My mother called me Liddy.” I met his gaze. “Ethan, I’m Liddy Chambers.”

I waited for the words to sink in—for the name to mean something. But Ethan just asked, “Who?” and I could have kissed him. He didn’t scream my name or roll his eyes. I was neither adored nor abhorred by that boy in that moment, and I think I might have loved him for it. Just a little.

“What does Hulda mean, they’re coming?” he asked.

“She’s wrong.” I shook my head and looked at the man who stood by the doors, glaring at me. “They’re here.”