Charlotte Taylor wiped sweat from her brow. She hated being a hospital housekeeper, 
  working until she was ready to drop while her friend and boss, Lenore, had a husband who also
  had a salary; Char's had died of cancer right after Vicki was born. 
             She punched out, washed her hands in the cubby-hole stained sink and turned to leave.
  Lenore came up behind her. "Char," Four-oh-one was just discharged. Would you handle it?"
             "I just punched out."
             "Time and-a-half."
             Charlotte nodded; she needed the money. "Tell me, why don't you ever complain? Even
  though you're the boss, your salary's not much more than mine and I can barely make ends meet." 
             Lenore shrugged. "I look at it this way: my job's just that--a job. I measure wealth by having
  good health and a loving family. In that sense, I'm rich. You know, here we are . . . what? fifty of 
  us working in this hospital? Every day we see things that make us grateful for what we do have, like
  that pale little seven-year-old who's dying of leukemia; or old man Greiger who's so senile he can't
  even wash himself. And how about that gal on three who made a living as a seamstress and lost her
  hand from diabetic gangrene?" Lenore shook her head. Returning to her seat behind the gray metal
  desk, she added, "Money can't buy health and love. Trust me; I know what I'm saying."
             "All flowery talk. Gratefulness don't pay the bills."
             "But in the overall scheme of life, those aren't important."
             Char spun around. "No? Tell that to my landlord, to the college my daughter wants to attend."
             "What good is money if you're too sick to appreciate it? What do you want out of life, Char?"
             "Money. And lots of it. Enough to buy anything I want." 
             "That's it? What about your daughter?"
             "That's a given."
             Lenore chuckled. "Nothing in life is 'a given.' Money? You better play the lottery."
             "I done it every week for the last five years," Char called back, heading upstairs. She  
  pushed her cleaning cart onto the elevator, thinking, Lenore's soft in the head. 


                                                                          March
             Saturday morning broke with sunburst, spring smells and birds swooping and singing. 
  Char rose and joined her daughter for breakfast in their three-room apartment. Immediately Vicki
  pressed, "Mom, what about my going to Vassar?"
             "I'm proud you got accepted to Vassar but unless you get a scholarship, you can't go. I'm
  not even sure I can send you to the community college here."
             "Great. Just great." Vicki lowered her eyes. "Community college! Vassar is special, Mother."
             Char shook her head. "I just don't have the money."Vicki jumped up, shoved her plate hard.
  "Why do we have to be poor!" She ran to her room.
             Stooping, picking up spilled food scraps, Char mumbled, "I'd give anything to be rich."
             Later that day, as Char prepared to go into town, Vicki came downstairs. "Mom, I just 
  wanted to tell you I'm sorry about this morning. I know you don't have the money."
             Smiling, Char said, "I'm sorry too." She kissed Vicki on the forehead. "Some day we'll be 
  so rich, we'll have everything we want." Char winked, then left for her usual trek to the local drug 
  store to buy the paper and her lottery ticket.
             Neither said much the next morning as they read the Sunday paper, lingering over house
  decorating ideas, and store fliers. Char sipped her coffee, then reached behind the spice rack to
  produce last night's lottery ticket. She leafed through the paper to the page with the lottery 
  numbers while mumbling, "Let's see how many millions of dollars I won this time."
             Vicki rolled her eyes, returned to reading the fashion page.
             Sounds of newspapers shuffling and coffee cups tapping against the formica table top
  lingered in the silence. 
             Suddenly Char whooped. "Ohmigawd!" She felt Vicki's eyes on her. "Look here! The
  newspaper! My ticket!" 
             Vicki was on her feet, at her mother's side. "Let me see! Char's hand trembled when she 
  gave Vicki the newspaper. 
             Their heads came together and they read aloud the numbers over and over, mechanically
  repeating: "40, 17, 67 . . . ."
             Char dropped into a ripped kitchen chair trying to catch her breath. "We won. Really hit, 
  after all these years."
             "How much? How much?" 
             "If there are no other winners, about four million." Char shook her head with disbelief and
  again rechecked the numbers. Then she leaped out of her seat, grasped Vicki's arms, and danced
  around the kitchen with her, laughing, singing, squealing. 
                                                                  Late October 1980
             Cool Fall winds picked up leaves and tossed them around the yard, across the wooden
  veranda. Char sat on the porch glider sipping Asti Spumante out of fine crystal. She pressed the
  intercom button and asked Robert to come out.
             "Yes, Mrs. Taylor?"
             "What's on tomorrow's schedule?"
             "You're leaving for Paris to shop."
             "Is Vicki going?"
             "She's leaving in the morning to ski in Switzerland."
             "Can't that kid ever spend time with me? She's either at Vassar or off somewhere!"
             "She says the same of you, Mrs. Taylor." 
             Char grumbled. "Send her down, Robert."
             "Yes, ma'am. Is there anything else?"
             "Have Carl bring the limo around."
             "Very well." He paused.
             "What is it?" Agitation colored her voice.
             "The staff, Mrs. Taylor. They're complaining of being overworked and underpaid."
             Char shot him a look. Don't they know how to be properly grateful for what they have?
  "They can look elsewhere for work." "But, Mrs. Taylor-"
             "Get Vicki." She shooed him away with the flip of her hand. Several minutes later Vicki
  walked out to where Char sat on the wrap-around veranda. 
             Char said, "You're looking grumpy today."
             Vicki sat on the glider near Char. "What do you want Mom?"
             "What do you want Mom?" mocked Char. "That's all you have to say? I haven't seen you
  since you came home from school for the weekend. Aren't I important enough to you?"
             "I didn't think it mattered to you. You're always going somewhere doing something
  entertaining at all hours." 
             "What about you?" Char set her tulip shaped glass on the wicker table.
             "I go to college. But you . . . you really went overboard with this money thing. Ever since
  we got rich, you changed." 
             "All my life I've been poor. Don't tell me how to live now that I have money."
             Vicki grumbled. "I give up." She started for the door, turned and said, "What's happened
  between us, Ma? We used to be so close, nothing could come between us." 
             "I don't hear you complaining about all the nice things the money got you." 
             Vicki sighed. "I'm sorry I even came home." 
             "Then leave." Char threw her hands up in the air.
             "I am. Switzerland first thing in the morning." Vicki stomped off, slamming the door.
                                                                  Early November
              Carl rushed the limo through heavy traffic. Char had to get home immediately. "Come on,
  Carl!" she yelled on the intercom. 
             "I'm rushing, Mrs. Taylor." 
             How could he drive so slowly when she was urgently called home? Char sank down in her
  seat, scanned the people outside the car window hustling to and fro from everywhere. How can 
  they look so caught up in their lives when something terrible has happened? The start-stopping of
  the car in city streets frazzled Char. She clenched her fists against the seat. 
             In the circular driveway, Carl shifted into park at the house's doubled-door front entrance.
  He said as he held open the door for her, "Looks like Dr. MacGuire's car is here."
             Hurrying into the foyer, Char dropped her coat into Robert's hands while asking her friend, 
  "What's wrong; one of the staff?" 
             "Let's sit down, Char." Mary led the way to the parlor. "Vicki's been in a skiing accident
  and is in the hospital."
             Char held her breath, her muscles going tight as a rubber band. The hysteria began building
  inside her, pushing itself to the top. "And? And?"
             "Damaged spinal cord."
             "She's paralyzed?" Her voice cracked.
             MacGuire nodded solemnly. "I talked to her Swiss doctors; they said it might be temporary;
  there's hope. They've immobilized her and are sending her here to our hospital."
             Char's voice sounded as though it would shatter the second she opened her mouth. 
  "Paralyzed? Her legs?"
             "From her neck down." 
             Sweat sneaked out at Char's temples, hands and knees rocked, light grew dim. She felt
  MacGuire walking towards her. The silence seemed so long that she thought she could count it the
  way she did with thunder years ago as a child.
             MacGuire cleared her throat, went on, "Her spinal cord injuries may have caused brain
  damage; she's still unconscious."
            "A coma?" Char's eyes got big, her heart beat fast; she had to suck for air. Backness
  swooped down on her quietly, swiftly.

                                                                            ***
             Outside the hospital window the wind whistled and slammed against the panes. Below, city
  storefronts boasted hanging turkeys or pointed Pilgrim hats. Snow blanketed sidewalks and car 
  roofs, reflecting the street lamps' yellow glow. What a Thanksgiving, sighed Char. Two weeks, and
  still her daughter had not spoken or even curled a toe. Char couldn't resign herself to having a rag 
  as a substitute for her once vibrant child whose only dream in life had been to attend Vassar. Char 
  had a dream once too--to become so rich she would never want for anything. 
             Walking back to the hospital bed, she placed her hand on Vicki's forehead. "Come on,
  sweetheart, talk to me. Open your eyes; move your fingers. Just a little, baby. Do it for Mama."
  Char shook her head, waited. Still no response. What had she done to deserve this? Please, God,
  anything! I'll do anything to get my baby back; make me paralyzed instead! She touched Vicki's
  upper arm. It felt cold, inanimate; her cheeks: white like whipping cream. Was she even alive? The
  rhythmic hiss of the respirator offered no comfort. Char ran her hand through her hair. Make things
  go back to the way they used to be even if it means being poor again. She studied her baby.
             No movement 
             It was no use; Vicki was paralyzed for life. Char rested her head on her arms at the bedrails.
  What will I do without her silly grin? Bright blue eyes? She stared unblinking at the small form that
  was made of her flesh, her soul. She sensed someone next to her and she looked up. "Lenore!"
  Without thinking, Char jumped up and threw her arms around the woman she had tossed off as her
  friend three years ago. Char liked the feel of Lenore's comforting embrace. "I thought I'd never see
  you again after the way I treated you and everyone when I-" 
             "Became rich and thought you were better than us?" 
             Char winced.
             "Friendship is one of those riches you can't buy." Lenore walked over to Vicki's bed.
  "Not even a little bit better?" 
             Char shook her head.
             "As soon as you came through emergency, the staff knew about it; I would've come sooner
  but I stayed with my sick mother for two weeks; my prayers were with you. All of us feel real bad
  about it, especially since we've known you and Vicki for years."
             "I don't deserve your prayers." Char reached for Lenore's hand. "It's something . . . my
  getting my start here in this hospital twenty years ago and now in this same place my whole world's
  collapsing. What a life." Char shook her head.
             "She's young, Char; strong."
             "You were right; nothing in life is a given." Char returned to the window, peered outside.
  How could everyone seem so holiday-happy when her daughter was fading? "I look back now and
  see that I was so preoccupied with wanting things, I was not properly grateful for what I had." She
  rubbed her eyes, then looked at Lenore. "You were right: money can't buy health or love. I really
  messed up."
             Lenore said nothing.
             "This is my fault! If I hadn't been so greedy, this wouldn't have happened. No matter what I
  had, I wanted more." Char returned to the sole bedside chair. 
             Minutes passed before Lenore said, "If you believe Vicki's paralysis comes from owning
  material goods, comes from your greed, then get rid of them. The Lord loves us so much that if we
  gave away all our possessions, he'd still take care of us."
             "You always were a dreamer." Char sniffled, pulled her shoulders back, dabbed at her eyes. 
             "A few weeks to Christmas. Miracles do happen."
             Char shook her head. "I think my baby will be like this the rest of her life. And it's my fault."
             Hours later, red-eyed, exhausted, Char slipped into the limo Carl drove to the hospital curve. 
             "How is she?" He looked into his rearview mirror. Then, pulling the long black car away
  from the curb, he asked louder, "You'll return again in a short while as usual?"
             She said nothing, just looked out the window at a Santa standing on a street corner ringing 
  a bell over a large pot, hoping to collect money for the needy. Needy. She repeated the word in her
  head. What had Lenore said? 'If you think Vicki's paralysis is your punishment for being so greedy,
  then get rid of all your wealth. At that very second, compulsion hit Char. She picked up the limo's 
  phone intercom: "You like this car, Carl?" 
             "Yes, ma'am," he whistled.
             "It's yours; happy holidays." She heard him gasp. 
             Near Hell's Kitchen she made Carl pull to the curb, double-parking. "Wait here," she 
  ordered while climbing out of the car. Reading a sign--"Brethren House"--over a paint-chipped,
  crooked door, Char entered. Ten minutes later she returned to the limo, got in the front seat with
  Carl who looked aghast at her. 
             Shocked, he muttered, "Are you all right?"
             She nodded.
             He maneuvered the limo into holiday traffic. "This is a seedy place, Mrs. Taylor. If I'm not
  prying, ma'am, may I ask what we're doing in this part of town?"
             Her profile forward, Char said dryly, "Giving away my money. Brethren House is a shelter
  for the homeless."
             If she had recorded the entire forty-eight hours after she left the hospital, had written it all
  down in a log or a journal, she could prove to the Guiness people she did it all in record time. To
  prove what, she didn't know. Surely it wouldn't return Vicki to her normal self. But the very act of
  undoing what she did by giving away her possessions made Char somehow feel purged.
                                                                       December
              Arctic gusts sliced deep into Char's raw nerves. She lowered her head, her body leaning 
  into the wind to ward off its biting edge. Walking the streets, she realized that her recent generosity
  had done little to change her daughter's state. Where was this God anyway? It's been almost a 
  month. When is she going to jerk a finger? Blink an eye? 
             She spotted a soup wagon and headed for it to get her day's meal. Christmas was less than
  three weeks away, making Char wonder where would she spend it; on the streets the way she spent
  the last two weeks after she had given away her furniture, antiques, coats, even her house with salary
  on Robert, Carl, and all the help? She had an attorney sign over half of her monthly lottery payments
  to a national spinal cord research center; some went to the cleaning ladies at the hospital where it 
  was divided into monthly bonuses, the rest went to orphans' homes, shelters, and friends at her old
  neighborhood, while all her stocks and bonds and other values were transferred to the hospital 
  where Vicki still lay lifeless. When she had walked out the door of her mansion at the end of the 
  forty-eight hours, she owned nothing except for a few undergarments, a couple of blouses and 
  slacks, and the coat The Salvation Army had given her.
             After eating a sandwich, she returned to the hospital where she heard nurses and others
  whisper, "There goes Crazy Charlotte Taylor, the cleaning lady turned rich woman turned bag lady."
             As usual, that night she sat at Vicki's bedside and told a story. "How about 'A Christmas
  Carol'; you always loved Scrooge." Char smiled, thinking how contradictory that was to her
  daughter's personality.
             What personality? Gone.
             Moisture filled her eyes as she stared at Vicki lying rigid. Char glanced up when Lenore
  entered the room carrying a small silver artificial Christmas tree and a box of ornaments. "Merry
  Christmas," she sang, handing Char the box. "Decorate it, then set it on Vicki's bedstand. 
             "Throw the tree away," snapped Char, and yet she absently hung a pink bulb on it, then she
  stood back and stared. Suddenly she backed away, putting her hands to her face, her body rocking.
  "Look at what I've done to my little girl--I've given her money to go anywhere, do anything--
  everything but my time. How do I make it like it used to be?"
             "I don't think it's in your hands." 
             Char wiped her face with a handkerchief and blew her nose. 
             "My house is open to you, you know that. Even with four kids, a husband, dog, cat, and a
  mother-in-law, I'd find a bed for you and Vicki." Giving Char a quick squeeze, Lenore left. 
             Char returned to mindlessly trimming the tree, listening to Christmas tunes drift from down
  the hall, thinking about how she would give up living if she never got her girl back. The holiday 
  music reminded Char of Vicki's seventh Christmas when they were so poor that only three presents 
  sat out. But still Vicki cheerfully placed icicles one at a time on their crooked, wilting tree while gay 
  yuletide tunes played on the old radio. 
             "The third present," Char said aloud to Vicki. "The third present was your gift to me.
  Remember that, honey?" 
             No answer
             Char went on. "On Christmas morning, you jumped up and down in your Dr. Dentons,
  squealing, 'Open it Mummy open it!' How I cried when I saw it. Such a beautiful present--a sheet 
  of red construction paper bordered by green strips with a stick figure of Santa in the center. You 
  had smudged it with excess glue, and on the bottom you scrawled in crayon, 'Mummy I luv you 
  i'm happy yore my mummy Mary krismess.' Blubbering, I said, 'It's beautiful!' and I grabbed you 
  and smothered you with wet kisses."
             She looked over at Vicki. Nothing. 
             "Remember how we sat in the middle of the floor holding each other? I said 'As long as I
  have you, I don't need anything else' and you started singing your favorite Christmas song: 'I wish
  you a Merry Christmas.'" Mindlessly fondling a blue bulb, Char turned back to Vicki.
              No movement
              "You remember the song, baby?" Char started humming lowly, then words came out 
  strong and solid, so loud that people passing in the hall looked in. Her body prickled with 
  excitement as she leaned over Vicki and sang deep from her heart. Her tears wet Vicki's face as 
  she sang, "I wish you a Merry Christmas. I wish you a Merry Christmas . . ." She squeezed her 
  daughter's hand.
             Vicki didn't squeeze back.
             "Come on, baby, please. PLEASE!" Char closed her eyes. Seconds later she tried again, 
  her notes off key, her voice shaky: "I wish you a Merry Christmas. I wish you a Merry Christmas."
  Hardly aware that onlookers stood near by, Char's voice reached the top of the scale as she 
  pitched out the words.
             Still nothing.
             She rested her head on the cold bedrails, feeling drained. Please, God. Make her say
  something. Again she sang, this time in hushed tones as though she had somehow lost her voice:
  "I wish you a . . . ." She waited; no response. Defeated, Char lowered her head to her lap and 
  wailed.
             A slight rustling noise and then a graon. So weak a sound.
             Slowly Char pulled her head up. Suddenly her heart felt stilled, like it had been held in 
  mid-air and pinched. 
             Vicki's eyes fluttered.
             Char screamed, hit the nurse's intercom, screeching, "Get Dr. MacGuire!" Instantly she 
  was cradling Vicki, alternating between sobbing uncontrollably and laughing hysterically.

                                                                            ***
             Sitting in the hospital room while Vicki was at physical therapy, Char felt depressed. Oh
  sure, Vicki had made great progress: she limped with a cane now and had only minimal brain 
  damage--certainly Char had a lot to be grateful for. The only problem was that Vicki was almost 
  ready to go home but Char had no house. She rubbed her eyes, exhausted from walking here and 
  there, calling this agency and that, talking to this or that person--all in attempt to get back some of 
  what she had given away so that she might be able to support Vicki. She had first gone to the 
  mansion she had given away in those quick forty-eight hours where a young man stood at the door
  apologizing. 
             "I wish I could help, Mrs. Taylor. I am indebted to you for pulling my wife and me out of
  shelters but my wife's mother and sisters are here; our baby is due and there's no room. I could 
  loan Robert to you. You did pay his salary in advance for us."
             Char laughed. "And put him on the streets with me? I shoulda never come back; this house
  is my past."
             Then she had gone to Carl to ask for help, but Carl had sold the limo and was running his
  own furniture store. Next she tried the homeless shelters, the orphanage, the hospital, but none 
  were able to help without first going through administrative channels. Next she went door to door 
  in her old community where Char had freely given each of her former neighbors money as well as 
  freezers to store all the food she bought them. Still no room.
             No room at the inn. At Christmas time. 
             Char rose and walked over to the window. Thanksgiving had come and gone and Christmas
  was at the doorstep. She had to find a place to live. She wanted to avoid going to a shelter--that 
  was no place for a kid at Christmas, especially a crippled one.
             Mary MacGuire entered the room, her mouth drawn tight like a line across the horizon. 
  "Soon Vicki will be discharged--insurance rules--so you must find a place. And according to our 
  records, your coverage is due to run out; if you let this premium lapse, you won't be able to get or 
  afford another carrier."
             "I don't have money to pay for insurance. I can't even put a roof over my kid's head."
             "I wish I could help but I can't let you stay at my house because I always rent it out while 
  I'm   gone over the holidays." 
              Char bit down on her lip, stared into space. Then she rose, and dreading to do so, she
  asked, "And if I can't?"
             "Vicki's only seventeen, a minor; child welfare wants--" "How soon?" Char wrung her
  hands, looked out the window. 
             "The surgeons have set her discharge for a week from today--Christmas Eve morning,
  sometime after lunch."

                                                        Christmas Eve: 8:00 a.m. 1980
             Having sneaked into a hotel lobby bathroom, Char washed, tidied herself and then set out 
  for the hospital. It was a cold snowy morning and the thin coat did little to keep her warm. She 
  tugged it close to her to walk the five blocks to the hospital. Will they release my baby to me? My 
  whole plan backfired. Not only do I own nothing now, but I can't even get my daughter back. 
             The shelters Char went to denied her access. "Worst time to try to get in is during the
  holidays, especially Christmas," one shelter manager told her.
             At the hospital Vicki lay in bed crying. "Mommy!" she wailed. "The neurologist said I can't
  leave with you; he's going to call child welfare, and they'll split us up!"
             "It's still early. I'll figure something out."
             "Miracles don't just happen! I don't want to leave you!"
             "It's Christmas. Miracles do happen." She wondered if she really believed that. She cleared
  her throat. "I'll be back." 
                                                                            ***

             At four-o'clock Char gave up. The people she needed to see were off for the holidays and
  those who were in had shuffled her from office to office. In the end the answer was the same: 
  "Your insurance will no longer cover your daughter's stay; sorry." Char felt failure the way she felt
  a kick to the head; couldn't provide her daughter with a home or even one measly Christmas gift. 
  If she didn't return to Vicki's room, they'd have to keep her one more day since Child Welfare was 
  closed; at least her daughter would then be fed and kept warm. 
             The cold smacked Char's face as she walked the streets, her eyes lowered, body stooped
  in defeat. Beaten, she climbed the snow-covered steps to a church; perhaps it would be open and
  she could hide inside awhile, thawing herself before she was discovered and made to leave. She 
  tried the door. Locked. She turned to leave. But then, for no reason, she spun back around and 
  tried the other door. It gusted open.
             Char closed her eyes. The sweet smell of incense embraced her as she huddled in a front
  pew. She unflapped her coat in the warmth of the lighted candles. Head leaning against the pew's
  back, eyes closed, she felt peaceful for the first time in months. Her taut muscles loosened as she
  silently pleaded, "Please Lord, help me; make it right again. You taught me a good lesson but 
  please don't take it out on Vicki. I've prayed my heart out to you and now I'm too weary to go on.
  I put it all into your hands. If I can't have her, give her a nice home with a loving family." She shut 
  her eyes and soon she reached some plateau distant from her earthly plane, letting the silence and
  heat envelop her, the serenity soothe her. 
             Suddenly she shot straight up. She had to say good-bye to Vicki before they sent her
  somewhere! Had to tell her that no matter where she was, Mama loved her. Char scrambled down
  the snowy church steps, ran down the sidewalk, her breath coming out in popcorn puffs, the chill
  bringing tears to her eyes. Faster she raced down the street, slipping, falling, struggling back up.
             In the hospital, people stopped, looked at her. A guard pulled her aside in the corridor.
  "Something the matter, lady? The hospital don't allow no bums in no matter how cold."
             Her lips quivered as he stared at her eyes, mouth. "I beg you; I'll only be a minute. Please!"
  Her whisper sounded so frantic that he looked stunned when he let her go.
             Huffing and puffing, she scurried up two flights of steps, her face shining red and wet from
  snow and perspiration. Her body heaved as she panted. Need to tell my little girl I love her, that no
  matter where she is, Mama will always lover her. Up another flight of stairs, down the hall, into
  Vicki's room where in one quick movement she scooped her child into her arms. "Oh, baby. I love
  you I love you."
             "Please Mama don't let them take me away from you!"
             Char nuzzled her face against Vicki's, their tears intermixing, "I'll always love you no matter
  where you are." The two remained holding each other, bawling. 
             "Charlotte? I've been looking for you. I think I found you a place," Lenore said, then turned
  towards Vicki, "And you, get dressed. Someone will be along." 
             Char and Vicki exchanged looks as Char followed Lenore, grumbling, "What's going on?
  I've got to get back to Vicki."
             "Trust me, okay?" Lenore guided Char to the parking lot. "You need a good coat; what
  you're wearing is flimsy."
             "I need a place to live, too."
             Neither said anything in the car. 
             Twenty minutes later, Char protested, "You've brought me to my old neighborhood. I told
  you I can't get my apartment back."
             "Another one has been made available."
             "How?"
             Lenore smiled. "The miracle of Christmas." 
             Char stared, her mouth open, as Lenore opened an apartment door. Inside stood a group. 
             Char went rigid when she saw all the faces; her eyes fell first on Carl. 
             "Hi, Mrs. Taylor," he said. "I couldn't get the limo back you gave me but I can do this for
  you." His arms swept in five rooms completely furnished with chairs, end tables, curtains, beds,
  appliances. "Merry Christmas."
             Lenore handed Char an envelope. "Housekeeping collected it remembering how much you
  used to do for us when you worked there and then when you gave us all those bonuses. We paid 
  for six months rent too. There's a thousand dollars in this envelope to get you started. Oh, and 
  you're hired back--that's the hospital's present to you, and since you donated so much to it, the 
 brass said they'll cover the bills."
             Char gasped, her knees trembled. Someone was leading her to a soft chair. She looked up.
  Robert stood over her. She tried smiling but her mouth twisted and her lower lip quivered.
             He kneeled alongside her, softly saying, "I'm a gift from the young couple you gave your
  house to. I'll take care of Vicki while you're at work, make sure her therapy is done daily. And I'll
  cook, do laundry, whatever you want." 
             "But that's not your job," Char choked out.
             "I know," he grinned. "That's my gift to you."
             Char heaved, her chest filling with pressure; she kept swallowing but the wad only cramped
  more in her throat. 
             A woman approached her. "Do you remember me, Mrs. Taylor? I'm the state orphanage
  director. Our children wanted to thank you for your generous contribution." She signalled to a child
  who immediately came forward carrying a bushel packed with gaily wrapped presents. "Some gifts
  are hand-made," continued the director. "Others were purchased with the children's allowances or 
  chore monies. I know a few of the gifts are gloves, scarves for you and your daughter." Smiling, 
  she added, "God bless you."
             The knot rubbed Char's larynx. Unable to say or do anything, she nodded and nodded, 
  like a wind-up doll. 
             Another unfamiliar face came forward. He held a wide box covered with a large clean white
  towel, saying, "I'm head of the association for the homeless and because you gave so much to our
  shelters, the residents wanted to return your kindness." He pulled back the towel and placed the 
  box in her lap.
             Char's hands flew to her mouth, a squeal escaping. Inside the box lay dozens and dozens 
  of cookies, cakes, fruits, rolls. She looked up at him, saw him motioning to another person who 
  walked towards Char holding yet another box, this one filled with steaming casseroles, hams, 
  vegetable dishes, quiches. "Ohmy ohmy ohmy!" gasped Char, finding it hard to refrain from 
  folding like an accordion and crying her heart out until it hurt so much, she couldn't ever again 
  move. Instead, she watched as the two men headed for the kitchen where they opened the new 
  refrigerator. 
             Silence fell over the room. The sound of "Joy to the World" could be heard coming from
  the apartment next door.
             Char got to her feet, feeling her body tremble. Her voice wobbled out, "Thank you. Thank 
  you." She saw her tears mirrored in their eyes. A few looked away, had grins on their faces.
             Footsteps out in the hall. She looked in their direction. 
             Dr. MacGuire was helping Vicki into the room, guiding her to a corner to set the small
  artificial Christmas tree on the top of the television. Vicki looked at her mother. "I couldn't leave
  it, Ma. It needed a home, too."
             Feeling ragged, Char choked up, pulled Vicki to her. 
             "Break it up," Mary teased. "I have something for you."
             "More?" Char heard her voice sounding high and screechy. Please, God, let me have some
  control. And then she smiled at everyone, allowing her tears  to flow unchecked.
             Mary handed her a key. "This is for that car sitting out there. It's not new but it's sure 
  works well. It's been all checked out. There's a full tank, and the first year's insurance has been paid 
  for. All the doctors and nurses chipped in. Merry Christmas." Mary winked. 
             Motion at the back entrance caught Char's attention. She spun around as the door opened.
             A former neighbor stood outside, wind blowing his beard. His hands full, he held the door
  open with his foot while saying to Char and Vicki, "Merry Christmas, friends; welcome home. We
  haven't forgotten what you've done for us." He nodded to someone behind him and in single file 
  they came. Twenty or so, men and women, boys and girls, carrying boxes of clothes and much 
  needed items like silverware, pots and pans; others brought food. Each walked to the door, smiled,
  then set their offerings inside the threshold. Then one by one, they walked away. 
             Char laughed and cried, dancing from one person to the next, embracing them, thanking
  them. To Carl she said, "Always you were there for me," and pecked him on the cheek. She threw
  her arms around Robert. "Thank you so much for putting up with me." To Mary, she cried, 
  "You're a wonderful doctor" and then she hugged her. She turned to embrace Lenore, but Lenore 
  was already in her arms. "You deserve better than me," Char said; she blew her nose, looked 
  around the room at her friends, studied each face, and thought, It is the miracle of Christmas.
             Over the next hour the room emptied, leaving Char and Vicki alone. They walked over to
  the little Christmas tree, looked at its ornaments and glowing lights.
             "This is the best Christmas I ever had." Char squeezed her daughter's hand. 
             This time Vicki returned the squeeze. "It's the richest."