MY SON'S CHRISTMAS PRESENT - PART 2

My daughter’s tears sent my stomach spiralling down to my feet. Emotions raged inside – acute disappointment, a frenzied anger, a sense of hopeless defeat and, certainly not least, relief for having mentioned nothing to my son. It all showed on my face. Before I could start ranting and raving aloud, my daughter hastened to set things straight.

“They won’t tell me anything!” she exclaimed. “It’s so damned frustrating!”

I should have remembered crying came easy to this tender-hearted child of mine. In spite of her strength, anything remotely distressing could set it off. Catching my breath, I allowed a tiny glimmer of hope to reassert itself. My friend, knowing both of us so well, put a comforting arm around my shoulders.

“It will be okay – she’s probably just stuck in there waiting on baggage,” he soothed. “Don’t get upset before you know what’s happening.”

Then there she was.

I was looking at my friend that exact moment when she exited the gate, and it was his sudden, huge smile that turned me in the direction of his gaze. Yoshiko was walking toward us, her face sporting an immense grin of triumph, and I’m sure I sent up a thousand prayers of gratitude while covering the short distance to reach her. I’m suspect even the people at the security gate (who couldn’t help but be aware of the situation because of our numerous inquiries) felt like applauding while watching our reunion.

But the highlight of the event was yet to come.

My daughter drove away some minutes ahead of us. She was to park her car as close as possible to my son’s apartment, lower her hatchback seat, and then hide behind a nearby hedge with her video camera. I telephoned my son and calmly (don’t ask me how I managed that!) asked to speak to my mom. I warned her we were on our way so that she would keep my son indoors.

We arrived and, with excited giggling and anticipation, hurried to set things up outside. Yoshiko was installed, a fur-trimmed, red Santa’s hat on her head, lying on her stomach in my daughter’s car. She was facing the trunk door, which she held down so that I could open it without the key at the appropriate moment. My daughter crouched behind the hedge, camera ready, and my friend and I went to my son’s door.

My son greeted us warmly, expressing his surprise and appreciation for the housework his grandmother had done. My mom was standing behind him, trying to hide her glee, signalling frantically that he still knew nothing. We talked for a moment, then, when my son asked us to come and sit down for a coffee, I embarked on the last part of the planned scene.

“Put your boots on and come out to my truck, B.,” I told him. “You need to help my friend carry in your Christmas gift. It’s too heavy for one person.”

“What? What did you buy now?” my son remonstrated. “I thought you said we’re all getting small gifts this year to save money?”

I made “Well, you know me…you could use a dishwasher…” noises, so he moved to do as I asked, dressing for the Quebec winter, still scolding good-naturedly as we went outside. When the three of us reached my daughter’s car, I stopped. “Hey, look! This one is just like your sister’s!” I said to him.

“Yeh, well she’s not the only one who has a grey Mazda,” he answered, and continued walking with my friend (who didn’t know exactly what to do now so just played along), heading for my truck parked on the other side of the street.

I took a deep breathe to keep my voice steady. “Hey, wait, B.,” I called to him. “There’s something about this car….”

My son stopped and came back towards me. “Look, Mom, “he said, with his ‘it’s-my-mom-and-I-love-her-so-will-be-patient’ tone. “You’re in the city here, not a village. Mazda sold more than one of those cars….”

He broke off, aghast, when I leaned over and lifted the trunk door, not quite sure what I was doing; probably picturing a car alarm sounding off, police involvement, and heaven knows what else. Then, because I still stood there, he leaned over to peer into the trunk, totally not noticing his sister who had snuck out from behind the hedge, video camera whirring.

The world stopped moving for a second. Completely stunned, he stared down at Yoshiko. Chin in hand, Santa’s hat askew on her long, black hair, she smiled up at him, her dark eyes twinkling in the streetlights. “Merry Chlistmas, B.!” she said softly, her Japanese accent replacing the ‘r’ with the ‘l’.

It’s a challenge to put into words what happened next. My son uttered something unprintable, then turned and strode away from the car, holding his head in both hands. “This isn’t true - you’re kidding – it can’t be true - *”$% - is this real?....” was part of his reaction. Yoshiko stayed put, waiting, the smile still in place. She knew her man. Within nano-seconds he was back, hauling her out of the trunk, and hugging her so tightly to him that her feet left the ground. His face was hidden, buried in her hair, and there they stood, clinging together, completely immobile except for the heaving of his shoulders.

The rest of us waited there on that city street watching them, laughing and weeping with joy ourselves, hugging each other in turn. My son finally lifted his head and, still hanging onto her, tears streaming down his face, looked into my eyes. His expression spoke volumes to a mother’s heart, and my mind still pictures bright, shining stars flying up into the sky, each one swollen with love, each one proclaiming “Now it’s Christmas.”

It took a few minutes before we came back to normal. The video turned out shaky –but we don’t need it to remember the intense caring of that night.

My son’s boss had also played his part well. Not only had he kept the secret, he led the co-workers in a standing ovation when the couple arrived together at the office party the next evening.

Yoshiko and my son have since married, and she is a permanent Canadian resident now. They will both be joining the rest of us at my home this Christmas day (Dec. 25th) before flying back to Japan to celebrate with her family.

As I said, on other holidays I am very flexible – but NEVER December 25th. Christmas supper is held at my home and my children certainly know now, from experience, that absence is not an option.

Luv from The Bush in Quebec