Round Robin Christmas Story

Part One: by Karen Hall

 Jillian McDermott threw the magazine back on the table. More than two years old, it was not only dog-eared, but missing much of its insides. Why would somebody in an emergency room take the last page of a National Geographic story on Mayan temples?

Jillian shifted in her chair, cramped, cranky and tired. Her right foot, wrapped in a bloody towel, was propped up on another chair, and her knee complained about the wait. She checked her watch. Nearly eight; she’d been here two hours already. In all fairness, she understood that the baby who had swallowed a piece of rattle and the old woman who had fallen out of bed and probably broken a hip needed help more quickly than she did. But she refused to watch the nighttime soap on the overhead TV, and she wished she could disembowel the tinny waiting room speakers that disgorged artificially cheerful Christmas music—Santa, Rudolph and Frosty. The others in the waiting area were all sleeping or rifling through other gutted magazines. Nobody to talk to. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a book? Jillian shifted her weight again and winced as the long shard of antique Christmas ornament embedded in the ball of her foot shifted, too, digging new depths in the wound. Or why, she thought sadly, hadn’t she just worn shoes when she’d decorated the tree?

illian had hobbled into the bathroom on her heel, gritting her teeth and holding back tears as she rooted around in a drawer for a tweezers. Not there. She swore in frustration and slumped onto the toilet lid to get a good look at the wound. As it turned out, there was no possibility of tweezing anyway. Too deep, too painful. The way her luck had gone lately, she was afraid she’d only make it worse – cut a tendon, slice a major blood vessel.

She adjusted her position again, winced. She hadn’t needed the expense of cab fare, either, especially this Christmas, when money was particularly tight. But driving was out of the question.
She sighed again and reached for an ancient Newsweek, thinking the science section might be interesting, when the double doors crashed open.

A small boy, eight or nine years old, screamed from the doorway. “Help! Help my brother! He fell through a hole in the ice and I couldn’t get’m out!”

Jillian craned her neck to peer out the windows to the park—and river—a hundred yards away. The receptionist slid the bulletproof glass door open and leaned out over the counter, beckoning to the boy. “On the river?”

“Yeah, the river!”

“Where’s the hole?”

“Right there!” He pointed. “Over by the water tower!”

“There? Across the parking lot?”

“Yes!” The boy stomped his foot. “Hurry! Please!”

As ER personnel exploded into action and sirens sounded, Jillian stared at the boy. Blond, thin, the same luminous skin. He could have been Matthew’s brother.

A tear tracked down her cheek.

Not possible. Matthew, her dear sweet Matthew, was…

Part Two: by Tracy Adams Petering

“Jillian!” The voice was shrill as a cat whose tail has been flattened by a rocking chair with just a hint of fingernails on a chalkboard all wrapped nicely with a smooth Alabama accent. “Jillian! Oh my baby!” She wore couture. The evening gown was winter white, strapless, slit to her thighs on the side and topped with a white fox stole. Her ears were adorned with chandelier diamond earrings.

“Mother, how are you this evening?” My voice was as cold as the weather.

“You’re angry. Don’t be angry. I got here as fast as I could.” The cat and the fingernails had left her voice. Now it was all Alabama sweet. “I had to say good-bye to everyone.”

“Of course, Mother.” I allowed her to kiss my cheek.

She sat next to me and stroked my hair. She smelled of Chanel with a hint of cigar. The flavor of the month must smoke good cigars.

The emergency room doors opened again. He was about six foot three and filled out his Armani suit well. His hair was sandy blonde and his eyes were deep water blue. “I asked the driver to wait.” No hint of an accent.

“Jillian, I’d like you to meet Dr. Jeffrey Martin,” Mother stood, wrapped her arm into the crook of his arm and snuggled lightly into it. They’re intimate. Must have known him for at least a couple of weeks. “Dr. Martin and I are old friends. We met in college and lost touch until he moved here from New York a few months ago.” She smiled up at him and he returned the smile.

“Hello, Jillian. Your mother has told me so much about you.” New York, but not the Bronx or Brooklyn. Probably upper west side.

The emergency room doors burst open. A paramedic entered, wet from the river, carrying a small, lifeless form. He found an open room. We could hear the sounds of doctors trying to save the little boy’s life. After about ten minutes I heard a doctor say “Call it.” And then a nurse say, “Eight sixteen.”

I turned to Dr. Jeff and whispered, “I’ll give you anything you want if you’ll get me into that room. Money, sex, my mother’s cell phone number, anything.”

“I have her cell phone number and I don’t need the other two. Do you know him?”

“No, I don’t. But I can save him.” I started to stand. The first step is always the hardest and I bit my bottom lip to keep from screaming.

“You can what?” Dr. Jeff looked at me in amazement.

“His soul hasn’t left his body yet. Children tend to hold onto their souls longer than adults.” I started limping toward the room. With or without his help, I was going in.

Dr. Jeff caught up with me, “I’ll get you in, but you have to tell me……”

“Anything, just get me in there.” My teeth clenched as I spoke.

Two more steps and we were in the room. A nurse was taking the intubation tube out of the boy’s mouth. “May I help you?” she asked.

“I’m Dr. Martin and this is the boy’s sister. May we have a moment?”

“Of course.” She left.

I walked to the small form and softly brushed his hair with my hand. I placed one hand on his forehead and one hand on his chest, closed my eyes and emptied my mind. I took one deep breath and allowed my body energy to flow into him. After one more deep breath, I felt his heart beat. After a third deep breath, I felt the warmth return to his forehead. I removed my hands and he opened his eyes.

Part Three: by Jen Blake

A few things then happened simultaneously. The machines attached to the boy started beeping. My knees gave way. The boy started crying. Mother made some overdramatic sigh and pushed a chair toward me.

Dr. Jeff didn’t do anything other than look dumbfounded.

Not that I really blamed him.

I plopped down in the chair Mother had provided, grateful at not having to speak for a minute or two. At least my foot didn’t hurt. For the moment my splitting headache had overpowered the throbbing foot.

Mother shot Dr. Jeff a look that would have stopped a freight train. He shut up with the questions, but still stared at me quizzically.

I reached over to wipe the tears from the boy’s face. “It’s going to be okay,” I whispered. “Why don’t you go to sleep for a little bit? You’ll feel much better when you wake up.”

His blonde head nodded and I could see his eyes getting heavy. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that dying takes a lot out of a person.

Mother started in as soon as the boy’s breathing became deep and even.

“Really, Jillian? On Christmas Eve?” Her accent became even thicker and more drawn out as a testament to how annoyed she was. “You know there are repercussions for things like that.”

“Yeah,” I replied, “karma’s a bitch. Just ask Matthew.”

Mother glared at me. The lecture on the tip of her tongue was one that I’d heard often and could probably recite with her. As soon as she started I’d have to argue back. That’s the kind of mood I was in.

Thankfully, before the conversation could spiral any further, Dr. Jeff interrupted. “Would one of you like to tell me what just happened?”

I didn’t feel much like talking, so I said nothing.

“Well, Jeff, everyone has talents,” Mother said, her voice all sweet again. “Jillian’s are just more unusual than most.”
“I’d say so,” the doctor replied.

He didn’t have a chance to say anything else because the nurse came back into the room just as Dr. Jeff opened his mouth. The nurse’s no-nonsense attitude kept each of us quiet.

It seemed like forever before the nurse spoke. When she did, it was to address me. “Are you his sister?”

Dr. Jeff spoke up. “I’m Dr. Martin and a friend of the family.”

I noticed he didn’t say which family he was a friend of, but I was grateful to not have to speak. The headache was easing up, bringing attention back to my injured foot. If I said anything to the nurse, it would probably be to ask why I’d been waiting so long and could someone get the glass out sometime before the New Year.

The two medical professionals stood off in the corner, speaking in hushed tones. I’m sure the nurse introduced herself to Dr. Jeff, but I didn’t catch her name. I was too busy watching the boy sleeping in the hospital bed, trying not to move my injured foot, and avoiding eye contract with my mother.

I was more successful with the first two items then I was with the last one.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered. “No one would have thought any less of you.”

“I know, Mother, but….” I couldn’t explain the urge that compelled me to help the boy.

“He’s not Matthew.”

I sighed deeply. “I know. But he’s loved by someone.”

Mother’s reply was cut off by the arrival of another young boy, the same one who had burst into the ER earlier.

“Is my brother okay?” he asked, tears pouring down cheeks.

Part Four: by Michaelia Kendall

Through the cracks of consciousness, Jillian caught a faint whiff of antiseptic, like smelling salts in the nostrils, causing her to come to. She was out of earshot of the overdramatic Christmas carols on the droning speakers in the waiting room. She looked around, familiarizing herself with the new environment in which she found herself.

A nurse—the same nurse Dr. Jeff was speaking with in hushed tones after she brought the boy back to life—was rearranging sterile surgical instruments on a metal tray. She reached into the cupboard overhead and pulled down a small, blue, disposable drop cloth, unfolded it in one fluid motion and draped it over the metal tray. It hid the sharp, menacing instruments from sight, a gesture for which Jillian was thankful. She didn’t want to think about the amount of painful digging it would take to remove the shard of antique ornament from its crimson resting place in the ball of her foot.

The nurse noticed her watching. “Hello, ma’am,” she greeted sweetly. Her dishwater blonde hair was pulled off her neck haphazardly yet attractively in a large hair claw. She wore minimal makeup and was slightly overweight. Her weight distributed mostly below the waist, which only added to her allure as she walked, hips swaying from side to side. “Could you tell me your name?” She asked, pencil poised, ready to write on what Jillian realized was her medical chart.”

“I’m not a sister to the boy,” Jillian confessed.

The nurse glanced momentarily from the chart, pensive at Jillian’s confession, “Excuse me?”

“The boy. Is he okay now?” Jillian asked, making note of the name on the tag pinned to her scrubs. “Chamomile, LPN,” it read. Jillian thought it an unusual name, and therefore easy to remember. Soothing. Calm. Qualities valuable in a caretaker, such as a nurse.

“The boy,” Jillian said again. Surely the nurse knew.

Chamomile tapped her pencil on the chart in a single irritated tap. “Ma’am, we found you in the room of a family who just lost their little boy, hovering over his body. We gave you an injection to calm you down. Now, may I please have your name so that Dr. Martin can continue with your psych consult?”

“Oh,” Jillian uttered, confused. “Jillian McDermott,” she answered simply.

This wasn’t the first time this had happened. Jillian was sick of feeling nothing, especially around the holidays. Her meds leveled her too much. She could not experience the joy of which everyone spoke in their merry jingles and Christmas cheer. She wanted to feel something, anything, even if it was pain.

Remembering Matthew, she felt that all-too-familiar pang in the pit of her stomach. Oh, how she had loved him. Her mother, a small-scale thespian, disapproved of him, as she did most things in Jillian’s life. Her mother liked to get her panties in a knot over nonsense. She preferred the dramatics of the stage to carry on into her personal life, much to Jillian’s dismay. It wasn’t a general Jillian-you-can’t-do-right kind of disapproval, but a kind of disapproval in which she just wanted to get her two cents in every aspect of Jillian’s life, and given that her mother would say anything for argument’s sake, it seemed natural that her mother would object to Matthew. Jillian had gotten used to it for the most part, but where Matthew was concerned it annoyed the hell out of her. The goodness of Matthew could not be argued. It just was.

Her mother had been gone for 6 years, and she still haunted her. She couldn’t erase her purse lips and set jaw from memory when she first introduced Matthew to her. Come to think of it, her mother would surely disapprove of her breaking a family heirloom by stepping on it that night either. But that is beside the point. For one year ago today, Christmas night, was the anniversary of Matthew’s death.

“Jillian?” Dr. Jeffery Martin waved his hand in front of her face.

Jillian shook her head to break her thoughts and her thousand-yard stare. “Yes, yes. I’m sorry. What did you ask?”

“I’d like to get this consult underway. Could you tell me if you’re currently on any medications?”

“No. None,” Jillian answered faintly. It was the truth. She wasn’t on any currently. She thought of that Rx bottle in her kitchen window, still more than half full. At least she could feel when she didn’t ingest those things.

Part Five: by Charlotte Walling

It had been a few days since Jillian had come to the hospital. She couldn’t be sure how long. She lay in bed wondering who had been given the unpleasant task of bringing her here. This time she would stick to her meds. Better a zombie than a burden to her family. These types of lucid moments were rare. She desperately hoped that she would be able to remember it when it really mattered.

Chamomile had been in and out all morning. Jillian’s roommate had been discharged and Chamomile was cleaning the room, humming an old hymn as she worked. “Do you wish you could be with your family for the holidays honey?”

“I guess so.” Jillian answered. She did. But she wanted peace and quite for her family more.

Chamomile sauntered out of the room. Jillian looked over at the freshly made bed. He was just sitting there, plain as day. It was the boy from the emergency room, or her hallucination (she corrected herself). She was angry at herself for being taken in, just when everything seemed so clear. By default she was angry at the imaginary little boy perched on the edge of the bed.

“You’re not real.” she said to the boy, and by extension, to herself.

The little boy shrugged. She looked away, resolving that if she was really going to convince herself, she should cut out the middle man and speak directly to herself. “Leave it to me to conjure up the most painful hallucination possible. God he looks just like pictures of Matthew when he was little.”

“If I look just like him, then who do you suppose I am?” He was trying to break in and undo her epiphany. That little bastard!

“Well, I’m sure that you are supposed to be him.” She wasn’t going to be reeled in this time.

“Don’t believe it’s really me, huh?”

“Well, let’s think,” her voice oozed with contempt, “There are only two ways that this can be. Either you’re real or I’m off my rocker. Personal history indicates the latter.”

“It can’t be both?” he asked in his maddening, philosophical voice. “I guess I shall have to prove it. How about... oh, remember that Christmas Eve that you answered the door wearing nothing but a big red bow only to find that I had brought my brother’s kids to meet you.”

“I remember that day. So, of course, my hallucination would know about that.” she argued.

“I see your point.” he conceded. “Oh, here comes Chamomile. Ask her about her kitten.”

It was ridiculous to argue with a hallucination. But she still wanted to win. “Chamomile, do you have a kitten?”

“I do, a little gray one.”

It must have been a coincidence. Lots of people have cats.

“She found him in the alley by her apartment, living in a dumpster.” Matthew chimed in.

“He was a stray, poor little guy.” Chamomile continued, “He was living in a dumpster. Can you believe that?”

Part Six: by Craig Schaffer

A smile of amused satisfaction spread across Dr. Jeffrey Martin’s face as he observed Jillian’s shocked reaction through the two-way mirror.

“Our plan seems to be proceeding nicely, don’t you think?” he said to the woman standing beside him.

“What do you mean our plan,” the woman responded. She had changed out of the slinky white evening gown and was now wearing a powder blue warm up suit. “I’m the one who came up with this script—you’re just a role player.”

Before he could object the woman wrapped her arms around the man’s neck and kissed him deeply and long. “And when this all plays out,” she continued after releasing her hold, “there’s something else you can do for me.” Her seductive smile left no doubt in Jeffrey’s mind what that something was.

“It certainly appears that the combination of drugs, hypnosis, and the performances of the cast of characters is driving poor Jillian over the edge of her cliff of sanity.” There was not the slightest trace of concern or sympathy in the woman’s tone.

“Although I must admit her little jaunt to the emergency room almost flushed my whole scheme down the toilet.”

Jeffrey (whose real name was not Jeffrey Martin and who was no more a doctor than George Clooney was) turned his attention back to the scene on the other side of the two-way mirror. “Lucky for you Linda, uh, I mean ‘Chamomile was on duty and gave you a call when she spotted her in the waiting area.”

“Yes, it was most fortunate,” the woman said as she wiped a lipstick smudge from his chin. “Get ready, I think it’s time for you to go back to work.”

“Are you feeling all right?” Chamomile asked as she bent over Jillian and placed a hand on her forehead. “You look as pale as someone who’s just seen a ghost.”

As the nurse stood up Jillian moved her head to look at the boy (it couldn’t really be Matthew, could it?) but he was no longer there. “Maybe I did see a ghost,” she said weakly as she allowed her head to fall back onto the pillow.

“Excuse me, did you say something about a ghost?” Dr. Martin was standing in the doorway of Jillian’s room. He jotted something on a clipboard, then entered the room.

“Was it your mother again or the boy, let’s see, Matthew?” he asked as he consulted what Jillian assumed was her chart.

Jillian felt her eyes welling up as she looked at the handsome man standing at the foot of her bed. “What’s happening to me?” she managed to get out before the tears cascaded down her cheeks.

The man smiled briefly then forced a somber expression onto his face. “Well, in laymen’s terms you’ve had a nervous breakdown, although there is no medical diagnosis of that name. You’re presently in a highly hallucinatory state, and you’ve exhibited delusions of being some kind of healer. You were found in one of the treatment rooms talking to people who weren’t there and acting as if you had brought a young drowning victim back to life.”

The man waited for Jillian’s reaction to his statement.

Part Seven: by Donna Graham

That somber expression preceded by a , uh, smirk set off an alarm. He was faking it! Her gut told her he was not a doctor. A burst of paranoia swept over her. She went “on-guard”. Shutting down emotionally, she became hypervigilant.

“Can you help me?” she said in a compliant voice throwing the ball in his court. (What was he after?)

Her mind started to drift… (How long have I been here? Why am I in a room with a one-way mirror? Iss it a one-way mirror? But what hospital rooms, even on a psych ward, would have such big mirrors facing the beds?)

No. She needed to focus.

The man said with concern, “How are you feeling today?

“Okay, I guess.”

“ Are you still seeing the ghost of your mother? And of the little boy? A Matthew? Was he your son? Or your lover?”

“Uh..” She was stunned by the tone of his voice.

“ I think an increased dose of thorazine would help reduce your anxiety,” he said with medical pomposity.

She said nothing. He wasn’t listening to her.

“Let’s see. You were on the lowest dosage. I think if we up the dosage, you might feel more comfortable.” He was already scribbling on the clipboard and turning towards the door. Vain, he couldn’t resist admiring his reflection. Jillian thought, (Was he looking at someone on the other side of the mirror?)

She needed to sort out what was real and what wasn’t real. Something concrete. (My foot! I came to the hospital because I stepped on that Christmas ornament. There was glass in my foot.) She lifted the sheet and looked down at her foot. Didn’t see anything.

She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and walked to the bathroom. Now she knew. The pain on the ball of her foot was real! She entered the bathroom, locked the door and sat on the lid and examined the sole of her foot. (Déjà vu. She had done this before) Pulling the bandage off , she could see that the wound had been cleaned. It was real!

(Okay. What do I KNOW? I did hurt my foot. They are medicating me. The “doctor” - Dr. Martin’s probably not a doctor. I was reading a National Geographic magazine that was gutted. “Whoa, now. Don’t get off track.” She had to smile at herself, (I KNOW I am doped up.) She remembered a saying about sanity is being able to laugh at yourself.
The effects of the medication were wearing off. When would the nurse come in with another dose? She needed to think while she still could. She had a few more minutes of privacy before going out before the mirror. She was going to have to put on the best show she had ever enacted.

Part Eight: by Lori H. Speirs

Jillian gingerly rubbed the bruise on the back of her hand, the needle wound evidence of more medication. She didn't remember the IV and wondered when it had been removed.

Turning her hands over, she wondered what was true. Her hands were instruments of healing, right? She had brought a boy back to life. Whoever he was. She pressed her lips together. She would not be taking anything prescribed by the sketchy Dr. Martin.

She studied the bathroom. Bathroom was of course a misnomer as there was no bath or shower, merely a toilet and sink. White tile floor, with the tile extended five feet up the wall. She ran her fingertips around the sink faucet and handles. No sharp edges. It looked the bathroom in a hospital room, except there was no call button.

Hastening back into the room with her bed, she realized there was no call button near either bed. She didn't actually recall having the roommate that Chamomile had said was the reason for being in the room all morning. She moved toward the mirror that she suspected was a one-way view into her room. If she was being constantly monitored that would explain the lack of call button. Leaning close, she tried to see through the glass, couldn't make anything out, but caught a movement.

A key grated in the door lock and the door to her room banged open. Chamomile held a tray with a medicine cup and paper cup of water. “How are we feeling? Up and about, I see. Why don't you sit down while I give you your medicine.”

Jillian slapped the bottom of the tray sending the pills and water flying. “No. There's nothing wrong with me. Nothing.”

Chamomile hit Jillian's head with the flat side of the tray, causing her to stumble in surprise and fall to the floor.

“Anything wrong now?” Chamomile smacked her again on the back of the head.

It didn't hurt that much, the tray was molded plastic, but it made her mad as hell. Adrenaline swept away the last of the medicine's hazy effects. If they wanted her to be crazy, she could do crazy extremely well. Jillian grabbed the tray at the next swing and whacked the hard edge against Chamomile's knees.

The woman yelped.

Jillian lunged to her feet, leaped for the open door. Finding herself in in a long corridor that didn't appear the least bit medical, she ran.

The boy who looked so much like a young Matthew stuck his head out one of the doors and gestured for her to enter the room. She grabbed a handful of his shirt, flung him to the floor behind her and ran past. His landing certainly sounded solidly corporeal.

The woman who seemed to have her mother's voice yowled from behind her to stop. She didn't sound like a ghost either.

Footsteps pounded, coming closer.

Jillian didn't think she could run much farther. Her head ached, her legs felt like jelly, her foot hurt. And, she didn't have any idea where she could go that her pursuers would not follow.

Part Nine: by Jared Rittberger

Gunfire exploded in the corridor as Dr. Martin and Chamomile opened fire on Jillian with sub-machine guns. A new wave of adrenaline surged through Jilian's body as she dove to the floor, slid to the stairwell, and scrambled around the corner. As she raced down the stairs, Jilian now fully realized that she was not in a hospital but in a secret CIA interrogation center known as the "Watiki Waterboarding Park." As the daughter of a Saudi Arabian engineer and one of his seven wives, an Alabama beauty queen, Jilian's real name was Habibi al-Jihad al-Muhammed al-Ayatollah bin Laden. In less than an hour, America would cease to exist as mushroom clouds would start spinging up across the land like dandelions.

With her senses now fully regained, Jilian reflected on her tragic life that appeared to be nearing its end. As a twenty-five year old math teacher fresh out of college, Jilian had first met Mathew when he was in the third grade and it was love at first sight. Like many female teachers these days, Jilian had realized that Prince Charming was not to be found in the dating scene, but in the elementary classroom. To hell with grown men! Jilian had finally found true love but her joy had not been shared by her mother who insisted she break off the relationship at once. Undettered, the clandestine, platonic romance continued but only after Jilian had drove her mother out to a deserted field and put a bullet in her head. It was now obvious though, that the bullet had failed to do its job.

Jillian and Mathew's love blossomed for another five years until that fatefull day when Jillian opened the door naked to Mathew and his adult brother's kids. Mathew and his playmates had only wanted to play video games but Jillian had made it clear that she had wanted to take their relationship to a higher level. The next day, Matthew passed a note to her in Algebra class saying they should break up but Jillian would have none of it. After school, Jillian offered to drive him home but instead she swung by her house, took him upstairs, drowned the little twerp in her bathtub, and then fled to her father back in Saudi Arabia. Now she was back as an Al-Qaeda operative intent on bringing "Death to America" once and for all. Yes, the saying is true, “Hell hath no furry like a woman scorned.”

Finally, Jillian burst out into the parking lot of the interrogation center but so had Dr. Martin and Chamomile in pursuit. Jillian continued to limp as fast as she could but something stopped her dead in her tracks. It was Mathew’s voice. Like she had failed to do to her mother, Jillian had evidently failed to kill him as well.

“Jillian!” Mathew yelled. “I love you! I’m sorry I broke up with you but I was only in eighth grade and I wasn’t ready to get that serious. But I’m a freshman now. I want you to keep teaching me Algebra after we get married and start having babies. Dr. Martin says you know where the nuclear bombs are hidden and how they can be deactivated. Please, don’t try and kill me again!”

Jillian suddenly collapsed in tears as Dr. Martin and Chamomile reached and surrounded her. She finally spilled the beans but not because of the of the waterboarding, hypnosis, mind games, and drugs she had endured in the last few days but because of her love for Mathew. With her last-minute information, the nuclear bombs were quickly found and deactivated and Jillian was hauled away to spend the rest of her life in prison at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. She was given a full pardon two months later by President Obama and when Mathew reached the legal age of sixteen two years later, they were married and moved in with Jillian’s reconciled mother and her new husband, Dr. Martin. Jillian gave birth to nonuplets and was soon known in the media as Nono-jihad-mom. Together with husband Matthew, the two became stars of the hit reality TV show, “I’m Hot for Teacher.”

The End