One Imperfect Christmas by Myra Johnson

to her feet. She whirled away in anger. “If she hadn't been so stubborn. If she'd just gone to the gallery—”
     
    “That's the second time tonight you've used that word.”
     
    Natalie dropped her hand from her forehead. She turned to face the doctor. “What word?”
     
    “Stubborn.” Dr. Sirpless glanced at her notes. “Twice now, you've called your mother stubborn.”
     
    “No, I—” Heat infused her face. She shook her head in confusion.
     
    The doctor rose and rested a hand on Natalie's shoulder. “I want you to think about something, Natalie. I want you to consider the possibility that it isn't only guilt you're feeling. I want you to ask yourself if you might also be feeling anger.”
     
    “Anger? Of course I'm angry. I let my mother down.”
     
    “I don't mean anger at yourself. I think you're really angry at your mother.”
     
    Natalie drew her brows together in disbelief. “Of course not! How can you suggest such a thing?”
     
    Something cracked then—something hard and cold and ugly inside Natalie's chest—because Dr. Sirpless was right, and it hurt too much to admit it.
     

6
     
    A ngry at her mother? Natalie chewed on the idea for the rest of the long weekend. She didn't know which pained her more—the guilt she felt over letting Mom down, or the anger that her mother (yes, her very stubborn mother) had gone ahead with the after-Christmas chore Natalie had pleaded with her to postpone.
    Not that she could blame the stroke on Mom's putting away the Christmas decorations. But what if Mom had already experienced signs a stroke might be imminent? Natalie couldn't deny her mother's history of brushing off her own health concerns when anything else took precedence.
     
    During her next couple of visits, Natalie allowed Dr. Sirpless to help her explore these thoughts. The powerful emotions they evoked often left her shaken, if not terrified. Still, she sensed she might be nearing a breakthrough, glimpsing a flicker of hope at the end of a long, dark, devastating year.
     
    And then December hit.
     
    “Hart, I'm glad I caught you.” Phone receiver tucked against her shoulder, she hammered on the keyboard and then mouse-clicked a Christmas holly graphic and resized it. “I've been thinking about tonight.” She swiveled toward the window and inhaled a shaky breath as her gaze fell on the immense Christmas tree near the center of Fawn Ridge's town square. Her heart suddenly felt as cold and hard as the frozen pond beneath the tree's lengthening shadow. Quickly she glanced away. “I'm sorry for disappointing everyone, but I don't think I can do this. Please, Hart, talk to Dad. Make some excuse for me … something that won't upset him too much.”
     
    “Come on, Rosy-Posey.” Her brother's drawl oozed through the phone line like thick syrup.
     
    Leave it to Hart to dredge up her hated childhood nickname. “Hart—”
     
    “Don't argue. It's your birthday. You know how important tonight is for Dad. He's cooking up Grandma Hartley's chili recipe just for you.”
     
    Her throat constricted at the poignant image of her father stirring a pot of chili, attempting to follow Grandma's detailed recipe instructions. Dad was usually all thumbs in the kitchen. How had he managed this past year without Mom?
     
    For the hundredth time that afternoon, she brushed aside the limp strand of hair that kept falling across her left eye— one more irritation in her out-of-control life. She backtracked to focus on Hart's annoying reminder of her nickname. “You didn't score any points by calling me Rosy-Posey, you know.”
     
    He chuckled. “But Natalie Rose, you blush so beautifully when you're flustered.”
     
    And, of course, he knew she was flustered. How could he not know? If there was one day she'd been dreading all year even more than Christmas, it was today. Couldn't her family skip her birthday just this once?
     
    “Okay, then,” Hart said, “you rather I call you Nat? How about Nacho?