My little sister Amanda, who has Down Syndrome, was staying with my husband and I through Christmas. He did not appreciate our holiday cheer. But, with a little help from Dickens, we conspired to change his attitude.
My husband Bruce was in a foul mood that year. He’d worked long hours all that month, and he just wasn’t up to the festivities as my sister Amanda and I decorated the tree and crooned along with Bing Crosby.
Amanda had Down Syndrome and lived at home with my parents, but this year she was spending a few weeks with Bruce and me. Even though Bruce wasn’t participating, we were having a great time. Lights twinkled on the stairway. Wreaths hung on the doors. We even decorated the bathroom. We’d been shopping all that day, and Amanda was busy making a long red and green paper chain to hang over the window. My cat, Miss Clairol, on a break from her pile of kittens, batted the end of the chain as it dragged on the floor.
We’d tried joking Bruce out of his mood, baking cookies and decorating them all to look like him. We had little snowmen, angels and Santa Clauses all with his round head, dark eyebrows and moustache, each with a sad expression.
He was not amused. He watched TV throughout the evening and then went upstairs.
“Goodnight Bruce,” Amanda called.
He had reached the upper landing, and for a moment I thought he wouldn’t reply at all. Then he muttered, “Night.”
Amanda folded her arms and whispered, “Did you hear that? He didn’t say goodnight. He just said, “Night.””
“I heard. That’s a bad sign.”
“Yes it is. He needs to lighten up.”
“What should we do?”
“I don’t know. He needs to get a little Christmas Spirit, that’s for sure.” She shook her head ruefully.
An idea suddenly glimmered in my mind. “Come with me.”
Later that night, Bruce was awakened by a loud, “Chink, chink, chink”. I heard him stir, but he said nothing. I was crouched on the floor at the end of the bed, out of sight and waiting. I held a flashlight ready in my hand and when the door swung open, I hit the button.
Illuminated suddenly in the doorway was a rotund form wrapped in white, with a chain around its belly. It entered the room with a wobbly, familiar gait. It held a framed baby picture of Bruce, brandishing it in the flashlight beam so the light bounced off the glass.
The voice came. “BROOOOOOOOOOOOOOCE!”
The flashlight beam quivered a little, as I clapped my hand over my mouth. What a perfect name for a ghost to be wailing, I thought.
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