A Father for Christmas Page 3

  A block isn’t too bad, except I have milk, flour, and sugar—heavy stuff. I loop a cloth tote bag over each shoulder and dangle two more bags on my forearms. Schlepping groceries is one of the things I do for my mother since she watches Bree during the evenings I work.

  I make it almost a block before I hear a voice. “Need a hand, miss?”

  My gaze stops at a broad chest and strong shoulders belonging to none other than Mr. Manning from the mall.

  He slides a grin and tips his Giants baseball cap. “We didn’t get off to a good start, I’m afraid.”

  “Uh, what are you doing, stalking me?” I shoot him what I hope is a killer glare.

  “Actually looking to help a damsel in distress.” He slides one of the bags from my arms. “Let me get those for you.”

  Unlike the other day at the mall, he’s clean shaven and his hair’s combed, although curling at the tips.

  “I’m good. I can do it myself. Gimme that.” I make a grab for the bag.

  He dangles it out of my reach. “Only if you say you’re sorry.”

  “Excuse me?” I sneer, almost rolling my eyes.

  What planet does he live on? He tried to kidnap my daughter and got off because the police are football fans, and I owe him an apology?

  “What I said.” He looks in the bag. “Eggs. I love eggs.”

  Oh, I get it. He’s panhandling. He’s still wearing that ratty raincoat and a pair of grimy boots, although his jeans and flannel shirt look clean and pressed.

  “Give me the bag or I’ll charge you for robbery.” I grit my teeth, refusing to be softened by the twinkling blue eyes and lopsided grin. He’s playing a game with me, seeing how far he can push before asking for a tip.

  “My, my, we’re not being friendly today, are we?” He drawls and walks toward the apartment building. “Which door?”

  I drop the other bags and dig for my cell phone. “I’m calling the police if you don’t leave. I don’t care which football team you played for or how much my mother moons about you being a hero who gave up all that money to fight the war on terror.”

  A cloud darkens his expression, and his eyebrows draw together. “I’m no hero and the war wasn’t about terror. That’s just the line they fed us sheep.”

  “Wh-what do you mean? You’re Tyler Manning, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, that’s my name. And look, I’m sorry about the misunderstanding with your daughter.” He puts the bag on the ground and wipes his fingers through his hair. “I meant you no harm.”

  Whoa. Mention of the war seems to have sobered him. The cocky grin is gone. The light-heartedness is replaced by stone, cold seriousness. The sparkle in his eyes has gone flat, and in its place is a hollow emptiness.

  “Sure, none taken.” I swallow as he loops the bag over my outstretched arm.

  “Good evening, ma’am.” He tucks his hands into his pockets, shrugs, and ambles past me toward the street corner.

  “Wait, Mr. Manning,” I yell out. Have I insulted him? Since meeting him, I’ve read every article on the internet about him. The last one was written a few months ago, one of those “whatever happened to” type articles. Apparently, he was discharged after multiple active tours and is now homeless, having given his bonus money and paychecks to Warspring International, a charity for orphans of war.

  Tyler’s shoulders heave, and he stops in his tracks.

  I leave the bags and scramble to his side. “Look, I don’t mean to be so hostile, but if you had any children, you’d understand why I have to be careful. You never know.”

  “I understand, ma’am. When you’ve seen children lose all their relatives, alone in this world, you can’t help but reach out and give a hand.” His mouth attempts a smile, but the lines tightened around his eyes.

  Something about the sincerity of those words and the sheer sadness showing in his expression clutches my heart. I take his hand.

  “You’re all alone, aren’t you?” My voice comes out choked. “I read about you.”

  “Pretty much so. Didn’t have a large family when I deployed, just me and my mom, and well, the articles probably mentioned her dying a few years back, right after I reenlisted.”

  We stand in the lengthening shadows of the evening, our eyes locked in a silent understanding. I almost lost my mother to cancer. During her entire treatment plan, I only took a few days off from my relentless banking schedule. I was given a second chance. Tyler wasn’t as fortunate.

  His hand is strong and warm, solid, protective. I can see why Bree trusts him—a man like him, a trained killer, yet, gentle with the weak and most helpless.

  He gives my fingers a caressing squeeze and darts his eyes at my bags of groceries sprawled on the sidewalk. “I can help you take those up, but if you’d rather not let me know where you live, that’s okay too. You better get the milk and eggs into the refrigerator.”

  “Yeah, I better go.” I dig into my purse for my wallet and extract a five. “Here.”

  He raises both hands and backs away. “Not asking for a handout, ma’am.”

  “Kelly, call me Kelly. I thought I could help. Or at least pay you back for the candy cane.”

  “That’s my Christmas gift to Bree. Bye.” He waves and strides off, cutting between two cars and into the street.

  “Mama!” Bree’s voice calls from the building entrance. “Nana say we help with gwo-ce-wies.”

  Did she see Tyler? I glance over my shoulder, but he’s gone already.

  ~ Tyler ~

  Tyler peered at Kelly, her mother, and Bree from behind the bus stop barrier. They belonged together, had each other: grandmother, mother, daughter.

  Was there no man in their lives? What kind of guy would abandon little Bree, a sweet child, so trusting and innocent? He had to be a real chump, an idiot. The thought that he’d had Kelly in his arms, impregnated her, and left her, had Tyler raging at the unknown douchebag. These civilians never appreciated what they had, took family for granted. Left women to fend for themselves with their children. He hadn’t gone to Afghanistan to fight for a delinquent father. He’d fought and sacrificed so women like Kelly would have a better life, a chance to live free from terror, or so he’d been told.

  What he wouldn’t give to be the man who’d fathered Bree. If only he could be the guy they’d look up to, he’d protect and cherish them, never let them fear anyone or anything.

  But it was too late now. He’d been damaged by the war, a mental case. Despite the media coverage after the mall incident depicting him as a war hero, a humanitarian soldier, he was in reality a homeless bum, a nobody.

  His gaze lingered at the gate where Kelly’s fluid figure had disappeared into the courtyard. For a moment, she’d made him feel like a man, a healthy blush coloring her delicate complexion, her honey-brown hair fluttering in the wind—right before she offered him money.

  He crushed his fingers around the coins in his pocket. He was no charity case. He didn’t need a roof over his head, especially in a mild climate like San Francisco. Ten years in Afghanistan with extreme temperatures ranging from blistering hot summers with moisture sucking sandstorms to bone-jarring winter freezes taught him to appreciate the temperate, coastal luxury of California.

  If you had children, you’d understand. Kelly’s words echoed in his mind. Even without children of his own, he more than understood. Thousands and thousands of hungry eyes, gaping mouths, dried tears on dirt streaked faces, empty hands, bloated bellies of malnutrition. He didn’t need a house. They needed every penny of his benefits check.

  Tyler jogged down the staircase to the underground BART station to pick up tips. People arriving from the airport needed his help, as did mothers toting children and groceries.

  “Hey, hey, War Hero!” The smooth, musical voice of his buddy, Sawyer, vibrated in the tunnel. “Saw you on the news. That really your kid?”

  Tyler clapped Sawyer on the shoulder and bumped his fist. “In another life. How’s busking today?”

  Sawyer patted
his acoustic guitar. “Made me a pile singing Christmas carols.”

  “With your voice? Bet they’re paying you to shut up.”

  “Heck, you ought to get a gig going with me. You sing and strut, the chicks go nuts over you, and I collect the tips.”

  Tyler waved his friend off. “The only thing important to me are the checks going to the children.”

  Sawyer strummed a minor blues chord on his guitar and swung around to block him. “Get over it, bud. What happened happened. Your suffering isn’t going to bring any of them back.”

  “Shut it.” Tyler shoved his friend. He didn’t need anyone analyzing him. He wasn’t suffering. He was alive, living in San Francisco with two hands, arms, legs, and feet. A whole man able to work and help others. He crossed to the platform where the lights flashed announcing the arrival of a train in five minutes.

  The rumbling in the tunnel blends with the footsteps pounding behind me. A thunderous roar detonates, and the clatter of machine gun fire rattles up above. The flashes from their muzzles burst jagged like lightning. Bullets chew up the concrete, and heat tears through the shrapnel scarred station.

  I duck and roll, grabbing for my M4. Where is it? My head’s bare, and I’ve lost my helmet and flak jacket. Fire streaks overhead. I grab for a grenade, anything to lob back at them. Shrieks of metal grinding against metal scream through my head. I take a defensive position behind a pillar, my breath ragged. Where are my guys? I can’t abandon them. I must be the decoy. Draw the fire so they can live. My legs shaking like rubber, I charge the machine gun nest.

  Grenades explode all around me, tearing holes and cracking the concrete. One lands next to me, unexploded. I lob it back at the shooters. A metallic rattle echoes behind me. What is it? I unsheathe my K-Bar knife and slash. The enemies scream, hollering. A grenade punches me in the gut, detonating in my face.

  My nerves scream, sizzle and zap. Electric sparks and arcs stop my heart. I lose control of my arms, legs, voice. The smell of cordite and blood overcomes me. Am I dead? Where’s Mother? Dad? A white light blinds me and I feel nothing.

  5

  ~ Kelly ~

  “Looks like your Mr. Manning caused quite a commotion at the BART station.” Mom yawns and thumps her mug of hot chocolate.

  I’m tired and achy after my cleaning shift at the Mogul Bank building. Leaning over, I kiss my mother’s temple.

  “Thanks for watching Bree. She asleep?”

  “Yeah,” Mom says, more interested in the TV. “I don’t think they’ll show it again. Maybe they have it on the internet.”

  I stretch my arms and yawn, trying really hard not to be annoyed. “He’s not my Mr. Manning, and he can shoot up the BART station for all I care.”

  So not true. Jitters of anxiety rocket in my gut, and I wonder what happened to Tyler. When I get home, I’ll look over the local news sites. I can’t show any interest in a man without Mom practically pushing me into his arms, as if all I need to solve my problems is a man. She never understood why I chose to have Bree by myself, why I never wanted to marry. She thinks I’m a control freak, that I want everything done my way. I choose to view it differently. I’m efficient, organized, even ruthless in business. What need do I have for a ball and chain called a man when a piece of plastic with long life batteries does a much better job?

  I open the refrigerator and pour myself a glass of almond milk. Mom’s still clicking, her eyes intent on the laptop screen.

  I drain the almond milk and rinse out the glass, then step toward the bedroom. Bree’s face is pale in the moonlight streaming through the window. Her thumb is stuck in her mouth. I remove it with a pop, and she grimaces, her face twisted as if someone stole a lollipop from her.

  I wrap the blanket around her, taking care not to wake her. I can’t help but kiss her, run my fingers through the fine, silky hair. She smells pure and clean, like soap and powder. Times like this make it all worthwhile. I’d do anything for Bree, just like I risked it all for Mom.

  Bree stirs in my arms, mumbling, “Will you be my Daddy?”

  I rock her, and her thumb goes back into her mouth. I thought she was over her father obsession after the tantrum. She seemed satisfied with my explanation of different families. Some have two mothers, others have two fathers, or a single mother, a lone dad, but the best ones have a grandmother. Sure. I hate my lies, but honestly, she was happy enough before I went to jail.

  Hefting her over my shoulder, I sweep by the kitchen. Mom looks over and starts to say something, but I put my finger over my lips.

  She loops a plastic bag over my wrist. “A sample of the cookies Bree and I made.”

  Bree sleeps the entire way to my apartment, a cheap ground floor unit south of Golden Gate Park. It’s actually carved out of someone’s house, walled off with a single bathroom and kitchenette with a separate entrance through a sliding glass door. Nothing in San Francisco is truly affordable, but the cleaners at Mogul Bank are paid higher wages than most, and for some perverse reason, I feel at home among the investment bankers working twenty-four by seven in the building. Even the year round freezing temperature of the air conditioning and the bright lights in the middle of the night keep the blood humming through my veins. Just overhearing the conversations and feeling the high stress levels invigorate me. My probation officer assures me I can be of use in their investigations against insider trading, infiltrate a bank and catch crooks for the government, but right now, I just want to lie low and not let anyone know who I used to be.

  After tucking Bree into her bed, I boot up my laptop and scan the local news for Tyler Manning.

  A headline reads, “PTSD episode hospitalizes former Stanford quarterback.”

  Below it are pictures of Tyler, the one on the left showing him in his football uniform while the one on the right is a mug shot, his eyes glazed as if watching an endless horror flick.

  Witnesses say Tyler freaked out when the train approached the platform. He ran around shouting and pantomiming shooting, grenade throwing and knifing, until he was shocked by a stun gun wielded by another homeless veteran.

  “I got to him before the transit police. He’s not violent,” the veteran said in a video interview. “But the police might have shot him dead. This isn’t the first time he had a lucid flashback.”

  I don’t know why I should care. Tyler Manning’s obviously another wounded warrior, a shell-shocked guy having difficulties adjusting to civilian life. He could be dangerous, or so I tell myself. Definitely not the type of man I want anywhere near me and my family, especially Bree.

  My eyes dart between his two pictures, the young, brash, confident quarterback, a scholar-athlete in contrast to the broken, haunted veteran wandering the streets without a home, without family or anyone to care for him.

  Alone.

  ~ Tyler ~

  Tyler mulled over the prescriptions. Anti-depressants, anti-anxiety, treatments for bipolar disorder.

  “Make sure you take as directed and don’t stop or skip a dose,” the psychiatrist said. “I also want you to sign up for therapy.”

  “May I go now?” Tyler rubbed the back of his neck. The night spent on the hospital bed was restful, but he didn’t deserve to be comfortable.

  “Not until after this afternoon’s therapy session.” The psychiatrist tapped notes into his electronic tablet. “The nurse will give you your first dose.”

  Tyler hated taking drugs. Heck, he’d never even smoked pot. Being out of control or under the influence wasn’t safe. His buddies had always riled on him for being boring, a hypervigilant stick in the mud, always prepared, but apparently not enough to save them from a child strapped with bombs.

  The nurse counted the tablets and handed Tyler a cup of water. If he wanted to get out of here, he’d have to convince the doctors of his compliance, so he swallowed the cocktail of pills.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He tipped the glass of water back and drank.

  “Great,” she said, a saccharine smile plastered on her face.
“Now I can let your visitor in.”

  Visitor? Why would Sawyer lose precious hours busking and visit him in this depressing place? The gray walls were enough gloom to drive the laughter out of a troop of clowns—not that clowns had anything to laugh about when everyone was laughing at them.

  Tyler pinned his gaze to the doorway, his ears pricked as footsteps approached.

  “Are you a relative?” the nurse asked.

  “Friend.” Kelly stood at the doorway. Her hair was soft around her face, and she wore a turquoise stretch shirt and white jeans.

  “Friend?” he muttered, unable to keep from staring at her.

  “I thought you could use some company.” She set a pink plastic container on the bed tray. “Cookies. My mother and Bree made them.”

  Tyler’s throat froze, and he had to consciously close his mouth so he wouldn’t look like a gaping idiot. “Th-thanks for coming. I don’t know what to say.”

  “My pleasure.” Kelly opened the box. “Christmas cookies. Have one?”

  “Uh, sure.” Tyler blinked to reassure himself she was truly there. He picked a lopsided green tree cookie with red and white sprinkles. “Thanks.”

  “May I sit?” Kelly gestured to the chair at the side of the bed.

  “Be my guest.” The cookie was sweet in his mouth, buttery and fragrant with vanilla. Frosted and sprinkled by Bree’s little fingers.

  Kelly propped herself on the side of the chair, sitting ramrod straight and smoothed her hair. “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay.” He hated the sympathetic look on her face. He didn’t need her pity, and he shouldn’t be in this hospital bed. There wasn’t anything wrong with him. He set the half-uneaten cookie on the tray. “Thanks for dropping by. I need to get going.”

  Her gaze swept over the bare room, taking in the fact he had no silverware, no lines, or cords, not even sheets thin enough to make a noose. All that was missing were the padded walls.