Gaining Perspective at a Christmas Eve Diner

Unpleasant weather and nagging problems plagued the two friends as they traveled on Christmas Eve. Their stop for a bite to eat helped in gaining perspective on life and love.

We were Christmas Eve-traveling to the mountains of West Virginia in the fog and misty rain. Too warm for snow, too late to slow down for a bite to eat, too wrapped up in our own “problems” to realize that other people actually existed in this tinsel-covered world of pain … and happiness.

Maybe about 100 miles west of home, we decided since we were late anyway, may as well stop for a coffee and a midnight breakfast.

That’s where we met Karleigh Che’.

Well, actually, we met her 19-year old mother, Emily.

Emily was the overnight waitress at a chain restaurant tucked on the side of some nameless mountain split right down the middle by some well-known interstate; the only job for 30 miles that didn’t require overalls or a snow plow or a tractor. Nobody lives there – the houses are just props to break up the monotony for travelers. Or at least, that’s what I had shamefully joked; now that seems so wrong to me this P.Em. (Prior to Emily).

She had a gleam in her eyes that spoke of the aforementioned happiness but was still tinged with pain. On her right arm was a tattoo unlike any I had ever seen; the name “Karleigh Che’” in an arching bow above two tiny, tiny baby-footprints. On her left shoulder, barely visible beneath her uniform, a birth date … and the date of Karleigh’s passing.

From her little waitress stand, she picked up her order pad and some menus, adjusted her apron and came over to our table.

I’d usually insert some banter here and talk a little about what she said to us before the conversation turned to Karleigh Che’ but it would really be a waste of good ink and pulp-wood paper.

“Honey, you look like a bright ray of sunshine on this rainy Eve. Merry Christmas, sweetie,” said my semi-famous author friend.

“Merry Christmas! Can I get y’all some coffee to start with?”

“Sure, two coffees and some extra creams, please.”

“Karleigh Che’ … What a pretty name. Is that your baby’s name? I’ll bet she’s beautiful!”

I tried to break into the conversation between the two mothers but it was fruitless. Maternally, I had no place in there; emotionally, I was standing right beside Emily as she pierced little Karleigh Che’s throat and windpipe to insert the tracheotomy tube during the last night of her way-too-short life.

I slipped off to the restroom to wash up for break-midnite-fast while the two women chatted like they’d been friends, more like mother and daughter, for years.

When I returned, Emily was opening a small photo album filled with smiling-eyes and two-teeth snapshots of a sweet little princess, brimming with hope and promise of the future. A future that would only be seen by those who opened the little picture book.

Somehow, me sitting back down at the table didn’t slow down the chatting at all. Emily said something to the effect of “I keep her ashes in a pink box that I talk to every day and every night before I head out to work. She’s happy in Heaven, but I sure miss her.”

I imagined the tearstains that marked the box/urn where the only physical part of Karleigh remained. Emily probably cried ’em, then wiped ’em away in a fashion similar to the way the little girl would have learned to dust the pressed-board Wal-Mart furniture in their humble metal home on wheels. She would have taught her more than dusting, though. She would have taught her that a smile can turn a rainy day for two self-absorbed writers into a beaming sunny day. She would have taught Karleigh Che’ how to cook and clean and show up for work even when your eyes look like they’ve cried till no more tears would come – just like Momma’s eyes have. She wouldn’t have needed to “teach” her love – she would have learned love from her mother’s example.

Emily went on to say that Karleigh’s father left her for another girl shortly before the memorial service, which he couldn’t bear to show up for. I imagined Karleigh’s picture sitting up on a fine walnut pedestal, but Emily didn’t want too high of a pedestal, she wouldn’t want more pain if Karleigh should fall. She said she wished her invalid grandmother could have been at the service, but she didn’t care whether the daddy was there or not. Yep, she was the caregiver for anyone who needed her … and Grandma needed her.

My friend spoke to Emily in a way that only mothers who have loved and lost can do; and Emily understood. I would have thought the two had known each other for years. Maybe my friend was giving her a little sweet taste of how it would have been if Karleigh had lived to three, then to her teen years, then on to a motherhood of her own.

But, she didn’t live to three and Emily was on a mission – she didn’t know what that mission was, yet. But she was on a mission.

My best guess would have it as a mission to show the world the meaning of love … and loss – that feeling of emptiness that comes with missing a person you know will never come back through the door; or in this case, never coo a little “I love you, Mommy” from her frilly baby bed or bake a Play-Dough cookie for Mommy’s approval. You know she’d approve.

We gave Emily some contact information, in case she ever wanted to tell her story on a broader scale. In case she ever wanted to talk to someone other than her doctor who would likely just say, “Glad you’re doing better, Emily, here’s another prescription.”

We finished up our midnight meal, which had now turned into a 1 a.m. feast of futures. One future cut short before it even had a chance to flourish; two more futures fanning out for the holidays with friends in a cabin in the mountains, and one future, Emily’s, filled with picture-books and little pink ash-urns and memories.

We paid our tab, left an ironic $13 as a tip, hugged sweet goodbyes to Emily and drove off into the foggy, rainy night.

I don’t remember which problems we were moaning about prior to meeting Emily, but they all seemed so small as we drove and brushed back tears for Karleigh Che’.

Michael W. Updike is a singer, songwriter and author. He lives in a 1930s Virginia plantation-country farmhouse, which he renovated. Michael also collects and restores antique cars. He enjoys spending time with the love of his life, Jennifer, and their family.

More from Michael W. Updike:

Left the Story There: Casting a line for closure on a fishing trip

The Heart Remembers: Dusty childhood memories

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