Works for Hearts Too
In a New England hospital during a series of Christmas Eves from the 1960s into the mid-1970s, a widowed hardware store man, a resourceful nurse, and a compassionate doctor forge a tight-knit community that finds laughter and solace amid grief and bureaucracy. Their small acts of rebellion—from clandestine holiday celebrations and offbeat garden projects to handwritten letters of hope—transform sterile corridors into sanctuaries of warmth and healing, proving that even modest kindness can spark enduring miracles.
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Listen free: Works for Hearts Too
Astori Publishing Presents: Works for Hearts Too Prologue Winter 1964 had come down hard on New Englandahard enough that the Atlantic seemed to inhale and hold its breath. In Washington, the new Great Society bills were being argued over like childrenas toys; in Saigon, the sky shimmered with rotor-wash; in every living room the gleam of console television sets made snowstorms and moonshots equally distant flickers. But in Concord, Massachusetts, the seasonas true broadcast arrived without antenna or fanfare: first a cold, metallic scent stealing through split clapboards, then the hush of snowpack thickening on every roofline until the whole town sounded padded, careful, reverent. From five thousand feet the place looked no larger than a toy villageawhite steeples, an oval commons, streets laid with the tidy geometry that older maps called agambrela and younger ones called asuburb.a Children sledded a rail bed abandoned since steam locomotives fell out of favor; their shouts drifted up, smudged by weather, then vanished. On the far side of town, just beyond the cemetery where revolutionaries slept beneath slanted stones, a square brick building kept its own quiet vigil. Emerson Hospital, 1920s vintage, boiler always on the edge of a cough. Two wards, three floors, a solarium that faced north by mistake. The place smelled, depending on the hour, of carbolic, boiled cabbage, or Mr. Alvesas gleaming lemon waxaan olfactory calendar patients learned better than the date. Inside that squat citadel, the rumor mill turned quicker than the blood centrifuge. Beds might be added, budgets slashed; a new administrator could arrive with briefcase and memo pad, talking in the polished dialect of liability. Yet certain constants survived the red ink: Nurse Pauline Mercadoas cardigan, forever stretched at the cuff; the pudding cart that wandered the corridors like a tame beast; and Room 214 itself, a corner chamber with one cranky radiator and a view of the parking lot that, in winter twilight, passed for something almost pastoral. The nurses called it The Way-Station. Not ICU, not quite ordinaryajust far enough from the nursesa station that a lonely heart could sleep without the tyranny of alarms, just close enough that help came running if the silence turned too deep. Three blocks south, Main Street worked at the last honest crafts: shoe repair, a barbershop still sweeping hair into sawdust, andaanchoring the rowaBower Hardware. Orange woodstove glow behind the plate glass, a brass cash register that rang like Christmas every time the drawer opened. James H. Bower, proprietor, believed in spare parts and second chances. The war had spared him, the factory accident had not spared his wife, and now grief rode his shoulders like a rucksack nobody else could see. He filled the empty rooms of his house with practical choresare-oiled a squeaky hinge, labeled coffee cans of screwsabut each task ended sooner than the ache. Decemberas shortening light only made the hours more echo-laden. On this particular Christmas Eve afternoon, he stood at the work-bench cutting key blanks while the radio fought static from a distant Boston station. Sawdust drifted onto his knuckles like miniature snow; copper shavings winked in the bulbas halo. Beneath the counter lay a paper bag containing three late tomatoes coaxed from a desperate cold frameafruit that should have frosted weeks ago but, through patience and a makeshift tarp, had survived. They were headed to Emerson Hospital by sundown, though Jim would have insisted head merely be adropping them off,a the same way one says ajust resting my eyesa before sleep overtakes. Miles in the other direction, Nurse Mercado counted out hypodermic caps with the precision of an abacus. Thirty-five, thirty-sixathe number steadied her pulse more than coffee ever had. Shead promised her three daughters a quick supper and a storybook before heading on shift, but the laundromat had eaten her last quarter and the bus ignored the slush-clogged curb, so shead jogged the final half-mile, breath fogging. At the staff entrance she paused, palms on knees, while the overhead bulbs buzzed like summer cicadas. Then she straightened the constellation of freckles across her nose, smoothed the cardigan sleeve she always twisted when worried, and crossed the threshold where linoleum began and outside troubles, theoretically, stopped. In the physiciansa lounge, Dr. Elias Hollis adjusted a pair of novelty cufflinksatiny silver wreaths, each no bigger than a nickel. He owned dozens: stethoscopes, snowmen, even miniature tabloids that opened to scandalous headlines only he could read. Tonight he had traded the lot for the wreaths, thinking they struck the right balance between gravitas and mischief. Hollis believed laughter shortened the distance between systole and diastole; he also believed, privately, that loneliness was the quiet arrhythmia. He had seen enough angiograms to recognize the way sorrow traced its own narrowing path. His docket for the evening was mercifully light, and his thoughts kept wandering to Room 214athe walls head measured last January for a botanical print no budget ever approved, the window he once cracked at three a.m. so a dying man could smell fresh snow. Upstairs in Administration, Gerald A. Carmichael, J.D., newly installed director of compliance, practiced signatures. The pen he favored bled blue ink so vivid it looked lit from beneath. He liked numbers because they stayed put; he disliked deviationsaespecially holiday deviations. Half-day admissions for aobservation only,a pudding carts clogging egress routes, telephones tied up by nurses singing harmonyanone of it aligned with his charts. Somewhere below, the second-hand furnace rattled; Carmichael considered the projected heating overage and scrawled a note: MONITOR ENERGY USEa4TH FLOOR. Then, for reasons he could not have articulated, he underlined the line twice. Snow began in earnest at three-fifteen: fat flakes that spun like drowsy moths around the lampposts. Emersonas windows blurred into cottony glow, and the townas plowed roads narrowed to wagon tracks. The world outside folded in on itself, pushing lives toward a single glowing nucleus. By four, headlights gleamed off drifts like coins at the bottom of a fountain. By five, the hospital parking lot looked less like asphalt than a field awaiting seed. Across town, Jim checked his watch, found it later than he feared, and set the key-cutter back on its hook. In his coat pocket the folded envelope from Julyathe tomato-delivery thank-you signed by Nurse Mercado and counter-signed by Dr. Hollisahad softened with rereading. He tapped it once, as though reassurance were percussion, then reached for the shop lights. On the hospitalas third floor, Pauline stubbed a pencil, catching herself halfway through drawing a holly leaf in the margin of the daily census. She tore off the sheet, tucked it in her breast pocket to amuse the girls later, and fetched a clean form. Charts must look properaespecially tonight, when eyes that cared about costs would hunt for excess. Two floors beneath, Hollisawhite coat off, wool peacoat onaclimbed the service stairs instead of taking the elevator, using the empty flights to rehearse phrases that balanced clinical authority with seasonal comfort. Somewhere in the walls steam clattered like coins dropped down a chute. He imagined greeting an imaginary auditor: Yes, Mr. Carmichael, pulse irregularities spike in isolation; we have elected to treat with the cardiotonic properties of company and colored bulbs. At the edge of town, Jimas truck coughed alive, muffler rattling like sleigh bells left out in the thaw. He let the engine idle, defroster wheezing against the fogged windshield, and considered the evening ahead: the lobby resin smell, Paulineas peppermint lotion, Dr. Hollisas half-smile. And beyond that, a room whose door had squeaked for decadesabut never so loudly as when it opened to let him rest. In Administration, Carmichael capped his pen, satisfied with the dayas projections. He folded the latest directiveaNo non-critical overnight admissions without prior authorizationaand slipped it into the OUT tray. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would deliver it in person. Tonight, there were roads to brave and protocols already in place. Still, he paused at the office window long enough to notice a lone set of headlights turning into the side drive, tires chewing fresh powder. He tapped the pane with one manicured fingernail, an idle Morse code of suspicion. Streetlamps flickered. The storm knotted tighter. Somewhere in the dark, a volunteer choir cleared throats for midnight service; somewhere else, a child pressed a face to frosted glass, waiting for proof of reindeer. And converging on the brick heart of Concord came a widower with tomatoes, a nurse with pockets full of unfinished sketches, a doctor who trusted humor more than policy, and an administrator whose pen believed in lines that did not bend. Within the hour, one of them would step across the threshold of Room 214 and tip the first small domino that would not stop falling for yearsaspilling hymns into hallways, sprouting gardens from pavement, turning a ward meant for aches and murmurs into something braver. But snow kept its own counsel, and the walls of Emerson held their breath, and the question floated like a flake unclaimed by ground or sky: When the clock struck Christmas, who would decide how much comfort a human heart was allowedaand who would dare to give more? End of Prologue Snow had been falling since noon. Concord, Massachusetts, 24 December 1964. Dusk gathered in soft folds, the last of the daylight bruising the snow-clouds a lavender gray that seemed to cling to the rooftops like a damp mist. Along Main Street, iron lampposts wore shaky halos, their light diffused by the gently falling snow, and the tired Studebaker parked outside Bower Hardware puffed exhaust that curled like ghostly ribbon candy before dissolving into the cold. The air was heavy with the scent of wood smoke and pine, carried on the whispers of snowflakes that danced around the streetlights, their delicate flakes settling on the pavement like a layer of fragile lace. Inside, Jim Bower coaxed the brass key from the register and let the cash drawer sigh shut for the night, the sound echoing through the shop like a tired sigh. He did not hurry. A man in a rush leaves fingerprints on everything; Jim preferred gentler evidenceaa broom leaned at the exact angle his late wife once favored, a neat row of paint swatches aligned to the inch, their colors muted in the fading light. The radio over the cutting bench crackled aIall Be Home for Christmasa through more static than melody, the tinny notes mingling with the scent of pine shavings and old motor oil that clung to the shop like a comforting blanket. Jimas shoulders tightened on the downbeat, then slumped as though someone had tugged unseen wires. He reached for the receipt pad, thumb hovering over an indented scrawl of initialsaMB, Marian Bowerahalf erased by months of reorder sheets. The memory of her handwriting, once as familiar as his own, now felt like a ghostly presence, a reminder of what was lost. He traced it but did not press hard enough to leave new marks, his finger lingering on the faded letters as if seeking a connection to the past. The rough texture of the paper beneath his touch was a tactile reminder of the countless transactions that had taken place on this counter. The shop smelled of pine shavings and the dull sweetness of old motor oil, comforting in its ordinariness. Yet grief prowled the corners, patient, tireless, its presence felt in the silence between the radioas crackles. Jim slipped a cracked steel tape-measureahinge sprung in two placesainto his breast pocket, the familiar weight a homespun talisman that brought a small measure of comfort. Then he turned off the overhead fluorescents one by one, letting the window display carry the rest of the light: red-and-green bulbs framing a hammer suspended by fishing line so it appeared to float above a tin-toy train. Marian had arranged that window last year, humming her off-key alto while the snow came down heavier than this; the memory of her laughter and the scent of pine lingered like a benevolent echo. As the lights dimmed, the shadows in the shop deepened, and the silence grew thicker, punctuated only by the occasional creak of the old building. When the front door clicked shut behind him, Jim locked both deadbolts, tried the handle twice, and listened to the quiet until the blood in his ears settled. Concord Common lay white and empty beyond the plowed curbaChristmas Eve still an hour from full dark, but already stripped of bustle. Families had gone indoors to board-game laughter and stove-top cider, the warmth and light of their homes a contrast to the cold, darkening street. He stood there, the snowflakes settling around him like a shroud, and felt the weight of his decision. The cold air stung his cheeks, and the snow crunched beneath his feet as he moved. He was not going home. The decision, though rehearsed, pinched. He touched the pocket almanac tucked near his ribsaJulyas ink circle around aplant second batch of tomatoes.a That memory opened of its own accord, transporting him to a summer day when the air was thick with humidity and the scent of ripe tomatoes. Last July: humidity thick as chowder, Jim backing his Ford half-ton to the loading dock behind Emerson Hospital with bushels of Early Girls in the bed. The sun beat down on him, warming the metal of the truck, and the scent of tomatoes filled the air. Head wiped dust off the side mirror with a shop rag still smelling faintly of turpentine, the odor yanking him back to his fatheras garage. Pauline Mercado, cardigan tied around her waist, had clocked out and jogged up the ramp, ponytail escaping its ribbon, freckles brightening as she smiled. aThought I smelled tomatoes,a shead called, vowel flattening the o. aThese for the cafeteria or for bribery?a aFor whoeveras hungry,a Jim had answered, lowering a crate. Sun caught the freckles on Paulineas nose; she squinted, grinned, commandeered the box, her hands moving with quiet confidence. Dr. Elias Hollis had appeared next, tie tucked between second and third buttons, spectacles fogged with sweat, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. aMr. Bower, your horticulture once again shames our so-called salad bar.a Dry, precise, yet wry at the edges, his voice was balm. Theyad unloaded together, Pauline shaking off her Boston lilt long enough to challenge the doctor: aYou want honest vegetables, Hollis, you plant aem.a aMiss Mercado, interns are merely trying to master gelatin.a The man had a gift for mock dignity, and Jim had chuckled. Back in the present, Jim let the scene exhale. Snow scratched faintly at his wool cap, each flake a tiny whisper of that fearless July heat. He took a deep breath and made his way to the pay phone in the stockroom. The hardware storeas pay phone sat in the tiny back room where furnace pipes clanked like old bones. Jim dialed the hospital, turning the rotary slowlyapause on each number, as though persuasion lay in deliberation. aEmerson Hospital, fourth-floor nursesa station,a answered a woman, voice lilting. aItas Jim. Pauline there?a A shuffle, the hush of a hand covering the receiver. He pictured Pauline twisting her cuff while she waited. aHey, Mr. Bower,a she said at last, softer than daylight. aCold night.a Silence ballooned. Jim cleared his throat. aReckon Iave got a flutter in the chest again.a It wasnat entirely false; grief often disguised itself in the body. Another pausealong, clinical weighing of ethics versus friendship. Then: aCome through admitting. Room two-fourteenas open. Dr. Hollis is on call till midnight. Bring warm socksathe ward heateras on strike.a He set the receiver down gently, as if a loud noise might break the fragile permission head been granted. The bell above the back door rang when he stepped into the alley, snow squealing under his boots like a chorus of mice. The half-ton started after three tries, engine catching with a cough. Driving east along Elm Street, he passed houses where windows pulsed television blueaRudolph or Bing Crosby, no doubt. He increased the heater fan though it spat only tepid air and chewed a cinnamon toothpick until the bark splintered. Parking at the hospital, Jim took a moment. Emerson rose squat and brick against the falling night, windows lit unevenly like a checkerboard. He retrieved a small paper bag from the passenger seatathree late-season tomatoes coaxed from the cold frame, skins mottled but wholeaand tucked it beneath his coat. Inside smelled first of salt on rubber mats, then of disinfectant pitched high with wintergreen. Mr. Alves, night custodian, buffed a stretch of corridor, his buffer whirring like an obedient hound. aEvenina, Jim,a he said without pausing, accent lilting Portuguese. aCareful, floors slick atil they set.a aShiny enough to skate,a Jim answered. Fourth floor. The elevator rattled like a tin drum, slow, insistent. Doors parted to a hush fractured only by shoe squeaks and some far-off monitor beep. Nurse Callahan glanced up from a chart, smile a quick crescent. aPulse is dashing through the snow already, Mr. Bower?a she teased. aCould be.a He tried matching the grin but felt the muscles misfire. aMedication pass. Sheall find you.a Callahan nodded toward 214. aGot the good view of the parking lot tonight.a Room 214 waited, pale and half lit, the overhead bulb flickering then steadying. Bed stripped except for a folded blanket, wheels protesting each bump as Jim pulled it toward centerathe squeak Marian once compared to a mouse with laryngitis made him huff a quiet laugh. He shucked his coat, draped it over the visitor chair, and placed the cracked tape-measure on the nightstand beside the tomatoes. The cool metal beneath his touch was a tangible connection to his past. Footsteps. Pauline leaned against the frame, cardigan sleeves pushed to elbows, eyes warm. aTold you about socks,a she murmured, gaze landing on his snow-wet laces. aI listened half way.a She produced a blood-pressure cuff. aFormality.a When contact cameaher fingers sliding beneath his sleeve for pulseaJim sensed how small any lie was compared with the soft authority in her touch. The cuff hissed; numbers printed themselves. She studied his face a moment. aHollisall swing by,a she said at last. aIall bring tea once I finish meds.a The door eased shut. In the hush Jim traced ceiling tiles cracked in spiderwebs, listening for his heartbeat and hearing only the building breathingapipes ticking, vents whispering. Ten minutes later Dr. Hollis arrived, coat unbuttoned, novelty cufflinks shaped like miniature wreaths glinting. He carried a clipboard and the faint smell of pipe smoke despite bans. aMr. Bower,a he said, settling on the chair, achest discomfort, sudden onset, alleviated by the notion of institutional foodais that correct?a aFigured Iad let the experts decide,a Jim replied. Hollisas gaze warmed. aWeall keep you overnight. Run precisely zero invasive tests. Prognosis excellent.a From down the hall, a volunteer choir practicing for midnight service loosed the first bars of aIt Came Upon a Midnight Clear.a The harmony drifted through grates and under doors, soft but insistent, like light sneaking beneath an old barn wall. Hollis tapped the rhythm on his knee and stood. aRest, Jim. Youare among friends. And Merry Christmas, in whatever measure youall have it.a When he left, the fluorescent hummed steady accompaniment to the carol. Pauline reappeared with a mug smelling of chamomile and peppermint. Steam curled; she set it next to the tape-measure, noticed the tomatoes, and raised a brow. aCouldave called a florist,a she murmured. aWinter crop,a he said. She smiled and exited. Jim sipped. The tea was too hot, but heat felt necessary. Outside the window, fresh snow covered his truckas bed, clean, indifferent. He slid onto the mattress, shoes off, blanket pulled to the collarbone. Choir voices swelled, the elevator dinged somewhere distant, and Mr. Alvesas buffer thrummed faintly like a lullaby. In that half-lit room thick with peppermint and the ghost of pine, Jim let eyelids fall. For the first time in weeks, grief loosened its jaw; not gone, never that, but gentled, at least for tonight. The hymn rose toward its final chord as his breathing slowed. By the time the sopranos reached apeace on the earth,a Jim had slipped into an uneasy, yet welcome, sleep. Hours drifted past; somewhere beyond the darkened window, Christmas tipped into its sacred hush. The faint strains of aO Come, O Come, Emmanuela drifted through the hospital corridors, mingling with the scent of disinfectant and the quiet tick of the wall clock. Jimas eyes, heavy with the weight of the day, drifted closed as the chapel choiras distant hymn wrapped around him like a soft blanket. In the nurseas station, the staff huddled, their faces aglow with flashlight beams and a faint sheen of exhaustion. Pauline, her Boston accent softening the edges of her words, laughed as she sorted through a bin of lost-and-found items, freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose like a constellation. aWhatas the treasure trove tonight?a Nurse Callahan asked, warm contralto edging her smile. aTarnished tie clips, a single opera glove, and a harmonica with a cracked reed,a Pauline replied, holding up each item in turn. aWe can work with this.a As they improvised a gift exchange, the room filled with laughter and the rustle of wrapping paperaactually, an old issue of Life magazine with a torn cover. Jim watched, a slow smile spreading across his face, as the staff turned junk into gifts. Dr. Hollis, spectacles slipping down his nose, presented Jim with the harmonica. aFor the melancholy serenades,a he said dryly. Jimas fingers closed around the instrument, feeling the cool metal and the rough edge of the cracked reed. Maybe Iall play for the ghosts, he thought. At midnight, Hollis steered Jim to the empty solarium, shoes creaking on linoleum. The janitor, Mr. Alves, buffed floors outside, the hum of the machine and the scent of wax providing a soothing backdrop. Inside, the darkness was lit only by the faint city glow casting a grid across the floor. They sat, sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups, spoon clinking as Hollis stirred. aRooms answer in different keys,a Hollis said, voice low. aSome speak in beeps, some in breathing. Yours, tonight, speaks in second chances.a Jimas gaze dropped. aIa?? I didnat expecta??a The words drifted away. Hollis waited, silence patient. Just then, the elevator doors slid open, and Pauline wheeled out a floral tray, the scent of turkey and gravy mingling with disinfectant. aMidnight snack,a she announced. Nurse Callahan followed, delivering a pun that made Jim chuckle: aYour vitals are jingle-bell-ied normal, Mr. Jim.a As the night wore on, the staff dispersed, leaving Jim to watch the sky lighten. At dawn, preparing for discharge, he touched the cold windowpane. Outside, snowflakes danced in the morning light. With a sense of promise, Jim stepped into the fresh snow, the memory of the candlelit corridor lingering like a warm ember. Spring crept into memory and bowed out again; routine pulled the calendar toward another December. Jim flattened two strips of cellophane tape with the side of his thumb, sealing a crayon-bright card to the brass till. The register drawer clinked shut, and the cardaa riot of stick figures labeled LILY, ROSE, MAGGIEacrinkled where the tape pinched the paper. A purple snowman leaned at a brave, improbable angle beside the blocky scrawl, WE MISS YOUR TOMAYTOES, MR. JIM! The aOa in TOMAYTOES had sprouted lopsided holly leaves. Outside the plate glass, December twilight pressed its face to the window, turning every streetlight halo into a shaky crown. Jimas breath fogged the pane as he stepped back to judge the placementadead center, eye-level with customers who would never see it. Bower Hardware had closed an hour ago. He was decorating for an audience of one. From the pegboard behind him, a dozen tiny envelopes hung on a bent finish nail. Their corners were soft from handling; faint tomato-leaf scent still clung to the paper. A grease-smudged postcard from Jimaa line drawing of a wrench captioned WORKS FOR HEARTS TOOahad elicited a reply on floral stationery, rose-colored ink splotched where Lilyas elbow bumped the bottle. A shoebox smelling of potting soil had arrived later, packed with marigold seeds and a folded note from Hollis: aFor the alley behind the storeamedicine grows everywhere.a In August, three Mason jars rattling in shredded newspaper delivered Jimas crushed-tomato sauce, lids sealed tight, condensation fragrant inside the delivery van. He touched the bent nail now, as though the letters might hum. Then he switched off the fluorescent row, leaving only the window display lit by a string of thrift-store bulbs head rewired two nights ago. Red, blue, orange, greenathey winked against a snow shovel and a coil of nylon rope, merchandise turned manger scene. He locked upadeadbolt top, padlock bottomaand listened until the hardware smelled only of cold iron. On the sidewalk, the air tasted of flurries and chimney soot. He walked the half-block to his truck carrying a brown paper bag that sweated through at the bottom where a single potted poinsettia leaked water. Elm Street unfurled dark and salted. He let the truck warm while he fished a cinnamon toothpick from the visor and cracked it between molars. Two blocks gone, he caught himself humming. The tune stumbledaaIt Came Uponaaand vanished. One year after Marianas anniversary and still the hymn snagged his throat. Concordas outskirts gave way to the low brick silhouette of Emerson Hospital. Jim parked under a lamp that buzzed like a moth trap and studied Admissionas double doors. Same ritual, different calendar page. A pulse of doubt: maybe he should have stayed home, filled the stoop with poinsettias, cooked the sauce he kept promising Paulineas girls. But the house, with its ghost-quiet radiators, had felt carnivorous. Inside, rubber mats squelched. The lobby pine wreath was newacommercial, stiffayet the sharp scent kicked up memories of his own woodlot. He signed the clipboardaName, DOB, Reason for Visitascribbling aObservationa because Hollis had whispered, aNever write loneliness; administration doesnat have a code for that.a A volunteer offered water; he accepted, noting the aftertaste of styrofoam and chlorine. Nurse Callahan intercepted him at the elevator. aAh, our honorary cardiology snowbird,a she said, shaking a thermometer like a maraca. aAnnual migration on schedule?a aHeadwinds light,a he answered. She snapped on the blood-pressure cuff. Velcro rasped, bulb squished, numbers flipped. aPulse is sleigh-bell steady. Hollis will be smug.a Up to four. The elevator groaned. On the ward, the bulletin board sported new construction-paper stockings: Lily, Rose, Maggie, glitter glue spelling their names crooked as rivers. Room 214as door stood ajar. He pushed with two fingers. The ordinary bed had vanished. In its place waited a three-foot pine sapling planted in a galvanized bucket, root ball wrapped in damp burlap tied off with twine. Colored bulbsaidentical to the ones in his store windowalooped the branches, casting a warm, multicolored glow. One bulb, the blue, sputtered every few seconds. On the visitor chair sat Hollisas stethoscope, coiled around an extension cord. Jimas boots stuck to the linoleum as though nostalgia had been varnished over it. He placed the poinsettia beside the sapling; red bracts flared against the dark needles. The bucket leaked a cool earthy scentawet bark, iron, buried secrets. Footsteps clicked. Dr. Hollis appeared, shrugging off a peacoat dusted in snow. His cufflinks were tiny red sleighs. aMr. Bower,a he intoned, aI see youave located our clandestine greenhouse.a aYou smuggled a tree past security?a aTechnically the loading dock. Mr. Alves declared it aequipment.a One hose, one mop, one evergreen.a Hollis patted the saplingas trunk with surgical tenderness. Jim traced a bulb wire. aThat blue oneas got a nervous twitch.a aLike all of us,a Hollis said. He produced a folded memo. aSpeaking of nerves, the brass upstairs dispatched holiday cheer in written form. Care for a reading?a Jim nodded, bracing himself on an IV pole repurposed as a light stand. Hollis cleared his throat. aaTo: Department Heads. Subject: Cost Containment MeasuresaNoncritical Ward Utilization. Be advised that effective next fiscal quarter, discretionary overnight admissions will be subject to administrative pre-approval. FurthermoreaSeasonal dA(c)cor involving live flora is considered a maintenance hazard.a Signed, Gerald A. Carmichael, J.D., Acting Director of Compliance.a The words clanged in the air, tin on tin, a harsh reminder of the bureaucratic machinery that led to the hospitalas rules. An uneasy hush settled, as though even the fluorescent lights had paused to listen. Hollis folded the memo again, tucking it into the saplingas burlap like compost, a small act of defiance symbolizing the wardas quiet rebellion. Jim wanted to ask if the wing would close, if next Christmas head find the room stripped to drywall. Instead, he swallowed the question. Guiltafamiliar, metallicarose anyway: five hospital beds tied up by his whim across five decades? Marian would have barked that he was clutching what wasnat his. Pockets rattled. aCaught this trying to hitchhike to Lost and Found,a Hollis said, producing a hand-carved cedar ornament: a star inside a circleathe one Jim had whittled for Marian their first married Christmas. He hadnat realized Pauline kept it safe all year. The scent hit him like a swung door to the past: damp barn boards, saw running through cedar, Marianas braid swinging as she swept curls of wood from his boots. He rubbed the ornament, thumb finding the divot where head slipped with the carving knife. aShe said the star looked lazy. Needed sharpening,a he murmured. aLazy stars still shine,a Hollis replied. They hung it together on the saplingas highest reachable branch. The branch sagged, then steadied. Jim imagined the cedar and pine recognizing each otheradistant cousins trading sap stories. Pauline slipped in, cheeks pink from the drafty stairwell. She carried a clipboard of discharge formsabaseline labs, pharmacy checklistsaall blank. aInsurance likes its paperwork,a she sighed. Jim borrowed her pen, signed, smelled the inkaballpoint, cheapaand returned it. Only then did he notice the smudge of blue glitter on her cheek, probably from hanging the girlsa stockings. He nearly reached to brush it off, then stopped. She caught the glance, wiped the glitter with her sleeve. aMaggie went rogue with the glue.a aHow are they?a Paulineas grin eased a line from her brow. aLilyas building a popsicle-stick empire. Rose convinced the cat to wear antlers. The usual domestic peace.a He pictured their kitchen: radio static, three mismatched mugs of cocoa, stockings drooping from a radiator pipe. That he had a place in that worldaif only as aTomayto Manaaunlocked something behind his ribs. Callahan popped her head in. aVitals, people. I need documentation before Santa clocks in.a She wielded a thermometer like a sheriffas badge. Jim sat on the bed. The mattress squeaked its mouse-with-laryngitis complaint. Cuff hissed, thermometer ticked. Numbers normal. Hollis scribbled, winked. aPulse presents no flight risk.a Forms concluded, Hollis and Callahan drifted out, trading jabs about pudding cart