The Little Drummer Girl

Part 9

Another good thing about being an Andrada? The free pass I got at school on the day of the Christmas concert, on the assumption that I was too busy with the production to deal with class. After all, even if I wasn’t a performer, there were all these sound-checks, stage blocking, light and sound system adjustments, and other production details I surely have to attend to.

Of course, I attended to none of those. Instead, I spent the morning at the copy-and-print center making more copies of the storybook. We’d produced almost a hundred storybooks, most of them cheaper, black-and-white reproductions, with a handful of full-color versions. Holding the storybooks in my hands was…indescribable. Each book contained so much more than just words and illustrations. Gabe’s pain, the little parol’s history, Sister Beth’s kindness, Marni’s and John’s faith in me, my uncle’s and brother’s unexpected generosity—my own heartbreak and self-discovery—all of these, printed, folded and stapled within a few sheets of copy paper.

That in itself was a miracle in its own right.

That afternoon, I went over to Sister Beth’s house to fetch the small table, book stand and table cloth she let me borrow for the event. I set these up on one side of the parking lot. With the addition of some chairs and an ornate lamp from home, our little booth was ready.

John arrived some minutes before the four o’clock Mass. I found him eyeing the booth in consternation—he was supposed to help me set it up but hadn’t been able to get away from the café in time. He heard my laughter and turned, and the way his mouth opened slightly made me my heart beat faster. I’d changed into a white cocktail dress, with my hair swept over my shoulder in a side ponytail and held in place by the cat hair-tie he’d given me, and his slow smile and the warmth in his gaze was undeniably gratifying.

My family was already inside the church. Judging from the shock on their faces when I introduced John to them and when I sat beside him instead of with them, Marni had read the situation right. But I wasn’t the least bit afraid. John stood tall and confident beside me, and after a while, they turned away, seeming to accept the situation for now.

After the Mass, he and I approached the Nativity, one of the full-color storybooks clasped in my arms. People had already come to give their offerings to the infant Savior; bowls of fruit, bunches of flowers and gift baskets crowded around the foot of the manger. Stepping closer, I laid the book beside the manger.

“For you, Lord. Something to read to boost your cognitive development,” I murmured. Then I lifted my gaze to the little parol. “And for you, too, little guy. One day Gabe will find you again, and you’ll know everything was worth it.”

As I turned to go, I caught sight of John’s face, and was startled to find tears standing in his eyes. He shook his head, embarrassed. “Sorry. Pretend you didn’t see me indulging in some sentimentalism. Shall we go? Marni’s probably waiting already.”

She was. While the audience came flowing into the parking lot, and everybody else was setting up onstage, tuning their instruments or changing into their costumes, we took out the books and arranged them on the table. Soon, people began drifting over out of curiosity. We encouraged them to scan the display book, and were endlessly thrilled when we made our very first sale.

Some of my own family came over as well, including my parents who looked both puzzled and amazed, although they did purchase a couple of the black-and-white editions. Ray, to my surprise, bought a copy and even made me sign it.

“Don’t forget about us when you become rich and famous, okay?” he said with a grin.

“Ha ha. Go study your pieces,” I retorted, squeezing his shoulders in a hug.