Ghost of Christmas Past
Jennifer Noyes looked at the long line of holiday shoppers waiting to check out at her register and felt a tightness in her stomach. The store was nearly as crowded as it had been on Black Friday, a few days earlier. As she counted the change for one of the few customers who paid with cash, her eyes went to the time displayed in the upper left corner of her computer screen.
Four more hours! she thought, arching her back to try to ease the pain between her shoulders.
As one customer took her bag and headed for the exit, another one stepped forward. Jennifer scanned the first item, a Disney Frozen Elsa doll, knowing the computerized checkout system had begun timing her performance. If the sale went smoothly, she would be rated green. However, if it took more than the time allotted, she would be rated red. Jennifer, although only a part-time, seasonal employee, took immense pride in her job performance and strived with every customer to earn a green rating. She pushed herself to scan and bag the items as quickly as possible. More often than not, it was the customers themselves who held up the line by questioning prices, directing the bagging process, taking a long time entering their debit/credit card information or even longer writing personal checks. Then there were the shoppers who would announce, "I have the exact change," and proceed to dig through their purses, wallets and pockets, searching for the correct combination of coins.
If that wasn't bad enough, supervisors and assistant managers pushed the cashiers to urge customers to open store credit cards, take out protection plans on appliances and electronics and go to the Internet address at the bottom of their receipt to complete a survey. It was as though there were a conspiracy against cashiers to remain in the red.
One hour passed. Then two. Only two hours left, but unfortunately they were the hardest hours of the day. Not only was Jennifer tired and her back muscles throbbing, but the customers were also weary and anxious to get their shopping done. Children that should have been home in bed were in the store screaming, crying and throwing tantrums. One customer after another complained: the lines were too long, the items they wanted were out of stock, there were either too many items put in one bag or too many bags to carry out. To make matters worse, several customers brought up items that were missing price tags, necessitating a time-consuming price check and another red grade on her cashiering report card.
At eight o'clock a coworker was sent to relieve Jennifer, so she could take a break. For fifteen precious minutes she sat in the lunchroom, resting her aching back against the rear of the chair and drinking a cold Coke. When she went back into the store at the conclusion of her break, the stress that had been building up since the beginning of November finally hit her. Like the children of Hamlin following the Pied Piper, Jennifer followed the melody of "Silent Night" being played in the mall, walking past the row of cash registers and long lines of shoppers.
"Jennifer?" her supervisor called. "Where are you going? Your break is over; you need to go back on your register."
As though deaf to all sounds except the haunting Christmas carol, she kept walking, oblivious to everything and everyone around her.
* * *
Alvin Caffrey, manager of the Puritan Falls Mall, was sitting in his recliner, watching reruns of Breaking Bad, when the phone rang.
His wife answered, and a few moments later called to him, "Al, it's for you."
"Who is it?"
"Jeff. He needs to talk to you, says it's important."
"Hell!" Alvin exclaimed as he made his way to the kitchen. "It's always something this time of year. I can't wait until January. I hate the holidays!"
"Here you go, Scrooge," Mrs. Caffrey said, handing him the telephone receiver.
"Yeah," was the only greeting the manager had for the mall's chief of security.
"I'm sorry to bother you on your day off, Al, but we have a situation here."
"What is it?"
"One of the department store employees, a cashier, is sitting in the middle of the center court display and won't come out."
"If you can't handle it, then call the police. They'll put her out of the mall."
"It's a little more complicated than that. It's Jennifer Noyes, your niece."
"Just leave her alone. I'll be right down there."
Ten minutes later, Alvin parked in one of the few open spaces available and entered the mall through the main entrance rather than the employees' entrance in the back. He went directly to the center court, which had been decorated to resemble Victorian London, complete with fake snow and imitation gas street lamps. He was dismayed to see his niece, dressed in a polo shirt bearing the logo of the department store she worked for, sitting in a bank of cotton snow, staring at a robotic Bob Cratchit balancing a mechanical Tiny Tim on his shoulder.
"Are you all right, Jennifer?"
The girl's stare never wavered.
"Would you like me to call your mother?"
"She's been like that for nearly an hour," the security chief explained. "No one's been able to get through to her. Her supervisor at the department store suggested we call an ambulance, but I figured I'd leave that decision up to you."
In full view of a crowd of spectators gathered around the center court, Alvin walked across the artificial snow of the Dickensian street scene toward his niece.
"Why don't you come with me?" he said gently.
Jennifer put up no resistance as her uncle took her arm, helped her stand and then led her out of the display and to a door marked MALL EMPLOYEES ONLY. He guided her to a chair, and she obediently sat down while he phoned her parents.
"I'm going to drive her over to the hospital," Alvin told his sister. "You and Dan meet us there."
* * *
Dr. Sarah Ryerson shined the beam of a small flashlight into Jennifer's eyes.
"Blood and urine tests show no sign of drugs in her system," the doctor told the worried parents. "I'd like to run a few more tests, but it appears as though she's in good health."
"Why doesn't she respond to anything we say to her then?"
"I'm not an expert in these matters, but it seems like she's had some kind of emotional shock. Has she had any traumatic experiences recently?"
"No."
"I'd like to keep her here a day or so while we run the tests. Maybe I'll ask Dr. Penn to take a look at her as well."
"Lionel Penn?" Mrs. Noyes asked. "He's a psychiatrist! You're not suggesting she's ... crazy?"
"Not at all. It's just that Dr. Penn is more qualified to diagnose emotional problems than I am."
Two days later there was still no change in Jennifer's condition.
"All the tests came back negative," Sarah announced. "I have no medical explanation to give you."
The emergency room physician turned to her colleague, Lionel Penn, indicating it was his turn to speak.
"Jennifer appears to be suffering from acute stress disorder most likely brought on by a traumatic event."
"What kind of event?" the father asked.
"I don't know," the psychiatrist admitted. "I haven't been able to break through the wall of silence she's hiding behind."
"Is there anything you can do for her?" the mother asked anxiously.
"I'm sure therapy will help, but in her current unresponsive state, treatment is impossible."
"How long is she likely to stay like this?" Mr. Noyes inquired.
"Usually, those who suffer from ASD are impaired for a minimum of two days up to a maximum of four weeks."
Four weeks! The Noyeses were crestfallen. It was the first time since their daughter was born that they wouldn't spend Christmas together as a family.
* * *
Dr. Lionel Penn sat at his desk, listening to a patient who suffered from aviophobia describe his reactions to seeing a jumbo jet land at Logan Airport. It was his last patient of the day, and Lionel looked forward to the end of the hour so that he could get ready for the hospital Christmas party he was to attend with Sarah.
"And the plane landed without incident?" the doctor asked his patient.
"It didn't crash, if that's what you mean."
"That's exactly what I meant. You know I read that the odds of being killed in a major airline crash are one in four point seven million. If you fly one of the thirty-nine airlines with a top accident rating, the odds are one in nineteen point eight million. Sounds pretty safe to me."
"Unless you're that one person."
When the second hand reached twelve on his office clock, Lionel informed the patient that the session had come to an end.
"Since I won't be seeing you until January, have a good holiday, Doctor," the patient said.
"You, too."
His workday over, Lionel picked up his briefcase and coat and headed toward the door. Judy cornered him in the reception area.
"Sarah called."
"Probably wanted to make sure I got out of here on time."
"That's not it. She said to tell you Jennifer Noyes is showing signs of improvement. She'd like you to go over to the hospital as soon as possible."
* * *
Lionel Penn noticed the blank expression on Jennifer's face, turned to Sarah and remarked, "I thought you said her condition had improved."
"It has. She responds to what she hears. Try talking to her."
"Jennifer?" the psychiatrist called. "Can you hear me?"
"Yes," the patient replied without emotion.
"It's like she's under hypnosis," Sarah said.
"Have you called her parents?" Lionel asked.
"I did. They're on their way. They ought to be here any minute now."
Once Mr. and Mrs. Noyes observed their daughter's condition for themselves, they gave Dr. Penn permission to question her. The psychiatrist, in turn, allowed them to stay in the room on the condition that they remain calm and quiet regardless of what their daughter might say. When they agreed, Lionel commenced his interview.
"Jennifer, do you know your uncle found you sitting in a Christmas display in Puritan Falls Mall?"
"No."
"You have no memory of walking out of the department store and into the center court?"
"No."
"All right. Why don't you tell me what you do remember? Describe what you did Friday morning."
"I woke up early, knowing I had a full day ahead of me. I quickly showered and dressed and went down to the kitchen to make breakfast. Then, after the usual morning rush, I dropped my son off at school on the way to my office."
Jennifer's parents stared at their daughter with profound confusion on their faces, but they heeded Dr. Penn's advice and spoke not a word.
"You said you had a full day ahead of you. What do you mean by that?" the psychiatrist asked.
"It was getting close to Christmas, and I still had a lot to do."
"Like what?"
"Finishing my shopping, for one thing. Then I had to wrap all the presents, put up the tree, write out my cards, do my holiday baking and take my son to see Santa. Add to that all the social obligations: my company Christmas party, my husband's party, my son's school play."
"Things must have been hectic."
"They were, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the holidays. It's such a magical time of the year."
When Jennifer fell silent, Lionel prompted her to continue.
"What else happened on Friday morning?"
"I got to work around nine, and it was like any other day. I had calls to make, correspondence to answer, sales figures to review."
"Nothing out of the ordinary occurred?"
Tears misted in Jennifer's eyes, her first sign of emotion since being found in the mall's Dickens Christmas display.
"I was on the phone with our district manager when one of the secretaries got a call from her mother. There had been a shooting at the school."
"What school is that?"
"My son's. I told the district manager I'd call him back and tried phoning the school. I never got through. By then there were early reports on the local news, but no one knew how bad the shooting was, whether anyone had been hurt or ...."
"What did you do?"
"I immediately left work and drove over there. There were police and frantic parents everywhere. Mothers and fathers were searching for their children. So as not to interfere with police activity, we, the parents, were told to go to a nearby firehouse. My husband soon joined me there. The wait was unbearable. No one knew what was going on or if the shooter still posed a threat. Eventually some of the children were reunited with their parents, and the crowd started to thin out. I don't know how long my husband and I waited for word of our son because I lost all track of time."
Lionel turned to observe Jennifer's parents. They seemed mesmerized by their daughter's story.
"I remember there was a Christmas tree in the firehouse—not a large one, maybe only four feet high. I became fixated on that tree, staring at the lights as they twinkled on and off: red, green, red, green. The ornaments, too, were red and green. There were figurines beneath the tree: characters from Dickens' A Christmas Carol. To me, the Ghost of Christmas Present represented the horror of the shooting and the Ghost of the Future our unknown fate. I chose to visit the past, remembering all the precious moments a mother holds in her heart. I was thinking about my son's first day of school when the police finally brought us the news. Our son had been shot dead in his classroom."
Mrs. Noyes stifled a whimper, and Sarah took her hand to comfort her.
"My husband identified the body. I wanted to go with him, but he wouldn't let me. When he returned, his face was as white as the fake snow beneath the Christmas trees in the mall. I ...."
"What is it?" Lionel asked.
"The mall ...," the patient said, rubbing her forehead with frustration. "The Ghost of Christmas Past. Red and green lights and ornaments: green is good but red is bad."
"Do you want to stop?" Lionel asked, noticing the patient's agitation. "Would you like to rest for a while?"
Jennifer calmed herself and regained her trancelike composure.
"No. When we finally went back to our house, that's when the full horror of what had happened hit me. It was no longer the loving home it once was. It was more like a torture chamber. Every room held a reminder of my loss: my son's Christmas stocking on the living room fireplace, his school papers held to the refrigerator door with magnets, his toy boat on the edge of the bathtub. When I opened my closet door to hang up my jacket, I saw the presents I'd hidden on the top shelf. That's when I lost it. I fell to the floor and sobbed uncontrollably. Nothing my husband could say or do offered the least bit of consolation. A madman with a gun had taken the most precious thing in my life, and all the tears in the world couldn't bring him back. I honestly wished I was dead as well."
Unable to hold back her tears any longer, Mrs. Noyes left the room. Her husband nodded his head, indicating that the questioning should go on.
"Is there anything else you remember?" Lionel asked.
"The days after the shooting were surreal. There were reporters and television news crews everywhere. Memorials began piling up on the school grounds: flowers, crosses, toys, teddy bears. The police had questions for us, and we had questions for them—most of which still had no answers. And all the while people debated what had made the young man do such a heinous thing and what, if anything, could have been done to prevent it. While many of the people across the nation cried out for stricter gun control laws, others rallied around their second amendment right to bear arms. It was almost a circus atmosphere."
"And what did you do while all this was going on?"
"Not much. My doctor had prescribed a sedative, and it helped to deaden the pain—somewhat. The parents met with grief counselors, which didn't help at all—not for me, anyway. To get through the day, I concentrated on the little things: eat, shower, get dressed, brush my teeth, comb my hair. I made the bed, washed dishes, did laundry, cooked. Most of all, I avoided looking at my son's toys and going into his bedroom. I knew I would have to someday, but not yet."
"A few minutes ago you mentioned the mall," Lionel said, hoping to establish a connection between Jennifer's tale of a school shooting and her bizarre behavior since the end of her break when she walked out of the department store and into the mall's Christmas display. "What does it have to do with your son's death?"
"Ghosts. Past, present and future. My little boy is a ghost of my past ... Green is good; red is bad."
"What is the significance of red and green?" Lionel inquired, noticing she repeated her earlier comment about the relative value of the two colors.
"Red means I took too long, but I couldn't help it. She was looking for a nickel at the bottom of her purse."
"Who was looking for a nickel? What has a nickel to do with Dickens or a school shooting?"
"Guns are terrible things. They ought to be rated red. They have only one purpose: to kill. No one is safe as long as there are so many guns out there! Red means I took too long, but it's not my fault. She was looking for a bullet at the bottom of her purse."
"Are my questions tiring you?" the psychiatrist asked.
"Did you know Dickens refers to the third ghost by two different names? First he calls him the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, and then a few paragraphs later, he refers to him as the Ghost of the Future. Either way, the future should be rated red. The man with the gun killed Christmas for me as well. I'll never be able to see a decorated tree, a wrapped present or even a calendar of the month of December and not remember the ghost that haunts the present."
"Are you getting anything out of all this?" Sarah Ryerson whispered.
"Not yet," the psychiatrist replied.
Suddenly the patient arched her body, and Lionel feared she might have a seizure.
"My back," she said, rolling her shoulders and twisting her head on her neck. "It hurts like hell. Was I shot, too? Is that what happens when you don't make your quota of signing up customers for credit cards or you forget to ask a customer if they want to take out a protection plan on the television they bought? Oh, no! Another red. No. I wasn't shot. It's just my muscles; they ache from bending over to bag."
"You're talking about your job as a cashier, aren't you?"
"Yes. Red is bad. If it takes too long to check out a customer, I get a red rating. It isn't fair! It's not my fault. I try so hard to get a green, but the customers make it impossible."
As Jennifer spoke about her job at the department store, she became more animated. Lionel believed it might be at the root of her strange behavior.
"I imagine working under those conditions causes a great deal of stress, especially at this time of the year."
"Yes, it does! I try so hard to earn green ratings, but no matter how fast I scan and bag, I keep seeing the giant red 'R' on my computer screen. It's so frustrating. I want to scream at the customers to hurry up and put their pin number in the card reader or just forget about finding the exact change."
"They make you angry, do they? Maybe you wish you had a gun ...."
"A gun, no! I hate guns. They're only good for one thing: killing. And don't tell me about hunting. I hate people who shoot defenseless animals. And madmen who take guns into schools."
Once more, Jennifer spoke in a detached monotone. Lionel decided it was time to bring her back to the mall, figuratively speaking.
"You're referring to your son being shot at his school?"
"Yes."
"Jennifer, you don't have a son. You never did. You're a seventeen-year-old girl who attends Puritan Falls High School and lives at home with her parents."
"No. I'm married. I have—had—a son."
"No. Think about your job. You work as a cashier at the department store in the Puritan Falls Mall."
"Green is good; red is bad."
"That's right. You were working last Friday. The mall was busy. Your back ached. There were long lines of customers."
"I was getting a lot of reds and very few greens, but there was nothing I could do about it!"
"You're right. It wasn't your fault. You were working hard, too hard probably."
"I finally got a break: fifteen minutes where I could sit down and rest my aching back."
"That's right, but when your break was over, you had to return to work."
"I opened the lunchroom door and saw all the lines at the registers. The store was crowded, and there was so much noise! One kid was screaming at the top of his lungs. I wanted to go home and get away from all the stress. Then I heard 'Silent Night' being played over the mall's music system. I followed it out to the center court where everything was so peaceful. There were no people, just Bob Cratchit carrying Tiny Tim on his shoulder."
"Your uncle said you were staring up at Tiny Tim when the mall security officer found you. What were you thinking at the time?"
"He was so young, only six years old."
Jennifer's breath came rapidly and she began to tremble.
"Someone shot him," she cried, her raised voice bringing her mother back into the hospital room. "A madman with a gun shot Tiny Tim!"
For the first time since she'd left for work Friday evening, Jennifer recognized her parents.
"Mom? Dad? What's going on? Where am I?"
"You're at Puritan Falls Hospital," Sarah Ryerson answered her. "You were brought here a few days ago."
"Why? What happened? Was I in a car accident?"
Lionel Penn answered her questions with one of his own.
"What's the last thing you remember?"
"I was at work. My fifteen-minute break was over, and I had to go back to my register. That's all."
"While you were on your break, did you overhear anything about a school shooting? Perhaps someone was discussing Columbine?"
"No. Oh, please tell me there wasn't another one! Haven't there been enough already?"
"Why don't you get some rest?" Sarah suggested.
"But what happened to me?" Jennifer persisted. "Why am I in a hospital?"
"I'm afraid the stress of your job temporarily got to you," Lionel said. "But I think you'll be fine now. Why don't you do what Dr. Ryerson says, try to get some sleep?"
* * *
Jennifer Noyes was discharged from the hospital the following morning. Using some simple stress-reducing techniques recommended by Sarah Ryerson, she returned to her job at the department store. Not even the giant R's on her cash register's computer screen rattled her. After all, red wasn't necessarily that bad.
Lionel Penn, Sarah Ryerson, the Noyeses, Alvin Caffrey and even Jennifer herself might have eventually forgotten all about the incident ... except two days later, on December 14, 2012, twenty-year-old Adam Lanza, after murdering his mother in her bed, shot his way into Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. Using a Bushmaster XM15 semi-automatic rifle, he killed twenty students and six faculty members before committing suicide—thus fulfilling the young cashier's awful premonition.
When the news of the latest school shooting reached Puritan Falls, the residents of the small Massachusetts village held a nondenominational memorial service at Puritan Falls Church. For reasons she could not comprehend, Jennifer Noyes went to the center court of the mall after her shift at the department store was over. As she stared at the mechanical Tiny Tim who was balanced on Bob Cratchit's robotic body, she said a silent prayer for the Sandy Hook victims as well as for all the other innocent lives—young and old—snuffed out by senseless acts of violence.
Although she had no religious beliefs, she concluded her prayer with Dickens' immortal line, "God bless us, everyone!"
It seemed, even to one as young and inexperienced as Jennifer Noyes, that people around the world needed help now more than ever.
In memory of those who died in the Sandy Hook Elementary school shooting.
I don't know where you got that old illustration, Salem, but I assure you in Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol it was Mrs. Cratchit who had the pudding, not a black cat!
