The Little Drummer Girl

Part 10

Sometime during the post-production party, John disappeared.

The party was being held at the church basement. Most of my relatives were there, and as with any celebration involving the Andradas, music filled the hall and spilled out into the night. I prowled among the tired but jubilant people who were unwinding by gorging on food and wine, and reliving the evening’s high points. Despite Dad more or less abusing his position onstage to promote my work, my relatives still treated me as if I was an outsider, addressing me with careful politeness and shifting the conversation away from music until I left. But to my surprise, the pain of their rejection had already faded into a momentary stinging. Maybe one day, the hurt would disappear completely. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Either way, I knew now what to do: keep moving forward, one little step at a time.

Marni had left earlier with her parents, one of the last remaining full-color storybooks tucked underneath her arm. After the concert, people surrounded our booth to check out the books; by the end of it, only a few black-and-white copies were left. I was exhausted but flying so high you could have tied a piece of string to me and turned me into a balloon. Judging from the huge smiles on their sweaty faces, Marni and John felt the same.

Speaking of John, where on earth was he?

I scanned the hall, hugging the last full-color copy to my chest. Instead of a tall, ponytailed figure, I spotted Sister Beth chatting with the parish priest. Remembering that I had one more request to ask of her, I headed over and tapped her on the shoulder.

She turned to me, her round face faintly flushed and her eyes twinkling more brightly than usual—I suspected the glass of wine in her hand might have had something to do with it. “Hello, Zoey, our star for the evening,” she said effusively. “What a night you have had, dear. Wonderful work, wonderful. The little one has waited for this day for so long.”

Definitely the wine, I thought, amused. “About that, Sister Beth…You’ve helped me so much already, but I have one more favor to ask.”

“Of course, child. What is it?”

“When Christmas is over, could I be the one to keep the parol? I promise I’ll take care of him and hang him at the Nativity every Christmas so everybody can see him, so…”

I trailed off when her eyebrows lifted in surprise. I knew very well it wasn’t a small thing I was asking of her. For Sister Beth, that handmade Christmas star was her treasure, her precious memento of a little boy who’d tried to save his sister’s life. She’d rescued it from abandonment and taken care of it all these years; now here I was asking to take her treasure away.

But in the course of writing and drawing its story, I’d grown to love that little paper parol. With his angel and Baby Jesus drawings and gold-foil tails, he’d become more than the instrument of Gabe’s fervent but unanswered prayer. For me, the parol was a reminder of the night Sister Beth revealed my own gift to me. He marked the first time I learned how sweet it was to work passionately on something you loved. He stood for friendship, unbelievable loyalty, and shared achievement. That parol was my emblem now, the star that marked my new path, reassuring me that no matter what happened in the future, I would always find my way back home.

After what seemed like an interminable length of time, her face creased into a smile. “Zoey, I would gladly give him to you, but the little one isn’t mine to give. You have to ask the one who made him.”

“The one who—Gabe?” I frowned. “But he isn’t even here. You said you didn’t know where he was. Did you find a way to contact him or something?”

I became even more confused when she laughed. “Oh, I believe so. But as for that, dear, you’ll have to ask John.”

“John?” I echoed. What did he have to do with Gabe?