The Christmas Joy Ride by Melody Carlson Page A

to make it to Flagstaff . . . she had to make it to little Emily. It was the most important stop on this trip. She would’ve gone there first . . . except for the miles . . . the miles.
    Miranda returned, and after making certain that Joy was still conscious, she knelt by her side, holding Joy’s hand and rocking back and forth slightly. Joy could see Miranda’s lips moving . . . praying. Maybe that was all they could do.
    Please, God , Joy prayed silently again. Just a little more time. Because even after Flagstaff, Joy still needed to make it to Phoenix . . . She needed to see her boys . . . just one more time. Please, God! She wasn’t ready to part from them yet. There were words that still needed to be said. Please , not yet.
    The door burst open and two paramedics entered the RV, knelt by the sofa, and peered curiously at her. Together they asked questions and slipped on some straps and put something over her mouth and nose. Oxygen, perhaps. Talking soothingly, they reassured her as they checked her vital signs, preparing her to be moved. Joy tried to be cooperative, but she felt the motor home spinning round and round . . . like a carnival ride. She was too dizzy, too woozy, unable to hold on. She felt herself losing touch, losing her grip, slipping away.

    Joy spotted him up ahead. Her handsome young man. Under a large oak tree in the center of a field that was golden green and smelled like the end of summer, there stood George Jorgenson in a pale gray suit. He was smiling and waving to her, motioning for her to come and join him. With legs as spry as a young doe, Joy ran toward him—and he ran to meet her. She fell happily into his arms, relaxing in his strong embrace as he lifted her from her feet, spinning her around in his arms. She was home . . . and she knew it. Home at last.
    There they sat together, under the leafy green shadows of the old oak tree, on a scratchy plaid woolen car robe with a wicker basket that was filled with luncheon things that George’s Aunt Bernice had generously packed up for them that morning. Everything was perfect and magical that day. It was the kind of day that should never end . . . a day that should be replayed time and again at will.

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    M iranda couldn’t remember ever feeling this scared or concerned for a person—ever. As she rode next to Joy in the ambulance, hearing the whining cries of the siren, she stared helplessly down at Joy’s pale, lifeless face. As the paramedics tended to her, exchanging unintelligible words between them, Miranda felt hopeless. She felt a dark cloud of uncertainty. This was it . . . the end. She was losing her good friend. Perhaps even her best friend. And there was nothing she could do about it. In the same way she’d lost her marriage, her job, her home . . . she was about to lose Joy as well. It figured.
    With tears streaming down both cheeks, Miranda quietly mumbled a disjointed prayer. Feeling like a six-year-old, she begged God over and over to spare Joy. But even as she uttered the words, she knew it was a selfish prayer. Joy was nearlyeighty-six, and she was being relocated to an assisted living facility where she knew no one. Joy’s life, for the most part, was over. Who could deny that? Joy believed in heaven . . . and an afterlife. Perhaps she would be happier to move on now. Who was Miranda to try to hold on to her, to try to keep her back? And yet she couldn’t help herself.
    â€œWe’re taking her into the ER. But she’ll probably go directly to the cardiac unit of ICU,” the guy told Miranda as they started to wheel the gurney out the door. Miranda hadn’t even noticed they’d arrived at the hospital.
    â€œShe’ll be in good hands,” the woman said as she helped to get the gurney down.
    Miranda wiped her damp cheeks and, gathering her purse and Joy’s, she exited the ambulance,