Author's note and disclaimer: I acknowledge that Quantum Leap and its original characters belong to Donald Bellisario. The wonderful Christmas carols referred to in this story are also not my creations!

The Last Song

The rousing a capella of Joy to the World and the distinct smell of straw and burning candles reached Sam's consciousness before his physical being finally drifted into its host aura. A small baby cradled over her mother's shoulder observed the transition with unquestioning innocence through big brown eyes, but the arrival went otherwise unnoticed.

Sam knew the song well and joined in almost immediately, relishing the happy atmosphere in the crowded chapel. Before the end of the song, Al had found him, and Sam grinned as his friend walked past the pulpit and up the aisle towards him waving his arms and hands conductor-like, in rhythm with the tune. A few small children watched him and giggled through their singing voices.

As the song ended, the congregation dropped into their pews in unison and Al ambled along to Sam's side. Trying not to distract the small children further, he kept his voice low as the pastor began his sermon.

"Hi, Sam … oh, it's OK …" he added quickly as Sam shrugged slightly and looked apologetically at him. "You don't need to talk. I can tell you everything you need to know … oooh." Al peered round Sam, immediately distracted by an attractive-looking blonde woman further along Sam's pew.

Sam rolled his eyes and wished he could deal Al a sharp backhander to the ribs. Instead, he settled for glaring venomously at him.

"What?" Al queried in mock innocence as a sense of Sam's eyes boring into him finally drew him back. Sam stealthily opened his hands in an impatient questioning gesture to try to hurry Al along. "Stop worrying," Al retorted. "We have some time." He punched some buttons on the handlink. "It's Christmas Eve, 1976 and you're in Boston, Massachusetts. Your name's Richard Jackson and you're forty six years old … uh … you're away from home on business and … I think nobody here knows you … which may be helpful."

Al gazed over in the direction of a stage to the side of the pulpit. "Take a look over there, Sam. A typical nativity scene. You missed most of the performance, but there's just a bit left. See the little girl playing Mary?"

Sam followed Al's gaze and smiled at the sight of a pretty, little girl dressed in a blue robe and a tea towel which was bound, slightly askew, to her head. In one arm she clasped a tightly swaddled doll and with her free hand she pulled distractedly at bits of straw poking free from a makeshift manger.

"That's Emily Jane Blackaby," Al continued. "She's eight years old. Now, over to the side there, in the front row … I don't know if you can see …."

Sam resisted the temptation to stand up, and made do with craning his neck and peering between heads.

"The lady in the wheelchair, and the man next to her … that's Emily Jane's mom and dad. I don't think Emily Jane quite realizes this yet, but her mom won't be here next Christmas. She has a degenerative disease and she dies on October 10th 1977."

Sobered by this news, Sam looked forlornly at Al, wondering if anything could be done. Al read his mind. "That's not why you're here, Sam," he responded softly. "Emily Jane's a journalist now and Ziggy's dug up an article she wrote recently about losing her mom. I'll read some of it to you."

Al punched some more buttons on the handlink and began to read:

"I remember sitting on a straw bale at the front of the church, fidgety and nervous. Mrs Smith's words kept repeating in my ears: 'Mr Andrews who plays the piano for us is sick today, so we're going to have to sing without the piano. Try to sing up children. And Emily Jane, I know you've been practicing hard with the piano, but you have a lovely voice. You'll be able to sing on your own, won't you, dear?' I felt myself nodding without having any real control over my head.

Now as the moment approached, my heart was drumming hard. Pastor Thomas was giving his sermon – probably in his usual magnetic style – but I didn't hear it. All I heard was Mrs Smith and the repetitive aortic thud, reminding me unmistakably that I was alive, when at that moment perhaps I wished I wasn't. I was starting to panic, manically running over the lyrics in my head. And then I heard my name … Pastor Thomas announcing my performance. I shot a look at my parents for reassurance. Dad smiled encouragingly; proudly. Mom was trying hard to maintain her gaze in my direction. I knew she was rooting for me in her heart.

I stood up – a little too fast – and gripped baby Jesus hard as dark blobs floated in front of my eyes. My face was burning. Remember to breathe. I took a deep breath and unwisely surveyed my waiting audience. Another deep breath and my mouth was bone dry, but a hoarse and shaky note had slipped from my lips into the silence. There was no going back. 'Sssilent niiight …' I wobbled. 'Holy … nnight …'

Suddenly the tune fled my mind. I'd known it all my life, but it was gone. Squeaky, off-key notes tumbled from my mouth as somehow I kept going. Mercifully, I feel sure that the heavy air in that vast room swallowed my meager attempts before they reached the fifth pew. But Mom could hear me.

Then a motley choir of voices joined me. We had reached the second verse and my solo was over. I looked at Dad. He was grinning from ear to ear. Even his eyes were smiling. And then I saw Mom beside him. Her expression was fixed – the result of her illness, I knew. I knew. So why did I feel she was disappointed?

The truth was, I was disappointed. Even at eight, I was a perfectionist. I couldn't conceive that no one expected a concert performance. That was what I wanted to give, and I'd failed. I stumbled through the rest of the song then sat down quickly, trying to hide the gathering tears.

That night in my bedroom, I consoled myself. Next year I'll try again. I'll do something better and make Mom really proud.

But for Mom, there wasn't a next year."

Sam bit his lip and looked back at little Emily Jane. Now aware of her story, he could feel her fear and sympathized with her disappointment.

"This was an important day for Emily Jane, Sam. It went wrong and she's never forgotten it. Maybe if she had a pianist, it would be OK. We could make this memory perfect for her."

Sam nodded at Al, knowing exactly what he needed to do. He felt a slight nervousness rising in his own body at the thought of having to interrupt Pastor Thomas to announce in front of this crowd of strangers that he would play for Emily Jane. But there was little time for nerves.

Al had finished his exposition and Sam was suddenly aware of Pastor Thomas' voice reaching the end of the sermon.

"May God bless His Word to us. Now, I understand that Emily Jane is going to lead the children in the last song, Silent Night. They've been practicing with the piano, so this will be a bit different for them, but …"

"Excuse me." Sam stood up hesitantly and raised his hand in a little wave. "If it would help, I'd be happy to accompany the children on the piano."

A ripple of noise spread across the room and Sam felt about a hundred and fifty pairs of eyes train on him.

"God bless you. Wouldn't that be great kids?" Pastor Thomas chirped enthusiastically,

A look of anxious hope passed from Emily Jane to Sam, and he gave her a friendly grin in return. He made his way to the chapel's beautiful grand piano where Al was already waiting. Emily Jane watched him intently, waiting for a cue. Sam sat on the stool and rested his fingers softly on the keys in preparation. He improvised a small introduction in G Major and paused for a moment to give Emily Jane a nod before he slowly and gently began to play the ancient carol, careful not to drown out her shy voice.

Al gripped the handlink and held his breath, willing Emily Jane to make herself proud. And after the first few shaky words, she began to shine. As her confidence grew, her words became louder and clearer, and not once did she waiver from the tune. Sam glanced across at the congregation. They were captivated. Emily Jane's dad held his wife's hand and Mrs Blackaby's face had the appearance of complete peace despite the effort of holding her gaze upon her daughter.

With the solo over, Sam and Al relaxed. As Sam launched into the second verse for the little choir, Emily Jane looked across at him, her eyes twinkling with gratitude. At the end of the song, applause resounded throughout the chapel. Mr Blackaby poked at his eye to halt an escaping tear.

The room briefly fell quiet for Pastor Thomas' closing prayer. Then Sam played a verse of Joy to the World for background music as the happy crowd began to chatter.

"You did great, Sam," Al said animatedly as Sam finished the verse. "Look at Emily Jane. She's happy." The little girl pranced over to her parents and jumped excitedly into her dad's lap. From there, she leaned over and cuddled her mom's frail body and held her hand as a conversation ensued between the proud father and an impressed congregation member.

From her father's embrace, Emily Jane looked across at Sam and gave him a huge smile. It was the last thing Sam saw as he slipped once more into the void.

*

"Now as the moment approached, my heart was drumming hard. Pastor Thomas was giving his sermon – probably in his usual magnetic style – but I didn't hear it. All I heard was Mrs Smith and the repetitive aortic thud, reminding me unmistakably that I was alive, when at that moment perhaps I wished I wasn't. I was starting to panic, manically running over the lyrics in my head. And then I heard my name … Pastor Thomas announcing my performance. I shot a look at my parents for reassurance. Dad smiled encouragingly; proudly. Mom was trying hard to maintain her gaze in my direction. I knew she was rooting for me in her heart.

I was about to stand, when a movement over in the central block of pews caught my eye. A man I didn't recognize had raised his hand and stood uncertainly. It struck me that he seemed as nervous as me. I wasn't alone. And then he spoke: a few wonderful words which bounced across the heads of the audience and started a tentative celebration within me. 'I'd be happy to accompany the children on the piano.' I gazed across at him, barely daring to believe it. But now he was striding down the aisle, sitting at the piano, starting to play …

I stood up – a little too fast – and gripped baby Jesus hard as dark blobs floated in front of my eyes. My face was hot. Remember to breathe. I took a deep breath and unwisely surveyed my waiting audience. Another deep breath and my mouth was bone dry, but the Stranger gave me a nod which meant it was time to start. No going back. A hoarse and shaky note slipped from my lips and hovered in the air beside the soft, pure notes from the piano. 'Sssilent niiight …' I wobbled. 'Holy … nnight'. The piano continued, guiding me gently through the verse. The Stranger watched me intently. I had a sudden sensation that he was lifting me up and wouldn't drop me. My confidence soared. I realized I was enjoying myself. My voice was shrill and untrained, but I didn't see the faults. I was giving my very best performance. I imagined the accolades – applause for an eight-year-old singing star.

Suddenly a motley choir of voices joined me and my moment had passed. I looked at Dad. He was grinning from ear to ear; his eyes shiny. And then I saw Mom beside him. Her expression was fixed – the result of her illness, I knew. So I had learned to look into her eyes. It seemed to me that they were dancing.

That was the last Christmas I had with my mom. She died on October 10th 1977 and I was left with memories.

But good memories they were and not least The Last Song."

Emily Jane Blackaby Andersen