The Twelve Days of Dash & Lily

by Rachel Cohn

  “Well, I hope they have a bathroom there!”

  “They do,” I assured him. “They have a few.”

  —

  I knew there was no way for me to follow Lily’s path, not if I wanted to end up where I needed to be.

  There were three clues between the Strand and Boomer, and Lily picked them off one by one.

  Go to the 92 to see the 10th and 11th candles.

  (Our unorthodox Orthodox Jewish friends Dov and Yohnny were next to the big menorah in the lobby of the 92nd Street Y, holding up candles and a clue.)

  It’s time for the other boot to fall…in the same place you lost the first one.

  (Sofia had sweet-talked the owner of a popular club to let Lily in during the day. Mrs. Basil E. had loaned me a boot of hers to place in the restroom stall where I’d left a message for Lily a year ago. That message had said Please return the notebook to the handsome gumshoe wearing the fedora hat. Now Sofia had traced my handwriting to write, The Little Foxes want you to know this isn’t a dead end. The children’s hour may be over, but there’s still time for frozen hot chocolate.)

  (That would lead to Serendipity—because everyone in New York knows there’s only one place in Manhattan to get frozen hot chocolate. There, Lily’s grandfather would be waiting at a table—Sofia would text him to get the frozen hot chocolate ready. He was instructed not to talk about the red notebook with Lily, but to talk about anything else she wanted to talk about. Then, when the bill came, the waiter would have written the next clue on the back of the receipt—If a tree falls in the forest, who’s most likely to go over to it to see if it’s okay?)

  That would lead to Boomer.

  And Boomer would lead to Brooklyn.

  —

  Boomer texted me as I got off the subway.

  The good news is she’s on her way. She didn’t even ask for clarAfication.

  I waited for the bad news.

  And waited.

  Finally, I typed, What’s the bad news?

  Oh yeah! The bad news is that even though I warned her hard against it, she tried one of the cookies.

  I didn’t have time to worry about this—baking prowess had never been the basis of our relationship, so I hadn’t really compromised much by showing her the limits of my flouring. Instead, I headed over to the Brooklyn Academy of Music—BAM, for short—and prepared for Lily’s arrival.

  The current production at BAM was the Mark Morris Dance Group’s production of The Nutcracker, called The Hard Nut. It took the familiar Nutcracker story and moved it to a wacky suburban house in the 1970s. One of the big scenes was a swingin’ holiday party that went tipsily awry. Another involved Marie, the Clara of this Nutcracker, holding her own against the Rat King with only a flashlight to defend herself.

  The stage looked like a cartoon version of a 1970s sitcom home—everything a little larger than life. But there was a tree, and under the tree were presents.

  One of them was for Lily.

  This was the most elaborate part of the plan. Luckily, Mrs. Basil E. had an in with BAM. (“I’ve supported the arts for so long, it’s only natural that I should call on the arts to support me,” she explained.) Lauren, the dancer who played Marie, let me into the theater. When Lily arrived, she would find David, the dancer who was the Nutcracker Prince, waiting to guide her to the stage. Then he’d disappear, and everyone else would wait in the wings. This was a run-through that wasn’t usually open to the public, and they were adding an extra character for a short time.

  I took my place in the highest balcony of the otherwise empty opera house. Langston, Sofia, Boomer, Mrs. Basil E., Dov, and Yohnny were all texting me from afar to see how it was going. I gave them a quick update, then turned off my phone.

  I almost didn’t hear the door opening. From my perch, I couldn’t see Lily at first—only when she walked down the aisle toward the stage. She held the red Moleskine in one hand, Joey McIntyre in the other. From so far away, it was hard to read her expression.

  There was a single spotlight haloing the tree. Lily walked the stairs to the stage, then looked around to see if anyone else was there. The spotlight narrowed to focus on a single present, and Lily stepped toward it. If you squinted, you could imagine she was Clara, woken on Christmas morning. When you opened your eyes, you could see that she was grown-up, nearly an adult. But with the same wonder showing in her movements, because that’s not something you have to grow out of.

  I had wrapped the box with the recipe for lebkuchen cookies. Inside was another box, wrapped in quotations from Baby Be-Bop. Then another box, with wrapping paper I’d saved from FAO Schwarz. And an even smaller box, wrapped in a newspaper advertisement for Corgi & Bess. Finally, the smallest box of all, with her name on its lid in my handwriting.

  She opened it. Took out the envelope. Opened the card and read the two words I’d written before signing my name. A gift card fell out of it. She took a look, saw where it was from and what the amount was.

  Smiled.

  Then, as if knowing I would want to be there to see her smile, she looked up. I thought for sure I’d be caught, and wasn’t sure whether or not that was a bad thing. But as her eyes lifted into the eaves, the lights on the stage burst alive and Tchaikovsky began to play. Startled, Lily pulled back to the tree.

  The snowdrop fairies began to dance.

  This was my favorite part of the ballet. I knew it would be Lily’s favorite part. The giddy swirl of dancers mimicking the movements of snow in the air. And then, as the music swelled, a leap into the air…outstretched arms…and snow. Paper snow shooting from their fingertips. Paper snow filling the air, covering the stage.

  I knew this was my cue to leave. I knew I needed a head start for the last piece of the puzzle. But I had to stand there and watch. I had to see Lily—holding her brother’s prize possession, full of hot chocolate from her grandfather, guided here by friends and family alike. If this didn’t make her happy, maybe I never could. If this didn’t bring her back from the darker places into the more colorful ones, maybe I was too late.

  But I wasn’t too late. Even from the highest balcony, I could see.

  With the stealth of a chimney dropper, I tiptoed from the theater. I turned my phone back on and sent out a group message.

  It’s a wonderful life.

  —

  I knew the last part of the plan would be the most challenging. But I was wrong in diagnosing what the challenges would actually be.

  I had thought Santa would be the problem, but it ended up being the elf.

  I met Lily’s creepy Great-Uncle Sal in a Macy’s changing room. I was wearing my street clothes. He was wearing his Santa uniform.

  “We have to do this quickly,” he said. “You go out there, you do your thing with Lily, and then you get right back here, okay?”

  “Fine,” I told him, wishing I’d rented my own suit. (I’d called three places the night before; they were all out.) “I’ll just wait in the changing room next door, and you can pass the suit through the curtain.”

  “No, no,” he said, starting to shimmy out of his Santa top. “Right here, right now.”

  The changing room wasn’t big enough for the two of us. I could smell Santa’s sweat. I could feel it in the air.

  I had known from my last interaction with this Santa that he wouldn’t be wearing an undershirt under his Santa jacket. But still, knowing it and seeing it were two very different things. Because being forced to touch Santa’s large, hairy belly to get an envelope from Lily was nothing compared to seeing it in the fleshiest fleshly flesh. Not only did it look like a hirsute whale rising upright from a skin-colored ocean, but there was also a tattoo—two words—YES, VIRGINIA. Only, the fold of Santa’s tummy cut off the last two letters.

  I took Santa’s coat and threw it over my head, if only to cover my eyes. It was far too big for me, but that was okay—I wasn’t going for accuracy here, only effect. When I got it in place, I looked over and saw Santa had removed his red pants, revealing
candy-cane-patterned boxer shorts.

  Santa caught me looking and murmured, “You like?”

  I grabbed the pants out of his hands and quickly tried to put them on. But in focusing on speed, I took my eye off of balance, and as I got my second leg in, I began to wobble…and found myself falling right into Santa’s chest.

  “Ho ho ho!” he cried, delighted.

  “No no no!” I cried back.

  I tried to pull my pants up and pull my body back, but I didn’t do it fast enough. Because right when I leaned to clear the second pant leg over my sneaker, the door to the changing room whipped open and an elf shouted, “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!?”

  And not just any elf—

  Santa’s number one helper.

  We’d scuffled a year ago, and here we were again.

  “OUTRAGE!” he called out. “OUTRAGE IN CHANGING ROOM FOUR!”

  “Desmond,” Santa said. “Calm down.”

  “HE’S STEALING YOUR SUIT!”

  “He’s borrowing it.”

  “THAT’S NOT ALLOWED!”

  I got the pants in place, then felt in the coat’s pocket. As promised, there was a beard inside.

  I was about to grab Santa’s hat when the elf stepped in and body-blocked me.

  “SANTA!” he chided.

  “Go,” Santa said.

  It took me a second to understand he was talking to me.

  “There’s a spare hat under the sleigh,” he added.

  I made a move to leave. I just had to get past the elf.

  “I WILL NOT TOLERATE NAUGHTINESS!” he screamed. “SECURITY! SECURITY!”

  Lily was going to be here any moment. I had to push past. I was getting ready to do it—run right over the elf. But then Santa stretched out his naked arms, grabbed the elf by his shoulders, and pulled him into a kiss.

  My path was clear. I bolted.

  As I passed the big changing room mirror, I threw on the beard. It wasn’t my size, but it would do.

  “SANTA, IT WAS ALWAYS YOU!” Desmond cried out from changing room number four as I headed out to my throne.

  —

  Benny was waiting for me in this floor’s Santa’s village to perform what might have been the most dangerous, riskiest role of the day. For the next ten minutes, he had the hazardous job of pretending to be a Macy’s intern and telling parents that this Santa was on a pee break and that they should try the Santa on the second floor if they needed immediate attention. He didn’t even have a Macy’s badge—just a clipboard and a stern expression. (“People never say no when you’re carrying a clipboard,” he assured me. “If it was enough to get me backstage for Adele, it’s enough to enable your Sant-o-mime.”)

  Sal’s Santa station was at the back of a sleigh. I reached under and found a full spare outfit, and grabbed the hat. There wasn’t any mirror, so I used my phone to check myself out and put everything in place. I was so focused on this that I didn’t notice the little boy in front of me until he said, “Santa, why are you taking a selfie?”

  “I was just waiting for you to show up,” I said, all while thinking, How did you get past Benny, kid?

  (Answer: Kids don’t give a shit about clipboards.)

  Without a moment’s hesitation, the boy climbed right onto my lap and sat down on my thigh.

  Fine, I thought. We’re going to do this.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Max.”

  “And have you been naughty or nice this year?”

  I could see him do the mental calculations, then figure out which answer led to presents.

  “Nice,” he said decisively.

  “Good. That’s really all I need to know. Have a merry Christmas!”

  But Max wasn’t budging.

  “Tanner in my class says you’re not real,” he said.

  “I’m right here,” I pointed out. But that didn’t feel right. If it wasn’t a lie, it felt like a dodge. I owed Max better.

  “Look, Max,” I said. “The thing to remember—what I really want you to remember—is that it doesn’t matter whether I actually live at the North Pole or whether I’m the one who brings you presents every Christmas Eve. People like Tanner are going to tell you I’m pretend, and then when you get older, people like Tanner are going to tell you other things are pretend. But you know what to say to that? So what. That’s what you tell them. Because at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter whether the story’s true or not. What matters is the care that’s been put into the story. The love. If something is pretend, that usually means someone has taken the time to build a story for you to live in. And building stories takes a lot of work. And, yes, there will come a time when you’ll see the story isn’t true. But the intentions behind it? Completely true. The love behind it? Also true.”

  Max’s eyes had glazed over a little. When I was done, he blinked and asked, “But what about presents?”

  “You’ll get them. And they will come from people who love you. Which means much more than having the presents come from some arbitrary guy with reindeer at his disposal.”

  Max seemed satisfied with that.

  And so did the girl standing behind him.

  I hadn’t noticed Lily come in, I had been so focused on Max.

  “Why, hello,” I said.

  She’d put away Joey and the red Moleskine and the $12.21 Macy’s gift card. The only thing in her hand was the card I’d written her, with its two words:

  Happy Anniversary.

  “Run along now,” I murmured to Max. He took the cue and took off toward Benny, who was waiting to usher him out to his parents.

  “Hi,” Lily said.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “You’re dressed as Santa,” she observed.

  “There’s no getting one past you, is there?”

  “For me.”

  “Let’s just say this is not a situation that would have ever happened if I’d never met you.”

  Lily took out her phone and grinned. “I’m sorry, but I have to do this.”

  She took a picture. But I was really the one who wanted to have a picture—not of me in a Santa suit, but of her seeing me in a Santa suit. She looked like someone who believed I was real.

  “Happy anniversary,” I told her, repeating the two words I’d written in her card.

  “Happy anniversary.”

  “Now come here, you. We only have a short time before another kid gets around Benny.”

  “I’m not sitting on your lap,” Lily said.

  I patted the bench of the sleigh. “I left you some room here.”

  She put down her bag and sat next to me. She was still a little out of breath from running around.

  “So,” I said, “tell me about your year.”

  In response, she began to cry.

  I wasn’t expecting this, but I wasn’t not expecting it, either. I knew this had been inside her. I just hadn’t known if she’d ever let it out. I was grateful that Santa decided to dress softly, because it made it easier for me to pull her close, easier to hold her there.

  “It’s okay,” I told her.

  She shook her head. “No, it’s not okay.”

  I took her chin in my hand. Made her look past the beard, into my eyes.

  “No. I mean that it’s okay that it’s not okay.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  What an idiot Santa is for flying around alone. Because who would want to travel the world without another person’s heartbeat beside him?

  “We have to talk to each other,” I said. “There will always be a part of us that’s on a chase, but there has to be another part that knows where our home base is. Our North Pole, as it were. Even if it doesn’t really exist, we can still get there if we agree that it exists. I love you, and it’s driving me crazy to see you so upset. I want to fix it, and I know I can’t. But what I want to do is rewrite the whole world so you can fix it. I want to come up with a story that all the world will choose to celebrate, and in it, the people we love will never
get sick, and the people we love will never be sad for long, and there would be unlimited frozen hot chocolate. Maybe if it were up to me I wouldn’t have the whole world collectively believe in Santa Claus, but I would definitely have them collectively believe in something, because there is a messed-up kind of beauty in the way we can all bend over backward to make life seem magical when we want to. In other words, after giving it some thought, I think that reality has the distinct potential to completely suck, and the way to get around that is to step out of reality from time to time and find something a little more enjoyable with someone you completely, unadulteratedly enjoy. In my life, that’s you. And if it takes dressing up like Santa to get that across to you, then so be it.”

  “But what if it’s all just pretend?” Lily asked.

  “I think that maybe by pretending, we find out more about who we really are. Not that I want to be Santa. But I guess I want to be the guy who goes through all kinds of psychological horrors to dress up as Santa for you.”

  “Psychological horrors?”

  As if on cue, there was a commotion from outside our village. An elf’s voice, loud and clear: “WE HAVE AN INTRUDER ON THE PREMISES!”

  I turned to Lily. “Remember what I said before? Well, I stand by the coming-up-with-stories part, and the I-love-you part, and the dressing-up-as-Santa-to-make-you-happy part. But the maybe-we-shouldn’t-chase-so-much part? I’m rethinking it, since now would be an excellent time to make chase.”

  “Can we take the sleigh?”

  “I fear the sleigh is bolted to the floor. We may have to make a much more pedestrian exit. You game?”

  Lily sprang up, wiped her eyes, and jumped from the sleigh. “I’m so game.”

  We found the door and took it. Then I found a men’s room and divested myself of Santa’s finery—I didn’t want to seem like a leftover from SantaCon, wandering the streets in search of the bridge or tunnel to take me home. I left Sal’s outfit dangling from the back of a door, then texted him a photo of its location.

  When I emerged from the men’s room, I caught Lily jotting in the red Moleskine. When she saw me, she shut it.

  “Shall we?” I asked.

  “Where to?”