by Lisa Wingate
He comes close to it in the Santa line. We wait, and we wait, and we wait, while other kids share their Christmas lists and smile for a million pictures. The upside is that Micah gets a good lesson in how it’s done. When we reach the front of the line, it’s pretty clear that if Micah had any smattering of Santa fear, he’s completely over it by now. Holding him back is like holding a pit bull that is only inches away from a porterhouse steak.
Poor Santa is sweating rivers in his velvet suit as he reaches for Micah. He’s got the “Ho, ho, ho,” down now, though. He offers a jolly laugh, lifting Micah high in the air as if he weighs no more than a ragdoll.
“Weeeee!” Micah squeals. He doesn’t get this kind of rough-and-tumble play unless our retired neighbor back home catches us out in the yard. This Santa has some kid skills. Again, Micah is too busy having fun to worry about whether he’s afraid of a bearded stranger in such close proximity.
I grab my cell phone and wildly snap pictures so I can remember this moment forever.
Another minute of airtime, and then Micah is securely set on Santa’s knee. Apparently, Micah doesn’t quite know what to do once he’s there. He doesn’t understand that the other kids were offering up their Christmas lists. Instead, Micah talks about his toys and all the sights he’s seen tonight. He gives Santa his version of the nativity and he understands a surprising amount of the drama the kids acted out for us. It’s so sweet in his little three-and-a-half-year-old voice, that it brings tears to my eyes, but they’re the warm, sweet sort of tears. Nearby, I hear Seashell Sandy sniffling.
“Dey’s bewwy naw-tee,” Micah says of the innkeepers. “Dey’s shut the do’, say ‘you no come’a my house!’ Mawy and Josup so ‘fwaid. The pony, he poop…”
I slap a hand over my mouth and the remaining crowd bursts out in snickers as Micah mentions the pony’s unauthorized addition to the Christmas story. It figures, a boy would remember that. Little boys love poop stories and any excuse to tell them.
So do big boys, apparently, because Santa’s eyes are watering behind the fake eyeglasses. He’s trying so hard to hold it in that his suntanned cheeks are ten shades of red. Finally, he can’t help it; he presses the back of a glove to his mouth and laughs around it.
Micah, realizing he has gained an audience, slaps his knee and throws back his head and lets out an exaggerated guffaw that’s three times his size.
Santa loses it completely. He drops his hand, lets it rest on Micah’s curly little head, and laughs until tears and sweat run indiscriminately into his beard. The professional persona is completely broken. Fortunately, most of the kids are already gone, and the two teenagers in line behind us probably know there’s no Santa Claus, and if there were, he’d be out delivering gifts on Christmas Eve, not sitting in Sandy’s Seashell Shop.
It’s a while before composure is regained. “You’ve got a corker here,” Santa tells me as he prepares to relinquish Micah.
“Thanks.” I’m a little embarrassed, but I also feel wildly alive for the first time in three years. It’s as if I’ve been a cardiac flatline all this time, and the defibrillator just reestablished a thready pulse.
Santa’s gaze meet mine, and I notice that his eyes are the most incredible, deep, dark blue with thick lashes. I’m held in place for a moment that seems to last forever, but probably doesn’t. My newly-awakened heart knocks against my chest like it’s trying to burst from a cage.
Heat flushes through my skin, travels from head to toe in rapid motion. Maybe there really is something wrong with me. The room, the people, the Christmas music, all of it seems to fade. I’m only vaguely conscious of the fact that Micah is investigating Santa in less-than-appropriate ways. He has tunneled under the beard and is prying apart the buttons on Santa’s coat, for some reason.
It’s finally enough of a distraction that Santa glances down, says, “Hey, li’l scrapper, did you find something under there?” He forgets the deep Santa voice, uses a regular one. It’s a friendly-sounding voice, masculine and even-toned.
Micah draws back, frowns at the change.
Santa and I exchange a whoops look and the spell is broken. The room comes back into focus. “Sorry,” I say. My son has begun to undress Santa. The button on Santa’s coat is hanging open, a white Outer Banks T-shirt showing through. Surely, at three years old, Micah isn’t already suspicious of the man in the red suit. I hope we’ll have a few Santa years left, at least. We’ve only just started.
Before Santa can react, Micah lifts his chubby little hands, places them on either side of Santa’s face, and I have the horrifying thought that he’s about to attempt beard removal. Instead, he pulls the face closer, looks into it hard and deep, in a way that seems to seek something, that asks a question none of us can hear.
Before anyone is ready for it, Micah plants a big kiss right between Santa’s beard and moustache. Santa blinks, shocked, but he recovers gracefully, kisses Micah on the top of the head and says, “Thanks, buddy,” before handing him back to me.
I scoot off with Micah on my hip. He’s already trying to wiggle down. “I wanna see the pony and the piggy and the…” he names off the participants in the manger scene.
I glance out back. There’s nobody left on the deck and not a soul in the yard either. Nothing remains of the party but a few stray red Solo cups and a round winter moon splashing a glitter trail across Pamlico Sound. The lights are still on in the storage building out back, but it’s obvious that the festivities are over. I hadn’t even realized that so many people had gone while we were waiting in line.
“It’s time to leave, honey.”
The little cutie pie who was charming everyone a minute ago lets out a plaintive whine of the sort that portends a meltdown. “Free minute warnin’,” he pleads, swinging his feet and trying to wiggle off my hip to enjoy the three minutes he has just bargained for.
“Micah….” Not now. Please, please don’t ruin this night. It’s our first real Christmas Eve. I’m already regretting the fact that we don’t have a tree and presents at home, so we can do Christmas day properly. Next year I’m going to plan for all of it. I am. No more running off, trying to avoid Christmas. Micah deserves this… even if he’s not acting like it at the moment.
“Oh, go ahead and take him out,” Seashell Sandy comes in on Micah’s side. “The pony’s still out there and Pogo the pig. They’re both docile as can be. Let your little guy sit on the pony a bit, if you want. We’ve got some cleaning up to do, anyway. No rush. We’ll just be hanging around, drinking coffee until it’s time for midnight mass at Our Lady Of the Seas. Anyone’s welcome there, by the way.”
“Thanks.” I’m tempted, but I can already tell that Micah isn’t going to last that long. “I think somebody’s about done in for the night.”
“I not,” Micah whines. “Free minute warnin’,” he pleads again.
“Okay.” What can I say? It’s Christmas… and aside from that, I want to get out of here unscathed, if I can.
Sandy rests a hand on my shoulder. “Honey, have you two got somewhere to go tomorrow? For Christmas, I mean?”
“Oh… we were just going to have a beach day.” The familiar embarrassment niggles at me. “We’re fine. Honestly.”
Seashell Sandy faces me, and I notice that her eyes are the same deep, dark blue that Santa’s were. I wonder if the last-minute Santa sub is a relative of hers. “I’m going to write down my address while you go visit the pony. If you get up tomorrow, and you just… feel like it, Christmas dinner is noon-ish, or whenever the turkey’s done. You don’t have to bring anything, but you’re welcome to if you want. We always host a crowd. I’ve got my son here visiting, and my niece, Elizabeth, and her husband, and their kids, and my nephew, Jason, and some of the Seashell Shop Sisters, and a neighbor lady, and Zoey and J.T. and their parents, and just whoever else shows up… so, anyhow, you won’t feel out of place, if you do come. We’re not fancy and we’re not formal, but we are fun and I can tell this little fella likes to have fun.”<
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“Thank you, that’s really sweet.” I’m stumped for an answer. Part of me wants to say yes, but part of me warns that this Christmas magic will wear off as soon as I leave Sandy’s Seashell Shop behind. If you commit to this, you’ll be sorry, a voice whispers.
“Your little fella has already kissed Jason full on the lips, so you’re practically part of the family, anyway,” Sandy adds, then chuckles and ruffles Micah’s hair.
So, Seashell Sandy and Santa are related. Jason. His name is Jason….
My heart starts rapping at my chest again. Breath flutters in my throat. What is this feeling?
“Thank you. I’ll just have to…”
“You don’t need to answer now.” She opens the French door, so Micah and I can go out. “Just know the invitation’s open. Come back through when you’re done and I’ll give you my address. You two enjoy the pony before the little rounder here knocks off.” Micah’s head sags to my shoulder, and then he jerks it upright again. He’s determined not to fall asleep and wake up back at the beach house, all tucked in bed.
A puff of cool, salt-scented night air wafts in and brings him fully awake.
It awakens me, too.
What in the world was I just thinking?
Chapter 5
The old garage building is quiet and dim, illuminated by one flickering fluorescent near the back door. With the makeshift stage lamps turned off, moonbeams stream through the windows and give the manger scene an otherworldly glow. Baby Jesus has been abandoned in his swaddling clothes. He’s one of those porcelain dolls, skillfully painted to look real. In this light, the only thing missing seems to be breath.
The Boston bulldog has abandoned his post. His sheep costume lies on the scattered hay. The border collie in the goat costume has disappeared. The pony is asleep on his lead line, one back foot cocked up, resting. Pogo the potbellied pig lies near the manger, seemingly unaware that there were probably no pigs present at the nativity. He lifts his head and grunts at us, and Micah loses his nerve about getting too close to the pig or the pony.
Micah doesn’t really want to leave, either. He sidles up on a bench in front, where he can see the animals. “Free minute warnin’,” he reminds me.
“Three minutes,” I say, and sit down on the bench.
Micah is asleep in two-and-a-half, his head sinking slowly down on my leg, his breaths lengthening.
I gaze at the Christ child, think of the story of his miraculous birth, of angels and shepherds, and wise men all drawn together to see. Lately, I would’ve been more like the people who missed the whole thing while hanging out in the inn, mired in their own problems. But I’m the one who needs it most, the new beginning this night represents. I haven’t come here by accident, I know it. While I’ve still got a long way to go, I feel like I’ve at least begun the journey across the desert. I don’t know where it will lead me, but even taking these first wobbly steps seems like a tremendous victory.
I look down at Micah, watch the little cupid’s bow of his lips pump in and out as if he’s tasting invisible sugar plums, and I silently promise him that next year will be better. We’ve done our last Christmas runaway. What remains of my family is scattered to the winds and Aaron’s mother doesn’t seem to want anything to do with us, but I’ve learned something here at Sandy’s Seashell Shop. If you don’t have a family, you can find one. There are good people who will take you in, just because they have that much love. People have offered these past few years; I’ve just said no. I’ve said no because what I really wanted to do was close my eyes to life and be with Aaron. But life is still here. It’s sleeping right beside me.
It’s represented there in the manger.
It’s here for the taking, but I have to make the choice.
I close my eyes and choose life. The breath I take in travels all the way to the core for once. I really am going to be okay. I just have to keep believing that this is what Aaron would have wanted – that his hope for us would’ve been that we do more than just soldier on. He would’ve wanted us to dance, and sing, and play, and celebrate, and mark each milestone. Just because we make new memories doesn’t mean we remember Aaron less.
Does it?
There’s still that tiny scrap of fear, that tiny bit of second-guessing that makes me wonder whether this newfound hope is just a little Christmas magic. Will it still be there when I leave Sandy’s Seashell Shop behind?
If only I could abandon the doubt, lay it here at the manger and never look back.
This is what Aaron would have wanted. Isn’t it?
I hear someone walking through the back door, footsteps crunching on the oyster shell gravel outside. For an instant, I think I’ll turn around and Aaron will be there. I push the thought away as soon as it comes, tell myself, No more. To really live, you have to accept reality.
“Oh, hey, I didn’t know anyone was still in here.” The voice isn’t Aaron’s, but it is familiar. I turn around, and there’s a guy standing there. Tall, broad-shouldered, jeans T-shirt, hair cut short. He’s backlit by the fluorescent overhead and the moon glow from the doorway, so I can’t see much more. He’s still wearing the Santa boots. They’re unmistakable, even in profile. He must’ve forgotten to bring his own shoes. “I just came to make sure there weren’t any more kids hiding out here.”
“Just this one,” I point at Micah, who’s so zonked on the bench, he flops over, and an arm and leg hang off.
“Looks like he’s had it.” Santa wanders in to gain a better vantage point. He chuckles when he sees who I’ve got. “Oh, yeah, that one gave me a run for my money. I think he could tell he had a newbie on his hands.” The pony nickers, and Santa walks past us to offer an ear-scratching. The moonlight finds him and I can see that there was a nice smile hiding underneath the fluffy, white beard.
“You were Micah’s first Santa ever. You set the standard all others will have to live up to.”
“That’s a little scary.” He leans down to see Micah’s face under the fallen hair. “First time, huh?” The idea seems to captivate him, momentarily. I quickly wish I hadn’t brought it up. I’m afraid he’ll ask why Micah has never seen Santa before.
Has anyone inside told him about my incident with the pizza delivery boy? Does he know my story? Maybe Sandy sent him out here to check on me. Maybe this is a mission of mercy. The idea bothers me, even though it shouldn’t. Some habits die hard. Pride is one of them. I hate the idea of being someone’s mercy mission. I’m Army strong. All that training doesn’t just go away. Drive on, that’s what we do. Suck it up and drive on.
“You’ll forever be part of our Christmas album.” I try to preempt the conversation, in case he was about to ask questions.
“Not a bad way to wrap up my Santa career, then.” Sitting on the edge of the stage, he gives Micah another tender look, and it melts me in a way I’m not prepared for. That’s exactly the expression I would’ve imagined Aaron having, if he could be here to see his little boy asleep on the fringes of the nativity.
I stiffen a little, feel something inside me harden, whisper, Drive on, Tiff. Don’t go soft. “Maybe you shouldn’t quit so fast. You’re good at it.”
“You think so?” He shrugs, then glances over his shoulder when the pony lifts his tail and emits a ripper. Both of us laugh, remembering Micah’s description of the nativity drama, bathroom talk included.
“I do. I think you might have a calling,” I tease, loosening up a little again. “I thought you handled Micah’s breech of protocol very well.”
“Boys will be boys. I oughta know. I come from a family with eight of them.”
“Eight?” Having grown up with no brothers and sisters, I can’t imagine. “All boys?” What this guy’s mother must have gone through!
“Eight,” he confirms. “And, yes, my mother did survive it. People ask that a lot. Eight boys. Every one of us went military, otherwise my parents would’ve gone bankrupt paying for college. I’m the last to get out. Mama blames us for her bad knees. She says
she was down on them a lot.”
“No doubt.” I should’ve noticed the close-cropped hair, the certain kind of posture that marks a serviceman, even after he’s back home. There’s a sense of kinship, but I’m not sure whether to embrace it or run the other way. “We lost Micah’s dad in Afghanistan,” I blurt.
“Ah, man, I’m sorry.” Sagging forward, he rests his elbows on his knees and looks at the ground between his feet. “I know how that is – losing someone over there, I mean. I had a lot of buddies who didn’t come home. My mama was pretty relieved when I ended up in Kuwait for the last few months of the drawdown, Camp Arifjan.” He goes on to tell me more about where he was. Third Army. He was helping with repairs and reallocation of equipment between Iraq and Afghanistan during the drawdown in Iraq.
We compare a few notes on where we were and what we experienced – just the surface stuff. The things that are reasonably comfortable to share. Even so, I’m surprised at how easy it is. Jason is nice to talk to and he’s not hard on the eyes, either.
I’m surprised by that thought, too.
There’s a war going on inside me. Guilt and fascination are in a full hostile engagement. Is it possible for me to feel this way again? Is it wrong? Maybe Jason and I were meant to meet tonight? Maybe this is all part of a greater plan that began with a little red piece of paper, swirling down the beach.
Maybe you’re just rationalizing.
This feels like dangerous territory. I catch myself glancing at his hands. I don’t even realize I’m looking for a wedding ring until after the lack of one registers. I pull back again, stiffen a little again.
This is crazy. What am I thinking? I’m not some cruise-ship tourist. I’m a mother, a wife, a widow.
I’ve already met the love of my life. He’s gone.
“So, do you live here full time?” I hear myself asking, anyway.
“Nah.” Jason squints up at me. “Using my GI bill for college back home. Wisconsin. The rest of the family is there or in Michigan. Aunt Sandy’s the only one who lives out here at the beach.”
