The Santa Society (29 page)

My mother had a wish for me to enjoy her house and return to Christmasville for good. She didn’t want her death to destroy my ability to love the holiday season. How better to pass on her love of Christmas than to pair me off with Santa Claus, right?

I sigh. I know my mother can’t be up in the sky writing the script of my life. I know she couldn't possibly have envisioned any of this. I just wish I could know what she would think about it.

Maybe she’d say, “Hey, it’s great you like Christmas again, but falling in love with Santa is a little excessive, don’t you think? Maybe you should see a counselor.”

I gaze at the tiny snow people. On the other side of the mantel, a pair of ceramic cherubs holds hands. My father gave them to my mother on their last Christmas together…before his accident. My thoughts keep circling like a massive bird that just can’t land. The terrain of details looks the same from here. I need to dive down and get inside them, but something keeps holding me back. Can it be that I’m just not ready to make such a big decision? I mean, marriage is a big, big deal.

And Mom didn’t know what I’d need after her death. At most, she had some vague idea of what she hoped my life would be like. One word comes to me: happiness. That’s what she would’ve wanted for me. I’m sure she hoped I wouldn’t turn my back on Christmas, a Scrooge wandering the halls of Justice in New York, miserable and family-less.

No, she couldn’t possibly have envisioned any of this, but the Gift knows what ingredients need to be in the recipe. Is this the point? Is it about the Gift? I mean, I’ve been very happy. Not even a kidnapping changed that.

I desperately want to call Reason. I want to ask him what he wants, without the pressure of Cassius’ challenge. In real life, this would be the point where our little romance screeches to a halt. O
kay we had fun, but this is getting scary
. But what if this entire thing is fate?

The longer I gaze at the angels, the more I crave the presence of my mother. When I lived in New York, I’d call her when I needed a friend. I long to pick up the phone and dial her number up in heaven.

I guess that’s what Reason did with Ives, the day he solidified his plan of faith. He pulled it out of that secret place in the soul and held it to the light. I guess I wanted that with Callie too, where it’s not so much what the other person says, just that some magical thing occurs and the issue at hand suddenly shifts into perspective.

I need to solidify things. I need my mother.

I jump to my feet and grab the pair of angels.

 Klaus walks ahead of me on his leash as we pass through the gates of All Saints Cemetery. I haven’t been here since the day they lowered my mother’s casket into the ground. On that day, I stood over her, feeling like I killed her with morphine patches and dehydration. Something so easily rectified by a trip to the ER, but so completely against what she asked me to do. She chose the way she wanted to go and it would not be from breast cancer. She won.

Her grave lies near the back. We follow the path through the headstones. Bouquets of faded artificial flowers jut from fixed metal vases. Lush green wreaths surround some of the markers. In the far right corner, a group of tall stones stands together in a cluster. Streaks of dirt and lichens speckle the black and green granite.

Klaus and I walk slower as we near the family plot where my mother rests. Reverent silence descends around me like snow. I wonder if every cemetery sounds like this or if it’s only this one.

The late afternoon light has begun to dwindle, but I only need a few minutes. I scan the markers looking for my parents’ names. There are lots of Sinclairs here. I’m careful to step around the graves. The empty vases on these headstones show they haven’t had visitors for a very long time. Perhaps I should’ve come here before and given them flowers.

I do see a fresh bouquet of lilies on one of the newer headstones. It can’t be my mom’s, since I’m such a negligent daughter. I side step it and continue looking.
It has to be here somewhere.
I retrace my steps, checking each name again. I can’t find Adelaide or Lucas Sinclair anywhere.

I step back. Maybe I missed the boundaries to our family’s plot. I glance to the right and notice a definite gap between the Sinclairs and the Millers, unused spaces belonging to one or the other—definitely a boundary.

I look to the left again. My gaze settles on the newer stone with the lilies. Beyond it stretches another gap. I walk behind the row of headstones until I’m standing beside it. The name on the front reads: Adelaide Sinclair. Beside it: Lucas Sinclair. My throat tightens.

Who put flowers in her vase? The fallen leafs of autumn have all been brushed away. They surround the edges of her headstone like a frame. A glimpse of something gleams below the fern leafs, and white petals.

 I get down on my knees. A green ribbon encircles the bottom of the vase. It’s tied in a bow with a small piece of gold jewelry hanging from it. It’s so small I have to lean down to see it.

It’s a baby bracelet, with a smooth rectangular plate attached to a tiny cuff. The small engraving etched into the gold says:
Adelaide.

I reach out and slowly turn it over in my fingers so that I can see the back.
Love, Daddy.

Cassius.

I pull back my hand and stare. Slow understanding washes over me. Suddenly, I know that I won’t find a bracelet like this in any store in town, because he purchased this one over fifty years ago. He must’ve intended to give it to her, but never had the chance.

Winter bites at my cheeks as a fresh tear slides over my cold skin. I wipe it away as I stare at Cassius’ gifts. I don't understand the man at all, and I probably never will.
But he loved my mother
.

I pull an angel from each of my coat pockets, placing one near the ribbon, just below the fern leafs, the other on my father’s headstone.
A set
—like husband and wife. Like father and daughter.

I wipe my eyes. I came to talk to my mother, but somehow I feel like Cassius spoke to me instead. Is there some possibility that he cares about me too? I consider the proposition he’s made, a proposition from the man who once carried the Gift. Maybe he acts on behalf of something else now, something bigger than his logic and bitter regrets.

I trace my finger over my mother’s name, then my father’s. It's been so many years since I saw my father’s face. Sometimes, I can’t remember it in detail, especially when I try too hard. Other times it just comes to me when I least expect it. His smiling face hides in my heart. I don’t want the memory of my mother’s face to remain the one I saw in her death.

I close my eyes. I breathe in the cold air and think of winters of the past. Sled rides and snowmen. We made them in pairs, one snowman and one snow-woman. I see my mother laughing as she sticks a crooked carrot in the snowman’s blank face.

“Adelaide, that’s a honker. Don’t we have a straight one?” My father laughs beside her, pulling her into his arms and kissing her flushed cheek.

“You ate it yesterday,” she reminds him.

Snowflakes fall all around me as I roll another large ball in the snow, fashioning the start of our snow-woman. I understood the world in pairs that day, just like Callie. Suddenly I remember for the first time since my father died so long ago, the pleasure I felt to see them together. My own set: my mother and father.

When he died, my mother lost the other half of herself. Then I drifted apart from her too, blaming her for sending him to get me from school that day, sending him to die. But why did I pull away? For the same reason I stayed in New York: I couldn’t bear my own sense of guilt. I never really blamed her as much as I blamed myself. He died for me—so I wouldn’t have to walk home in the snow.

My chest heaves as I choke back a sob, and I hunch forward. The cold slab of granite feels like ice against my forehead. My tears fall on the hard stone and puffs of steam rise from my breath and my tears, surrounding the space between my face and my mother’s grave.

I’ve carried blame in all the wrong directions. I make no sense at all. Who does the things I do? After all the years of loneliness, she cheated cancer and passed into a new life. I couldn’t even congratulate her or set her free. She didn’t deserve that. Neither of us did.

I lift myself up and wipe my face.

I didn’t think I deserved happiness. But my mother thought I did, and so would my father. In the center of my chest, warmth begins to burn. It spreads and widens, surrounding my heart. I’m sick of doing ridiculously stubborn, overly predictable things.

I
do
want to marry Reason. And I don’t care if it’s crazy. I want it more than I’ve wanted anything. I’m going to cheat my guilt, like Mom cheated cancer. I’ll live anyway.
Really
live.

Klaus sits beside me patiently, as though he understands what I’m feeling. I’ve almost forgotten he’s here. “Let’s go, buddy. Tomorrow’s my wedding day.”

Chapter 32

REASON. HE LOVES ME. I love him. He’ll be there tomorrow, waiting for me in Town Square. I have to keep telling myself this so I don’t panic, and keep thinking it so I don’t doubt it. I pull the dress from the closet, the one I wore to the parade. It’s a good thing I still have it. And I’ve even saved the ribbon for my hair. I’ll wear it pinned up, the way he liked it.

I hook the hanger on the top of the closet door and turn to face the room. What else can I do? How do I prepare for something so big, with so little information? My nervous energy would definitely be red if I had a hairless cat lying around to read it.

Will anyone show up to watch? And who will marry us? Sweet Mother of God, what if I’m the one who’s supposed to arrange all this by tomorrow?

My cheeks grow hot as I imagine myself walking up Main Street alone in a red Mrs. Claus dress. That’s right. Hoofing it to my own wedding.

What if Reason shows up wearing a tux instead of a Santa suit? I gasp.

What if this is just Cassius playing a cruel joke? Instinctively, I raise my hand to cover my gaping mouth, and I notice movement. But it’s just my reflection in the dresser mirror. I’ve never seen myself so pale.

I close my eyes, and there’s Reason in my mind. For a moment, my thoughts go rogue by plastering a picture of him across my mental movie screen. He’s standing at the street corner, nowhere near the clock, and he’s wearing his regular clothes. I know right away what that would mean.
Erin, we need to talk
, I can already hear him say it. My stomach lurches.

No, I can’t think about that. I’m going out of my mind, departing from the realm of sanity and venturing into something else—something that rapidly approaches madness.

It’s only 7:00 p.m. Maybe if I eat something, I’ll get sleepy. I hurry to the kitchen, and as I pass the china hutch, my eyes instinctively drift to the vague outline of the phone waiting safely behind the glass door. I could scream with joy. Not a single call all stinking day. I never would’ve imagined I’d feel so happy about Reason not calling me.

I step into the kitchen, and a thought hits me. I’m about to have my last supper as a single woman. I force myself to be sure of this, because of course I have to keep the doubting thoughts at bay. Right. So, I’m going to live it up. I grab a box of Fruit Loops from the pantry. Somehow it just seems appropriate.

I lie awake staring at the ceiling. Klaus snores beside me. I’m never in bed this early, but what else can I do? It’s like I’m plugged into an electrical socket.

I know I have to get up. It will take me forever to do my hair. I really need to get a good night’s rest, but I’m running out of time for sleep…and on and on and on I think.

I push everything from my mind.

Except Reason.

The Reason for the Season.

I giggle. I have to give him credit: The guy really knows how to inspire Christmas spirit. It’s more than that, though. The spirit of Christmas he’s shown me totally outshines the regular stuff. I’m not sure why it took me this long to figure it out. As I try to remember the words of his oath, I understand the part about remembrance. Reason is only a man with a whole lot of faith. What he carries is a real Gift, and it isn’t even his.

I stare at the backs of my eyelids and see tiny prickles of light, like stars in a black sky. I imagine the smell of hay, the sound of the animals, and reverent silence of those in attendance. It’s broken only by the soothing comfort of a worried father, and the labored breathing of a mother in birth.

High above it all, one bright star shines down on the world from the vast expanse of a silent night.

I’m already standing on the sidewalk when my cab arrives the next morning. Klaus waits beside me—my loyal maid of honor. I’ve tied a red bandanna around his neck and a small sleigh bell.

The driver takes a second look when he sees my clothing. I’m even holding a large plastic candy cane instead of a bridal bouquet, but he doesn’t know it’s my wedding day because I look like I’m headed to the mall to snap photos of all the little kids with Santa.

I open the door and climb in after Klaus, tucking in my dress before I close the door.

“Where to?” He stares straight ahead.

“Town Square.”

“I don’t usually allow dogs in the cab.”

“He’s not a regular dog.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of dog is he?”

“The kind that knows a lot.”

“Whatever you say, Miss.” He shakes his head and shifts it into drive.

The clock in his dashboard says its 9:40. I resist the urge to ask him to hurry because I’m supposed to marry Santa in twenty minutes.

I pay the driver, forcing myself not to look toward Town Square. It’s not until the cab pulls away and Klaus and I are moving toward the square that I lift my gaze to the old clock. A lighted sign has been installed just below it, displaying a string of repeating words. “Come Join the Celebration. Santa’s Wedding this Saturday at 10:00 a.m. Town Square.”

It’s officially
not
a joke.