Soft music filled the air. Wordless tunes of merry holiday wishes and one horse open sleighs played throughout the open corridors, encouraging already debt laden, weary customers to spend some more. “No interest. No payments for 18 months“, the signs all around shouted in bold, black lettering against their garish, neon yellow backgrounds. Signs trimmed with holly and bells, and fine print barely visible without the aid of reading glasses. Printers zipping off the latest purchaser’s credit card receipt mingled with the distinct jingling of the bells of a soldier asking for alms for the poor . Only a few coins swam around the clear plastic bowl, trying to find refuge under the single five dollar bill.
We slowly walked through the sparse crowds with the goal of making it to the center of this retail maze. It was our annual pilgrimage to the man in the red suit who sits on his golden throne. This year was different though. We weren’t skipping along joyfully as we had in previous years. It was a week after I had given birth by caesarian section to my third child. My body ached with exhaustion. My heart ached with grief. I watched my sister carry load of jackets. She was always like that. She always needed to carry someone else’s burden despite her own. She would take a few hurried steps as if her body had forgotten that it was no longer able to take on this simple task. She would stop, cough, adjust her load, and continue on, a little slower this time. This was Heidi. Determined. Defiant. Dying.
We stood in line with the other families. Children running amok. Giggles and whines. My sister and I looked on to my own two children. My newborn son was at home in the protective warmth of his father’s arms. Too new to be out in the December cold. My 16 month old lifted her dress, showing her belly button to her new playmate. I call it the Toddler Salute. The other child returned the gesture, as if it were a secret language of greeting fellow toddlers. I wondered how it was that I was so lucky to be blessed with such perfection in my life. My sister laughed and took photos of the group of tiny people gathering in the circle before us. My son, older and wiser to the situation stood back with me, with a look of deep contemplation on his face. I mistook it for deep concentration on what he should ask Santa for. After all, that is what we were there for.
Julian is years beyond his age of eight. He knows everything going on. He knows that Tante Heidi is wearing a wig. A wig made of synthetic hair, not like the real hair he grew. It was just that summer past that he had donated his own beautiful locks of hair that he had grown for more than two years. Despite my efforts of dissuading him, the schoolyard teasing, and being mistaken for a girl a number of times, he still grew it. He knew that there was another child out there somewhere that needed his hair. He was determined to carry this burden of taunts and ignorance so that he could give another child some joy. He knows why Tante Heidi wears her wig. He knows she is sick and getting chemotherapy regularly so that she can stay alive a little longer than the eight to ten months the doctors had given her. She was already in month six.
We move a little closer to see Santa. I pick Trinity up so that she can see the other children sitting on Santa’s knee. “Look at the other children having fun, getting their picture taken and telling Santa what toy they want for Christmas!” I say with hopes that she will be encouraged to keep her usual pleasant disposition when it’s our turn. She reaches over to her Tante Heidi and pulls Heidi’s wig askew. I help my sister set it straight again, and I notice the melted strands of synthetic hair. She had been baking cookies a few days before and forgot that she was wearing her wig when she bent over to take them out of the hot oven. She had trimmed away a great deal of her bangs so that people couldn’t see the remnants of her error in judgment. We centered it and adjusted it so that the evidence was barely visible.
Trinity is screaming. Clawing her way from Santa. No picture this year with her sitting on his knee. I push my sister next to Santa. I sit next to her with Trinity on my knee. Julian has years of experience and knows what to expect. He sits comfortably on Santa’s right knee. We all smile, except for Trinity. Her eyes are as round as her mouth. A big ‘O’ is frozen on her face. Lights flash. The moment is captured forever in time. I thank Santa and his helpers and notice my sister hesitantly whispering something in his ear. He shakes her hand and wishes her a Merry Christmas. For a brief moment Heidi looks like a small child. “I asked Santa for one more Christmas”, she admits to me in a voice as small as the child she looked like. I wiped away the tears. I had never imagined a Christmas without my big sister.
It’s Julian’s turn. Instead of taking his usual time telling Santa, he quickly tells him what he wants and walks away. I notice something different about Santa this year. He didn’t just wave and turn to the next child. His eyes lingered on my son. He looked speechless and puzzled for a moment. His gaze turned to my sister for a moment and back to my son. Another look crossed his face. As if he were doing a math problem in his head and the answer had finally dawned on him. “Merry Christmas…” he finally responded in almost a whisper.
For years I have been trying to keep the magic of Christmas alive for my son. Every visit with Santa is always followed by dinner at a restaurant where we discuss what he asked for over a burger and a chocolate milkshake. It was our way of making sure that Santa always got him what he asked for. “I’ll tell you later”, was his answer when I prodded him into telling me. It was incredibly important for me to know, and I wanted him to tell me before his eight year old memory started to become vague with the short time between then and bedtime. “No, mom. I’ll tell you later”, he repeated after glancing at his aunt. I figured he was just embarrassed of his immature Christmas wish and didn’t want anyone other than his mommy to know. I let it go until bedtime that night.
“So. What did you ask Santa for Christmas this year?” I asked in my enquiring minds want to know voice. He told me. I was speechless. I quickly kissed him good night. Waited for his deep breathing as sleep swept over him and took him to a far off place where dreams were real. I slipped out of his bed, avoiding the creaky floor boards of his room and clicked the door closed behind me.
I took a deep breath and began to let it all out. Tears rolled down my cheeks and grief brought me to my knees. Great, deep moans crawled out from my mouth. Ken reached down for me and lifted me into his arms. He knew how hard I have been taking all of this. He has been my strength when I was too weak. He is the one who cares for our children when my eyes are too puffy and red, and pasting on a smile is too much of an effort. He asked me why I was crying. I was totally devastated and exhausted from emotion. I laid down and got enough control of myself to tell him the events of the evening. As I laid my tear soaked face on my own pillow, I told him about our son.
“He gave up his own Christmas wish for someone else.” I said between heaving breaths. A mixed emotion of a mother‘s pride and a sister‘s sorrow tore away at my heart. “Instead of asking for another car racing track, a wrestling action figure, or some mindless game for his video game player. He asked Santa for a gift for someone else. At an age when a boy should be selfish and careless, and the burdens of life should still be light, my eight year old son asked Santa for Tante Heidi to be well again.”
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