The Twelve Days of Dash & Lily(40)
“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?”
“I was thinking It’s a Wonderful Life? Seven o’clock showing at Film Forum? I have some cookies in my bag.”
The look on her face was priceless. Sweet Lily was wondering how to break it to me.
“Cookies from Levain,” I added. “I don’t quite know how they do it, but they’re ninety percent sugar, ninety percent butter, and maybe six percent flour. In other words, we should eat as many of them as possible while we’re still young and our bodies can take it.”
We got to the door to Herald Square. An unmiraculous Thirty-Fourth Street beckoned.
“Remember,” I said to Lily. “Anything we want. Any way we want our story to go. This is not the time for reality. Reality can return in January, if it has to. But now—the city is ours for the making.”
I thought we’d rush forth then—but Lily stayed where she was, shoppers pushing past us both.
“Dash?” she said. “You do realize you said it, right? Twice.”
“Really?” I replied. “I thought I only said ‘unadulteratedly’ once.”
Her face clouded. “That’s not what I meant.”
I looked her right in the eye.
“I’ll say it again right now if you’d like. In fact, let me let these strangers know.” I started addressing the people pushing by us. “Sir, I love Lily. Ma’am, I happen to love Lily. I love Lily—I love Lily—I LOVE LILY! I am a Santa-dressing lovelorn fool for Lily! If loving Lily is a crime, then proclaim me guilty as charged! Shall I go on?”