My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(32)

The way he said it, it definitely sounded like a curse word.

“My father says cussing is a terrible habit,” I told him, furtively wiping my hands on my coat.

The boy just stared at me, round-eyed.

“Oh, sorry. You probably don’t speak any English, huh? Where are we again? Sweden?” I cleared my throat. “God jul.” That means Merry Christmas. I can say Merry Christmas in every language. The elves can speak every language, but I’m only human.

“Are you and your dad robbers?” he asked me.

I gasped. So he did speak English! “Excuse me, but my father gives people gifts, he doesn’t steal them. He’s Santa.” The boy just kept staring at me, so I clarified. “Claus. Santa Claus. Saint Nick? Père No?l?” Oh, right, we were in Sweden. “Tomte? Nisse?”

He just looked more confused. “Santa Claus is Asian?”

“I’m adopted,” I explained. “He’s not my biological dad.”

The boy backed up on the staircase. “If you guys don’t get out of here right now I’m gonna call the polisen. Police, understand?”

The police? Eeks. Weakly I called out, “Papa…”

From the living room he called back, “Almost done in here, Natty! Pack a few cookies for me and we’ll hop back in the sleigh.”

“The sleigh,” the boy repeated.

“Oh, um, a sleigh is like a sled. Or … a wagon? It’s how Santa travels.”

He glared. “I know what a sleigh is.”

“It’s parked in the snow,” I said. “Go look if you don’t believe me.”

He ran over to the window and looked outside. He turned back around with saucer eyes and sank down onto the floor. He closed his eyes and whispered, “This isn’t real. I’m dreaming.”

I pinched his arm so hard he yelped. “See? You’re not dreaming.”

He rubbed his arm. “That’s not proof of anything.”

That’s when I noticed it—the bundle of mistletoe hanging above our heads. I thought, here’s my chance. And so I grabbed him and kissed him, and he tasted like Swedish Christmas candy.

Then I heard a throat clearing and a ho ho ho, and we sprang apart. The boy’s eyes just about fell out of his head when he saw Santa in all his cranberry-velvet glory. “Time to go, Natty,” Papa said.

“You really are real,” the boy whispered.

“That’s right, and I know when you’ve been naughty or nice,” Papa joked, but it was awkward, of course.

Papa whisked me away, and the boy ran to the window and called out, “My name is Lars! What’s yours?”

I screamed back, “Natalie!”

When I think back on it, I realize it was the first time I ever got to introduce myself. I’d known everyone at the North Pole since I was a baby, and they all called me Natty, because that was what Santa called me. It was my first time being Natalie.

*

We’re all still standing near the refreshment tables when my papa comes bounding into the party, waving and ho-ho-hoing. The elves go wild. Elves don’t normally give in to big displays of emotion, but they make an exception where Santa is concerned. He’s a rock star to them. “Happy December First!” Papa calls out.

“Happy December First,” everyone shouts back.

“You’ve all been working so hard, and I’m just so darn proud of you. It’s going to be a real push to finish in time but we’re going to get it done, just like we do every year. Have a great time tonight! And tomorrow it’s game on!” Everyone claps and Papa looks around the crowd. “Where’s my Natty? Natty, come up here and say something to the troops.”

It’s the last thing I want, but the elves pull me forward and deposit me next to Papa, who puts his arm around me and looks at me the way he always looks at me, doting and proud. I wipe at the stains forming on the front of my dress. It’s a good thing my dress is the same color as the punch.

Papa beams at me. “Say something, Natty.”

What am I supposed to say? I’m just the boss’s daughter. “Um, merry Christmas,” I say, and everyone claps out of courtesy.

Papa signals to the elf band, who launch into a rousing rendition of “Last Christmas,” my dad’s favorite Christmas song. The elves all think it’s Elvis’s version of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,” but I know the truth. Papa loves Wham!

“Dance with your dear old dad, Natty,” he says, taking my hand in his. He leads me in a foxtrot, and I do my best to keep up. I can feel all the elves watching us, feeling sorry for me that I’m here dancing with my dad and not an actual date. “I bet your dance card’s been full all night. Natty, tell me what you want for Christmas.”

I cannot say the thing I want, because it’s the one thing he can’t give me, and that would break his heart. “I haven’t really thought about it,” I lie.

Papa gives me a knowing look and pats me on the shoulder before he twirls me. You’d think I’d know better than to lie to Santa Claus. “Dearest one, if you believe, I think you will get exactly what you want.”

I want to believe. I want so badly to believe.

There are two kinds of children. The kind who believe and the kind who don’t. Every year, it seems there are fewer in the world who do. Papa says it’s not an easy thing to ask a child to believe in what they can’t see; he says it’s its own magic. He says that if you have that magic inside you, you should protect it all your life and never let it go, because once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.