My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(50)

I look down, and there’s Riley in a nightgown that makes me think of Wendy from Peter Pan. Only it’s Tinkerbell who’s wearing it. Riley is a sleepy-eyed wisp of a girl at this hour. But her voice is wide awake.

Connor had told me she wouldn’t interrupt. He’d sworn she’d see me and run back to bed, pleased to have her Christmas wishes confirmed.

“Yes, little girl,” I say. I am very conscious that this makes me sound like the Big Bad Wolf, so I cheer it up about halfway through, which makes me sound like the Big Bad Wolf after three Red Bulls.

“Are you real?”

“Of course I’m real! I’m right here!”

This logic seems to satisfy her … momentarily.

“But who are you?” she asks.

Who do you want me to be? I almost ask back. But I know the answer. And it isn’t me. And it isn’t Santa Claus.

I am grateful for the dimness of the room, and the tenacity of my beard. I am grateful that I remembered to change out of my sneakers. And I am scared that I am going to f*ck this up for her anyway. If I don’t answer well, I am going to give her the amazing gracelessness of the hour she first disbelieved.

And at the same time … I can’t bring myself to say I am Santa Claus. Because I know I am not Santa Claus. And I know I am not a good enough liar to make her believe it.

So I say, jolly as a jelly donut, “You know who I am. I came all the way from the North Pole to be with you tonight.”

Her eyes widen. And in that moment, in that momentary loss of logic to wonder, I see the family resemblance. I see Connor and the way he is never too cool to show that something is special to him—whether it’s his glee as we’re watching Harold and Maude, or his beaming when a favorite song comes on the radio, or the simple smile he gets when I walk into the room and he’s been waiting for me. There is no cynicism there. It’s as if he hasn’t even heard of the concept of cynicism. Which allows me to retreat from it, from time to time.

Now here’s Riley, at that age where the delicate shell of childhood is starting to show its cracks. I know all of the department store questions I could be asking her—Have you been a good girl this year? What would you like Santa to bring you? But that’s not what I want to say.

“Don’t stop believing,” I tell her.

She looks at me quizzically. “Like the song?”

I chortle out a “ho ho ho!” and then say, “Yes. Exactly like the song.”

I am bending over so I can look her in the eye as I say this. Before I can rise up, she reaches out for my beard. I flinch, expecting the yank, the unmasking. But instead she reaches past it to pat me on the shoulder.

“You’re doing a very good job,” she says.

I have no idea if she’s talking to me or to Santa. In order for the former to continue to do a good job, I have to act as if it’s the latter.

“Ho ho ho! Thank you, Riley!”

She’s happily surprised. “You know my name!”

“Of course! How else would I know which presents to bring?”

This statement pleases her. She nods and takes a step back.

I smile.

She smiles.

I smile some more. Shuffle a little.

She smiles back. Doesn’t move.

I wonder if it would be rude for Santa to glance at his watch.

She keeps looking at me.

“So … um … I’m not supposed to deliver the presents while you’re in the room. It’s against the Santa rules.”

“But you’re the only Santa. Don’t you make rules?”

I shake my head. “Nope. It’s passed down from Santa to Santa.”

“And who was the Santa before you?”

I think for a second before I say, “My mom.”

She giggles at that.

I smile.

She smiles.

She will not leave the room.

I imagine Connor watching us, thoroughly amused.

You’re so bad at good-byes, he whispers in my ear. Which is true. There is an average of about forty-seven minutes between the time we first type “goodnight” and the moment we actually stop sending our words back and forth.

“The reindeer need me,” I say. “Other kids need me. This is actually near the start of my route.”

I know that six-year-olds are rarely moved by an appeal to the greater good. But Riley seems to get it. She backs up a little. Thinks about it.

Then, before I can prepare myself, she runs in for a hug. Her head snuggles against the pillow of my stomach. Her arms link behind my legs. There’s no way she can’t tell the pillow is a pillow. There’s no way she can avoid how baggy the pants are around my legs. But that’s not what she’s thinking about. Right now, all she’s thinking about is holding on. I feel it in the way she puts all of her six-year-old strength into it.

She wants me to be real.

“Merry Christmas, Riley,” Santa says. “Merry, merry Christmas.”

She pulls away, looks up at me, and says, with complete earnestness, “I’m gonna go to sleep now.”

“Sweet dreams,” Santa wishes her. Then I add another “Ho ho ho!” for good measure.

She returns to her room with the same careful footsteps as before. She wants to keep the secret from the rest of the house.