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.
I watch her go, and wait until I hear the determined close of her door. Then I start to move the presents back under the tree. Within a minute, though, there’s another noise. It sounds like … clapping.
“Bravo, Santa,” a sarcastic voice says. “That must make you feel awesome, fooling little girls like that.”
Lana is in the doorway that leads to the kitchen. She’s got on a nightshirt and sweatpants, but doesn’t look like she’s slept yet tonight—she’s vampiric even on a full night’s sleep, so it’s hard to tell for sure.
“Hi, Lana,” I say quietly. I don’t want Riley to hear us.
“Hi, Santa.” She steps into the room and looks me over. I am not used to such scrutiny from a twelve-year-old. “I have no idea what sexual favors my brother promised you to do this, but really? You look like a dumbfuck asshat.”
“It’s wonderful to see you, too!” I chirp, and continue to put the presents back under the tree.
“What, no ‘ho ho ho’ for me? Is it because I’ve been a bad girl this year? It seems so entirely fair that an old white guy would get to judge that. Haven’t you at least brought me my lump of coal?”
“Shhh. She’ll hear you.”
“And that would be a bad thing why? I know Connor is a big fan of maintaining illusions, but I think that’s bullshit. I can’t believe he gave you that costume. He had no right to do that.”
I have not been dating Connor long enough to yell at his sister. I know this. Which is why I don’t answer her, don’t look at her. The presents are almost all under the tree by now. Then I can go.
“What … reindeer got your tongue?” Lana taunts. “Oh, I see how it is. Indulge Riley in whatever delusion you want. But you don’t have to pay attention to me. None of you do.”
“Lana, really. Keep your voice down, please.”
“Please! Santa, you’re so polite.” She’s coming closer now. “No wonder Connor likes you.”
Normally, it would make me really happy to hear that Connor likes me. But she says it like it’s an accusation.
“You know who always did this, right?” she goes on. “You know whose suit that is? You know that for years I was just as stupid as Riley, thinking that it was Santa, thinking that it would always be this way. But now I’m guessing Connor was the stupidest, if he thought he could just dress you up and make it like he wasn’t abandoned like the rest of us.”
I move the last present back into place.
“What? Aren’t you going to defend him? Aren’t you going to tell me that it makes sense? I’m dying to hear how you can justify being here. How you pretend this is normal when everything has completely fallen apart.”