My mother breezes into the kitchen, smooth skinned, blond, and beautiful—despite the atrocious Christmas tree sweater she’s sporting. In her hand she holds a cordless telephone.
A heavy, square cordless phone. With an antenna.
“Drew, guess who’s on the phone?” she asks.
“Is it Daddy?” he asks hopefully.
“No, darling—it’s Santa Claus! He took time out of his busy day-before-Christmas-Eve schedule just to talk to you.” She taps five-year-old Drew on the nose.
He flies off the chair, knocking it over behind him. Lexi, who by this time was old enough to know the truth, smiles at his excitement.
Young Drew brings the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!”
And it all comes back to me. Like a door opening to a dark room, finally letting the light in, I remember this.
“How do I know this is the real Santa?” My five-year-old self asks skeptically. Because even as a kid, I was damn sharp.
My father answers in a deep, bellowing, disguised voice, “Well, I’ve got the Christmas list you mailed to me here in my hand.”
Young Drew braces the phone on his shoulder and walks out to the living room. Mackenzie and I follow. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
Santa clears his throat. “A BMX bicycle, the new Sega system, GI Joe action figures, a Walkman.”
That’s right, a Walkman. Because this is the eighties, kiddies.
“Holy crap, it really is you!” five-year-old Drew yells.
“It really is. Now tell me, young man, have you been a good boy this year?”
His face scrunches up as he attempts to be honest. “I try. It’s hard to be good.”
Santa chuckles. “Do you do what your mother tells you?”
He nods. “Yes, sir.”
“And do you listen to your sister?”
He frowns. “Lexi’s bossy.”
“Yes, she is bossy. But she’s your big sister, Drew—she wants what’s best for you. You should always listen to her.”
Reluctantly, he nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, young man,” my father exclaims. “I’m getting my sleigh all ready for the big night! I should be at your house tomorrow, on Christmas Eve, with lots of presents for you.”
Five-year-old Drew looks behind him—making sure the coast is clear. Then he speaks hesitantly into the phone. “Hey, Santa, can I ask you something?”
“You can ask me anything, Drew.”
“Would it be okay to add something to my list?”
I hear worry in the old man’s voice when he responds, “Add something? I’m not certain we could—”
“Or, I could trade. You can keep my other presents—I think I really only want one thing.”
“What do you want, Drew?”
“I want you to bring my daddy home for Christmas.”
There’s silence on the other end of the phone.
My younger self explains, “He had to go away for work, and Mom says she doesn’t think he’ll be home on Christmas Eve. And . . . she’s sad about it. We all are. It’s not as fun. I miss him.” He sighs. “So, if you can make sure he’s home tomorrow—you can keep the other stuff.”
I grin. Because I know what’s coming next.
Wait for it.
“Well . . . maybe not all the other stuff,” he amends. “You could still drop off the Sega. But you can keep all Lexi’s gifts—she won’t mind.”
Santa’s voice turns rough with emotion and conviction as he promises, “Your daddy will be home for Christmas Eve, Drew. I promise.”
Young Drew smiles with so much enthusiasm. Delight. Innocence.
It makes me think of my son. The sound of his laughter. The warmth of his embrace. The way he bounces on the bed—even when Kate tells him not to—and he jumps into my arms, with total abandon. Complete faith and trust. Because he knows I’ll catch him. That I’d never let him fall.
That I’d never let him down.
“Thanks, Santa,” my younger self whispers earnestly.
Mackenzie looks up into my eyes. “Did Pop make it home in time?”
My voice takes on a faraway tone, because I remember what happened the next day—and I remember exactly how it felt.
“We went to the Fishers’ for Christmas Eve dinner. We were all there—me, Matthew, Steven. At seven years old, your dad was already following your mom around, wanting to hang out with her. I kept watching the door. Waiting for my dad to walk through it. Hoping.”
A smile comes to my lips. “And then he did. Laughing and loud and bigger than life. I ran to him and—even before he hugged my mother—he scooped me up and spun me around. Carried me on his shoulder like Tiny fucking Tim. And it felt . . . magical. Like real Christmas magic. And I was so . . . proud of myself. Because I thought my wish brought him home.”
I blink, snapping out of my reverie. And I gaze down at Mackenzie. “Out of all the Christmases I enjoyed as a kid . . . that one . . . that one was the best.”
“But you forgot about it?”
That’s how it happens, right? You grow up, and the wonder of the holidays fades. It becomes more of a burden—places to go, traffic, gifts that have to be found and bought. And you forget the little things, the simple moments that are supposed to make a regular day—more.