The Christmas when Santa Claus spent the night at our house was the last time we were all together. Mom and Dad stopped fighting after that night, but I don’t think it was because of Santa. Dad had sold his car a few months before because he’d lost his job, but he said a good Christmas tree was important that year, and he bought one even though Mom was against it. The tree came in a long, flat cardboard box, along with an instruction sheet explaining how to fit the three parts together and spread the branches open so they looked natural. Once the tree was assembled, it was taller than Dad, really huge, and I think that’s one of the reasons why Santa slept at our house that year. I had asked for a remote-control car for Christmas. Any would do; I wasn’t after any model in particular. The problem was that almost all the kids at school had them, and when we played at recess, the remote-control cars did nothing but crash into the regular toy cars like mine. So I had written my letter to Santa, and Dad had taken me to the post office so I could mail it. And he told the guy at the window:
“We’re mailing this to Santa Claus,” and he handed him the envelope.
The guy at the window didn’t even greet us because there were a lot of people and you could see he was tired from so much work. The Christmas season must be the worst time of year for those guys. He took the letter, looked at it, and said:
“Zip code’s missing.”
“But it’s for Santa Claus,” said Dad, and he smiled and winked. You could see he was trying to make friends, but the guy said:
“Won’t go out without a zip code.”
“Now, you know Santa Claus’s address doesn’t have a zip code,” said Dad.
“Won’t go out without a zip code,” said the guy, and he called the next person.
And then Dad climbed over the counter, grabbed the guy by his shirt collar, and the letter went out.
So I was worried on Christmas Eve, because I didn’t know if my letter had made it to Santa or not. Plus, we hadn’t been able to count on Mom for almost two months, and that had me worried, too, because the one who took care of things was always Mom, and things worked well that way. But one day she stopped caring, just like that, from one day to the next. She went to see some doctors; Dad always went with her and I stayed next door at Marcela’s house. But Mom didn’t get better. Then there were no more clean clothes, no more cereal and milk in the mornings. Dad dropped me off late wherever I had to go, and then he’d be late again to pick me up. When I asked for an explanation, Dad said that Mom wasn’t sick and she didn’t have cancer and she wasn’t going to die. That something like that could very well have happened, but he wasn’t such a lucky man. Marcela explained that Mom had simply stopped believing in things, and that that was called being “depressed.” It made you not have any desire for anything, and it would take a while to go away. Mom didn’t go to work anymore or get together with girlfriends or talk on the phone with Grandma. She just sat in her robe in front of the TV and flipped through channels all morning, all afternoon, and all night. I was in charge of feeding her. Marcela left food in the freezer with the portions labeled. I had to combine them: I couldn’t, for example, give Mom all the potato casserole and then the whole vegetable tart; I had to combine the portions so her diet would be healthy. I thawed out the food in the microwave and brought it to her on a tray, with a glass of water and silverware. Mom said:
“Thank you, dear. You stay warm now.” She said it without looking at me, without taking her eyes from the television.
When I got out of school it was Augusto’s mother, who was beautiful, who held my hand and waited with me. That worked as long as Dad came to pick me up, but later, when Marcela started to come instead, neither of the women seemed very happy, so I waited alone under the tree on the corner. Whoever came to pick me up, they were always late.
Marcela and Dad became very good friends, and some nights Dad stayed with her next door, playing poker, and Mom and I had trouble going to sleep without him in the house. Sometimes we’d run into each other at the bathroom door and then Mom would say:
“Careful, dear, don’t catch cold.” And she’d go back to the TV.
Marcela spent many afternoons at our house, cooking for us and straightening up a little. I don’t know why she did it. I guess Dad asked her for help and since she was his friend she felt like she had to, because the truth is she didn’t look too pleased about it. A couple of times she turned off Mom’s TV, sat down across from her, and said:
“Irene, we have to talk, this can’t go on . . .”
She told Mom she had to change her attitude, that things couldn’t go on like that, and that she, Marcela, couldn’t keep doing everything. She begged Mom to react and make a decision or she’d end up ruining our lives. But Mom never answered. And finally Marcela would leave and slam the door, and that night Dad would order pizza because there was nothing for dinner, and I love pizza.