The man laughs as if Aidan told a funny joke. “That’s only if you’re pretending to be someone real, kid. If pretending to be Santa were a felony, there’d be thousands of fat men in red suits carted off to prison every Christmas.”
He picks up the flask and belches loudly.
Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap.
This man just broke the sacred, unspoken pact of adults everywhere—you do not, under any circumstances, tell someone else’s kid that Santa is fake. Most of the time, Aidan is oblivious to the subtext of what people are saying, but with a comment this direct…
I look at Aidan and let out the breath I was holding. He looks confused but not gutted. It’s going to be okay. This man’s idiocy passed over his head, just like most of the comments people have been making about Glenn.
“What are you, anyway? Eleven? Twelve?” Not-Santa says ruminatively. “You’re old enough to know the truth, kid.”
I turn to Not-Santa in horror and take a step toward him, ready to grab the pillow out from under his shirt and hold it over his mouth, but I’m too late.
“Santa’s not real,” he continues. “Shit, I found out when I was seven. It’s past time someone leveled with you.”
“Are you kidding me?” I snap. Rage bubbles up inside me, so hot and toxic it needs an escape. “He’s six. Six.”
Not-Santa’s eyes widen a little, and he gives a little oops, oh well shrug that has me feeling murderous, but Aidan lets out a strangled cry, and my attention shifts firmly to him. There’s a look of complete betrayal in his eyes.
“Mom, is Santa pretend?”
Oh, this is not happening. My shattered heart drops to the ground to break a little more, and my head keeps up its awful pounding.
I want to lie. The last thing I want to do is take one more piece of my son’s innocence from him, but he asked me directly, and I don’t like lying to him, and…
“Honey, Santa is a really beautiful story. Like The Octonauts.” My frantic mind registers the fact that he got over his interest in that show at least a year ago, so I quickly shift course. “Or Dinosaur Train. He’s not real real, but he lives in our hearts and our imaginations.”
“What does that even mean?” he asks, enraged now, his voice high and tinny. The zipper’s going again, up, down, up, down, the movements furious. “A person can’t live inside us. That’s another lie! Who are the presents even from?”
“Dad and me,” I say. But that was another mistake. Because I’ve called attention to the most messed-up part of this scenario: his dad just left him one day, and he hasn’t come back.
He won’t be back.
Despite knowing better, I reach for Aidan. He bats my hands away, tears rolling down his cheeks. I pull back, giving him the space he needs, even though what I need is to put my arms around my little boy, and he sinks down to the dirty ground littered with rocks, his hands over his ears.
He’s making a horrible sound, a keening, but I can’t go to him. I can’t. He needs space. If I touch him right now, it’ll only make his meltdown worse.
Not-Santa finally seems to realize he’s not wanted, or maybe that there’s a subzero chance he’s going to get laid, because his eyes go wide and he slips away, probably to sneak another sip from his flask behind an alpine fir.
I stand there, feeling a lack of control that is so appalling, so overwhelming that I want to join Aidan on the ground. But he finally stops, and he lets me pick him up. I carry him back to the car like he’s two, not six, and the relief of at least being able to do this—to hold him—is staggering.
“I don’t like it when you lie to me, Mom,” he says softly, his voice small, as I buckle him into his booster seat.
I grab his weighted blanket from the trunk, where I keep it for his occasional public meltdowns. Tears are still running down his cheeks, but they’ve slowed. I let myself sweep some of them away.
“You always tell me lying is bad,” he continues. “This is a pretty big betrayal.”
Guilt spears through me. I do tell him that. I’ve also told him the biggest lie of all, and he’s bound to find out someday.
I kiss the top of his head and get out, closing the car door behind me. Then I slide behind the wheel.
“What are you doing, Mom?” he protests.
“I’m bringing you home, honey.”
“But we need a tree! Even if Santa’s a lie, we still need a tree. We always have a tree. Always. Where are we going to put our ornaments if we don’t have a tree?”
The look on his face tells me how much he needs this small sliver of normalcy. But I also know he’s not ready to go back out there. Frankly, I’m not ready for him to go back out there.
“I’ll stay in the car,” he offers. “You can play carols for me.”
I turn the radio on, tears pressing against my eyes. Ever since he was a toddler, listening to Christmas carols has calmed him. Maybe because they help drown out all the other noise. “Too loud?”
“No, that’s good.”
I turn in the seat. “Did you like any of the trees we saw?”
“We need to get the Charlie Brown tree.”
“Oh,” I sputter. “You liked that one?”
He looks at me like I’ve just said something unforgivably stupid. “No, it’s a bad tree, Mom. Really awful. It’s probably the worst one I’ve ever seen. But I don’t want it to go in the woodchipper.”
“No, neither do I,” I say, feeling that press of tears again. Because I don’t. And heck, maybe a tree with mange is the perfect way to close out this horrible year.
I leave the car running, Christmas carols playing, and tell Aidan at least five times to call me if he needs me. Of course, the other attendant, the one who’s presumably not drunk, is busy assisting other customers, so I’m stuck with Not-Santa. I stroll up to him, all confidence—because that mask is something I need—and say, “We’ll take the Charlie Brown tree.”
“You can have it for free.” He sounds almost sober now, but in a weird way that makes me feel worse. He clearly feels sorry for us, like he thinks there’s something wrong with my son because he’s different. “I wasn’t joking. It probably would have ended up in the chipper anyway.”
“No,” I say, getting the money out of my wallet. “Here. It said thirty-five on the price tag.” I shove the money at him. “Just so you know, though, I have every intention of writing reviews everywhere I can post them to warn unsuspecting parents that you enjoy crushing the dreams of six-year-old children. Merry Christmas.”
“Um. Don’t you need me to get it on the roof?” he asks.
Huh.
I nod regally. Or at least I hope it looks regal. “Right this way.”
As I lead him toward the car, where Christmas music is still streaming softly from the speakers, it occurs to me that Aidan probably won’t react well to Not-Santa opening his door, so I tell the man to get it on top and leave the rest to me. My father taught my sisters and me his Boy Scout knowledge of tying knots.
The guy works quickly, giving me a wide berth, and then backs away, like my problems might be the kind of disease that’s catching.