Christmas Carol Read online

“Yeah. Haven't you ever heard of Santa's sister, um, Sant..ana?”

  “No...” The mask of skepticism falls away, and her long-lashed blue eyes widen. “Do you deliver presents, too, Santana?”

  I lift a brow. “It's the twenty-first century. That's what Amazon's for.”

  She frowns.

  “So...” I breathe out and force a jolly, feels-like-my-face-is-cracking smile. “What do you want for Christmas? A book? A doll? A kitten?”

  The girl shakes her head and opens her mouth to deliver her list, but I don't hear a syllable—and not, this time, because I've zoned out. My ears just seem to have stopped working. In fact, all of my senses have shut down, save for sight. I don't hear anything, feel anything, smell anything (a blessing there), because the whole of my existence is focused on the vision in blue standing before my eyes.

  I'm hallucinating. Must be. Have to be.

  After all, God only knows what toxins have seeped into this Santa suit over the years. There could be asbestos in it, or lead paint, or...some other unlikely substance that causes lightheadedness. Or maybe I've fallen asleep on Santa's throne and am suffering from a particularly cruel, albeit convincing, dream.

  I want to look away, but I can't. All I can do is stare—and stare rudely.

  Finally, the little girl on my lap notices that I've stopped paying attention to her, because she pulls on my glued-on beard—hard.

  “Ow!” I moan, yanked out of my trance to massage my wounded chin.

  “You aren't listening.” The girl pouts, crossing her arms over her chest. Then she turns her head to address the woman just behind her, the woman sheathed in a blue dress to match those blue-sky eyes. “Mummy, tell Santana to listen to me. It's important.”

  “Santana?” the woman says softly, while I ask, at the same time, in a much louder voice, “Mummy?”

  We gape at one another while the little girl glances between us, her pretty pink face deepening to an angry red.

  “Um...Clarissa, why don't you go find something you want in the gift shop?”

  “But, Mummy, Santana hasn't heard my list and—”

  “I'll make sure she gets your list, promise. Go on.”

  The little girl glares, but, ringlets bouncing, she springs off of my lap and marches elegantly toward Santa's Souvenirs, one of the nicer gift shops in the park. Most of the shops at Christmasland are loaded with cheap plastic stuff in garish, hurts-your-eyes colors, but Santa's Souvenirs offers blown-glass ornaments, handmade wooden toys, snow globes featuring the great cities of the world, and even some pricey Steiff stuffed animals.

  I feel a little like a stuffed animal now—glassy-eyed and limp-limbed as I stare stupidly at the woman poised before me. “You're a mother?” I croak involuntarily, my voice suddenly hoarse. “Are you m-mar—” My tongue rebels, refusing to finish the word.

  But Carol—because this is Carol, really Carol; I'm not hallucinating or dreaming; I've already pinched myself twelve times—knows what I was trying to say. (She always knew what I was trying to say.)

  “I'm not married, Ebbie. And I adopted Clarissa. She was my sister's daughter—you remember my sister Ginger? She was in an accident a couple of years ago. A...fatal car accident. And, well, Clarissa and I have been stumbling along together ever since.”

  “I'm so sorry. About your sister.” I swallow, throat dry. “I remember her lemon-ginger tea.”

  Carol laughs lightly. “Yeah, she prescribed it for everything.” She pauses then, and her blue eyes flit uncertainly toward mine. “Even for broken hearts.”

  I wince; my chest feels as if it's gone concave, arching inward.

  Carol glances away.

  But how is this possible? How? After ten years, ten insufferable years, here she is again. Carol. The woman I loved—and left. The woman I dream about every night. The woman I'll never stop dreaming about, not as long as blood pumps through my veins.

  She's more beautiful than ever. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, blah, blah, blah—but, no, really, she's stunning. Her long, wavy gold hair waterfalls over one shoulder, shining like the golden ornaments that float in the indoor St. Nick Fountain. Her skin is smooth, Snow White-pale, contrasting starkly with her red-lipsticked mouth and those too-blue eyes. She's dressed simply in a lavender wool trench coat; a soft-looking cream-colored scarf loops around her neck once, and matching gloves protect her slender fingers.

  Those fingers...

  I stare at them; I can't help myself. How many times have I fantasized about her fingers, her lips, the taste of her cool, sweet skin—

  “So...you're playing Santa?”

  I blink, catch my breath. My cheeks are burning up, and the hot-as-hell red suit isn't doing me any favors. I realize then how ridiculous I must look. Ten years later, and I'm a jolly bearded elf, while Carol looks as if she just strolled off the pages of a fairy story. I summon a slanted smile. “Santana Claus, at your service. Our usual Santa came down with a...” I frown, trying to imagine how public relations will spin Harvey's drunkenness, but I'm in no state for clever evasions of the truth. “Okay, he was falling-down drunk.”

  “Oh...”

  “So I had to step into his boots—temporarily. I mean, normally I spend my days in my office, managing the accounts, averting disasters. Keeping the park running smoothly. Wearing more flattering—but just as uncomfortable—suits.”

  For a long, weighted moment, Carol doesn't respond. She bows her head, golden hair draping over her cheek like a curtain. When she points her gaze toward me again, her eyes are hooded, dim. “Do you enjoy it, Ebbie?”

  “Enjoy?” My brows lift. “I... Well, I guess I... Hmm. It's not about enjoying, really.”

  “What is it about, then?”

  I draw in a deep breath. “Responsibility. Doing my duty. Taking my rightful place.”

  She smiles mirthlessly. “Word for word, that's what you told me when you packed your bag and disappeared. I guess things haven't changed, have they? I had hoped...” She closes her mouth, takes a step backward, eyes wide and apologetic.

  “Carol—”

  “Sorry. Honestly, I didn't expect to see you here. Clarissa and I are visiting my parents in Danvers for the holidays, and when she saw a commercial on television for Christmasland, there was no talking her out of it.” Her smile softens. “She's been through a lot, and she pretends to be skeptical about Santa Claus, but the truth is, she really wants to believe in him. I think...I think she needs that magic.” Carol's eyes clamp onto mine. “I think, sometimes, we all do.”

  No, this is too much.

  I close my eyes, and suddenly I'm ten years younger, and Carol and I are laughing about something, something stupid, and we can't stop laughing, and then we can't stop kissing, and we stagger, entwined, into the bedroom—our shoddy little bedroom with its twin-size mattress on the floor—and we start to make love, smiling against one another's bared skin—

  “Mummy, I want an elephant!”

  Clarissa has materialized at Carol's side, tugging insistently on the pocket of Carol's coat.

  “An elephant? All right, show it to me.” Carol takes the little girl's hand and, sighing softly, lifts her chin to me. “It was good to—I mean...I'm glad you're doing well, Ebbie. I wish you nothing but happiness and—”

  “Wait.”

  “What?” As I watch, her cheeks flush a pretty shade of pink.

  “How did you recognize me, Carol?” I ask, leaning forward and gesturing to my foul-smelling, furry red costume. “I'm in drag. How did you—”

  “Ebbie.” Carol's voice takes on that familiar timbre, the one she would use with me when I was being too rational, too logical, too stubborn. Her lips slide into a sad, sad smile. “I would know you anywhere, in any disguise. I... I know you. No matter what suit you put on, you're still in there, Ebbie. You. The woman I lo—” She cuts the word short and swallows, shutting her eyes, shaking her head.

  “Carol—”

  “Happy holidays, Ebbie,” Carol whispers. Then s
he and Clarissa turn away, aiming for Santa's Souvenirs.

  I start to rise out of the throne, but a boy wearing an aviator helmet clobbers me, shoving me back down as he throws himself onto my lap. “I wrote down my list,” he says brusquely, and begins reading it off: “A baseball bat, a baseball, a baseball glove, a catcher's mitt, a Nintendo 3DS, a robot that can do my homework...”

  By the time he's through, and after the elves have ushered him off with a candy cane treat, I spring to my feet—clumsily; these boots weigh ten pounds each—and hurry into the gift shop, scanning the aisles for a flash of blue eyes.

  But Carol is gone. She and Clarissa must have left through the exterior door...to avoid entering Santa's Workshop again and risking another awkward conversation with Santana Claus, the world's biggest—and smelliest—idiot.

  I blew it.

  I've lost her. Again.

  I pick up a snow globe with a miniature version of New York City inside of it, and I shake it dully, watching as the glittery fake snow obscures the sky.

  ---

  I stumble into my darkened office around ten-thirty, half an hour after the park has (thank God) closed its gates for the night.

  The Christmasland Emporium—located outside of the ticketed park boundaries—is still open for business, though, and no doubt bustling with last-minute shoppers. I peer through the blinds, squinting at the Emporium's festive red, green, and yellow lights. The mall complex was built on Christmasland property about thirty years back in an attempt to boost waning interest in the park and to generate revenue during the off-season. Now the Emporium brings in twice as much money as the park, and it's ten times easier to operate.

  At first, most of the Emporium's shops were Christmas-themed, but now it's, more or less, your average upscale mall, with high-end clothing and home goods stores, along with a dozen four-star restaurants. There's also a three-story toy store with a working carousel, and a movie complex with stadium-style seats.

  The crown jewel of the complex? A state-of-the-art theatrical venue. During the Christmas season, we book holiday musical theater shows, and during the rest of the year, we feature other musicals, plays, and concerts. Through Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, we've got a nonstop ballet performance of The Nutcracker running—with three full casts, to give the dancers time to rest in between shows. I haven't had interest in catching any of the performances, but I've been told this year's Nutcracker is better than last year's, which was apparently pretty awe-inspiring.

  I wouldn't know; I didn't see last year's show, either.

  I haven't watched a single Christmas play or movie in a decade.

  A long, long time ago, when I was someone else—someone with a girlfriend and a dream, someone with a clear conscience and a father who was alive and well—I used to be as enamored of the gingerbread houses and jingle bells and fa la las as everybody else. Maybe even more so, since my dad always made such a big deal out of the holiday season. He went out of his way to make Christmas magical, even after my sister and I were fully grown adults.

  So, thanks to him, I looked forward to Christmas all year long with a kind of wide-eyed, childlike expectation. It was nice. Simple. Easy.

  But now...

  Truth be told...I hate Christmas. And my every working moment is a punishment—a life sentence of festive merriment.

  My skin crawls. Reflexively, I shiver: holly jollies give me the heebie-jeebies.

  Sighing, I let the blinds fall back into place and collapse into my desk chair, cradling my head on my hand. My fingers tug idly at the glued-on beard; I tried to remove it earlier with hot water, but the stubborn thing refused to budge. Guess I'll take a shower when I get home, try to scrub the fluff off with my loofah. If I don't fall asleep at the wheel, that is.

  God, I've never been so tired. I haven't even changed out of the Santa suit yet, but the soft, heavy coat is kind of comforting—now that I've gotten used to the smell. The suit feels like a blanket, actually, and if I close my eyes, I can almost imagine that I'm at my apartment, tucked into my warm and cozy bed...

  …

  …

  …

  “RISE AND SHINE, ELIZABETH JOY-TO-THE-WORLD SCROGG! IT'S NEARLY CHRISTMAS MORNING, AND THERE'S OH SO MUCH TO DO!”

  I bolt to my feet, blinking the sleep out of my eyes. “Wha...” my mouth wonders aloud, gaping; then I shake my head, cough, sniffle, cough again. What's going on? Did I fall asleep at my desk?

  Did someone just shout at me—and use my ridiculous, no-one-knows-about-it-but-my-family middle name?

  I narrow my eyes. It's almost pitch black in here, but I can make out a person-shaped silhouette near the doorway of my office, and the hair on the back of my neck begins to rise. “Who the hell are—”

  “Well, that's a fine way to greet your great aunt! Hmph! If you were still a little girl, I'd wash that mouth out with soap! I used to have a candy cane-scented soap—do you remember? Smelled great; tasted awful.”

  I hold up a hand, stammer, “Great aunt? What do you mean? I don't have any great aunts.” I frown, squinting into the darkness and drawing in a deep breath. “None living, anyway.”

  “Oh, living, dead—pish, posh. A technicality, really.”

  I draw back, straightening my shoulders. “Huh?”

  The silhouette takes a step closer, and my eyes follow the shape of a wide-skirted dress and a tall, stiff coiffure of curls. “Now tell me, child—you haven't forgotten me, have you? Don't you remember how I used to sneak you sweets under the coffee table? And you always got an extra gift on Christmas morning, hidden beneath the holly bush in my backyard... Let me think. The last one was a—”

  “Stuffed mouse,” I finish, though my voice cracks.

  I can't believe this.

  No.

  No.

  What the hell?

  It can't be...

  “Aunt...Maura?” I whisper, clutching my fake beard in a pointless attempt to calm my nerves. My fingers are as cold as icicles, and I feel pale, stunned, a little sick to my stomach...

  The silhouette twirls around in a flouncy circle. “In the flesh! Or—no, that isn't right, is it?” She giggles. “In the spirit? Hmm, yes, I do like the sound of that. Either way, I have missed you, dear Ebbie. How you've grown! Well, come on—won't you give your great aunt a hug?”

  Without waiting for a response, Aunt Maura—my dead Aunt Maura—lunges forward and hooks her arms over my shoulders...except I don't feel anything. And when I look up, surprised, I see a sight that I can't even explain: a weird fog of filaments and vapors.

  After a couple of disturbed moments, I become exponentially more disturbed when I realize that that fog is my Aunt Maura. She has no physical presence, so what I'm seeing is her ethereal...body?...as she attempts to hug me—attempts, but fails.

  “Ah, well,” she whispers beside my ear, and though her voice is loud, clear as a bell, I don't feel her breath against me, don't feel her at all as she moves back, positioning herself a few inches away. I stare at her red leather heels in mute astonishment. “I suppose there is a slight difference between the living and the dead, then,” she sighs. “Still, we can see one another, talk to one another, and that's remarkable enough, wouldn't you say?”

  I laugh hoarsely. “Remarkable is one word for it.”

  Stark-raving mad is another...

  Now that my eyes have adjusted to the dark, I can make out Aunt Maura's familiar features—the warm brown eyes behind wire-frame glasses, the white beehive (now taller than ever before), the plump cheeks, the '50s-style red dress with white lace along the hem. She looks like an I Love Lucy-era Mrs. Claus, and the resemblance was always intentional. Aunt Maura lived, breathed, and built an empire on her love for Christmas. She dreamed up this park, gave birth to this family legacy... It's because of her that I'm here, now, wearing a smelly Santa suit and a glued-on beard.

  “So...” I raise a brow, gesturing vaguely. “You're, like, a ghost?”

  “I must be.” She laughs mer
rily. (Everyone in my family laughs merrily; the merry gene skipped my DNA, for better or for worse.) “I'm sorry about the hug—I should have guessed that might happen—but I was just so happy to see you. Though...” Her expression grows serious. “I have to tell you, Ebbie: this isn't a simple family reunion.”

  I smile weakly. “Okay. What...is it, then?”

  “My darling girl,” Aunt Maura begins, lifting her arm as if to wrap it around my shoulder. She pauses in mid-motion and clasps her hands in front of her taffeta skirt, instead. “I have been sent to deliver a message to you.”

  “A message?” I tilt my head, mystified. “From who?”

  “Ah, details, details. Not important. What is important is that you, Ebbie, are heading toward a tragic fate, and the choices you make within the next few hours will determine whether you have a holly jolly Christmas...or a blue one. This year and every year after.”

  Great. Now I've got Elvis' Blue Christmas cycling through my head. It's one of my least favorite holiday songs; I even banned it from the park playlist, along with every creepy version (and they're all creepy) of Baby, It's Cold Outside.

  “Tragic fate?” I repeat dubiously. “That's a little dramatic, Aunt Maura—even for you.”

  “Well, Ebbie, this is no exaggeration: you're facing a dramatic state of affairs. I mean, look at me.” She spreads her arms wide, eyes twinkling mischievously. Aunt Maura was always kind of Mary Poppins-ish, and she used to hum Spoonful of Sugar while she baked the Christmas cookies.

  “I'm looking at you,” I murmur.

  She arches a white brow. “As you can see, I'm dead. And I was enjoying a rather cushy afterlife—oh, the cannolis up there, Ebbie! You can't even imagine...” Her gaze grows misty for a moment; then she shakes her head and focuses back on me. “But your predicament is so dire that I was asked to trod the physical plane once more. If that isn't dramatic, well...then Santa Claus isn't real!”

  I can't help it: I roll my eyes. “Santa Claus isn't real.”

  “Ebbie—”

  “Aunt Maura—”

  “Ebbie, listen to me. I know this must be a bit of a shock. But I'm afraid you've got greater shocks to come. You see,” she says, pausing unnecessarily as she leans forward, dipping her face into the slatted light, “I'm the first of four messengers.”