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Making an effort to do what she’d promised, Hope had decided that Sunday movie night at Cascade Park would be the first special event she’d treat the children to. Hope Valley took the evenings very seriously. Especially during the holidays. Each night, the park services would show a different holiday movie. Last night, they had featured The Santa Clause. The night before, they’d shown It’s a Wonderful Life.
Tonight, Hope and her children were watching one of her all-time favorites, Miracle on 34th Street. The park, which had cleared the grounds of snow, could accommodate a thousand people. Everyone was required to bring his or her own seating.
The air was chilly, but Hope had come prepared. She’d laid out a waterproof blanket and had placed a battery-lit candle in the middle. She’d made sure the kids were dressed warmly. Both wore parkas, sweaters, jeans, and ski hats. Granted, their clothes were a tad too small—she hadn’t bought them anything new in over six months—but neither had complained. They were lying on their stomachs, elbows bent, chins propped on their hands, gazing at the screen.
Halfway through the movie, Hope asked, “Do you want a cheese or bologna sandwich?” In addition to sandwiches, their modest picnic dinner included individual bags of chips and a sugar-free cookie for each of them.
“Pizza,” Todd said.
“Sorry, no pizza.” Hope rolled her eyes. Todd knew exactly what she’d packed. He’d helped her. “Cheese or bologna?”
“Cheese.” Todd sat up, his teddy bear tucked under his arm. “Mom, do you believe in Santa?”
“He’s not real,” Melody said over her shoulder. Despite her expressed lack of belief, she was facing the screen, and Hope could see she was enthralled.
“Shut up, Melody,” Todd hissed. “Mom, do you or don’t you?”
How Hope wanted to believe, but life had intervened and had dashed her dreams. Life was real; Santa wasn’t. And yet, there on the screen was the charming, pink-cheeked Kris Kringle in court being questioned by the puzzled prosecutor, and everything in her screamed, Yes, yes, I believe!
“He’s not real,” Melody cried. “Grow up!”
“Don’t. Say. That.” Todd stuck out his tongue. “He is too real.”
Melody lurched to a rigid sitting position. “Steve Waldren dressed up as Santa. You know who Steve Waldren is.”
“Well, duh,” Todd said. “I mean, yeah, he put on a costume. There are lots of people who do that. Even the Santa at the bazaar isn’t real. But Santa, the real Santa Claus, is, well . . .” He shot a hand at his sister. “He’s real.”
“Daddy said Santa is a joke,” Melody sniped. “A figment of our imagination. And we’re crazy if we buy into it.”
Hope jolted. Zach didn’t. He couldn’t have. He’d set out cookies for Santa at Christmas. He’d jingled the coins in his pocket to imitate sleighbells. He’d chewed up carrots and spit them out on the driveway to pretend reindeer had visited the house. How could he tell their daughter Santa was a figment of their imagination? How dare he!
“Melody, take it back,” Hope said sharply.
“I won’t. Daddy’s right.” Defiantly, Melody folded her arms. “I believe what he says, Todd, even if Mommy doesn’t.”
Hope moaned. Even when Zach was gone, he was ever-present. He’d imprinted on their children, for better or worse. She gazed at her son, so vulnerable and trusting, and whispered, “I believe Santa is real, sweetheart. Let’s make it our secret.”
––––––––
“After you’ve brushed your teeth, Todd, snuggle into your sleep sack,” Hope said in the van. “I’ll read you two a story.” She glanced at Melody, already in her sack, peering at a postcard from her father that she kept hidden under her pillow. Not a postcard from the present, a postcard he’d sent to the kids when Hope and he had taken an adult summer vacation a lifetime ago. Hope cleared her throat. “Melody, you pick the story.”
“None of those,” Melody said, motioning to the five holiday-themed books stacked on the storage box wedged between hers and Todd’s sleep sacks. The battery-operated camping lantern served as their lamp. “They’re all fantasy.”
“Fantasy can be good for one’s soul.” Hope perched beside Melody and stroked her hair.
Melody turned away, clutching the pink stuffed elephant her grandparents had given her the day she was born like it was her lifeline. Hope leaned down and kissed the back of her daughter’s head. Melody wriggled with displeasure.
“Stop, Mom.”
“But you smell so good.”
“Eww.”
Hope backed off. “Hop to it, Todd.”
He wriggled into his sleep sack and grabbed hold of The Polar Express. “This one.” He snatched the accompanying train beside the books and zoomed it into the air.
“I love this story,” Hope said.
“I hate it,” Melody carped.
“Then go to sleep. I’ll just read it to Todd.”
Hope read aloud until both children fell asleep and then kissed them and whispered, “Sleep tight and dream with the angels.”
After dimming the light of the lantern, she tiptoed to the small basin at the side of the camper, pressed the foot pedal to pump the water through the pipe, and dripped a teaspoon of water onto her toothbrush. Most often, she brushed her teeth with a dry brush and only used the water to rinse. Tonight, she needed a little comfort.
Dressed in her nightshirt, she moved to the driver’s seat, switched on the radio to a classical station, and opened her ledger, the same ledger her parents had used to balance the Curious Reader’s accounting books. Inside was an envelope stuffed with the bills: medical insurance, car insurance, dental visits, children’s checkups. None were past due. Yet. Hope sighed. She knew nothing in life was free, but did it all have to be so darned expensive? When she and Zach first thought about having children, they’d discussed the costs, the future. They’d decided together that it would be worth it. And it was worth it for her . . . but she couldn’t deny it was hard doing it solo.
Around ten p.m., Hope felt a gleam of light on her face. She glanced out the window and recognized the North Star shining merrily, as if no one should have a care in the world. But she did, and for the first time that she could remember, she resented the star’s cheerfulness.
