“Clara, stop staring out the window,” Daddy said.
“Then why leave the curtains open all the time?” I asked before taking a step back.
“Well, that’s so that everyone else can look in,” he said. “It’s good for the neighbourhood to see what a proper house looks like.”
Even from this far away, I could continue spying on that island restaurant. Through the alleyway, between two sets of townhomes across the street from us, I could see a family sitting there eating. It was Christmas Eve.
“Clara Jane Donohue ...” The way Daddy said it, I knew he meant business. I turned on the heels of my patent leather Christmas shoes toward my father, who sat at the head of our long wooden table, his middle finger swiping pages across his tablet. He didn’t even need to look at me. “Get away from the window or I will tell Santa to skip our house.”
I played along. He didn’t know that my classmate Hakim had already told me Santa wasn’t real. At first, I thought he was just saying that because he is Muslim. But then Sylvie and Bing told me Santa was a lie too.
Sylvie had told me one day after we played tag, “My mama said she couldn’t afford two gifts for Christmas, so she had to spill the beans. Plus, Mama says she’s tired of old white men taking the credit for things.” My eyes started getting all watery. I didn’t want to say goodbye to all those presents.
I remember coming home that day and thinking about this for a long while. I sat at the top of the stairs watching my parents argue about how to put our holiday stockings on top of the gas fireplace without drilling holes into the rock surface.
“Who the hell designs a fireplace with no mantel, Edward? Who?! What is a fireplace good for, if you can’t put stockings or family photos on it?”
“Someone who would rather watch this high-definition television!”
“You’re full of shit!”
“You’re full of doughnuts!”
My mom covered her lower belly with her sweater, embarrassed.
I didn’t want to cause any more trouble by bringing up the Santa lie. If I kept pretending I didn’t know, I could continue getting extra gifts. And, really, Santa was just some old white man. My dad was close enough. Why make them even more upset?
So, on Christmas Eve I played along and asked Daddy if I could see the app on his phone again. He sighed and pulled it out. It was a graphic of radar straddling a map of the world. On this map, a blinking light with a ping sound was supposed to be radar picking up the signal of Santa and his sleigh travelling the world, giving gifts.
“There’s Santa!” I pointed eagerly on the screen. Daddy brushed my oily finger away, then wiped the surface of his beloved phone on his reindeer sweater.
“That’s right, Princess.”
I noticed the blinking light on the screen took its time over Europe, but when it moved over the continent of Africa, it zipped through.
“Why did it just rush through Africa?” I asked.
“That’s because little children in Africa are perfectly fine with sticks.”
That explained it.
Dinner was served, and my job was to wake Uncle Olly, who fell asleep looking for something to watch on Netflix. His legs were sprawled, and his mouth was wide open. I tried to close his mouth, and it shocked him into sitting up. As he rocked his body to a standing position, he asked me, “So, Clara, did you make cookies for Santa to eat?”
I showed him a plate of chocolate chip cookies I made with Mom earlier that afternoon.
Uncle Olly looked around, confused. “Where is Jason? Isn’t he coming down for dinner too?”
My mom, whose back was to us while she carved the turkey, suddenly went still. She took a breath and kept carving. Jason was away, at least for now. He would be back. Not sure when, but some time, some day.
Daddy opened the liquor cabinet looking for the bottles Mom and he had saved for the holidays. Some red wine they picked up on their last trip to Niagara. It reminded him of good times. He proceeded to pour into everyone’s glass except mine, with a little extra for himself. He thought I didn’t see him place the remains of the bottle at the foot of his chair, but I did.
Mom kept going back and forth from the kitchen. She wasn’t as smooth as she usually was for family dinners. Back and forth she went, to bring something she had forgotten. Napkins. The gravy boat. The gravy boat with gravy in it. Her juice concoction, since she was off alcohol for her cleanse.
I was already busy using my own fork to scoop pieces of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and all the other fixings onto my plate. My daddy slapped my wrist.
“For heaven’s sakes, Clara. Show some decorum. Get serving spoons from the kitchen. Ask your mother where they are.”
By the time we all sat down, my mom was handing out Christmas crackers of all different colours. Holding them between each other’s hands, we looked like paper dolls.
My mom got serious. “Now that we are all holding hands—”
“We’re not holding hands, Wendy. We’re holding Christmas crackers. What is it now?”
“Edward. Will you please just let me finish?!” Mom took a breath. “I just thought that instead of doing grace before meals—”
“We’re not religious, Wendy.”
“I know that, Edward. There’s a difference between being spiritual and being religious, all right? I just thought it would be nice to each take a turn saying what we are thankful for and what we wish for in the future.”
Everyone struggled to keep our crackers up with our arms.
“Well, okay, I am thankful for this amazing food, and I wish we could eat it. Now, how is that?”
“Thank you, Edward, for your brief and succinct participation. Okay, my turn. I am so very thankful that Uncle Olly has driven all the way from Bancroft to be here.”
Uncle Olly turned to me and whispered in my ear, “So, Clara, did you make cookies for Santa to eat?”
My mom continued, “I am thankful for having shelter in our lives, safety, my beautiful daughter, and—”
“And Jason!” Uncle Olly added with a giggle, looking to his left and realizing there was an empty spot beside him. That very empty seat still had that worn armrest; the armrest Jason picked at waiting for dinner to be over so he could go out, to where only he knew.
“And Jason.”
My dad shifted in his seat. He took a sip from his wine glass. He looked down at his ankle where he had placed the remaining wine.
“And I wish for world peace, for the environment to be healed, for a mild winter. Yes, that’s it.”
I knew that wasn’t it. She wished Jason would come home.
We finally pulled hard on the crackers. Loud snaps were heard, and we all let out a weak “yaaaaaay.” Inside my cracker was a paper crown, which I placed on my head. The string on the little plastic yoyo inside was too tangled to actually play with.
Both my parents and I ate quietly while Uncle Olly started with his long stories.
“Back when I was a child, we were never allowed to open our presents until we all heard the Queen’s speech on the CBC Radio.”
Uncle Olly continued, surprised no one was interrupting him.
“We would just sit there in our pyjamas, looking at our gifts and listening to her talk all proper on the radio. I don’t understand sometimes why we do the things we do. The Queen never knew us. She said things that didn’t make sense. I never understood a word she said. I just wanted my presents. If Santa was on the radio, I would listen all day. But the Queen is just some old lady in England with fancy clothes and a fancy house, you know?”
That night, after everyone was supposed to be asleep, I sat at the top of the stairs and watched my parents listen to a voicemail message that Jason left for them that evening. The one time my dad left his phone somewhere else instead of in his pants pocket, and Jason called. They played it again and again. My mother fell into Daddy’s arms, crying. They agreed to save the message.
“Sounds like he’s homesick.”
Daddy kissed my mom on her forehead, then patted her stiffly three times on the back. It was game time.
My mom took the plate of chocolate chip cookies and ate half of one. Using her left hand, she messily wrote on a note, “Thanks for the cookies. Love Santa.”
My daddy went outside. Before he left tracks in the snow with a baseball bat to look like reindeer hooves, he pulled a funny looking cigarette out of his pocket—the same funny cigarette he pulls out each time he and Mom have an argument—and smoked it on our porch. When he returned inside, he ate the rest of the cookies on my Santa plate and licked the crumbs clean.
I went back to my bed sleepy and more excited than ever, believing that seeing Santa would not have been as miraculous as watching my parents work together to make me believe in him without arguing once.