I stand outside Sleigh By the Bay later that day and watch the happy scene in my front window.
A big sign on the front door reads: SANTA IS IN THE HO-HO-HOUSE!
A tiny paper plate clock that I made in grade school—red dots with the numbers written on them marking the time, popsicle sticks as the hands for the time—hangs underneath that sign stating: HERE UNTIL 6:30 P.M.
Every December night from 5:30–6:30 p.m. might be the happiest of happy hours in Northern Michigan. In fact, one of the local restaurants owners once asked if they could put a pop-up bar and food truck outside because we received more winter foot traffic than any other place in town, even the Alpine Ski Shop.
I take a step back and can’t help but smile. A cold front has moved in from our Canadian neighbors this afternoon bringing sharply colder temperatures and a gentle snowfall. People are already lined up out the door waiting to get their children’s picture taken with Santa. They also sip hot chocolate, snack on iced sugar cookies Mrs. Claus makes and shop for Christmas gifts, but I know why they’re really here.
The memories.
Mrs. Claus takes the tiny hand of a little boy in a red bow tie and white shirt and leads him toward Santa. The boy is built like a fireplug, and he doesn’t walk as much as he waddles and toddles. He stops on a dime and stares in awe at the world around him: the tree, the gifts, the big chair and even bigger man. The boy points, and I can see him mouth, Santa?
My grandma nods and Grampa sweeps the boy into his arms with a hearty laugh.
Santa rocks the boy gently on his lap, and then I can see him ask his name. The boy looks toward his parents—so young and happy with their shiny, unlined faces—in need of assistance.
Through the window, I can hear the mother say, “You know your name! It’s the same as Santa’s. Nicholas!”
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Santa says. “The perfect name!”
The boy giggles.
Santa looks at him, and I know his next question by heart: “What would you like for Christmas, Nicholas?”
Santa leans his ear toward the boy’s mouth—because it must remain a secret between child and Santa only—and Nicholas whispers what must be an expansive list by the length of his message.
Santa nods and gives the boy a kiss on top of the head. Then he turns and smiles for the camera.
The parents take a million shots.
My eyes scan the bookshelves behind the scene in the window.
When I watch children sit on Santa’s lap every Christmas in my bookstore, I’m always reminded of the fine line between life and literature and childhood and adulthood.
When is the exact moment when we stop believing in miracles?
And why are we more willing to embrace happy endings in books but not in life?
I don’t remember the first time I sat in Santa’s lap, but I have a photo of me—just like the one this family took, like the ones all families have—hanging in my office. I am staring in wonder at a bearded man in a red suit whose joyous laugh and twinkling eyes have captured my attention. I cannot remember that moment any longer, but I can still recall the feeling.
Who is this strange, joyous creature who can make all my dreams come true?
I did not know Santa was my father, or that Mrs. Claus was my mom, but I know I understood, even as a child, that this man loved me and only wanted the best for me.
My breath catches in my throat and, for a moment, the scene turns misty before me.
“Susan?”
I turn.
“Hi, Michelle,” I say.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Yes. Just reminiscing.”
“This must be such a hard time of year for you, especially this year...” Michelle hesitates. “The whole forty thing.”
Michelle’s husband is standing in line with their four children. I went to high school with her and John. They come every year to get a family photo with Santa. Their oldest daughter is now fourteen. Her life has been so incredibly, beautifully normal.
I wave at her family. They wave back, and my heart pangs.
“It’s certainly more emotional than usual,” I say. “My mind and heart have been playing a few tricks on me lately.”
“Well, your grandparents are Petoskey’s miracles,” she says, nodding toward the window. “Everyone in town wants this act to continue forever.”
“Me, too,” I say.
I want to correct Michelle, but I don’t.
This is not an act for my grandparents. It is a continuum of their belief in life and in the goodness of life. If it’s anyone who is acting, it’s me. And to live, to truly live and embrace the miracle of the season and a happy ending, I must risk my heart, I must believe, but, mostly, I must forgive.
Myself and others.
“Hey, I hate to be nosy, but I’m going to be,” Michelle says with a laugh. “Are you seeing anyone? I heard through the grapevine that you’ve had a few clunkers recently.”
“I have.”
“And that some mystery Santa in Chicago disappeared before you could meet?”
“Word travels fast around here,” I say.
“You know the Petoskey pipeline, and I follow your friend Holly on social media. I guess none of her followers have identified him yet.” Michelle shrugs. “Listen, I have a friend who’s moving full-time to Traverse City. He owns his own business, a tech company that he’s moving from Detroit because he wants to live where he vacations. I thought perhaps you might like to meet. He’s a great guy.”
“Can I think about it?” I say. “As you know, Holly is trying to set me up with about three thousand men. And I mean that literally.”
Michelle laughs. “Well, if your dance card slows, call me. And just call me, Susan. I miss hanging out.”
“I will. I promise.”
We hug, and she heads back to her family.
I head into the store just in time to hear a baby scream.
My grandma sweeps the child from her husband’s lap and coos. The baby finally stops with a few red-faced gasps and is then placed back in Santa’s arms for a photo.
Now her parents have a wonderful story to tell and pass down forever about Christmas.
Infinity.
Michelle’s family—the girls in matching green velvet dresses and the boys in ties with dancing snowflakes—pose for a photo.
I watch Michelle wrap her arms around her children, and my heart twinges.
“Call me,” Michelle says again on her way out, her arms filled with books. “Don’t keep yourself a secret, Susan.”
“I will,” I say. “And I won’t.”
“Now, where were we?”
I hold up the book and show Jordan an illustration from The Polar Express.
I begin to read.
Images from the book suddenly combine with my own memories, from tonight and long ago.
My mother used to read to Jordan in the bookstore. Though he was older than me, I remember him being such a bright, happy kid when I was little. Then he just sort of disappeared from the world.
I used to want to get on the Polar Express, but I didn’t want it to take me to the North Pole. I wanted it to take me far, far from home, to a place where Santa and Christmas didn’t exist.
Instead, I ran here every holiday season, avoiding Jordan’s mother, seeking—no, deserving—an apology from Jordan.
And, I’m sorry for thinking this, God, but I came here to pray for you to take him. I wanted him removed from this earth, just like he so callously removed my parents.
I believed it was the only way I could go on.
And yet, here I sit, Christmas after Christmas, reading to a man who will never move, much less open his mouth to apologize. He will die here, alone.
His final memory will forever be his worst.
I can choose to forge new ones, better ones.
And I’m beginning to understand that without my memories—even the very worst ones—without my pain, my loss, my grief, my humanity, the steps that have taken me to where I am right now, I would not be who I am.
None of us would.
I look at my watch. It is late, and yet I continue reading.
“Seeing is believing, but sometimes the most real things in the world are the things we can’t see.”
I stop and blink away surprise tears.
I think of all those children getting their picture taken with Santa. I think of Michelle, and the girl I used to be.
Don’t be a secret, Susan.
I scooch my chair closer to the bed.
“Do you mind if I hold your hand, Jordan?”