Charming Christmas (9 page)

That did it.

I told them the whole story. Well, the abridged version, but I made it clear that Bobby had done the show without my knowledge or permission, and that only some of the details of my life were accurate.

“Wow. That dude did you some dirt,” Carlos commented.

The others agreed, wholeheartedly.

Skinny Stu looked at the others, taking silent consensus. “We feel for you, Olivia.”

“I'll tell you one thing,” Archie assured me, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, “that Billy Boy's gonna get coal in his stocking this year.”

“And no one in here will blame you for the actions of the Olivia on television,” ZZ said. “I'm glad you brought this to our attention and shared this with us. Thank you.”

The others nodded, and I felt my spirits lift a little. Let me tell you, this eclectic assortment of Santas included some of the sanest, most decent people I have ever met. I was proud to be working with them.

As the meeting broke up and everyone headed off to their next exercise, ZZ approached me. “I just wanted to let you know, if you ever need to talk . . .” He bowed his head slightly.

“I don't think talking is going to accomplish anything at this point,” I said, thinking that it was time for me to act, do something. Though I wasn't sure what to do.

“You'd be surprised at what you can accomplish through therapy,” he said seriously.

Therapy? Me? I'd never needed professional help before. “I'm not crazy,” I said.

“I shouldn't even validate a statement like that with a response. However, let me point out that it wouldn't hurt to work through some of that bitterness.”

“Bitter? Me?”

His eyes were steady, reassuring. “I'm a licensed therapist. I recognize bitterness. Used to think I owned it.”

“You're a shrink?”

“A Jungian therapist. Not a medical doctor.”

“But, you?” I blinked. “Did you ever practice?”

“Eight years in Miami, five in Aspen. Had to drop out, tune out, scale down for a while, but I still maintain phone sessions for a handful of clients.”

I couldn't imagine myself stretched out on a couch and discussing my problems with anyone beyond Lanessa, Kate, or Bonnie. But ZZ did get me thinking. “Do you make house calls?” I asked. When he cocked his head, hesitant, I added, “Not for me. For my mother.”

“Oh, sure.” He smiled. “Denial. Oldest trick in the book.”

“No, really, it's my mother! She needs to talk with someone. She wants to see a therapist.”

“She needs to take the first step, take initiative.”

“But she can't bring herself to leave the house. Think about it. How does the agoraphobic get therapy if the therapist won't make house calls?”

He stroked his beard. “I see your point.”

“She used to leave the house with me, but even that is changing. She's getting worse. It's been weeks since she left the house, and though she's on a sabbatical from her teaching post right now, that won't last forever. She could lose her job.”

He nodded sagely. “Okay, let's see what we can work out.”

I clasped the fur trim on my Mrs. Claus bodice. “That is the best news I've heard all day.”

9

“I
t's all about the children,” ZZ kept telling us during Santa Squad training. “Don't worry about language barriers or irate parents or crying babies. Just focus on the kids, their meeting with Santa. It's up to us to make this a warm, welcoming experience.”

That first day I learned that it's easy to be warm and welcoming when toddlers fall in your arms, when preschoolers skip together toward the train, when their parents thank you profusely for guiding their children through Santa's gingerbread house.

Unfortunately, ZZ's philosophy wasn't completely effective on the parents from hell.

“Max, no! Would you stop that? You wanted to wait in line, so stand up properly and wait your turn.” Max's mom stamped her foot on the floor as if she were ready to throw a tantrum.

The boy straightened, then doubled over so that his fingertips swept the floor.

“Stop that!” Max's mother hissed. “I said don't touch the floor!”

“He can come over here and color this name tag,” I suggested, waving the child over to a craft station.

Max leaned up slightly, propping his elbows on his thighs.

“Aren't you nice and limber,” I teased. “How would you like to sit down for a while and make some decorations?”

“That's okay,” the mother responded. “We don't want to lose our place in line.”

I stepped toward her so that I could discreetly lower my voice. “He won't lose his spot. We have a system designed to pull children out of line and let them pass the time with an activity. At this stage it's name tags. Or he could design a Christmas card.” I bent down toward Max. “Does that sound like fun?”

Max puckered his chubby cheeks, stealthily reached out, and grabbed a handful of hair at my ear.

“Max! Don't you . . . Stop that!” she gasped, yanking his arm back.

“It's okay,” I insisted. Actually, it didn't hurt at all until the woman started tugging. “How old are you, Max?” I asked, trying to engage him again.

“The terrible twos,” his mother answered.

Still a baby
, I thought as his mother pulled his hand out of my hair and demanded that he apologize.

“Go on, Max. Tell Mrs. Claus you're sorry.”

“Ah sorry.”

She let out a frustrated breath. “I wish he would say it like he meant it.”

Max turned away from us and did a little pirouette, landing on the floor near a Styrofoam gumdrop. “Wanna go home.”

“No, Max, we are not going home. You said you wanted to see Santa and that's what we're doing.”

He frowned. “Wanna go home.” His voice cracked and I knew tears were on their way.

One of the elves glanced down the line at me, and I shrugged. Short of yelling, “Cleanup on aisle five!” I wasn't sure how to handle Max's mother.

“Don't start that,” the mom said. “Come on, Max. Don't be a baby!”

“But he is a baby,” I said gently. The words floated in front of me like a lily pad on the water, and for a moment it seemed as if someone else had said them.

Max's mother reared her head back and she fixed her eyes on me like a bobcat about to strike.

“He's really an adorable baby,” I went on. “Curious and full of energy. Did you know that a learning specialist designed these craft stations for toddlers his age because it's normal for them to get bored while waiting for a prolonged period?”

“But I want him to learn manners.” Max's mother kept trying to lift him to his feet, but he curled himself up into a ball. “I want him to follow through in his life.”

I felt Olivia the bitch struggling to get out and shriek,
Back off, Ubermom! Can't you see he's just a baby? And he'll remember more about manners if you quit complaining about his every move and give the kid some positive reinforcement!
Olivia the bitch would have chopped this woman into mincemeat and made a holiday pie out of her.

But Mrs. Claus was patient. Maybe it was all that pop-psychology training from ZZ, but I listened as Max's mother itemized her unrealistic goals for her two-year-old son.

The response that finally flew out of my mouth could have been scripted by ZZ. “It's admirable that you've set goals for your son. We all need to have challenges to meet. However, do you think Max would have the same goal as, say, our elf Regis here?”

I slung an arm around Regis's shoulder, hooking him into our conversation. He forced a grin for the woman. “Hi.”

“Of course not,” the woman said. “That would be inappropriate.”

“That's just what I was thinking. And I see you're moving up in the line quickly. In the next station, Max has a chance to ride on Santa's train, full of toys. Would that be all right with you?”

She crossed her arms and looked down at the balled-up boy on the floor. “Would you like to ride on a train, sweetie?”

He nodded.

I extended a hand toward Max. “If you like, I'll show you the way to Santa's train station.” He stood at attention and took my hand, suddenly on his best behavior. “Your mom will meet you at the end of the ride,” I said, leading Max to the small train.

“Look, sweetpea, there's Mrs. Claus,” someone called out, and a little girl with tiny dreadlocks clasped in pink barrettes waved at me.

I bent down to squeeze her hand, then kept moving down the line.

“I'd love to conduct a psychological study on how many of these brats actually make it off Mummy's couch,” Regis said through gritted teeth as we backed away from the moving train. “And how many spend their lives on a psychiatrist's couch.”

“The kids aren't the problem,” I said, smiling at a handful of kids who tumbled over the puffy marshmallow cushions in the gumdrop garden. “It's their psycho parents.”

“That and the fact that you're working a double shift. I can't believe they hired only one Mrs. Claus. What were they thinking?”

“Something about the fact that they had only one costume. . .” And with that I was summoned to the giant chair in front of Santa's hearth to have photos taken with some of the children. As the end of the night neared, I realized that our Santa Squad had worked well together. The elves and I had kept the lines moving, kept kids from melting down with boredom and acting out anxieties over meeting the big man from the North Pole.

Playing Mrs. Claus was worlds apart from my role of last year, dancing in the precision line with the Rockettes, and yet the hours spent among gingerbread walls, giant gumdrops, brightly wrapped gift boxes, and twinkling lights were cheerful, as if I'd been assigned to work in a Christmas spa.

As I smiled for the camera, I realized I didn't mind working the overtime. The extra money would come in handy, and already I was starting to feel comfortable in the Mrs. Claus suit, graceful in the role, and relieved that no one seemed to recognize the young Mrs. Claus as the evil “Olivia,” ball-breaking Nutcracker of Baltimore.

That night, as we were getting ready to finish up, a woman waved frantically from the entrance,

“I know it's late, but I promised her she could see Santa . . .” the woman said, wincing. “We got held up in housewares, and then she fell and hurt her knee, and store security wanted to take a report . . .”

“Lexie wants to see Santa,” the little girl sobbed, strands of her pale yellow hair sticking to her wet cheeks.

Regis and I exchanged a concerned look. “I'm not sure that Santa is still here,” I said cautiously. Most of the guys had punched out, and the last time I saw ZZ he was heading toward the elevator.

“I'll go find him,” Regis said, jumping over one of the gingerbread barricades.

“I am so sorry,” the woman said.

“Not to worry,” I lied, “I'm just hoping my elf can find Santa before he heads back to the North Pole for the night.”

“Want to see Santa!” the little girl pleaded.

“Just follow Mrs. Claus,” her mother said.

I led them to Santa's gingerbread house through the winter landscape that seemed almost magical in the dark, quiet store. The track of Christmas music was still running, with a bell choir version of “The First Noel” ringing softly. Although normally the visitors waited outside, I decided to take the woman and her daughter into ZZ's room. Lexie took one look inside at the empty chair and a new wave of tears hit her. “Where's Santa?” she sobbed.

“Santa should be back in a minute,” I said, as Lexie's mom rubbed her shoulders consolingly.

Trying to think of a distraction, I searched the room, its small tree lit with colored lights, its gold garland swirling down onto the gifts spread in a circle under the tree. Beside the tree was a small table where stuffed bears sat, having a tea party. I asked Lexie if she wanted to play with the bears, maybe have a tea party with them, but she shook her head and pointed to a small bookshelf.

“Lexie wants to read.”

I doubted that she could read a book, but I let her pick one out. She brought it over and held it out to me. “You read, Mrs. Claus.”

I glanced at her mother, who nodded pleadingly. Feeling unsure, I sat down in Santa's chair, and Lexie put her patent-leather shoe beside my knee and hoisted herself up into my lap. The little girl felt more solid than she looked and smelled like vanilla wafers and baby shampoo.

“See my bandages?” she said, showing me her knee, where three fluorescent pink bandages adhered lengthwise. “Lexie fell down and made a miscrape.”

“A miscrape?” I asked.

Lexie's mother smiled. “I said you scraped your knee, hon.”

The little girl explained, “My knee hurt very, very much. I cried and cried and got scared, but Mommy said it's just a miscrape.”

“I see.” It sounded like she'd had a hectic evening, and I worried that it would get worse when she learned there'd be no Santa tonight. “You must be a very brave girl.”

She nodded, sighing. “Yes, I am.”

Taking a deep breath of little girl, I fumbled the book open and began to read. The book seemed too long and meandering for a kid Lexie's age, a version of the Gingerbread Man, and as I read Lexie seemed to sink into my arms like a stone. I was three-quarters of the way through when Regis appeared at the door, shaking his head.

“Sorry. Santa seems to be gone for the night.”

“It's okay,” Lexie's mother said. “She's sound asleep.”

From behind the little girl I could see the easy rise and fall of the velvet buttons on her coat. “She must have been tired. Can I carry her downstairs for you?”

I don't know what possessed me to offer, but Lexie's mother nodded, thanking me with a tired look. We talked quietly about the best deals at Rossman's on the way down in the elevator, and when I turned to her at the door, her eyes glistened with tears.

“Thank you so much,” she said, her voice cracking. “I'm sorry, sorry to keep you late. I always seem to be running late these days, and . . .” She let out a quavering breath. “That single-parent thing. But I appreciate you taking the extra time. Lexie loves it when people read to her.”

Seeing her stress, her anxious emotion, made me choke up, too. “It's my pleasure, really,” I said. “Your daughter is a little delight.” I transferred the little girl into the woman's arms, somewhat awkwardly, and Lexie sniffed slightly but didn't wake up. “I hope her miscrapes get better soon.”

As I watched her go, I wondered if I was complaining a little too much over my life when other people had untold things going on. I headed toward the bus stop with my hair tucked into my coat and a beret pulled low over my forehead to cover my “Olivia-ness.”

Olivia's life was riddled with mis-crapes, but Mrs. Claus . . . Here was a woman who had chosen wisely through her life, a woman who instinctively knew how to help other people.

For now, I was happy to be Mother Christmas.