Finding Father Christmas (9 page)

At that moment, I knew I had made enough decisions and taken in enough information for one day. One very long day. I needed
to find the guest room and let sleep cover me with a blanket of time and space so all the spinning orbs in my personal cosmos
could realign themselves. The world I now moved about in was not the same world I had known for the past twenty-nine years.
I needed to find my center of gravity.

I tiptoed up the stairs that had bid me to climb them ever since I entered the house. After eight stairs there was a landing
with a padded window seat and a large lead-paned window that looked out on an expansive garden. I paused and watched the storm
illuminated by the dim light coming from the windows on the lower floor. The garden was quickly being covered with snow.

Having spent most of my life on the West Coast, I knew little about snow. I did know that sometimes it comes to the earth
as gently as a dove, leaving a feather-like covering of white on homes, trees, and country fence posts. Other times, snow
comes blasting into a quiet village on vicious gales of wind and heaving sheets of ice at everything in its path. Such was
the snowstorm—no, such was the tempest—that I watched that Christmas Eve.

Yet I was safe, tucked away in a spacious guest room in a home built by Edward Whitcombe’s great-great-grandfather. A man
who, quite possibly, could be my great-great-grandfather, as well.

T
he sort of crying I gave in to that night in the guest room was important crying. I wept as a woman in mourning. I mourned
the absence of a father in my childhood. I mourned the loss of my mother at the onset of my teen years. I mourned the loss
of Doralee at the launch of my young-adult years.

And I cried for myself. For the fragments of my life that might have been about to line up.

I cried into the plump pillows that lined the tall wooden headboard of the elevated guest bed. Like Shakespeare’s Miranda,
in the wake of the tempest, I watched and waited with a tenacity born of unfounded hope and idealized trust. The crisp white
pillowcases caught all my tears and held them the way the sails of a ship gather wind.

My tears came without much sound. The few muffled sobs that leaked out went deep into the pillows and stayed there. Once the
storm ceased, I knew that a season of my life had ended in that guest room. My breath returned to me in calm measures, and
I began to think about what was to come. In that place of peace, I made a decision.

I would keep my possible connection to Sir James a secret. I would take the secret with me to the grave, as my mother had.

I also decided that as soon as I had a chance to see Katharine again and pull her aside, I would make her promise that she
wouldn’t reveal any of our shared speculations. She seemed the sort of woman who could keep a promise.

As I drifted into deep sleep, I thought about my reasoning for such a decision. My connection to this family wouldn’t change
anything. Whether or not Sir James was my father wouldn’t change who I was or what I did or how I chose to live my life. The
possibility—the evidence that seemed clear to me—was enough to satisfy me. What kind of disruption would my declaration make
in this home where “grace” and “peace” were the sentries at the front door? I liked the thought of being noble. Keeping the
speculations to myself seemed the most noble route I could take.

I awoke from a deep and dreamless sleep while it was still dark. The small clock beside the bed told me it was 7:09. Christmas
morning.

To pad down the hallway to the bathroom, I needed to pull on my travel-rumpled gray pants, white T-shirt, and V-neck sweater.
Inching the door open as quietly as possible, I tiptoed across the runner on the wood floor of the long hallway. Every third
or fourth step the floor creaked, making it impossible to cover the distance without creating a dreadful amount of noise.

Attempting to run the water quietly, I washed my face, holding the cool cloth over my tear-swollen eyes. With a squirt of
toothpaste on my finger, I gave my teeth a less-than-effective scrub. At least my hair was easy to catch up in a clip in the
back. I didn’t look my best, but I felt okay. Ready to meet whatever
was ahead. My center of gravity was returning and that center was me, just as it had been out of necessity for the past decade
and a half.

I was a few feet past the bathroom door when one of the bedroom doors along the hallway opened. Five-year-old Julia appeared
wearing a pink nightgown and fuzzy, duck-shaped slippers. She looked out at me expectantly.

Her expression turned to a frown. “You’re not Father Christmas.”

“No,” I whispered, with a finger to my lips, “I’m not Father Christmas.”

“Who are you?” She didn’t lower her voice on my cue.

“My name is Miranda. I’m… ” I didn’t know how to explain who I was. “I’m visiting your mother and father.”

“Why do you talk like that?”

I kept whispering, hoping she would take the hint to keep her voice low as well. “I don’t live here in England. I’m from America.”

“Are you a film star?” She looked hopeful.

I shook my head.

“One time when I was little we had a film star who came to our house, and he stayed in that room.” She pointed to the guest
room where I had just come from. “He came to our house the day my grandfather went to heaven.”

She looked at me more closely. With a tilt of her head she asked, “Did you know my grandfather?”

A knife went through my heart. “No,” I barely whispered. “I didn’t know your grandfather.”

I bit the inside of my lip and then added before the tears could come, “I wish I could have met him.”

She yawned a kitten-sized yawn.

Redirecting all my emotions, I said, “You should probably go back to bed. At least for a little bit.”

“But I want to go downstairs to see if Father Christmas has come with the presents.” Her dark eyes twinkled. “Will you go
downstairs with me?”

My experience with appropriate protocol when visiting a family on Christmas Day was nil. The only point of reference I had
was American movies in which eager children in pajamas bounded down the stairs at dawn and found a massive collection of wrapped
gifts under the Christmas tree.

My childhood memories included gifts wrapped in playbills and scrawny trees decorated with silver tinsel. On Christmas morning,
my mother and I didn’t scramble to open our few gifts. Our tradition was to stay in bed and share a box of Whitman’s Sampler
chocolates for breakfast. Then we opened our presents.

My mother always clapped as I opened my gifts, which were usually items such as new socks that hadn’t come from the thrift
store like the rest of my clothes. Every year, I wrapped up the little bottles of hotel lotions and shampoos, and she never
failed to act surprised and pleased. She would open the tops of the bottles and breathe in the scent as if I had given her
a bottle of perfume direct from Paris. The rest of the day we watched holiday movies, and sometimes my mother took a nap.

“Will you come with me? Please?” Sleepy-eyed Julia tugged on my sleeve and looked adorable in her yellow ducky slippers.

I glanced up and down the hall and fell into a role I didn’t know I could play. “All right. I’ll go with you, but we must
be
very, very quiet. We don’t want to disturb Father Christmas if he’s still downstairs.”

“Do you think he’s still here?” Julia’s eyes widened the way I’m sure my eyes must have widened whenever my mother verbally
turned an unseen combination lock and opened to me a parallel world of make-believe.

“I don’t know. We can go see. Your feet must make only the softest of tiptoeing sounds as we go down the stairs. Are you ready?”

Julia nodded and slipped her small hand into mine.

With tiny steps, we made our way down the hallway to the stairs. Nimble Julia made an “oh no” face at me when our weight on
the second stair produced a loud creak.

From behind one of the other bedroom doors at the end of the long hallway I heard sounds as if someone else in the house was
stirring. I hoped what I was doing with Julia was okay. I didn’t know if I might be spoiling some family tradition with our
descent to the lower level of the quiet house.

We made it to the landing where the stairs took a turn before continuing with the final eight steps that led into the grand
entryway. I was prepared to start the next flight of steps when Julia stopped and let go of my hand.

She let out a little gasp and flew to the window seat. Outside, in the pale rose shade of the rising dawn, the world appeared
as soft and airy as a pure white dove. The blush from the winter sun enlivened the snowy horizon with a glistening glow of
otherworldly first light. One glance was not enough to take it all in.

I stood beside mesmerized Julia, and together we watched
the day come forth on white-feathered wings. With a touch of splendor, the undressed trees seemed transformed into regal
maids-in-waiting, shimmering with icicle-shaped diamonds dripping from their elegant ears and slender arms.

“Is that snow?” Julia asked, whispering for the first time.

“Yes, that’s snow. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I whispered back.

Julia nodded, her gaze still fixed on the unparalleled show outside the large window, where the day before a sleeping garden
had stretched out brown and unnoticed.

I sat beside her on the padded window seat. With complete trust, she curled up in my lap, leaning her head against the soft
inner curve of my shoulder.

Never before did I remember feeling as if another human was so completely at ease, sinking into me for companionship and comfort.
I used to snuggle this way with my mother any chance I had. She didn’t seem to tire of the positions I chose or the times
when I needed the security of her touch. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might one day provide that same source of tenderness
for a young life.

Then it came to me that Julia was more than just any little girl. If Sir James was my father and Edward was my half brother,
then Julia was my niece.

Drawing a breath for courage, I faced the fact that if I walked away from an exploration of my possible heritage, I would
lose more than the sure knowledge of who my father was. I would lose the only half brother I would ever have, along with his
Sugarplum Fairy wife. I would lose a twelve-year-old nephew I hadn’t met yet. And I would lose my only niece, the adorable
embodiment of sweetness, who was now cuddled
up in my arms and whose soft brown hair smelled like warm maple syrup.

The price of my decisive nobility was going to be much higher than I had first estimated.

F
ather Christmas and gifts under the tree forgotten, little Julia stayed close to me in the window seat. Together we watched
two red and brown birds flit from the icy branches of an apple tree and land in the fresh snow. The early birds hopped across
the clean white carpet, leaving their tiny footprints to mark their trail to the snow-covered bird feeder. With a flutter
of their wings, the two birds pecked and flicked through the snow before reaching their chilly breakfast.

I stroked Julia’s silky hair and hummed the only Christmas carol I could remember at the moment—”Silent Night.”

Julia leaned into me and released a contented sigh.

All was calm. All was bright.

The gift to me in that timeless moment on the bench seat was a gift of understanding. I experienced in a small way the bliss
my mother must have felt when she held me in her arms. I was her baby doll. To her credit, she did the very best she could
at loving me despite her disjointed life.

The years of blame I had assigned to my mother for choosing to live within the fairy-tale castle of her own mind all seemed
to evaporate when I felt the unlabored breathing of small, trust
ing Julia. How could a woman not choose to gather up a tiny version of herself and valiantly protect, nurture, and delight
in such a marvel?

By my best estimations, my mother was eighteen when I was born. Maybe nineteen. If she had relatives she could have sent me
to, she never hinted at it. If she considered handing me over to an adoption agency, it was only a private contemplation.

Her decision had been to keep the two of us together, and now I understood why. This. This closeness. This chance to share
the moments of wonder together. My mother wanted me. That in itself was a precious gift.

That truth was the gift I received that Christmas morning. My mother wanted me. She wanted me close to her heart. And she
always kept me there.

In that Christmas morning moment, with little Julia enclosed in my embrace, I looked out the frost-laced window and released
Eve Carson, the actress, from all her failures toward me, her miniature self. I then thanked Eve Carson, the mother, for every
right thing she did in proving how much she wanted me.

I wondered: If she had lived, and if I had asked, would she have told me who my father was? And if she did tell, would she
have told me the truth? I knew I would have wanted the imaginary answers more than I would have wanted the unbendable truth.
But still, I wondered. What would she have said if she knew I was here, in this home, with these people? What details of my
existence would she at last reveal to me?

“What about Father Christmas?” Julia reached up and patted my face. “And the presents. We must go see the presents!”

I helped her off my lap, and we were about to tiptoe down
the remaining eight steps when I heard a door open in the hallway above us.

“We must hurry!” Julia whispered, circling back to the playful excitement of being on a secret mission. She padded down the
stairs in her yellow slippers, reaching for my hand as she went.

I followed eagerly.

The grand entryway was even grander in the faint daylight. Soft rays of steady sunlight pierced through the colored glass
in the two tall arched windows that rose like pillars on either side of the stairway. A bucket of morning glorious colors
spilled over the wooden floor and caught a gathering of dust particles in the spotlight right in the middle of their waltz.