When I was Twelve （1979）
When I was twelve
I couldn’t sleep. But then, I never could the night before Christmas.
Some of my friends at school had said their parents opened gifts on Christmas Eve, but where was the fun in that?
The anticipation? The excitement, going to bed, longing to discover what lay in those enticing packages beneath the deep green boughs of the tree?
Okay, so I was always bleary-eyed by the time morning arrived, but that wasn’t going to stop me getting up at the crack of dawn to bounce on my parents’ bed, demanding that they get up right that second.
I knew why I wasn’t sleeping that particular night, and it all came down to guilt.
I’m evil. I’ve ruined Christmas for Ben.
Had I still believed in Santa when I was eight? Probably. And I had no clue what had made me tell him Santa wasn’t real.
Yeah, that was a lie. I knew exactly why I’d done it. I was pissed because his Outstanding Achievement award was stuck on the fridge door, and I hadn’t gotten one. And for an eight-year-old boy, God, he could be smug.
I’d wanted to wipe that smile from his face.
Of course, it had backfired. Ben erupted into oceans of tears, Mom asked me how I could lie to him like that, and Dad sent me to bed early with the threat of withholding presents hanging over me. I hadn’t even finished my supper.
So there I was, in the middle of the night, and I was hungry.
I crept out of the room I shared with Ben, taking care not to awaken him, because I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of more of my dad’s wrath, and went downstairs to the kitchen. I moved a chair so I could stand on it to reach the cookie jar—except it wasn’t in its usual cabinet.
Then I remembered. There were cookies in the living room on the fireplace, along with a glass of milk, and a couple of carrots for the reindeer.
Well, Santa wasn’t going to eat them, was he?
And if I did, that would only make Ben believe I really had lied to him, that Santa was real, and that he’d stood in our living room, munching on Mom’s oatmeal raisin cookies.
Because my parents sure weren’t going to accuse me of eating them, not when perpetuating the myth of Santa Claus would mean a less upset Ben.
I’d get my mom’s side-eye, but I was used to that.
I pushed the door to the living room open, and—
Holy shit. There was a guy in a red suit, putting presents under our tree.
No way.
No fucking way.
Mom always left a lamp on in the corner, so there was no missing him.
Sanity returned. It’s my dad, dressed up as Santa. Except I’d heard my dad’s familiar snore as I’d passed their bedroom.
So that meant…
I stood by the door in my boring striped pajamas, my jaw on the floor, my heart pounding.
Look at him.
He wasn’t at all like the Santas in pictures and in the movies.
He wasn’t fat, for one thing. His cheeks weren’t round and rosy-red.
His eyebrows were dark, and yes, even at that distance I could see his eyes were brown.
His mustache was a dark steel-gray. He did have a beard, though it wasn’t that overabundance of stark, thick white curls I’d seen on every Santa whose knee I’d perched upon since I was old enough to demand being taken to see him.
His beard was something else.
It was silvery white, encasing his cheeks, and had grown into a gossamer bush, curling at the ends, as delicate as spider silk. It framed his face.
It most definitely was not my dad in a Santa suit.
The long cloak was a gorgeous shade of deep red, reaching the ankles of his jet-black, shiny boots, into which were tucked his black pants.
Beneath the cloak, he wore a jacket in that same shade of red, his gold belt buckle gleaming in the lamplight.
And then he reached for the plate of cookies…
With no thought to waking my family, I emitted a strangled sound. I couldn’t decide whether it was incredulity at finding Santa in my living room, or pain that my plan to eat the cookies was about to be thwarted.
Santa turned to look at me, those dark brows arched, his expression amused. “Something wrong?” His voice was light, almost musical. I’d expected a booming, deep voice that rattled the house.
Something else everyone had gotten wrong.
“I was going to eat them.”
His lips twitched. “Then how about I make you a deal? We can share them. And the milk too, if you want that as well.”
I snorted. “You can have the milk.”
He picked up the plate and inclined his head toward the large leather couch. “Shall we sit while we eat? I promise not to leave any crumbs.”
I didn’t move. “You’re really here. This isn’t a dream.”
Santa smiled. “You’re not dreaming, Anthony.”
“How do you know I’m not Ben, my brother?”
His eyes sparkled with humor. “Because if you were, that would mean the elastic Superman under the tree would be for you, and I think you’re a little old for that, don’t you?” He sat, the plate balanced on his lap. “I thought you wanted a cookie?”
I sprang over to him and grabbed one. “Does this mean I end up on the naughty list? You know, the whole bit about you seeing when I’m sleeping, knowing when I’m awake?
Gotta be honest. I always thought that was a little creepy, you know?
I mean, this guy in a red suit, watching me all the time?
” He stared at me, and my face grew hot.
I coughed. “Yeah, I guess that means I’m definitely on the naughty list, right? ”
I still couldn’t believe my eyes.
Santa is real.
Santa is sitting on my couch.
If this was a dream, it was the coolest dream ever.
His eyebrows went high once more. “Please sit, Anthony. I’d like your company.
” Then he smiled. “And about that list… You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.
The fact that you walked in and caught me is something of a miracle.
I was obviously a little distracted tonight.
” Santa bit into the cookie. “Your mom makes the best cookies.”
I blinked, flopping onto the couch without a second thought. “You really eat them?”
He chuckled. “I’m not going to feed them to the reindeer. Dancer’s getting too fat anyway. She can have the carrots.”
“That part’s true? The reindeers’ names?” This had to be a dream. I was going to wake up any second, burrowed beneath my comforter.
“Sure it is. Except the Rudolph part. He’s a myth.”
“Until I walked through that door, I thought you were too.”
He locked gazes with me. “And now you know I’m not? Are you going to tell anyone?”
I squared my shoulders. “Nope. This is gonna be my secret.” No one would believe me anyhow.
Santa beamed. “Good boy. In that case, we might get to do this again sometime. Would you like that? We could share some more cookies, and I could tell you things.”
“What kind of things?” I ate my cookie in two bites.
“Well, do you want to know why there’s no Rudolph? All my reindeer are girls, and there’s no way they’d let a boy lead them.” He chuckled. “The very idea.”
“Do you really have elves?” This was fascinating.
Santa laughed. “I’m sorry, but that’s a story for another Christmas Eve. My night isn’t over yet, so I’d best be on my way.” He stood. “But thank you for keeping my visit a secret.” He cocked his head. “You like drawing, don’t you?”
I gaped. “How did you—” Then the light dawned. “You know that because of something you just put under our tree, don’t you?”
Those brown eyes really did twinkle. “Maybe?”
“Did you mean it?” I demanded.
“Mean what?”
“About us doing this again sometime.”
He frowned. “Of course. I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.
” He held out his hand, and I shook it. His skin was smooth and warm to the touch.
“Now go back to bed and at least try to look surprised tomorrow when Ben opens his elastic Superman.” He released my hand before stroking my hair.
“You’re a good boy, Anthony. He’ll forgive you. ”
My mouth fell open again. “You know about that?”
Santa gave a shrug. “Perhaps that’s why I let you see me.
I wanted you to know I was real. But it might be a good idea to take Ben aside tomorrow, and tell him you didn’t mean it, that of course I’m real.
Let him hold onto his childhood a while longer.
Pretty soon there’ll be plenty of things to occupy his thoughts, and I’ll become nothing more than a myth. ”
My heart quaked. “Does that mean one day I’ll forget about you too?”
He placed his hands on my shoulders. “You will believe in me for as long as you want to believe.” His voice had a grave tone to it, and for some reason it did little to ease my troubled mind. He ruffled my hair. “But now—bed. Enjoy tomorrow. Remember what the day means, though.”
Oh God. “That part is real too?”
He nodded. “We celebrate His birth, which is why it should be a day filled with love. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always end up that way.” For a moment, his eyes held such sadness they sent a sharp pain spearing into my gut.
He blinked, and just like that, warmth radiated from his face. “Merry Christmas, Anthony.” And then he was gone, without a flash or a fanfare, just a simple click of his fingers and a swirl of red.
“Goodnight, Santa,” I whispered. One thing I knew with absolute certainty—I would be waiting for him the following year.