Chapter When I was twenty-eight （1995）
When I was twenty-eight
My phone pinged, and I glanced at the screen. Mom again.
Are you getting enough fluids? Take Tylenol if you need to. Try to sleep.
I didn’t have the strength to pick the phone up and type a response.
I would sleep, but you keep texting me. I closed my eyes as violent shivers wracked my body.
I didn’t think I’d ever felt so ill. I dragged the blanket up over my shoulders, marveling how I could be both ice-cold and on fire at the same time.
Then I noticed. The clock had stopped. So had the sound of traffic outside.
I opened my eyes, and there he was, standing beside my bed. I tried to sit up, but he pushed me back with a gentle but firm hand.
“What are you doing here?” I croaked.
“I got scared when I went to your parents’ house and you weren’t there.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “You look awful.”
I probably smelled awful too. The sheets were soaked with sweat, as were the pillowcases. “I’ve got the ’flu. So do a lot of people, apparently. And it’s a nasty one.”
“That much I could work out for myself.” He stretched out his hand to touch my forehead, and I grabbed his wrist.
“Don’t come too close,” I managed to grind out. “I don’t want you to catch this.”
He smiled. “I can’t catch human diseases.” He peered at the clock on the nightstand. “Look, there are things I need to do, but then I’ll be back, okay? In the meantime, try to sleep.”
I managed a half-assed snort. “Yes, Mom.” God, everywhere ached.
Santa stroked my damp forehead. “Sleep.” The soothing motion made my lids heavy. I lay there, sinking lower and lower through layers of softness, the aches diminishing with every touch of his fingers on my skin.
Even his fingertips are magic.
Something soft and cool brushed over my brow.
I opened my eyes. Santa sat beside me, mopping my forehead with a damp face cloth. “Does that feel better?”
“Feels amazing.” I sniffed. “Why can I smell… chicken soup?”
He smiled. “Because there’s a bowl of it on the nightstand. And you’re going to eat all of it.”
“You haven’t got time to play nurse,” I protested. “I know what night it is. You have too much to do.”
He arched his eyebrows. “You want me to leave?”
“No, but—”
“Then hush and let me take care of you.” Another slow swipe of his hand across my brow. “Let me decide if I have enough time to play nurse.” His eyes twinkled. “Just don’t expect me to dress the part. One costume at a time, please.”
“But you have presents to deliver.” I couldn’t help but think of disappointed kids, waking on Christmas morning to find the gift they’d longed for wasn’t there.
He pushed back my damp hair. “No, I don’t. Where do you think I’ve been since I left you? I’ve used up every bit of magic I possessed to get it all done, and there’s just enough left to take me home. So anything else I do while I’m here will be of the non-magical variety.”
“And where is home? The North Pole? Or is that a myth too, like Rudolph?” When he didn’t respond, I sighed. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
He smiled. “You’re learning. Now, I’m going to help you to sit up, and then I’m going to feed you this soup. And you are not going to protest anymore, you hear?”
I knew when I was licked. “I’ll be good.”
His face glowed. “You’re a good man. Conversations can wait till next year. Right now, let’s concentrate on getting you well again.”
From outside, I caught the sound of traffic in the distance. “You weren’t kidding,” I murmured as he propped me up on pillows.
“Hmm?”
“You really did use up your magic. You haven’t stopped time.”
He caught his breath. “How did you—” He shook his head. “You really are a remarkable man, Anthony Gordon. And I’m fortunate to call you friend.” He dipped the spoon into the bowl. “No more talking.”
I sat in my bed while Santa fed me chicken soup, and although it felt surreal, it was also wonderful.
“How long can you stay?” I asked between mouthfuls.
“I’ll be gone by dawn. So rest. I’ve got you.”
I stared at the gossamer-soft beard that hadn’t changed in sixteen years. “Can I…” I clammed up.
“Can you what?”
“Can… can I touch your beard?”
A soft sigh fell from his lips. “You may.”
I reached out, my fingers trembling, and stroked the silken hairs. He seemed to hold his breath while I did so, and I found that captivating. “Is there no one else who does this?”
He didn’t reply.
Emboldened, I cupped his cheek. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
He smiled, and gently removed my hand from his face. “No, I’m not. I’m sure you have secrets. Well, so do I.” Then he picked the spoon up.
I got the hint.
The soup must have contained its own magic, because with every mouthful, I felt better. Before I knew it, I’d finished the bowl. He eased me to lie back down, then pulled the blanket up under my chin.
“Sleep, my friend.”
I couldn’t get my tongue to work, which was probably a good thing. The last thing I wanted to do was blurt out that Santa was possibly the sexiest friend ever.
I put it down to my high temperature.
I was delirious.
That was it.