Chapter 11 #2
Dear Greta,
I address you from the grave. Ha! How’s that for a dramatic opening line?
Okay, I’ll stop with the theatrics, but it’s not every day I can communicate a message from the afterlife.
There I go again. Truthfully, as I write this, you’re making me a salad downstairs—I hope you put pecans in it.
I love when you put pecans in my salad. But if you don’t, I won’t complain because you’ve been such a dear.
I can’t express how grateful I am for all the love you’ve shown to us. I’ve seen your selflessness in how you daily cared for me and your Pap. You could’ve left. But you stayed. You gave of yourself for nothing in return.
This is why you’re the perfect fit for this, my sweet Greta. By now you’ve heard that I am (was) the Silver Creek Secret Santa. (Don’t get mad at Fletcher Thomas. I practically made him be the face of this and what a face it is. Do you think he looks like a young Marlon Brando or is that just me?)
It may seem high-handed that I stipulated a timeline for this “reveal” in my will, but you and I love Christmas so much. I know you’re ready for this undertaking.
I’m passing this festive mantle on to you. I want you to carry on the tradition. Our souls may be separated, but we share the same heart. I know you, Greta. Your spirit is never soaring unless you’re lifting up someone else. Here’s your chance to live a little and bless somebody this season.
I ask that, this year, you give someone the best Christmas.
On top of this duty, please remember to keep your Pap in line. If you haven’t found it yet, he keeps a stash of York Peppermint Patties in a Pringles can hidden in an old boot. I love you, sweet girl. Just know you always made me proud.
Gran
P.S. Always Believe
I sit frozen, letting her words embed in my soul. I don’t know how long I linger in the hall, but I numbly rejoin the men. True to his word, a steaming cup of espresso awaits me on his desk. I reclaim my seat, fully aware of the lone tear rolling down my cheek.
Fletcher offers me a tissue, his eyes holding notes of compassion and expectancy.
I should say something. Anything. “I really hope I put pecans in her salad.”
Pap looks at me, the grooves in his forehead deepening.
“Here.” I hand him the letter and glance at Fletcher. “I should be angry at you.”
The young lawyer places a hand on his chest, his expression one of innocence.
“All this time. I thought it was you.” A soft laugh escapes me. “And it was her.”
“And now it’s you?” Fletcher’s tone is hopeful.
“How can I refuse anything she asks?” Something I no doubt believe my crafty grandmother knew. I glance at Pap. He’s engrossed in the letter. Probably feeling close to her once again as I had. Reading her words, I could hear the soft lilt of her voice, almost smell her lavender hand cream.
“She knew about the candy,” Pap murmurs under his breath in a gruff but affectionate tone. “Of course, she knew.” He all but presses the letter to his heart, and I melt a bit. Their marriage was one of devotion built upon friendship.
I want that.
“So what do ya say, Greta?” Pap hands me back the letter, his fingers a little unsteady. “Are you going to carry on your Gran’s wishes?”
Twenty minutes ago, I thought I was only inheriting Gran’s Christmas decorations. Never would I have believed Gran was bestowing some massive community tradition upon me. I turn to Pap. “I’m shocked you kept the secret for this long. You’re the man who always let me guess my birthday presents.”
“It was self-preservation,” he protests. “She threatened bodily harm if I told anyone.”
I shake my head, not believing him. But I’m sure Gran convinced him one way or another to keep silent. She always got her way. It seems she still will. “Fine. I’ll do this.”
“Fletcher.” Pap climbs to his feet and holds out an age-spotted hand. “May I have the Cranial Claus Couture?”
“The wha t?” I watch as Fletcher leaves his post at his desk and retrieves something from a cabinet.
Pap shuffles to stand before me. “On this day—” He stops his speech to glare at Fletcher. “You missed your cue, kid.”
“Clifford, I don’t think?—”
“Hum,” he gruffly commands.
After a lengthy sigh, Fletcher starts humming … “Here Comes Santa Claus.”
What. Is. Happening?
Pap clears his throat and begins again. “On this day in the year of our Lord, we celebrate a momentous occasion. With this Cranial Claus Couture.” He wiggles his fingers, and Fletcher drops into Pap’s hands a …
“Santa hat from the dollar store?” The tag’s still on it.
“Shh. It’s your ordination. Show some respect, child.”
I hear Fletcher chuckle behind me, and Pap levels him with a look he only reserves for those cheating at Hearts.
“Today, I crown you, Greta Jane Carlton, the official Silver Creek Secret Santa.” He holds the hat just above my head. “Do you so solemnly swear to uphold the integrity of this revered position?”
“Uh, I think so.” It’s difficult to take this seriously when the plastic tag keeps smacking me in the right eye.
He smooths the hat over my head and, I kid you not, shakes a jingle bell.
“Do I need to, like, recite a Christmas carol or kiss a reindeer or something?” Okay, this is the weirdest and silliest ceremony I’ve ever endured, but I don’t think this was for me.
Pap did this for her. Gran. This quirky “passing on” of the Santa hat would’ve delighted her, right down to Fletcher’s off-key humming.
Speaking of Fletcher, he’s currently placing a thick folder in my hands.
“And this is?” I look up at him.
“The letters to Santa. To you.” He taps the thick folder, and I swallow. “These are the printed emails, letters from the mailboxes, and the bundle from the P.O. box.”
Now that his role’s complete, Pap seems bored and starts sneaking chocolate from the candy bowl on Fletcher’s desk.
“Your grandmother would always have the recipient selected by the eighth, but since this is your inaugural run, you can turn in a name anytime up to the twentieth.”
I sort of remember that’s when the news would cover it.
I raise my hand to ask a question as if I’m in junior high science class and not a mature adult.
I realize what I’m doing and lower my arm.
“Do we have to broadcast this all over the news? I’d rather not make a huge deal.
If a family needs help, wouldn’t that be exploiting their hard times for the sake of a feel-good, sob story? ”
Fletcher reclaims his seat. “I understand what you’re saying. But it’s good for the spirit of the community. It’s to let the resident or residents who are selected know that they are not alone. Besides, those who submit a letter understand the media coverage is part of the process.”
I’m not sold, but I’m too overwhelmed to contradict anything right now.
Needing a jolt of caffeine, I grab the espresso and resist the urge to down it in one scorching gulp.
The folder is burning a hole in my lap. I hesitantly open it and browse the top letters.
“How did she narrow this down?” I lean forward, and the stupid dollar store tag smacks me in the eye again. “Can I take off this Cranial Claus …”
“Couture,” Pap corrects. “And, no, you may not.”
“I wouldn’t want Fletcher’s secretary to burst in the door and discover my festive little secret.”
“Okay, fine,” he mumbles and grabs another candy.
I remove the hat, but the static electricity has strands of my hair standing on end. Wonderful. I try to smooth it out and nearly drop my espresso. With a sigh, I set the cup on the edge of Fletcher’s desk and try to act composed.
Fletcher folds his hands atop the desk, appearing very professional. “May I make a suggestion?”
“Yes!” I nearly shout in my seat. “Do you have someone already picked out? That would make this a lot easier.”
“Sorry, no.” He points at the stack of letters. “I remember your grandmother having to sort out the phony from the real. It’s crucial to use discernment when reading those.”
My shoulders slump. “You mean people lie?” Of course they do. I wasn’t na?ve enough to think people wouldn’t resort to scamming to get some quick money. “What did Gran do?”
“She vetted them, but she was quick. She had a gift for that sort of thing.”
“I don’t feel like I have that gift.” Sure, I can spot the false in antiques, but people? That’s more challenging. How do I tell who’s just after money?
“There’s one last thing from the will.”
I’m almost afraid to look at Fletcher. Can I handle anything else? “If you dare tell me my grandmother willed me a herd of reindeer, I’m out.”
“No.” Fletcher smiles with warmth in his eyes. Or laughter. I can’t tell. “I only wanted to add that she left you her antique ornaments.”
Because you can’t gift ornaments outside of the Christmas season. Nice one, Gran.
After the shock at Fletcher’s office, the first day of my hidden identity as the Silver Creek Secret Santa is relatively uneventful. I drive Pap home, promise my mom I will make the pies and green bean casserole for Thanksgiving dinner, and then go to the grocery store.
When I return to my apartment, I ditch my sweater dress and leggings for an oversized sweatshirt and fuzzy pajama pants.
I stare at the empty space that remains Christmas tree-less.
With all the decorating for the store and the float, I had zero motivation.
I’m a terrible Santa. I have no zeal to deck the halls.
Not even tempted to say “Ho Ho Ho.” Though I could go for the whole eating a plate of cookies thing.
I grab the folder of Secret Santa letters from the counter, the weight of it pressing more upon my heart than my palm.
Can’t I just go “eeny meeny miny moe” and pick a random letter? Voila. All finished.
Ugh, I can practically hear Gran clicking her tongue. Meanwhile, Pap would remind me that I took some sacred Santa blood pact. As far as weird days go, this one ranks at the top. Well, except for the day I met Leo when I was dressed as Mrs. Claus. I joked that I was granting wishes.
And yet …
I now have the chance to do something good. No, amazing.
With a new sense of purpose, I move to the sofa and crack open my laptop.
Typing “Silver Creek Secret Santa ” in the Google search bar pulls up dozens of articles.
I tap the first one. It’s a news article that lists the community gifts from past Christmases.
One year, a family had their car repossessed because they fell behind on payments.
Not only did they get their car back fully paid off, but they also received a grocery gift card for five thousand dollars, and their credit card debt eliminated.
One woman gave up her trip abroad when her sister got sick and helped nurse her back to health while also caring for her nieces and nephews.
She was gifted another trip abroad with all her expenses paid and spending money.
An all-abilities playground was built for the local school.
The women’s center got new laptops and a state-of-the-art security system to protect those fleeing from domestic violence.
I lean back against the sofa cushion, my eyes welling with tears. Gran had been the one to do all of that. She’s always been kind and generous, but this? It’s like I’m seeing a whole new side of her. A secret she’d kept for so long that I’m now part of.
Grabbing the folder, I skim over the first few letters.
Someone nominated their little league baseball coach, asking for a Ford truck because he would always pick up and drop off the kids from underserved neighborhoods to ensure they got to play.
Another nominated their high school math teacher, asking for a shopping spree, claiming her wardrobe is embarrassing.
Oh, the brutal honesty of teens. As I read through a few more, I realize I need to have some kind of system.
But being more organized is like asking me to add leafy greens to my diet.
Like, I know it’s good for me, but the reality of me doing that is pretty slim.
Suddenly tired, I flip on a Christmas movie, Miracle on 34 th Street, for inspiration. I’ll take any advice I can get, but I fall asleep before the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade is over.