Chapter Twenty-Four Vanya
Walking toward the community center, I expected a gathering for stragglers like me who are looking for something to do on Christmas Day. It was surprising to find two impeccably dressed seniors standing by the door like they’re ushers in a fancy hotel.
“Happy holidays,” they greet me. One opens the door and the other points to the lobby.
When I enter, a jumble of noise carries through the lobby. Adult chatter, kid giggles, a random squeal, and the tinkling of a piano. This isn’t a humble holiday gathering in a soup kitchen. This is something else altogether.
To my right, through a room filled with fold-out chairs, I hear the unmistakable opening notes of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” The voices of kids and adults alike bounce off the walls, mingling together in gleeful harmony, wonderfully off-key yet entirely perfect. Appalled that I might be called upon to sing carols, I back away and meander across the hall.
There’s a food line stretched almost to the door. It leads to a long table of hot plates fussed over by servers wearing holiday themed aprons and wide smiles. Some are seniors, like the men who welcomed me earlier, but there are also a few teenagers. They heap turkey, meatballs, mashed potatoes, and green beans on plastic plates. At the beginning of the line stands Jeremy’s mom. Christina is mid-conversation with a mother ushering her kids through the buffet queue. People are shoulder to shoulder behind the food as much as in front of it. I’m not sure another server would fit back there.
At the end of the table are cookies of every shape and size. Unless I carry the plates of kids who are constructing their leaning tower of treats, there isn’t much help I can offer in this room.
So, I wander deeper into the community center, drawn to the gymnasium by the light buzz of conversation. The space is decorated with Christmas trees dotting the edges and poinsettia centerpieces on round tables. Somehow, it feels like a large dining room instead of an ordinary basketball court.
People are laughing, eating, and swapping stories over paper coffee cups and soda cans. Kids run between the tables, scolded and indulged in equal measure. Along a wall are two display tables. One with boxes and books. The other one holds even more cookies.
And at the far end of the gym, Santa Claus himself sits on a makeshift throne with his round belly, full beard, and booming laugh. The man in that iconic red suit is doing a great job of posing for pictures and amusing the children. I watch a little girl crawl up Santa’s lap to whisper in his ear. When she’s done, she runs into the arms of her father who affectionately tosses and catches her sprightly form. The girl’s giggle can be heard from across the gym.
An unfamiliar warmth curls its way around my heart. I’m not a sentimental person and, often, forced holiday cheer pushes me into my shell instead of out of it. But around me are people eating and laughing. There’s simple food and too many cookies. Surrounded by strangers, I feel the tug of nostalgia for something I never had.
My mother and I rarely see eye to eye, but I have even less to say about my father who passed away when I was in fifth grade. I hardly saw him growing up. His job as a nurse came with ample opportunity for overtime shifts. He worked all of them because nothing was more important to my parents than “providing” for the family. Christmas was overtime with extra holiday pay, so we never spent it together.
My one tender memory of my father happened by accident. I had woken up with a sore throat and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. It must have been three or four in the morning. He was sitting on a bench by the back door, where our outdoor shoes were lined up. In his hands were the new shoes I had ruined by trudging around the playground with them on, instead of using my sneakers. My mother had been furious that I got them dirty and scratched. They were my only “good” shoes. He was cleaning them.
Three days later, he died of a heart attack.
A sudden yelp pierces through the chatter. I turn to see a little boy, six or seven, cradling his arm. His eyes are wide with surprise or pain, it’s hard to tell. From the crumbs around him, he must’ve taken a tumble near the cookie table, probably in the middle of a game of tag with the other kids. People hover around, worried expressions on their faces.
I weave through the gaping crowd and kneel beside the woman who is studying a red mark on the boy’s head.
“Hi, I’m a doctor. Would you like me to check your son’s injury?”
The woman nods vigorously. Her son, however, looks more suspicious with each passing second.
“I’ll get the first aid kit!” I hear from behind me. I only have eyes for the little boy.
“Hey there,” I say gently, trying to put him at ease. “My name is Vanya. What’s your name?”
“Ethan.”
“Do you mind if I take a quick look at your bump, Ethan?”
His eyes dart between me and his mother. “It’s OK. She’s going to help you,” the woman confirms.
He nods, his tiny lips quivering. I notice a bloody scrape on his forearm that needs attention. The red bump on his head is already bruising. To distract him, I gently wiggle his fingers one by one, chatting to keep his focus on me.
“At least your fingers are working so you can hold a cookie. Are any of them your favorite?”
The corners of his mouth lift as he starts listing them off, even though he winces slightly when I graze his scratched arm. Someone places a red emergency kit on the floor. I grab an antiseptic wipe, large band aids, and a roll of gauze to clean up his scrape.
“He’ll have a bruise for a few days,” I reassure Ethan’s mother who holds a hand over her heart. “We should ice the bump for a while.”
“Ho, ho, ho! I have healing snow from the North Pole!”
Santa Claus lumbers over with a ziplock bag of crushed ice. Everyone cheers. Ethan’s eyes light up at the attention. He continues to stare at Santa while I show his mother how to wrap the ice bag with gauze to keep from giving her son frostbite.
“Say thank you to the doctor, Ethan,” his mother reminds him.
Instead of speaking, he wraps his skinny, unbandaged arm around my neck for a quick squeeze. I’m smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. And then he’s gone, running to show off his new bandage and brag about snow from the North Pole.
Once on my feet, I’m met with hugs and pats on the back. It’s embarrassing to be thanked for something so menial. I do my best to stave off the unearned praise.
“I’m going to put the emergency bag back,” I state to no one in particular. As if I know where medical supplies are kept in a community center.
Before I can pick up the kit, a thick red arm reaches over and beats me to it.
“Oh, thank you, Santa.”
“You’re welcome, doc.”
The voice might as well be a serum of caffeine in my veins. I’m immediately hyperalert, my eyes bugging out to meet familiar brown eyes. I gasp. Jeremy takes a finger to his lips to quiet me.
“Let me show you where this goes,” he states.
“But the kids,” I object, checking his throne to find an elf erecting a “back in fifteen minutes” sign.
I let myself be guided to a door behind the Santa setup. It leads to a quiet hallway that connects to a locker room. We enter and he closes the door behind him. Then, in the middle of a dimly lit and antiseptic smelling room, Santa whips off his beard to unmask the hot goaltender beneath.
“Agh, it’s so itchy,” he says with a chuckle and a few rough scrapes of his knuckles over a chiseled jaw.
“I’m one hundred percent loving this look on you,” I tease.
He removes the thick jacket to reveal suspenders on top of a stretchy white shirt. It’s so ridiculous to see a young, gorgeous man in his prime with whisps of white hair stuck on his chin and a clownishly exaggerated belly leaning on one side. He pulls it over and jiggles his torso to center the Santa stomach.
“Get your fill now, Vanya. I have one more thirty-minute shift before this goes straight to the dry cleaner and then the back of a closet till next year.” He scratches his chin roughly. “So damn itchy.”
“It’s because some of the beard wig is stuck on your stubble.” I reach over to pick on a few offending strands. This brings me right up to his protruding stomach. Our bodies aren’t touching but my fingers burn with the desire to do more than graze his chin.
“All good,” I say and step back.
“I’m glad you came. Almost as glad as Ethan.”
“He was sweet. His mother could have done what I did. The real treat for him was the North Pole snow.”
Jeremy chuckles. “That improv move was golden, if I say so myself.”
“We should take our show on the road.”
“Maybe. You’ll have to wear a Mrs. Claus costume so we match.”
“In your dreams, Lopez.”
“Actually, in my dreams you’d be wearing something else.”
My mouth opens as I feign insult at his words. Although, existing in Jeremy’s dreams seems fair. He’s always infiltrating my thoughts, after all.
“What? I meant your lab coat. Get your mind out of the gutter, doc.”
I laugh like a giddy fool, even if the jab was at my expense.
Maybe because his thick hair is flopping over those perfect eyebrows, or maybe because his suspenders are charmingly appealing, or maybe because the Christmas spirit is a mind-altering drug…I don’t know. But a powerful urge to touch him takes over. I place my hands on his shoulders to hook them under each suspender.
“Why you?” I ask, grazing my knuckles on the rounded muscles of his pectorals. “I’m sure other people would volunteer to be Santa. You’re a star goalie. The kids and adults would line the block to get your autograph.”
His eyes are hooded when he rasps, “Maybe that’s why.”
“You don’t want them to know you’re here?”
“I’ll show my face at the last twenty minutes. Pose for selfies and sign whatever is in front of me. Just don’t want to hijack the whole event.” He speaks distractedly while staring at my mouth.
“I’ve never met anyone like you,” I mumble in awe because it’s true.
In a locker room on Christmas Day, I can’t seem to remember why I shouldn’t admire Jeremy Lopez. More than that. I want to be with him up close. I want to touch his face and kiss him again. Because I’ve never been this tempted by a patient—in fact, I’ve never been this desperately attracted to anyone —I’m at a loss on how to resist a craving that is stronger than ever.
“You are so good to everyone,” I say reverently.
“All the volunteers are contributing as much as I am,” he states casually, like he isn’t a big shot hockey player under a Santa Claus disguise. What celebrated athlete is this humble?
Jeremy is exceptional in so many ways, but this tidbit floods me with affection. He hides under the Santa disguise because it keeps the attention on the community as a whole.
He takes care of other people, but who takes care of him?
Me. Only me. It’s a dangerous, unbidden thought.
His hungry eyes mirror my own desperation. We want the same thing. We want each other.
The realization makes me reckless.