Page 36 of About Last Christmas
“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 lowermy 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 naïve 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 SecretSanta 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.
