Page 13 of There's Only One Sleigh
“I didn’t think so.” She loses the battle and laughs. “You should get it. It’s very you.”
I frown and look at the sweater again. “I was thinking for you. For the Christmas fair.”
“No.”
“But the jingle bells are real and all the bulbs actually light up.” I hit thetest mebutton to show her. “It’s very festive.”
“I’ll think about it,” she says in the same way my mom used to say, ‘we’ll see’. Every kid—and grown man—knows that’s adeferredno. “Let’s get this list handled and we’ll circle back to it after.”
She’s hoping I’ll forget about it, but I let her have the temporary win. Whitney might be efficient, but I’m stubborn.
“Lead on, then, Ms. Forrester. Let’s go forth and be efficiently merry.”
She’s laughing as she walks away, and I’m so entranced by the sound, I almost miss the five-dollar DVD bin.
Chapter
Eleven
Whitney
We have two carts now. Halfway through the list, I had to go back to the entrance for an empty one. Then, even though I was only gone for a few minutes, I had to hunt through the maze of aisles and shoppers to find Rob again.
The man cannotstick to a plan.
As I watch him trying to decide if mini slingshots that fling fake reindeer poop are good toys for the older elementary-age kids—and no, they are not—I think about the fire station. It’s incredibly organized and neat, though his desk is a bit of a mess. He’s responsible for the lives and safety of a community he loves, and they didn’t make him the chief for grins.
It’s almost as if Rob takes his responsibilities so seriously that when he’s off the clock, he just goes with the flow. And now he’s got me going with the flow, too. While we’re steadily checking things off the list, we’re doing it in the most unfocused and chaotic way possible.
And I’m having so much fun. It’s impossible not to enjoy watching Rob trying on antler headbands, getting excited aboutthe tiny fire station in the Christmas village aisle. If a toy has a button to sample the sound it makes, he pushes it.
I wander off while he’s helping a boy search through the Hot Wheels cars, most of which the boy can’t reach—and find myself in the doll aisle.
I check my list because one of the children asked for a very specific doll and since her mother recently underwent a major surgery, the Santa Fund is helping her acquire presents for her kids.
It takes me a few minutes to find it, but I add it to the cart, wondering if we’re going to need a third one before we get out of this store. Then a doll wearing a patchwork dress catches my eye and I pick it up. I’ve never seen one before, but something about the simple dress and braided hair reminds me of my mom. It doesn’t make sense, other than reminding me of her affinity for antique rag dolls, but it brings me straight back to the year I asked for a doll for Christmas.
I don’t even remember what the doll was—some kind of fancy Barbie doll, I think—but I desperately wanted one. And I was disappointed on Christmas morning when, surrounded by discarded wrapping paper, there was no doll.
Later that evening, when I had Christmas dinner with my dad, his wife and my very young half-brothers, I’d gotten the doll. No matter how hard I try, I can’t remember what the doll actually looked like. But I remember his acceptance of a thank-you kiss to the cheek and his utter disinterest in the gifts he—or maybe his wife or an assistant—had bought me.
I don’t have to put any effort into recalling opening gifts with my mother. Because we didn’t have a lot, she always made the unwrapping an adventure. Lots of ribbons, colorful strings. Bows. So much tape. I used to tease her about her wrapping abilities because of how much tape she used.
Looking back, I realize it slowed the morning down. It took me longer to open my gifts, and there was so much laughter. Christmas mornings with her didn’t have the kind of gifts that were under my father’s austere Christmas tree, but try as I might, I can’t remember my father laughing.
Dad bought me a gaming system that was the envy of my friends. I don’t remember if it was an X-Box or a PlayStation. Maybe he bought me both.
Mom gave me a notebook with a pen loop, and she’d gone through the pages, leaving doodles and little messages of encouragement. That first journal held my dreams and the goals I needed to reach to make them come true. It taught me that nothing focuses my mind like pen and paper, and I still have it on my small bookshelf in my tiny apartment.
“I hate to interrupt,” Rob says, making me jump. “But she’s not talking to you, is she?”
“What?”
“The doll. You’ve been staring at her, and you were frowning and then you looked a little emotional, but then you smiled. I’m not sure if Beth put too much espresso in that coffee, or if you’re having an actual conversation with that toy.”
“Maybe she’s the Ghost of Christmas Present.”
He laughs and then gestures toward my cart. “Then youhaveto buy her.”
