“Why, thank you,” replies Santa, and he’s looking at me with eyes that are both twinkling and serious. He removes the lid from the box, pulls aside the tissue paper, and lifts out the snow globe, holding it in his hand for a moment. Slowly he turns the globe upside down, then right side up, and watches the snow fall on the tiny garden of daffodils and hyacinths.
“It’s so you can see spring flowers, even at the North Pole,” I tell him.
Santa smiles at me. “This is a very thoughtful gift, Tess.”
“You can leave it in the box, so it won’t get broken while you’re flying around,” I point out.
“I’ll put it someplace special when I get back to the North Pole. And,” he goes on, “I’ll think of you every time I look at it.”
“Thank you,” I say. Then, “Santa, could I ask you some questions?”
“Of course.”
Now is my chance. I draw in a deep breath. “My sister and I have had lots of talks,” I begin. “Well, they’re really more like arguments sometimes. And, I hope this doesn’t offend you, but you should know that Evvie doesn’t believe in you. She doesn’t believe in magic at all.” Santa nods his head. “Evvie says that if there really is a Santa, he should give lots and lots of gifts to poor children, but that poor children sometimes don’t get any presents at all. I said that’s because you try to do other things for their families, like find houses for them to live in, or find jobs for the grownups. Is that right?”
“I do my best,” replies Santa.
“I thought so,” I say. “I bet you just sprinkle your magic around — like that sparkly misty stuff I saw when you came down our chimney.” Santa smiles. “So is it true? You do something for everyone, but you do different things for different people? Like for us, you just leave a couple of presents, because we already have so much. And you give magic to other people.”
“Yes, that’s so,” agrees Santa.
“I guess magic explains a lot of things,” I go on, thinking of my conversations with Evvie. “It explains how you can fly around the entire world in just one night.”
“And how I can fit everything for everyone into one pack,” adds Santa, pointing to his stuffed sack.
“The elves must be magic too,” I say.
“Yes. And children’s letters are sent to me by magic.”
“Oh. I wondered about that. Because we have always mailed letters to you by sending them up our chimney. Dad says they travel to the North Pole on a gust of wind that way. But Sarah used to address her letters to Santa Claus at the North Pole and mail them in the box in town. And her father said they would reach you that way. I guess any way works if there’s magic behind it.”
“Exactly so,” says Santa.
Sadie, who is now sitting on the floor between Santa and me, has been following our conversation by looking back and forth from one to the other of us. She hasn’t said a word, but suddenly I have the feeling that she knows the question I am about to ask and also knows that it may not have an easy answer.
“Santa,” I say, and glance down at Sadie, “I have a really important question to ask you. Actually, it’s more of a favor.”
“All right,” replies Santa Claus.
“Well …” I find that I don’t quite know how to begin. “Well, my friend Sarah …”
“Yes?”
“Have you been to her house yet tonight?”
“No, not yet.”
“Do you know that her father is sick?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“He’s very sick,” I add. “And — Sarah probably didn’t even write you a letter this year. But I know that what she wants more than anything is for her father to get well. He did come home for Christmas, but he isn’t well at all. So I was wondering … could you make him well? Could you do that for Sarah? She doesn’t want any presents or anything else. Just for her father to get well. When you go to her house, you don’t even need to slide down her chimney. You can just throw that sparkly stuff on her roof to make her father well, and then you can keep on going.”
There is a long pause during which no one says anything. Sadie stands up, though, opens her mouth as if to speak to me, then closes it again. And Santa begins pulling at his mustache.
“Tess —” he says finally.
“You don’t even have to make him well right away,” I interrupt him. “It can happen gradually.”
“Tess —”
“Like by springtime or even summer. It would be really nice, though, if he were well for Christmas next year.”
“Tess, you must understand something,” says Santa, as Sadie quietly moves beside me and leans against my leg again. “I give many gifts, but I can’t do everything. I do my best, but I can’t find a home for every person without one, or a job for every person who needs one.”
“I know that,” I reply. “And I know that some people wish for gifts that don’t make sense. But Sarah’s father —”
“And I can’t make everyone well either,” continues Santa. “Do you understand, Tess?”
I look down at Evvie’s boots. “Maybe,” I say. “I guess so. But Santa, couldn’t you please try to make Mr. Benjamin well? Please? Just try?”
Santa looks at me with kind eyes. “Tess,” he says, “you have found hope, and that’s a wonderful and powerful thing. Hold on to it. And if you can pass the hope on to Sarah this year, it will be the best gift you can give your friend.”
Santa hasn’t answered my question — at least I don’t think he has — but he is pulling at his mustache again, and I realize that magic or no magic, he probably needs to be on his way.
“I guess you have to go back up the chimney now, don’t you?” I say.
“I think it is time, yes,” replies Santa.
I look at him, at his splendid red and white and green suit, at his kind eyes, at the faint mist that surrounds him. For a moment I forget about wishes and requests and presents and what Santa can and can’t do and think simply, I have seen the magic. It is Christmas Eve and I am standing in our living room talking to Santa. I have met Santa Claus.
Santa is standing by the fireplace again, and now he lays his finger beside his nose.
Before he can nod his head, I exclaim, “Thank you, Santa! Thank you for all the presents and for talking to me. Thank you for everything.”
“You’re welcome, Tess. And thank you for your gift.”
In a flash, Santa gives a nod, and he and his pack disappear up the chimney, leaving behind a trail of the sparkling mist.
My heart is pounding. I have met Santa. I have talked to him. I have seen his sleigh and the reindeer and the magic. But I still have questions.
“Sadie?” I say, and she turns to me. “Next year you should keep track of things you want to talk about with me on Christmas Eve, okay?”
“Okay,” replies Sadie.
“Of course, I’ll be able to talk to you all year long.”
“That’s right.”
I am about to ask Sadie a question about Santa Claus, when something occurs to me. In the last few moments, Sadie has not actually spoken to me. I have heard her voice in my head, but she hasn’t spoken aloud.
“Sadie?” I say.
“Yes?” she replies.
Her mouth doesn’t move.
Our living room is as silent as a snowfall.
“Sadie?” I try again.
Sadie cocks her head and looks charmingly at me, the way she does many, many times every day. But I don’t hear her voice. Not aloud and not in my head.
“What happened to your voice?” I ask. “Why don’t you talk to me?”
Sadie’s mouth parts in a grin. She lets her tongue hang out, and she gives me her squinty-eyed look.
“Sadie … Sadie?”
Now Sadie can’t seem to talk to me at all, and I don’t know why. I have about a million more questions to ask her. I try to send them directly into her head, the way she sent her words into mine. I concentrate as hard as I can. Sadie, does the magic happen lik
e this every year? I squeeze my eyes shut tight and imagine the words floating through the air between our heads and entering Sadie’s brain. If they reach her, she shows no sign. I try speaking the words aloud. Nothing. Sadie still sits on the floor, grinning and giving me squinty eyes.
I look around the living room.
The fire has died and become glowing embers once again. Santa’s snack is now minus one snowman cookie. And a few drops of hot chocolate are drying from a bit he spilled when he sipped from the mug. I peek into our stockings. There are the gifts Santa slipped into them — the kaleidoscope, the book, the puzzle, the jacks. Under the tree are the larger gifts he added. They blend in with the others so well that at first I can’t locate them, but there they are — the gifts labeled “From Santa” that, in our excitement tomorrow, Mom and Dad and Evvie will each think someone else placed under the tree.
But I’ll know who they’re from.
I spy a corner of tissue paper on the rug and stoop to pick it up. It’s all that remains of my gift to Santa. The snow globe is now riding around the world in the back of the most glorious sleigh I can imagine.
I sigh. I feel somehow both happy and cheated. I am awed by what I have seen tonight, but I can’t believe that Sadie stopped talking to me just when I had so many, many questions for her. And now I won’t be able to speak to her again for a full year.
But, I remind myself, Sadie can understand me. All year long when I talk to her, even if she is looking at me with her goofy grin or her silly squinty eyes, I must remember that she understands me, truly understands me, which makes for half a conversation. And half a conversation is a lot better than no conversation at all. Plus, next Christmas Eve I will be able to talk with her again.
Also, I think, as I look around the living room, making sure it’s the way Mom and Dad left it when they went upstairs to bed, by next Christmas Eve Sarah’s father will probably be well. Santa didn’t make any promises, but I know he’ll do his best.
I climb the stairs, Sadie at my side, and imagine Santa sprinkling his magic over the Benjamins’ house as he and the reindeer fly by.
* * *
Christmas Day is as exciting as ever, but Sadie and I yawn our way through it since we were up so late visiting with Santa. This is the first Christmas I haven’t wakened everybody at five-thirty. Mom thinks it’s because I’m growing up.
“No more stumbling out of bed at the crack of dawn,” she says to Dad.
It’s nine o’clock before we’re sitting around the living room with our stockings in our laps. I pay close attention to Mom and Dad and Evvie as they find the gifts from Santa.
When Dad reaches into his stocking and pulls out the tiny book, he looks at it and smiles fondly at Mom, who is peeling the foil off of a piece of chocolate and doesn’t notice him or the book.
“Christmas morning,” says Mom with a satisfied smile. “The one time it’s okay to have chocolate for breakfast.”
When Evvie finds the kaleidoscope she says, “Cool!” and goes on to the next gift while Dad jumps up to answer the telephone and Mom pokes at the fire.
When Mom pulls out the puzzle she says, “My, a real brainteaser,” but Dad is still on the phone, and Evvie is now peering at the gifts under the tree.
“Hey,” says Evvie suddenly, standing up and noticing the table on which we left Santa’s snack. “What do you know. Look at that.”
“Laura!” Dad calls to Mom. “It’s your sister on the phone.” Mom joins Dad in the kitchen.
Evvie considers the remains of Santa’s snack. “Only one cookie gone,” she says. “I guess Mom and Dad were pretty full from dinner. The drips of hot chocolate are a nice touch, though, aren’t they?”
I glance at Sadie and see that she is regarding me solemnly. I am absolutely sure she knows what I’m thinking right now.
After breakfast, we open the presents under the tree. We are having so much fun (I jump up and down when I get a pair of roller skates with their very own key, and Evvie actually shrieks when she opens a set of curlers exactly like Maggie’s) that I almost forget to watch what happens when I open the game of Monopoly and Evvie opens the box of watercolors. But I do remember in time, and I watch my parents’ faces. I see their eyes twinkle as they exchange small smiles. Dad is probably thinking what a thoughtful shopper Mom is, and Mom is probably wondering when Dad secretly went to the toy store.
By lunchtime the gifts have all been opened, and Evvie and I lie on the floor amid bits of wrapping paper and talk about our gifts. Usually Sarah and her parents come for a visit on Christmas afternoon, but not this year. Mr. Benjamin isn’t allowed to leave the house, and anyway, Sarah and her mom and dad just want to spend one more day together before Mr. Benjamin returns to the hospital. I miss Sarah, but Evvie kindly shows me how to use her curlers.
That night I go to bed early (by now Mom is beginning to think I’m coming down with a cold), and Sadie crawls under the covers with me. “I’m glad you’re part of the magic,” I tell her. “And I can’t wait until next Christmas Eve. But I’m going to talk to you all year long. You are the best, best dog.” I kiss her on the top of her head, and she nestles against my side.
* * *
By New Year’s Eve, Mr. Benjamin has been back in the hospital for five days. Sarah comes to our house to spend the night. Since Maggie is spending the night too, we should feel as though we’re having a pajama party, but Sarah knows she’s here because her mother is planning to stay at the hospital later than usual.
“She wants to be with Dad on the very first moment of this year,” Sarah tells me. She pauses. “I don’t think they’re going to be together for the last moment of it.”
I am shocked when I realize what Sarah is saying, and I don’t know how to answer her. I want to tell her that I have important information, but I can’t — not without also telling her what happened on Christmas Eve, which she will never believe.
New Year’s Eve seems very, very long, but we try to be merry. Evvie and Maggie make confetti with us. We spend more than an hour snipping away at pieces of colored construction paper. Mom has bought several rolls of crepe paper, and we hang streamers from the living room ceiling. We play games and keep our eyes on the clock. A few minutes before midnight Mom sets out six fancy glasses. She pours champagne for her and Dad, and ginger ale for Evvie and Maggie and Sarah and me. When the clock strikes twelve, we all scream and throw the confetti in the air and shout, “Happy new year!” And I look at Sadie and think about what happened at midnight a week earlier.
* * *
Vacation ends and school begins again. Our decorations have been tucked carefully into their boxes, the boxes stowed in the attic. Dad has tossed our tree into the backyard behind the shed, where I know I will come across it during the summer, brittle and dry. In town, the lights and ribbons and garlands have disappeared, and in Mr. Vinsel’s store window is a display of model trains, which is interesting but not festive.
I make a chart — my very own calendar — of the days remaining until next Christmas, until the time I can talk to Sadie and see Santa and feel the magic again.
But the holidays seem miles and miles away.
January drags along with no interesting holidays, but we do get two snow days in a row, on a Thursday and a Friday, so we have a small unexpected vacation in the middle of the month. Then come February and Groundhog Day, and I make Sadie stand in our front yard to see if she casts a shadow, which she does, but Evvie and I can’t agree on what that means.
On the day after Groundhog Day, I get busy making my valentines. I make cards for everyone in my class, for Miss Sullivan, for Evvie, for Mom and Dad and my grandparents, and for Sadie. In school we make valentine pouches out of construction paper. We tape them to our desks and watch them fill up with the cards we deliver to each other.
Miss Sullivan plans a party for our class to be held on Friday afternoon, which is actually the day before Valentine’s Day. Our parents are invited, and we spend some time cleaning our classr
oom for them and putting our best work on the bulletin boards. Also, we memorize two poems to recite for them — “Wynken, Blynken, and Nod” and “The Owl and the Pussy-Cat.” Our class will recite the poems together, except for a few solo parts, and this is called choral speaking.
By Friday morning I am beside myself with excitement. I cannot wait for the party. After recess, my classmates and I will finally be allowed to open the valentines in our pouches. Then our parents will arrive and we will have the choral speaking, followed by refreshments — punch, candy hearts, and pink cupcakes.
I am standing in our kitchen after breakfast, telling Mom about the cupcakes, surrounded by the mountain of clothing I have to put on in order to walk through the snow to the bus stop, when the phone rings. It’s Sarah.
“I’m not coming to school today,” she tells me.
“Are you sick?” I ask.
She sighs. “I just want to spend the day with Dad.”
“Did he come home?”
“No. He’s still in the hospital. But I’m allowed to visit him in his room now.”
“Why don’t you visit him tomorrow?” I suggest. “You’re going to miss the party today.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. Someone else will have to say my part in ‘Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.’ I want to be with Dad.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll tell Miss Sullivan to keep your valentines for you. Unless you want me to bring them home.”
“That’s okay,” says Sarah. “You can leave them at school. I don’t think I’ll see you this weekend.”
The Valentine’s Day party is fun, but not as much fun as it would be if Sarah were there. But she isn’t there, and she’s right: I don’t see her over the weekend. She misses a lot of school during the next couple of weeks, and then one day while we’re eating lunch in the cafeteria, she tells me that her father is coming home from the hospital for the last time.