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| >> Static Item >> Fiction >> Holiday >> ID #563189 |   |
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The Quick Stop Santa This started out as the worst Christmas of my entire life. Financially, we were struggling, but that was nothing compared with what was about to happen. It was Christmas Eve when the call came with news my father had a major heart attack. I was in a state of denial, anger and depression. I woke my husband who had just finished getting Santa ready for our girls and he immediately got out of bed and began getting thing together for our 12-hour trip. That meant taking care of clothes, presents, toiletries, and a thousand other details, while I was hopelessly mired in my depression, because I was afraid my father was not going to live. I was useless; I could not stop crying. Finally, we were all in the car traveling, but I could not sleep. So I rattled on about my father and the memories that kept bubbling to the surface of my consciousness. Why did this have to happen on Christmas Eve? Why not tomorrow night or next week? My constant stream of conversation kept Joe awake and his occasional grunt let me know he was at least aware of my talking. We had traveled about a hundred miles when the car jerked. I heard the engine skip and prayed it was not a major problem. Then it smoothed out and Joe commented it was probably a piece of trash in the fuel injectors. I knew nothing, but since it was running smoothly, I said a quick “Thank you, God” and continued my ramblings. But all was not well and it happened again. The engine coughed and a gas station seemed to magically appear at the exit. Joe turned onto the exit ramp and coasted into the station. This one was a Quick Stop with a small food service complete with booths. I took the girls inside while Joe checked the car and engine. Inside, I laid my oldest daughter on the seat and held the younger as she slept. A cup of coffee helped me warm up and settled my anxieties somewhat. We had been there a short time when a man with a Santa hat came over. He looked to be about sixty, and was dressed in blue jeans with a plaid western shirt unbuttoned half way down revealing his white T-shirt. He had a beard of two or three-days growth. I wondered who he was. “Merry Christmas,” he said emphatically. “Maybe you, but not me,” I shot back. “Having car trouble?” he said. “Yeah, but I couldn't care less about that damn car,” I said. “It’s terrible stranded on the road when you gotta get some place,” he said. “Yes it is,” I answered staring at my coffee. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked. “Not unless you can heal,” I said as tears began to roll down my face. “You’re daddy’s sick, ain’t he?” he said taking off his Santa hat. “How do you know?” I asked. “Oh, there’s something about daughters and daddies that’s special,” he said. He poured me more coffee, and ordered me a sausage biscuit. Pulling up a chair he sat down and listened as I poured out my concerns and memories of my father. He walked over and picked up a box of tissue and opening it set it on the table for me. Then he looked me in the eyes and said, “You’ve got issues with your father, don’t you?” I had kept all these things buried and other than Joe, no one in my present community of friends and acquaintances knew about my earlier indiscretions. I had been what would be described as a ‘good girl.’ I made good grades, attended church with my parents and was respectful and considerate of my elders. I should have qualified for some scholarships when I graduated. My father had taken an exception to one boy who had become interested in me. He had warned me of the dangers of the relationship and was concerned that I might throw away my opportunity for further education and career. I ignored his advice and went on a date with him. He drove into the country and told me if I refused to have sex, I would walk home. Though my father had been right, I could not tell him because I would have to tell him what happened. I thought it best that no one ever know what happened, but three months later, I was pregnant. As a result of the pregnancy, and the attitudes of the time, I did not graduate from school. I did not get any scholarships. Instead I lived with an aunt in another state until I delivered my daughter. The only good thing is that I met Joe and we married. My daughter does not know that Joe is not her natural father. My father didn’t punish me because of my actions. He never said, “I told you so,” or in any way reminded me of what had happened. He continued to love me. I got my GED and completed my college education and on the surface, things were fine. However, I never had a real conversation with my dad about it. I never had the chance to tell him how sorry I was for not heeding his advice. Now I feared I would never have that opportunity. He took out a pipe and said with a chuckle, “Do you mind if I smoke my pipe? I seem to think better when I puff my pipe, though it probably just fogs my brain and I only think I think better. But then, appearance seems to be more important than fact, these days.” “No, I don’t mind,” I said, “Actually, the smell of pipe tobacco burning takes me back to my grandfather. He used to smoke a pipe with Sir Walter Raleigh tobacco.” “That stuff’ll kill you,” he said. “I smoke a much lighter blend that ain’t so bad. Yeah, I know, it’ll kill you, too, but hopefully slower.” “I remember my grandfather’s house reeked of the smell.” “Well, you have a couple of things going on. One, you’ve had quite a lick. Major illness, death, and divorce cause a lot of stress. Happening on Christmas Eve doesn’t help, either,” he observed. “Tell me about it,” I said, “I’m a wreck.” “I su’pect it’s natural to be a wreck in this situation, don’t you?” he asked. “I guess so, but I’m still a wreck.” “Which is worst, that he may die, or that you’ve never talked with him about your indiscretion?” “Both!” I said emphatically. “I doubt it,” he responded. “You’ve talked about this incident that you haven’t discussed more than you have about his dying.” “But that’s because…you know, you’re right,” I said realizing my focus, “The only thing I have thought about is I haven’t shared my feelings with him. Does that mean I don’t care if he dies provided I talk with him first?” “I don’t know, I’m not a psychiatrist,” he said. “I really don’t want him to die, but I’m more concerned about talking with him. Maybe it’s because I’ve already given up on his living.” “How serious is he?” he asked. “I don’t know for sure. When someone calls in the middle of the night, you don’t ask many questions. But I got the feeling he might not make it till we arrived.” “Can I be your father for a while?” he suddenly asked. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Well, you think your father might not make it and you’re stuck with car problems, plus you still have eight to ten hours of driving. So you need to speak with your father now. I know when that’s not possible; you can do it with a surrogate. So, can I be your father and you share with me what you want to tell him?” “I don’t know,” I said. “Well, let’s try it. Maybe it will help. But, though it’s me sitting here, you must speak to your father,” he said. “OK.” I said. “Dad, I have never told you about the incident with Ben.” “That’s OK, Laura, you don’t have to go through all that,” he said speaking for my father. “No, Dad, it’s not OK. I must tell you,” I said emphatically. “OK, Laura, I’m listening,” he said. “I want to tell you how stupid I was for not listening. When Ben threatened to leave me on that little road if I didn’t have sex with him, I remembered you saying there was something wrong with his character and I had this terrible feeling that I was not only stupid, but also I had greatly disappointed you. That bothered me more than anything. I want you to know that I love you and I have worked hard to make you proud of me. Please get well, and please forgive my. I want to see you again,” I concluded as tears rolled down my face. “Laura,” he started, “I want you to know I have always been proud of you. I know you made a poor decision about Ben, but I also know that decision did not make you stupid or bad. We all make bad decisions. Ben is the one I hold responsible and even though your decision was not the best, something good did come from it, your beautiful children and Joe. I love you and please do not fret over what has happened. Move on and teach your children from your experience.” It was amazing; the pressure lifted. Suddenly I was relieved. “I’m going to see how the car is coming,” he said and walked out the door. Shortly Joe returned to announce the problem was a fuel filter and a trucker had replaced it. Already you could see the faint orange glow of morning on the horizon. “Where’s Santa Claus?” I said. “Santa Claus?” Joe asked. “What do you mean?” “You mean he didn’t come out there?” I asked. “The only person there was the trucker who helped me,” said Joe. “I guess he had to go but he got me a sausage biscuit and some Kleenex, so I'd better pay for that,” I said heading toward the cashier. When I reached the cashier I asked, “Who was that older gentleman with the Santa hat sitting over with me?” Looking puzzled she asked, “What man are you talking about?” “The older gentleman, he had on jeans and a plaid shirt with a red Santa hat, like that one over there,” I said pointing to one with the ball caps. “No one has been in the store tonight other than you and your children, ma'am,” she said. “Oh, come on, miss,” I said, “He pulled up a chair and sat at the end of the table. He got me a sausage biscuit and a box of Kleenex, and I guess I need to pay for those.” “Ma'am, I’m sorry, but we don’t have any chairs only the benches in the booths,” she said. “And, I haven’t served anyone a sausage biscuit, but I can sell you the Kleenex if you’ll bring it over here for me to scan.” I looked back at the table where he had put the Kleenex box and nothing was there. “Maybe it’s the stress,” I said. We got back in the car and headed out, but not before getting the presents and Santa gifts small enough to have in the car. When the sun came up, the girls roused up and with Christmas songs and carols playing on the radio, Santa came to our car. I’ll always wonder who the Quick Stop Santa was. Maybe he really was my father making a stop to take care of his little girl before heading off to heaven. Maybe he was an angel waiting for Dad, who came by to help me deal with my memories. It was the most memorable Christmas I have ever had. I made peace with my father and I had an enriching experience. I am better because if it.
© Copyright 2002 Writer of the Winds (UN: caracas at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
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