When I finally make it back home, marginally accomplished, I’m met with another woman and another dog. This time, they’re taking up residence on my front step.
“V?” I call, getting out of my car. Luca, her eight-year-old black Lab, is curled up by her feet, strapped into his harness.
“I’ve come to see you,” she says, obviously having sensed I would need her based on my chaotic text about the missing single-seeded berries.
Overwhelmed by the sight of her and relieved to have a friend like her, I leave my bags and race to her, enveloping her in a hug so long and hard I’m afraid I might crush her.
“Thank you,” I whisper-cry into her curly hair.
“I missed you,” she says, squeezing me tighter. That squeeze presses an emotional button hidden inside my torso. The waterworks I’ve held back since last night come on with a vengeance. Hiccupping, choking cries. I’ve never felt uglier or messier, but like a true best friend, she doesn’t care. “Come on, let’s get you inside. I brought tissues. Plenty of them.”
46WHAT A MESS WE’VE MADEPATRICK
84 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
The wazoo is out of whack.
Over two weeks gone; the magic is still pissed.
I’m crouching in the workshop as elves scatter about on hands and knees like rats being chased by a broom in a restaurant kitchen. The wazoo is shooting finished toys out at odd angles. Action figures become projectiles fired off across the room. Everyone’s ducking for cover. Including me.
I race to turn the machine off, but like that old copier at Carver & Associates, it mocks me with its defiance. Several wires pulled and a few swear words later, we corral it into off-mode.
“We’re okay, everyone,” I announce. “Take a break while we, uh, try to assess the damage.” The main floor is overrun with dislodged toy parts. No matter how many fans I rolled in here, I can’t quite mitigate the smell of rotten eggs that has permeated the North Pole since that first unruly thunderstorm dispersed.
Everyone clears out to the atrium for snacks, coffee, and to talk about me. How bad a job I’m doing. My legacy is going to be remembered as the first Santa to ever cancel Christmas because he couldn’t get his shit together.
Jorge and Samson come to assist me. We turn cranks and pull levers, and we get the wazoo back to work, albeit slower than it was before. This would be an okay sign if it weren’t about to decreaseproduction even more. And if production decreases even more, we’re not going to make our quota for this week. And if we don’t make this quota for the week, we’re going to be racing against the clock for Christmas.
I’m in a perpetual state of stress, sweat, and acute heartbreak. This would all be much easier to manage if heart shards weren’t trying to carve their way out of me. Exorcise my hurt. Every. Damn. Step. I. Take.
At the end of a dreadful workday, I slog home, begrudging our separation. Because seeing Quinn’s smile when I swing open the door would at least brighten my dour mood.
The regrets are at their loudest tonight as I wander the dream house (which is more like a nightmare house now) alone. I shuffle about through the impeccably decorated rooms. Aimless and overwhelmed.
Sometime after threeA.M., I stagger through the picturesque village toward the toy workshop. At first, I think I’ll get some work done on the Naughty and Nice lists, then I spot the North Pole Headquarters control room with its Big Brother screens and its access to the core memories of every human on Earth. This sparks an idea.
I can’t see Quinn. But I can stillseeQuinn.
After I’m through the secure archways, which creep me out no matter how many times I’ve been in here, I’m startled by the shape of a man flopped over in a chair. A memory of a family projects onto the enormous screen. It’s shown through the eyes of a father, singing as his son blows out the candles on a Fudgie the Whale birthday cake. The woman with the close-cut hair beside him is familiar to me, though I know her as a much older woman.
Nicholas notices me noticing him. He uses a hankie to swiftly blot at his eyes. “Didn’t hear you sneak up on me.” He’s struggling to regain his composure.
“I’m sorry.” The apology is weak but the best I can come up with in my present state.
“Don’t ever be sorry for existing,” he says. “That’s what my father used to tell me. That’s what I told my son before he passed. That’s what I’m telling you now.”
“Solid advice.” My eyes flit back toward the screen. “Is that your son?”
“It is. I come here some nights to reminisce. We all need that when we lose sight of what’s important.” There’s a loaded silence. “I’m guessing that’s why you’re here as well.”
I nod, head chock-full of loaded, clattering dice. “Does reminiscing help?”
His nod is far surer than my own. “It helps to remind me that there’s so much love in the world, even in the face of adversity.”
“Does that still hold whenyou’rethe cause of the adversity?” I ask. The crushing weight of my emotions doubles.
He stands and grabs my shoulder. I lift my chin and our gazes connect. He’s staring at me with the assured intensity I’ve always longed for from my father. “Santas come and go here, but you? You embody the spirit. That spirit has worked miracles before.”
