“Mom, mom, mom,” said Thomas as he
rushed into the house. He barely noticed that she was busy at the
counter, before running over.
“How was school today?” she said
without looking at him.
“Well, someone in the other 4th
grade class got into a fight with my best friend Percy. But then
Jeremy told Nickolas that Santa Claus wasn't real. They said it
because of Nick's name. That he was … Are you alright Mom?”
Thomas had seen her posture shift slightly, even though he was
focused on his own problem.
“Of course I am.”
“But they said it was just parents
placing presents under the tree. Mom...” said Thomas, demanding
she debunk the scurrilous rumor.
“What did you tell him?” she asked.
“That his claims preposterous.
There's tons of evidence. Santa eats the food we leave him, he
answers our letters, and NORAD tracks him. It would have to be a
global parental conspiracy if he didn't exist,” he breathed
heavily.
Thomas's eyes shinned with excitement
as he detailed his reasons. He knew his mother would corroborate
them. Jeremy was jealous that Nickolas always got the coolest
present at Christmas time.
“Thomas, sometimes children don't
believe any more. The diplomatic approach is to let them believe
what they want, and to hold the secret inside your own heart.”
“You're right, like always Mom.
Thanks,” said Thomas as he hurried into the next room, a smile on
his face, the issue already receding from his attention.
…
Betrayal, deception, lies! It had all
become obvious to Thomas the next day when Jeremy produced the
counter evidence, a video from last Christmas, when he hid behind the
couch and filmed his parents in the act. And they confessed to the
camera after he revealed himself. A more intelligent child than
Thomas might have made numerous denials. The video was a fake, the
whole thing was a setup to disillusion children. But it was all
there in vivid high definition color.
Now Thomas was sulking in his room,
unable to forgive his parents for their duplicity. Not only had they
broken his trust, they had humiliated him by continuing the charade
in spite of his inquisitive questions and advancing age.
He consoled himself with one thought.
At least they couldn't possibly be lying about anything else.
…
The same thought kept repeating through
Thomas brain. They couldn't mean it. It was a joke, it was absurd.
They couldn't mean it. As he left the darkened room to return to his
5th grade classroom, he didn't speak to anyone, even
though their bodies bumped against his. They couldn't mean it. He
wanted to observe the reactions of his classmates, but didn't dare
raise his eyes. They couldn't mean it. All around him laughter
seemed to swell, as students, released from the near silent room,
expelled their pent up energy, their excitement and their
nervousness. They couldn't mean it. They had lied to him again, or
more likely, this was the deception, a colossal, disgusting, absurd
joke.
Now they were reentering the classroom,
and the girls were already there. Some of the boys around him
emitted a variety of noises, with new purpose. They couldn't mean
it, but everyone seemed to believe it. Thomas walked in a stupor
toward his desk, but found himself at the front of the class. They
couldn't mean it. He turned around and saw that the entirety of the
class was standing, mostly in two groups segregated by gender. They
couldn't mean it. The situation reminded Thomas of magnets, for each
group had a pole attracted to the other group, and a pole repealed in
equal measure. They couldn't mean it.
“Class,” said Ms. Erickson, “Boys,
girls, please be seated.”
It took a few moments, each group
exerted a force like gravity upon its individual members, but at last
one or two separated, and others followed. They couldn't mean it.
In less than a minute, everyone, including Thomas, was sitting in
usual spot. As they opened their science notebooks, and prepared to
look at owl pellets, Thomas' final thought on the subject was, “Well,
at least now, he understood everything there was to know.”
…
Thomas
stood, surrounded by crying adults. The whole day, and even the past
week had been composed of unusual events. The adults wandered about
him, directionless, moved by the sighting of a familiar person. When
they passed by, they spoke earnestly to him, saying both, “It's ok
to cry,” and, “You don't need to cry if you don't want to.”
Thomas observed that they couldn't decide which advice to follow
themselves. Their continued recommendations made him feel uneasy,
guilty. He didn't need to cry. Amid this
unruly tempest, of normally emotionally reserved aunts and uncles, he
felt placid, disturbed only by their disquiet.
At last
his mother came to him, and with a sobbed, “Come with me,”
separated him from the crowd. She drew him toward the casket, and
hesitantly he followed. She didn't say anything but knelt, and
Thomas copied her movement. He let her take his hand, and looked at
the face. Suddenly, a sob bubbled up, devastating his detachment.
Even as he tried to look at his Grandfather, he couldn't see through
his blurred vision and his shaking breaths.
Terror
clutched at his heart. He'll wake up any moment. He must, but he
won't. What can I do? I'll never see this face again. I must
memorize the face. I can't memorize the face, I don't have the
skill. I have to remember the orientation of the body in
relationship to the room, the walls, the doors, the flowers, the
mourning family. Though it seemed trivial, these were the only
things Thomas was certain he would retain. A memorial to his
grandfather: a vague memory of the last room in which he lay.
…
The
following day's funeral revived Thomas' coffin-side awakening. It
tore his heart open like a barely healed wound. He sat through the
entire service in agony, confused and infuriated, because the priest
couldn't seem to remember that the last syllable of the name of his
grandfather was pronounced -in instead of -on.
The
same terror arose again at the graveyard where someone said a last
memorial, and though Thomas kept desiring a last something, in this
case, a last vision of the casket his Grandfather's body lay in, he
couldn't raise his head, nor clear his eyes. He had already failed
at his duty, to remember a person he loved. And the gnawing thought,
what if he isn't dead, why are the burying him, let him out. But he
also knew there was nothing to release from the ground. Just skin
and bones in a box. At last, as the coffin sank into the ground,
Thomas whispered, “Goodbye Grandpa.”
On the
ride home, Thomas sat quietly in the back seat. Already the events
of the past week were receding into the indistinct past. It would be
impossible to feel the same grief so continuously. Some adults, he
realized, didn't want it at all. Even experiencing death can become
dull, if one wishes. Let me never be apathetic about death, he
promised himself. And one final though before he slipped into sleep,
exhausted by the new ordeal.
At
least, now nothing can surprise me.
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