Doubting

“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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