The Night Before Christmas

As an adult looking back on childhood I'm often amazed at how limited my memories are. Some people can remember back as far as their first years of life. Some can name all of their grade school friends and teachers. Some cherish memories of much loved toys or pets or favourite games. But much of what I see when I look back is a blank. I rifle through photo albums with no feeling of connection to the images within. I hear tales of my michievous misdeeds without any recollection of the events in question. And I often wonder about the person I might be if I had a stronger sense of the person I had been.

There are a few blindingly clear spots in that history. Some are distinct images, frozen forever in time. Some are less tangible, like the unique smell of stale sweat combined with vomit and urine. Some are memories I've fought hard to remember and reclaim as my own. And then there are the few that I was never able to forget.

Like most of my childhood, the details of that particular trip are vague and hazy. The notes and pictures in the family album tell me that I was seven at the time. They show the smiling faces, the arms slung around Mickey, the mouse ears I so proudly wore and undoubtedly couldn't wait to show off to my friends back at home. It must have been strange to be celebrating Christmas without snow. Though from what I've been told my only real concern was whether Santa would be able to find us if we weren't at home. Once I'd been assured that mom had given him the address of where we'd be I apparently took to the idea with my usual enthusiasm.

Those images crystallize into clarity at a gas station along the way. An odd place for such a transition to be sure, but I don't have the luxury of creating this tale, only recounting it. I don't know what it was specifically that made her aware of the potential danger. I only recall her hand clamping over my mouth as she pulled me into some nearby bushes. And the fear that sank like a cold stone in my stomach, all the more intense given the carefree days that had preceeded it. I knew without being told that it was time to hold myself as quiet as possible again and I shrank down as much as I could in order to avoid detection.

Somehow she had managed to signal to an attendant that we needed help without giving our position away. That kind hearted clerk made sure to specify the back entrance to the cab company he called on our behalf. Then he put himself in the path of the incoherent, shrieking madman as we made our escape.

One look at my tear stained face and her fearful eyes was all the indication the driver needed to start moving. When she regained her composure enough to speak she directed him to the nearest airport. Carefully feeling out the situation the driver mentioned that there was another option. Another airport, smaller and further away, that was not as commonly used. Gratefully she nodded her assent. She's since told me of the nightmares she's had about what might have happened if we had been picked up by another, less perceptive, driver. Given that he'd gone to the nearby airport and had had to be subdued by the local authorities as he rampaged in his search for us, the possibilities are grim indeed.

She immediately went to work distracting me from recent events. How she managed the endless rounds of "I Spy" given her terror is unfathomable to me now. If the driver thought it odd how quickly I recovered from my tears, he made no mention of it. I'm not sure at this point if it's the natural resilience of the young that was responsible, or merely years of conditioning that taught me to value safety the instant it was presented to me. Regardless, the long ride to the airport gave me ample time to regain my courage and restore my equilibrium.

That she worked so hard to make it an adventure certainly helped. From letting me choose the hotel we would stay in, to giving me free reign with the room service and supplying endless quarters for the vibrating bed, she kept me well occupied. It wasn't until I was snuggled down for the night, watching the smoke from her cigarette swirl in the night air through sleepy eyes that the thought occurred to me: "Mom, how is Santa going to find us now that he doesn't know where we are?". And with that innocent question her composure finally crumbled and I saw her cry for the first time in my young life.

I can't possibly relate the power of the shame I felt in that instant. Without knowing why I understood that I had done something terrible to hurt her. I had no way of knowing at that point that she *was* Santa, or that in all her careful maneuvering to get us to safety she'd forgotten the fact that it was Christmas Eve, and all of Santa's bounty had been left behind when we'd fled. All I could do was crawl into her lap and cry with her, the two of us rocking together and trying to ease the other's pain.

The following morning dawned bright as we made ready to catch our flight home. I confess a small part of me didn't want to accept the realization that had come the night before, and was still hoping to find the magic of Christmas in that hotel room when I first opened my eyes. But I wasn't overly surprised to find the room as it had been before exhaustion claimed me the night before. I simply rose, dressed as quickly and quietly as I could and joined her in the waiting doorway. Hand in hand we walked out of that room towards an uncertain future.

And the subject of Santa never came up again.