Chapter Three
My ass is dangerously close to playing peekaboo. I self-consciously run my palm down my backside again as I walk into the hospital, flashing a friendly but tight smile at the receptionist as I head for the bank of elevators.
The older woman seems nice enough, but I see the way she looks me over, and I imagine she’s disapproving. But that might just be my paranoia talking. Bianca assured me that I don’t look trashy. “New-age Mrs. Claus” she called it, promising me it was just a more updated version—fresh and new.
My choice was to either suck it up and go or cancel, and I wasn’t about to cancel, so here I am, riding the elevator up to the third-floor children’s wing with a red sack slung over my shoulder and butterflies raging in my stomach, praying for the best.
Tomorrow, when I join my family for Christmas dinner, I’m going to reward myself with enough pie and extra whipped topping to make me sick.
The crushed red velvet skirt floats away from my body with each step I take as I make my way down the hall toward the central nurse’s station. The sensation keeps me hyperaware as I approach, hoping that I don’t offend anyone. Honestly, Bianca is probably right. I’m not exactly inappropriate here. It’s not as if I’m giving a show, but this dress would be much more appropriate for an adult-themed Christmas party than a children’s gathering.
The nurse manning the station is a plain Jane type, her brown hair pulled back in a severe bun on top of her head, the glaring overhead lights washing her out. She’s pretty, though—her features slim and petite. When she sees me coming, she gives me a quick assessment, but I don’t see any judgment in her welcoming smile.
She just looks tired.
“You must be the entertainment,” she says with a laugh.
I smile sardonically as I heft the present-filled bag over my shoulder and set it on the floor. It hadn’t felt too heavy when I started carrying it, but the weight seemed to increase on my way up here. Rubbing my sore shoulder where the thick drawstring rope dug in, I say cheerily, “That would be me.”
“Great outfit. I could never pull that off.”
I look down at myself and brush my hands down my midsection. “I’m not so sure that I am, but thanks.”
“You definitely are,” she assures me. “The kids are going to go crazy when they see you.”
“Just as long as the parents don’t,” I joke.
The look in her eyes tells me she understands my meaning and my worry, but she waves a dismissive hand through the air. “No worries. Everyone is just looking forward to having a little fun, take their minds off things for a bit. Here, follow me. I’ll show you where you can set up.”
Setting aside a stack of colored folders, she rounds the overlarge, U-shaped station and leads the way down a network of long hallways. By nature, I’m not fond of hospitals. The menagerie of smells and sounds disturbs me somewhat, though I don’t truly understand why. I’ve never had a bad experience, nothing to bring me to one to warrant the feeling. But I guess it’s a common thing for people to feel that way. Hospitals aren’t exactly comfy and cozy.
I peek in open doorways as we pass them, seeing children of all ages in their beds, some covered in tubes and wires, machines beeping steadily at their besides, and others looking perfectly cheerful, only their bald heads giving away their condition.
I feel instantly sad, knowing that all of them have a story, a personal trauma that no amount of presents and smiles and “ho-ho-hos” are going to make better.
But maybe—hopefully—I can help them to forget just for a little while.
When we reach a large room where two corridors meet, I follow her over to a large Christmas tree that’s been decorated with handmade items, all obviously crafted by the kids in the unit. Multi-colored paper chains wrap around it from top to bottom, ornaments made from foam and construction paper, and even pictures of the kids in clear glass ornaments hang from every limb. Beside the tree are two metal folding chairs, and she points to one.
“Since you got here first, you can pick which one you want.”
I smile in confusion. “First?”
“Mr. Claus is running late, as usual.”
My brows pull together and I know I’m giving her a funny look. “I don’t understand.” Travis had led me to believe this was a solo gig.
Dawning washing over her features and the nurse says, “Oh, they didn’t tell you. We have a Mr. Claus who’s a regular each year. He’s been coming for...oh...five years now?” She looks at the ceiling in contemplation, purses her lips, and nods, seemingly satisfied with her estimation. “Anyway, he’s great. He really gets into character, and the kids love him. He’s a big hit. Not too hard on the eyes either,” she says with a wink.
So I won’t be the only one doing this thing tonight. Great. I’m actually thrilled to hear that, since I haven’t the first clue how to go about this whole thing. I was planning on winging it, but now I’ll have a seasoned veteran to guide the way. And a good-looking one at that, from the sound of it.
“Great,” I say enthusiastically. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
The nurse beams. “Well, he should be here shortly.” After consulting with her watch, she says, “Well, I need to get back to my rounds, but go ahead and set up, explore, get comfortable. If you get thirsty or want a snack, there’re a couple vending machines just around the corner.”
“Okay, thanks.” I watch her leave, some of my nerves returning as I stand there alone and take in the expansive room. The stark tiles and overhead lighting suck the warmth right out of the room, despite the effort that went into making it inviting. No amount of decorations can make up for the fact that this is a place where the sick and dying reside.
Shaking that dark thought out of my head, I lug the satchel over to the tree and loosen the rope cinched around the top. I have no clue what kind of toys Travis and the others in the office packed into this thing, but it’s heavy and full. Carefully, I extract the neatly wrapped packages one by one, doing my best not to tear the paper, then I set them around the base of the spindly Charlie Brown tree.
Once the bag has been emptied, I stuff my clutch inside and fold the fabric around it as neatly as possible then look for a place to stash it. Should I stash it? Maybe it would be better if the kids saw it? Make it more magical for them? Then I think of Mr. Claus who will soon be joining me and figure it’s probably unwise to have two bags sitting there. Plus, I want my wallet secure. There will be too many distractions to keep an eye on my valuables.
I spot a row of tall, plastic storage closets lined up against one wall. They’re probably filled with a number of art supplies, but I’m sure no one will notice or mind if I borrow a little space for a couple hours.
Heading over, I open them one by one, surprised to find each one stuffed to the max with papers and paints, crayons and marker boxes, and more. These kids have a better stock than my high school art teacher ever had. I’m marginally jealous.
They even have real clay!
The second to the last cabinet is the jackpot. There is one shelf at the bottom that has an open cranny and I scrunch the bag up as small as I can and bend down to stuff it inside between a spool of twine and a bucket of stained rags.
“Oh...uh...sorry,” I hear a man’s voice say behind me, and the cool breeze on my backside alerts me right away to what he’s seeing.
I jackknife up and whirl around, my hands tugging at the material to cover my butt. “I was just putting my stuff away,” I hurry to explain, and I know by how hot they feel that my cheeks are burning red.
But my embarrassment evaporates the instant I look into the man’s eyes. Even with his face hidden behind the snow-white fake beard and the wire-rimmed glasses, I would know those eyes anywhere.
My blood runs cold at the same time my heart races and an unexpected sense of despair and raw hurt explodes in my gut. Somehow, when I manage to find my voice, it comes out as calm, hard, and unaffected as I would hope for in a harrowing situation like this.
“What are you doing here?” I ask even as I note the bright red Santa suit.
Kyle blinks a few times, as if he’s trying to process what he’s seeing, and the information can’t compute. Typical. He never was the sharpest tool in the box—obviously; otherwise, he never would have screwed up with me.
“I, uh, volunteer here. I mean I work here. I’m mean I work here, but I also volunteer for these holiday things...” He shakes his head as if to clear it, then his brows knit together as if he’s straining to think. “Wait, why are you here? And dressed like that?” he asks, looking me over as if in shock.
Lifting my chin, I say defiantly, “I think that’s obvious, on both counts.” Then, desperately needing to sit down, I march over to the folding chairs and lower myself into the one closest to the tree, crossing my rubbery-feeling legs and staring back at him in open challenge.
The paralyzing shock on his face is worth the self-torture of sticking around.