The Paper Bag Christmas (3 page)

Dr. Ringle changed into his Santa costume too, only without his inflatable legs. Once we were all ready, he led us up to the fifth floor of the hospital. On our way to the elevator, children and adults alike stopped whatever they were doing and stared as we passed by. A grand trio we made: Santa Claus with no legs in a blinking wheelchair trailed by two glowing elves prepped for surgery.

The fifth floor was much quieter than the hospital’s main level, but there was nevertheless a lot happening all around. Young children scampered from room to room making sure everyone knew that Santa and his helpers had finally arrived; nurses and parents busied themselves hanging holiday knickknacks wherever space allowed. Outside each patient’s room hung a fine hand-knit stocking, while the inside of every room was littered with decorations galore. Each boy and girl had his or her very own tiny Christmas tree centered on the windowsill between red and white poinsettias. Cards and other decorations hung from the ceilings, and the bed frames were adorned with white glimmering lights.

“Wow, Dr. Ringle,” said Aaron through his mask. “Everything looks fantastic! But you guys are decorating for Christmas a bit early, don’t you think?”

“Well, Aaron, time is precious on the fifth floor. It’s important to the children that we make Christmas last as long as we possibly can. If I could, I’d stretch this Christmas season right on through the next twelve months.”

“Why is time precious here?” I asked.

“That’s a good question, Mo. In fact, it’s something we need to talk about. Do you know what a terminal illness is?” Dr. Ringle looked back and forth between Aaron and me. Aaron nodded that he understood, but I just shook my head. “Well, many of the children on this floor have a type of cancer or other illnesses that are very difficult to treat. Some of them—not all, mind you, but some—will not get well, no matter what we do.”

“You mean you can’t help them feel better?”

“We try our best, but sometimes nothing we do can take their sickness away. Does that make sense?”

“If you can’t help them get better, when do they get to leave the hospital?” I asked, still trying hard to understand. Recognizing that Dr. Ringle’s subtlety wasn’t going to cut through my thick layers of naivety, Aaron decided to help out. With a little reluctance, he leaned over and whispered a few words into my ear. I’m sure my eyes probably got very wide just then as my mind connected all of the fuzzy dots.

When I spoke again, I intended my words to come out as a mere whisper for only Aaron and Dr. Ringle to hear, but the effect they had on everyone in the room was more in line with outright shouting. “You mean all these kids are gonna die!?!?” That was, in fact, not the case as I would eventually learn. Some of those children would go on to lead long and healthy lives. But the gloomy implication to my tender sensitivities was more or less the same.

If the fifth floor had been moderately quiet before, it was now eerily so. The pounding of my heart, magnified by the penetrating stares of everyone within earshot, amplified the silence until it was deafening. I was grateful for the surgical mask that concealed my identity. It goes without saying that I felt terrible. Indeed, I still feel occasional pangs of remorse to this day for saying those words so loud, but my juvenile mouth couldn’t hold back the emotions I felt in that instant when I learned of the inevitable fate of so many of the young children who stood staring at me.

In those moments of silence, when the world seemed to stand still, each face before me was permanently seared on my memory. With the exception of my funny looking clothes, these children were no different than me. Questions flooded my mind, begging for answers that couldn’t be given. Why should they have to die so young? How long will they live? Why them and not me? Will I get sick and die young, too?

Dr. Ringle finally broke the silence. “Well, since it seems we have your undivided attention, I’d like to introduce you all to my very special helpers, Aaron and Molar. They are two of the finest elves south, east, or west of the North Pole.”

A few of the parents chuckled, others snickered, and that was that. Everyone went back to what they were doing. For many of the children, that meant they were still staring at us as we made our way to a large gathering area filled with tables and chairs. Each table was decked out with colorful table runners and beautiful Christmas centerpieces. At the front of the room was the same velvety throne Dr. Ringle had used at the Santa Shack.

After providing us with a few basic instructions about our role as Santa’s official emissaries, Dr. Ringle, in his heavy Scottish tones, gave a heartfelt holler to open the evening’s festivities. “Ho! Ho! Ho! And a very Merry Christmas to one and all!”

The children who had been lingering nearby since our arrival were the first to line up to talk to Santa. It was no secret that the man behind the red suit was Dr. Ringle, but each child treated him as if he were the one and only Saint Nick.

Aaron was asked to hand out candy canes to the children after they spoke with Santa while I was told to give them each a familiar looking red paper just before they stepped forward to the foot of his great red chair. The title at the top of the paper read, “
All I Want for Christmas Is.
. . .”

The first child in line was a waif of a girl, probably six or seven years old, but her physical frailty made her look even younger. She glided up next to me in pink Barbie pajamas and a pair of fluffy bunny slippers. Atop her head was a cloth wrap that concealed a hairless scalp and several large bandages.

“Hello there,” she said precociously. “I’m Rachel.”

“Uh . . . hi Rachel,” I replied awkwardly. “Have a paper.” I pulled the top page from my stack and held it out for her.

“That’s it?” she asked. “Have a paper? Aren’t you going to tell me your name? Or at least wish me a Merry Christmas? I think it would be nice.”

“But,” I floundered, “Santa told everyone my name is Mo. Didn’t you hear him?”

“Of course I did, silly. I’m not deaf. But it’s polite to introduce yourself when someone introduces herself to you. That’s what Mother says.”

“Right. Sorry. Merry Christmas Rachel. I’m Mo. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Much better. Thank you Molar.” She stood smiling expectantly. “I’ll take my paper now.”

Dr. Ringle was waiting patiently as Rachel slid over to his velvety throne. He sat looking down at her through his thick white beard, his eyes as warm and inviting as they’d ever been. Here at the hospital he didn’t bother to use the inflatable belly and legs, but the children didn’t seem to mind. All they saw in the red suit was a magical man who was bringing them happiness and joy at a time when they needed it most.

“Hello Miss Rachel,” he said jovially. “How are you tonight?”

“Good. How about you Dr. Ring—I mean Santa?”

“Fine, thank you very much. I see Mo gave you a red paper. That, my dear, is an empty Christmas list. Do you already know what you want for Christmas?”

“Yes!” she said eagerly.

“Oh good. Are there lots of things you’d like from Santa this year?”

“Yes Santa, I want a bunch of stuff!” Rachel’s tiny frame shook with delight at the thought of it.

Dr. Ringle paused a moment before speaking again, and when he did his voice was much softer. “Rachel,” he said leaning forward. “If I brought you everything you want for Christmas, it would be a grand sight to be sure. But this year I would like you to put only one thing on your list. It can be whatever you want, but try to think of something that will bring you more than just a few fleeting moments of fun. Try to think of something that will really make you happy. Can you do that for me?”

“Sure Santa. I can do that.”

“Very good. Once you’ve decided what you want, just bring me back your paper with your name on it. If you’re not done tonight, that’s fine. My two elves will be here every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evening until Christmas.” He looked up at me briefly and winked.

Below the surgical mask my mouth hung open but I couldn’t muster any words of contradiction. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday night? I thought this was a one-time deal! As much as I wanted to say something, I knew it wouldn’t be proper for an elf to question Santa in front of so many children, so I forced my mouth shut.

“So you can give it to one of them on another day if you need,” he continued, “and they’ll be sure to get it to me at the North Pole. Now go along and get your candy cane and have a Merry Christmas!”

For almost an hour I handed out red papers to the children as they reached the front of the line and then listened as Santa encouraged them all to think of the one thing they’d like more than anything else in the world. After listening excitedly to his counsel, they’d trounce off to join their family and write down their one great desire.

Many of the children seemed perfectly healthy to me, but I knew that something must be terribly wrong on the inside for them to be here on the fifth floor. Some of them had obvious signs of ill health such as bandages, scars, bruises, and limps. Others were too weak to walk on their own and were pushed in wheelchairs by their parents or the nursing staff. Each one smiled at me bravely as they received their red paper.

By the start of the second hour children began cycling back through to give their single-item lists to Santa Claus.

“Have you decided on that one special thing?” he would ask.

With a nod or a “yep” they leaned in and whispered the one wish of their heart to the magical man before them and then gave him their red papers. Between the commotion of the large room and the quiet of the whispering voices in Santa’s ear, I had trouble making out what most of the kids asked for. But one girl spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear that she wanted a trip to Disneyland for her whole family. A boy named Tim, who was pulling around an IV, nearly shouted that he wanted an Air Jammer Road Rammer.

“Me too!” I squealed. Tim turned to look at me, and I flashed a white latex thumbs-up in honor of his fine choice.

Santa grimaced and reminded me that good elves should keep their holiday wishes to themselves if they hope to get “everything they’ve never wanted for Christmas.”

“What does that mean, Santa?” The boy looked baffled. “Why are you giving him everything he
never
wanted?”

Santa grimaced again and then chuckled lightly, shooting me another glance. “Because, Timothy,” he said slowly, “both of these elves would like nothing less for Christmas than everything they could possibly think of. But that would never do for such upstanding elves. So I’ve decided to give them something even better this year, on account of being such good helpers. The gift they will receive will be better than everything they thought they wanted, but since they didn’t think of it on their own, I’m calling it everything they never wanted. Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” said Timothy. “Does that mean he doesn’t get an Air Jammer Road Rammer?”

“Well,” he laughed, “I guess we’ll have to wait and see. But if all goes as planned, he’ll be getting something far better.”

“Oh.” Timothy scratched his head. “Then I’d like to change my list. I want whatever he’s getting for Christmas!” Timothy pointed at me.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! I think that’s a splendid idea! I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do my best. Okay, Tim?” Dr. Ringle’s eyes were on fire again. “In fact,” he said, glancing up at the line of children, “I hope every one of the children at the hospital can get everything they’ve never wanted for Christmas this year.”

Chapter 4

Until one feels the spirit of Christmas, there is no Christmas. All else is outward display— so much tinsel and decorations.

—Author unknown

T
he line to see Santa thinned out considerably by eight thirty, and before nine o’clock there was no line at all. When it was clear that everyone who wanted to see Santa had done so, Dr. Ringle took Aaron and me aside.

“You’ve done a fantastic job tonight. The children have really loved having you here, if nothing else than for something funny to look at!” Dr. Ringle propelled his wheelchair forward as he spoke and then spun it in a circle. “But I have one more job for you this evening. There are two children who didn’t come see me tonight. They just stayed by themselves in their rooms. We need to go give them a red paper and a candy cane, too, so they don’t feel left out. Aaron, I’ll take you with me to meet the first one, then Mo, you’ll come with me to meet the other. The next time you boys come back I expect you to retrieve their lists and help them out in any way you can. Okay?”

We both agreed.

Dr. Ringle and Aaron moved to the nearest door, knocked a few times, and then vanished as the door closed behind them. I could hear the sounds of chatter from where I stood but couldn’t make out any of the particulars.

After a few minutes Dr. Ringle left the two boys alone to get to know each another. Rolling out in his wheelchair, he led me to a closed room at the far end of the hallway. In comparison to the other doors, this one was noticeably plain. The only thing of interest was a name tag that read, “Katrina Barlow, Age 9,” below which hung a crayon-scribbled paper with the words, “E.D.—12/79.”

Dr. Ringle tapped gently several times before clearing his throat to speak. “Katrina? Ho, ho, ho. It’s Santa Claus. May I come in? I’ve brought an elf with me.”

“No Dr. Ringle! Don’t come in!” shouted a girl’s voice through the door. “I don’t want any visitors now.”

“But Kat, it’s only me and my elf. We’ll just be a wee minute.” There was no reply. For a few seconds there was no sound at all, and then I heard some soft ruffling noises followed by some shuffling and squeaks. Dr. Ringle was smiling at me.

“She’s getting ready for us,” he whispered. “I think she’s going to let us in.”

“I can
hear
you Dr. Ringle! What makes you think I’m gonna let you in?”

“Well, I don’t know. But it would be an awful tragedy if you didn’t get to meet my elf. He’s quite a sight you know.” Dr. Ringle was still grinning. A few more moments of silence followed.