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A Delusional Christmas
by R.P. Infantino

    If Cirque du Soleil and Christmas merged, its main act would look something like this: In a suburban living room, a father holds his five-year-old daughter high in the air as she attempts, again and again, to place a pure white angel atop their Christmas tree, while the mother props her hands against the father’s back, keeping his 200 plus pounds of flesh from toppling over like Santa’s over-stuffed bag. Cirque du Christmas, indeed.

    Carol and Steve Raymond’s Christmas tree holds every known ornament. They spoil their daughter Tamara no end, and for good reason. At age five, Tamara has not spoken a single word. She laughs, she giggles, she utters cute sounds, but she has been non-verbal for five, almost six years. Doctors have examined her, finding nothing physically wrong. Their suspicion is psychological. Steve tells the story like this:

    A little over two years ago this Christmas, my wife Carol, our then three-year-old daughter Tamara, and I were shopping Christmas eve for last minute presents. After an exhausting night of long lines, arguments over just the right gifts, and dealing with traffic, we finally relaxed on the drive home.

    I turned on the car’s radio and what was playing at that exact moment? Tammy’s favorite song, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. This song is absolutely, positively her favorite. Not her favorite Christmas song, her favorite song of all time. She has listened to it thousands of times, all year round, giggling each time. Carol and I watch as she listens to this song seeing little Tammy’s face envision the entire song in her head. Her mind, like a movie projector, shows scene after scene corresponding to verse after verse. She especially giggles where the words are, “What a laugh it would have been, if daddy had walked in, and saw mommy kissing Santa Claus last night.” Tammy always looks at me as if I’m the daddy in the song, her expression saying, “Aren’t you jealous? What are you going to do? Nothing. It’s Santa Claus you’re competing with.”

    So, driving home from Christmas shopping, I realized to my horror every parents’ nightmare: I forgot to buy batteries. Tammy would never understand why she couldn’t play her new electronic toy come Christmas morning. I screeched my tires into a local convenience store.

    Carol said, “Steve, what are you doing?”

    “We forgot to buy batteries. I’m just going in to pick up a handful.”

    “Not here, Steve. You know what they call this place—Stop & Rob. It’s not safe.”

    “I’ll be in and out before the robbers get here,” I joked, which didn’t amuse Carol one bit.

    “Tammy and I are not staying in the car. We’re coming with you.”

    “Carol, I’ll be two minutes. It’ll take you longer to unbuckle Tammy. I’ll be quick.”

    “No way. It’s just not safe to sit in a parked car this late at night. C’mon, we’re all going in.”

    Carol began to unbuckle Tammy from her car seat. There was nothing I could do. Once Carol has something in her head, that’s it—don’t stand in her way. So I waited. I could’ve been done already.

    As we entered the convenience store, Carol and Tammy stood by the register as I searched for batteries. I speed-walked up and down the aisles finding nothing. I then heard a woman scream. It wasn’t Carol, but still frightening. I ran to the register where I witnessed a horrifying scene: an older couple on line, a young woman next, and my wife with Tammy in her arms, all standing frozen with eyes and mouths wide open while a dingy-looking man pointed a gun at them. The cashier was emptying the register of all money which the gunman stashed in his pocket. When he saw me, he motioned with his gun to get in line. I, of course, went to my wife and daughter putting my arms around them. The gunman walked the line asking us—no, telling us—to empty our pockets of all money. We did so without hesitation.

    “We don’t want any problems,” I said, “take what you want and let us get home safely.”

    “You will,” he yelled in a smoky, guttural voice, “if you do what I say. And do it quick.”

    As we handed him the last of our money—which didn’t amount to much after a night of Christmas shopping—he took the cashier’s money from his pockets. At that moment, which couldn’t have been worse timing, Tammy’s favorite song began playing over the speaker system. That’s right, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus played loud and clear throughout the store. Tammy’s eyes brightened, completely unaware of the severity of the situation as she smiled and giggled during the song. Carol covered Tammy’s ears, trying not to worsen this scary moment. Who knows what would make this madman snap? Tammy brushed Carol’s hands away from her ears so she could hear the song. When she giggled, the gunman growled in her direction. We wanted him out of the store quickly without any hitches so we were trying not to make any problems. But every time Tammy giggled, it annoyed the gunman. Carol covered her mouth, but Tammy shook her head back and forth thinking this was a game Carol was playing. We were worried while Tammy was having fun. It was a surreal moment, to say the least.

    When the song played the verse, What a laugh it would have been, if daddy had walked in… Tammy was laughing hysterically, looking at me with her bright eyes and pointing her finger. The gunman, irritated at Tammy’s laughing (did he think she was laughing at him?), walked over to her, gun still in hand, and in that same stinky, raspy voice, screamed, “DON’T SAY A WORD! DON’T SPEAK! DON’T LAUGH! DO NOT SAY A WORD! GOT IT?”

    Tammy’s big brown eyes widened. And then she did something I thought would get us all killed. She reached down, removed a lollipop from the counter, and placed the stick end into the barrel of the gun. Another giggle from her and I was ready to take action if this crazy man did something.

    “Aarrgghhh!” he roared as he flicked his wrist causing the lollipop to flip into his eye. Tammy laughed even louder. He stormed toward the exit doors and pushed hard bumping his head on the immovable “in” door. Tammy was in full throttle laughter. The man growled, rubbed his head, and marched out the other door. I took a big breath, let it out, and for the first time in those tense-filled minutes, relaxed.

    “Is everyone all right?” asked the cashier. We all nodded our heads as he, too, released a big breath, relieved everything turned out all right.

    “Will you call the police?” I asked.

    “No, I don’t want any more headaches. You can all go. Take your items with with you—on me.”

    “Are you sure? We’ll make statements if you want.”

    “No, that’s okay. Merry Christmas, everyone.”

    As we walked out, the cashier handed Tammy a lollipop. We quickly left the store and got in the car as my hands shook on the steering wheel.

    When we arrived to the safety of our home, Carol and I slumped on the couch, our energy zapped, thankful we were all okay. Little Tammy sat by the Christmas tree staring at the brightly colored lights and ornaments, oblivious to the events that took place.

    From that moment until today, two years later, she hasn’t said a word. The doctors diagnose it as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. They say that in Tammy’s case, it’ll eventually disappear. We’re hopeful.

    That’s the prior story of Carol and Steve’s life, but it’s not the delusional part of this Christmas tale. As mentioned, Carol, Steve, and Tamara were attempting to place the angel atop their Christmas tree in circus-like fashion.

    “Tammy, please,” begged Steve, “daddy’s arms are hurting. Get the angel on top already.” Tammy giggled.

    “Steve, don’t push her,” said Carol, “she’ll get it.”

    Between attempts to place the angel, Tamara laughed. Steve was at fault as his arms moved side to side making Tammy’s aim shaky. When she finally placed the angel on top, Steve lowered her to the floor, flapping his arms to get the blood flowing. Tamara sat, staring at her achievement while Carol filled a glass of milk and a plate of cookies for Santa. Steve went upstairs to dress in his Santa costume. Carol tells the story like this:

    Our plan was to put Tammy to bed, then have Steve dress as Santa. We’d play I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus on the living room stereo loud enough to wake her. I’d pretend not to notice Tammy as I kiss “Santa” under the mistletoe near the Christmas tree. Tammy would get such a kick seeing her favorite song come to life. I handed Tammy the cookies and milk to put by the fireplace. Steve went to our bedroom upstairs and put on the Santa costume, while I put Tammy to bed in her room. Steve called for me to help with the costume.

    “Carol, I don’t see why I have to wear the fat suit under the costume. I already have enough fat of my own,” Steve said as he patted his belly.

    “I know, dear, but you don’t want Tammy to recognize you. You’ll only have it on for a few minutes. Let me check if she’s asleep, then I’ll put the song on, and you come downstairs. Will you be ready in fifteen minutes?”

    “I think so. Help me get these boots on.”

    “Steve! I have a lot to do—put the presents under the tree, turn the holiday lights on in the living room, dim the main lights, and play the song. Please do the best you can. I’ll see you downstairs in a few minutes.”

    I peeked in Tammy’s room. She was asleep. I ran downstairs, turned on the Christmas lights, dimmed the room lights, and played the song. I decided to wait afterwards to drink the milk and eat the cookies making it look like “Santa” did it. As I opened the closet door to remove the presents, I heard a noise in the living room. Steve’s too early, I thought. I looked in and saw Steve in full costume by the Christmas tree. Tammy’s not even up yet. I rushed to Steve and said, “I told you fifteen minutes. Now we have to wake her early. Go under the mistletoe.” As I pushed him, he let loose with a hearty belly laugh.

    “Hey,” I said in surprise, “you’ve been practicing. Do another to wake her.”

    I looked toward the staircase to see Tammy sitting at the top with eyes glowing and smile beaming. The song was in full swing. The timing perfect.

    “Why, Santa,” I said to Steve loud enough for Tammy to hear, “you’re under the mistletoe and my husband wouldn’t mind if I gave you a kiss.” I kissed Steve on the lips; his fake beard itched.

    “Mrs. Raymond!” said Steve, “What would Mrs. Claus think?”

    “Good job improvising,” I whispered. “Keep it up. Hear her giggle?” I gave him another smack on the lips and tickled his belly.

    “Mrs. Raymond! I’m a married man.”

    One more kiss as I said, “So?” Tammy laughed out loud. “In fact, I’ve always wanted to do this,” and I dragged Steve behind the Christmas tree as I continued to kiss and tickle him. He bellowed big guffaws as I heard Tammy laugh. I peeked out from behind the tree to see her gone from the top of the stairs.

    “Good job, Steve,” I whispered. “Give a few ‘HO-HO-HOs’ and then sneak out the window. I’ll drink the milk and eat the cookies to make it look like ‘Santa’ did it. I’ll meet you back upstairs to help you out of the costume.”

    As I came out from behind the tree, I heard voices upstairs. Did Tammy turn on the TV? I shut the stereo and ran up the stairs. Tammy passed me as she flew down toward the living room. I entered our bedroom and there was Steve trying to remove his boots.

    “Wow,” I said, “you got back here fast. Need help with that suit?”

    “Yes. I told you that I can’t reach the boots with this extra padding.”

    “Let me help you remove them.”

    “Remove them? I’m still trying to get them on.”

    “No, Steve. I told you that when we’re done, we’re going downstairs to make it seem like we’re waving good-bye to Santa from the window.”

    “Yeah, when we’re done. Now help me on with the boots.”

    “What are you talking about? We are done, now let’s get those boots off.”

    “What are you talking about? I haven’t left this room yet.”

    “Am I delusional,” I said as I looked at him like he was crazy, “or didn’t I just kiss you in the Santa costume under the mistletoe downstairs?”

    “Well, if delusional means you’ve had too much hot buttered rum, then yes, you’re delusional. I haven’t left this room yet. In fact, Tammy rushed in and was motioning for me to come downstairs. She knew it was me in this costume.”

    I looked downstairs to see Tammy by the window, the glass of milk empty, the plate as well.

    “Steve, when did you drink the milk and eat the cookies?”

    “Carol, I haven’t left this room yet!”

    It was then this delusional Christmas came to a miraculous end. Carol and Steve received the greatest gift: They heard a faint sound from downstairs, an innocent voice saying, “Mommy, daddy—Santa!” Carol and Steve turned to each other. They heard it again. “Mommy, daddy—Santa!” They ran downstairs to see Tamara at the window pointing skyward. “Mommy, daddy—Santa!” When they arrived at the window, they knelt with Tamara, and witnessed a bright light in the sky moving northward. “Santa!” repeated Tamara waving as the light faded. Although it started as a delusional Christmas for Carol and Steve Raymond, it ended like the original. With a miracle.

    Some say miracles no longer exist, while others say they’re everywhere: The setting sun, the harmony of nature, the wonder of the stars, a King born in a stable, a child’s first words.

    Believe what you will, but if you heard little Tammy’s angelic voice say, “Merry Christmas, everyone,” then you’ll believe in Christmas miracles, too.

Copyright © 2023 by R.P. Infantino