I’m not sure how I figured out there was no Santa Clause, but I suspect it was my brother that ruined that joy for me. He has had a habit of dispelling life’s mysteries for me; Santa Clause, the Tooth Fairy, sex.
Even though he claimed it was our parents putting presents around the tree under the pseudonym of Santa Clause, he could never stay awake to catch it happening. Year after year, he would attempt to stay up, and then mysteriously wake up tucked snuggly in his bed the next morning. I was determined to succeed where he had failed.
One Christmas Eve I found myself huddled on the couch in the den, flashlight in hand, waiting in the dark. I almost didn’t make it, but I managed to stay up long enough to see a shadowy figure come into the den...not from the chimney, but from the kitchen. I waited until the figure was halfway across the den before I switched on my flashlight. The figure immediately dropped to the floor in a limp pile behind the coffee table. I calmly stood up and shined my light at it, only to find my stepmother crouching on the floor.
“What are you doing down there?” I asked.
“Looking for my earring,” she replied.
“In the dark?”
“What’re you doing out of bed?” (Just like a parent to try to change the subject to something you are doing wrong to cover up something they aren’t supposed to be doing.)
As I drifted off to sleep, I could vaguely hear my stepmother telling my father, “Well, we have to change all the labels on the gifts now.” Santa Clause has never come to visit our house again since that fateful night.
