Xmas Spirit (7 page)

“Is that all you notice?” Virginia asked. “See yourself, Charlotte Usher?”

Charlotte looked up and see herself she did, hanging from the ceiling, spinning around, suspended from a wire clenched between her teeth, in an elf costume, Christmas gifts in each hand, and tucked into her winter coat, surrounded by Petula, Wendy Anderson, and Wendy Thomas, wielding broomsticks.

“Witches,” Virginia cracked.

Charlotte was more forgiving.

“The Wendys bribed the janitor for keys to the utility closet, took the brooms, and accidentally locked the teacher in it,” Charlotte recalled with a shrug. “They wanted to play piñata.”

“Their idea of a party, I assume,” Virginia said, to Charlotte’s chagrin.

Charlotte watched, unable to turn her eyes away.

One at a time, the girls took a whack at her. Petula first, of course.

“Batter up!” she yelled, thwacking Charlotte until she dropped a gift like an overripe apple tree.

Charlotte winced and complied. Each Wendy did the same, with the same result of laughter and cheers from her classmates.

“Why can’t it be Christmas every day?” Wendy A. screamed for joy, ripping the wrapping off her present like a ravenous wolf.

“Looks like fun,” Virginia commented.

“I volunteered,” Charlotte said defensively. “You can’t say
they didn’t include me.”

“Sad to see that people don’t change,” Virginia noted.

Charlotte knew she was talking not just about Petula and The Wendys but about her as well.

“That’s not true. They are good. Deep down.”

Virginia said nothing as the two watched Charlotte’s younger self drop into a pile of wrapping paper on the floor in the now-empty room, all her classmates having received their gifts and split for vacation. Charlotte rummaged through the torn paper and bows searching for a leftover. Anything would do, but nothing would have to. She came up empty, except for a beautiful piece of ribbon that had fastened the bow to Petula’s gift, the
FROM:/TO
: tag still attached. The Secret Santa gift Charlotte had gotten for her. She folded it neatly and wiped a tear from her eye with it before placing it in her pocket.

“Not much for Christmas that year,” Virginia said bluntly. “Except tears and bruises.”

“So what’s your point, Virginia?” Charlotte whispered. “That I was a punching bag? Unloved? That’s not exactly breaking news.”

“No, I was hoping you’d be reminded that there is a place where you
are
loved.”

“Yeah, and dead,” Charlotte snapped. “Is that what you are trying to tell me, that I’m better off dead?”

Virginia let the question hang in the air, unanswered.

Charlotte stared back at the child apparition, a pained expression on her face. Virginia was hoping for an epiphany, given the season.

“Petula and The Wendys. They were happy to see you, I guess?”

“We, ah, ran into each other in the hallway, but we didn’t really get a chance to . . .”

“To what? Speak?”

“No, but I did speak to Damen. He offered me a ride in his car.”

“Before or after he almost hit you?”

Charlotte dismissed the sarcasm.

“And best of all, I saw Scarlet. She looked amazing!”

“Cheerful and welcoming as ever, I’m sure.”

“You’re cherry picking!” Charlotte erupted. “Only showing me the worst stuff.”

“You are suffering from a bad case of selective memory,”
Virginia said, frustrated. “You need to removed the rose-colored glasses. That’s your problem.”

“No, it’s
your
problem . . . ah . . .” Charlotte fumbled unexpectedly for Virginia’s name.

“Virginia,” the ghost informed.

“Well, Virginia,” Charlotte inquired, “why did you come here? Did you come to rain on my Christmas parade, or are you just jealous that I’m alive and you’re not? What do you want?”

“I came to get you.”

“Well, then you came for nothing. I’m not leaving.”

“Everyone misses you terribly, Charlotte.”

“Don’t you see? This is my second chance. I know who I am, and I know the good that’s inside these people. We can be close now, but on equal terms. Petula might accept me now. Scarlet and I can be real friends. It’s the greatest Christmas present I could have ever imagined.”

“Nothing has changed, Charlotte. And nothing will now. You were the one who brought the good out in Petula, brought Damen and Scarlet together. Now none of that will ever happen. They will be as cruel and selfish and unhappy as ever, and you will be as invisible to them as ever.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. You can leave now, ah, what did you say your name was again?”

“Virginia,” the child reminded her. “We all want you back, Charlotte.”

“I’m sure, um, my boyfriend, um . . .”

“Eric?”

Charlotte’s poor recollection of him really took Virginia aback.

“Yes, that’s it, Eric. He obviously doesn’t want me back. Not enough to come get me himself.”

“He’s just being stubborn, Charlotte, moping around, missing you.”

“Well, he’ll get used to it eventually. Same as I will.”

“Your being here is affecting all of us, Charlotte. Don’t you care?”

“I do care. I’m always the one who cares. Working overtime, taking people under my wing, or did you forget that? That place wouldn’t exist without me!”

Without even realizing it, Charlotte had herself made the exact point that Virginia had come to make.

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“Okay, then you understand. I’ve done my part. So please take me home.”

“To the Great Beyond?” Virginia said hopefully.

“To my bedroom,” Charlotte answered, looking away.

Virginia held out her hand one last time, and Charlotte grasped it. The pair were instantly transported once again back to where they began. The disappointment in the little ghost’s face was obvious. Virginia was reluctant to say any more about the situation at the compound since it would only fall on deaf ears anyway. Charlotte crawled into bed.

“I just came to say I need you. We all need you.”

“And I need to be here.”

“What will I tell the others?”

“Tell them what you told me: Sometimes wishes come true.”

As the light and snow swirled around Virginia once again, she left her friend and her mentor with these parting words.

“Be careful what you wish for, Charlotte.”

6
Jingle Hell

Gift Receipt

Christmas is a season for generosity, not only of wallet but of spirit. A time when even the smallest gesture—a card, an invitation, even just a smile—speaks volumes. When a heartfelt “Merry Christmas,” sincerely said, can mean more than the most precious offering. We may spend all year searching for the ideal present, but it is often the case that the greatest gift, the one inside us, is the hardest to find.

“What are we going to do?”
Wendy Thomas asked as she walked down Hawthorne’s main drag, eyeing the shop windows for an expensive gift and desperately trying to figure out a way to pay for it.

“I don’t know. I am totally broke,” Wendy Anderson complained.

“What about that Christmas club money you saved?” Wendy T. asked.

“Don’t you remember? I spent that on dermal fillers for my toes so I can wear those superslutty high heels my parents are getting me for Christmas.”

Wendy A. pulled out the catalog ad for the shoes and displayed it proudly.

“I heard those give you Barbie feet.”

“I know, right?” Wendy Anderson concurred enthusiastically.

“Do you think anyone is hiring?” Wendy T. was exasperated and unusually focused on the task at hand.

“Are you seriously suggesting that we get a job? I’m not sure I even know you anymore.”

“Petula is not joking, Wendy. We need to come up with some scratch for a gift ASAP or we’ll be exiled. Christmas Eve is tomorrow!”

“Do you have anything to sell?”

Wendy Thomas pulled on her pink plaid fedora thinking cap.

“Hmmm,” she wondered. “I do have that box of blank T-shirts we were going to use for the Fall Ball fund-raiser.”

“You mean our Cruel-Tees idea?”

“Yeah, customized disses, put-downs, and unfounded gossip ironed across T-shirts. I remember.”

“Wear your snark on your sleeve,” Wendy Anderson said proudly.

“Catchphrase!” they said in unison.

The two bimbots broke out laughing hysterically and gave each other a high five, impressed with their own ingenuity.

“Can you believe we almost got expelled over that?”

“I know,” Wendy Anderson said. “It’s so hard to start a small business these days.”

“Maybe it was because we only carried child sizes,” Wendy Thomas wondered. “I didn’t think that was weight discriminatory, but whatever.”

“Well, there’s no time to do custom work right now anyway.
We need to get paid, pronto!”

“I don’t know if there is anything left to do but pray.”

“Okay, close your eyes,” Wendy Anderson began, clasping hands with Wendy Thomas and shutting her eyes tightly, head bowed. “Lord, how are we going to get some goddamned money for Christmas?”

Wendy Thomas opened her eyes a crack, just enough to see a banner hanging at the funeral home across the street.

“It’s a sign!” Wendy shouted, pointing it out. “Thank you, God!”

In bold black-and-white, candy-striped letters, it read:
MONEY FOR CHRISTMAS
!

Just like the time she found an ad at the ninth hour in the local community college newspaper for the exact amount of money they needed for last year’s gift—the brain study where they had their heads slowly frozen by wearing helmets with ice trapped inside and then were instructed to play video games while the researcher measured their increasingly delayed reaction times.

The Wendys ran across the street in their heels, nearly oblivious to the fact that Damen had been parked directly underneath the sign.

“Hey, what are you two doing here?” he asked.

“We might ask you the same,” Wendy Anderson responded.

“I was just driving by, and I saw this sign. A little extra money for Christmas wouldn’t hurt.”

“So you haven’t gotten anything for Petula yet?”

“No, but you say nothing.”

The thrill The Wendys experienced from gleaning this little piece of holiday intelligence lit them up like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.

“We won’t tell if you won’t,” Wendy T. said, eyeing him suspiciously.

“In our defense, we did get her list late.”

“So, what’s the gimmick? Nobody just hands out money for nothing,” Wendy Thomas asked.

“Ever feel invisible?” a smarmy voice whispered from behind them before Damen could answer.

The Wendys felt a sudden chill rise up their spines, worse than anything a winter wind could supply.

“Um, no,” Wendy Anderson replied, offended by the question. “But why do you ask?”

They turned to find a tall, thin, dapper dude with a
megawatt grin, decked out in a black, tightly fitted two-piece suit, with a candy-cane-striped tie and white velour lapels and pant cuffs. His hair was long and obviously dyed artificially white, slicked and pulled pack in a tiny ponytail, which was tucked under a red wool Santa hat, tilted slightly to the side. His beard was trimmed meticulously. This was no dime-store Saint Nick. He looked as if he been groomed and dressed in the finest Fifth Avenue designer showroom. More corporate than Kringle. The Wendys, however, found themselves unable to take their eyes off the bulge in his crotch. He gave a whole new meaning to Christmas package.