It’s All Debbie Johnson’s Fault

We were both in Mr. Cohen’s 5th grade class, and had been best friends since third grade. I loved sleeping over at her house. Mrs. Johnson was the only single mother in our neighborhood, and though she worked all week, on the weekends she made us feel like the most important people she knew. She left a key in a hiding place in the garage that was so secret I had to wait by the door so I would not see. We would let ourselves in and find a snack. There was always a snack.

She taught us to bake, and held the different tins of spices under our noses while we kept our eyes closed so we learn to identify clove, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg without looking. She took us tobogganing on the huge hills south of campus before they were besmirched by the student housing that started springing up in the late 70s. 

They had an old upright piano and Mrs. Johnson taught us the basics. I found Middle C confidently. There were board games at the Johnson’s, and there were glow-in-the-dark constellations on the sloped ceiling of Debbie’s long bedroom built into the attic of their house. I first met Orion in the night sky beyond Debbie’s window.

One winter, Mrs. Johnson stretched out the garden hose and patiently layered ice into a skating rink in the backyard. 

So one Friday night a few weeks before Christmas, Debbie and I were huddled in the twin beds on each side of the window, talking about what was to come for the holiday, the only light moonglow and snow. When I said I could not wait to see what Santa would bring me, Debbie laughed.

“Wait! What? You still believe in Santa Claus?”

“Of course I do.” 

“There is no Santa Claus. That is your parents.”

I was stunned. How could there be no Santa? How could Christmas crumble so quickly? What was I supposed to do with this information? Close to tears, I chose to turn to the wall and fall asleep. I said nothing more about it while we ate breakfast the next morning. I said nothing when I returned home Saturday afternoon.

Monday morning, Daddy drove me to school, and about two blocks before he dropped me off at the corner where Mrs. Scully was guiding children safely through the crosswalks, I asked, “Daddy, is it true there is no Santa Claus?” 

He was silent for a moment. He drew in a breath and said, “Yes, honey.” 

Turning toward me, his hands still gripping the steering wheel, he asked how I knew. I confessed that Debbie told me. He tried to console me in the short time we had. 

“Does this mean there’s no tooth fairy or Easter Bunny too?” 

Again, he drew a breath and said yes. By then we were at the corner. He stopped the car and told me he was sorry. He told me he loved me and have a good day. I opened the car door, stepped into a world that was suddenly less magical, then walked to the corner to wait for my turn to cross.