Finding Father Christmas by Robin Jones Gunn

Author:Robin Jones Gunn
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780446570121
Publisher: FaithWords
Published: 2009-11-28T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

Father Christmas and gifts under the tree forgotten, little Julia stayed close to me in the window seat. Together we watched two red and brown birds flit from the icy branches of an apple tree and land in the fresh snow. The early birds hopped across the clean white carpet, leaving their tiny footprints to mark their trail to the snow-covered bird feeder. With a flutter of their wings, the two birds pecked and flicked through the snow before reaching their chilly breakfast.

I stroked Julia’s silky hair and hummed the only Christmas carol I could remember at the moment—”Silent Night.”

Julia leaned into me and released a contented sigh.

All was calm. All was bright.

The gift to me in that timeless moment on the bench seat was a gift of understanding. I experienced in a small way the bliss my mother must have felt when she held me in her arms. I was her baby doll. To her credit, she did the very best she could at loving me despite her disjointed life.

The years of blame I had assigned to my mother for choosing to live within the fairy-tale castle of her own mind all seemed to evaporate when I felt the unlabored breathing of small, trust ing Julia. How could a woman not choose to gather up a tiny version of herself and valiantly protect, nurture, and delight in such a marvel?

By my best estimations, my mother was eighteen when I was born. Maybe nineteen. If she had relatives she could have sent me to, she never hinted at it. If she considered handing me over to an adoption agency, it was only a private contemplation.

Her decision had been to keep the two of us together, and now I understood why. This. This closeness. This chance to share the moments of wonder together. My mother wanted me. That in itself was a precious gift.

That truth was the gift I received that Christmas morning. My mother wanted me. She wanted me close to her heart. And she always kept me there.

In that Christmas morning moment, with little Julia enclosed in my embrace, I looked out the frost-laced window and released Eve Carson, the actress, from all her failures toward me, her miniature self. I then thanked Eve Carson, the mother, for every right thing she did in proving how much she wanted me.

I wondered: If she had lived, and if I had asked, would she have told me who my father was? And if she did tell, would she have told me the truth? I knew I would have wanted the imaginary answers more than I would have wanted the unbendable truth. But still, I wondered. What would she have said if she knew I was here, in this home, with these people? What details of my existence would she at last reveal to me?

“What about Father Christmas?” Julia reached up and patted my face. “And the presents. We must go see the presents!”

I helped her off my lap, and we

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