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“Evie’s class made that in first grade. I remember it.”
“I wanted to give it to the reindeer myself when they stopped by us. Finally, the sleigh gets to us, but I freeze, because the reindeer look huge up close. I’m trying to work up the guts to go feed them, and I don’t even notice Santa throw candy my way. Gram turns to pick it up for me, and I can tell that Santa is about to move on, and I have to feed them now or never.”
Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. A terrible sixth sense tells me exactly where this is going. I press my face tight against my knees.
“I pull the food out of my pocket, and I run forward right when Santa snaps the reins. The sleigh lurches forward, someone screams, I look up and see these huge animals coming at me, and I know right then that something very bad is going to happen. I freeze. I can’t even yell. Then Gram shoves me hard, and I go flying to the other side and land right past them, my hands all scraped up. I bang my chin really hard. I still have a scar from the stitches.”
It’s quiet for a few seconds except for the faint rasp of his finger running over his chin beneath the scruff. I can’t look up to see it myself. I can’t.
“Gram pushed me out of the way, but it terrified the reindeer. It was chaos, and I was lying there bawling, my hands over my head, crying for my mom. And Gram.” A long pause. “I didn’t see it, but she tripped. I guess she would have been okay, but one of the reindeer reared and struck her in the head. Her temple. They rushed her to the hospital. She was in a coma for two days, and then she was gone.”
I feel him waiting for a response from me, but I keep my face pressed against my knees.
This poor man, this dear, lovely human, hates Christmas because . . .
I try to force the words from my mind, but they march through it anyway.
Because his grandma got run over by a reindeer.
Oh my—
I can’t even—
I try. I try so hard. It’s the worst Christmas story I have ever heard. I feel so hard for the young child Henry was, but still, no matter where I try to redirect my thoughts, a laugh is clawing its way out of me. I would give anything to keep it in, but . . .
His grandma got run over by a reindeer.
There is no way to unremember that. To unhear it.
To keep the laugh back.
My body begins to shake, and I know he can feel it through the sofa cushions and my feet tucked beneath him.
Oh please, please let him think I’m crying. Please.
Because it is unforgivable to laugh right now. But I can’t stop.
“Paige?” Henry’s voice is tentative. A pause, and then he touches my shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?”
What do I do? The worse this gets, the worse it gets. “Can I use your restroom?”
“Of course. Down the hall past the stairs.”
I keep my chin tucked as I hurry past him to the bathroom, praying he still thinks I’m crying. I lock the bathroom door, lean against it, fight for a big breath, and . . .
Whew.
His grandma got run over by a reindeer.
I hear the corny song in my head, and immediately start laughing again. I shove my face into a towel as the laughter pours out of me and just let it come, laughing until my sides hurt, laughing until it’s uncomfortable to breathe.
I’ve had to explain to people over the years that my parents died in a car accident, and I have to conclude that the only thing worse than having to tell someone your loved one died tragically is telling them your loved one died comically.
Every time I think I’m about to pull myself together, I imagine myself having to tell people my parents got run over by reindeer, and I lose it again.
I have no idea how long it takes before the laughter finally dies down to occasional shudders, but probably close to ten minutes. I’m surprised but thankful Henry hasn’t come to check on me. I splash cold water on my face and dab it dry, forcing myself to repeat the phrase “Grandma got run over by a reindeer” five times quietly to make sure I won’t laugh.
When I’m sure I’ve got it together, I return to the living room. Henry is where I left him, staring into the distance again.
