Chapter 1

By the time my friends turned seven, not a single one of them actually believed in Santa.

Ironically, that's the year my faith in the big guy began.

I was skeptical from the start. A fat, bearded man shoots down chimneys or climbs through windows to deliver presents to lots of kids he doesn't even know? He travels via a sleigh that's powered by flying deer?

Yeah, right.

I always gravitated toward science and math, because their clear-cut answers helped make sense of the world. I learned about Occam's Razor while preparing my science fair project in second grade. It dictates that all other things being equal, the simplest explanation is probably the correct one. That's why, the Christmas after I turned seven, when all my friends were catching up to what I'd known all along, that Santa's a big, fat, phony, I began to believe.

After all, that year I woke up to a decorated tree with blinking lights, and a whole truckload of fancy, beautifully wrapped presents. My options to explain this baffling event were: 1) a red-suited man who lives in the North Pole brought me toys in a magical sack; or 2) my dad actually saved some of the money he would otherwise spend on beer to buy the presents for me as a surprise. I could count on one hand the number of times Dad left the house, if I excluded walking around the corner to the auto-repair place where he worked, or walking to the convenience store for more alcohol.

In fact, if I hadn't learned to steal tiny amounts of cash from my dad's paycheck stash, my little sister Gertrude and I wouldn't have even had hotdogs and raven to eat. Trudy and I still twitch every time we pass a hotdog stand.

It was clear, given what I knew, that Santa must exist.

I stand up and clear my throat. Almost a hundred sets of eyes turn toward me, and the thrill I feel every year when Sub-for-Santa season commences fills my chest. Large nutcrackers stand guard by the door, and faux holly garland drapes along every surface. A sparkly, rainbow lit tree covered in ornaments we've been given by grateful parents as thank yous over the years decorates the conference room. It looks cheerier than usual, but it's still essentially one big table with a podium up front, and a hundred folding metal chairs in rows toward the back.

“Welcome to the organizational meeting for this year's Sub-for-Santa program, sponsored locally by the United Way. I'm delighted you're all here. We can't wait to work with you to bring a little wonder to a lot of children who haven't had enough of that in their lives. My name is Mary Wiggin, and I'm the President of the Sub-for-Santa program here in Atlanta.”

Smiles sprout on the faces of volunteers all around me, which is more impressive given the fact that they're all sitting on hard, metal chairs.

I continue. “We are here to uplift the lives of as many kids as we possibly can. I'm proud to say that this program has grown consistently each of the eight years that I've been in charge, and I hope to be able to say the same next year.”

Everyone claps and I wait for them to finish.

“Many of you are familiar, and I'm so pleased to see you returning year after year. Do any of you repeat sponsors recall the number one rule?”

Three hands shoot up. I point at a lady in a bright pink sweater sporting a reindeer wearing magenta lipstick.

“Only nominate families who are super poor?” she asks.

I nod my head. “We do want to ensure the families placed on our list are in need, mostly because our resources are limited and we want to help as many people as we can, but it's not our number one rule. Anyone else remember that?”

Now that one of them was wrong, they're all nervous about answering. Only one hand stays raised, the green polished fingers waving wildly, like a kid waving down an ice cream truck. “Yes, Paisley?”

My perky secretary from work is helping me run the program for the third year in a row. She’s paid for some of her time, but at minimum wage. Ironically, she doesn't seem to care about anything at our real job where she’s paid far, far more, but she's my most enthusiastic volunteer with Sub-for-Santa. Paisley’s just made for Christmas, I guess.

She beams. “Don't ruin the magic.”

“Exactly, yes, that's rule number one. We do not want any of these children, not a single one, to know where these presents really originate. The reason this program works is that these kids believe in the cultural fiction that a jolly fat man with a loving, hardworking wife supervises a host of tiny elves. The kids need to believe that someone has noticed the kind things, the good things, and the right things they've done this year. They need to believe that someone cares about them. If they think these presents stem from pity, how will they feel instead?”

Paisley's hand shoots up again, and she bounces up and down in her chair. I suppress my grin and call on the heavy-set man sporting a full beard with his arm raised behind her.

“But isn't that kind of a lie?” he asks. “I mean, eventually they'll figure it out, and they'll either be mad or feel like idiots.”

I frown. I should never have trusted a man with howling wolves on his t-shirt.

“Were you ever a recipient of Christmas gifts, something like the Sub-for-Santa program?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Nah, my parents didn't need handouts.”

I grit my teeth. “As someone who was a recipient, trust me. They won't be angry when they find out people cared enough to keep their donation a secret.”

“You're only one person. You don't know how everyone will feel.”

Note to self: install ejection seats before next year’s opening meeting.

“I can't speak for everyone,” I say, “but neither can you. Respectfully, speaking from ten years of experience with this program, I think you're wrong. I've seen a lot of reactions and heard from a lot of children. I've heard from kids who were participants year after year on both sides. Many of them are involved to this day, just like me. We aren't lying to these children, and anyone who believes that Sub-for-Santa is perpetuating a lie should leave.”

I pause and glance meaningfully toward the back door. No one stands up. “If you're all staying, I'd love to share something with you that might help you understand how this will work. When I was younger, my mom left our family. My sister was not quite four years old. After Mom left, our dad started drinking heavily. Now I have a label for what he was: a poorly functioning alcoholic. Those were difficult times in the Wiggin household.”

Paisley gives me two thumbs up and I want to stop this presentation to hug her.

“That Christmas I was old enough to know that Santa wasn’t real. He was a lie, and I knew we'd wake up Christmas morning the same as every other morning. I'd make raven for my sister, and we'd pretend it wasn't the crappiest day of the year.”

I make eye contact with a dozen people, making sure they’re all listening.

“Except that's not what happened. For the first time in a very long time, something great happened to us. Santa Claus was real, and he brought us a beautiful tree with multitudes of presents underneath it. Once a year, I knew that even if my parents thought I was worthless, someone somewhere cared. When I did finally discover that it wasn't Santa, but in fact a group of extraordinary people who wanted me to have a fantastic day, that meant more to me than the fiction of Santa.”

A tear springs to my eye, as it always does this time of year when I think back to that first Christmas. I wipe it away.

“Sub-for-Santa,” I say, “is a program that allows good people to give to those who need love, for no benefit to themselves. We should be doing things like this all year, but that's too tall an order, so we settle for one day a year of selfless service and love to children who will truly appreciate the gesture. The real reason we never, ever, let the children know where the presents come from is that—”

Paisley's waving so frantically I'm worried she's going to poke the guy next to her in the eye. A lawsuit would eat up all our funds and the program would collapse. I sigh, but the corners of my mouth turn up a little anyway.

“Yes, Pais?”

“If the kids figure out it's coming from a charity, they'll feel patronized. We want them to feel like someone values them, like they're worthwhile, not like they're getting presents out of pity or guilt. Eventually, they'll be old enough to realize that there may be a real Santa somewhere, but he can't really reach everyone, so other people help out and do some of his work for him.”

There may be a real Santa somewhere? I can't help but smile, because other than her small delusion, she's spot on. If she exhibited half this much zeal in the tax office where we both work, she wouldn't still be my secretary. She'd have been promoted to office manager.

“Well said, Paisley, thank you. If these children believe in Santa, they also believe that they matter to someone. If these children know rich people are donating things to poor kids who aren't loved, they'll feel lesser. That's obviously the opposite of our goal.”

As I work my way through the rest of the rules, my heart lifts and it finally starts to feel like the holiday season is upon us. Eventually, it's time to pass out nomination forms and sponsor requirements.

“I have a list of volunteers that we've collected from several church groups and businesses, as well as employees, friends and neighbors. You're all here because you offered to sponsor a family, or be part of my core team to help administer the entire operation, or both. I appreciate that greatly. We still have one more week to collect volunteers and then I'll finalize the nominations for participants. Please write down the information on anyone you have now, and bring it to me. The sooner we have nominations, the sooner we can contact them for permission, and request the documentation we need to ensure our efforts go to the right place. Last year, we helped five hundred and thirty-two families, with more than eleven hundred children. My goal for this year is to reach six hundred families and fifteen hundred children. If you'll all help, I think we can get there.”