It was a house built for Christmas, with two parlors, stained glass windows, fireplaces with marble mantles, and ceilings so high that you could pick the biggest tree on the lot without ever worrying about whether there would be room for the star on top.
Built in the 1800's with the brick that St. Louis was famous for, it was a house like you see in the movie, "Meet Me in St. Louis," with a long front walk, an imposing double front door, the poetic street name of Longfellow, and a happy family inside. For two years it had met its promise and had been the perfect backdrop for a magical Christmas that included Santa and wishes coming true.
But this year was different. This year the mom and dad in the house had separated in November and the dad had moved in with a friend until he could find a place of his own. Three and a half year old Alex, the oldest of two little girls, had grown quiet in the weeks since the separation, understanding on whatever level a three year old can understand that something in her life had changed. Or, perhaps, just missing her dad's tickling before bedtime.
As she left for her first overnight with her dad in early December, she was more serious than a three year old should be, carrying a Sesame Street suitcase in one hand and a tattered pink blanket in the other. She didn't see the tears falling down her mom's face as the door shut behind them. But she had seen them before.
I was that mom. And as I shut the door, I was struck as never before that I was not going to be able to give my daughters the greatest gift that my parents gave me--the security of a loving mom and dad in the same house. For the rest of their childhood, my girls would be dividing holidays and carrying suitccases and blankets between houses.
To Bess, who was only nine months old, the separation of mom and dad would be her normal, with not a single memory of a time when she was a part of a family that lived together and celebrated together. Alex, at three and a half, knew different. How much she would remember in her later years of mom and dad as a team, I wasn't sure. But her recognition of a loss that year was clear.
I made myself sick worrying which little girl would suffer worse. Was this a "better to have loved and lost" situation? I didn't know.
Their dad and I tried to make it as easy as we could for them and decided to celebrate Christmas togther that last year. He would come over on Christmas Eve to read our traditional Christmas stories and would sleep on the couch that night so he would be there when they woke up in the morning. And he would take care of buying the "big girl bike" that was at the top of Alex's Santa list. I couldn't help thinking that she might be wishing for something else, but without the words to know exactly what it was.
In those few weeks before Christmas, he was slow about buying the bike and I was quick to nag. He laughed me off in that carefree way that I had once found endearing and assured me that it would be there on Chrismas morning.
I tried to create some magic that last Christmas. We had the tallest tree we could find, and I let Alex have the blinking lights that I hated but that she loved. The Santa doorbell, with a red nose that played "Rudolph" when pushed, was hung inside where we could push it often, and the two stockings that I made with old quilts were hung low on the mantle where Alex could reach. On Christmas Eve, sleigh bells rang quietly outside the bedroom door of a little girl half asleep, but who might remember in the morning. Cookie crumbs were dropped on presents and outside the fireplace grate to show where Santa had been. Red Christmas pajamas and brightly wrapped presents completed the picture. The bike would be brought in last. He had bought it the day before and fell asleep before I had a chance to see it.
After the girls' presents had been unwrapped, Alex's dad told her that Santa had left one last present in his car. He went out and returned with a full size, 24 inch bike, twice as tall as Alex, and fit for a twelve year old. It seems that Toys 'R Us sometimes sells out of the smaller bikes before Christmas Eve day.
I can't pretend that there wasn't tension in the air when he brought in that bike. Or that Alex didn't notice my irritation and menacing glances directed at her dad when she couldn't climb on the bike by herself.
But I also can't pretend that Alex didn't love that bike. In the days between Christmas and New Years, she sat on it whenever there was someone around to lift her up. And she resisted every single suggestion I made about taking it back to Toys 'R Us--where Santa had an agreement--and exchange it for one where her feet could touch the pedals. It was only upon the urging of her dad, and his promise of pink streamers and maybe a horn, that she reluctantly climbed off and headed to the store with him.
The year of the bike turned out to be the last Christmas we spent in the big Longfellow house. By June, the girls and I had moved to a down sized, two bedroom, Cape Cod with none of the charm or beauty of the old house. Yet, much of the magic seemed to follow us. We continued to buy big Christmas trees, even though we always worried about room for the star. We rarely missed celebrating Christmas mornings with their dad, opening only the stockings until he arrived. Sometimes we were kept waiting longer than we liked, but we waited nonetheless. And we learned to find joy and security in our more modest houses and non-traditional family. Only a little of the magic was gone.
I'm pretty sure that the year of the bike was the year that Alex quit believing in Santa. Not because of a skinny Santa or a fake beard, but because it was more important for her to believe that her dad had brought her that bike.
