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Trina Allen

Stand-in Santa

"Carrie, you are Santa Claus."

I turned toward the window so my father could not read the hopelessness in my eyes. It had been difficult watching his transformation from a healthy, intelligent and well-respected scientist into this gaunt lunatic now lying on a hospital bed. A solitary tear warmed my cheek, which I wiped away before turning toward him. I made what I knew was a sorry attempt at a smile.

Dad's eyelids fluttered, then closed, and he faded into a drug-induced sleep. He had never been handsome. Now, his body ravaged by cancer, he looked like a starving refuge. His eyes sunken, dark circles in gaunt gray skin. The only indication he was still alive was the steady rise and fall of his thin chest under the sheet.

I lifted a finger to my mouth. The nail already tattered. Sighing, I shifted on the uncomfortable metal chair and shut my eyes against the winter sun streaming through the window, in direct contrast to the gloominess in the room.

A dinner cart passed on squeaky wheels, leaving the meatloaf smell of cafeteria lunches hanging in the air. My stomach growled. I had no idea how long I'd been here in this hospital room. It seemed an eternity. I stood and stretched stiff muscles, surprised that the sun had faded. I must have slept awhile. I watched snow dance through leafless trees on the other side of the window glass, aware that people were living their lives, buying Christmas gifts, and going out to dinner in that cold and desolate world.

"I'm awake," he said in a low rasp that I could barely hear. Struggling to sit up, he said, "I know it is difficult to believe, but I left it to you, Carrie. You really are Santa Claus."

I didn't say anything; instead put a pillow under his head and turned toward the window, unable to look at him.

"It is a great responsibility--so consuming."

"I'm sure it is," I muttered.

A clattering came from his bed. Turning, I saw the remnants of his dinner on the floor in a puddle of juice. Frustration showed in Dad's eyes and in the set of his jaw.

I bent down and picked up his glasses, which had escaped the mashed potatoes by a fraction of an inch.

He put them on with a weary smile. "Carrie, please believe me. For one day each year, you will have almost limitless power." He paused, half-moon smudges under both eyes. "Gabe and Abigail will come to you. Do not turn them away."

I picked up the tray and then set it down hard. I ran into the bathroom, sobbed as quietly as I could and then splashed water on my face.

Yanking paper towels angrily from the container with my right hand, I dabbed at the tears with my left. Taking a deep breath, I walked back to my father's bed. Without looking at him, I swiped at the food and spilled juice with paper towels.

"It is a great responsibility."

I looked into his eyes that were but sunken orbs, swallowed and said, "I know it is, Dad."

I sat back in the chair next to the bed and held his hand. He said again, "Carrie, you are Santa Claus." I felt his hand go limp--his suffering was finally over.

I sat holding his hand, marveling at how thin and frail it had become. My strong father had not lived in this body for some time. I missed the father of my childhood, the man who had taught me to play football in the back yard, had run the Boston Marathon each year, and still played basketball with his league--at least until a few months ago.

How could this now cold emaciated hand belong to my father?

Rap, rap! Rap. I pulled a pillow over my head to block out the noise. The knocking intensified. Opening one eye, I peeked at the clock. Seven-thirty on Christmas morning! I grabbed my robe and walked to the door rubbing my eyes. This better be good.

"Good morning. I am Gabriel." The impeccably dressed man walked right into my apartment. "I believe your father told you I'd be coming. Please call me Gabe."

"I . . . I do not know you. Please leave at once."

"I cannot do that. It is late. Your father always began much earlier."

"My . . . my father?" I felt heat color my face.

A woman walked through my still open door, carrying a sack of pastries and coffee in Styrofoam cups. Old makeup smudged her otherwise pretty face, her hair in a messy ponytail.

"This is insane." My voice rose in frustration, "You cannot just walk into my apartment. Get out!"

"That was not your father's wish," Gabe said calmly. "Have some coffee. Then we'll talk."

"You. Need. To leave. Immediately!"

"We can't do that," the woman said, sitting at the kitchen table. "I am Abigail." She began mixing cream into a Styrofoam cup. "A year ago on his deathbed, your father told you not to turn us away."

I paced, clenching and unclenching my fingers.

"Carrie," Gabe said. "You are Santa Claus, just as your father said. He willed you his gift. I know this seems impossible, but on every December twenty-fifth, you will have almost limitless power."

This couple must have tricked Dad while he was high on pain medication. "You must think I'm an idiot. Get out! I mean it."

Abigail shook her head and said, "We don't mean that you are the red-coated, white-bearded mythical figure who travels from house to house bringing gifts to children around the world."

Gabe nodded and said, "Santa Claus is a myth, but your father's power is not. He named his Web log after Santa because the abilities he programmed into his blog seemed mythical to him."

"Ya, right," I muttered.

"Carrie, you will be able to use the power in your father's blog to alter reality." Abigail paused and sipped her coffee. "You can wish every child in the world a gift on Christmas day, just as the fabled Santa did. Or you could choose to end hunger or create global peace."

"Okay. I think I've heard enough."

"It was his dying wish," Gabe said, "Just hear us out."

I could smell the starch of Gabe's shirt as he stood over my shoulder. I booted up my computer, thinking this was a huge mistake.

"Put 'santaclaus.com' in the address box."

Leaning back in a chair sipping coffee, Abigail nodded. Most likely speaking would take too much effort, I thought.

I entered the URL in the address bar and clicked "Enter." A form opened containing a single text box. I looked sideways at Abigail.

She shrugged.

Gabe said, "Type in your mailing address here."

I typed "2500 Ridge Lane."

"This Web log is formatted with a set of HTML-like tags for sharing news or syndicating the content of sites."

"Stop talking so fast," I said

"I'm not talking, Carrie," Gabe's voice said.

I felt a chill. His lips had not moved. "That's impossible." Heat rose up my neck.

Abigail sipped coffee. At the same time, I heard her voice, "Carrie, you are hearing our thoughts. You probably hear Gabe droning on about whatever boring junk he thinks about."

I couldn't help smiling.

"Delete your address from the screen." Gabe's voice, again his lips hadn't moved.

They must have wired the room. What have you gotten me mixed up in, Dad? I highlighted my address and clicked delete.

"Choose someone you know." I was surprised at the relief I felt seeing Gabe's lips move when he talked. "Type their address into the form."

Someone I know. Ha, I had them. They had probably recorded voices of everyone they thought I knew. All I had to do was type in someone whose voice they hadn't prerecorded. I typed, "1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, DC."

"No!" Abigail jumped from her chair.

Hundreds of voices flooded my head at once. I grabbed both of my ears.

Gabe wrote something and held up a piece of paper. "Concentrate on one voice at a time."

"I ca . . . can't." I said, shaking my head.

Gabe pointed to the paper, "One voice at a time."

"I've got to put more padding under my holster. Damn, I'm missing another Christmas. I won't see Johnny's face when he finds the bicycle. My neck aches. Gawd, this communication earpiece must have rubbed half the skin off my ear. Two more hours until this shift ends."

The deafening murmur came back.

"The health care legislation has always stalled in the Senate. Now the Senate is scheduled to take up the issue again . . ." I recognized the President's voice.

"I've got to get up. He'll be finished with his workout soon." That sleepy voice was the first lady.

Then the hum of voices intensified.

"The eggs must be served directly from the oven. The President isn't eating a cold Christmas soufflé."

I highlighted "1600 Pennsylvania Avenue" and pushed delete. Blissful silence.

"Okay I want answers," I typed my mailing address back in the textbox. "Start explaining."

"Just like your father, so impatient," said Abigail's voice, her mouth full of pastry.

"Eric Numen was the best medicinal chemist of this decade. As you know, he was working on a cure for cancer." It was disorienting watching Gabe drink coffee while hearing his voice in my head.

"How is my father involved in this?"

Abigail's voice, "About five years ago Eric stopped working on his research. He canceled all his grants and quit publishing his work. That is when he contacted us."

I remembered my father had become distant about that time.

"Eric found a way to transmit not just thoughts, but alternate reality over the Internet. You have that power now, Carrie. Each December twenty-fifth, you have the ability to alter reality in any way you wish."

"You don't expect me to believe that I have magical powers," I said, my voice rising.

"Aren't you hearing our thoughts now?"

"But . . . my . . . my . . . father would have told me," my voice trailed off. "He should have told me."

"He could not, Carrie," Abigail's voice said.

"Why didn't he cure himself? If he had this supernatural power, why didn't he cure his cancer? Damn it, he should have saved himself."

Gabe shook his head. "He was capable of only one act per year, Carrie, on Christmas Day. As much as Eric wanted to live a longer and healthy life, he felt that there was a better use for the power."

A thought suddenly occurred to me. "You are saying I have the power to alter reality, today?"

"Yes."

I looked at the computer screen. It was so simple. I was surprised that my father hadn't thought of it. I typed, "Carrie Numen has unlimited use of santaclaus.com, 365 days per year."

A loud voice filled my head. "You cannot be granted unlimited use!"

I jumped, knocking my coffee over onto the keyboard and burning my legs.

"Unlimited use is beyond your intelligence, beyond human understanding. The language I use is one million times more complicated than HTML or XML and much too complex for you to understand."

"Who are you?" I shouted, wiping coffee with a napkin.

Gabe spilled his own coffee down the front of his white shirt and Abigail dropped the pastry she was eating.

"I am the imaginary space of information called the World Wide Web, the space that houses all of the documents, sounds, videos, and information in the network of networks that links millions of billions of computers via the Internet."

I sat down hard. "If you are imaginary then how can I hear you?"

Gabe and Veronica looked at me.

The voice continued, "In the millisecond that information is in transit from the computers and devices connected to my network, it is mine. In that fraction of time I can create a reality that does not exist."

I sucked in air. I thought for several minutes and then typed with trembling hands, "I have the intelligence to understand Santa Claus protocols."

"I cannot give you that intelligence."

My ears rang. "Why not? My father understood."

"No, your father did not fully understand. Given time, my programming would have driven him insane."

I got up and paced back and forth, thinking. I looked at Abigail and then Gabe, sat down and typed, "Eric Numen healed himself of cancer, one year ago, on Christmas Day."

The room spun, as if I'd had too many celebratory cosmopolitans. The desk, walls, computer monitor, all became pixels that swirled and then vanished.

Looking around, I realized I was in my father's office. I was happy to see that he was alive, sitting at his computer, papers scattered all over his desk.

I rushed to him, hugged him hard, noticed his eyes were wild and bloodshot, his hair bushy. I looked over his shoulder as he typed and a chill came over me. In the moments before he died I had thought his ranting insane, but I never suspected that he had actually lost his mind.


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Trina Allen is a longtime writer who recently turned to fiction. Her work can be found in magazines such as Chiron Review and Thunder Sandwich. A former science teacher, she currently develops educational science tests. She lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, with her husband, writer Harry Calhoun, and their Labrador. You can visit her online at www.trinaallen.com.