“Okay,” came the reply at last. “Come in—but only for a minute.”
Dr. Ringle twisted the doorknob and pushed the heavy door slowly open, and then he rolled his blinking wheelchair through the doorway. I followed close behind, unsure of what to expect. The only light in the room came from a dim table lamp in the corner near the bed.
Through the shadows that draped the small space in melancholy, I saw that this room was void of holiday decorations. There were no Christmas wreathes on the walls or garland around the bed rails, no ribbons or holly hanging from the ceiling, and no Christmas tree on the windowsill.
In contrast to her sterile surroundings, Katrina herself was an unforgettable sight. Toilet paper had been looped methodically around her limbs and torso like a half finished mummy such that streaks of her bright red pajamas were visible beneath the white wrapping. The only part of her body not bound in toilet tissue was her head, which was completely hidden beneath a white paper bag. A hole for the mouth had been cut out along with two eye holes, through which I could see that she was watching me intently, examining every inch of my colorful outfit.
“Hello Katrina, don’t you look lovely tonight,” said Dr. Ringle sincerely as he moved to her side. The rubber wheels of his chair squeaked to a halt. “How are you feeling?”
I’m sure she heard his words, but Katrina did not respond. Instead she continued to focus all of her attention on me. It was several unnerving moments before she said anything, but when she did speak it was not in response to Dr. Ringle’s questions.
“So what did they have to pay you to wear
that
?” she asked. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or serious but hoped it wasn’t the latter.
“Uh . . . nothing,” I said lamely. “How about you? Why are you wrapped up in toilet paper? It’s Christmas, not Halloween.”
“You mean you can’t tell? I just . . .” she choked. “I wanted to look like a candy cane.” There was more than a hint of disappointment in her voice. The paper bag covering her head slumped forward. “Oh well. It was probably a silly idea anyway. I just didn’t want to be the only one not dressed up.”
“But . . .” I said slowly as my mind raced to find something to say, some way to take back what had just come out of my overly honest mouth. “But you do look like a candy cane. I was just joking,” I lied. “See, I have one right here, and you look just like it!” I stepped quickly forward, holding up the long red and white candy for her to see. “I brought it just for you.”
Just then the curly-toed booties that I had struggled with all night finally got the better of me and I tripped. As I fell to the floor the candy cane flew up in the air in the general direction of Dr. Ringle and Katrina. Dr. Ringle did all he could to stretch out for it, but the confines of his wheelchair prevented him from making a saving catch. The candy cane crashed to the hard tile floor, breaking into countless tiny shards.
From my position on the floor I heard a whimpering cry coming from somewhere beneath the white paper bag that hovered above me. I wasn’t sure whether it was the broken candy on the floor or my comments about her costume that ignited the tears, but one thing was certain: I was to blame for two shattered candy canes that night. One remained splintered on the cold tiles while the other stood sobbing in coiled fluffy sheets of toilet paper.
“Molar,” sighed Dr. Ringle at long last. “I think it is probably time for you and Aaron to go change your clothes. Your father will be here soon. I’ll give Katrina the Christmas list and meet you downstairs in a few minutes.”
“Yes Santa,” I said quietly as I shuffled my way carefully back to the hallway.
I rode the elevator with Aaron down to the first floor and changed out of my elf costume without saying a word. My mind was again full of questions: What did Katrina look like under the bag? Why didn’t she visit Santa with the other kids? And why wasn’t her room decorated for Christmas? Along with the questions in my head was a pit in my stomach, a gut-wrenching regret for what had happened in Katrina’s room.
I was busy thinking about it all when Dr. Ringle entered the locker room. He had already taken off his beard and Santa suit, but his red hat still sat on his head.
“I’m sorry about the candy cane,” I said immediately.
“I know, lad,” he replied. “Accidents do happen sometimes, even for elves.”
“And I’m sorry for what I said about Halloween.”
“I know.” Dr. Ringle did not look up.
“Dr. Ringle, why is Katrina in the hospital? And how long has she been here?”
“I think you should ask her those questions yourself the next time you see her. I told her you’ll be coming by on Wednesday to pick up her Christmas list.”
“You mean I have to go see her again?” I asked. The last thing on earth I wanted to do was face that girl again after making her cry.
Dr. Ringle just smiled and said, “You’ll be fine, Mo. You’ll be just fine.”
Christmas is not a time nor a season, but a state of mind. To cherish peace and goodwill, to be plenteous in mercy, is to have the real spirit of Christmas.
—Calvin Coolidge
O
n the way to the hospital on Wednesday night, I had my mom stop by the grocery store so I could buy the largest candy cane I could find. I paid for it out of my allowance but figured it was worth every cent if it helped show Katrina that I was genuinely sorry for the mess I’d made of everything on my first visit.
Dr. Ringle was not waiting for us when we arrived, so Aaron and I made our way to the locker room by ourselves where we found a handwritten letter taped to our locker.
Dear Aaron & Mo,
Thanks again for your help on Monday. I have spoken to the Chief of Staff, and if you would like to go upstairs without the surgical masks and gloves from now on that will be fine, so long as you wash your hands very thoroughly before each visit. Also, you may choose to don the elf costumes if you wish, but it is not mandatory.
I will not be around for a few weeks, as I have some important business to attend to at a children’s center up north. Please remember to collect any remaining Christmas lists and save them for my return. You have also been granted permission to take part in our annual Christmas pageant to be held on Christmas Eve. Parts will be handed out this Friday night at
7:00 so don’t be late.
Finally, do take the time to get to know Madhu and Katrina. They are your most important assignments while I’m gone!
Sincerely, Dr. Christoffer K. Ringle, MD
Once we were on the fifth floor and had signed in at the nurses’ station, we decided to start our evening by making rounds to each of the rooms in search of red papers. Aaron knocked on the first door.
“Come in,” came a voice. Opening the door we found a young boy sitting up in bed watching television. I recognized him immediately as Timothy, the boy who wanted the Air Jammer Road Rammer.
“Hi Tim,” I said. “We’re the elves who were here the other night with Santa.”
“Oh hi!” he replied. “I didn’t recognize you without the costumes.”
“Yeah,” said Aaron. “We felt kinda girly in those tights so we left them downstairs. Anyway, we’re just going around trying to collect any Christmas lists that weren’t already given to Santa. Do you have one?”
“Nope. I gave mine back to Dr. Ringle. I wanted to make sure he had it before he left for the North Pole.”
Aaron and I looked at each other.
“What do you mean? Why would he go to the North Pole?” I asked.
“Well you should know since you work for him. That’s where he lives—at the North Pole. Duh, where else would Santa Claus live?” said the boy in all seriousness. Tim folded his arms tightly together across his waist.
Aaron and I traded glances again.
“But he’s a doctor. Even you called him Dr. Ringle,” I responded. “He’s just a regular guy.”
“Yep. He likes to make people think he’s just a regular guy. But the nurses say every year he goes away suddenly for several weeks right before Christmas. I heard he goes to the North Pole! And what about his name? You can’t say he’s not Santa with that name.”
“What about his name? Dr. Ringle. It’s just a name. Dr. Christoffer K. Ringle, MD.” And then, as I repeated the full name aloud, I understood what Timothy meant—Dr. Ringle’s name
was
suspiciously close to that of Santa’s famous alias: Chris Kringle. And he’d written in his note that he was going up north to a children’s center, which confirmed the nurses’ stories about annual trips.
Is it possible, I wondered, that the children’s center is just a crafty name for the toy factory where he and his elves make toys for children? No way.
“But . . .” said Aaron, “there’s no such thing as a real Santa Claus so it’s not worth talking about.”
“Right,” I agreed tentatively. My brother was wise, I knew, but I still found the parallels perplexing. Even the remote chance that Santa Claus might actually exist was thrilling. “Well, sorry to bother you, Tim, but we’ve got to go to the other rooms now.”
“No bother. Come back any time!” he yelled as we closed the door behind us. “And put in a good word for me with Santa!”
For the next thirty or forty minutes we continued knocking on each of the patients’ doors on the fifth floor. Not surprisingly, behind each door we found a child who had already given his or her list back to Dr. Ringle during the party on Monday night. Still, all of the children were genuinely pleasant and were more than eager to talk with Santa’s helpers, even if we lacked the appropriate attire.
In much less time than we would have liked, we finished speaking to almost every child. There remained only two doors, Katrina’s and Madhu’s. A pit grew in my stomach as I thought of facing Katrina again.
“Let’s go to your guy first,” I offered. “What’s his name again?”
“Madhu. Sounds like ‘Mud Who’. His full name is longer, but I can’t remember how to say it.”
Aaron had met Madhukar Amburi on the previous visit and found him fascinating, if not slightly comical. The door to his room was cracked open a bit, allowing the sound of music to escape from within. It was unlike any music I’d ever heard before. The lyrics were definitely foreign and were sung in a rhythmical chant that throbbed like oriental yodeling.
We knocked hard several times, but the volume of his music was too high for our knocking to be heard. Aaron spoke loudly through the crack.
“Hello? Madhu? Are you in there?”
The music went silent.
“Ohmyyes. Mostdefinitely. Iamverymuchhere. Constantlysoinfact.” The words raced out in a phonetic blur.
“What did he say?” I whispered.
Aaron shook his head and whispered back, “Dunno. He talks
really
fast. It takes a few minutes to catch on.” Aaron tried speaking through the crack again. “Uh, can we come in?”
“Absolutely,” he replied in a flash. Madhu spoke faster than my brain could comprehend. “Ofcourse youcancomein. Mydoor isalwaysopen asyoucansee. Butwhoareyou exactly? ThatiswhatIamwondering.”
We assumed that all of those words boiled down to “yes” so we pushed the door open and stepped inside. The boy sat at a small desk near the bed. He had a lanky build with dark olive skin and jet black hair. His deep brown eyes reminded me of Dr. Ringle, for they radiated when he smiled.
Following brief and somewhat misunderstood introductions, we spent a good portion of the next thirty minutes listening to the ebb and flow of Madhu’s amazing vernacular. Within a few minutes my ears adjusted to the inflections and timing of his speech, allowing me to catch at least the gist of what he was talking about.
Madhu was originally from Delhi, India, but had moved with his family to the United States when he was eight. He was a wiry ball of energy who never stopped smiling and seemed to know something clever about everything. I liked him right off and found myself drawn to his amiable personality.
Most remarkable to me was how uncommonly optimistic Madhu was, even about his medical condition. He had been brought to the hospital just one month earlier after tests for liver cancer came up positive. The disease had not spread beyond the liver so there was hope of recovery if the doctors could find a liver donor in time for him to receive a transplant. Time, however, was of the essence because his liver was beginning to show serious signs of failure. Without a new liver within the next few months, Madhu’s chances of recovery diminished significantly.
Since my brother and I were at the hospital in conjunction with the holiday season, our conversation with Madhu eventually landed on the subject of Christmas. It was a topic that evoked strong opinions from our new Indian friend even though he had never celebrated the holiday.
“The fact of the matter is,” he said as matter-of-factly as he could, “that most of the Christian world does not even understand what they are celebrating at Christmas time. According to everything I’ve read, Christmas is, at its heart, about Jesus Christ. And yet Santa Claus appears to be the primary figure celebrated in practice. Does that not seem strange to you? It does to me, but I’m not a Christian so my point of view may be skewed. Can you set me straight?”
Aaron tried to respond, but it was hard to argue with Madhu’s reasoning. “Well,” he said, “Santa Claus was . . . a saint.” By the look on his face, I surmised that the wheels spinning in my brother’s head were trying hard to get some sort of traction for wherever he was going next.
“Yeah, a saint,” he continued. “He’s Saint Nick, right? And everyone knows that saints are Christians who do good things, and . . . and the good thing that Saint Nick does is to bring kids presents. It’s all very simple. See?” Even Aaron seemed to question the words he’d just spit out.
“So,” countered Madhu, quicker than reindeer feet on a cold Christmas night, “what you are saying is that Christmas is only about Santa bringing Christian children rewards and by so doing has qualified himself for sainthood. Is that it? That is most interesting.” His sarcastic tone suggested he wasn’t buying Aaron’s explanation.
“Yes,” muttered Aaron. “I mean, no. It’s just that . . . I mean . . . I dunno what I mean.”