After I pull into the driveway, I shut my car off and stare at the white, non-descript garage door. At our other house, we had a light shining on the doors during the holidays. Santa and his reindeer were on full display for everyone to see. Here, we have nothing, not even a tree or a string of lights. Right now, I feel like the hairy, pot-bellied, pear-shaped, snub-nosed green creature that I love so much. The only thing missing is my faithful furry companion with fake antlers on this head.
“I need to get out of this funk,” I say as I pull the key from the ignition and open my door. I fully expect the overhead light to wake Alyssa, but she doesn’t budge. “Lovely,” I mutter. I make my way around the car to her door and open it. She’s still asleep, snoring lightly. As I lean in, I smell the peppermint from one of her candy canes on her breath and see how stained her lips are.
“Alyssa.” Her name purrs from my lips, a trick I’ve had to learn from my mom in the recent months since my wife passed away. That’s something you never think to learn. I deferred so much of Alyssa’s care to my wife, and because of that, I became a very absent father. My wife never seemed to care, and if she did, she never said anything. I worked because I could provide for our family, allowing her to stay home to raise our daughter. Until she died, I thought everything was perfect. It was except for my parenting skills. I had no idea what cereal my daughter liked or what time she went to bed. It’s the worst feeling in the world, knowing it took my wife dying for me to become an active father.
“Daddy,” she whispers my name as I gather her into my arms. Every part of me breaks. She’s all I have left of my wife, and I’m not sure how to keep her spirit alive in our daughter.
It takes me a couple of tries, but I finally get us into our house and get us upstairs. I have no choice but to wake Alyssa even though my mom warns it’s never good to do so. “Sweetie, you gotta wake up.” I sit her down on the toilet and make sure she’s upright before backing away and starting her bath.
“I don’t need a bath.”
I chuckle. “Your candy cane-hot chocolate-covered mouth disagrees with you.” My hand runs under the faucet until the temperature is perfect, and then I plug the tub. I add a couple of capfuls of bubbles and make sure to swirl my hand around to start the bubbling process. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Alyssa is undressing. At first, I was uncomfortable and told my mom she had to live with us, even though my father would’ve never agreed. She told me I’m not the only single father out there and encouraged me to search on the internet for some blogs that would help me adjust. I did and have found a few forums with single parents who have helped me with situations like this. Honestly, those people have helped me more than they know.
Alyssa comes over, and I look everywhere but at her. She holds my hand as she climbs into the tub, and our rule is that she uses the bubbles to cover up. Once she’s in, I let her play for a bit while I head toward her room to turn down her blankets and find something for her to wear tomorrow. The entire time I’m in her bedroom, she’s talking to me about Santa, repeating everything she said in the car.
“Santa’s so magical,” she tells me.
“I know he is. He knew your name and everything.”
“I know. I think Mommy told him.”
“Do you?” I ask, back in the bathroom. I hold up two outfits for her.
“That one.” She points to a plaid skirt with a white shirt and vest. “Mommy is an angel.”
“And you think angels talk to Santa?”
Alyssa shrugs. “Maybe, or maybe Jesus tells Santa everything.”
“Yep, maybe.” I leave the bathroom so I can compose myself. My mind drifts to the night of the car accident. An older man lost control of his car during a torrential rainstorm and hydroplaned into my wife’s car, making her run off the road and slam into a tree. About three months after that, the man died of a heart attack. I blamed him for the longest time and even hated him, but I can only imagine the level of despair he felt by taking my wife away from me. I don’t think I’d be able to forgive myself if I was in his place. I miss my wife and always will, but I know she wouldn’t want my heart burdened with hate. That’s why I’ve made an effort to move on; it’s what she would want.