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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Memory / Reminiscence
- Published: 10/09/2018
That First Christmas Eve
Born 1947, M, from Oceanside, United StatesThat First Christmas Eve
Every Christmas Eve brings with it a scrapbook of memories—some good; some not so good. For me, there is one Christmas Eve that stands out above all the rest. It was the night I was summoned to a deadly car crash involving a lone, drunk, female driver. Being the executive statesman of our state trooper’s barracks, it fell to me to notify the next of kin—not really something I was looking forward to.
When I got to the correct address, I found an extremely rundown-looking mobile home. After ringing the bell, the door opened, and I found myself staring down at a, tow-headed little girl with large, squirrel-like brown eyes. She couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. Standing there, feeling both awkward and sick, because of what I was about to do, I asked her if her mommy or daddy were home?
“Daddy isn’t coming home because he ran away,” she said, “and mommy is at the store buying her medicines.”
At that moment, an invisible fist the size of King Kong’s reached inside my chest and squeezed my heart. At the same time, my brain screamed how could anyone leave this poor child all by herself? But then thinking back to the mangled body inside that crumpled car, I thanked God she had.
While I was still in deep thought, I heard the child say, “You must be Santa Claus. Mommy said if I stayed in bed, you’d bring me a pretty doll.”
Hearing this made my heart want to cry out and my soul shatter into a million pieces; which was why, at that moment, I, Stan Carroll, ten-year veteran of the state police force, chose to break the law. Instead of contacting Child Services, I talked the little girl, whose name she told me was Emily Sutton, into coming home with me. After tucking Emily into bed, my wife wrapped one of her old, well-preserved dolls in Christmas paper and placed it on the pillow next to little Emily’s head. The next morning, she told Emily it was from Santa Clause.
We kept the child until a suitable family could be found and for the next two years, letters and cards flowed between us. Then Emily and her parents moved overseas and everything stopped.
These days, I’m retired. My wife is gone; so are my two children. All three live in other states. This night, which is, once again, Christmas Eve, I’m preparing to leave for the local homeless shelter where I’ve volunteered to hand out meals and presents when I hear a knock on the door. Who could it be?
Peeking out between the curtains, my heart skips several beats, while a knot of fear the size of a Mt. Everest forms inside my chest and stomach. For, even though I haven’t turned on the outside light yet, I can clearly make out the silhouette of a state trooper standing on my doorstep. Oh, God, what has happened? Who has died? Immediately, I think about my wife and kids.
With growing dread, I turn on the outside light and slowly open the door, expecting to be confronted by the grim countenance of someone who has terrible news for me. Instead, I find myself in the presence of a smiling, uniform-wearing Emily Sutton!
She says to me, “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not really,” I reply, as all kinds of memories of that tow-headed little girl with the large, innocent, brown eyes come flooding back.
“I just started at the local barracks today,” she says. “I wanted to come by and thank you for what you did for me all those years ago, and give you this.” She reaches behind her, bringing out a medium-sized package. It’s wrapped in bright Christmas paper and topped with a bow. After opening it, I stare misty-eyed at what’s inside.
It’s the doll my wife and I gave her that first Christmas Eve. Underneath the doll is what looks like a photo album.
“It turns out,” she explains, “my parents worked for the government, which was why I couldn’t write and tell you where we were, or what we were doing. But I’ve put together a kind of scrapbook that shows all the places we lived in. Do you have time to look at a few photos?”
I turn to her, and with a tearful smile reply, “For you, Emily, I’ll always have time.”
That First Christmas Eve(Tom Di Roma)
That First Christmas Eve
Every Christmas Eve brings with it a scrapbook of memories—some good; some not so good. For me, there is one Christmas Eve that stands out above all the rest. It was the night I was summoned to a deadly car crash involving a lone, drunk, female driver. Being the executive statesman of our state trooper’s barracks, it fell to me to notify the next of kin—not really something I was looking forward to.
When I got to the correct address, I found an extremely rundown-looking mobile home. After ringing the bell, the door opened, and I found myself staring down at a, tow-headed little girl with large, squirrel-like brown eyes. She couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. Standing there, feeling both awkward and sick, because of what I was about to do, I asked her if her mommy or daddy were home?
“Daddy isn’t coming home because he ran away,” she said, “and mommy is at the store buying her medicines.”
At that moment, an invisible fist the size of King Kong’s reached inside my chest and squeezed my heart. At the same time, my brain screamed how could anyone leave this poor child all by herself? But then thinking back to the mangled body inside that crumpled car, I thanked God she had.
While I was still in deep thought, I heard the child say, “You must be Santa Claus. Mommy said if I stayed in bed, you’d bring me a pretty doll.”
Hearing this made my heart want to cry out and my soul shatter into a million pieces; which was why, at that moment, I, Stan Carroll, ten-year veteran of the state police force, chose to break the law. Instead of contacting Child Services, I talked the little girl, whose name she told me was Emily Sutton, into coming home with me. After tucking Emily into bed, my wife wrapped one of her old, well-preserved dolls in Christmas paper and placed it on the pillow next to little Emily’s head. The next morning, she told Emily it was from Santa Clause.
We kept the child until a suitable family could be found and for the next two years, letters and cards flowed between us. Then Emily and her parents moved overseas and everything stopped.
These days, I’m retired. My wife is gone; so are my two children. All three live in other states. This night, which is, once again, Christmas Eve, I’m preparing to leave for the local homeless shelter where I’ve volunteered to hand out meals and presents when I hear a knock on the door. Who could it be?
Peeking out between the curtains, my heart skips several beats, while a knot of fear the size of a Mt. Everest forms inside my chest and stomach. For, even though I haven’t turned on the outside light yet, I can clearly make out the silhouette of a state trooper standing on my doorstep. Oh, God, what has happened? Who has died? Immediately, I think about my wife and kids.
With growing dread, I turn on the outside light and slowly open the door, expecting to be confronted by the grim countenance of someone who has terrible news for me. Instead, I find myself in the presence of a smiling, uniform-wearing Emily Sutton!
She says to me, “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not really,” I reply, as all kinds of memories of that tow-headed little girl with the large, innocent, brown eyes come flooding back.
“I just started at the local barracks today,” she says. “I wanted to come by and thank you for what you did for me all those years ago, and give you this.” She reaches behind her, bringing out a medium-sized package. It’s wrapped in bright Christmas paper and topped with a bow. After opening it, I stare misty-eyed at what’s inside.
It’s the doll my wife and I gave her that first Christmas Eve. Underneath the doll is what looks like a photo album.
“It turns out,” she explains, “my parents worked for the government, which was why I couldn’t write and tell you where we were, or what we were doing. But I’ve put together a kind of scrapbook that shows all the places we lived in. Do you have time to look at a few photos?”
I turn to her, and with a tearful smile reply, “For you, Emily, I’ll always have time.”
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JD
10/09/2018I think I've heard this inspirational story before, but not sure where. If you borrowed some of the story it would be great to give credit to whoever inspired it.
On all the singing talent shows, when they sing a song written by someone else and change up the melody or the wording in some way, they are said to have made the song 'their own'. I definitely think you made the story your own by retelling it in a unique way. But it would still be nice to know who wrote the 'original' version.
Great story! : )
Help Us Understand What's Happening
Kevin Hughes
10/09/2018This might be an urban legend...Bob Welsh recited it on his website. Sure tugs at the heartstrings.
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Hannah
10/09/2018Though it is short, you seemed to somehow produce a novel-like story that has all those hidden elements readers don’t know about but writers strive to put in their work. Outstanding work!
ReplyHelp Us Understand What's Happening
Hannah
10/09/2018And oh! After finishing the story and heading back to the top, I skimmed over the first sentence and realized what it said in relation to the rest of the story!! Even more kudos to you for setting the scene.
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