A Christmas Story

My name is Seán O’Brien, and I am fourteen. It’s an awful feeling when you realize you don’t resemble your mother or father. I love Mom and Dad. If they had lied and told me they had adopted me through an agency, I would have believed it, end of story. My parents kept saying I would resemble them more as I grew, but the older I got, the less I appeared like either of them. They are tall and thin. I am short, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a plump belly. Both have flaming red hair and green eyes. Their ears are rounded. Mine are deformed, with a pronounced enough point that I wear my hair long to cover it. They’re both great, but not very intelligent. I earned a full scholarship to St Joseph’s Preparatory Academy, the number one Catholic High School in Philadelphia. Dad still can’t grow a mustache. I began shaving when I was eleven. Razor burn on my acne made stop. Now I have the best beard in The Prep even though I am a freshman. When I mentioned my problem during confession, Father Mulcahy said I probably got my features from other ancestors. He said that he didn’t look like his parents but was the spitting image of his grandfather. I pulled out the family photo albums. Except that their hair was long, I didn’t look like either Grandma or Grandpa in their Woodstock era wedding pictures. I didn’t favor my great grandfather as he stood by his World War II P51 Mustang. Then I searched the family websites and found pictures going back to 1882. Every man had the same massive eyebrows. All my parent's ancestors had close-set little eyes, long, narrow noses with a bulbous tip, broad cheeks, and a rounded chin. Nobody had my upturned nose, big, twinkling eyes, square chin or delicate cheekbones. I did what any kid in my circumstances would do. When they were out, I searched for adoption papers. They’re both clutter bugs. When they came back they found me cleaning up and arranging everything. When I read on the Internet about people who were adopted and found their real family through genetic testing, I bought a 23AndMe test kit. I expected them to tell me something like I was Polish and have a second cousin in Chicago. Instead, they said the sample was unreadable. After I tried again with the replacement kit they sent, they emailed me the same thing. Finally, they said I was playing games with them by sending non-human DNA and refunded my money. That was bizarre.

I had to find the truth. I asked to spend Thanksgiving Break with my Aunt Brigid, Mom’s sister, while her son Ryan went to Philadelphia. Her family still lived in Scituate, Massachusetts where Mom and Dad grew up. Our clan has been there since Miles O’Brien arrived from Ireland in 1847. If they adopted me, the record would be in Brockton, the seat of Plymouth County. Aunt Brigid asked me to take Bruno, her German Shepherd, out for a run, so I took him to Saint Mary’s Cemetery on Meeting House Lane. Our family has been buried there since the Civil War. As we played fetch with his squeaky green bottle, I walked back and forth and read the gravestones of my ancestors. Then I came to one that made me shit my pants.

Seán Shamus O'Brien Beloved son of Ryan and Mary Nov. 2, 2005 – Nov. 8, 2005

My name, my birthday, and my parent’s names. I was dead.

Bruno understood my pain the way dogs always do, so he leaned into me and gave me a big doggie hug. When I recovered, I took pictures of the headstone. It was real. The town newspaper was named the Scituate Navigator. I read I had died of inoperable congenital heart disease. I printed out my obituary and my picture of the tombstone and showed my Aunt. “Tell me the truth,” I said. “Who am I?”

She became white. “I can’t say.” Then she drove me to South Station in Boston and tossed me on the first train to Philadelphia. Ryan stayed the break with us. I was a stranger in my own house. Dad and Ryan played Destiny 2 together on the PS4. Shooting fake monsters bores me to death, so I hung in my room and did Raspberry Pi programming to make an Advent calendar for Mom. I enjoy creating things. Our family has several unusual Christmas traditions. Mom always told me Santa Claus wasn’t real as they brought out the presents. They also left a fifth of Green Spot Irish Whiskey and a glass on the coffee table. Every Christmas Morning, I found the bottle on the floor and empty, yet Mom and Dad smelled fresh and acted sober as judges. I was dying to know what strange ritual they did every year with the whiskey. So I plugged a cheap digital camera into the Raspberry Pi Advent calendar and hid it in the gold bow and holly. I sat in my room and read, watching the living room on my computer. I waited and watched, and nothing happened. By two in the morning, I was dead tired and convinced that I was an absolute moron. Right before I was going to quit, I saw the impossible on my computer. A man in a red fur suit crawled out of the fireplace. His face blew my mind. He looked just like me. I rushed out to the living room, my jelly belly trembling with rage. “You,” I shouted. “Seán, you have been a very good boy,” he said condescendingly. “What toy would you like?” “Answers,” I yelled. “Who am I? Why am I here?” He looked me square in the eye. “Wouldn’t you rather learn how to make that bully Stan Kowalski’s head fly? I guarantee he will never bother you again.” I shook my head. “Answer my questions.” Santa held up his hand, and the bottle leaped into it. He took a long drink and left the bottle hanging in mid-air. Then he pulled out a pipe from his jacket and lit it with a snap of his fingers. “Things are different at the North Pole than you imagine. We work and snuggle to stay warm. And we share the love if you catch my drift.” He winked and then took another hit. “It was early 2005. We had been working hard at tooling up production of the Tamagotchi Connection virtual pets. Finally, Tina, the manager of the project, solved the problems. That night we celebrated. She partied a bit too hearty and started to massage my shoulders. One thing led to another. Tina had no interest in you or anything else that would slow down her rise to CEO. When she gave you to us, Mrs. Claus told me to get rid of you, or she would toss you outside for the polar bears. I couldn’t let that happen.” “You cheated on your wife. I am your love child, and you dumped me off here.” “Yes, but no. First, my wife cheated on me centuries before I returned the favor. She’s made 24 bastard children of her own. My bitch of a mother banished me to Bulgaria just because I have a club foot. I watched both your parents their whole lives, and they were such good people. They had a terribly hard time getting pregnant. They even wrote me and said a baby was the only present they ever wanted. The first Seán Shamus O’Brien dying shattered them, and I wanted you to have adopted parents like mine. When you consider it rationally, I did the best thing for everyone. Your parents are so grateful for you that every Christmas they give me a gift.” “My mother is an elf, so you shagged a little toymaker?” “Hardly." He pulled back his hair, showing an ear shaped like mine.  "We are the Dark Elves. Don’t underestimate our power. With a word, I could destroy this planet.” “Like Darth Vader, the dark side of the Elven force?” He snorted, whiskey and smoke spraying from his nose. Then he rolled up his sleeves, showing his Incredible Hulk huge arm muscles. “Darth Vader is a pussy," he said in a deep rumble. "My cargo load this year is over a million tons and I fly it at almost the speed of light with my magic. I would ram that lightsaber so far up his ass it would come out the top of his head.” “That doesn’t sound like the Santa Claus I know.” He laughed wickedly. “You have been watching too many TV specials. Who do you think my boss is? Who funds the whole operation?” “What do you mean? Isn’t Christmas supposed to be about Christ?” “Oh no. That’s why the Dark Lord set me up in business. There is a God-shaped hole in the human heart. At Christmas more than any other time, humans know they can only fill it by serving others. My master wants them to try to fill it with things.” “The Dark Lord is your master?” “He certainly hasn’t kept it a secret. My real name is Hephaistos, but he makes me use his names. SANTA is SATAN. Just move two letters. Take "saint" out of Old Saint Nick and what do you have? Another name for Satan.” I knew he spoke the truth. Everything from Christmas shopping shootings over Walmart parking spaces to the government banning Jesus proved it. “That Advent calendar is fantastic. Such imagination. I could use you in corporate HQ. Learn who and what you really are. Get into the family business.” He took a hit on his pipe and blew smoke rings that turned into dollar signs. “There’s a reason I can keep a full workforce up at the North Pole. Our Lord pays better than anyone.”

I said something I never thought possible, but I meant every word. “No. My family is here. They’re the ones who love me.” “You have no idea what you’re missing, but I won’t force you.” He stretched out his hand and a golden whistle appeared. “Blow this if you ever change your mind.” With that, he finished the whiskey, dropped the bottle and climbed back up the chimney. I sat, trying to absorb everything. Then I realized I didn’t hear Dad’s band saw snoring. He was down the hall, just out of my sight. “I’m sorry, Son. You had to find the truth yourself. You would never believe us if we told you.” I smiled. “You’re right.” I picked up the discarded bottle and put it in the trash in the kitchen. “Go back to bed. It’s almost morning, and tomorrow will be the best Christmas ever.”