46. What A Mess We’ve Made

46

WHAT A MESS WE'VE MADE

PATRICK

84 DAYS 'TIL CHRISTMAS

The wazoo is out of whack.

Over two weeks gone; the magic is still pissed.

I'm crouching in the workshop as elves scatter about on hands and knees like rats being chased by a broom in a restaurant kitchen. The wazoo is shooting finished toys out at odd angles. Action figures become projectiles fired off across the room. Everyone's ducking for cover. Including me.

I race to turn the machine off, but like that old copier at Carver & Associates, it mocks me with its defiance. Several wires pulled and a few swear words later, we corral it into off-mode.

"We're okay, everyone," I announce. "Take a break while we, uh, try to assess the damage." The main floor is overrun with dislodged toy parts. No matter how many fans I rolled in here, I can't quite mitigate the smell of rotten eggs that has permeated the North Pole since that first unruly thunderstorm dispersed.

Everyone clears out to the atrium for snacks, coffee, and to talk about me. How bad a job I'm doing. My legacy is going to be remembered as the first Santa to ever cancel Christmas because he couldn't get his shit together.

Jorge and Samson come to assist me. We turn cranks and pull levers, and we get the wazoo back to work, albeit slower than it was before. This would be an okay sign if it weren't about to decrease production even more. And if production decreases even more, we're not going to make our quota for this week. And if we don't make this quota for the week, we're going to be racing against the clock for Christmas.

I'm in a perpetual state of stress, sweat, and acute heartbreak. This would all be much easier to manage if heart shards weren't trying to carve their way out of me. Exorcise my hurt. Every. Damn. Step. I. Take.

At the end of a dreadful workday, I slog home, begrudging our separation. Because seeing Quinn's smile when I swing open the door would at least brighten my dour mood.

The regrets are at their loudest tonight as I wander the dream house (which is more like a nightmare house now) alone. I shuffle about through the impeccably decorated rooms. Aimless and overwhelmed.

Sometime after three A.M. , I stagger through the picturesque village toward the toy workshop. At first, I think I'll get some work done on the Naughty and Nice lists, then I spot the North Pole Headquarters control room with its Big Brother screens and its access to the core memories of every human on Earth. This sparks an idea.

I can't see Quinn. But I can still see Quinn.

After I'm through the secure archways, which creep me out no matter how many times I've been in here, I'm startled by the shape of a man flopped over in a chair. A memory of a family projects onto the enormous screen. It's shown through the eyes of a father, singing as his son blows out the candles on a Fudgie the Whale birthday cake. The woman with the close-cut hair beside him is familiar to me, though I know her as a much older woman.

Nicholas notices me noticing him. He uses a hankie to swiftly blot at his eyes. "Didn't hear you sneak up on me." He's struggling to regain his composure.

"I'm sorry." The apology is weak but the best I can come up with in my present state.

"Don't ever be sorry for existing," he says. "That's what my father used to tell me. That's what I told my son before he passed. That's what I'm telling you now."

"Solid advice." My eyes flit back toward the screen. "Is that your son?"

"It is. I come here some nights to reminisce. We all need that when we lose sight of what's important." There's a loaded silence. "I'm guessing that's why you're here as well."

I nod, head chock-full of loaded, clattering dice. "Does reminiscing help?"

His nod is far surer than my own. "It helps to remind me that there's so much love in the world, even in the face of adversity."

"Does that still hold when you're the cause of the adversity?" I ask. The crushing weight of my emotions doubles.

He stands and grabs my shoulder. I lift my chin and our gazes connect. He's staring at me with the assured intensity I've always longed for from my father. "Santas come and go here, but you? You embody the spirit. That spirit has worked miracles before."

"A miracle is a lot to deliver."

"Miracles come in all shapes and sizes, son." The moniker carves its way into my sternum. Takes my heart and cradles it. "Remind yourself of that. Remind Quinn of that."

"How?" I ask, voice as paper thin as the straws I'm grasping at.

"Here." He presses me down into the chair he just got up from and types in Patrick Hargrave . Up pop hundreds of thousands of my memories featuring hundreds of different people in thousands of different locations. Some forgotten. Some still stored in my own memory bank for safekeeping. All containing sensations and experiences that made me who I am today. That turned Quinn and me into the couple we are.

My shaky hand taps the first one that calls out to me. It's when Quinn and I first met.

"I still have hope, Patrick." He's facing the door now. Hand on the sensor. Words barely above a scrape. "Hold on to yours, too."