Every year, it was customary for the kids to write letters to Santa. I always thought it was kind of redundant, because we, their parents, read the letters before they were sent, and we bought them whatever their little hearts desired - within reason. Still, every year, there was always that one little extra in each Christmas stocking; the one unexpected gift none of us had bought that was somehow exactly what each child had wanted. That surprise gift-giving even included the adults, and ours were always special, unique gifts. Personally, I'd be happier if that dirty old man would stop giving me silk underwear. They are nice, though…. Anyway, this year was the first that Michael was old enough to write a letter too. I guess you could say Michael was a… difficult child. I mean, he would have been potty trained at six months, if only he had mastered the art of standing up first. He was so precocious that he could literally read everybody's mind at that age, and before anyone figured it out, he knew all the family secrets, even if he wasn't able to comprehend them yet. Like that. Difficult. None of the other kids had ever been this determined to grow up. They'd all seemed content to be carried around instead of walking, have their diapers changed instead of going to the bathroom on their own, play with blocks and teddy bears instead of computers - in other words, to act like babies for a couple of years. Michael, on the other hand, had this determination, this drive to mature. It drove Star crazy. I was a little afraid that the two of them wouldn't bond, like mother and child are meant to, because Star was always talking at Michael, trying to get him to calm down, relax, be a little more normal, and it never seemed to work, which I'm sure was frustrating for both of them. I wasn't too involved in the beginning. Yes, I am Michael's father and proud of it, but there was always my wife to be considered, and certainly the other kids, some of them children born of my own body, like Michael was for Star. Things seemed to get a little better after Star's wife left-between him and Michael, anyway. I had reason to know how much he missed her and, I guess you could say, the illusion of what he thought they had together, but once she was gone, Star and Michael were more on their own, and Star just seemed more willing to let Michael do what felt right to him, which in turn relaxed Michael, because he didn't have to fight anyone anymore. Every child is different, and I had never really understood what Star's problem was with Michael. Just let the kid be himself, I thought. Maybe it was because Star felt the sense of destiny surrounding Michael, and it scared him. Maybe he wanted to deny it, and so he tried to make Michael be a regular baby. It really helped things when Rene got involved. Right away, Michael started calling him "daddy," and between Rene and I, we spent a lot of time pulling Michael out of trees. Yes, I did say I was Michael's father, and no, having him call someone else "daddy" did not upset me. I don't seem to have been born with jealousy circuits, and I can't say I've missed them. People who want to be with me are with me, and those who prefer other company, I wish them well. What good has jealousy ever done the world, I ask you? Too logical? Not really. I just don't understand jealousy, and that's the truth of it. Pain? I understand that. And, to get back to Michael, Star wasn't the only one of that pair who was feeling bad. It was painful just watching that little form, straining to lift himself with soft infant muscles, gritting the teeth that hadn't even come in yet, driving himself to do something I'm not sure even he fully understood. Why did he feel so driven? I think Michael really was born for a purpose. In addition to his other gifts, I think he might have what's called "second sight." Maybe his "soul," or whatever, remembers all his past lives, if there are past lives in human experience. I couldn't testify one way or the other. I don't fully remember even all of this life. Star says he remembers being born and even before. I don't. It's another of the things I don't miss at all. But, I digress. Coco helped too. Coco is a cockatoo, one of those beautiful white birds with the yellow crests. One day we walked past a pet shop where Coco was living at the time, and Michael went nuts. All I knew was there was this big bird perched on a stand on the sidewalk, and then he and Michael were having this heart-to-heart conversation. We knew what was good for us; we bought the bird. Now, a caged bird in the house is one thing, but Michael insisted that Coco fly free. And you have no idea how firmly Michael can insist. So Star and Coco had a little man to bird discussion, and Coco learned how to use the potty quicker than Michael had. After that, the only problem was the bird's ubiquitous squawking and his tendency to help himself to anything he fancied that was edible, which, in a household like ours, wasn't that much of a problem. Growing kids make plenty of noise, and they eat a lot too, mostly whatever and wherever they please. It was my house and therefore my job to keep things clean, and after I set it up in my mind, it just became one of those automatic things you do without thinking. Dust? Out it goes. Crumbs on the carpet? Deliver outside to the birds for recycling. Nothing to it. After a while it didn't take more than a fraction of one percent of my consciousness. Having something to look after and care for, namely Coco, seemed to be good for Michael. It got him out of himself, and the bird was such an unintentional clown that Michael wasn't the only one who laughed at his antics. After a while I wondered how we'd ever gotten along without him. It had to be something alive, something real, for Michael. He just wasn't the fanciful type of child who can spend hours cooing over a doll or teddy bear. Some of the other kids had stuffed toys they were fond of, especially at bedtime, but Michael was quite vocal in his disdain for such "things." Anyway, when my buddy Rene finally got around to admitting he was in love with Star, in spite of being so big, strong, and straight, I thought things would finally calm down. Michael had his Star and his Daddy and me too, whenever he needed me, so we could all relax, right? Wrong. So, December came round again. The first week, all the kids, from two to twelve or even older, got out the pencils, pens, and paper (letters to Santa must be written in one's own hand, not on the computer) and commenced their yearly correspondence for the denizen of the pole to the North. Having met the jolly old elf and his missus one year, Star and I always encouraged the kids' friends to write too. Even though Mr. Kringle was purported to be something of a mind-reader himself, a letter never hurt, and anyway I doubted he was as good at it as Michael. It only took the better part of a day, and all the letters were written, looked over for spelling errors by adults, if asked, and ready to tuck into envelopes. Somehow I didn't think it odd that Michael had finished first and painstakingly folded his paper without showing it to anyone. I supposed it was a short letter, but that was typical. Michael was adamant about purchasing Coco, but as far as material things, he'd never asked for much. We delivered the letters by special messenger, as usual, including any written by friends and neighbor's kids, and I all but forgot about them. * * * At two years old, Michael was the size of some six-year-olds, typical of our family. The problem was, he now thought he was eighteen. Most of the kids waited until ten or twelve to start serious training in teleportation and such, but I had a feeling that, if someone didn't step in soon, Michael would be jumping all over on his own. At Star's request, I volunteered to be the one to teach him. So Michael and I set out after breakfast on one of our 'porting practice sessions. We were both bundled for the weather. I would have been comfortable in shorts, but Michael is young enough and small enough to need insulation, whether he's willing to admit it or not. As usual, we jumped here and there, mostly in review. Places you've been to change with time, and it doesn't do to assume you can just revisit them the way they were. That kind of thinking can lead to time travel-something I don't want Michael trying, or even thinking about. After jumping to various familiar spots, I asked Michael to pick a place neither of us had been. He mentally showed me the head of a trail surrounded by tall pines and fir, with a small wooden sign to mark it, half buried in snow. I couldn't see any problem with the place, so I told Michael, "Go." Before you could blink, we arrived, and I had to laugh at Michael, sunk to his armpits in a snowdrift. He has a cat's sense of humor, though, so I soon stopped laughing and helped him "walk light" on top of the crusty snow. The place was as beautiful as it had seemed, and we both took the time to admire the scene in person. The small rough sign said "Elk Ridge Trail," and everywhere birds and squirrels went briskly about their winter business. I was about to suggest we head home for lunch when Michael turned sharply to look down the slight depression in the drifts that was all that marked the path leading from the sign and disappearing over a small rise. One thin, birdlike cry came lightly on the breeze. Michael's eyes widened, and his distressed face turned back to me. All at once he grabbed my hand and half dragged me over the little hill. Snow fell whisper-silent all around us, but beneath the lowest branches of a towering fir was a carpet of dry soil and dead branches, and resting there, cushioned only by what appeared to be a beach towel, was a baby girl. She was unbelievably tiny and almost blue with cold, barely moving her grape-sized fists, and covered in blood and mucus, the twisted cord and useless placenta anchoring her to the memory of an existence of warmth and comfort now only in her past. Michael looked up at me from where he knelt, not touching the too-still form. His eyes pleaded with me to "do something." An abandoned baby. Of course, the authorities should be called - police, ambulance - but we were at least a half mile from the nearest snow-packed dirt road. I looked closer. From her vital signs, even were this tiny morsel brought instantly to a hospital that had the best of facilities, she would be more likely to die than live. Life flickered inside that tender skin, barely there, dimming as we watched. How long had she lain here alone? An hour? More? It couldn't have been much more. I shuddered. There were still predators in these woods, and blood and other rich fluids stained the earth. Michael still held my gaze. It was plain he wanted me to save her, and I thought perhaps I could. But if I touched this child, fanned the flame of her life with my own energy, it would leave her changed-changed in ways I could only guess at. As the Chinese believe, if you save someone's life, they are your responsibility forever. Michael whispered, "Please, Evan," and I sighed and nodded as I sank to my knees beside him. A supportive touch from Star's mind confirmed what I thought, that there had never really been another option. I concentrated, carefully sending the baby the slightest puff of pure energy. Her life was so delicately balanced that too much would push her away from us, into the dark. She drew in the smallest of breaths and released it in a barely audible sigh. Michael looked at me, alarmed - was this a good sign or a bad one? Giving him a smile, I loosened my jacket, unbuttoned my shirt, and reached out to gently gather up the helpless, dirty little body. Baby-blue eyes opened briefly, then squeezed shut as I teased her lips with a nipple. Her skin was icy cold against mine. Suddenly, she latched on, and I felt the exquisite sensation of nursing a hungry baby. Three swallows, four - her whole body relaxed as she let go in exhausted sleep. For an instant, I just held her. I hadn't thought she could stand the strength of the milk we fed our own babies in its pure form, so I had given her about seventy-five percent regular human milk. But that other twenty-five percent was already flowing in to warm, nourish, and change starved tissues. No matter what her story or who her parents had been, she was our baby now. I looked up to smile again at Michael. His dark eyes filled with tears, and he held out his arms. Well, she was his baby; he had found her, and there was still no great certainty that she would survive. Mentally, I reached back home for a pink blanket, outgrown by my daughter Holly. Before wrapping this new child in it, I removed the mucus and blood from her body along with the obsolete placenta and all but an inch of cord, the stub fastened by a neat plastic clip, just as they did at the hospital. The little one slept on as I folded the softness around her now-warm body and placed her in Michael's lap. He cuddled her close, eyes glowing with joy. The decision was made. Whatever happened now, we claimed her. I studied the sheltered area in which we crouched, removing any and all traces of the drama of birth. Blood, fluids, and grubby beach towel went back to neutral particles. The faint trail leading to our hideaway became only fresh, clean snow. I held Michael as he held the babe and took us home. * * * Michael named her Mary Angela. We all agreed that she had arrived four to six weeks prematurely. When someone finally thought of statistics, we found she weighed in at four pounds, six ounces and measured nineteen inches from tiny heels to orange-sized, curly brown and fuzzy crown. That, however, was a couple of days later, when we were pretty sure she was going to survive. My wife, Gaelen, says the baby's roots are Irish and English, with at least one African American ancestor, no farther back than grandparents. Gaelen also says she has identified Mary's mother and probably her father, though I have asked her not to tell me who they are at this time. Maybe never. The teenaged girl has yet to return to Mary's birthplace. It seems to me she has well and truly given up any right she ever had to this baby. I'm still pissed, for Mary's sake, but glad for Michael. He hasn't let Mary out of his sight since we found her, and he insists on sleeping with whoever has nighttime responsibility, since we're taking turns. Mary's little form is rounding out nicely, and she coos and wriggles happily, most of the time. She even "talks" to Coco. Our DNA seems to be compatible with hers. We have gradually increased the percentage of our milk till she's now taking about fifty-fifty. * * * Christmas is still a few days off, but already the whole family has a present - a new family member. I don't suppose I'll ever really know what Michael wrote in his Christmas letter, but I think I can guess. And I think Santa moves in mysterious ways too. |