Free The Paper Bag Christmas by Kevin Alan Milne

thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.
    —Francis Pharcellus Church,
The Sun,
September 21, 1897
    W ith only one week left before Christmas Eve, much of our remaining time at the children’s hospital centered around practicing for the Christmas pageant. At least that was the case for Katrina, Madhu, and Aaron, who were fortunate enough to participate. I was forced to find other activities to fill my time, because as soon as Nurse Wimble began her rehearsals, she would scoot me unceremoniously out the door.
    “So sorry, Mo,” she would say, “but we just ain’t ready for this pageant yet, so all distractions need to be gone during our practices.”
    I was saddened not to be able to spend the time with my friends. But more than that, I had caught Lynn staring at me several times when she thought I wasn’t looking. In light of that, I would have liked to watch all of the rehearsals, if only to spend some moments gawking back at the beautiful girl who had so bravely stood up to Nurse Wimble.
    In the absence of my regular cohort, I spent the better part of those final few visits getting better acquainted with the children who, like me, were not participating in the pageant for one reason or another. Timothy was one such child.
    When I arrived at Timothy’s room on the evening of December 22, I figured it would just be a short visit, but it ended up consuming the remainder of the night. The door was propped open and he was sitting upright in bed, watching an animated Christmas special on television.
    “Hi Tim,” I said. “Can I come in?”
    “Sure! How is Santa’s helper doing tonight?” he replied.
    “Good, I guess.”
    Just then the commercial for the famed Air Jammer Road Rammer came on and we both began to sing along with the theme song.
    “Do you still want one of those for Christmas?” he asked excitedly when the commercial was over.
    “Yeah, I suppose,” I offered.
    In truth I hadn’t really given it much thought since I’d started coming to visit the sick children at the hospital. I had been so absorbed in other things that I’d pretty much forgotten about what I wanted for Christmas. I had even forgotten about the grand gift Dr. Ringle had promised me for helping him out.
    “Well, when you see Santa Claus again, tell him I still want one. I’d really like to see how fast it will go across the cafeteria floor!”
    “You mean when I see Dr. Ringle again,” I corrected.
    “Yeah, Dr. Ringle—or Santa. It’s the same thing. Molar, I told you before, Dr. Ringle
is
Santa Claus. Not just any old Santa Claus; he’s the
real
Chris Kringle. I can feel it.”
    “Tim,” I said guardedly, “for one thing, his name is Christoffer K. Ringle, not Chris Kringle. And I’m not even sure I believe in Santa Claus anymore. But if there is such a person, what proof do you have that Dr. Ringle is him? He doesn’t exactly fit the bill, you know, with the wheelchair and being a doctor and all.”
    “It’s him, I swear. I don’t have any proof, but I bet we could get some if we looked hard enough. How about it?”
    “You want to try to prove that he is Santa Claus? You mean snoop around and stuff? Spying on Dr. Ringle?”
    “Well yeah, spying, if that’s what you want to call it. We need to find out exactly where he goes every year, what he does there, and anything else we can find out. Maybe we can get into his office on the second floor and find clues.”
    “I dunno Tim, we could get into a lot of trouble.”
    Even as the words of caution rolled over my vocal chords and left my mouth, I knew very well I was going to participate in Tim’s plan. I loved snooping—it was one of the things I considered myself good at. And getting into trouble, I figured, was just part of being a kid.
    I smiled at Tim. “Then again,” I continued, “it might be a lot of fun!”
    “Cool!” he said as he jumped down from his bed. “You won’t regret this. You’ll see, he is Santa