Jerome’s Santa

Melissa Juchniewicz

Jerome came to me when he was seven. I had been training for specialized foster care, and when I was told about this kid who had nowhere to be discharged from a child psychiatric unit, I raised my hand. It was my only try at being a parent.

It was late November when I brought him to my house, which was not much more than a cabin I had bought a few years back at auction. It was next to a lake and the leaves were turning. Most of his time Jerome spent hiding under a blanket, except to watch Power Rangers when he’d sit in front of the TV clutching the blanket under his chin. He lashed out occasionally when it was time to turn it off, or to eat, or sleep. He was an angry, sullen little boy.

At Christmastime, I got a tree and hung red and green crepe paper around the house. Like Jerome, I hadn’t had a joyful Christmas in a number of years. I struggled to remember the preparations for the holiday, but I did remember to stay up late after putting him to bed on Christmas Eve, to wrap presents and put them under the tree.

In the morning I was in the kitchen sipping coffee. He didn’t see me as he crept down the stairs. Halfway down he spotted the presents under the tree. He stopped and gripped the banister.

“Santa,” he said in a loud whisper to himself.

He said it like he had known all along, despite what his tough years had taught him, that Santa was real, and Santa had come to him.

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