A mix of emotion poured through him, the need to compartmentalize kicking in quickly. In his old life, back in Boston, he'd have marshaled his inner troops faster, digging trench lines to contain feelings that were too loose.
Up here in Maine, he'd let those skills get rusty, not thinking he'd need them.
Not really wanting them, frankly.
But now? He felt the rust of old inner gears creak as he set those processes in motion.
And he smiled at Khalil, who stared back blankly.
“Harriet and Khalil came home,” Ruth explained to Sandy. “I always go to them because he's so difficult on planes, you know? They've been home for a week, and she came down with a nagging cough. Went into the hospital yesterday. Insisted I bring Khalil here. He loves Santa.”
At those words, Khalil's eyes cut to Mike, who smiled at him. The kid had gorgeous brown eyes, as if someone cut a hundred shades of brown and gold into pieces and made a collage with a pupil in the middle.
“Santa,” Khalil said, but the name meant so much more as Mike cleared his throat, then gave a hearty chuckle that made the kid's impossibly big eyes widen. He had a thin nose, high cheekbones, and the close-cut hair of a kid who had to be wrestled into a simple buzz cut with an electric razor.
Little boy simple.
Ruth, his grandmother, had white hair, grown long and braided, with washed out blue eyes that made Mike wonder if his own eyes would lose color like that, fade away like jagged rock worn smooth. Khalil must take after his dad, Mike thought to himself, though he noticed no one mentioned the guy.
“Ho ho ho,” Mike said gently, going into character but winging it. Pete had talked to him about the kids with special needs, how sometimes they couldn't handle much sound or that eye contact would be fleeting. “Be kind. You just need to be kind. Treat them like an individual. Go with what they need most,” was all he'd said, as if Mike would naturally know what to do.
He'd never missed Pete more than he did right now.
“Santa!” Khalil repeated. “Want Mama.” Gaze cutting to the lower right, the boy began muttering something softly to himself. It sounded like a string of letters.
Ruth's hand flew to her mouth as the little boy took one step closer to Mike, looking at the basket of candy canes in Sandy's hand. He reached for one, took it, then held it up to Ruth.
Hands shaking, she opened it for him, then gave Mike a guilty smile.
“It'll make this easier if he can taste it now. No meltdown,” she whispered.
“I love candy canes, too, Ruth. I'm just like Khalil,” he said, lightly patting the boy's shoulder.
Khalil stiffened.
Mike stopped.
“You like candy canes,” he said moving slightly closer to Khalil, who smiled shyly as he took the candy and pressed it against his tongue, then pulled it out, the opposite of licking.
“Yes,” the boy answered.
Mike felt like he'd scored a home run.
“Will you be my friend, Khalil?”
“Yes.”
“Do you like Christmas?”
“Yes. Want Mama.”
“You want to see your mama?”
“Want Mama.”
“You love your mama?”
“Love Mama.”
Mike looked at Ruth, who shrugged helplessly. “We're hoping she'll be home in a few days, but the doctors don't know. And it's complicated. Might take months for her to recover, and Khalil could need to transfer here. Enroll in school and get his IEP, his services somehow worked out with the schools. I don't know how it all works. The social workers told us her insurance doesn't cover...” Ruth shook her head hastily, as if ashamed. “Sorry for blabbing. I don't know where that's all coming from. I'm a mess. Need to pull myself together. I won't get into all that.” Her mouth went in a flat line, eyes on her grandson. “We'll be fine. Khalil will be fine,” she added in a louder voice, as if reassuring him.
Sorrow pierced Mike, his eyes catching Sandy's. She was fighting tears.
“Harriet's a fighter, Ruth. Always has been,” Sandy whispered in her ear.
Khalil froze. Mike realized he was listening to every word.
Understood it all, too.
“You like to be happy, Khalil?” he asked, sticking to safe, simple questions.
The boy nodded, touching the candy to his tongue.
“What makes you happy?”
No answer.
“Khalil likes to weigh things. And to look at stuff in microscopes. Harriet's always talking about how she needs a better scale because the bathroom one doesn't measure grams,” Ruth laughed. “And Khalil watches these videos on YouTube about all these fancy weighing contraptions.”
“Germs,” Khalil said. “Germs are yucky.”
“Germs?” Mike asked, taking the chance and putting his hand on Khalil's shoulder.
No tension this time.
“Yes. Germs are dirty. Germs make people ill.”
“You're right!”
“Ill is the opposite of healthy.”
“That's very true,” Mike replied, just going with it and trying to keep the kid talking. The more he spoke, the more relaxed Ruth seemed to be.
“Mama is ill. Mama is not healthy.”
Oh, boy.
Mike's throat tightened.
“Khalil,” Mike said, taking a big chance, bending down to catch the child's eye. “Your mama is going to be healthy. She will be.”
Sandy cut him a Be careful look.
“Want Mama for Christmas.”
“You want her home for Christmas?”
“Want Santa to bring Mama home.”
Mike's heart snapped in two. Right then, right there. Just – crack.
“I've never heard him speak so much,” Ruth murmured to Sandy, who looked down the line of waiting families, which were mercifully small in number, though the kids squirmed. The mother in line behind Khalil and Ruth could hear everything and was clearly struggling with her emotions, too.
Khalil's eyes bore into him, as if all Mike's time on earth were spent in preparation for this moment. Deep brown eyes challenged him to do what Khalil needed most.
And Mike couldn't. He literally could not.
By God, he would if he had that power, though.
“You really want your mama home,” Mike said, using empathy in place of action because what the hell else could he do? Clearing his throat again, he realized he was damn close to tears. “And I'm going to try, but is there something else you want for Christmas?”
Khalil's soft little body leaned in to Mike, his fingers playing with the white fake fur piping on his sleeve.
“Want Mama. Want more candy cane.” Before Sandy could blink, his little hand went in the basket, and he grabbed one, head dipping down impishly.
“Ho ho ho, Khalil, that's fine.”
A child in line said, “I want two, too!” to her mother, who shushed her.
Sandy whispered something to Ruth, who suddenly pulled out her camera – an honest to goodness camera – and began taking pictures. Sandy always took a few for good measure with her own phone, ready to email them to anyone who needed them.
“You're a good boy, Khalil,” Mike said, feeling helpless. He couldn't promise to give the kid what he wanted more than anything else in the world.