Gift Exchange by Donovan Douglas Thiesson

Two years ago, Evan got the worst gift for Christmas, and now that it's Christmas Eve again he's determined to make it right with Santa.

Image generated with OpenAI

'Twas the night before Christmas when Evan snuck from the house. He crept past his parents, quiet as a mouse. Snuggle Ears, the family beagle, raised his head just high enough to give Evan an indifferent sniff as he tiptoed down the hall to the foyer. He had put his boots on in his room and had set his backpack innocuously beside the front door. With his sack slung over his shoulder, he exited his home to the winter twilight beyond.

As he made his way to the bus stop two blocks away, he let his shoulders droop. It would make him inconspicuous should his parents glance out the bay window. He had told them he needed to sleep early because he felt sick and wanted to feel rested for presents and stockings in the morning.

Buses ran all through the night on Christmas Eve. "It stops the drunks from killing too many people," his dad had told him. Evan knew what drunks looked like because of Auntie Bertha, who reeked of vinegar and pinched his cheeks hard and made aggressive "oooOOOOoo" sounds when she did so.

As he turned the corner at the end of the street, the wind whipped him in the face, pulling tears from the corners of his eyes. He scrunched his hood tight and turned his gaze downwards. Several figures stood at the bus stop, which fit in perfect with his plan. He slowed, hoping the bus would be on time. It needed to be exactly on time. As he crossed the last street before the stop, there came a sigh from behind him. The bus.

He picked up his pace, but was careful not to run as the 18-Express pulled alongside the curb. The doors hissed and parted like the mouth of a snake with its head tilted sideways. He reached the crowd as the last of the group, a stocky man with a woolen cap, stepped up onto the bus. Evan took a deep breath and gingerly followed, careful not to slip on the brown slushy muck that dripped from the corrugated steps.

The driver glanced in his direction, confused, and Evan pointed at the man going down the aisle. The driver nodded and his face sagged back into apathy. Evan held his breath as he began to drop quarters into the meter. He didn't know how many he would need, and as the quarters dwindled, he began to worry. What if I don't have enough? He had brought his whole allowance and had exchanged his five-dollar bill for quarters at the corner store. But how much was the bus anyways?

The light on the meter blinked from red to green. Evan cleared his throat and tried to make his voice sound deeper.

"Can I get a transfer?"

The driver handed a small piece of paper to Evan, and he scooted down the aisle, picking a seat far away from the other patrons. Evan didn't see anyone like Auntie Bertha on the bus, but he was careful anyways. He didn't want pinched cheeks, not this Christmas.

He was sure he was on the right bus, at least pretty sure. He had printed out the bus routes, bus times and bus numbers. He had taken his dad's watch - the digital one, not the confusing ones with hands and dials - and he knew his phone number by heart.

The terror of being lost at the age of seven hung in his mind like a hungry stocking. What if he was on the wrong side of the street when the bus came, and he ended up going the wrong way? Would the bus driver leave him at the downtown bus terminal to fend for himself? He watched through the frosted window for the high school. After the school, only three more stops.

Evan had triple checked Santa's hours online. It was six o' clock now, and Santa stayed at the mall until nine, which left him three hours. A long time, two whole movies.

There it is! Excitement buzzed up his spine. The high school slogged into view, its unique canted ceiling thrust out from the snowy school yard like a jagged mountain peak. No drunks to interfere so far, and he itched with anticipation.

I need to check my blood sugar, he thought. He had brought his glucose meter with him, just for this purpose. By the end of tonight, however, he didn't think he would need it anymore. Not if his plan went off without a hitch.

---

Evan's life changed exactly two years ago. While the rest of the children spent December sledding down the small hill of snow piled up in the playground, Evan sat in the nurse's office, clutching his stomach and squinting his eyes. Sometimes his best friend Simone would stay with him, but only for a few minutes, and eventually not at all. Evan learned early on how lonely pain could be.

There was a wait-time backlog to see a pediatrician in Saskatoon.

"Goddamn government healthcare," his mom groaned, while his father rolled his eyes. Evan didn't know what that meant, but it sure sounded bad, so he nodded and agreed.

"Better to wait and suffer than to sit in the ER with junkies!"

On Christmas morning Evan went blind. He couldn't see the other presents because his real present was darkness. The other gifts were just tricks, shadows that evaded even the strongest of squints. He didn't get a Nintendo Switch, just Lego, the same Star Wars set that he got for his birthday. His mom didn't care about junkies anymore, so they went to the ER, which stank of Lysol and grandparents. She cried, but in a way that rattled her chest like a cheap snare drum.

Evan peed himself before he saw the doctor. He couldn't stop drinking, and his dad kept buying him cokes and wrapping his arm around his shoulders, even after he peed. They sat for an hour and Evan listened to the hushed, mewling complaints that stained the room. He wondered if they were junkies, maybe being this sick he was a junkie, and his dad argued with his mom as quietly as he could.

He wanted to sleep, but his head felt like it was made of Cool Whip. When the nurse finally called for Evan, he tried to stand, but he got dizzy and stumbled. Pee had glued his pants to his legs like itchy scotch tape, but everyone pretended not to notice. The nurse put him in a wheelchair, which should have been fun, but his stomach hurt too much and ruined his first wheelchair ride.

The doctor poked and prodded. He shone a small light into Evan's ears and eyes, and made him blink. Evan told him he peed, and the doctor said it was okay.

"Are you thirsty? Do your shoulders hurt? How do your toes and fingers feel?"

Later, the doctor asked his parents questions, but in a different voice. Not angry, but almost angry, like when Ms. Spence would try to teach while the kids in the back talked.

They cut Evan repeatedly, sharp little pricks on the tips of his fingers. Then they filled him with needles, one in his arm, several in his leg. They taped something to him, and the tape hurt his skin, and Evan wondered will I scream when they pull it off? They made him sleepy. As he fell asleep, he heard the doctor whisper the name of Santa's first present.

Diabetes.

---

The bus pulled in behind the mall, sluicing to a stop, the mall hard to recognize from behind. Drab walls and security lights replaced the laughing store fronts and neon marquees. Only the entrance was recognizable, with its pastel green, triangular overhang boxed in by brown faux brickwork.

Evan stepped down from the bottom step of the bus and sunk his boots into the frozen mush below. He misjudged how high the space was, and his heel shot out from beneath the rest of his foot. He reeled backwards, both arms pin wheeling. The man who stood behind Evan grabbed him by both arms and held him steady.

"You okay, young buck?" The man was forty, maybe fifty, it was hard for Evan to tell because once you were older than eighteen you were just old. He had a funny grey moustache that jiggled like cranberry jelly when he spoke.

"I'm okay, thanks," Evan stuttered.

"I think you forgot this on your seat, son." The man handed Evan his backpack. Evan clutched it to his chest and nodded his head comically.

"Thanks," he blurted out, then turned and ran for the entrance, lifting his boots high and stomping down extra hard so he wouldn't slip again.

Evan, you're a dumb shit. That's what his dad would say. Evan couldn't say swears out loud, because his mom said cussing made baby Jesus cry, but he could think them all he wanted. You're being a dumb little shit.

He slid the straps over his shoulders, pushed at the pneumatic doors. They sighed open, gasping warm, damp air into the frigid evening. He steadied his breathing and forced himself to slow down to a crawl. If you go too fast, you'll mess up again.

A trickle of people muttered and roamed the aisles, filing through the vendors that only appeared around Christmas time. He recognized his mom's favorite, Hickory Farms. They sold spicy meat that Evan hated and tiny pieces of cheese that stank worse than eggnog.

Evan didn't know where Santa was hiding, but he had given plenty of thought to this dilemma late at night, staring at the ceiling while his insides cramped and burned. Last year there had been signs in the food court that led the way to Santa like gingerbread crumbs, and he just needed to spot one and practice his words.

He walked down the corridor, skirting mothers with strollers and darting between anxious fathers looking for that perfect gift two weeks too late. Adults were problems when they became too concerned, Evan knew this more than anything else.

---

His parents did not take well to the diabetes. Evan had been in the hospital two weeks before his body healed. Not all of it, of course, the tips of his fingers, his thighs, and his upper arms would never heal. Instead, they became ragged and spongy with scar tissue. But after two weeks, the pain inside his body was mostly gone, and he could see again.

The doctors and nurses stopped giving Evan needles, and instead made him give himself needles, so he had no one left to blame if he hit a vein or a nerve. He dreamed of home, his bed, his bathtub toys, of anywhere but the hospital.

He grew accustomed to the wrapping paper blankets that wouldn't stay warm, the jagged beeping that kept him awake, and the desperate prayers from the bed next to his. But he would never get used to the goddamn Jello - how can anyone make bad Jello? And finally, a nurse told him, no more! He could go home.

Except his parents told the same nurse they were not ready.

What were they doing? They worked, they had a house, they were adults. But they weren't ready. They weren't ready for him. They didn't think they could care for a child - no, that wasn't right − they couldn't care for diabetes. Because he wasn't a child anymore, not in their eyes. He was a diabetic. And it didn't matter if he grew up to be a firefighter, an astronaut, even a racecar driver. He would never again be anything or anyone else.

---

Any other evening at the mall he would have tugged at his mom's hand, made his way to the Game Stop, and followed it up with his favorite store of all, Candy Land. Except candy was lost to him, ripped from his childhood like a cheap bow from a gift. They did sell diabetic candy there, a betrayal fit only for the elderly. It was made from something called sorbitol that tasted like his mom's face cream, and Stevia, which tasted exactly like it sounded. These candies were called Sobees; little pucks that were sticky without being wet, and seemed hard, but were just soft enough for your teeth to sink into and get stuck. They made you crap for a day if you ate too much, but who'd want to?

So, Evan had learned to forget about candies, chocolates and sweets. He would think about frogs, snails, bathroom smells and old moldy feet when the other kids ate apple turnovers. On the rare days Simone stayed by his side during recess, he ate his chocolate pudding, right in front of Evan. It made Evan want to hit Simone until he stopped moving.

The food court was bigger than he remembered. His parents were no longer there to filter the adult world into bite sized chunks. Evan scooted up on top of one of the green metal chairs at an empty table, his legs still too short to reach the tiled floor. He unshouldered his backpack, unzipped it, and rustled around inside for his present. He looked both ways to make sure no one was watching, and covertly slipped his gift into his parka pocket.

The trembles from earlier that evening were gone, so his blood sugar was fine; maybe a little high, but certainly not low. Another pain, not his blood sugar, creeped up his sides like mistletoe. His penis began to burn softly, and his shoulder blades crackled like cellophane. Hidden just beneath his stomach, a familiar throb pulsed across the inside of his skin, so he shuffled through his backpack and found a pill bottle.

The bottle said Trimoxazole, but Evan couldn't pronounce it, and he wasn't the only one because his dad just said Trimo. A single pill, and in a few minutes he would be fine. He had no water, so he swallowed it dry, gulping like a fish to get it all the way down before it stuck in his throat.

---

Last Christmas Eve, Evan had been to the doctor's office to talk about his coughing and high blood sugar. The doctor had talked to his parents, right in front of him, so he understood the situation. Sometimes when people get a virus, the insulin doesn't work right. Usually it lasts a few days, just like a cold. It's imperative Evan doesn't eat anything with sugar right now.

But it was Christmas, and Christmas was a time for miracles, his Gramma had told him so. So, wishing only for the smallest of miracles, Evan had snuck a piece of pumpkin pie. And was that really so bad? Other children, all across the world, got pie, cake, Skittles, Freezies, Smarties, everything. Some of them every single day, like Simone, who liked to pull the wings off bugs and fart when he snuck close to you, so how was Evan the bad one?

Downstairs, everyone had gathered around the table, Gramma, Uncle Charlie, even Auntie Bertha, who stank even worse this Christmas and laughed too loud when nothing was funny. All of his cousins were sleeping except Treya, who was a teenager now and old enough to stay up with the adults.

Evan felt like his toes were on fire. He stumbled down the stairs, and his mom looked at him like she was mad, she didn't want him there.

"Go to bed or Santa won't come!"

The fire in Evan's toes shot up into his stomach, and Evan vomited so hard he didn't even have time to open his mouth. Acid and mashed potato shot out of his nostrils and sprayed almost to the kitchen. Treya screamed. His mom tried to run to him but fell against the table instead. Uncle Charlie reached him first, and he picked Evan up and whispered, "It's okay, son. We got you, it's okay."

The ambulance came. His mom wanted to drive, but his dad said they were all too drunk and it wasn't worth it. Evan wasn't worth it. So, they took him in the ambulance, with his mom sitting next to him, clutching his hand too hard. The siren pounded his ear drums, and as the pH of his blood dropped, Evan began screaming until his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

When he woke it was dark. Needles pierced his wrists and tape clung to his flesh. Rhythmic beeping chimed in his ear, both tedious and dreadful. He knew exactly where he was.

The hospital. Again.

Someone sat in the corner, slouched against the chair like a sack of smashed presents.

"Mom?" Evan asked, weakly.

Santa leaned out of the darkness, his head turned to the side, his grin candy cane sharp and far too large. His claws glinted like icicles and his beard writhed like slimy albino ribbons. One giant eye, milky white and as large as a frisbee, shone cold like the moon.

"Ho, ho, ho," it said as it leaned forward.

"Why do you hate me, Santa."

"Ho, ho, ho." With each "ho" Santa pulsed the deepest arterial red.

"I wasn't naughty. I ate my vegetables and brushed my teeth."

There was the pie, though. The doctors had told him, no sugar, and he had promised his mom and dad, and he had lied.

Santa saw right through Evan. Santa's grin got bigger and split his face in two. His eye shone as bright as a star, and Evan squeezed his eyes closed so he wouldn't cry. Santa crawled across the dark hospital room and scrabbled up on top of him, his bloated body as light as tinsel. Santa's breath stunk of peppermint, turkey stuffing and diabetes. It slobbered in his ear:

"The naughty list. Ho. Ho. Ho."

The world turned muddy, and maybe Evan slept, except he was still tired when he opened his eyes again. Doctors and nurses fiddled about, and his mom's cheeks had fresh tear streaks scratched across them. She looked as exhausted as Evan felt.

"Evan," the doctor said jovially. "You don't know how good it is to see you!"

Evan felt nothing, just tingles. Morphine, the doctor said. When it wore off, a new pain crawled around inside of him. Evan didn't mind the cuts on his fingers or the needles anymore. A part of him was dying, deep down inside his body, and death hurt most of all.

The same doctor that had whispered his gift of diabetes a year ago repeated the ritual, leaning towards his mom and whispering in her ear, just loud enough for Evan to hear.

Kidney disease.

He missed the last year of school, because his mom was too scared of what could happen in a day. His friends floated away from him, Simone wasn't even allowed to come over, because Simone had brought Skittles that one time. He missed his last birthday, because kids expected cake, so his mom couldn't risk it, and it didn't matter because the other kids had forgotten about Evan anyways. He even missed Ms. Spence, though not as much as the rest.

Santa had said it to his face, he was on the naughty list. Even the Easter bunny thought so, and as a joke brought Evan a whole basket of Sobees. He didn't trust his parents to understand, so he told the doctor about Santa and what he'd seen.

"Evan, you're young, so some words you don't yet know, but Santa was a hallucination."

"What's a hussation."

"A hallucination is something that isn't real. You saw it because you were sick."

Evan had been sick, but he knew full well that only the very worst of children believed Santa wasn't real. The greatest trick Santa ever played was to convince the world he isn't real. Evan had heard something similar in church once, and that wasn't exactly right, but it was close enough. And of course he saw Santa when he was sick; Santa wanted him to know what dying was like. To hear him scream, to watch him writhe, and to shine his white-hot eye down into his own.

---

Not this year, Evan thought. Enough of sickness. Enough of Santa. It was time to give the gift back, to let Santa know the naughty list was wrong. Fuck you, Santa. Mom and Dad aren't perfect, but you're a million times worse. You're the worst thing in this world, and that's why you live at the top of it, where the rest of the world fears to go.

Evan hopped down from his seat and skimmed along the far end of the food court. A sign read "Santa" above a big arrow, so obvious even a child could read it.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Evan winced. His shoulders hurt like spruce needles had replaced his muscles. He whirled around, and a woman with hair stacked on her head looked down at him. For an instant, he thought it was Auntie Bertha.

"Hi, where's your mom?" she asked. She had a voice like bees drinking from flowers, just like Ms. Spence, his teacher, and the last thing he needed right now was a teacher. Evan flinched away from her.

"Over there." He waved towards the Santa Claus sign. "And I'm not supposed to talk with strangers. So, if you don't mind..."

The woman stood up straight and backed away, her eyes both confused and wary. Evan ducked away from her and he merged into the dense crowd, just another snowflake in the storm.

He heard Santa before he saw him.

"Ho, ho, ho!"

Not like that night in the hospital room when Santa sounded like wet gravel. This was happy and jolly, the "ho, ho, ho" other kids got, a rehearsed hussation.

Evan wasn't buying it, not this time.

And there he was! Blood red splashed across bone white. The most powerful being on the planet, the same one that could be in every home and every mall at the exact same time, who could creep down the narrowest of chimneys and furnace ducts like a bloated spider, who knew the deepest fears of every child all at once and summoned horned animals.

His mom always said Evan should pray to baby Jesus for forgiveness, but Evan was pretty sure baby Jesus was the hussation, and what could a baby do? Evan instead prayed to Santa for forgiveness, to take back Evan's gift, and to fuck off and die.

Evan stood in line. A young girl with pigtails and a pink parka sat on Santa's knee, and he whispered in her ear. Would Santa's breath stink like Evan's? If she lied and ate pie, would he fill her world with pain? Not her. No, her skin wouldn't smell like rotting grapes, and her kidneys wouldn't sear and throb...

Diabetes isn't for good children.

A plump boy a year younger than Evan approached next. He sat on Santa's knee and yelled out "Hotwheels!"

Hotwheels would be perfect.

Evan already knew his Christmas gift. His parents whispered about it when they thought Evan was asleep.

"If we don't find a donor, he's going to die!"

The pudgy boy stepped down and ran back to his parents. Santa beckoned, and Evan ascended the plank steps to Santa's throne. He sat on Santa's bony knee and wrinkled his nose. It never occurred to him that Santa would smell like Auntie Bertha, but deep down it made sense.

Santa leaned forward and slurred words in his ear. "Ho, ho, ho, little fella, what should Santa bring this year?"

Evan pulled his gift from his pocket, leaned in near, and now it was his turn to whisper in Santa's ear.

"Take it back, you son of a bitch."

Evan thrust the insulin injector into Santa's thigh. Santa sighed his vinegar breath into Evan's upturned face for just an instant too long. Then Santa shuddered, and Evan leaped from his lap.

"He stuck me with something! The little shit stuck me with something!"

Evan pushed through a group of confused elves. The big camera at the front went off and then tipped over and smashed. Santa jumped up and then fell, careening into a cardboard reindeer and clutching at his thigh. Evan slid into the crowd that surrounded the pavilion, pushing at the kitsch white fencing and tramping mud into the soft woolen snow.

Evan's insulin injector was measured by units. Ten units corrected Evan's high blood sugar. Thirty would drop a grown man into a coma. Fifty would kill a horse.

Evan had set it to one hundred, just to be safe.

But Evan couldn't be sure, not really. Santa was almost God, maybe even more so, and on Christmas eve he sat at all of the malls in the world at once. So how could he be sure?

Evan wasn't there when Santa began to sweat and foam at the mouth, or when Santa began to stumble, or when Santa went into convulsions so violent, his spine snapped. Evan was already back the way he had come, out the door, just in time for the next bus. Evan had a busy Christmas Eve planned. Santa needed convincing, and he had three more malls to visit.