We all have lots
of Christmas memories, some happy, some sad. Some we remember more than others.
There’s
a scene in my mystery novel, Unfinished
Business, where Ann and her older sister, Marnie, are remembering a
Christmas from their childhoods: the year they decided to search their parents’
house, looking for their presents. More than anything, Ann wanted a Cabbage
Patch doll for Christmas that year and, in a hidden compartment in the closet of the master bedroom, she found it. At first, she was thrilled but, as you can
imagine, finding the doll put quite a damper on her Christmas. She ruined her
own surprise.
That
scene was a fictionalized version of what happened to me when I was a child. I wanted
a Patty Play Pal doll so badly and, like Ann, I searched our house and found
the doll hidden in my parents’ closet. On Christmas Day, I had to pretend to be
surprised when I unwrapped the doll but I’m pretty sure my mom and dad knew the truth. Needless
to say, that was the first and last time I ever went looking to see what Santa
or my parents had gotten me for Christmas. (By the way, since my name is
Patricia, I named the doll Cathy.)
