Even from as far back in line as Molly and I were, I could see Santa’s eyes matched his rosy cheeks. I had a sneaking suspicion the contents of his cocoa thermos went beyond the usual kiddie drink. Not that I blamed him. Hell, I was tempted to see if I could get him to share. I’d about convinced myself the insidious “what if” thoughts I’d been having were purely a psychosomatic response to Laura’s pregnancy, so joining the jolly old elf in a quaff of something strong enough to deaden the pain of being trapped in this store with dozens upon dozens of joyously—and some not so joyously—screaming children and their harried parents sounded pretty good. But of course, it was only a pipe dream, considering the age of the aura I was projecting. Plus, part of me was convinced if I avoided alcohol, then I wouldn’t be pregnant. Superstitious? Probably. But that was the way my mind worked. The same way I didn’t want to take a pregnancy test, because as long as I didn’t know, then I wasn’t pregnant.
