Wastrel Trees

“Welcome! Happy Holidays! I’m so glad you arrived safely!” she grins enthusiastically, charm bracelets clinking together over her bony wrists. We have the lights and the tree. Ornate decorations, hung with a meticulous fervor, adorn our house. Dozens of mirrors on the west wall reflect the brilliant colors of the tree. Artfully scattered presents, wrapped in red and gold with green ribbons perched atop, wait for Christmas morning. Embroidered stockings hang from a mantle above a crackling log in a marble fireplace. Store bought pinecones permeate the house with a fresh, woodsy scent, and baked cookies drench the air in hot, sugary layers. The signs on the wall, the songs on the radio, the books I read to my little brother; they all say Christmas revolves around peace, love, joy, and hope.

            In my house, the perfume of pinecones and cookies covers stale cigarettes. My mother’s quirky holiday sweaters overshoot her thin arms, perfectly hiding the needle marks. Empty tequila bottles cower behind overly excited snowmen and red nosed reindeer. At night, I wait up, not for Santa Claus and his magic reindeer, but for my mother to pass out, drunk. I clean, not wrapping paper, but vomit and used needles. All I want for Christmas is relief, but unlike Atlas, I cannot trick another into carrying the weight for me.

            She giggles, and I groan, aware of what follows. “You dog!” she shrieks playfully, “You shouldn’t have!” Her vibrant smile flashes on me. “Look Aimee! A new necklace! See how gorgeous? The steely blue eyes of her new boyfriend linger over my body. “Hello.” he leers

            “Oh, Jim,” she blushes, “I forgot to introduce you to my daughter Aimee.” Her eyes shine too brightly and her hands shake in anticipation as she chatters about everything and nothing.

            Jim slides away from my mother, ever so subtly inching near me. His candy apple red tie screams out at some unknown instinct inside, and I want to run.

            Sometimes, while driving to school, my little brother mumbles to himself in the backseat, and I watch the exits pass by. I wonder if I could leave and not come back, just take the baby, and run away. But Jim creeps closer, and I break out of my reverie. “Aimee,” my mother simpers, “I need to fix Jim some dinner. You can entertain him, right sweetheart?”

            “Yes.” I murmur, ignoring the pain in her mistletoe green eyes. “I know what to do.”