The Lighthouse

I drain the glass. I have to get control. I push my thoughts back and walk into the other room.

Blinking red lights grab my attention.

“What in the heck is that?” I ask.

CHAPTER 2

“What does it look like?” Dad asks.

I glance at the fake Christmas tree sitting on the table in front of the window. I don’t think I should tell him the tree, leaning too far to the left, resembles a drunken sailor. He might not think that’s as funny as I do. Huge red lights are looped precariously around the tree’s small, fake branches, and the Santa ornaments that Mom used to place on a big, fresh tree, look like they are hanging on for dear life.

I shake my head, study a scratch in the hardwood floor.

“Something wrong?” Dad asks.

Oh, God, now he knows I don’t like the tree.

“Did you put up the tree?” I ask then feel like an idiot because who else would have done it? “It’s really nice,” I lie.

“No it’s not. It looks like crap.”

“It’s cute. Really.”

“It’s fake.”

Like anyone couldn’t tell! I walk to where he’s sitting. He looks up, turns down the volume of the TV.

“Fake, real, it doesn’t matter. I’m flattered that you put up a tree. It’s a great tree.”

“You never could lie very well. It’s crappy. I got it at Wal-Mart, on sale. With you coming for Christmas—”

He stops, gets this weird look on his face, and the gray light from the TV accentuates his frown lines.

“What?” I turn and see my reflection in the window by the tree.

“Nothing. I thought…nothing.” His expression is pure confusion. “We’re missing the news.” Then he points to the tree. “So you like it? The decorations are too big. If you want, we can go get a real one tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t change it for the world. Really, I’m impressed. I know you don’t like Christmas.”

“True.”

“Do you still think it’s a Communist plot against democracy?” Under the tree are two badly wrapped packages. Jesus, I completely forgot to shop! “I need to go Christmas shopping.”

“What?”

“I have to go Christmas shopping tomorrow.” I point to the presents. “I was so busy before I left Tucson, I didn’t even think of gifts.”

Dad looks at me, raises an eyebrow. “How do you know they’re for you?”

“Well, I…I don’t.”

He laughs. “They are, but they aren’t much. I don’t want anything. I still think it’s a Communist plot. The tree seemed to need presents, that’s all. You can open them now, if you want.”

“No, I’ll wait till—”

A commercial about Toyotas blares through the room and tramples the rest of my words. Dad turns down the volume again.

“I have to get you something. I wouldn’t feel right.”

“Okay. Fight the crowds to get me something I don’t want or need.”

I laugh at his familiar directness but feel a little hurt. I love Christmas, the presents and the fun. “But we’ve always exchanged presents.” An image surfaces—of my mother, a serious look on her face, wrapping boxes in pretty paper. My throat tightens and I look around the living room. The over-stuffed couch, the different shades of blue in the Oriental rug that covers most of the hardwood floor, the large picture window with no curtains so early morning sunlight will rush in—all the same, and all seem to be waiting for my mother to return.

I close my eyes, want her here. Then I brush back this futile wish.

“Remember how Mom used to sing, ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’ every evening, right before dinner, starting on the fifteenth?”

“Yeah, I remember.” Dad stares straight ahead.

Brian Williams talks about sextuplets born yesterday in Virginia.

Dad gets up, walks over and hands me the remote. “You know, I think I’ll go for a walk. Watch anything you want, honey.”

“But the news isn’t over.” I stand, motion to Peter Jennings.

“It’s all the same.”

He heads toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms. I get up, follow him, stand in their bedroom doorway. The room looks the same—blue and white everywhere, a woman’s room shared with her husband. Except now there are clothes piled in corners, and the bed isn’t made. I can’t take my eyes off the mess.

“I didn’t have time to pick up,” Dad says.

He’s looking at me. I shrug. “Oh. So you’re going for a walk now?”

“Yeah.” He finds his Nikes under some clothes, sits on the edge of the bed, kicks off his loafers, then jams his feet with the black socks into tennis shoes and ties the laces in double knots.

“It’s kinda late, isn’t it?”

“The fresh air does me good, helps me sleep.”

“But you used to run, always in the morning. You aren’t doing that anymore?”

He shakes his head.

“Are you having trouble sleeping?”

He looks at me as if he’s trying to think of what to say. “A little. Things have changed. I walk now, at night. It seems to help.”

“Help what? The not sleeping?”