christmas lights

Last year, the Christmas lights were so tangled that it took two days of griping and Cara’s nimble fingers to straighten out the matted bunch. They’re vintage C6 bulbs on an ivy green wire; I refuse to replace them. Lights always go up on Thanksgiving Day in my house. It was after Black Friday that I wrapped the final cord around the tree last year. That’s not happening again. 

I packed the lights myself after the fiasco, painstakingly, might I add. I fashioned a storage system out of cardboard, cutting sizable notches into the side to guide each bundle around, three wraps per notch, six boxes of lights. This season, five and a half boxes were spent on the house, the tree, the windows, the bushes, and the staircase. The last half sat abandoned at the bottom of the box, barring the pale yellow star tree topper wrapped in newspaper. I always chose the angel for our tree, leaving the star for another. 

Shrugging on a green puffer, red crocheted hat, patchwork gloves, scarf, and leather boots, I made my way outside, not quietly, but with a flair of subtlety. My absence would be noticed, yet not calling attention to itself. It’s 40 degrees, quite warm compared to Cara’s dreaded Minnesota Novembers, but freezing for a Southern girl in central Arkansas. The thyroid issues don’t help with circulation, hence the hat for my ears and wool socks. Bundled and shivering, I toss the box of lights into the passenger seat of my Corolla. 

The garage lights flash. “Ellen!.” Cara’s whisper cuts through the chilly evening air. 

I freeze and offer a guilty smile, like a child caught snooping under the Christmas tree after hours. Her dark eyes narrow, then settle. She knew I would leave tonight for a short time; I always do. She huffs, blotting the darkness with warm, breathy puffs. “Leaving without me?”

I gape. “But you—.”

“Forget what I said,” Cara says. “I’m more concerned about you sniffing around the side of the highway alone in the dead of night —.”

“It’s only 7.”

“It’s pitch black!” Cara snaps. She gestures around, no stars above us. We can’t see them in the city because light pollution swallows them like cannibals. Cara, a small-town Midwesterner, detest that she can snow off her knowledge of the cosmos, zodiacs and spirit guides included. I don’t care about their names or meanings or reasons for existence. I miss lying on my great-grandmother’s quilt pressed against a warm body, blinking up at them, waiting for them to blink back.

Cara continued, “People are crazy here, even worse on a holiday. You aren’t getting run over on Thanksgiving. I won’t allow it.”

We stare. I fiddle with the fringe of my scarf. She tugs on fingerless gloves embroidered with celestial bodies.

“If you’re sure.” I shrug. “Hop in.”

Cara playfully bumps me away from the driver’s side door, knocking me with her hip. “I’ll drive. You handle the rest.”

Cara and I ate our feast at noon, a tradition passed on from her family. “We’re hungry by lunchtime anyway. Starving. What’s the point of making breakfast when we already started cooking dinner at 9 o’clock?” I don’t mind eating early. It means fewer cars speeding along the highway while traditional families ate over the sounds of clinking glasses, bickering relatives, and rowdy football players. 

Cara hums to “Rudolph” but a notch of scrutiny marks her brow. I rarely used the radio, but Cara loved the local station I grew up with that plays Christmas music string Thanksgiving day. I love the nostalgia, too, but each time I turned on the radio, the last chorus would fade into a slew of commercials, and I rarely listened to two full songs by the time I reached my destination. It beat my hand-me-down Bublé CD from Mom. 

Her concern sparks anxiety. I say, “There’s barely anyone out. You didn’t have to come.”

She sniffs. “I know.”

“But I’m happy you did.”

Cara glances at me. “Yeah. We’ll see.” 

A few minutes of Christmas listening. I say, “Stop up there, where the trees open up. Yeah, just pull off to the side..” I preemptively unbuckle.

“There’s a barrier.” Cara guides the car over anyway.

“No shit. Don’t worry. I’ll just jump it.”

“Are you insa— Fuck!” Cara slams the breaks, swerving a hair's breadth from the barrier. I clutch the door handle and brace. My heart clutches itself, squeezing with mighty force. I forget to breathe and feel dizzy. 

“Cara!” I finally manage a few breaths. Cara stares wide-eyed at the distance, her long dark hair highlighting a pale sheen that washed over her skin. She white-kunckles the steering wheel. 

“Cara?” I reach for her hands. They’re icy, even through my gloves. I pry off both hands and warm them in mine them nestle them between my warm thighs. “We’re okay. It’s okay.”

Cara’s remains face forward despite awkwardly turning her shoulders in my direction. “I— I—,” Cara studders. 

“Whatever it was, it’s not hurt,” I reassure. “We didn’t hit anything.”

Cara turns her dark eyes to mine, barely moving her neck to meet them. Her pupils are wide, the whites wet and milky. She shakes her head. 

“It was an animal, right?” I squeeze her hands and place them in her lap. Hands now free, I move to open the passenger door, but Cara leaps across me and slams it shut. It's my turn to gape again. “Cara, what did you see?”

“I never thought…” She jumps, pointing over my shoulder. “There!”

I whirl around, nabbing my flashlight from the box of lights in the back seat. Cara yanks the car into drive. “No!” I shout and open my door. “I’ll jump out!” 

“Ellen! Please!”

“Just tell me!”

I scream. 

Pale, lifeless eyes peer through the rear window. Red and blue lights flash behind us. The officer knocks on the driver’s side window; Cara reluctantly rolls it down.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya. Ma’am? Er, misses? I saw a bit of a swerve back there. You two alright?” He eyes us skeptically, armed with a pistol, badge, and breathalyzer. 

“Oh, yes,” Cara says lamely.

I pitch in. “It was just an animal. It ran out in front of us.”

“I see.” The officer tugs on his belt. “License and registration, please.”

“Oh, yes,” Cara repeats, fumbling for her wallet. I pop open the glove compartment and dig for my registration. 

The officer checks them out with his silver flashlight which must be freezing against his gloveless fingers. Occasionally, he eyes us from over the documents. “I’m gonna let you two off easy, since y’all don’t smell like whiskey or wine or nothin’. But you two better be getting straight home, ya hear?”

“Yes, sir,” I say. Cara nods quickly and for too long. He clicks his flashlight and slaps the top of my Corolla before reentering his car. I reach back to the backseat for my box of lights. 

“We should go,” Cara whispers, stopping my hand.

“He can’t hear us,” I say.

“He can see us.”

“Just give him a minute. He just warming up the car again and probably regrets not hitting on you.”

“Ellen, please.”

“I’m not leaving,” I insist. “He wants to go home. Cops are notoriously lazy. And stupid. He didn’t look dangerous. We’ll be fine.”

“We almost got arrested!”

“Oh, please.”

Cara looks past me. “You wouldn’t get it.”

I open my mouth, but nothing leaks out. I close my eyes and lay back against the seat. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” I take a few breaths. Four seconds in. Seven seconds hold. Four seconds out. I hear a car pass: it’s the cop. He nods as he passes. I meet her eyes — her wide, dark, fearful eyes. “But I’m not leaving until I decorate that tree.”

Cara deflates. I know I’m hurting her, but I was going to do this whether she accompanied me or not, approved or not. I had for five years. 

“I know,” Cara sniffs. “I shouldn’t have come.”

I frown, but don’t say anything. All words have abandoned me; I only see the mission ahead. At last, I leave the car, toting my nearly-empty box to the barrier. Cara lingers for a few seconds, then her door squeaks open and slams shut. Her scuffling and chattering follows me to the barrier. 

“So that’s it,” Cara says, landing eyes on the prize.

“Yep.”

“I always forget what it looks like without the lights. It’s like it doesn’t exist outside of Christmas.”

I swallow. “Yeah. That’s why I have to do this.” Cara nods. 

I drop the box over the barrier and leap. It’s not so tall of a jump, just awkward. Cara attempts butt first, sitting on top and swinging her legs over. She knows how to make anything look beautiful.

A scraggly spruce tree sits lonely in a ditch six feet from the barrier. Another ten feet behind it, an expanse of trees that protect the suburbs from street noise, hitchhikers, and highway traffic. The tree sits at a crucial point, marking a wide opening. It’s a road of sorts, splitting the trees like I might do to the carpet when I’ve dropped an earring, or a gardener digging rows in a patch of soil. It looks like any other road — yellow dashes, white lines, asphalt, a solitary street light sitting at its apex. But this is no ordinary road. I rarely see anyone drive on it, not anymore. From where Cara and I stand next to the little naked spruce, our eyes trail the spine of the road up and up and up. It’s quite a steep incline, perfect for thrill-seeking kids to hill bomb on skates or sled on in the winter if we were ever blessed with enough snow. 

I imagine that’s what Cara sees. I see death here. The lonely lamppost at the top of the hill taunts me, beckons me. This road might as well be a path to hell. 

Cara lies a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Will you show me?” 

Tears spring to my eyes. I nod, handing her the flashlight. It only takes a minute or two to wrap the short string of lights around the spruce. I clutch the star. Cara waits painterly, empathy stitching onto her brow where worry lived minutes before. I offer her the tree topper. 

She holds up her hands as a surrenderer would in war. “I couldn’t.”

“Please,” I whisper. “He always put on the tree topper. It’s only fitting that you do it, too.”

She pauses, wipes her nose, and trades the flashlight for the star. “El?” 

“Yeah?”

“It wasn’t an animal.”

I don’t say anything.

“I saw… him,” she continues. “It was so quick. One second by the tree, the next, gone. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

I don’t know what to make of this. Cara’s preternaturally in-tune with Earth. I don’t possess the same floaty ideology, but she helps me separate my feet from the ground once in a while. 

I offer a small smile. “Then he must be happy you’re here.” A tear falls from my eye; Cara brushes it away, touching her nose to mine, then a gentle kiss.

“Go on,” I say, nudging her ribs. 

She hops back and scrunches up her nose. “So you believe me, then?”

I shrug. “Why not? You’re sniffing around the side of the highway with me to decorate a little spruce that never grows. Only really trustworthy people do that.”

Cara rolls her eyes. “I shouldn’t have asked.” With a gentle tug, she fastens the little star to the little tree. A three-second countdown, and I switch the battery on. Lights of blue, green, red, and yellow illuminate the ditch littered with fast-food cups and cigarette butts. I squint and the lights swirl and blend and dance into a kaleidoscope of color. 

“Thank you,” I say. Cara nestles close and hugs my waist from the side. 

“It’s nothing,” she replies. 

We stand holding each other, gazing at the lights until Cara starts sneezing and my hands lose circulation.

“Home?” I whisper into her hair. She’s a few inches shorter, so it's not a far reach.

“Sure.” Cara gathers up the now-empty box and tosses in the flashlight. The lights are prettier in the dark. I rummage through my pockets for the keys when Cara shushes me, bringing a finger to her lips, and pointing up the slope to the streetlight. 

I suck in a breath. It’s a man. No ordinary man, though he is dressed like one. I can barely make out his features. A blue scarf, old Wranglers, button-up flannel, and a red crocheted hat. He’s pale and looks cold to the touch, but his breath doesn’t smoke from his mouth like mine and Cara’s. 

He waves. I raise a hand. Cara covers her mouth with both hands. With that, he nods and turns away, disappearing over the slope.

I meet Cara’s eyes and smile. I’m smiling so wide I feel like a child despite the tears carving rivers down my face. I imagine he’s smiling, too, only using the left corner of his lips where his lone dimple shines. Cara removes her hands and laughs. “What the fuck?”

I laugh. “Yeah, I’m really happy you came with me.”

“Me, too.” Cara casts a glance at the streetlight, but I don’t look back. He saw what he needed, as did I. All of us did. 

I don’t let Cara drive. I pull away from the barrier, empty box (barring the flashlight) stowed in the trunk. The little spruce tree I planted can be seen once again in the form of Christmas lights at the end of a lonely road. By next Thanksgiving, it will grow twice its height.