Christmas lights, green and red and white, sparkle on the eaves of the houses. I'm sitting in my car on a familiar street in Canarsie, like some kind of criminal casing people's houses. I wouldn't be surprised if a uniformed officer responded to a call from a resident and came knocking on my window to shine a flashlight in my eyes.
My memories are like a strobe, choppy and flashing and vivid. I read once that it is a sign of a traumatic childhood when one cannot track their memories in a fluid time line. Perhaps this is our brains way of accommodating the chaos of existence. I rationalize that maybe I remember what I can, and have forgotten what I must. Though, at times, I wish I could forget more.
I break the seal on the bottle I purchased to refresh my cabinet at home. When I bought it, I hadn't planned on taking a drink tonight. But then again, I hadn't planned on driving out to the neighborhood. I take a deep sip and watch the Christmas lights reflect in the bottle.
Bobby, could you hand me that? It's my mother's voice that echoes in my brain. She's reaching for the somewhat bent silver metal 3-dimensional star that we wedge, year after year, on top of our Christmas tree. It's just me and mom at home. Dad's long since split, Frank's got other plans. I hand her the star. She runs her fingers across the surface, straightening the metal, reshaping the tines. She's not strong enough to bring it back into balance, so it remains slightly off kilter. She hand s it to me to place on the tree. When we were kids, my dad would place the star. After dad left, Frank would do it. Now that it's just me, I carry that privilege. I don't even need to stand on a stool. I'm tall enough to reach the top of the tree.
Perfect. My mother smiles. I don't feel perfect. I take another long drink from the bottle. I lean back, pressing against the seat of my car and close my eyes. A different memory strobes in my brain.
Mistletoe. My mother says, standing in the entryway to our home. I'm just a little boy, looking up at my mother standing underneath the mistletoe. There's a man coming through the door, not my dad. Kiss me, my mother smiles. Her hair is dark and thick and twisted up near the nape of her neck. Her skin is smooth and young, her lips are red. I know the man in my memory. Back then, I knew him as Uncle Mark. The memory surprises me, it's a new one that's wormed its way to the surface. My stomach twists.
A long time ago I remember kissing someone underneath the mistletoe. Her name was Annie. I feel her thick blonde hair running through my fingers, her warm, sweet lips against mine. She's a nurse and I want her to heal me. But I'm stationed overseas, and I let the tide of my life sweep her away. She's married now, with a wonderful life that might've been mine.
I'm brought back to the here and now by my phone ringing in my pocket, I can feel it vibrating against my heart. I set the near empty fifth aside and fumble with answering.
"Hey," Eames says, as I answer. "You called." She reminds me.
"Yeah," I reply trying to remember when I called, why I called.
"What're you doing?" she asks.
"Looking at Christmas lights," I reply with a bit of the truth.
"Where are you?" she knows that there's more going on with me than looking at Christmas lights.
"The neighborhood," I say, giving her the name of the street.
"How are the Christmas lights this year?" she asks, masking some of the concern in her voice.
I close my eyes, "red and green and white." I say.
"Are they especially nice this year?" she continues the conversation and I wonder sometimes why she bothers with me.
"No, not especially," I reply, slushing the word especially. My eyes are still closed as my brain fumbles over images. "I think I need a ride home," I say, realizing I cannot possibly drive, I can barely think.
"Yeah," she says, "I'm on my way," she admits. "Look for my lights," she says.
So I stop looking at the Christmas lights and start looking for hers.