The Tree

Snowflakes, iridescent in the moonlight, drift, as I watch, bleary-eyed, through frosted windows. Mother Nature’s crystallized breath upon glass, creates a kaleidoscopic view to the world outside.

It’s Christmas Eve and I can’t sleep. I’m not sure how long I’ve been on my side, entranced by the snowfall. I’m sure it’s long enough that the folds in my pillow case have imprinted themselves onto my cheek. It’s no matter.

My husband whispers, “It’s Christmas, and all I can think of is how much I want to leave you.”

I don’t bother to roll over.

I feel nothing. As Elton John would say, “It’s a sad, sad, situation. And it’s getting more and more absurd.” You see…my husband’s been dead for a year. But he’s never really left my side.

I guess I should take you back to the day he left—kind of. A winter storm ravaged the neighborhood. Sleet poured from the heavens, coating everything in ice, as if Midas himself changed mediums. Power lines appeared sleeved in opaque glass tubes. Rooftops resembled ice skating rinks perched at thirty-six degrees, and treacherous streets and sidewalks dared you to step foot. No one dared.

Outside, complete silence—except for the shushing sleet, and occasional boom of thunder. Who knew it could thunder during an ice storm?

As it rumbled, Cliff entered through the front door, carrying winter, and his metal ladder, in with him. He loved that damned ladder,  adjustable from eight to fifteen feet, and the fact he could pop out the bright orange handles on either side in order to lengthen or shorten it, then bang them right back in, locked and loaded. I hated that ladder, because it was heavy and cumbersome, and one wrong adjustment could result in someone losing a finger.

But, what I hated more, was the reason he was trekking it, and melting ice, across our hardwood floors—the Christmas tree. Now don’t get me wrong, I loved Christmas and all of its symbolism, especially the trees. It wasn’t unheard of for me to place one in every room of our home, taking the time to painstakingly decorate each one accordingly. But this tree—the foyer tree, was the bane of my existence.

It was a monolith, spanning upwards of fifteen feet—big and wide and so hard to erect and disassemble. I dreaded putting it up year after year. Dreaded the scratches to my forearms. Of course, when company came, they’d ooh and aah at its magnificence, dressed in its finest heirloom ornaments.

To me, it was cumbersome and looming. Sometimes, I felt it mocking me. As if somehow it knew, Cliff would never agree to abandon it in the storage shed. Even if just for one year—even the year a field mouse took up residence in the balding branches. Cliff insisted it was fine. Surely a can of Lysol would mask the stench of rodent urine, and, once decorated, no-one would be the wiser.

So, here we were again. Tree in the foyer, Cliff climbing the ladder, and me resenting him for winning the argument. Resigned to the fact Christmas should be Merry, I clicked on some holiday music, poured myself a glass of wine, and and started unknotting the lights. I’d painstakingly wrap them around the tree, from the outside in and from the bottom to the middle, and once I couldn’t reach any higher, Cliff, atop the ladder, would take over. I’d pass him the strands, and he back to me, until the tree was covered in white twinkle lights, about 2000 bulbs, to be exact. I handed Cliff the star, perched at the very top of the ladder one leg hoisted over the apex, to straddle both sides.

“Be careful,” I said.

“Relax,” he replied, as he clipped the star to the top of the tree and plugged it in to the end of the light strand.

I had to admit, it was a beautiful sight—the fully lit behemoth, even without ornaments. My resentment became indifference.

“Come down here and help me with these ornaments. If we work together, we can finish this in no time.” I started to unwrap the tissue paper encircling each fragile ornament, when I heard what I thought was Cliff’s strained voice.

“Urggh…” was all he could muster.

I turned in time to see Cliff’s distorted face, terror in his eyes, lights twinkling cheerily behind him. His arms went limp, his body crumpled, and he fell, fifteen feet, in slow motion, down to the floor below.

The next thing I knew, I was kneeling next to Cliff’s body as I pumped his chest, pushing broken ornament shards deeper into my palms, while the 911 operator instructed me on how to perform CPR.

“Mrs. Robertson, can you hear me?” the operator’s voice finally broke through the white noise in my ears.

“Yes!” I said, still pumping my husband’s dead body.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, “our emergency vehicles cannot get through. The roads are iced over. They’ve tried every option and, well, they just can’t.”

“Don’t you have helicopters or something?”

“Not in this storm, ma’am.”

It didn’t matter. Cliff was blue and stiff, like a petrified tree—the kind you don’t decorate for Christmas.

I was numb. Definitely in shock. I couldn’t look at him, as I pulled the skirt from underneath the tree and covered his body. I left him lying there, under the twinkle lights, as Bing Crosby crooned in the background.

It took six hours for emergency personnel to get to us. They apologized profusely, for the storm of the century—as if it was their fault. They were kind enough to remove the ladder from the foyer. I told them they could have it if they wanted. But they declined. I could hear them marvel at how well it folded, as they placed it on the side of the house. I watched them wheel Cliff’s body away, watched them lift the stretcher into the ambulance and close the doors. They told me it was no use following them, it was for my own safety I stay inside until the city cleared the roads and repair what power lines had blown down. That I was one of the lucky ones to still have electricity, and heat.

As I turned the lock, I rested my forehead on the door and closed my eyes. When was I going to feel the rush of emotion? The wave of sadness? When was the breakdown going to happen? I felt nothing.

As I turned to go about my business—whatever that was, I realized the EMT’s forgot something important. For, on the middle step of our curved staircase, next to the stupid twinkle lights, carefully woven into the branches of the goddamned Christmas tree, sat Cliff, smiling at me.

Today, I lie in bed, an insomniac, as I have for the past year, unable to sleep, unable to dream, unable to shake the ghost of my husband who appears at the worst possible times—when my mind is finally quiet, when I finally lay to rest.

I drag myself out from the warmth of the covers,  and wrap myself in my robe, slip my feet into shearling slippers—the ones I found hidden in Cliff’s closet, the ones meant to be a gift for me last Christmas. Ones he never got to give, because he died on a ladder and fell to earth. The autopsy revealed he’d suffered a massive stroke and never had a chance, even before he hit the ground. I find no comfort in that. Maybe because I was witness to the tragedy. Maybe because I saw his face—still see his face, refusing to give in to his untimely death.

I make my way from the bedroom through the foyer, past the still-twinkling tree. Yes—the same one from last year. The one I detest. The one I never took down. Why take it down, when it would just have to go back up again? And anyway, who would help me do it? I have no children, no family who live near, and I don’t want to bother my neighbors. They’ve done enough. When Cliff died, they brought me so many meals, my freezer is still bursting with frosted-over Tupperware. To this day, they bring my mail do my door and take my garbage cans to the curb and back. They’re good people. I wouldn’t dare ask them to help me with this monstrosity. Plus, Cliff’s ghost sits on the middle stair admiring it. Why would I deprive him of something he fought so hard for?

In the kitchen, I make myself a pot of coffee. I’m going to need it to get me through the day. Cliff, watches me from the counter.

“What?” I say, annoyed at his presence. (You’d be cranky too if your dead husband’s ghost kept you up for a year.)

I pour steaming coffee into a mug and add some half and half, watch the beige cloud blossom in brown liquid. I sip, eyes closed, enjoying it’s warmth—it’s the closest thing I’ve had to a hug in a year. If I could just keep my eyes closed a few seconds longer. I feel a chill in the air, a chill that never leaves.

You’re probably thinking I’d be scared to have a ghost in my house, or maybe I’d be comforted knowing my loving husband is always with me. But, I’m neither of those. I’m annoyed, plain and simple. As a matter of fact, for the first time in a long time I realize I’m downright angry.

Cliff doesn’t speak to me, other than lying next to me in bed, telling me he wants to leave, but doesn’t. He doesn’t give me other-worldly advice, doesn’t comfort me—just chills me to the bone, and makes me oh so tired, and oh so cranky. Sigh.

I open my eyes to see my own reflection in the coffee pot. My lips form a terse thin line. Who have I become? I’m sick of this shit. I decide for the first time in a year, Cliff has got to go.

I enter the foyer.

“Cliff, you’ve gotta go.” I say it matter-of-fact. Isn’t that what they tell haunted people to do? Tell their ghosts they’ve got to go? Give them permission to leave the premises and move on?

“Go!” I try again, frustrated, realizing my life is not my own, as Cliff sits on the stair with his shit-eating grin.

“Cliff, leave!” I yell, exhausted, frustrated that I’ve become a recluse. I remember the life I used to live. I begin to mourn, not the loss of Cliff, but the loss of myself.

“Go, go, goooo,” I sob. “Get out of here, you son of a bitch! Leave! Get the hell out!” I scream. “I told you we didn’t need this stupid tree!”

I grab the branches in anger, and pull, causing the lights to flicker, the heavy star to sway. Cliff continues to inhabit his perch, un-exorcized. He’s not going anywhere. The tree mocks me, flashing what’s left of its year-long lights—half strands glowing, half strands out cold. I attempt to jiggle them, to find the loose bulb. But then catch myself. What the hell am I doing? On top of that, I suddenly smell the mouse urine from years before.

I run to a drawer, grab a lighter and a scented candle, hoping to mask the smell. I flick. The wick catches flame. I watch through teary eyes, the flame engulf the wick. I have an idea.

Back in the foyer, I fling open the double front doors to the house. A gust of cold air rushes in, slapping me in the face. I am awakened. For the first time, I can feel the fog clear from my head. Outside, the sun is begins to rise, casting a magical glow upon the virgin snow. Silence. No movement. Except for a Robin, hopping along a snowy branch in search of morning food.

I turn to face the tree, to face Cliff on the stair beside it, to finally take matters into my own hands, to finally do what I want. I approach the tree, careful not to stand in front. I grab the branches, and pull—once, twice, thrice, gaining more momentum each time. The tree teeters forward, and its mass falls halfway in the foyer and halfway out the open front doors. I step around the branches and onto the front porch, and pull with all my might, dragging the tree through the front door, down the stairs, and onto the front lawn, just far enough away from the house, as my legs sink into the snow up to my knees. I don’t feel the cold, I don’t feel anything but liberation. I see Cliff, standing beside the fallen tree, his expression unchanged.

I pull the lighter from the pocket of my robe and flick. Nothing. Sheltering the flame from the breeze, I flick again, this time closer to the artificial branches. They ignite immediately. Violently.

I back away, as the whole tree becomes engulfed in flames in a matter of seconds. Twinkle lights pop, fake branches crackle. The sight is beautiful, massive. Flame upon snow. Fire upon ice.

I see Cliff—behind the flames, then one with the flames, a burning apparition with a shit-eating grin, evaporating into the ether. I smile to myself. Because, I know he won’t be back.

It begins to sleet, hard and fast. Burning embers sizzle as I leave the makeshandift bonfire. I enter the house and close the front doors, strip off my wet clothes on my way back to bed. I tuck myself in, and pull an extra comforter for warmth. I lay my head against my pillow, watch the sleet through the frosted window. I am alone. I close my eyes, knowing I, and Cliff, will finally have a chance to rest.