Under the Mistletoe

I open my eyes to a lightless room, and close them again, to chase that high, away from what I want.Chapter SixNellieThrough the looking glass, I love what I see. A woman, still groggy from sleep, half naked in a bathrobe that accentuates her curves, wickedly smiling at the entangled mess on top of her head, some loose strands of which are falling on the side of her face.

She is pretty, that woman, loving every bit of Christmas morning in the Combey household.

Why? Because her real-life counterpart on this side of the mirror, me, smells something really good frying downstairs.

And because I want my boss to take my virginity as his Christmas present.

I have nothing else to wear but the beige robe on my back. It should do for now, though. It covers enough that I could still get the paper from the front door if I was wearing it at home. But it’s still somehow sexy. Or maybe it’s just that I feel sexy when I’m around Denue.

I take a comb from the sheath of many options on the table, which is laid out beside the mists and lotions and moisturizers, and work on my hair. The comb does a really good job of detangling it. Everything in this house is top of the line expensive.

After pulling myself up and down to thoroughly stretch out my muscles, I pop open the bedroom window, which is huge, and let the cool wind soothe its way down my airways.

The view is expansive. From up here I can see the whole estate: acres of grass and plenty of trees, a tennis court, a swimming pool, and even a 9-hole golf course. It's beautiful to look out over all the beautiful colors and perfect landscaping.

I guess it wouldn’t be too bad to quarantine here, as far as places to quarantine go. Although I do hope the pandemic is over soon. I don’t know what the future holds but there is already talk of a vaccine being given to frontline workers and eventually making its way to the populace as a whole.

I recline the pane and walk back to the door. After swinging it open, I find a package on the floor, wide and velvet, with my name printed on it.

"Wow," I mutter.

I look but there's no one else around.

So, I take it in and unwrap the lid first, careful not to smudge anything in case it's a treat.

It is. Only a different kind than I was thinking.

Six dresses. Five skirts. Four sweatpants. Three tops. Two pairs of socks, one with gingerbread men embroidered on them. One silky soft robe that escapes the grasp of my hand. And lotions and creams in a variety of different scents and types.

This was not cheap.

I try them all on, relishing the feel of new clean clothes on my skin. Each one is perfect, especially the last.

I put on the gray sweatpants and white top, rethink the outfit, and excitedly slide the racy velvet robe on.

Then I go downstairs to greet my benefactor.DenueGrowing up in the Bronx, Christmas would be the craziest time of the year in my neighborhood, with everyone getting drunk and getting into big family fights. My dad never acted like any other man I saw out there.

He brought my mom flowers.

He braided my sister's hair after work.

He played basketball with me every Saturday morning before his shift.

But he never came back after my fifteenth birthday.

It was Christmas Eve, then. He had had to work a long shift at the market. He said it was for the best though, because he would make money during the day and then he had plans for the four of us that night.

Mom made her special turkey and got us all cozy around the fire after a long day shoveling snow off the windows and cooking at the stove. There I was, holding my little sister's hand at the hearth, humming the tunes blasting through my old Walkman, imagining what it was that Dad planned to do with us that night.

But he never came back. Not on Christmas Eve. Not on Christmas, either. Not for New Year’s. And not for twenty years after that, and still counting.

Ma always thought he was in some kind of bad business with the meat industry. There were also rumors and speculation on the block that he was involved with the mob or selling drugs. Carly and I knew that he had been taken for a reason, though, probably one that we would never know and maybe one that even he hadn’t known about.

Ma never wept in front of us. She always had her head on straight. And she handled herself well enough day to day.

Every year, though, she would remind herself of the sweet little things. Like hanging the homemade stockings by the fire. Telling us a story from her early years while we slept cuddled around the fire. She made sure to keep special traditions and act as if everything was fine, long after it had all fallen apart.