The Russian's Christmas Present

“Charity event. What charity event?”

“It’s the annual Parkinson’s Fundraiser at Meadowbrook Hall.”

“Meadowbrook Hall?” He scoffs on a snort. “How did you get invited to Meadowbrook Hall?”

I shrug. “Someone from work invited me. It’s a fundraiser and it’s always decorated so beautifully for Christmas. It should be fun.”

“Christmas is over,” he huffs, knowing full well the well-known event hall and hotel will still be dressed to the nines for the holidays.

I look around the cheerless room. There is no sign of Christmas here or anywhere in the house. My father forbids any decorations, so Alice and I put up a small fiber-optic tree in my bedroom and some cranberry and popcorn garland we made ourselves draped everywhere with twinkling white lights. She wanted to take it down after New Year’s but I didn’t. Truthfully, I’d leave it up all year if I had my way.

It’s my own little Christmas act of defiance, and as long as we keep our door closed, he pretends he doesn’t notice. Alice’s parents were killed in a car accident the summer after we graduated from high school, and although she has a sister that doesn’t live far, she spends a lot of her weekends and holiday breaks here with me.

She hates that I’m here alone with my father and I know her staying here is more for me than for her.

“You’re going to wear one of your homemade dresses?” He coughs. “You’re just like your mother. Trying to fit in where you don’t belong. She never could just be happy with what we had. Always wanted more. See how that all turned out for us.”

He rolls his wheelchair toward his recliner and fishes in the cushion, pulling out a pint bottle of the cheapest whiskey the corner liquor stores sell and takes a drink.

My mother’s been gone over four years now. She left on Christmas Eve, telling me she would get settled and I could come live with her. That never happened.

She lives in Florida now with her new husband, who is what my father refers to as her golden ticket. Thirty years older with a heart problem and a thick wallet. I’ve heard from her less and less as time’s gone on. Her new husband doesn’t have much use for me, and from what I can tell, Mom is more of a pet than a wife.

But sometimes money is more important than family. At least that’s what she’s taught me in the last few years. I felt like things were pretty good growing up. I mean, we were on the high side of poor but there were no big fights between them.

My dad worked in a warehouse for one of the local machine shops. No drinking, no big drama. Just this underlying disappointment my mother always seemed to have with the fact that she married a working man, whose general aspirations ended at getting overtime and a vacation at a lake cabin for a week every summer.

“Come on.” Alice comes into the den, breaking the tense silence with my father. “You need to get dressed or you’ll be late. And you’re not going to be late.” She glares at my dad, who rolls his eyes and turns back toward the TV, punching the remote and blaring the volume on a World Series of Poker.

I think he’s afraid of Alice. She doesn’t give him an inch.

I pay most of the expenses here, outside of the house itself which has been paid off since before Mom left thank goodness or homelessness could be a real possibility. I do my best to take care of my father, even though I know in my heart he’s not as disabled as he plays. His back injury started after the divorce, but when it’s time to hustle to the liquor store or a local poker game, he is miraculously cured.

The new job at Mauricio’s pays almost double what I was making at the fabric store, and both Mauricio and Irina promised that if things worked out I might even be allowed to sell some of my own designs there sometime in the future.

It’s not much, but it’s a start, and right now I’ll take whatever I can get.

Alice takes my hand and we work our way back to our bedroom without another word.

Inside, she helps me into my dress and shoes, and does some final touches on my hair and makeup, before spinning me around and taking a picture with her phone.

“Gorgeous. If you’re not careful, you’re going to have the whole lot of them throwing money at you to win them all.” She opens her mouth on a dramatic silent laugh. Her legs go up to her shoulders and her long wavy brown hair is almost to her waist. She really could be a model and I guess, in her own way she is. When she recovers, she shrugs and looks at me again. “But, really, you are just so extra. Don’t ever forget that, okay?”