The Plastic Fir

"You know it’s April, right?" I didn't turn around. I knew it was April. I could smell it coming off him—wet wool, damp car upholstery, and the sharp, metallic tang of the rain that had been hammering the siding since Tuesday. The front door was still open, letting the draft curl around my ankles. "Dad?" "Close the door, David. You're letting the heat out." I kept my eyes on the cardboard box. It was frayed at the corners, the tape yellow and brittle, peeling away like dead skin. Written on the side in black marker, in a hand that wasn't mine, was *XMAS – LIVING ROOM*. Martha’s handwriting. The loop of the 'L' was wide, generous. My handwriting has always been cramped, like I’m trying to save paper. Hers took up space. "I’m serious," David said, the door clicking shut behind him. His footsteps were heavy on the floorboards. He wears those heavy work boots even when he’s just driving over to check on me. "Why is the tree box out?" "I'm sorting," I lied. I wasn't sorting. I was building. I reached into the box and pulled out the base. It was a metal cross, painted a dull green that was chipping away to reveal rusted steel underneath. It felt cold in my hand, heavy. My knuckles were swollen today. The damp weather does that. It feels like someone has replaced the fluid in my joints with wet sand. Grinding. Always grinding. "Sorting," David repeated. He didn't believe me. He stood at the edge of the carpet, hesitant to cross the threshold into the clutter. The room was a mess, I knew that. Stacks of newspapers I hadn't read, mail on the coffee table, a plate with crumbs from toast I ate yesterday. But the spot where the tree went—that corner by the window—I had cleared that. "I thought I’d check the lights," I said. "Before next year. Save time." "Dad, next year is eight months away." "Time moves faster than you think." I knelt down. It was a mistake. My left knee popped, a sound like a dry branch snapping, and a jolt of heat shot up my thigh. I gritted my teeth, forcing air through my nose so I wouldn't groan. If I groaned, David would start with the *Assisted Living* talk again. I hated that talk. It sounded like a sales pitch for a coffin with a view. "Here," David said, stepping forward. "Let me help you up." "I'm down here on purpose," I snapped. I slotted the bottom pole into the stand. It wobbled. It always wobbled. You had to tighten three eye-bolts to get it straight, and one of them was stripped. It had been stripped since 1998. David sighed. It was a long, ragged sound. He took off his jacket and threw it over the back of the armchair. The chair was covered in cat hair, though the cat had died three years ago. We just never got around to deep cleaning the upholstery. "You're putting it up," he said. It wasn't a question anymore. "Just to check the shape. The branches get flattened in the box." "It’s April the twelfth." "I know the date, David. I still buy the paper." He walked over to the window and looked out at the grey street. The cherry blossom in the front yard was shedding, pink confetti turning to brown sludge on the pavement. The sky was the colour of a bruised plum. Rain streaked the glass, blurring the world outside into a watercolour mess. I focused on the tree. ### Section A: The Bottom Tier The tree came in three sections. Section A was the widest. The branches were hinged, wrapped in green PVC that shed tiny needles every time you touched them. I pulled it out of the box. A cloud of dust puffed up, smelling of musty attic air and stale plastic. I coughed, tasting grit. David turned from the window. "Is this about Mum?" I didn't answer. I jammed Section A into the base. I had to lean my weight on it to get it to click. The vibration rattled my teeth. "Dad. She doesn't know what month it is anyway. She won't know the difference." "That's not the point," I muttered, fumbling with the branches, pulling them down. They creaked, stiff from a year—no, two years—of being compressed. We didn't put it up last year. I was too tired, and she was in the hospital for the pneumonia. "Then what is the point?" David asked. He sounded exhausted. He’s fifty, but he looks older sometimes. Grey at the temples, lines etched deep around his mouth. He worries too much. About money. About his kids. About me. I stopped fluffing a branch. The plastic scratched my wrist. "The point is," I said, looking at the wire skeleton of the tree, "that the room looks empty without it." "It's been empty of a tree for sixteen months." "It feels empty *today*." He rubbed his face with his hands. "I brought you some soup. Squash. Helen made it." "That was nice of her." "And I checked the guttering. It's clogged again. I'll need to get the ladder." "Don't go up the ladder in the rain, David. You'll slip." "Someone has to do it. Water's pouring down the side of the house. Damp's going to get into the brickwork." "Let it get in. The bricks are old. They're used to it." I continued working around the base of the tree. It was hard work. My shoulders burned. The arthritis in my thumbs made pinching the branches painful, a sharp, white-hot sting every time I tried to bend the wire tips to make them look like real fir. Real fir. Who were we kidding? It looked like a bottle brush. But with the lights on, in the dark, if you squinted... it looked like magic. David watched me. He leaned against the windowsill, arms crossed. He was wearing a flannel shirt that was too tight across the belly. He'd put on weight. "Do you remember the year we bought this?" I asked. "No." "Yes you do. You were fourteen. You wanted a real one. You said fake trees were for people who had given up on life." David huffed, a short, sharp laugh. "Did I say that? Sounds like a bratty thing to say." "You were a brat. A moody one. You sulked for three days because the box said 'Flame Retardant' and you thought that took the danger out of Christmas." "I was fourteen," he said, softer now. "I wanted everything to be dangerous." "Well. Now you're checking guttering in the rain. Be careful what you wish for." I finished the bottom tier. It looked pathetic. Sparse. You could see the metal pole right through the middle. It needed the lights to hide the bones. --- I reached for Section B. It was lighter, but lifting it above shoulder height was a challenge. My rotator cuff has been bad since the fall in the garden last autumn. I lifted it, my arm trembling. The metal tube wavered in the air. "Here," David said. He didn't ask this time. He stepped in and took it from my hands. His hands were warm, dry. Stronger than mine. It annoyed me. He slotted the section into place. *Click*. "Thanks," I mumbled. He didn't move away. He stood close to the tree, looking at the plastic needles. "She asked for me today. By name." I looked up. "She did?" "Yeah. When I came in. Before I saw you. I popped my head into the bedroom. She said, 'David, did you finish your homework?'" My chest tightened. A small, hard knot right behind my sternum. "That's good. She remembers you." "She thinks I'm twelve, Dad." "She remembers you," I repeated firmly. "That's what matters." I turned back to the box of ornaments. It was a shoebox, reinforced with duct tape. I lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in shredded tissue paper that had gone soft and grey with age, were the baubles. I picked one up. It was a red glass sphere, fragile as an eggshell. The silver cap was tarnished black. The paint was chipped near the bottom, revealing the silvering underneath. I rolled it in my palm. It felt cool, smooth. "I remember this one," David said, pointing. "The bird." He reached into the box and pulled out a clip-on ornament. It was a robin, or supposed to be. The feathers were synthetic, stiff and dusty. The beak was missing. "Your mother bought that at a craft fair in... oh, seventy-nine? Maybe eighty. She loved that bird. Said it looked cheeky." David held the bird gently. "It looks mangy." "It's old. Things get mangy." "Dad, why are we doing this? really?" I took the bird from him. The clip was stiff. I had to use both hands to pinch it open. I attached it to a branch on Section A. It listed to the side, too heavy for the flimsy wire. "Because she asked," I said. My voice sounded thin, brittle in the quiet room. David stiffened. "She asked for the tree?" "Last night. She woke up... confused. It was dark. The streetlight was coming through the curtains. She looked at the corner—this corner—and she asked where the lights were. She said, 'Ben, the tree's gone out. Did a bulb blow?'" David stared at me. The rain lashed against the window, harder now. A sudden gust made the old frame rattle. "She was dreaming, Dad." "She was awake. Her eyes were open. She was scared, David. She thought... she thought if the lights were out, it meant something bad. Like the party was over. Like everyone had gone home." I picked up a string of tinsel. It was flattened, gold and red. It looked like cheap garland from a pub. "I just want her to see it," I said. "When she wakes up later. I want her to look in here and see the lights. Just so she knows... we're not gone yet." David looked at the sad, half-assembled tree. He looked at the bird hanging upside down. He looked at me. His expression softened, the frustration draining out of his face, leaving just the tiredness. "Okay," he said. "Okay." He grabbed Section C—the top tip. He jammed it onto the top of the tree. It was crooked. "It's leaning," I said. "It's fine. It adds character." We worked in silence for a while. It wasn't the happy, chaotic decorating of the past. No music. No sherry. Just the sound of our breathing and the crinkle of plastic branches. I hung the red balls. He hung the wooden soldiers. We avoided the ones that were broken, leaving them in the tissue paper like buried secrets. I found the silver star for the top. It was plastic, covered in glitter that shed everywhere. I held it out to David. "You're taller," I said. He took it. He stretched up, his shirt riding up to reveal his belt. He placed the star on the top branch. It flopped forward. "Fold the branch back," I instructed. "Double it over. It needs thickness." He adjusted it. The star stayed upright, mostly. "There," he said, stepping back. He wiped glitter off his hands onto his jeans. It looked terrible. A dusty, crooked, plastic thing standing in the gloom of a rainy April afternoon. The red balls caught the grey light from the window and reflected it back dully. It looked like a prop from a play that had closed weeks ago. But it was a tree. ### The Tangled knot "Lights," I said. "The worst part." I pulled the tangle of green wire from the bottom of the box. It was a rat's nest. Every year I swore I’d wind them properly. Every year I just shoved them in. "Give it here," David said. He sat on the arm of the sofa and started picking at the knot. He’s got patience for knots. He fishes. He spends hours untangling fishing line on the pier. I watched his fingers work. Thick fingers, scarred from his work as a mechanic. He had grease under his nails that never really scrubbed out. I realized, with a sudden, sharp pang, that he was the adult now. I was the child standing by, waiting for the grown-up to fix the broken thing. "You're getting old, David," I said. The words just slipped out. He didn't look up. "Thanks, Dad. Feeling the spring vibes today, aren't we?" "I mean it. You look like your grandfather." "Is that an insult?" "No. He was a good man. stubborn as a mule, but good." "I wonder where I get the stubbornness from," he murmured, pulling a loop of wire free. "Is Helen happy?" I asked. I don't ask enough. I know I don't. He paused. The wire went slack in his hands. "She's fine. We're fine. It's just... work. The kids. Tuition is expensive. The car needs a transmission. It's just life, Dad." "Life," I echoed. "Expensive and noisy." "Yeah. Basically." "Here. Let me take the end." He handed me the plug end. I held it. The plastic casing was cracked slightly. These lights were probably a fire hazard. I should throw them out. I should buy new LED ones that don't get hot. But these were the ones Martha liked. The big coloured bulbs. Not those tiny, piercing white ones that look like stars in a freezer. "I got it," David said. He stood up, holding the string out. "Start at the bottom?" "Always start at the bottom." We wound the lights around the tree. We had to move around each other, a clumsy dance in the small space. My hip bumped the coffee table. His elbow knocked a picture frame askew. But we got them on. The cord dangled, the plug resting in my palm. The socket was behind the armchair. I’d have to move the chair to reach it. "I'll do it," David said, moving to push the chair. "Wait." I stood there, looking at the dark tree. In the grey light, it looked like a skeleton. A joyful thing stripped of its context, left to rot. If I plugged it in, it would be undeniably, aggressively Christmas. In April. It felt like a transgression. Like wearing a wedding dress to a funeral. "Dad?" "Do you think she'll really like it?" I asked. "Or will it just confuse her more?" David stopped pushing the chair. He looked at the tree, then at the closed door of the bedroom where his mother lay sleeping. "I don't know," he admitted. "Honestly? She might not even notice. Or she might ask why there are no presents. Or she might cry." "She cries a lot these days." "Yeah." The rain hammered harder. A car drove past outside, tires hissing on the wet asphalt. The sound was loud, intrusive. I looked at the plug. The copper prongs were dull, oxidized. I rubbed my thumb over them. I remembered the year we bought these lights. 1992. We had a real tree that year, a Scotch pine. The sap got everywhere. We laughed about it for weeks. Martha had sap in her hair. Now her hair was thin, white like dandelion fluff. And I was standing here with a plastic tree and a son who looked tired and a house that smelled of dust and old soup. "Maybe we shouldn't," I whispered. "We've done the work now," David said gently. "Might as well see if they work." He was right. We had done the work. The tree was up. The bird was hanging. The star was leaning. I walked over to the wall. I knelt down, ignoring the protest of my knees. I reached behind the chair. I could feel the cold air coming from the socket. I held the plug, hovering it near the holes. If I plugged it in, the room would change. It would be bathed in red and green and blue. It would be a lie. A beautiful, electric lie. I looked back at David. He was watching me, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slumped. He looked like he was waiting for a signal. Any signal. I took a breath. The air tasted of dust and rain.