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Merry Christmas, Steve Harrington

Merry Christmas, Steve Harrington

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“Steve, Sweet Pea, can you put this up for me?”

Steve, kneeling on the floor in the living room, in freshly ironed pants and a crisp button down, green tie around his neck, elbows deep in a box of tinsel, looked up.

His mother, a short, thin woman, with thick brown hair like Steve’s, going gray, stood on her tiptoes above the stairs, trying to tack a sprig of mistletoe to the ceiling.

He smiled. He was always reaching things for his mom.

He got his height and his cockiness from his father (he was working on the latter); but his hair, his deep brown eyes, his freckles, and his warmer heart, he got from his mother.

Steve stood, brushing stray tinsel off of his arms, and made his way to the stairs, taking the mistletoe from his mother and standing up on tiptoes to attach it to the ceiling.

“Oh, look, mistletoe!” his mom said merrily, and reached up, before he could duck out of the way, to plant a red lipsticked kiss on his cheek.

“Mom,” Steve groaned, rubbing his face with the back of his hand.

“Sorry, Sweet Pea.” She started towards the kitchen. “Throw the tinsel around the tree, won’t you, darling?”

“It’s all tangled up,” Steve sighed, nudging the box of tinsel with his toe.

“So untangle it,” his mother said, opening the liquor cabinet and trying to reach for the fancy vodka on the top shelf.

Steve came to her side, grabbed the bottle and passed it over.

“Your father wants everything set up by the time he gets home. Apparently Carl Wickham from Wickham and Co. is coming tonight. He’s interested in doing business with your father’s company, and he’s a very big name in the remodeling business.” His mother said all this while pouring out equal amounts of vodka into their finest crystal glasses, all laid out on a silver tray on the counter. She went to the fridge taking out the eggnog and adding that too, finishing it off with a sprinkle of nutmeg and a sprig of mint. “He’s very stressed about the party.”

“Is that why you’re breaking out the vodka?” Steve said, picking up a glass and bringing to his lips.

His mom snatched it out of his hands and set it back on the tray, picking up the tray and putting in the fridge. “Steve.”

“Sorry, Mom.”

He tried not to be bitter, especially in front of her. It was easier, when he was little and hadn’t understood the meaning of the word “neglect”, always assuming that his dad was busy with work. And his dad was a self-diagnosed workaholic. But that didn’t change the fact that he had never really wanted kids, and it took a lot of effort for him to show interest in his son.

Steve loved his dad, though. And he knew his dad did love him, somewhere underneath his love of big cigars and expensive vodka, golf and the Country Club in in the summer, his company and complaining about poor people.

Steve’s mom gave him a disapproving look over her shoulder as she closed the fridge. She was a no-nonsense parent, absolute with punishment, but always making sure he had everything he needed. She wasn’t overly loving; they didn’t say “I love you” often in the family and sometimes Steve felt stupid for craving a hug goodbye before he went to school in the morning. Nancy said that was the reason Steve was so “openly affectionate” (the way she said it though sounded like “clingy” to Steve, which he guessed he was at times). But Steve knew his mom loved him, much more than his dad did, because she still called him “Sweet Pea” and kissed his cheek when he wasn’t paying attention.