Page 25 of Whisked Away By the Alien

“Hey, where’s the menorah?” Dad, the peacemaker, speaks up. “We have to light it before sundown.”

“I’ll get it.” I jump at the chance to disappear into the kitchen. I’m afraid to look at Sten right now, fearing what he thinks of my family. Ofme. I love my parents dearly, but they don’t always bring out the best in me.

I’m not slim and perfect or have a great career in the making like Rachel, but that doesn’t mean I’m desperate to take any guy because he’s single. The maddening part of this entire evening is that I like Sten, despite my mother pushing me toward him.

There’s this battle warring in my head trying to figure out my feelings. I just met the guy yesterday, but I’ve never been so attracted to a man before, and it’s more than his gorgeous body. It’s the way he watches me, talks to me, and puts up with my family. But if anything’s going to happen between us, it needs to be on our terms, not my mother’s.

Once in the kitchen, I take a deep breath, push back the lock of hair that fell out of my pony tail, and make sure the girls aren’t slouching.

Two more deep breaths. Then, with a smile I plaster on my face, I’m ready for round two. And therewillbe a round two. There always is with my mother when she gets an idea into her head. I have to forget about her and her comments and just be me. Get to know Sten and forget the fact that I’m surrounded by my well-meaning, wacky family.

I grab the menorah from the kitchen counter and push through the swinging kitchen door in time to hear the tail end of a conversation.

“You’re very close in age to our Golda. She’s young and sturdy. Good hips for birthing babies.”

Sturdy? Birthing babies? WTF!

I’m beyond mortified. The heat rushing to my face kills any chance of pretending I didn’t hear what my mom said. I’d love to yell at her right now but then I’d look like a child having a tantrum. The quicker we light the candles, the sooner we can eat and then I can escape this insane asylum and go back to my place with a shred of dignity still intact.

I hold my head high, clear my throat to interrupt the conversation, and set the menorah in the window facing the street. “I couldn’t find the candles.”

“That’s because we don’t have any.” Mom rises and ties the drapes back before I get the chance. “They only had red and green in the market. Don’t get me wrong, I love all the Christmas decorations everyone puts up. Our entire planet needs a lot of sprucing up, but red and green are not the right colors for Hannukah. We need blue. Or white. Or the full rainbow.”

“It doesn’t matter what color candles we use.” Shutting up is not my strong suit. “And you don’t put up decorations on bombed-out buildings and call it sprucing up.”

“In my time,” Bubbe chimes in, “we got creative with what we had on hand. If we didn’t have candles, we lined up eight matches in molding clay and lit them. Granted, it was the tiniest menorah, and the matches burned down fast, but we had a menorah.”

Dad lifts the decanter that matches the stemware. “I like the menorah my father made the year we got robbed. I think I was fifteen. Anyway, the thieves took my mother’s silverware and the brass menorah my grandfather made. My father filled eight shot glasses with schnapps. Then we drank.” He pours the red wine into his glass and throws back the drink.

“That’s hardly lighting candles, dear,” Mom says as she heads into the kitchen.

“We got lit. Close enough.”

I laugh, but Bubbe doesn’t appreciate my Dad’s sense of humor.

“Noodnik,” she says without even trying to hide the fact that she’s insulting him. I look at Sten and force myself to smile. I hope he doesn’t hold my family against me.

His horns angle back and his focus remains on me. I wish I could remove that worried look from his face. He should enjoy himself here, not let my family’s antics stress him.

Beneath the table, I pat his hand. “Relax. This is normal.” My hand lingers longer than it should. The second Mom returns, I snatch it back. This is why I don’t live at home. I forget I’m an adult.

Mom’s carrying a small bottle of olive oil and twine. It’s not the first time we’ve poured oil into the tiny cups of the menorah and used twine for wicks. Production of luxury items like birthday and Hannukah candles ceased during the occupation and never resumed after the Coalition left. When we do find candles this time of year, they’re homemade ones people sell in the market for extra income.

I soak the twine in a bowl of olive oil before cutting it into small pieces for wicks and handing them to Mom to set in the menorah. As she lights the helper candle, she says the prayers for the holiday and lights the first night’s candle. I slide into my seat next to Sten as the tiny golden flames shimmer in the window for everyone in the neighborhood to see.

“It’s not as bright as all the beautiful Christmas decorations,” I say watching the tiny flames. “But it’s still special and holds a lot of meaning, especially now.”

“How so, sweety?” Dad asks.

“Because we never gave up fighting against the Coalition. Eventually, we won.”

“The Coalition left Earth because of trouble elsewhere which threatened their sector of space,” Sten says.

“I know. But we fought. That has to count. Either way, they left, and I think of that as a miracle.”

“A Hannukah miracle!” My dad holds up a glass for his toast and downs more wine. This isn’t like him. I guess he had a tough week at work.

“Maybe it was a Christmas miracle,” I say to be contrary. I really need to get out of here, and soon.

---