Page 70 of Mom Com

served with a dollop of whipped humiliation and a shard of cocoa nibs praline

The afternoon and evening are infinitely less dramatic than the day before, but the tension between me and Mom is still thrumming below the surface, and I can tell Spence is worrying about it. So, I suggest we make a whole slew of Christmas treats, including Mom’s favorite eggnog cookies to cheer her up.

Mom goes shopping once again, which is the most I’ve seen her leave the house since we arrived. Spence gives her our “apology” cookies when she returns, and she oohs and aahs over them. But when he tells her I made them with him, she brushes past my involvement and pulls him into the living room to show him some of her spoils, including a wreath for the front door and an early present for him. While I’m thrilled to see the worry lines eased on my kid’s face, I fear I’m developing my own. It’s not that being on bad terms with my mother is anything new, but this level of friction is reminiscent of those horrific weeks before I moved to California. And it’s bringing back that old itch to run as far from her as I possibly can, whatever the personal cost.

After an awkward few minutes of standing in the living room doorway where it becomes obvious I’m a third wheel, I retreat to the kitchen, cleaning up from our dinner and day of baking. By the time I finish, I’ve made a promise to myself that I won’t let this fight fester, that I’ll speak with her the moment Spence heads to bed.

And I do. I intercept her in the foyer about to ascend the staircase with her nighttime glass of water.

“Mom?” I say, my voice less confident than I’d like.

She sighs. “What is it, Madeline?”

“I just...” I begin, feeling strange and unsure. If hugs were rare in this family, discussing feelings was even more so. There was an unspoken rule that after a fight both parties would separate for an undisclosed amount of time, never delving into the shadowy details and instead pretending it never happened in the first place. When the fight was really bad, barbed tones and stiff postures were an aftershock, but even those would eventually fade into the gray area of general resentment. “I was hoping we could talk.”

She glances at the stairs. “I think we’ve both done enough talking for the time being.”

“I’d really like to clear the air,” I say, my tone relaying how bad I feel.

“Yes, well, I’m exhausted,” she says. “It’ll have to wait.”

And even though I promised myself I wouldn’t, I get mad. Why can’t she just say yes? I would never deny Spence the space to talk.

“Was that all?” she asks when I don’t respond.

“I’m going out with Liv,” I say, careful not to let my frustration seep into my voice. “I’m just letting you know.”

“Right. And now you have,” she replies, her tone shifting a degree cooler.

For a moment I’m confused by her reaction; she’s always delighted when I spend time with the Buenaventuras. But then it occurs to me that it was Liv I named as my cohort in the will disparagement. I wince, but she doesn’t see it. She’s already walking up the stairs and away from me, holding up the skirt of her nightgown in one hand.

I stare after her, but she doesn’t look back. Why is this always so hard? Why can’t we have a conversation without it being a screaming match or an evidence locker of disappointments?

I stand at the bottom of the stairs for far too long, thinking about all the things she said regarding my rigid abhorrence of this place and my rejection of Dad’s wishes. And the sick feeling rushes back in. I never decided to hate Haverberry. As a kid I loved it more than anything in the world; the rejection was very much the other way around—Haverberry abandoned me long before I ever left. But once again, doubt takes hold, wrapping its long fingers around my heart and giving a warning squeeze.

I look up at the foyer ceiling for answers I’ll never find, instead deciding to go up and check on Spence. I find him in bed all curled up in his Grinch onesie, eyes closed with a movie playing on his laptop, mouth hanging open. The clock on the bedside table reads 9:01, which is early for him, but it was a big day of holiday baking, and the sleep will do him good. I close his laptop and kiss him on the forehead, texting Liv that I’m ready to get that drink.

She tells me to meet her at the Beach Shack, which isn’t a shack at all, but a beachfront bar and restaurant that’s decorated with driftwood and shells. And even though it takes me all of ten minutes to brush through my hair, throw on a sweater, and drive the 1.5-mile distance, her car is in the parking lot when I arrive, the scratch I inflicted on it no longer visible. My guilt reemerges, easing only slightly when I push through the door into the cheery room.

The Beach Shack smells of coconut tanning oil and earthy wicker furniture. The back wall is made of glass, leading to a patio that’s closed for the winter and trails directly into the sand. And instead of bar nuts, the tables are populated by baskets of handmade salty potato chips that make my mouth water.

Liv is seated at a table near the giant picture window, looking like the cover of a magazine in an emerald-green blouse that has a large Edwardian-esque ruffled collar and a pair of high-waisted black pants with gold sailor’s buttons.

“Maddi!” Liv exclaims as I near the table. She stands to kiss me on the cheek.

I take the cushioned seat across from her where there is already a cocktail waiting for me, something amber-colored in a lowball glass, the kind reserved for strong drinks.

“So, tell me, how’s Haverberry’s favorite baker today?” she asks in an upbeat tone.

I hesitate. While I know it’s just a friendly greeting, her words bring me right back to my argument with my mom and by extension, my awkwardness with Wilder.

“Oh,” she says before I get a chance to respond. “It’s one of those days, huh?”

“It’s most definitely one of those days,” I agree and grab my drink, which I discover is a riff on an Old Fashioned only infused with spices and something fruity like blackberry.

“Anything I can help with?” Liv asks, and I sip my drink again.

I’m about to brush off her question in the name of good old DeLuca avoidance, but for some reason, it isn’t sitting right, like an old coat that’s too tight in the shoulders. “Remember when you said that I might not want to poke into that addendum?”