Page 85 of Mom Com

Spence appears in the doorway, and my ponderings fizzle out, bringing my awareness back to the fact that it isn’t just my heart I’m responsible for, but my son’s, too.

“You’re up!” he says, all enthusiasm.

“I’m up,” I reply with a too-big smile and swing my legs out of bed. “Thanks for letting me sleep in. I really needed that.”

He shrugs. “Sleep is like your favorite thing. And besides, I want you fully rested for all the sugar we’re gonna eat today.”

I laugh, standing and grabbing him in a hug, kissing the top of his head. “Is that right?”

“I mean, yeah. Tradition is tradition,” he says with a grin.

I pause, giving it some thought. Because even though this holiday season has been a divergence from our usual, it’s still very much ours; Haverberry didn’t (as I feared) kill Christmas. “Ya know what?” I say, “I just saw a picture of a truly over-the-top breakfast, and now I’m thinking maybe we should make some super gooey cinnamon rolls with an obscene amount of frosting. Maybe pair them with a broccoli and cheddar quiche?”

Spence practically vibrates with excitement. “Oh my god, yes! Get dressed. Eat your coffee or whatever. I’m helping!”

And that’s pretty much how the morning and afternoon go—making all our favorite treats and then eating them on the couch while watching Christmas movies. My mother pops in here and there to sample something and (specifically and only) address Spence, telling him that it smells good and he’s turning into quite the baker. She’s not as icy as yesterday, but it’s also clear there’s no easiness between us. And while part of me wants to talk to her, tell her I’m thinking about staying, another part of me is worried that it’ll spark more unpleasantness. So I put it off, telling myself I’m waiting for the right moment when Spence is preoccupied.

But as we get ready for the Buenaventura’s Christmas Eve party and no such opportunity arises, worry begins to seep in. We haven’t discussed the sleigh ride, and I know Spence is really looking forward to it. Hell, I am, and I can’t help but feel like it would be a shame if we all missed it because Mom and I can’t find a way to make peace.

I leave Spence in the bathroom where he’s spiking his hair and walk down the hall, lightly knocking on Mom’s door, hoping she’ll be wearing her signature red dress and that it’ll be a nonissue.

“Come in,” she says. Only instead of finding her seated in front of her vanity doing her lipstick, she’s tucked into her bed with a book.

My pulse takes off like a bullet. “Mom?” I say, my voice betraying my shock, “It’s six forty-five,” hoping her staunch adherence to timely arrivals will jolt her into action.

“Yes, I know,” she says, placing her book on her lap. “But I’ve had a headache all day, and so I’ve decided to stay home. I’ve already called ahead and explained that you and Spence will be going without me.”

I stand there for a couple of baffled seconds. My mother not going to the benefit was one thing, but her not going to the Buenaventura’s Christmas Eve party is unthinkable. She made me go the year I got my tonsils out and could only sip foods through a straw. She went the year she got food poisoning and could barely get off their couch because she was so nauseated.

“Please do tell them I send my regards,” she continues like she didn’t just flip the universe upside down. “And compliment them on their decorations, which I’m certain will be lovely as always.”

But I just can’t get past the obvious. “You’ve never missed a Christmas Eve party. Ever.”

“Yes, well, things change,” she says.

I suddenly feel a little queasy, like I’ve missed all the signs that would indicate my mother was experiencing some sort of emotional distress. “If this is because of me—”

“I just told you I have a headache,” she says, and I feel the wall between us rise by a foot, me straining on tippy toes to see the other side.

“But the sleigh ride,” I say, my thoughts a tangle.

“Yes, well, we’ll do it next time,” she says, and my stomach sinks. Maybe it’s the look on my face or the fact that I’m hesitating, but her eyebrows momentarily push together. She smooths them, of course, and picks her book back up. “You better be going; punctuality is politeness.”

Only I don’t move. I can’t. The guilt has glued me in place. “Mom, I know what we said was... I know that I hurt you,” I start, my thoughts trying to cut a pathway through my heart’s chaotic pounding. “I know you didn’t want to talk about it yesterday. I know we’ve never been good at that. But I don’t want you to miss something you look forward to all year because of me. If you want me to stay home, you can go with Spence. I just—”

“My decision has nothing to do with you,” she says calmly.

“Is it about the will and Liv, then?” I ask, plowing forward, realizing there might be a layer of embarrassment I hadn’t considered. “Because I can promise you that was just between us. And even she advised me against it.”

“As I said, this is not about you.” My mother frowns and her tone is clipped, indicating that I’m reaching the end of her patience.

My shoulders slump, resigning myself to yet another failed communication. And for a bright hot second, I get angry about it, wanting to shorten my tone and tell her it’s been grand trying to talk to her, that it’s no wonder we were never close when I was younger. But the instant I think it, I know it’s stingy, that if Wilder had been half as reactive with me last night, then we would never have actually talked, that I would never have cried, something it turns out I needed so badly that my entire world has shifted as a result, like one of those pull tabs in a kid’s book—the same image, just transformed. And that’s when it hits me, the big fucking obvious thing I never considered. For a moment I’m so shaken that I struggle to even my breath.

“Is it Dad?” I ask, his name catching in my throat. “Is it because he isn’t here? Are you hurting?” My voice wobbles. I’ve never asked my mother this and now that I think about it, I’m deeply ashamed. How could I not? And even though I know the answer lies somewhere in the abyss of things we never discuss, it strikes me that this is the core of our problem, that while we voice our anger, we never actually look at what’s causing it—the pain that we trade back and forth like collector cards, hoarding and preserving so that we may point to it years later in pristine condition.

She exhales, and for a fraction of a second, I recognize the grief on her face. But it vanishes just as it appears. “No, Madeline, I told you I have a headache. And talking like this is only making it worse.” But her tone has lost its normal cool. It’s burgeoning on upset, and it breaks my heart.

“Mom—” I say, my voice gentle, but this time she talks over me.