In a Holidaze

To them, it’s something we’ll get past, and come out the other side stronger for it.

I guess I’ll have to figure out what that looks like for me, getting over the feelings that have lived inside me every day for more than half my life.

Mom’s voice rises above the others and I know that my respite is over, which is fine. I probably deserve whatever she’s going to say. “Mae.” I feel her turning me, finding my hand, and pulling me out of the fray. “Come here, honey.”

She leads me out of the kitchen and down the hall. Once we’re alone, she runs her hands through my hair, gazing back and forth between my eyes. Shame washes over me, hot, like warm water on a burn.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“Not really.” I close my eyes, swallowing back nausea. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know what to say other than I messed up.”

“What on earth are you sorry about?” she asks, cupping my chin so I’ll look at her again. “You’re twenty-six. This is when you’re supposed to do crazy things and mess up a little.”

I’m surprised she’s not more upset. Mom doesn’t shy away from big feelings; unlike Dad, she lets it all out as soon as it courses through her. Dad is a thinker; he bottles everything up until—out of nowhere—it comes out in a pressurized stream. Only twice in my life have I heard him raise his voice. But I expect it from Mom. I expected her to really let me have it.

“That’s it?” I ask.

She laughs. “I mean, if you really want me to, I can probably work up to something, but it’s Christmas. Consider it my gift to you.”

“Well, in that case,” I say, wincing, “I should also let you know that I quit my job. Now you can let me have it.”

Fire flashes in her eyes for the duration of her long, controlled inhale and then, with a weary laugh, she pulls me toward her. “Come here.” She kisses my temple. “You look like you want to crawl out of your own skin.”

“I do.” I want to crawl out of my skin and then dive into the snow outside.

“Listen up,” she says, “because I’m going to tell you a secret not everyone knows: Everything is going to be okay. I mean it. I realize everyone around you being messy might make you feel like you can’t ever be, but that isn’t true. It’s okay to be messy sometimes, honey.”

When I wrap my arms around her waist and tuck my head under her chin, I feel rooted here for the first time in more days than I can count.

• • •

Andrew isn’t around for the rest of the afternoon when we’re ready to start sorting and opening presents, so we bake. A lot. Peppermint meltaways, Mexican wedding cakes, gingerbread, Santa’s Whiskers—the same cookies we’ve made every year I can remember. With a plate stacked for Santa and the sky growing dark, we start setting the table.

The candlesticks we use belonged to Aaron’s mom and serve as a reminder of how this whole thing started. I set the flowers in the center and the wine bottles are evenly spaced along the length of the table. The twins decorate those—and Miso, and each other—with a bag of bows they find in the living room.

Andrew slides unobtrusively into the kitchen just as the rest of the dishes are being brought out, and he chooses a seat as far away from me as he possibly could, in the distant corner, where Aaron usually sits.

I’m sure the food is delicious—it’s my favorite meal all year and smells like heaven—but I can’t taste a thing. I chew absently, and swallow, trying to look like I’m following the flow of conversation. I feel like I have a frozen block of ice in my stomach. Andrew won’t even look at me, and I’m so miserable, I’m not sure how I’m still here, at the dining room table, and not back in seat 19B. Maybe I haven’t finished thoroughly ruining everything yet, and the universe is waiting for me to really go all in. I pick up my wineglass, full almost to the brim. I’m sure I won’t disappoint.

“We thought we’d wait to open presents until you got home,” Ricky tells Andrew.

Andrew chews and swallows a bite quickly, guilt coloring his cheeks. “Thank you. Sorry. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Of course, baby,” Lisa says. “We wanted to be all together.”

The twins have been so patient all day, and with the prospect of gift opening finally spoken, it’s like a switch has been flipped. Kennedy and Zachary explode in excitement and noise. I remember that feeling, remember wanting to rush through the meal so that we could tear into our gifts, and then afterward always being so grateful that we paced ourselves, otherwise the day would go by too fast. But this time, I want to skip it all and head to the basement. I want to climb into bed and succumb to blackness. It’s dramatic, but I wonder how terrible it would be to disappear once everyone is asleep and simply fly home to Berkeley early and have a quiet Christmas Day alone tomorrow. Maybe my scarf will get caught in the escalator at the airport, and I’ll wind up back at the start again. And would that be so bad? Honestly it doesn’t sound any worse than what’s happening now.