Feeling All Ooey Gooey Butter Cake—
fluffy goodness served with a butter caramel glaze, there’s no such thing as too much
The late morning sun filters through the lace curtains, drenching my bedroom in diffused warmth. I stretch under the fluffy comforter, dragging the backs of my hands across my eyes and readjusting my pillow under my head. Spence is already downstairs, too amped about Christmas Eve to stay asleep. But after a whole week of 3:30 wake-ups, I’m luxuriating in rubbing my legs under the fluffy comforter like a cricket.
Maybe it’s getting a proper night’s sleep, or maybe it’s what happened last night with Wilder, but things don’t feel so heavy this morning. And as my thoughts drift to the bakery, the crushing weight of emotions that were tied up in a big fat bow of grief are noticeably diminished. Instead, the ache is replaced with a tentative curiosity, like extending a hand to a wild dog, hoping it will lick your fingers but not totally convinced it won’t bite your head off. I find myself wondering if I did decide to stay, if maybe Wilder was right, if I could reclaim some of my joy baking here. And maybe, just maybe, I could reclaim some of my joy with him. Just the thought sends my stomach tumbling over itself, my cheeks warming and my fingers touching my lips as I remember the feeling of his kiss.
Maybe I could just stay for a little while and test it out? I don’t even have to commit to a full year, maybe just a trial period to see if I could make it work?
My God. Who even am I? Did someone drug me with optimism? For a flash of a second, the old fear seeps in, the voice that tells me that it’ll all crumble into a steaming pile of shit that will break everything I love, but I’m too cozy in my bed and drunk on the memory of our embrace to allow it to bear any real weight.
Instead, I reach for my phone, ready to text Liv and find out how her night went. But when I see my front screen, there’s already a text waiting from Wilder. And maybe it’s just the hopefulness of the holiday morning, but a flutter arises in my chest.
Below his words is a picture of him holding a plate of croissant French toast. If the croissant bit weren’t decadent enough, it’s stuffed with whipped cannoli filling replete with mini melting chocolate chips, topped with fresh raspberries and a raspberry reduction syrup. My stomach growls right on cue, as though it were wailing in longing.
Also in the picture is the signet ring he’s worn since his sixteenth birthday with a Buenaventura B embossed on it. And for a split second, I remember how I secretly thought one day I might have a piece of jewelry with a B on it, too.
And to my delight, it only takes him seconds to respond.
I stare at his text for a long moment, smiling at the offer like a goon.
It feels a little reckless, but good reckless, and safer than last night because it’s text banter, not soul-searching looks and carefully articulated references to past heartbreaks.
My heart thumps so hard that I sit up, heat spreading through my middle like hot tea on a cold night. My eyes flit to my vanity drawer, in which there are many notes of me and Wilder talking to each other this way. And even though I’m old enough to know that it doesn’t fix everything, maybe things don’t need to be fixed the way I once thought. Maybe they need to be healed, and maybe that healing isn’t a solitary action the way I’ve always imagined.
Also, flirting is good for the soul. That’s got to be a truism, right?
For about thirty seconds, there’s no chat bubble and no response. I’m about to close out of the text when his reply pops up.
My pulse goes haywire. Does he know those are the same words he used in that note when we were teens; is that why he said them; is that why he hesitated? I immediately dismiss the idea. Of course not. It was a million years ago. I almost laugh at myself for thinking it, but a wisp of worry seeps in as I realize once again that my feelings for Wilder aren’t neatly contained, that I’m not driving this emotional bus, rather I’m a reckless passenger balanced precariously on a seat, halfway out the sunroof with a drink I’m hoping not to spill.
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.
“Now please, close the door on your way out; I’m going to retire early.”
Even though I want to press further, I hear the plea in her voice, the demand that I give her space, and I know it would be wrong to force her into a conversation she isn’t ready to have. So, I nod and make my way out of the room, her unspoken grief shining a light on my own and forming into a throbbing ache in my chest. Because just like my mother, I’ve spent this past year turning my head, telling myself I’d deal with my feelings later, at some more appropriate time—a time that never seemed to come until last night. As much as I loathe to think it, we are more alike than we let on, never wanting to show weakness, guarding our inner selves with steel traps and iron fences.
My breath hitches, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I want to cry for my mother. For all that we never were and all that we’ll never be if we don’t change something. And while I stash that thought away, push it down so that I can carry through with my night, I don’t seal it off. I let it be, that blazing sadness, the small stuffed animal with arms outstretched that no one hugged, and I tell it to wait, that I’ll be back, that it’s not hopeless. Because I no longer believe it is.