Communication Is KeyLime Pie—
turning tart limes into sweet goodness
When I get home from the pizza place, my fight with Wilder still vibrating through me like an aftershock, I make the mistake of slamming the front door, not thinking that my parents might be in the living room.
“Madeline?” my mother says, which is the exact moment I realize I’m not carrying the pizza that I told her I’d pick up for dinner.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a second in the foyer, lifting my face to the ceiling before making my way to the living room doorway.
My dad lowers his book, pulling down his reading glasses, and my mom tilts her head.
“I, um, didn’t get the pizza,” I start, my lips suddenly dry, wishing I’d stuck it out at Tony’s a few minutes longer so I wouldn’t have to have this conversation. “Wilder was there and—” I’m about to explain, tilt the truth until I think she’ll accept it.
“Did something happen?” my mother says, her tone hesitant.
But I’m exhausted from spinning narratives, trying to put a rosy glow on things that don’t deserve it. And just like with Wilder, I give up trying. “We got into a fight.”
My mother deflates, and her eyes flick to the phone, telling me that in this moment she isn’t considering what I might be feeling, but rather whether or not Mrs. Buenaventura is going to call her about it. “Oh Madeline,” she sighs. “We literally just discussed this.”
My shoulders inch up toward my ears. “It was unavoidable.”
“Was it, though?” she asks like she’s not convinced.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, now back on the defensive, a position that’s grown all too familiar.
My mother spreads her hands. “Just that every time something like this happens, it’s always someone else’s fault. Never your own,” she says, her voice even-keeled as though she has ceased to be shocked by my behavior. Heat warms my cheeks and my shoulders transform into earrings. “And it always seems to take place at maximum volume. I’m certain the entire pizza place got an earful?”
I glance at my dad, but he just sits there frowning and listening to my mother. “Ah, now we’re coming to what you really want to know,” I say, the hurt tightening my voice, wanting to lash out in return. “How badly did your daughter embarrass you this time? What sort of a mark did she make on your pristine reputation? Be honest, Mom, that’s what you’ve cared about this whole time. Not what I might be feeling or how hard it might be, but about yourself and what people think of you. You’re selfish.”
“Madeline,” my mother says with a bright tone of shock. “That’s completely inappropriate.”
Which is when Dad decides to chime in. “Madeline, take it down a notch.”
I look at him, his frown carved deeply into his mouth and his eyebrows pushed together. “Of course you’re on her side. You’re always on her side.”
“This isn’t about sides,” he replies.
But it is. He doesn’t stand up for me when it comes to Mom. He won’t tell her to back off or to give me a break. Ever.
“I think you’d better go up to your room,” my mother says. “Before I decide that grounding is in order.”
“Grounding?” I say with a hurt laugh. “Isn’t that my life anyway? What friends do I have? Where do you see me going exactly?”
“The bakery,” she says, and it steals the breath right out of my lungs.
“You wouldn’t,” I reply, just above a whisper.
“I would and I am,” she says. “I’m sick and tired of fighting with you like this. Things are difficult enough without this house becoming a boxing ring. I told you to stay away from Wilder. I warned you there would be consequences. One week and no bakery.”
I look at my dad, who hesitates. And I feel his reluctance like a slap. When it becomes apparent that he’s not going to say anything, I feel myself giving up, shutting down and closing in.
“I truly hate you,” I say to my mom. “I only wish that I could embarrass you more.”
Her face visibly pales. “And now it’s two weeks,” she says.
My dad opens his mouth, but he only closes it again.
I stare at my dad, my chin shaking. “I don’t know why I ever thought you were different. You’re just as awful as Mom.”
“One month,” my mother says, and I have to press my lips together to keep from crying.
I turn around before my breath can hitch, blinking away the moisture that’s congregating in my eyes, and I run up the stairs.
Only I stop when I get to the landing, my steps faltering with my dad’s brusque tone, wondering if it means he’s mad at her? But all he says is that he’s leaving to retrieve the pizza.
And that’s it. No discussion of them stripping me of the only thing I had left, no regretful remorse.
So I close myself in my room, pacing across my rug, hands drawing worrying circles over my ever-growing belly. Bitterness and grief well up inside me, fracturing me from my center like a windshield struck by a perfectly angled pebble.
I feel myself slipping into a dark place, and I know with certainty that what I said to Wilder is true—things will never return to normal. I look down at my belly, at the baby inside of it.
My lip still quivering, I say, “I promise you, baby, that you’ll never feel like this. That you’ll always know that I love you. I’ll tell you a thousand times a day if I have to.”
And that’s the moment everything changes.
I know I can’t stay, that if I do, I’ll not only be sealing my own fate to some dismal unhappiness but sealing my baby’s as well. That if my child grows up in this house, in this town, he’ll get constant reminders that he’s a shameful disappointment, that he’ll be told however subtly he’s the reason my life didn’t work out. Maybe I can’t save myself, but I can save my kid.
I’m packing my bags before I even fully make the decision, grabbing the checks for the account that holds my college savings. Even though I don’t know where I’m going yet, I know I’m leaving. And as much as I’d like to think differently, I know in my heart that if I go far enough, my parents won’t come after me. Maybe they’ll even be glad.
I lay in bed, staring out the window at the faint light that tints the black sky a deep indigo. It’s only six forty or so, but I’ve been up for hours, just like the morning I left all those years ago. I carefully swing my legs out from under the covers and run my hands over my face.
Having given up on passing back out, I creep out of the room, not wanting to disturb Spence. I leave my phone on the bedside table, where it’s been off since I left the party last night. I know Liv probably texted. Maybe Wilder did, too. But I’m not ready to deal with that yet, not if I want to get through Christmas morning with the appropriate amount of enthusiasm for Spence’s sake. For a moment there I thought I was getting a second chance, that just maybe I could carve out a piece of happiness in the wake of past hurts. But Wilder is still Wilder, I’m still me, and my mother is still my mother.
My biggest regret is getting Spence’s hopes up. It’s for the best, I tell myself, thinking about Jake coming by later this afternoon. He’d inevitably disappoint Spence. But even that thought, one I was adamant about a couple of days ago, isn’t landing and I find myself doused in guilt, like an overstuffed closet that finally hit its limit.
I walk quietly through the house, happy that it’s mostly dark and that I don’t have to face the world yet. I figure I’ll line up three of my mother’s tiny coffee mugs like shots and douse myself in caffeine while prepping an over-the-top comfort breakfast of frittata, homemade hash browns, and I Wish I Never Let Wilder Kiss Me Bread Pudding made with bittersweet chocolate, fresh tart raspberries, and vanilla coconut whipped cream.
Caught up in my menu, I walk distractedly into the kitchen, flipping on the light and startling so intensely that I yelp as I register my mom seated at the breakfast table.
“Merry Christmas,” she says with the same nonplussed tone one might use for there’s a cold front coming in.
My hand flies to my chest, attempting to quell the spike of adrenaline. I think trick or treat might be more appropriate for someone lurking in the dark, but I know better than to say it. “What are you doing down here so early?”
“I thought I might watch the sunrise,” she replies, glancing out the window that overlooks the backyard, her tone hinging somewhere between melancholy and pensive.
“I was just going to grab some coffee,” I say, rethinking my breakfast prep. “I’ll be out of here in a minute.”
She nods, and something about her expression strikes me as vulnerable, like I caught her before she had a chance to put her face on. I move to the coffee machine, and she looks back toward the window. Only as silence descends, it’s not the easy coexisting that you share with family and friends, it’s the type that pulls the air taut and strains your forehead. It’s as though our conversation from last night hangs between us, and not only that but the mess at the party she has yet to hear about, plus the fact that I need to tell her I’m leaving.
I retrieve my baby cup of coffee, and the weight on my shoulders presses firmly down like it might actually push me through the floor. I consider leaving the kitchen to collect my thoughts, give myself space to work up to the conversation(s) I know I need to have with her, but I find myself hesitating. I’m not certain if I leave that I’ll return, and I likely won’t get another opportunity like this after Spence wakes.
I wet my dry lips, pulling the hot cup to my chest, figuring the only way to do this is the Band-Aid approach. Mom, I caused a giant scene, prepare to hear about it for the next couple of weeks and turn red with embarrassment, Mrs. Buenaventura officially hates me, and by the way, I’m leaving and disappointing everyone just like you predicted. Merry freaking Christmas.
But before I can get a word out of my shit confession, my mother starts speaking.
“You know,” she says, still looking out the window, “your father and I used to watch the sunrise every Christmas morning.”
My internal machinations stop abruptly like she threw a stick into the wheel spokes of my thoughts.
She sighs. “He’d wake me up early with an offering of holiday tea. ‘You’re gonna miss it, El, if you stay asleep any longer. Today is the day to watch the world come alive.’” She shakes her head at the memory. “I’d always grumble that I could watch the sunrise perfectly well from my bed, but he wasn’t having it. He’d insist we go downstairs. And here, on the kitchen table would be a warm treat just out of the oven and a present—something to start the morning properly, he’d claim.”
My heart squeezes so intensely that I find myself off-balance, my voice only one notch above a whisper. “He’d leave a pastry on my bedside table for when I woke up,” I say, realizing I’d forgotten all about that Christmas tradition, packed it away with the rest of the things I knew I couldn’t keep when I left.
She nods, giving me a sad smile. “Would you like to join me?” she asks, and now I’m really thrown. My mother doesn’t do vulnerable; I’m fairly certain she’s made of steel and wire instead of soft malleable flesh. So to see her like this in her bathrobe, eyes heavy and untouched by makeup, with her heart on her sleeve, rattles me.
“I would,” I say after a beat, sinking into the seat across from her at the breakfast table.
We sit there for a long minute, looking out the window at the purples and pinks dusting the tops of the trees in our backyard, and remembering Dad. And the lump that forms in my throat is so insistent that I can’t think past it, can’t imagine how I’m ever going to tell her what I need to without feeling like an awful person. I press my lips together, trying to swallow, to normalize my breath.
But as if she could hear my worry, she asks, “How was the party last night?”
I freeze, immobilized by an onslaught of guilt.
Her forehead scrunches in confusion at what I’m sure is an overwhelmed expression on my face. “Madeline?”
But I’m afraid to speak. Afraid to tell her that for reasons unbeknownst to me, my presence always seems to incite an altercation, a loud one. And that this time it included her closest friend, leading me to want to flee Haverberry once more.
“Did something happen?” she asks, and her tone already betrays that she knows it did, that in some way she expected it.
But instead of taking offense like I usually would, my face crumples, my head bending toward my cup. “I don’t want things to always be this way,” I say. “I just don’t know how to do it, ya know? I don’t know how to change things.”
Only instead of waiting for me to collect myself, she reaches her hand across the table, laying it on top of mine.
“I’m afraid you got that from me,” she says, and the kindness shatters me. Without warning, I’m crying, my shoulders vibrating, and my grip on my coffee slackening.
I look up at her, trying to reel myself in, finding it hard to take a breath. “I wish things were different. God, I wish that so much,” I say, my voice so garbled I have to wonder if she heard me.
She sighs, making her appear even wearier. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Why don’t you tell me anyway,” she says.
And after a second of hesitation, I do. For the first time ever, I talk to my mother about Wilder, past and present. I tell her about the kiss and about wanting to stay. I tell her about Kate and Mrs. Buenaventura, about how hopeful I’d been when I went to that party. She asks questions here and there, but mostly she just listens, refilling my coffee cup when it empties, and bringing us cookies from the containers Spence and I filled yesterday.
When it’s all said and done, when my cheeks are dry and the sun is shining, she gets up. “Excuse me a moment,” she says, and walks out into the hall.
But when she doesn’t return right away, I move to the doorway, wondering what could be so pressing, not confident she took everything I told her well. I know it was a lot to process, that there were sections that were particularly hard for her to accept, especially the ones about Mrs. Buenaventura. So, when I hear her pick up the phone off the foyer mail table, my heart sinks.
I close my eyes, exhaling and leaning my weight on the doorframe, and just as I expected, she says Mrs. Buenaventura’s name into the phone.
“Hannah? I’m glad I caught you. I don’t want to interrupt your holiday celebrations, but I wanted to clear the air from last night.”
It’s a stake to the heart. Only this time, I stupidly didn’t see it coming. It felt like she was listening, that for the first time, she was seeing me, even if she didn’t fully understand. I suppose it couldn’t last—this moment of peace with my mother. I just also didn’t expect her to wipe it away as though she were sliding her arm along a fully set table, crashing all the plates to the floor.
“Yes, that’s what I’ve heard,” she says after a moment.
I hang my head in my hands, defeated, my temples starting to pound. Part of me wants to go back to bed and hide under the covers, vow to never be hopeful again, and remind myself that it only ends in heartbreak.
“I think you owe my daughter an apology.”
My head flies up. Wait, what? I can’t have heard that correctly.
Another pause. “Do not get me started on Kate, that snake. She should count herself lucky Madeline didn’t ambush her after her performance in the holiday market.”
This is not happening. I’m hallucinating. Have to be.
A long minute passes, and I find myself leaning forward, straining to listen even though my mother isn’t speaking.
“What you said was inappropriate and you put her in an untenable position,” she continues. “Now I understand you don’t want your son to work at the bakery and I’m sorry you feel that way. But do you really think that we can control them? It worked for naught when they were seventeen; do you really want to wage that battle again and lose? I lost my daughter for nine years. Don’t make the same mistake I did.”
My eyes are so wide that I wonder if I’ve stretched them permanently out of shape. I almost creep into the hallway just to double-check that it’s really my mom saying these things.
“No, I’m not telling you what to do with your son. I’m telling you what not to do with my daughter. And truly Hannah, I don’t care if Jesus is sitting at your dining room table waiting for his eggs, this is important, and it needs to be said.”
My hand clamps over my mouth, glad that she can’t see my face.
The phone clicks onto the receiver a moment later, and when I hear my mother headed my way, I run back to the table and sit down, bracing my empty cup like a prop. My mother takes one look at me and raises her eyebrow.
Only she doesn’t bring up the fact that she just fought her best friend for me. All she says is, “You hungry?”
And I realize at that moment, that we’re not going to have some cuddly reconciliation where she tells me she’s on my side and everything will be okay. That’s just not her, and for once I don’t need it to be.
“Actually, yeah,” I say, standing up from the breakfast table and putting my cup in the sink.
She nods, moving toward the fridge. “I was thinking about making your dad’s favorite omelet,” she says, “the one stuffed with grilled mushrooms, caramelized onions, and cheese. Maybe some fried potatoes?”
“That sounds perfect,” I say, relinquishing my own menu in favor of hers. “I’ll go wake Spence up so he can de-grumble and then . . . I can help you prep if you want?”
She gives me a small smile. “That’d be nice, Madeline,” she says slowly, and as I turn around, my eyes fill, only this time from happiness.
Once again, I feel the bright spark of hope glowing among the embers, promising a fire if I provide the wood. And I do. I pile it on. Log after log as we open presents and curl up on the couches under throw blankets to watch Miracle on 34th Street. For the first time since I was little, I don’t feel that itch to escape her, to hold up my shield to block whatever she might throw my way. I just keep thinking about how she said she lost me, that she made a mistake. And on more than one occasion I have to discreetly dab my eyes, overwhelmed by how I interpret those words as an adult, as a parent who knows that it’s impossible to get everything right.
The morning and afternoon pass too quickly, my heart growing like the Grinch’s. I hold my son tight; I laugh with my mom. I would never have imagined it possible, but it’s a pretty perfect Christmas . . . that is until Liv shows up.