by Tara West
Mom comes over and gives me a hug. “You look beautiful,” she whispers into my ear. “Are we ready for Thanksgiving?” she asks as she releases me and clasps her hands together.
The boys squeal their excitement. They’ve been trapped in the kitchen since after naptime, and I’m pretty sure they’ve eaten more than their fair share of cookies.
Mom laces her fingers through Doc’s and kisses him on the cheek. Then she turns to my brothers. “Boys, you lead Sissy into the dining room.”
They smile up at me as I grasp their hands, slightly sticky from cookie icing, and we walk toward the kitchen.
Gio tugs on my pants leg and winks up at me. “Wait till you see it. Mommy makes a magic house every year.”
I quirk a brow. “Magic?” I say as we walk into the dining room, and then my jaw practically hits the floor. “Magic,” I breathe.
I swear the dining room, or what was left of the dining room, looks more like a page from a fairytale. Every wall, every corner, has been transformed into a little slice of my mom’s magical universe. Little paper lanterns hang at varying degrees from the ceiling, lattice woven with vines and silk flowers adorn the walls. There’s even a fountain with dancing cherubs in one corner. Manny squeals and releases my hand, dashing for the fountain. I call for him to come back, but then I see him playing with wooden toy boats floating in the water. Gio joins him, and they pretty much forget all about sitting down to dinner.
I walk to one wall, admiring the pictures hanging from the lattice. I didn’t notice them at first, as they were framed by ivy and flowers, but now I see Mom’s decorated the room in pictures. Some I recognize from this week. There’s one of me and the boys posing on their backyard slide, another of my kids when they were babies. My breath hitches when I see a faded photograph of a young girl holding a baby in a hospital bed.
Mom comes up beside me and slips her arm through mine. “This was right after you were born. It’s the only picture they let me take with you.”
In the picture she’s teary-eyed as she looks down at me, and I can tell she doesn’t want to give me up. I feel bad for that younger version of Mom, and I want to reach into that photograph and steal them both away.
“You’re so young,” I say as I shake my head. “You look younger than eighteen.”
Much younger than eighteen.
“I had that baby face for a while,” she says with a sigh.
I frown and clutch my stomach. It sickens me to think what a pervert my dad was, and I wonder how many other girls he raped.
As if Mom senses my distress, she pulls me to the next wall, and I see the baby and kindergarten pictures she’d asked me to paint for her. She points toward the ceiling. Every inch is covered in vines and flowers. I get a good look at the lamps which are dangling from the hanging vines, and I can see words stenciled on the bottom of each lamp: love, family, reunited, together, and thankful. She points to a cluster of five lamps hanging above the dining table. Each lamp is strung together with our names written on them.
But what literally takes my breath away is the collage at the center of the table. It’s a large wicker basket with silk flowers and vines extending out of it, but the center flower is much larger, and stitched across the petals are the words, “Welcome to our family, Christina. We will always love you.”
I’m too choked up to say anything, so I turn to her and practically knock her down with the strength of my hug. “I love you too, Mom.”
I’m about to start bawling when I feel myself being pulled and look down to see Gio and Manny tugging on my jeans.
Gio puffs up his chest and gives me his best little man expression. “You’re not supposed to cry on Thanksgiving, Sissy.”
Manny is much more direct. “Can we eat now?”
Mom and I look at each other and laugh. We scoop up my brothers and sit down while Doc finishes setting food on the table. We say grace together as a family, holding hands and giving thanks.
I smile down at my brothers’ heads and squeeze my mom’s hand tight. Even though I feel as if my life with Andrés is fading into nothing more than a dream, I’ve got a lot to be thankful for today.
* * *
It’s late, and I’ve just finished a hot bath in my garden tub. Yes, I’ve got my own en suite bathroom. My mom’s house is pretty awesome. The kids have already been tucked in bed, and even though I’m physically exhausted, I know I can’t sleep yet. I’ve got too much on my mind. Besides, I told Doc I would talk to her tonight, and I still have to make good on my promise. Although, truthfully, I’m a bit reluctant to bring up the past. Talking about our past brings up a whole new set of issues that, so far, I’ve been able to avoid, namely, my abusive childhood.
I hear a noise coming from the dining room, so I pad down the spiral staircase to check it out. I gasp when I see my mom hunched over on the floor. It’s hard to tell what she’s doing because we’ve extinguished most of the lanterns, and the only light seems to be coming from a lantern sitting on the nearby dining table.
I cautiously walk up to her. If she’s meditating, I don’t want to disturb her. And then I hear it, a strangled sob that makes my limbs freeze. She’s crying.
“Mom?” I ask. “Are you okay?”
She looks up at me with wide, watery eyes. I can see now she’s holding the picture of us together right after I was born. “I held you in my arms for a moment,” she says as she looks back down at the picture, “and then they pried you away. I swear a part of me died when they took you from me.”
I sit on the floor and wrap my arm around her shoulders. “Mom, please don’t cry,” I beg. “I don’t blame you for any of this.”
She pulls back and looks at me. “Christina, why aren’t you talking to your mother?”
My throat constricts as I do my best to keep an impassive face. I don’t like where this conversation is going. Not at all. “She’s not my mother. You are.”
But she inches closer to me and grasps my hand. She’s got a determined look in her eyes. “What did she do to make you hate her?”
“Does it matter?” I ask as I look down at our joined hands. Now I wish I’d stayed in my room.
She cups my chin in her hand, forcing me to look at her, but her face is blurred by my stupid tears.
“It does to me,” she says. “I’ve always wondered if I made the right decision leaving you with them. I could have given you up for adoption to someone else.” Her voice cracks as she drops her hands. “I thought you’d be better off with a blood relative.”
“Mom, quit beating yourself up over this. You were young and scared.” My limbs go limp, and I freeze with fear. It’s as if the blood pumping through my veins slows to a near trickle.
Please don’t make me bring up the rape.
She wipes her eyes with the corner of her shawl. “You believe my story that he forced me so easily. You don’t even defend your father.”
“Because he was an asshole,” I say. Just the thought of what he did to my mom, and then to me, makes my brain seize with red hot anger.
“Why?” she begs. “Did he hurt you, too?”
“W-what?” I stammer, forcing myself to meet her eyes. I will not crack. I will not let her know how badly he hurt me.
Though her lower lip trembles, her green eyes darken and her expression hardens. She reminds me of an enraged animal preparing to defend her young. “Did he rape you?”
It’s as if time has stopped, and the only sounds I hear are the soft splashing coming from the water fountain and my erratic heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Maybe I should lie, but I know somehow she’ll figure me out. Besides, she suspects too much. Even if I lie to her now, I won’t be able to for much longer.
Finally, I exhale a heavy breath and force myself to look into her eyes. “Once, when I was fifteen. My adoptive mother knew about it and did nothing.”
My mom’s strangled cry isn’t reassuring. She hunches over and sobs into her hands.
“Mom, please don’t
cry,” I beg as I lean over her, pressing my face against her shoulder. “I’ve put it behind me now. I have. It’s not your fault.”
But I don’t know if she hears me because she keeps murmuring, “What have I done?”
I refuse to let her do this to herself. To us. Despite the emotional wounds I’ve suffered these past few weeks, I feel like I’ve healed so much with my new family, and I won’t play the role of the broken-hearted victim any longer.
“What have you done?” I rub her back. “You’ve given me a family when I had none. I came here to heal, not to keep hurting. My friend died last week, my boyfriend dumped me. You guys are the only good things I’ve got. I don’t want us to hurt anymore. Please.”
Mom looks at me with a slack jaw, and then she cups my face with her hand. “Your friend died?”
“Mrs. Peterson.” I nod as the tears stinging the backs of my eyes rapidly turn into torrents. “You would have liked her. She looked after me when my parents were being assholes.”
“I’m so sorry she died.” Mom grabs me and pulls me to her chest.
“Me, too.”
She kisses my cheek and whispers into my ear. “I’m sorry about Andrés, too.”
“I don’t know how it all fell apart.” I hate the note of desperation that slips into my voice. I clutch her tighter, hoping to draw from her strength. Thank God for my mom and my brothers, or else this emotional chasm of despair would have already swallowed me whole. I pull back and sit on my heels. “One minute we’re so in love, and the next he takes off and doesn’t return my calls. I don’t know what’s going to happen. All I know is I can’t keep working for his family. I don’t think I can handle being with him but apart from him.”
Mom wipes my tears with the pad of her thumb and then hesitantly smiles. “Did you like the way I decorated the dining room today?”
“Yeah, I loved it.” I nod as my gaze sweeps the room. Though it’s dark in here, I still feel the magic from today. I know what she’s trying to do. She’s trying to change the subject so I don’t cry over Andrés. She’s a good mom.
“Sorry I didn’t include you, but I wanted you to be surprised.”
“I was.” The way she centered her theme around welcoming me to the family means so much to me.
She heaves a sigh and then flashes another, wearier smile. “I’ve got seven designer furniture stores across four states. I’m so busy right now, but I’ve been thinking of expanding and decorating weddings and parties.” She pauses and bites her lip while eyeing me from beneath her lashes. “I need someone I can depend on, someone who’s artistic, to handle it. Would you be interested?”
I gasp as a trill of excitement sends a jolt right through me, and I practically jump off the floor. “Are you asking me to work for you?”
“Yes. I think you’d do an amazing job.”
The way her eyes sparkle when she looks at me sends a ripple of gooseflesh across my extremities.
A thousand thoughts are racing through my mind. I get to decorate parties! I think of all the things I can do to make a wedding or Sweet Sixteen memorable. I can paint murals, and I’d love to decorate a room with ivy and flowers, waterfalls, and paper lamps. My mind is racing with so many magical and creative ideas.
But then I remember my job back in Austin. Though I don’t want to work with Andrés anymore, his Tio has always been good to me. I know he’ll be upset if I quit, but I told them when I first started this might not be a forever gig. They had to know that once I graduated, I’d want to move on.
I throw my arms around my mom and practically knock us both on our backs. “I accept!”
Chapter Nineteen
Christina
I sleep in late, way too late. I can tell because of the bright light streaming in through the curtains. After my mom and I stayed up to talk about plans for our new business, I grabbed a sketch pad when I got back to my room and worked late into the night on wedding ideas.
I’m surprised my brothers haven’t come in to wake me yet, but I think they must be exhausted after eating all that turkey and pie and then playing outside on their slide until well past dark.
I grab my phone and check the time. I can’t believe it’s almost noon. My neck and shoulders are still sore, probably from hunching over my sketch pad all night. I’m not ready to get out of bed yet, so I log onto Facebook and scroll through my newsfeed.
Looks like Grace and Violet had a wonderful Thanksgiving. They invited a group of troubled teens to spend the day at the ranch, and there are lots of pics of smiling kids feeding goats and riding horses. I have to do a double-take at Grace in jeans and boots. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen her in cowboy clothes, but she looks like a natural. After she was disowned by her parents last year, I’m glad to see she’s found a place where she belongs.
I realize I need to post all my family pictures on Facebook. I’m hesitant, because I know my sorority sisters will ask why Andrés isn’t in the pictures. I don’t want Jackson knowing about the breakup yet, either. He’ll hound me for sure.
Yesterday, Jackson left a comment wishing me a Happy Thanksgiving.
Nothing from Andrés.
It’s like I don’t even exist to him.
I check and see I’m still on his friend’s list, and then my heart drops to my stomach when I click on his wall. Two days ago, his cousin Cesar tagged him in a photo captioned “Viva Mexico.” Andrés has a beer in one hand and his other wrapped around the shoulder of a bikini-clad girl. I clutch my throat as I read the comments.
His other cousin, Esteban wrote, “Did you get laid yet?”
Cesar commented below. “Not yet, but he’s working on it.”
So that’s why he never returned my calls? He was getting drunk and laid in Mexico?
Son of a bitch!
I throw my phone on the floor and sob into my hands as a feeling of despair and rejection wash over me.
I thought Andrés and I might still have a chance to work things out but it’s over. It’s really over.
He doesn’t love me, and maybe he never did, not if he’s so willing to run off at the first sign of trouble and sleep with sluts in Mexico.
“Sweetheart, what’s the matter?”
I look up through tear-soaked eyes as mom sits beside me on the bed. “He went to Mexico to get laid,” I sob, clutching my pillow.
She scoots closer and drapes an arm across my legs, a concerned expression marring her brow. “Are you sure?”
I nod, sobbing harder into my pillow. “It’s on his Facebook page.”
Just then, the phone I threw on the floor starts buzzing. I don’t know who it is, but I don’t think I can talk to anyone. My mom bends over and picks it up, staring at the screen with pursed lips.
“It says Grace.” She holds the phone out to me.
My heart clenches as I take it from her. I haven’t called Grace all week. She must think I’m a lousy friend.
I tap on the phone and answer. “Hey, Grace,” I say in my best forced happy tone, trying my best not to sniffle.
“Hey, what’s up?” she asks, excitement ringing in each word. She sounds happy. Probably because her partner still loves her. “You having fun down there?”
“I’m having a wonderful time.” I do my best to match Grace’s perky tone. I am having a wonderful time here. Or at least I was, until Andrés ruined it. “Sorry I haven’t called.”
My mom shifts on the bed, and I grab her hand and hold out a finger. I’m hoping she’ll stay, because after I hang up with Grace, I know I’ll need her shoulder to cry on.
“No need to say sorry. I know you’ve been busy, but….” There’s a long pause, and I wait for her to finish her sentence. Something tells me she’s got bad news. “I wanted to let you know, I just saw Andrés in the apartment parking lot. He had a TV and bags in the back of his truck.”
I know I should be angry. I should swear and throw things, but at this point, I think I’m too numb from heartbreak. Still, I wish I knew why he
did it. “Did he say anything to you?”
“I asked him why he was moving out, and he told me you’re back with Jackson.”
I jerk up and practically scream into the phone. “Fucking excuse me? I am not back with Jackson.”
“I know,” she answers.
I’m so angry, my brain is about to explode. “Why would he think that? Did you tell him he’s wrong?”
“No. He drove off before I could say anything.”
“Fuck!” I scream, and then I cringe as I look over at my mother. I forgot where I was for a moment, or that my brothers may be nearby. Luckily, she doesn’t look angry, but I can tell by her wide-eyed gaze I’ve shocked her.
I drop my voice to a strained whisper. “Why would he think I’m back with Jackson?”
“Call and ask him,” Grace says.
I toss back my head and groan at the ceiling. “I’ve already tried.” I slip out of bed and snatch a pair of jeans off the dresser. “I’m coming up there. I deserve an answer.”
Chapter Twenty
Christina
After I hurriedly pack my bags, I’m back on the road toward Austin. My brothers cried while we exchanged goodbyes, so I’ve already had to promise them I’ll be back tomorrow.
I turn on a country station, trying to distract myself from dark thoughts of Andrés, but not even Darius Rucker’s uplifting melody can pull me out of my funk. Why would he think I’m back with Jackson? What about all those freaking texts I’ve sent him this week? Didn’t he get any of them? Was he lying to Grace so she’d leave him alone? I have a hard time believing this jackass is my Andrés, the same guy I’ve loved and who’s loved me unconditionally for the past six months.
Speaking of jackasses, my Bluetooth rings, and I check my dash to see Jackson James is calling me. Ugh. What does my other ex want? I’m tempted not to answer, but then I think maybe something is wrong with Ty, so I finally pick up.