Page 25 of Say Yes to the Hot Mess

We say our goodbyes and then hang up, and I look at Archer. “What do you think, little man?” I say. “Think we can manage chocolate chip cookies?”

A strange pang of nostalgia hits me then—or maybe not nostalgia, but something similar, for the woman who should have taught me how to bake cookies—the woman who should have been here helping after I gave birth to Archer.

I don’t think about my mother often. It’s not that I try to avoid thinking about her—it’s just that she doesn’t come up much in my mind, because I never really knew her. She left us when I was three. I have very few memories of her, and the memories Idohave aren’t very reliable. I made my peace with her a long time ago, though we’ve never spoken. I made my peace with the fact that she wasn’t part of my life and probably never would be. And once I made that peace, I never looked back, never gave her any more of my time or pain. The only remnants of her in my life now are my name—Mayari, an ancient Filipino goddess—and my thick black hair, just like hers.

Since my mother isn’t here to help me bake cookies, Betty Crocker will have to do. I google a good recipe and then gather my ingredients, turning the oven on to preheat. Slowly, methodically, I make my way through the mixing and stirring, tasting a bit (okay, a lot) of the cookie dough once it’s ready, just to make sure it tastes all right. Then I roll my dough into balls and line them up on the tray, sticking it in the oven. I’m tempted to pat myself on the back, but I hold off. I should probably wait to see how they look and taste first.

Part of me is nervous that I’ve done something stupid—like mixing up the salt and the sugar—but I really don’t think I did. I double checked everything. Plus I don’t understand how people do that in the first place. I’ve seen it in books and movies, but wouldn’t literallyeveryoneknow that chocolate chip cookies aren’t going to require a full cup of salt? That just seems like common sense to me.

I suppose I’m not one to talk, though. My kitchen expertise is limited.

Archer and I hang out while the cookies bake. I give him a bottle, because I don’t want to start breastfeeding if I’m going to have to stop in a bit to get cookies out and onto the cooling rack or anything. It takes him a minute or two to decide that a bottle is acceptable, but once he does, he guzzles like his life depends on it. Some seven or eight minutes after he begins eating, I have to step away to take the cookies out of the oven; this is not okay with Archer, and he starts to cry, his little wailing screams echoing through the kitchen as I remove the cookies from the oven, turn it off, and set the pan safely on the stove. Then I return to him and let him finish off the bottle.

Unfortunately, he spits up all over me as I’m burping him. I would be grossed out, but it happens so much that at this point I don’t even blink. I just whip my shirt off and use it to wipe off my chest and his little chin.

Once his tummy is settled again, I lay him back down on the floor so he can do some tummy time. He does some more screaming—alotmore screaming—and looks at me like I’m his least favorite person in the world.

“I know, baby, I know,” I say to him, smoothing my hand down his back. “But this is for your little muscles. And see how well you’re doing?”

Archer is not impressed.

Some five minutes later, when I’ve finally achieved maximum guilt levels due to the look of utter betrayal on my child’s face, I help him roll over, picking him up.

“There we go,” I coo at him. “All better. Now,” I say. I look over my shoulder toward the kitchen, where the chocolate chip cookies are cooling. “Should we go see our neighbor? Ask him for help?”

Let’s pray that Dex says yes.

Six

Dex

When my doorbell rings,I open it quickly, fully expecting to see my grandmother. She didn’t say she was coming over, but who else would it be? She’s the only family I have in the immediate vicinity.

One glance, however, tells me that I am very wrong.

“Oh,” I say, surprised, and it actually takes my brain a second to catch up. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Maya Ellis says. She has a baby in one arm and a paper plate in the other, and she looks to be a little out of breath. Today she’s dressed in a long, flowing skirt patterned in golds and yellows and a t-shirt that’s tied into a knot just over the top of the skirt, exposing a tiny sliver of skin. I pull my eyes away from that and look at her face instead. Her hair is a mess, wild and thick, but somehow, strangely, it suits her.

We stand there in silence for a second, just looking at each other, before I finally remember my manners.

“What can I do for you, Miss Ellis?” I say, leaning against the doorframe and folding my arms across my chest.

“Uh, well, I brought you cookies,” she says after a second’s hesitation. She thrusts the paper plate at my chest, and I grab it quickly before it falls to the ground.

“Oh,” I say, surprised once more. I glance at the cookies, covered in plastic wrap—they’re a little wonky-shaped, but they smell good. In general I try to stay away from unhealthy things like baked goods, but no way am I telling her that.“Thank you.”

She nods. “And this is Archer,” she says, nodding toward the infant in her arms.

He’s a cute baby. Most babies look alike, like bald, squishy potatoes, but Archer doesn’t. He has big eyes and golden skin and a tuft of dark hair. I wonder who his father is, and why he’s not in the picture.

“The child I’m trying to forcibly remove from his home,” I say, hitting her with her own words from when she visited my office. “Yes. Nice to meet you, Archer.”

“Right,” Maya says, her lips thinning a little.

I watch, fascinated, as she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then exhales—as though she’s trying to gather her composure. When she opens her eyes again, she smiles brightly at me.

“I’m here because I hoped—well, I hoped we could start over,” she says.

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