Page 97 of Can We Skip to the Good Part?
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” her mother said. “Their family must not be as close as ours.”
“I don’t think that’s necessarily true. Every family is different.”
“Why are you defensive? I don’t understand. It’s a happy day. Be happy.”
That was her father’s cue to grab a cookie and escape. Coward.
She squinted, annoyed. “Can you just order someone to be happy, though?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.” She shrugged and moved to the refrigerator as the song shifted to “Winter Wonderland.”
“I’m not having the best day.” She’d not felt so dejected in a long time.
“Why are you sad?" her mother asked. "I don’t understand. Pull yourself together before the others get here.” Max swallowed. Once the extended family arrived—her father’s sister, her mother’s cousins—the flurry of activity would whisk them away for the rest of the day, caught up in a charade of polite smiles and tired rituals. No one would notice if she stayed quiet. In fact, that was preferred. But the words were clawing at her throat now, bitter and hot, and if she didn’t let them out soon, she’d spend the rest of the day simmering in silence while everyone else decked the halls and tossed back her father’s spiced wine.
“I don’t think I can just play along anymore.”
“Don’t be dramatic. Do you want to try the dessert? I think you’ll like the bibingka. I made it extra sweet for your father. Extra sticky, too.”
Her muscles tensed. She saw every tactic in vivid color now. The diminishing of her feelings. The redirection to something less flammable. “I don’t want to taste the dessert. I want to have this argument.”
Her mother sighed, set down the stack of plates in her hand, and turned fully to Max. “Go ahead then if you must. Tellme why you’re upset, and we can move forward!” Her voice was commanding. Her brown eyes were hard, challenging. Max knew the look all too well. It meant she didn’t appreciate the emotional detour when she had a one-woman show ahead of her. The stagehand was out of line. Her blood ran cold, and she braced herself. This was usually the moment Max backed down. Not today.
“Because Ella should be here with me right now.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “And it’s my own fault that she’s not because I run around like a windup toy who only knows how to chase your approval.”
“And why is my approval so awful? I’m your mother.”
“I’m a grown woman, Mom.”
“Well, you’re not acting like one. You’ll have your whole life to spend with this woman, if that’s what you want. This could be your last one with me.”
“Please. You’re too domineering to die, and everyone knows it.” She straightened, just as shocked that the words came out of her mouth as her mother seemed to be. Her mother gripped the kitchen counter behind her, as if she needed it for support. Max didn’t buy it. She reined in her anger and turned to her mother calmly. “You can let go of the counter. I don’t think the truth is going to knock you over.”
“If that’s really how you feel, then go.”
“She doesn’t want to see me.”
Her mother’s features softened. Maybe she sensed the enormity of Max’s emotions, her feelings for Ella. Perhaps she realized the part she’d played in all of this. Who knew? She wasn’t the kind of woman who would actively share. “She’ll come around. It’s the holidays. Take her some of my cookies.”
Max closed her eyes and leaned against the counter. “It’s going to take more than that.”
“You’re a smart woman. You’ll figure it out.”
The front door opened, and the sound of excited voices floated in. The guests were arriving.
“That’s your Aunt Betty.” Her mother dried her hands. “I’d better go say hello. She’s bringing that creamy green bean dish your father loves.” She looked back. “Maxine. Smile. You will fix everything.” A hesitation hit. “I’ll help if you want.”
Max didn’t answer right away. She just looked at her mother, truly looked at her—and saw the pride, the fear, the love, all tangled up in practiced control. What was it like to be her? Trying, but unable to get out of your own way?
Alone, without a word, Max pulled out her phone and turned it over in her hand.
Ella’s name stared back at her.
She tapped out a message. Short. Honest. A start.
As the front door shut again behind another round of guests, Max took a breath and hit send.
TWENTY-SEVEN
