“If you have any handy.”
I don’t like the way her lips twist when she says, “I think I can scrounge something up.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m wearing a pair of pink sweats that fit my waist but hit my mid-calf, with the wordPINKrunning down the left leg.
I step out of the bathroom, pulling the white and pink polka-dot T-shirt down my torso, but it barely meets the hem of the pants.
The girls are on the floor in the living room, in the middle of their Christmas festivities. They’ve successfully moved to painting their toes.
I’m just in time.Great.
Maya notices me and tries but fails to hide her laugh. “Bella, did you order a flamingo?”
I narrow my eyes at the woman and cross my arms over my chest, purposely flexing my biceps to push the limits of the shirt. “Question: are there any clothes for males in this house?”
Maya shrugs, but her eyes linger on my upper arms. “I didn’t look.”
I’ll have to pretend the clothes don’t bother me; otherwise, she’ll think she’s won this round. “I’ve never felt so in tune with my feminine side. Thank you for the opportunity,” I say.
“Would you like your nails painted pink, too?” Arabella asks, looking up from where she’s painting little skulls on Maya’s toes. At least I think that’s what she’s painting; the big white-and-black blob could be anything.
“Absolutely… not.”
She lifts a shoulder and goes back to work. “Your loss.”
Yes, indeed. I’ve lost much this evening. I’d like to keep the tiny sliver of dignity that remains.
I pull out my phone, relief loosening my chest as I spot a text from Rosie.
Rosie:I’m okay. Terrible service. Working on it. Hang tight.
She’s safe. And the end is in sight. I might make it out of this after all.
“Cookie time!” Like a whirlwind, Bella shoves aside the nail polish and LED light and races to the kitchen.
Pots and pans immediately crash to the ground upon her arrival, and Maya winces. “Brace yourself for disaster.”
A “disaster” sums up the next thirty minutes. More ingredients end up on the floor than in the bowl due to Bella’s insistence that she wanted to make them herself. The baking soda mixed in seamlessly with the flour and noodles already on the floor. As hard as I looked, I couldn’t find a broom or dustpan or vacuum anywhere they should have been. According to Maya, they don’t keep cleaning supplies in the house; the house cleaner brings them in each night, and she has the week off. A small blessing.
The cookie dough, which I always try despite the risk of salmonella—it’s a myth, don’t believe it—tastes like tofu.
“What’s wrong with that?” I ask Maya when Bella is turned away.
“It’s fake sugar,” she whispers. “And all organic and natural ingredients.”
Ah. Forgot about the sugar-free part of these cookies.
Bella decides she wants to cut the cookies into Christmas shapes, but we can’t find the shape cutters, so she gets creative with the glassware, dirtying just about every piece she can find. Next, she adds fruit jam on top of the cookie dough.
Now she has her face pressed to the glass window, watching the cookies sizzle and melt into one giant puddle in the middle of the cookie sheet.
Even as Maya and I attempt to clean the counter space with little more than our hands and paper towels, I have to admit, this has been the most enjoyable holiday I’ve had in years. Okay, maybe not enjoyable—more like amusing and wild.
Finding excitement in something again feels like lighting a candle in a cave. Likerelief and hope.
But there’s also fear. What happens when I finally make it out of this dark place?
This feeling won’t last. How can it?
