Downstairs, Rafael opens the front door to leave when he spots me coming down the stairs.
“Nice PJs.” He looks amused because even though I’m twenty, I’ve worn these kinds of PJs on Christmas Eve for as long as I can remember. The first one I wore in front of Rafael was an elf onesie.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Well, we kind of cheated this year and I paid my friend to make twenty Hallacas for the family. He needs me to run there now before his wife catches us making the exchange.”
“They won’t be as good as yours, Raf.” I pat him on the shoulder, disappointed.
He snorts. “Damn straight.”
I roll my eyes and meet Mom in the kitchen, where she’sprepping multiple dishes with merengue playing from the small speaker I got for her last year. She lowers her glasses when I clear my throat.
“You look more and more ridiculous in those every year.”
Scoffing, feigning my surprise, I put a hand to my chest. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re just jealous of how amazing I look.”
She pushes her glasses back in place. “Mhm, sure. Ready to get your hands dirty?”
“Let’s do this.”
One p.m. hits and Mom and I have prepped everything including dessert. Meanwhile Rafael is decorating the fold-out table in the dining room that we use when we have more than six people coming to the house.
The traditional Colombian dish served on Christmas is calledlechona, which is basically a whole stuffed pig. My mom might have grown up there, but she has her limits, and one of them is having a whole roasted pig in the middle of her table. So instead, just like she does with Thanksgiving, she makes a mix of traditional foods from this country, hers and Rafael’s.
Finishing the final touches on my pies, I put two platters ofnatillainto the fridge, that way they’ll be ready by the time everyone arrives. Looking around the kitchen, I see that this year is no exception to the others; there’s way too much food. However, since my stepdad’s nephews are coming, there shouldn’t be too many leftovers.
“Alright, everybody should be getting here around 4 p.m. and dinner will be done by six.” She squints. “Hopefully.” We smile at each other. “Anda a bañarte y lavate el pelo. Siempre te tardas dos horas alistándote y no quiero que estés en tu cuarto cuando llegue todo el mundo.” Go, take a shower, and wash your hair. You always take two hours to get ready, and I don’t want you in your room when everyone gets here.
I look down at my apron to find that it’s covered in flour andsplatters of the multiple sauces we made. “Yeah, I need to shower.”
At least my PJs aren’t too dirty and my slippers managed to stay mostly clean. While strolling past the mirror in the dining room, I do a double take and stop dead in my tracks. There’s flour on my face and in my hair as well. It looks like I snorted a line of coke and decided to roll in it after.
“Shit, the flour’s going to get all cakey in the shower.”
“Just go get it out of your hair and make sure to clean the drain afterward.” She shoos me away.
A small grunt comes out while I make my way towards the stairs. My feet come to a halt halfway up, when I hear the front door open and see Ana standing near the kitchen.
“Ana,” our mom says, surprised.
My sister doesn’t take her eyes off mine. She doesn’t look angry, in fact she looks indifferent.
Do I run up the stairs or back down them to stay near my mom before Ana throws another tantrum?
She breaks eye contact with me and looks to our mom. “Hey, Ma.”
Mom stays quiet for a long moment, and then she explodes. “Why the hell did you leave the house the way you did, huh? You weren’t answering your phone, and I didn’t know where you were for hours. I thought something had happened to you, and I almost called the cops till I finally tracked you down.” She points a finger at her. “No matter what happens between us or between you and your sister, you can never run out on me like that again. You might be twenty, but you still live under my roof. I still pay your bills, and you will listen to me, goddammit.” My mom chokes on the last two words.
Making my decision, I run down the stairs and put an arm around my mother. She’s tearing up, even though she hasn’t let one of them drop. She’s angry. More than that, she’s hurt that her daughter, my sister, would treat her this way.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I grit out to Ana, my rage growing after seeing how affected our mom is.
She has the audacity to roll her eyes at us. “I thought I would come over and apologize to Mom for my behavior and to you for everything. I didn’t want to miss Christmas with you guys.”
Right on cue, her eyes soften like they always do before she apologizes. I know better than to believe her half-assed sorry’s now.
“I’m so sorry, Mom, please let me celebrate the holidays with my family.”
