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“I don’t mind. I haven’t done much other than sit by a guy’s bedside for the last couple of weeks.” He looked over his shoulder and then leaned closer to me. “Think we can talk her into opening presents earlier tonight?”
“Why?”
“I’m an old man, sis. Staying up until midnight just to open a couple of presents seems…unnecessary.”
“She thought you were dead. You really want to go there?”
He laughed and shook his head. “Yeah. Maybe next year.”
“Plus, we won’t be done cooking until then.”
Every year, my mother insisted we make all the food. It was one reason she invited Tackle’s family over on Christmas Day. We’d never be able to eat all of it ourselves.
The traditional pernil, or whole pork shoulder, had been roasting in the oven since yesterday. Today, we’d be making hallacas, which were like tamales but wrapped in plantain leaves instead of corn husks, along with pan de jamón. Of all the Venezuelan Christmas foods my mother insisted be made every year, the puff pastry filled with ham, raisins, olives, and bacon was my favorite. This year, though, it didn’t sound that good.
In fact, by mid-afternoon, I felt so sick to my stomach that I went upstairs to lie down. When I woke up, it was dark and I had no idea what time it was. I thought about getting up to check, but must’ve fallen back to sleep because, when I opened my eyes again, it was daylight.
Shit. I’d missed Niño Jesús’ presents. Why hadn’t anyone woken me up?
I sat on the edge of the bed, but when I felt the same nausea as yesterday, I lay back down. Great. Christmas and I was sick. At least I had an excuse not to socialize with the Sorensons and their asshole son.
I still couldn’t believe he’d had sex with me when he was involved with another woman. It made me so mad that I clenched my fist and pounded on the mattress.
“Mija, is everything okay?” my mom asked, opening my bedroom door. Did she suddenly have supersonic hearing? She sat on the side of the bed and brushed my hair from my forehead. “Are you feeling any better? You don’t have a fever.”
I moved her hand away, jumped out of bed, and raced toward the bathroom. After emptying the contents of my stomach, I held the wall as I made my way back.
“Sorry, Mom, but you should stay away from me in case this is contagious.”
She sighed but, thankfully, left.
When I woke two hours later, I felt a lot better. I thought about staying in bed anyway, but I was starving. I changed my clothes and decided I could shower after I ate, so I put my hair up in a messy bun and went downstairs. At the same time I hit the bottom landing, the front door opened.
“Anyone home?” I heard Tackle’s mother, Alice, holler out. If she and I hadn’t come face-to-face, I would’ve turned around and raced back up the stairs.
“Oh, Sloane. It’s good to see you. Are you feeling better?”
“A little bit.”
She stepped aside, and Nils came in, followed by Tackle.
“Merry Christmas,” I said, rushing from the stairs into the kitchen. I grabbed a bowl from the cupboard and loaded it with equal amounts of pernil and pan de jamón.
One of the things I liked about the house I grew up in was that it had a back staircase, which meant I could get to my bedroom without having to face our company again.
I filled a water bottle and was a few steps up when I heard footsteps.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Tackle asked.
“Where does it look like? Leave me alone. I’m sick,” I said without looking at him.
“Sloane, we need to talk.”
I turned halfway and leaned up against the wall. “Knox filled me in. Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”
He stepped on the bottom stair.
“No farther,” I said, holding up my water bottle like a weapon.
