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“You’re amazing.” I wrapped my arms around her.
“Fran,takesome of these bags,” she said into my shoulder.
I did. The girls thundered into the foyer, and Ada made Sugar Boogers or whichever Pony Pal she was holding gallop through the air whinnying about cookies, then we all went into the kitchen.
“Where’s Jake?” I asked Mom. “I said you should bring him.”
“You didn’t mean it,” she said curtly as she began pulling ingredients from bags and setting them on the counter.
“Wow, you sound full of Christmas cheer.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry.”
I wanted to ask what was wrong, but she probably didn’t want to have this conversation with Ada and Em peering over the countertop, shifting and bouncing and declaring which jobs they wanted. So we began making dough.
“Are you still nervous about the recital?” I ventured after a few minutes.
“I guess. Linda’s so excited for it. I just wish I had her confidence.”
“The important thing is to have fun.”
She didn’t answer, just turned to throw the butter box in the recycle bin. “Em, don’t play with that eggshell. You’ll get salmonella.”
Em looked up from systematically grinding an eggshell to pieces against the edge of the counter. “What’s that?”
Mom plucked what remained of the shell from her and tossed it in the sink. “It’ll kill you.”
“Mom!” I protested. “I haven’t explained fatal diseases to them yet.” To Em, I said, “It’ll just give you a tummy ache.”
“You’re not doing them any favors by sugarcoating things.” Mom turned on the faucet. “Em, dear, come here and scrub your hands.”
After we’d put the dough in the fridge to chill and the girls had returned to their room to play until it was time to bake, Mom and I sat on the living room couch and admired the tree. An icicle that Cass and I had knocked off still lay on the tree skirt.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” I asked.
“Jake’s roasting a turkey.”
“Oh no. That’s bad…why?”
She stared at the tree as though daring it to blink first. It twinkled back, daring her to come within five feet and be forced to endure every verse of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.”
I was having some trouble following her train of thought, and her bursting into tears did little to clarify things. “Oh, Mom…” I rubbed her back awkwardly.
“Do you think Jake loves me? Really?”
“I mean, he’s…Jake.” That didn’t seem to help. “He’s making you a turkey, so yeah, probably.”
She rubbed her eyes with her wrists. “But he won’t tap dance with me.”
“Well…he’s Jake,” I said again.
“I’m just so glad you’re here,” she whispered.
“Where else would I be?”
She shook her head, still not looking at me. “I remember when the girls were born, Frances. The night I flew up to Boston. The flight was delayed two hours. TSA confiscated my knitting needles so I couldn’t finish the baby hats. That woman next to me on the plane told me she could speak to Jesus through her storm drain.”
“I remember.”
