3
Wham! The thud of a car door slamming from the garage startles me and rudely interrupts the scene I’m reading where the Elf Prince, dangling precariously from an iceberg, is finally going to admit his feelings for Lenore.
I grumble and put my book down as I sit up from my lounging position on the couch.
After dropping Juliet at her place, and a very necessary pit stop at the Espresso-Yo-Self drive-through for a gumdrop latte, I was relieved to find my childhood home empty for once.
Being alone for a few hours has been a relief.
I needed some time to process the morning and pick out a killer dress for my mission to find a date tonight, before facing my family.
When I wandered into the dining room to grab a snack, I discovered Mom had already started staging our formal dining table with an extra plate setting for Luke.
And it wasn’t just any plate setting—it was the Ten Lords a Leaping setting.
You’re practically family if you get one of the Twelve Days.
My resolve to find someone to bring home grew even stronger.
Now, as a chorus of shouting and laughter echoes in the garage, my aunt instincts kick in and I feel myself getting super excited to see my family. The kids were asleep last night when I got in, so I’m more than ready to spend some time with my nieces and nephews.
“Mimi!” my sister Wit Wit calls from across the room.
Moments later, she’s waving a copy of Whipped Cream & Winter Dreams in my face.
“I thought this was one of your foodie books not one of your smutty romantasies.” I stifle my laugh as she tosses it onto the coffee table, where it thuds on a snowflake-covered runner and nearly hits my holiday latte.
I quickly move my I’m Only a Morning Person on December 25th mug away from the edge of the coffee table in case my sister throws something else that could knock its precious contents onto Mom’s candy cane rug. Then we’d both be in a world of trouble.
Wit Wit’s mouth twitches between a scold and a smile. “You left your stack of books in the living room before dashing out of the house this morning. I picked it up thinking I’d enlighten myself about desserts, and not how North Pole elves handle their big packages.”
She makes air quotes when she says “big packages” but can’t finish scolding me because two hurricanes come running around the couch, startling me.
Libby, in a purple puffer coat and her Sugar Plum Fairy dress, chases her little brother with a leaping lizard toy, but not before stopping to ask: “Mommy, are the big packages in Tita’s books full of toys? ”
My sister’s brows lift while I fake cough. “Yes, and other gifts. It’s like the that huge balikbayan box your mom sent to our relatives in the Philippines.” Last month, my family did a huge haul of nonperishable food and presents to send to relatives overseas.
Fortunately, the answer is good enough for Libby as she races off again.
My sister eyeballs me, but I can tell she’s holding back a laugh.
“Scoot,” she orders and plops on the couch with me.
She picks up my book from the table and studies the cover, which is just the title of the book in large fancy script.
“I really thought this was about food.” She sighs and drops it atop my pile of romance books piled near the couch.
“But I’m not surprised. You’ve always had an appetite for romance since middle school.
” Spoken like the perfect Silva daughter.
She could never be bothered with such frivolous distractions.
Not when she spends most of her time being a full-time nurse, mom, and wife.
Plus, she doesn’t need to disappear into a fantasy world when she’s got her dream guy already in her husband Raymond.
I let out a breath that’s more huff than sigh. “I can’t help it that these books come with a guaranteed happily-ever-after when real life absolutely blows,” I say, maybe too defensively.
My sister’s eyes narrow. “Is your date not coming, Marygrace?”
Ugh. I can’t hide anything from Wit Wit. She’s basically a human bullshit detector.
I take a deep breath. “Unfortunately, Teresita”—I use her real name since she used mine—“he’s not coming. He got sick.”
“Oh no.” Wit Wit looks concerned. “What does he have?”
I flush. “Tinselitis?”
Wit Wit levels me with a glare so sharp I’m surprised the ornaments on our tree aren’t rattling. “Mimi, there’s no such thing as tinselitis. You got dumped.”
I groan. “I know. Please don’t tell anyone.”
My sister takes a deep breath. “We can tell everyone he caught a legit sickness,” she says. “I’m sorry, Mimi, I know you were looking forward to having him over. And so was Mom. This is going to put a dent in her Noche Buena plans…”
I take a deep breath and tap my sister’s knee. “It’s going to be okay. I have a plan. I’m going to find a date at Olivia’s party tonight. Mom will never know the difference.”
Wit Wit delivers a sharp laugh. “Who are you going to find at a bachelorette party, Mimi? The stripper?”
I tilt my head as I consider. “They’re actors, aren’t they?”
Wit Wit throws her hands in the air. “No! You are not doing some Hallmark fake-date thing with an actor slash stripper. Can’t you call someone else?”
An involuntary image of Robbie comes to mind, but he made it very clear he wasn’t interested in my invitation to Noche Buena.
“Don’t worry.” I stand abruptly, needing some space. “I’ll figure something out.”
My ghosts-and-Christmas-presents fleece blanket falls haphazardly off my lap, and I march to the kitchen island where I know I’ll find some holiday Rice Krispies treats and gingerbread people.
Earlier I took a photo of them for my feed since they were too cute to eat, but now I’m ready to rip that gingerbread man apart.
“Mimi, I’m so excited to meet your date tomorrow!” a heavily accented voice says when I reach the kitchen. “But you should have invited him over today.”
I smile at Juliet’s mom, who has just arrived through the garage door. She’s an inch shorter than me, but her thick dark curly hair and big personality might as well make her five inches taller. She has her coat on still and several bags from the outlet stores in her hand.
“Tita Pinky, Merry Christmas,” I say, mustering a smile at her scrunched-up inquisitive face.
As the “nice one,” Juliet’s mom has a special way of guilting me.
You don’t want to offend her like you don’t want to offend Santa Claus—especially when you’re standing right in front of her.
“We don’t have room in the house, so he’s going to stay at the hotel for Olivia’s wedding. ”
And it’s conveniently true. Even though my siblings live in town, Mom likes having everyone at the house for the holidays, but with the increasing number of nieces and nephews, the only room left for me is the futon in the she-shed in the backyard that Wit Wit is currently in the process of converting into a telehealth office.
I was just going to stay there last night before staying with Luke at the hotel.
Until he dumped me. Thankfully, I got a refund on the room, but now that means it’s the futon for me for the full weekend.
Tita Pinky studies my face for a moment before she taps my hand encouragingly. “Well, I can’t wait to meet him.”
And then Libby and Ryan come charging into the kitchen. I owe them extra presents this year for their help ending uncomfortable conversations.
“Hay naku!” Tita Pinky cries out as the kids jump onto the island chairs, racing to grab a Rice Krispies treat.
“Careful!” I yelp as they bump into the ceramic Santa cookie jar on the counter.
With a lunge, I stop it from crashing to its certain doom.
“Sorry!” The kids blink at me, looking chagrined.
My heart in my throat, I clutch the jar hard.
A gift from Robbie, it was one of my dad’s absolute favorites.
It’s been in our family since I was nine.
A ceramic Santa, he’s a squat figurine with a wide Cheshire cat smile and wearing a traditional jolly red suit that unfortunately came with a defect: a crack running down the middle of its backside.
Which led to us dubbing it the Butt Crack Santa jar.
Holding it, recalling my father, I can’t help the tears welling in my eyes.
Every day without him is hard, but the holidays are even harder.
“Nice catch, babe,” Juliet says as she and Lisa walk into the kitchen from the garage door. They must’ve clocked the whole thing.
I set the jar far out of reach and feel my heart rate returning to normal.
The room descends back into the usual noise and flurry of activity, and Juliet lifts an eyebrow at me, then cuts a look to Lisa, who nods—her sleek blonde bob dips in quiet approval.
They each hook an arm through mine and drag me out of the kitchen and toward the living room couch.
“Let’s get out of here,” my cousin says as she pulls the ghost- and gift-covered blanket over our legs.
Lisa sits on my other side.
From the way she’s smiling gently and tucking the blanket around me, it’s clear Juliet told her all about my morning’s struggles.
Juliet leans her head against my shoulder, and the sad nostalgia I felt in the kitchen continues as I remember when we were kids—dressed in tacky Christmas sweats and puffy socks, curled up on the old sectional while the Christmas tree twinkled and the colorful topper—a star-lantern parol from Dad’s family in Manila—scattered little slivers of rainbow colors onto the walls and carpet.
I miss those simpler days when my biggest issue was whether I’d get the toy I wanted for Christmas, versus now as I worry about getting my speech pathologist license, paying bills, and being dumped right before the holidays.
“Tito Ed loved that tacky jar,” Juliet says, acknowledging my dad. “Remember how mad your mom was when he coined the term Butt Crack Santa?”