My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(91)

“We’re up here.”

I hurry upstairs. They’re just off a super-early morning shift. My mom wears her weariness beneath her eyes and in the slope of her shoulders, but she manages a smile for me. “Sit down,” I command. I put the pot on the stove as I get out two dishes. I hear Rick pop a disc into his DVD player. The familiar sounds of Bonanza’s opening theme trigger memories of insomnia-plagued nights.

“Does he still stay up watching that show until four every morning?” I stir the rice pudding one last time.

“Hmm? Oh, no. Why would he?”

“I thought he liked doing that.”

“You know he only did that for you, right?”

I stop stirring. “What?”

“I can’t stay awake for the life of me. Never been able to. But he didn’t want you to be alone, so he’d come out and watch television with you until you fell asleep.”

“He—but—I thought he didn’t need much sleep?”

“He was exhausted. But when he was growing up, he had a few years where he had insomnia, too. He said being awake when everyone else is sleeping was so lonely it made him feel crazy. He didn’t want you to feel that way.”

“That’s weird.” All those nights, all that sleep he gave up. It doesn’t make sense.

“How is it weird?”

“Well, I mean, he doesn’t really like me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He never talks to me. And when he does, he talks about when I leave. Like he’s counting down the days.”

“Sweetheart, Rick doesn’t talk much, period. And he is excited for you to leave. Who do you think tapes your report cards up on the fridge?”

I’m shocked. Rick? Plastering my name all over something that belongs to him?

“It was his idea to drive you to and from school. He didn’t want you wasting your time waiting for city buses. He worried your grades would suffer and you wouldn’t get into college.”

“I can’t afford college! And besides. The food. All the labels. The penny-pinching, refusing to turn up the heat. I’m an intruder in his space. He puts up with me because of you.”

Tears fill my mom’s eyes. “Oh, Maria. Why would you think that? You’ve felt like this all these years?”

My eyes are tearing up, too. I get out one more dish. One for Rick.

She takes my hand. “Do you remember your father at all?”

I shake my head.

“Good.” Her voice is fierce. “It’s one of the proudest points of my life that that man has no imprint on you. It wasn’t easy leaving. I had to sneak and save money for years before I had enough to get somewhere far away and safe. I was terrified you’d remember what it used to be like.”

“I don’t. I remember moving around until we settled here.”

She nods. “Rick can’t show affection the way most people do, but he doesn’t have a cruel bone in his body. And, after my life, he’s exactly what I needed. What we needed. I know Rick is odd. He labels his food so he can make sure that he’s not spending more on groceries than he needs to. We keep the heat off so that we can save more, the same reason we take overtime and holiday shifts. The same reason we put all your paychecks straight into savings. He’s been putting away money since the day we moved in. He—oh, we were gonna surprise you, but—Rick? I think we need to give Maria her present now.”

The television goes silent. Rick comes back in the kitchen, hands shoved deep into his Wranglers. “What about Christmas morning?”

My mom laughs, wiping away her tears. “It already smells like Christmas in here. Maria made rice pudding.” She leans over her bowl, breathes in deeply. I cross my fingers, praying I got it right. “Mí abuela used to make this for us. Then we’d sing and later we’d get an orange. Rice pudding and oranges.” She smiles, happy tears streaming down her face. “I’d actually forgotten what it was supposed to smell like. This is perfect.”

She takes a bite, sighs happily, and leans her head on my shoulder. I don’t know what it’s supposed to taste like, but I like what I made. If asked to describe the flavor I could really only say this: It’s warm. Perfectly warm. And with this in my mouth, I can understand a little of how my mom remembered Christmas feeling.

Rick has already eaten his whole bowl. He clears his throat, then says in an exaggeratedly careful accent, “Muchas gracias. Esta comida es muy buena. Me gusta.”

My mom gasps. I gape. Rick looks terrified as he continues. “Yo estoy aprendiendo espa?ol. Para hablar contigo. Por que … te amo.”

My mom fully bursts into tears, which makes poor Rick look even more horrified. “Did I do it wrong?” he asks.

“No!” I beam. Because now I understand he wasn’t trying to take anything away from me. He was just trying to fit better into our lives.

“That was wonderful,” my mom manages. “Muy, muy bien.”

Rick sighs in relief. He’s actually sweating. He must have been so nervous. It’s adorable, which I honestly cannot believe I’m thinking about Rick.

I look at my mom, really look at her for the first time in years. She’s beautiful. Sweet and soft and warm, too. I wonder how we went this long without talking about things that mattered. And why it took a pot of rice pudding for me to be able to see that—even though she’s not aggressively affectionate—she’s here. She’s always been here for me. She’s done the best she can.