Falling in the Dark | ✓

40 | Puddles

There's a strange feeling tugging at my heart as Mom pushes my bedroom door open, stepping in and beckoning me to follow her inside. I stand by the door frame for a moment before I oblige, my hand still wrapped tightly around the handle of my suitcase.

I can smell the apple pie sitting in the kitchen even from up here on the first floor. Warm caramel, dough, sugar, and apples - the scent lingers faintly in the air like a distant memory. It intensifies the disconcerting feeling that presses against my chest. Part nostalgia, part regret, part sadness, and part longing . . . I wish I could be here now under different circumstances.

"Honey," my mother says softly, and I look down to realize that she's trying to take my suitcase but I'm unintentionally refusing to let go.

"Sorry." I release my grip and inhale another gulp of the mellow air.

"Carmen, honey," she says again with a tender look in her slate-gray eyes. She lowers her voice and looks up at me with her eyebrows knit together. "Where's Vera? If it's something you don't want your dad to know, I won't tell him, but . . . is she okay?"

Ever since I emerged from behind the crowd of families, tourists, and businesspeople at the airport without Vera by my side, my parents have been asking about her repeatedly. On the ride home, as we walked through the hallway downstairs where Dad took our coats, and now.

"I don't know," I answer in exasperation, "She didn't want to come. I just . . . I don't know, Ma."

Just to avoid my mom's imploring gaze, I turn to look at my bed. But the sight of the purple duvet that I've had forever incites so many memories of Vera that there doesn't seem to be enough space in my head to fit them all. And suddenly, I feel a sob building in the back of my throat.

"Oh, sweetie," Mom sighs and guides me towards the bed. She sits me down and strokes my hair, and I feel so overwhelmed that the tears start gushing out of my eyes in a seemingly endless stream.

Feeling exhausted, small and callow, I lean into her shoulder and mumble, "Vera's changed."

"What happened?"

"She hangs out with different people now, parties all the time. She's broke, doesn't study much anymore . . ."

"Do you want me to have a word with her father?"

"What?" I look up sharply. "No. You know how she feels about her parents . . . I tried to tell her she needs to stop, but she says it's her life. I guess . . . she just doesn't like me anymore."

There's a brief pause before my mother brushes the tears off my face and says, sounding angry and resolute, "It's her loss, is all I can say. But you do know what this means, don't you?"

Furrowing my eyebrows, I look up at her.

"There's more pie for you! Cheer up!" she says playfully, but there's an unmistakable warmth in her tone. I laugh shakily, wiping the last of the tears with the back of my hand as she pulls me to my feet and says, "Come on, let's have some now before it gets cold."

❅

Christmas eve goes by in a blur of delicious home-cooked food, Christmas tree decoration, cups of hot chocolate, and marathons of cheesy holiday-themed films on TV. Time seems to fly at an unreasonable speed as, after a somewhat fretful night of sleep, it's Christmas morning and Mom's calling my name from downstairs.

"Coming!" I run down the stairs, my socked feet thudding softly against the carpeted floor.

A little later, I'm sitting on the floor by the Christmas tree as I do on Christmas mornings every year, my parents seated on the couch nearby. I'm surrounded by torn wrapping paper and boxes that have been discarded to the side. In front of me are my presents - a gorgeous pair of black shoes with roses embroidered on the heels, a bright blue portable iPhone charger, and a large red tote bag that says 'Pray for my GPA'.