The Wish From Heaven | ✓

chapter 15 : birthday

"This is never gonna work out," I whisper, but I'm already in front of the kitchen, where Mom is in front of the oven, her back faced towards me.

"Doesn't hurt to try," July replies. "Be a man."

Merely looking at her back is making my throat feel like sand. There is no way my words can crawl out of my mouth like that. Everytime I gulp in saliva, the nervousness increases instead of decreasing. I open my mouth to start talking, but something makes me stop, so I close it and bite my lips. My hands are clenched in fists. I don't get it. It's just a question. If she refuses, it's over. It is only a matter of asking and getting refused and finishing. It's not gonna take even a minute.

And yet, somehow it feels important. This conversation we are about to have, if it has enough sentences to be even called one, might become important not only for mine and Edgar's relationship, but also for mine and Mom's. That's what July thinks, at least.

"Aw, want me to hold your hand while you come out to your mommy?" July asks, his tone mocking. I resist the urge to smack him in the head.

I clear my throat and say, "Mom?"

She doesn't acknowledge me. "Dude, even I didn't hear that, and I'm standing right next to you," July sneers.

Oh God. "Mom?" I call, louder this time. She stops whatever she was doing and turns her head back at me.

She is on her mid-forties, but the trace of the beautiful woman my Dad had fallen in love with, of the silent crush of many men and women in high school as she once had been still lingers on her current face, now worn out with worry and showing the first signs of wrinkles. In the vaguest memories of my earliest days, I faintly remember the affectionate gaze she used to smile at me with, and greedily crave that smile again; the smile that disappeared along with the years I lost.

"What?" She asks, her tone not at all kind. "Dinner's not ready yet." We usually have dinner pretty late, so I wasn't expecting it to be.

"N-n-no, I...." I take a deep breath, and say, "I want to ask something."

She doesn't reply, only raises her eyes in question. That does not help in my confidence.

"A friend of mine . . ." I start, looking down on the floor as if I am confessing my guilt, ". . . invited me— us, for dinner at his house. Tomorrow."

"Huh?" The tone of her voice clearly suggests that she thinks it is a joke or something. "What exactly is going on in my house? That day, your older brother came up with a friend. And now you? Where are all these friends raining from?"

I clench my hands into fists, feeling a temper slowly take rise. Then I feel July's hand wrap around my arm, and exhale the anger out.

"His Mom already did the shopping," I continue, avoiding her statement just like how it deserves to be avoided, "so I think it is impolite to turn him down."

She snorts loudly, making my legs wobble a little. "Cedar, get a hold," July says. I'm trying, can't you see?

"What sort of Mom is that, I wonder?" She says, "It's the exams week, and she is inviting people for dinner? How careless. Doesn't she care at all for her son's studies? I cannot understand people like these." She goes back to working, as if that marks the end of the conversation.

I want to tell her that she out of all people has no right to judge other people's mothers, but I don't. I figure making her angry is not going to help with the convincing. I turn to July for help. He flicks up his index finger and mouths, "Try once more."

I take another deep breath and try again. This time, my voice comes out a little too loud. "H-he is a really good friend. He has helped me a lot. So I think—"