Final Room

27 | sally hardesty

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN | SALLY HARDESTY

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          "The food is sublime, Xavier," my mom says, even though everyone else's plates are much fuller than hers. She's been doing this for as long as I can remember, blaming it on a small stomach and frame, but I can't help but take it personally today, out of all days. The fact that she's refusing to fill her plate, especially with food I cooked and prepared, is insulting.

          She doesn't even acknowledge I had any part or saying in the menu, which stings harder than anything else. I don't think she has any way of knowing I was involved, but I find it hard to believe she can't notice there's something different in his signature way of cooking and styling food when he plates it. The difference is my own personal touch, evidenced by the not so apparent constant pursuit of perfection—it's just food, at the end of the day, and it's supposed to bring us closer.

          Taking a deep breath so I won't start crying in front of my parents, I attempt to push these feelings and my tears aside so I can focus on other conversations at the dining table. Clara has really hit it off with Roberto, seeming to be genuinely interested in hearing about his photography career, while Betty and my dad discuss life in Chicago, where her parents are apparently headed off to next. The conversations go on without my input and my frustration brews inside me, revolving in my stomach, and my eyes sting as I stare down at my plate and think about all the hard work and effort I put into these dishes only for it to be ignored.

          "Thanks, but Wendy helped," Xavier points out, without glancing my way, even when I dare to spare a look towards his side of the table. "I don't think I could have handled all of this myself. It's my first time cooking a Christmas buffet under such short notice."

           She wipes her mouth with her fancy, gold-embroidered napkin. "I didn't know Wendy was interested in cooking."

          "There are many things you don't know about me, I think," I retort, through gritted teeth, pushing a piece of salmon around my plate with my fork, and the atmosphere around the table instantly shifts. Ignoring her words and backhanded compliments is a lot easier said than done, and I'm reaching my limit. Withdrawing from these conversations and pretending I don't exist isn't the healthiest decision, but the holidays always make me emotional.

          Betty clears her throat, gently bopping her knee against mine under the table, and I think I might die. "Well, I personally think it's never too late to get into something new. Besides, it's totally normal to not know everything about other people, no matter how close you are; there's so much I don't know about Odie, for example."

          She's the only person sitting at the table I find the courage to look at right now, and I do so with tear-filled eyes, as pathetic as it is. Even when I mouth a silent 'thank you', in hopes it will make both of us feel better, I feel myself inching closer and closer to the moment when I'll collapse and break down in tears at the dining table. It's not fair to anyone present, and it's not like my mom is doing anything inherently wrong to deserve this type of petty behavior from me, but I don't know how to explain these complicated feelings to anyone.

          They might not even be that complicated, and all of this is just a product of my inability to properly process my feelings and emotions in a coherent way. I understand not everything has to be treated rationally, as ironic as that sounds, but it sure as hell is a talent I wish I had; it would surely make everything so much easier right now.

          "You're right," Mom says, though I suspect it's mostly thanks to a desire to keep things civil at the dining table on Christmas Eve than to a genuine wish to stop hurting my feelings.