Porcelain Skin (NOW ON AMAZON KU)

49. Confession

"You're drooling," I say as I scrape the last bit of dough onto the pan. It's enough to create a measly, pathetic cookie. I guess it'll be the runt of the bunch.

"What?" My mom giggles as she tries to wipe her mouth without me noticing. I don't think she realizes that my peripheral vision works. I chuckle softly to myself.

It's finally Thanksgiving break, and I've been enjoying several days of much-needed space from school. There's just something about having friends that I find exhausting. It's like I have to perform all the time, keep them entertained. I guess that's what makes a place 'home'. It's the one place you can truly relax. You can be yourself without having to fake a smile or force a laugh. You don't have to try. I can cry if I want. I can yell if I want. I can fart if I want. Home is where freedom truly lies.

I wipe my hands on a dish towel after sliding the cookie tray into the oven. I swivel around and face my mother's back. She's busy creating perfect little peaks with the meringue for the lemon pie. She's been working on the thing for ten minutes, and I'm pretty sure the cookies will be done before she is.

I wouldn't judge her too harshly for putting so much effort into it, except that there will only be two people eating it: me and her. So I'm not sure why she's wasting the time. I'm half tempted to swipe my finger through the fluff just to be mean, but that could result in a heart attack, and I'd hate to send her to her grave early. I'd prefer to keep my only remaining parent around as long as possible.

"So what's the game plan for tomorrow?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back against the counter top. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day.

"Well..." My mom pauses to glance back at me briefly before returning to her pie art. "I guess we could do what we always do. Keep it simple. Cozy."

By cozy, she means pulling out heaps of blankets and pillows and spreading them out in the TV room where we stuff our faces with turkey as we watch a heart-warming movie. The only problem: it's not as cozy as it sounds. It's a bit depressing, actually. It's Thanksgiving, for goodness sake! A time of family and fun; sharing, laughter, and love; and the sound of constant boisterous chatter echoing through the bustling house.

Instead, we sit in a large, empty room, silently watching an un-relatable movie that reflects all the warmth and glow of a normal family—a normal that no longer exists for us.

When I don't respond right away, Mom stops her task to turn and face me. She gives me a questioning look, and I suddenly feel really sad for her. At least I have friends that distract me from the hollow, empty shadow that normally consumes me. Mom has to deal with every aching memory on her own.

I remember the heart-wrenching sobs that used to sound from behind her bedroom door. She never knew I heard them, but I did. She'd hold herself together all day and only allow her walls to crumble after I went to bed. She never knew that I did the same thing. We both fought to be strong for the other, but when no one was watching we'd dissolve into entirely different people.

I offer her a gentle smile as I nod.

"Unless you can think of another idea," she adds when she sees my lack of enthusiasm.

I suddenly notice how much she's aged in just a few short months. The gray in her hair matches the aging spots on her hands as the color begins to fade from her once flawless skin. The smoothness of her complexion has given up the fight and allowed itself to relax into gentle folds. I want to wrap her up into the largest teddy bear hug, but instead, I just shake my head.

"No, that sounds great Mom," I tell her. "On one condition."

She eyes me warily for a moment. "Yes?"