Page 144 of Toxic Salvation
“Shit,” I mutter, pausing to breathe through the aftershock.
That can only be one thing.
The next contraction hits while I’m pulling flour and eggs from the kitchen cabinets.
“Dammit.”
What are the odds? The woman who spent years avoiding Christmas is about to give birth on December twenty-fifth. If fate has a sense of humor, this proves it.
But the contractions are still far apart, which means I have time. Good, because I’m determined to give Luka a perfect Christmas morning. One that’s entirely about him.
I’m measuring flour when shadows appear in the kitchen doorway. Mom shuffles in first, followed by Waylen, both of them looking curious about my early morning baking project.
“What are you two doing up so early?” I ask.
Waylen raises an eyebrow. “I could ask you the same thing. Planning to poison us for Christmas?”
I wave the printed recipe at him. “I have step-by-step instructions. Mom dictated every detail last week.”
“Unnecessary,” Mom says, grabbing an apron. “I’m right here to pitch in.”
She joins me at the counter, and for a moment, her smile makes her look less fragile. It’s easy to forget about her cancer when she seems so radiant and alive.
“There was a time when I thought this recipe would die with me,” she laughs.
“It still might,” Waylen says. “Let’s be honest—Vesper has a better chance of going into labor today than making edible cinnamon rolls.”
My face flushes, but Mom is already swatting Waylen with a dish towel. “Stop it. She has a whole week left. We’re having a New Year’s baby.”
I smile and keep my mouth shut. No point in mentioning that my New Year’s baby seems eager to make his Christmas debut.
The three of us work together, mixing and rolling dough while Christmas music plays in the background. The kitchen fills with the scents of butter, sugar, and cinnamon. I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun with my family.
By seven o’clock, the cinnamon rolls are in the oven, and I’m thinking about all the holidays I missed. How many moments did I choose to skip because I was too busy nursing my grief?
“I owe you both an apology,” I say out of nowhere, “for how I’ve been these past few years. Especially during Christmas. I know I’ve been a complete?—”
“Bitch?” Waylen offers.
“I was going to say ‘Scrooge,’ but if the shoe fits, I guess.”
Mom hits Waylen with the towel again, then shuffles over to cup my hand. “Sweetheart, we understood. Christmas was hard for all of us after your father died. He was the heart of our holidays. How could we just keep doing all those things he loved when he wasn’t there to do them with us?”
I bury my face in her shoulder. “God. How did you put up with me?”
“Easy.” Waylen shrugs. “You never showed up to anything, so I didn’t have the satisfaction of yelling at you.”
I laugh and pull him into a hug. “You can yell at me now if you want.”
“I would never yell at a pregnant woman. Maybe after you push out the kid.”
Before I can respond, the sound of small feet pattering down the hallway reaches us. Luka slides into the kitchen wearing snowman pajamas and the biggest grin I’ve ever seen.
“Merry Christmas!” he shouts, throwing his arms up.
He hugs Mom first, then Waylen, then wraps his arms around my belly and whispers, “Merry Christmas, Mom.”
The title still makes my chest warm every time he uses it.
