My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories

She sets her spoon down, looking worried. “I didn’t take any money from your room. I want to know which colleges you’ve applied to.”

I bark out a bitter laugh. “None. Why would I apply to college?”

Her eyes go wide. “None? You’re going to start missing deadlines!” She grabs at the envelopes, frantically searching through them. “What about this one? It’s in Barstow. It looks nice. Or Cal State San Bernardino. It’s not too far away.”

“I want to go far away! And since when am I going to college? We can’t afford that.”

She shoves the applications at me. “You can’t afford not to. You don’t want to be like me. We work so hard, and so long. We don’t want that for you. You deserve more.” Her eyes are intense, pleading. “Por favor, mija, necesitas aplicar. Para tu futuro.”

It’s the most Spanish she’s spoken to me in years. She always said we shouldn’t leave Rick out by using a language he doesn’t know. But hearing it now makes me feel like a kid again. So, like an obedient little girl, I grab the first application and start filling it out while she watches, holding her breath.

*   *   *

“Can you help me with a project?” I ask Ben, two days before Christmas. He’s slammed, doing as much prep work as he can, but he immediately stops.

“What do you need?”

“I want to make something. For my mom. Something special. But I don’t know how.”

“What were you thinking?”

“She used to tell me about rice pudding. Her grandma made it for them every Christmas. And she tried to make it a few years ago, but then she got sad and dumped it all down the sink, said it wasn’t right. She’s never tried again. She works really hard. She deserves some of your magic.”

Ben’s smile is the powdered sugar on top of a cookie. “I think we can do that.”

We work all morning. He shows me how to get the milk simmering at just the right rate. I scorch the first batch, and we have to throw it out. But Ben insists it’ll be more magical if I make it myself. So I try again. This time I keep the temperature steady. I skim the surface like he shows me, so that the milk doesn’t get a skin. We add the rice, and I tend to it with feverish intensity. He takes over the stirring while I mix together eggs, sugar, vanilla, more milk.

“It needs…” I tap my finger against the counter, glancing at him for clues. “Nutmeg?” He smiles wider. I sprinkle some in and pour the mixture into the rice on the stove. His body is next to mine, and we both lean in, breathing the sweet steam as it rises up. I turn my face and breathe him in, too. “Keep stirring?” I whisper.

He nods. And doesn’t move. So we stand, occupying the same space, watching as ordinary ingredients combine into something I hope will be magic.

*   *   *

“Mama?” I push the door shut with my foot, carefully holding the still-hot dish. Normally rice pudding is served cold, but when I sprinkled the cinnamon on top, it felt … right. Perfect. “Are you home?”

“We’re up here.”

I hurry upstairs. They’re just off a super-early morning shift. My mom wears her weariness beneath her eyes and in the slope of her shoulders, but she manages a smile for me. “Sit down,” I command. I put the pot on the stove as I get out two dishes. I hear Rick pop a disc into his DVD player. The familiar sounds of Bonanza’s opening theme trigger memories of insomnia-plagued nights.

“Does he still stay up watching that show until four every morning?” I stir the rice pudding one last time.

“Hmm? Oh, no. Why would he?”

“I thought he liked doing that.”

“You know he only did that for you, right?”

I stop stirring. “What?”

“I can’t stay awake for the life of me. Never been able to. But he didn’t want you to be alone, so he’d come out and watch television with you until you fell asleep.”

“He—but—I thought he didn’t need much sleep?”

“He was exhausted. But when he was growing up, he had a few years where he had insomnia, too. He said being awake when everyone else is sleeping was so lonely it made him feel crazy. He didn’t want you to feel that way.”

“That’s weird.” All those nights, all that sleep he gave up. It doesn’t make sense.

“How is it weird?”

“Well, I mean, he doesn’t really like me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He never talks to me. And when he does, he talks about when I leave. Like he’s counting down the days.”

“Sweetheart, Rick doesn’t talk much, period. And he is excited for you to leave. Who do you think tapes your report cards up on the fridge?”

I’m shocked. Rick? Plastering my name all over something that belongs to him?

“It was his idea to drive you to and from school. He didn’t want you wasting your time waiting for city buses. He worried your grades would suffer and you wouldn’t get into college.”

“I can’t afford college! And besides. The food. All the labels. The penny-pinching, refusing to turn up the heat. I’m an intruder in his space. He puts up with me because of you.”

Tears fill my mom’s eyes. “Oh, Maria. Why would you think that? You’ve felt like this all these years?”

My eyes are tearing up, too. I get out one more dish. One for Rick.

She takes my hand. “Do you remember your father at all?”

I shake my head.

“Good.” Her voice is fierce. “It’s one of the proudest points of my life that that man has no imprint on you. It wasn’t easy leaving. I had to sneak and save money for years before I had enough to get somewhere far away and safe. I was terrified you’d remember what it used to be like.”

“I don’t. I remember moving around until we settled here.”

She nods. “Rick can’t show affection the way most people do, but he doesn’t have a cruel bone in his body. And, after my life, he’s exactly what I needed. What we needed. I know Rick is odd. He labels his food so he can make sure that he’s not spending more on groceries than he needs to. We keep the heat off so that we can save more, the same reason we take overtime and holiday shifts. The same reason we put all your paychecks straight into savings. He’s been putting away money since the day we moved in. He—oh, we were gonna surprise you, but—Rick? I think we need to give Maria her present now.”