Page 28 of Christmas at Watson Memorial

“Well, invite her over.”

“I don't think that's a good idea,” I protest.

“Come on, she's your mother.”

“Things don't usually end well when we see each other,” I argue.

“Don't be stupid,” she insists. “If she's in Manhattan, she won't leave easily. Besides, I'm great with mothers, you'll see.”

“Yeah, not this mother,” I murmur.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Last Christmas. She told me I needed to hurry up because my 'biological clock was ticking.' Right in front of the whole family,” I explain, the memory still stinging.

“Jesus.”

“That's what I said. Then she added that with my temper, no wonder I was single.”

“Well, you're not single now. Plus, you just made the news for saving a kid's life. You're happy now,” she pauses. “You are happy, right?”

“Of course I am, silly. That's exactly why I don't want to see my mother. No matter what I achieve in life, it's never enough for her. It's awful,” I complain, burying my face dramatically in her neck, breathing in her comforting scent.

“Come on, tell her to come over. Show her who you really are, not who she always wanted you to be,” she suggests, picking up my phone from the couch. “I'll be your backup.”

“You'll stay?”

“Wouldn't leave you alone for anything. From what you're telling me, facing your mother alone is more dangerous than flying blind in a snowstorm,” she jokes, leaning in to kiss my forehead.

“She'll probably hate you, just warning you.”

“Most likely, but if I survived two tours in Afghanistan, I should survive your mother. Call her — the sooner you get this over with, the better,” she insists, nodding toward my phone.

I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly as I hit the call button, and her shrill voice cuts through the line.

“Alexia, about time. I was beginning to think you were in emergency surgery on New Year's Day. Isn't that your thing, volunteering for all the shifts nobody wants?”

I shake my head slowly while Selene tries to suppress her laughter. I've put the phone on speaker so she can see I'm not exaggerating about my mother. Then she wonders why I don't call more often. No 'hello,' no 'how are you.' Straight to criticism.

“Hi, Mom. Selene and I would love for you to come over for coffee this afternoon if you're not too busy. Since you're in the area…”

I know perfectly well she's not busy, and she's in the area precisely because she wants to talk to me in person. Still, for some unknown reason, since I was a child, communications in the Winters family have always involved dancing around the point.

“Who's Selene?” she asks in an odd tone.

“She's my girlfriend, Mom.”

“And you hadn't told me? What's her specialty? Surgery too?”

“She's not a doctor. She's a helicopter pilot,” I explain.

A pause.

Long.

Too long.

And Selene's efforts to contain her laughter are starting to fail; she has to bury her face in a cushion to muffle the sound.