Crisp, clean, smooth.  Deceptively pure.  Yet, it was oh so dangerous.  The envelope stood smooth and quite present in the Coach bag Rohan had bought me for our six month anniversary.  I had begged him not to do it, but – he did – and now I was sitting on a crème leather couch eyeing a potentially explosive envelope nestled in it.  I knew it wasn’t Rohan’s fault, but I still couldn’t help but silently curse him.  Maybe if he hadn’t given me the purse, I wouldn’t have had the courage to write the letter.  After all, I wouldn’t have had a nice Coach purse to momentarily let it hide.

But, it wasn’t his fault.  He didn’t even know about the letter.   I began to tug on a persistent flap of skin, maybe I shouldn’t had  come.  I could have been in San Francisco right now with Bob and Laura, they were always so kind to me.  “Really, do you have to do that in front of me?!”  In a jerk reaction, I ripped the hang nail off my ring finger producing an oozing bloody mess – right on my mother’s crème leather couch.  “Now, look what you’ve done!  For God’s sake, Gabby.”

I winced at the recent flesh wound.  The pain never came immediately, it would dwell and then surface moments later like prickling reminders in case you forgot what you did.  Mom wasn’t interested in my injury though.  As crimson red droplets collected on the seat of her two thousand dollar crème leather couch, she turned pale and ran for the kitchen.  I knew some rags would be in tow when she returned.  And they were, pink ones – probably from my high school swim team sweatshirt.  She always told me she lost it.

I averted my attention to the towering Christmas tree while my mother pushed me to the wayside to save her precious couch.  If anything, my mom knew how to put on a good show.  It didn’t matter if she yelled at me hours before or risked her marriage by spending thousands on useless decorations and party favors, once guests arrived – my mom would put on an almost angelic face and greet these people like they were her husband and children.  Mind you – her husband and children were probably cleaning up her latest drunken fit in the kitchen.  But, that was my mother and while nobody knew what happened behind the scenes, everyone always enjoyed the show.  And that’s what counts, right?

My stomach flamed up in my pensive meditation.  I instinctively gripped my stomach, although that never helped.  The crystal star adorned on top of the tree was the main attraction, and it caught light sending rainbows reflecting like the new chandelier in the foyer.  I stood up quickly and floated over to tree while my mother harped on my careless behavior and how I was still acting like an empathetic adolescent.  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I corrected her.  It was apathetic, not empathetic.  I didn’t bother to say anything though.  Her college degree never came to be, but my older brother sure did.

This year, the Christmas ornament theme was classy – red circular orbs dangling from an enormous, genetically perfect evergreen.  Gold tinsel was laced in between – not too much but not too little.  I never understood tinsel, but my mother sure did.  Her Christmas decorations were art and our house was a museum.  Personally, I never had an affinity for art and museums were never on my to-do list.  Yet, there was my mother with her nutcrackers and homemade gingerbread houses.  She did it better than the movies.

“Are you going to clean up that cut or stand in my beautiful living room staring like an idiot?”  She was angry now, I had upset the harmony of her beautiful night – and her audience wasn’t even here yet.  Don’t worry, Mom, the show will go on. No, I didn’t dare say that.  I glanced at my purse wondering if I should read that letter again – just to make sure it said all the right things the right way.

I couldn’t though.  She hurried me into the peppermint green kitchen to attend to my wound.  “Seriously, you could pay attention a little more Gabriella.  The guests will be arriving in five minutes and you have me cleaning up a silly cut like you’re a child.”  I cocked my head , trying to remember a time when she ever cleaned up my cuts as a child.  … Nothing came to mind.  The smell of fresh cookies wafted through the kitchen as the oven went off.  My mother dropped my hand hastily to attend to them.

While she did, I slipped away.  It was painful, but it felt right.  I forced on my coat wondering if I could still catch a flight to San Francisco.  Rohan and his family would be glad to have me.  As I was about to glide out the door, I paused and felt the cool, white confession lying in my purse.  I let it fall onto the coffee table and whisked away, hoping to never see my mother’s face after finally telling her everything I’d ever wanted to say.