Chapter 36 Athena
ATHENA
I watch Asha wandering through Ruby’s kitchen like a lost tourist, opening one cabinet after another in search of cleaning products.
Her familiar routine has been disrupted by our temporary living arrangement, and the strain is starting to show.
She opens the cabinet under the sink, finding nothing but an ancient bottle of dish soap and a stray sponge.
“Ms. Stavros,” she says, her usual composure cracking slightly. “Where are the cleaning supplies? And the vacuum?”
“In the closet in the hallway,” I reply, though I’m not entirely certain. Ruby showed me around in a hurried tour, pointing out essentials. Most of what she said has blurred together in my mind.
Asha nods and disappears, only to return moments later with a bewildered expression. “There’s nothing there but towels and bed sheets.”
I’m about to suggest another location when my mother steps into the kitchen, still in her robe, hair coiffed despite the early hour. She surveys the scene with a critical eye.
“Good morning. You must be the housekeeper,” she says to Asha.
“Yes. Would you like a coffee?” Asha asks. “Or I could start breakfast?”
My mother waves a hand. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll be making breakfast.” She opens the refrigerator and begins pulling out eggs, feta cheese, and tomatoes. “You can clean later.”
Asha’s eyes flick to me in silent appeal. In my home, she has autonomy. But here, with my mother commandeering the kitchen, her world has been upended again.
“Actually, Asha,” I say, making a quick decision, “why don’t you take the day off?”
Relief floods her features, though she tries to hide it. “Are you sure, Ms. Stavros?”
“I’m sure. It’s spotless in here and we’re fine. Go home, rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
My mother fills the coffee machine with water. “That poor woman looked absolutely lost,” she comments once Asha has departed. “Has she always been so disorganized?”
“We’ve reorganized some things,” I reply, watching as my mother makes coffee. I notice with some amusement that she’s using Ruby’s Ethiopian beans. “It’s been busy with the preparations for your visit.”
“Hmm.” My mother doesn’t sound convinced. “Well, at least you have decent coffee. These beans smell delicious.”
“Yeah? Guess what? They’re not Greek beans,” I say with a grin.
My mother’s hand pauses mid-scoop. “Really?” She frowns. “I brought you those beans from Thessaloniki last Christmas. What happened to those?”
“I finished them, Mom.” I move to stand beside her, taking the coffee scoop from her hand. “And not everything Greek is automatically superior.”
She looks at me as if I’ve just suggested the Acropolis is overrated. “Of course it is. Especially coffee.”
“Look, I’m all about supporting my country,” I say, filling the coffee maker, “but I’m not budging on these beans.”
My mother sniffs. “Betrayal. My own daughter, turning her back on her heritage for foreign coffee.”
“The horror,” I deadpan, pressing the brew button.
“Next you’ll tell me you prefer American yogurt over Greek.”
“Now that would be true sacrilege.”
The coffee maker gurgles to life and my mother pulls two mugs from the cabinet—somehow navigating Ruby’s kitchen better than I’ve managed in the past twenty-four hours—and sets them on the counter.
“Oh!” she exclaims suddenly. “I forgot to tell you. I spoke with my friend Polina yesterday. Her grandson is getting married next summer in Santorini. Very handsome boy, studying medicine in London. You should come with us to the wedding.”
I suppress a sigh. “Mother, please don’t start.”
“What?” She arranges her features into a mask of innocence that hasn’t fooled me since I was seven. “I’m simply informing you of a family event.”
“You’re matchmaking.”
“I’m doing no such thing. But if you happened to meet someone suitable while we’re there…”
“I’m not interested in being set up.”
“You’re almost forty, Athena.”
“And perfectly happy with my life as it is.”
She purses her lips but says nothing more as she pours the coffee. This is our dance—she hints, I deflect, neither of us addressing the chasm between what she wants for me and what I want for myself.
Demetria makes her entrance, yawning dramatically. Her hair is piled on top of her head, and she’s wearing men’s striped pajamas.
“Coffee,” she moans, making grabby hands toward the machine. “I need coffee or I’ll die.”
“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” I say, sliding my mug toward her before making another for myself.
Demetria takes a long sip, closes her eyes in momentary bliss, then opens them to fix me with a stare. “Your friend Ruby is nice.”
Something in her tone puts me on alert. “Yes, she is.”
“Beautiful too,” she adds, watching me over the rim of her mug.
“I suppose she is.”
My mother places a container of Greek yogurt on the counter, along with honey and walnuts. “She seemed quite comfortable here last night.”
My heart stutters in my chest. “She comes here regularly.”
“Mmm…” My mother’s eyes linger on my face a beat too long.
Demetria divides the yogurt over three small bowls, drowns it in honey, and adds a few walnuts to each. “So,” she says, setting them on the table. “Why didn’t you tell us your neighbor was…” She pauses, glancing at our mother with a teasing smile.
“Was what?” my mother prompts.
“A lesbian,” Demetria finishes, making the word sound both perfectly ordinary and slightly scandalous.
My mother clicks her tongue. “Demetria, please. There’s no need to be so blunt.”
Demetria laughs. “Mom, don’t tell me you’re shocked. It’s not the fifties.”
“Of course I’m not shocked,” my mother replies with dignity. “She’s a lovely woman, and I’m glad you two are friends.” She turns to me. “I’ve never actually met a lesbian before. At least, not that I know of.” She pauses, head tilted. “Do you have many gay friends, Athena?”
I feel heat creeping up my neck, and I take a sip of coffee to buy myself time. Demetria’s gaze is suddenly laser-focused on me, as if she’s seeing something she hadn’t noticed before.
“I—” I clear my throat. “I live in Las Vegas, Mom. Of course I know queer people.”
Non-answer. Safe ground. I’ve become an expert at this evasion, dancing around the truth without ever explicitly lying. It’s not that I’m ashamed—far from it. I’ve been comfortable with my sexuality for decades, but my father, for all his love for me, would never have understood.
And my mother? The woman who still lights candles at church every Sunday, who crosses herself when we pass a cemetery, who believes marriage and children are the ultimate fulfillment of a woman’s purpose? What would she think of me if she knew the truth? I’ve never been brave enough to find out.