Fifteen
It has been ten days since Noah has arrived. Even though the living room is messier than I am used to, we have had more fun
in the last ten days than we have had in ages, not least because I am flavor of the moment at work thanks to pulling off the
deal with Inferno that has been reported in every paper in the world.
At work, I am being feted, but at home, I am always just Missy. The house is filled with music, not from Lucy’s playlist,
but from Noah strumming absent-mindedly as he sits on the sofa, scrolling through online sites looking for apartments.
I am dismayed to discover that my Pavlovian response to Noah has not abated. In the evenings, when we have had a few drinks,
when Lucy is home and we are able to chat, and sing, and reminisce, and laugh, I am fine. I forget to be self-conscious. But
in the mornings, or during the day, I find myself blushing when I am near him, and am gruff with him, short, without knowing
why.
But the evenings, when alcohol can smooth over the bumpy bits, the evenings are spectacular.
It has been so much fun, Lucy, Noah, and me, The Three Musketeers, that I have tried to avoid making plans so that I can stay home.
Tonight, Jerome and I are having dinner with my mother, and now, it seems, her date.
My mother comes to the apartment before we go out for dinner. She gives Noah a hug, but I can tell she doesn’t remember him
properly. Why would she, given that she was barely around throughout my childhood.
“Of course I remember you,” she says. “How could I forget my daughter’s first love?”
I freeze, unable to believe she just said that, unable to believe she knew. Noah looks at me in surprise.
“I was?” he says as I will myself not to turn scarlet.
“It was a fight between you and Justin Timberlake,” I say, as if my insides aren’t churning with rage at my mother for saying
anything.
“Who won?”
I give an apologetic shrug. “Justin. Sorry.”
My mother’s date, Gary, introduces himself. I was surprised she invited him to join us for dinner, more so when she said they
would pick me up.
“Ready?” she asks as I grab my jacket and tell Noah I will see him later.
El Finocchio’s is small and cozy, a traditional Italian restaurant tucked into a strip mall, which has been here for years,
and was my mother’s favorite restaurant when she was with my father. The tables are close together, the buzz of lively chatter
filling the air, the food delicious. Leonardo, the owner, welcomes my mother with hugs and kisses.
“Letta! Bellissima! What a joy to see you!” He turns to me and places a hand on his heart as if in shock. “No! This is not
Missy, surely? That little girl who loved spaghetti alla carbonara, this is not you?!”
I laugh, remembering how he taught me to twirl spaghetti onto a fork using first a spoon, before graduating to the side of the bowl.
Leonardo would demonstrate, twirling a small, tight wad of the pasta onto his fork.
My pasta was, and remained, huge. An enormous bird’s nest, strands sticking out everywhere that I would then try and fit into my mouth as Leonardo applauded and laughed.
He gives me a large hug, and I introduce Jerome.
“You are a very lucky man.” Leonardo’s eyes twinkle as he shakes Jerome’s hand then embraces him. “This family? This family
is the best!”
We are seated at a table next to the bathroom. It is the worst table in the house, but the restaurant is full. If I were with
my father, a table would have magically appeared, but my mother, despite being both known here, and beloved, does not wield
that same power.
“So, Gary.” Jerome turns to my mother’s date. “What do you do?”
Gary, it transpires, is an editor at a local newspaper, who commissioned my mother to write an essay about the changing face
of Silicone Valley. I read the essay, and it was beautiful. It was also confusing, because my mother spent so much time holed
away when I was a child, at least, that is my recollection, I don’t know how she could have remembered so much about the area
in the eighties and nineties, but she pulled it off.
Since the essay was published, she and Gary have had multiple dates. I am gratified that my mother seems happy and calm, and
that Gary seems a good man.
Jerome asks Gary appropriate questions as I sip my Sancerre and smile over the rim at my mother.
He’s nice, I mouth. She nods, then something catches her eye across the room.
The wall near the door is covered in black-and-white framed photographs of famous patrons.
Sylvester Stallone, Oprah, Nicole Kidman, Sharon Stone.
And there, in the middle is Marty Cooke, an arm flung around Leonardo, huge smiles on both their faces.
“Oh for God’s sakes.” My mother sighs, shaking her head. “No matter where I go, I can’t get away from him.”
“From who?” There is a break in Jerome and Gary’s conversation, and Gary turns to my mother, who nods her head in the direction
of the wall.
“From my ex-husband. That’s who.” Her voice lowers and her expression changes to a sneer as she says the word ex-husband.
It strikes me then that my mother still refers to Marty as her ex-husband. Other divorced people I know refer to their ex-spouses
as the mother or father of my children, for that removes them from the equation, takes the emotion out of it. Of course my
mother can’t do that. After all these years, even with a date she seems to like, she is still angry with my father.
I look at my mother then. At the dyed dark red hair she has sported for the past few years, her green eyes, her long, elegant
pianist’s fingers, fingers that fly across the keyboard when she is lost in her writing. My mother is a beautiful writer,
who could have gone on to greatness. But she lost herself in my father, became pregnant with me, and has spent the rest of
her life blaming him for her not having fulfilled her potential.
She has defined herself by her relationship to Marty Cooke, I think. First as his wife, then as the mother of his child, and
now as his ex-wife. Always, as his ex-wife.
I remember how she would work his name into every conversation. It was never enough for her to be Letta Cooke, she had to
make sure people knew she was a Cooke, Cooke. The Cooke, Cooke.
I have never been as obvious, but I understood the urge to want people to know.
When I have felt intimidated, or small, or scared, or insignificant, I’ve wanted to throw my father’s name into the conversation so they will apologize, or notice me, or treat me with respect.
By the same token, I am aware that I also complain when people want to talk to me, or know me, because I am Marty Cooke’s daughter.
A part of me wants to make it on my own, even though I recognize that I will always go much further when they know who I am.
It is a lose-lose, either way you look at it.
“That’s my boss you’re talking about,” Jerome interjects with amusement, attempting to diffuse the tension. “Do you want me
to ask them to take the photo down?”
My mother sighs and shakes her head, realizing how ridiculous that would be. She is brought back to the present, as Jerome
reaches for my hand underneath the table, and squeezes it.
I have eaten my spaghetti, showing off my tighter twirl to Leonardo amidst much laughter, and we have shared an order of tiramisu,
when my phone buzzes. Surreptitiously, given how much my mother hates technology at the table, I slip it out my purse and
onto my lap where I see a text from my father.
Need to talk to you. Can you come over?
I can be there within the hour. Everything Ok?
All good. See you soon!
I put the phone back and catch my mother looking at me.
“Sorry. A work thing.” I can’t tell her it was my father, nor that I will be leaving to go to his house. Tomorrow, he is giving
his talk to the Institute, and I know he will want to run it by me. I force a yawn, which comes out surprisingly easily, and
I cover it quickly with my hand, pretending to be embarrassed. I read once that people who yawn have more empathy. If this
is true, I must be the most empathetic person in the world.
“Are you okay?” Jerome looks at me, surprised that I am suddenly so tired, for that one yawn quickly becomes a series of yawns, each one bigger than the last.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologize. “A few too many late nights.”
“Is that Noah a bad influence?” My mother raises an eyebrow as I flush slightly.
“Noah?” Jerome asks.
“Lucy’s brother. Remember? He’s staying with us until he finds an apartment.”
“Oh, right. I forgot. The musician.”
I look at Jerome expecting to see something, perhaps a hint of jealousy, or competition, but of course there is none. A traveling
impoverished musician is no competition for the brilliant, privileged, preppy protégé of Marty Cooke. He knows it, and I know
it.
“I think we have to go.” I yawn again, and the bill comes. Jerome takes care of it, as I knew he would.
“Want to come back to my place?” Jerome says as we climb in his car.
“Not tonight. My dad wants to see me.”
Jerome drives me home and kisses me in the car, and not a goodbye kiss, but a lingering, loving kiss that makes my heart flip
and my loins stir, and suddenly I do want to go back to his house, and I want to take off his clothes and make furious love
to him, but I can’t.
My father needs me.
When my father calls, I go.
My VW bug, Celeste, threatens to break down on the way to Marty’s house. She does this from time to time, but I refuse to
sell her.