29. Rafael Cohen
Chapter 29
Rafael Cohen
Bonnie
I can’t tell if I should be excited or nervous about meeting Rafe’s mom. I’ve never met anyone’s parents in an official capacity, unless you count Lulu’s. But since then, my experiences haven’t been common.
Now, I’m jostling in the rocking seat of Rafe’s work van, disappearing from the central square of Mourning, rolling alongside commuter train tracks, where the Stop signs have an increasing number of dents and grass grows an inch higher. Chipped wooden telephone poles sprout every few yards, strung together with low wires, like a clothesline weighed down by too much wet laundry. Sidewalks slowly disappear.
We pull into a paved driveway next to a two-story house. A spare set of stairs is added onto the side of the building—much like my parents’ Frankenstein’s monster of a house—which leads to a separate door above the garage. Whereas my parents’ house has their porch painted a bright mahogany with twinkling lights strung around the railing, this one is on high, unstained wooden stilts.
Rafe parks and cuts the engine. I unbuckle, and Rafe makes his way to my side of the car to open my door before I can manage it. I hop down with his palm on my lower back as an assist.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m not gonna say anything about us.”
He lifts an eyebrow and tilts his chin up, as if assessing me. “That’s thoughtful.”
“I’m a thoughtful kinda gal,” I say with a wink.
I don’t think I’ve ever winked in my life, but he seems to be good at it, so maybe I can be too. His responding smile says he may agree.
“I know I wasn’t supposed to meet your mom today. And she’ll probably ask questions. I’m just your employee, helping out at the show. That’s our story.”
He walks forward until my back bumps the car door. His palm sinks into my hair. “I’m not ashamed of you, Shiv. But it is probably best she thinks you’re just an employee. Trust me.”
It feels vague enough to make my neck hair stand on end, but I still tease back, “I am though, aren’t I? An employee, just getting art lessons. And other types of?—”
“I’ll just say you’re an employee,” he says.
“Very thoughtful.”
A smile slides onto his face. “I’m a thoughtful kinda guy. Now, come on.”
I push his chest back with my index finger. His eyes follow the motion.
“I’m excited to meet the amazing woman you keep boasting about.”
Together, we ascend the rickety stairs that resemble more of a rope bridge than secure stairs. Rafe grunts in disapproval when the railing up top is shiftier than the rest—which is saying something. When we finally make it to the door, he knocks, but he doesn’t stop inspecting. He’s eyeing the top of a stuck-out nail beside the doorbell when the door opens.
A beaming face smiles back at us, and I can’t help but meet it with a smile of my own. Rafe’s mom has the most contagious smile I’ve ever seen—even more so than my mom.
She’s an older female version of Rafe—black hair, high cheekbones, brown eyes, and heavy tattoos running along her forearm and shoulder. The ink is faded, and she’s not nearly as covered as her son, but it’s enough to prove she caught the tattoo bug at some point in life. Wisps of gray sprout from her roots and thread throughout her hair. She doesn’t dye it, just like Ma doesn’t.
I like her vibes, which is why I thrust out my hand and say, “Hi, I’m Bonnie.”
Her smile slowly, hesitantly falls.
She blinks at my extended hand, then back to Rafe.
Goose bumps explode over my skin—from my neck down to my stomach. It’s a wonder I don’t get a visible full-body shiver. The snap transformation from kind to harsh is enough to make me question whether I’ll even be invited in.
“Rafael, who is this?”
“Bonnie,” he answers.
“His employee,” I finish for him.
She nods, and as quick as it disappeared, her smile returns. I lean back on my heels instinctually. It’s a contrast only someone like Caravaggio could achieve. A beautiful, middle-aged woman. A craggy elder. Both cast in shadow, seemingly sprouting from the same body.
“I’m Peggy Cohen,” she says, finally taking my hand. “Well, come on in.” She waves us through the threshold. “I already have something on the stove.”
“Mom, that wasn’t necessary,” Rafe says with a sigh, closing the door behind us.
My lips part at the stunning decor inside. It’s so bright. A red wall next to a yellow one, next to a cartful of green plants, beside an open window, where the summer breeze floats in. In the center of the room is a gray couch, loaded with a slew of pillows containing tassels, stitched designs, and tufted fabric. An intricate cross is hung over the hallway entrance.
But on top of the beauty, I slowly recognize the mess. Magazines litter the coffee table beside too many coffee mugs to count. The plants in the kitchen wilt. Mail, stacked on the counter, overflows close to the stovetop with an active flame.
My heart rate rises at the same time Rafe rushes behind the counter.
“Christ,” he breathes, pushing the mail away from it.
“It’s messy,” Peggy says. “I know. Sorry. I just didn’t know we’d have company .” The word is emphasized as she forces a smile at Rafe. “If you called more, I’d know these things. I didn’t even know you were hiring for the shop.”
“It’s just for the summer,” he explains, now fiddling with the loose knob on the pantry door, propped open with a trash can. “Where’s your tool kit?”
“What tool kit?”
“I gave you a tool kit for Christmas, remember?” He swallows, catches my eyes. His ears turning pink. He quickly runs his palm through his hair.
“I lose things all the time too,” I quickly say with a smile.
“Oh, you’re talking about the closet there?” she says, ignoring me. “No, don’t worry about that. That knob has been messed up for weeks now. I’m barely here to notice anyway.” She goes to the simmering pot and smiles at me with creases beside her eyes. Though the smile doesn’t spread as wide as it did when she first opened the door. “He’s such a worrywart, isn’t he?”
“He’s protective. Never lets me miss a meal,” I joke.
She nods. “Ah. Yes.” But she doesn’t say more.
Rafe’s eyebrows stitch together. “So, work going okay, Mom?”
She groans. “I’m working nights—did I tell you? And the newest client? A pig. An absolute pig. You’d never guess he’s a CFO or CFA or whatever it’s called. Certified Fucking Asshole, if you ask me.”
“Mom—”
“I’m serious,” she says, pointing at him with her spoon. “I spend so much time there that I don’t have time to clean here at all. Take a look around. It’s terrible.” She turns to me again. “I’m lucky Rafael loves to decorate my house. Makes it still feel homey when I can’t keep up with the cleaning. I clean for work—did he tell you? With all that, it’s hard to want to clean more when I get back too late.”
“Is he paying you for the extra time?” Rafe asks.
“Oh, sometimes, I stay later than he knows,” she says toward the soup rather than him. “But that’s the job, you know?”
“No,” he says. “You should be getting paid for the work you do.”
“Yes, well …” Her words fade away, as if she has an argument but assumes he wouldn’t understand.
I wonder how often they’ve had this discussion.
I walk around the house as they move on to talk about his shop and the art show. The wall over the small, dusty TV is covered in photos. Rafe in a graduation cap and gown with his arm slung over her shoulders—no tattoos visible on his hands yet. Rafe and Leo with long, messy hair, sitting on the carpet in front of a Christmas tree in a living room different from this one. Rafe as a kid with his front tooth missing as he hugs a giant bear mascot in front of a yellow roller coaster. A baby with black hair, who I assume is Rafe, in the arms of his mom and a tall man beaming next to her with the same high cheekbones and perfect teeth as Rafe now.
“And how’s Leo?” she asks.
“Same as ever,” Rafe answers. “He’s touring. Just came to Boston actually.”
“And he didn’t visit me either?”
“Trust me, he wanted to. He’s on a tight schedule.”
She hums to herself, and it sounds so similar to how Rafe is when he’s thinking—only a little more skeptical.
“What a good boy he is,” she muses. “Should have stopped by though. Him and that drummer. What’s his name? Judas?”
“Jonah.”
“Right. If I were available and twenty years younger …”
“Oh, are you dating someone?” I chime in with a smile.
She exhales heavily. “Celibate.” She says it like it’s a death sentence. “I’m too busy all the time, you know? Three jobs now. Three . You wouldn’t believe how difficult that makes it to date. So!” She raps her spoon on the pot. “I’m off the market! Anyway, pot’s ready!”
We seat at a round table fit for four, nestled near the hallway and behind the couch. I ladle soup into my mouth as she gossips about people in town. She talks so fast and eager that I don’t know how she’s taking breaths.
Rafe lets her go off like a race car, but I try to join in with a, “Oh, that’s so fascinating!” or, “And how long has he been doing that?”
I think most parents would like me, but this feels like wrestling a wet seal. I can’t get her pinned down in conversation.
And everything is followed with a, “But …” or, “Except …”
It’s honestly a little exhausting.
“Oh, did I tell you what your father did the other day?” she says after setting down a prepared bowl of fruit for dessert. “Liked one of my photos online,” she finishes. “Can you believe that?”
Rafe stiffens. “His social media isn’t really something I keep up with.”
“Well, me neither, but here he is. Bothering me like it’s twenty-some years ago. He’s living in Iceland now, you know?”
“Oh, I’ve heard the northern lights are lovely this time of year,” I say by way of conversation, but I immediately regret it.
“Well, you know, I could be there if I wanted to,” she tells me quickly. “He always resented Rafe for being my world. But what was I supposed to do? Not raise our son ? I couldn’t gallivant around Europe with him. Or Iceland. Or wherever he wanted to go. I had a boy to raise. So, he met another woman who would.” She shrugs, as if this is just the way of the world. Old news. “Good thing too. He wouldn’t approve of Rafe’s art career, but, God, I’m just so proud of him.” She says it like Rafe isn’t sitting right here. “I’m the one who told him he needed to go pursue it. Didn’t know he’d actually leave. But, hey, he fell in love with Never Harbor that one time his dad actually took him on a vacation, and I guess he just always wanted to go back. It’s beautiful on that coast. I can’t blame him.”
“I didn’t leave because Dad took me there,” Rafe murmurs.
“Oh, it’s fine. He’s the better parent.”
“Nobody said that.”
She hums again, this time more bitter. Testier. I can’t imagine being around this intensity all the time.
“I’d love for you to see the shop,” Rafe says. “I’m more than happy to pick you up or pay for your commuter ticket.”
“You know how busy I am,” she says into her food. It feels like a common refrain.
I look down to see Rafe’s fist tightening under the table. His thumb is pushing his new ring so hard, but his knuckles are white with tension that the ring won’t budge. I reach under and open his fist, sliding my fingers in his. He relaxes into me. My thumb spins the ring for him.
Jonah wasn’t right when he told me Rafe doesn’t see his mom for who she is. Rafe does. He’s just too good of a guy to care. This is the same guy who did design work for his childhood friend. The guy who’s a safe haven for Izzy when work is tough. The guy who supports local businesses. The guy who sold my art to prove it was good enough to be bought.
He acts on his gut and protects those closest to him.
So, I hold his hand all through dessert until we get back in the van. And I let him stay silent the entire forty-minute drive back, turning up the radio to his favorite station and rolling down the windows so the cool air drifts through. And when he tries to drop me off at my cottage, I tell him to keep driving to his studio instead.