Chapter Ten #2
I looked at Marcella. I could tell she wasn’t finished with what she had to say.
And I felt a pang of sympathy for her—that we were all prioritizing our hunger over what she was trying to share.
I was surprised at how I wanted to get back to it, too.
I wanted her to be able to sell herself in this capable and gentle light.
“Parents can be total assholes,” Leo said, through a mouthful of pita, somewhat unprompted.
Marcella hates swearing—but then I looked at her face. She had a small, slightly pulled smile on. She was trying not to laugh.
“They really can,” she said.
Leo reached across the table and offered his fist, and Marcella, impossibly, bumped it.
I looked at my dad, who was laughing into his beer.
That was it, they loved him.
Dinner was charcoal-grilled octopus, roasted eggplant puree, tangy grape leaves, lamb souvlaki, and Greek salad.
“My favorite is the moussaka,” my mom said, serving herself more of the layered eggplant, beef, and béchamel. “I never eat anything this rich, except here.”
I made a face. Moussaka is decidedly not my favorite. Leo clocked it.
“More for me and your mom,” he said, taking the serving spoon from Marcella’s hand.
She and Leo exchanged a glance. She wasn’t looking at me, she wasn’t even talking to me, but I felt more connected to her than I had in years.
In that moment, we were just any other mother and daughter, meeting the new boyfriend.
My father ate the octopus, eggplant, and salad.
He steered clear of the lamb. He’s always been cognizant of his cholesterol—he had open-heart surgery thirty years ago to fix two clogged arteries.
He had been only thirty-nine, practically unheard of.
Dad’s diet changed radically after. He was mostly vegan for a while, then added in some lean meats.
My mother joined him at first, but then slid back into her favorites as the years went on—although in solidarity there is still no “real” milk in their fridge.
I know it’s been a learning curve for her to cook for him—Sylvia, too.
They are used to heavy oils, and a pad of butter for the pot.
“Well, that was excellent,” Leo said when we finished.
He fought my dad on the bill, which I’d asked him to, but it still made me happy anyway. Dave refused.
“Next time we’ll try the spare ribs,” Marcella said.
Leo smiled at her. “You’re on.”
After dinner we said good night to them and drove home along the silver water. The sun had long since set, and the road was wide open—just a few taillights a long way in the distance. The radio was on. I heard Van Morrison hum softly through the speakers.
“They’re really nice,” Leo said, taking my hand. We were in his old Subaru, affectionately named Berta. “Your mom is funny.”
I thought back to whether anyone had ever described Marcella that way. She had loved Stone, but in the way you love the boy you’ve watched grow up—she was invested in him, I thought. Not necessarily our relationship.
Had I ever seen her smile that much? Banter with someone? Eat two platefuls of cream sauce?
“I’ve never seen her like that,” I said to Leo. “She loved you. It’s important to both of them that they get along with who I’m with. We’re close.”
It was both true and it wasn’t. We were the kind of family whose narrative could only be that of closeness, but were we actually close?
My mother didn’t know the contents of my wardrobe.
I didn’t call her when I had a rash or a fever to ask her what to do.
If the roof leaked, they never found out.
I’d spent my teenage years arching away from her, and years after observing her from a distance while we both worried about my dad.
Maybe having a partner was a way to get closer, to come to them as an equal, two for two. There would be someone else to open the door.
In the car that night, driving back along the ocean, I felt something well up in me that I wouldn’t quite name.
I wanted him to like them, yes, but more importantly, I wanted him to love them.
I wanted him to call my dad up for work advice and share recipes and restaurant recommendations with my mom.
I wanted his natural ease—the part of him that drew me to him like a magnet—to penetrate us.
I wanted him to transform us, to make us that easeful, too.
I wanted to share my parents—the weight of them—with someone else.
But I wanted them to be less heavy in the transformation.
I wanted Leo to fix it, whatever this thing was between Marcella and me that had come out broken.
And I wanted him to make it OK when the unthinkable happened, someday. When I would be here alone.
“It was just our first dinner, right?” Leo said. He had no attitude, no resentment or impatience. He was just stating a fact. The stakes weren’t that high. It was one dinner. “I’m hopeful there will be a lot more.” He took my hand. I felt something relax in me that had been stiff for a long time.
“We’ll go out there next weekend,” I said. “You can see the house.”
Leo kissed the back of my palm. From above us the wind blew my hair everywhere.
“Whatever you want,” he said, and I knew that he meant it.