Chapter 9 #2
And that was it. No recriminations or cautionary lectures.
I almost wanted her to go in on my decision so I’d have a reason to defend it—to her and to myself.
Instead, I was alone with my thoughts, and suddenly terrified all over again.
I ate my kung pao chicken in front of the TV, letting Law there were no stains on her white button-down shirt; her black loafers had minimal scuffs; and she’d finished the look with a black handbag that she only dug out of her closet for special occasions.
When she walked up to me, Mom kissed my cheek and said stiffly, “Nicole, how many times have I told you to dress well when you’re shopping in better stores? ”
Since we didn’t shop in “better stores” growing up, those words had never come out of her mouth.
But I was too grateful that she hadn’t yet questioned what the fuck I was doing with my life to point that out.
As we browsed the racks, I quickly realized that my mother was way more nervous and overwhelmed than she let on.
While she may have expected her academic prowess to transmute into shopping ingenuity, my cerebral mother barely made it thirty minutes before beads of sweat started to form on her forehead.
A few hours later, after having enlisted the aid of several efficient saleswomen, I was the proud owner of a black blazer with leather lapels and a matching pair of leather pants, a cropped navy jacket, a few bright blouses, and a cream-colored pantsuit that would have fit in beautifully with the associates who worked at Joseph’s Wall Street investment bank.
But Mom kept telling me how important it was to look professional when you lead a team.
And I was too nervous about starting my new job to keep objecting.
In the middle of our late lunch at a Midtown Italian restaurant, I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
We’d been casually chatting about my mother’s classes and students that semester, Dad’s new computer chess game, and Teresa’s latest case, but I kept feeling like she was waiting for the right moment to tell me how idiotic all of this was.
“Mom, what is the deal?” I blurted out halfway through our main courses. “Why aren’t you saying anything negative about Sugar? I know you must be thinking it.”
“Do you really assume I’m going to criticize you all the time?” she asked, putting down her forkful of veal piccata.
“Well, kind of.” I was wilting under her gaze, but I really needed to know what was up.
“You never seem to think anything is worthwhile compared to academia. You didn’t want me going into journalism in the first place, and you thought the whole fashion magazine thing was silly.
And right when I got a position that you didn’t seem to think was beneath my intellect, I quit to go work for a start-up.
I just can’t believe you haven’t said boo about it. ”
Mom’s brow furrowed. “Your father and I have always thought that you were destined for great things. You’re smart and beautiful, and we assumed you were going to take over the world,” she retorted, her terse tone contradicting the compliment.
“The challenge is that the only world the two of us really know is academia.”
“I’m so very aware, Mom.” I suppressed a smile. “But that’s your world. What you wanted for me has never been what I want for me.”
“I did the best I could with the data I had,” was her pedagogical reply.
Then Mom heaved a big sigh, her face softening.
“What can I say? I’m sorry, sweet pea.” She hadn’t called me sweet pea since I was a little girl, and my eyes suddenly welled up.
“I know that I haven’t exactly been overflowing with enthusiasm about your career in journalism, but only because I didn’t understand it.
And I was worried that you would never get to the top.
Then the whole thing with Alonzo happened …
and you can’t blame me for questioning you and the entire magazine industry at that point. ”
When she said Alonzo’s name, the tears forming in my eyes spilled over.
In the three years since my parents had caught us in Krispy Kreme, we mostly avoided the subject.
Hearing his name come out of her mouth not only brought back the humiliation of that day but also reminded me that I was now outside the StyleList cocoon and back in Alonzo’s world.
To her infinite credit, Mom passed me an extra napkin without questioning why I was having such an extreme reaction.
After giving me a second to catch my breath, she continued, “I’ve watched the shift in how you’ve comported yourself since you got to StyleList. Clearly, you’re excellent at what you do and respected in your field, otherwise these opportunities would not be coming your way. ”
Why was every formidable woman in my life so skilled at double-edged compliments?
“I know my start in journalism was … inauspicious at best,” I acknowledged, seeing her eyes crinkle at my use of one of her favorite words.
One thing my mother and I shared was a love of beautiful language.
“But you’re right. I’ve worked really hard to get past the nightmare of your childhood friend—and to prove myself in my industry. ”
Mom involuntarily flinched at “childhood friend.” As we stared at each other across her veal and my penne alla vodka, emotion chipped away at my mother’s implacability until her eyes got moist as well.
“Nikki, I’m just so glad you’re out of there.
” Mom reached over to grab my wrist. For the first time, I noticed that the skin on the back of her hands was thinner, the bones and veins slightly more visible than before.
“I’ve hated that you were still at Park Avenue Publishing this whole time, even with the StyleList promotion.
And I don’t know that I’ll ever forgive myself for bringing Alonzo into your life. ”
“What? I thought you were impressed by how well I was doing at StyleList and Park Ave Pub.”
“Yes, but I absolutely hated you being in that … haunted building, even after Al left.” Mom paused to signal to the waiter.
He’d been staring at her from across the room as men often did and lit up at the signal that she needed him.
As he made his way toward us, she told me, “Am I concerned for you? Yes, and I probably always will be. But I also see that this is a fresh start.”
I didn’t want to tell her about Alonzo’s increased influence in my new world—or my six-month trial period.
And I kept thinking about Marie’s remark: What “stories” about Barbara had I not heard?
Compared to the toxic environment that was Park Ave Pub, NuVoices could turn out to be Chernobyl.
“I hadn’t thought about Sugar as a fresh start, but I hope you’re right.
” I chewed on my cuticle, then stopped because I knew Mom would recognize my nervous tell.
“It’s also a leap of faith, and I’m jumping without a parachute. ”
“You will simply have to rise to the challenge, Nicole.” This was my mother’s version of you’d better fucking crush it.
She looked past me to the waiter who’d scurried up to our table.
“Hi there.” She smiled brightly at him with the confidence of someone who’s been naturally pretty her whole life.
“We’ll need a new napkin, the dessert menu, and two glasses of champagne.
Today, we’re celebrating my daughter’s new job. ”