Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Romeo
Mom answers the door with the pride and confidence of a woman six feet tall. Despite her slim, five-foot two frame, she constantly wears long dresses. Today, it's an orange maxi and chunky wedges.
Unlike many Europeans, she doesn't believe in concepts like "enough" or "minimalism." She isn't one of those women who adopts a wardrobe of neutrals or dons black to stay chic. She prefers colors as loud and bold as her personality.
"Come in, come in," Mom urges. "It's cold outside."
It's a May evening in Southern California. Cold is a gross overstatement. But Mom isn't about to let something as silly as the temperature overshadow her style. If this dress doesn't look good with one of her wrap sweaters or a blazer, well, then sacrifices must be made—
"Mama, let me get you a coat," I suggest, despite the futility.
She waves me away. "It's warm in here." She greets me with a double-cheek kiss then extends a hand to Ivy. "You must be Doctor Vaughn."
"Call me Ivy, please."
"And me, Amara." She shakes then pulls Ivy into a hug. "This is the greeting you Americans prefer, isn't it?"
"Mama, you've lived here thirty years," I say. "And you know how Dad would hate to hear you call the United States America."
She waves me away again. That was one of their time-honored fights. Dad, as a proud Latin American man, always pointed out that he, too, was American. Mexico is part of North America. And all of South America is America too. After all, it’s not called South Not-America.
Mom said it was one of their first conversations.
I'm not sure how much he believed it and how much he enjoyed needling her. There certainly are Latin Americans with his position. But Dad was never a hot-blooded sort of guy. He was more steady. Like Daniel.
Mom looks at Ivy carefully, assessing her monochrome separates—magenta and cranberry this time—with approval in her eyes. She looks to me with a smile I haven't seen in a long time. A good job sort of smile.
I guide Ivy through the house. My fake girlfriend studies the grandeur carefully. Even though I lived here for years, I'm not used to the place. It's too big, too modern, too new money.
Too Orange County.
Quite frankly, the place doesn't suit my mother. It suited my Great Aunt, the one who married into all this money, then died and left it to my parents, along with a hefty cash inheritance. Why Mom never sold the place and moved is beyond me.
Still, it is expensive, and it's hard to miss that.
Wide windows look out on the ocean, high, flat ceilings, an angular staircase leading to an indoor balcony overlooking the massive living room.
At least the place is lived in. Adorned in the bright colors my mother prefers.
Ivy's eyes go wide as she follows my mom through the massive kitchen, to the living room. Unlike me, she clearly isn't used to spending time in twenty-million-dollar mansions. She isn't used to a taste of luxury.
"What can I get you to drink, Ivy?" Mom asks. "We have anything. Everything."
Including a bottle of scotch that costs more than my mortgage. But, hey, it was a gift. A gift that outlived my great aunt and her late husband. Neither of them drank scotch. That's why it's here.
I try to push the thought away. I try to channel the sort of thoughts Daniel would have in this situation.
The thoughts of a man who's happily committed to a woman he intends to marry. Or at least a man who's feeling good about his new relationship.
What would he say?
"Mama, don't play coy. Offer your limoncello." So, I go for flattery. So what? It works, dammit.
Mom smiles. "I don't want to be an Italian mother cliche."
"Who doesn't like limoncello?" I ask.
Mom looks to Ivy. "Are you a fan?"
"I'm not sure if I've had it," Ivy admits.
The gasp that falls from Mom's lips is loud enough to cross the Pacific. She brings her hand to her heart as she shakes her head. "Oh my, that won't do. Yes, sweetheart, three glasses. You know where it is?"
"Of course, Mama." I nod.
"What do you usually drink?" Mom asks.
"I'm afraid I'm not the most sophisticated drinker," Ivy says. "I always order a gin and tonic."
"Nonsense." Mom waves her hand in a gesture of friendly objection. "A classic is always in style. What could be more sophisticated than a little black dress?"
"When have you ever worn a black dress" I ask.
She shrugs. "I do enjoy color. Just like my Romeo. Isn't his apartment adorable?"
"You're not supposed to mention that," I say. "Daniel thinks I'm waiting for marriage."
Ivy lets out a full-throated chuckle.
Mom laughs too. "Is your girlfriend laughing because she knows your past habits? Or are you that attentive?”
"What habits?" I shrug, taking my turn playing coy. "Ivy knows there was no one before her who mattered."
"That, I do believe." Mom smiles and pats my cheek, in that maternal sort of way. Like she's about to say I'm her special guy. "Don't take him too seriously, darling. Not all experiences are important."
"I don't," Ivy says. "Well, I do, sometimes, but I like that he has a sense of humor about himself."
"That's how I know I won't lose her to Daniel," I say.
In Italian, Mom tells me not to be so stupid, that I've always beat Daniel for dates, that Daniel is madly in love and would never look at another woman. But she appreciates my concern. Because it means I know I have something valuable. A doctor. Smart and beautiful.
Not an MD , I correct, but she doesn't care. A doctor all the same.
And how much of this is about Daniel, huh? Mom presses. How did I find someone so quickly, with such convenient timing? What luck.
Ivy watches, not following, as far as I can tell. Though I never did ask if she spoke Italian.
Maybe she understands every single work.
"Romeo, drinks, sweetheart. Thank you." Mom switches back to English and motions to the dining table, inviting Ivy to sit. "Or the couch if you prefer."
I don't need another hint. I find the liqueur in the fridge, pour three small glasses, and return to Mom making Ivy laugh.
My first instinct kicks in. The defensiveness I typically feel with my family. But there's no need for that now. This is how it was with Daniel and Cynthia too.
Wasn't it?
I didn't pay enough attention.
I bring the drinks to the table and take a seat next to my fake girlfriend.
What does a boyfriend do in this scenario? I try to recall the last time I was in an actual relationship. There was a girl in college. We dated for a few months. But it wasn't the sort of relationship Mom would consider important. It was mostly physical.
Daniel.
What the hell does he do?
Nothing. He barely touches his fiancée. He barely touches anyone. Another way he adopted American culture. But he's always been that way. I've always been different.
Concern fills Mom's eyes as she glances at me. She's worried about something. Maybe that fact I'm still sitting here, wondering if I should touch my girlfriend.
I place my hand on Ivy's wrist. "Don't tell Mama if you don't like it. Her ego won't be able to take it." I play it off as a perfectionist streak.
"It wouldn't mean anything if I didn't. I'm not a foodie." Ivy smiles softly.
"I know, mi reigna, but I want to protect you," I say.
Mom looks between us with curiosity. I suppose it is a strange sight, the prodigal playboy in love.
Or maybe she's well aware this is bullshit.
I try to pretend I don't notice.
"My parents always toast to health." Ivy raises her glass. "If you have that, what else do you need?"
"Wise." Mom raises her glass as well. "Salud." She takes a long sip and smiles. "Perfect."
"Your compliments to the chef," I add.
Ivy lets out a low sigh. "Oh. That's delicious."
Mom smiles. "Maybe you do have good taste after all."
"She must. If she's with me," I say.
Mom laughs. "Yes, sweetheart, you are god's gift to women." She shakes her head. "His father was the same way, you know, god rest his soul. Certain he was the most handsome man in the world. Not that he was wrong. And certain he was the most skilled lover. Not that he was wrong there either."
"Mama!" I object, mainly out of routine. I've heard this enough I'm numb to it.
"But I told him none of that mattered to me. Only love," she says.
"You lied," I say.
She laughs. "Well, not exactly. It did matter he was so guapo, and so generous too.” She continues her old tradition of describing dad in his language, not hers. They always tried to meet each other halfway there. “But it was always love first. Do you read poetry, Ivy?"
"Mama, at least wait until she's had a drink to break out the poetry," I say.
"Why? It's always time for poetry." Mom stands and recites to the room in Italian.
One of her old favorites. Thankfully, she spares Ivy the English translation.
When she sits, she looks to me. "Now that I've horrified my son, we can move onto other topics, huh?
" She looks to Ivy. “Tell me about your job. Daniel says you’re a therapist. What is that like?”
"Rewarding but challenging," Ivy says, with a practiced tone. A default answer. She doesn't want to talk about her job. Because she doesn't want to reveal the true nature of it. Or maybe because she's not happy. Or both.
"Do you hear people's darkest secrets?" Mom asks. Her tone is polite enough, but her interest is obvious.
Ivy's eyes flash with a tiny hint of annoyance. The sort I recognize in myself, when clients ask dumb questions about my work. Like me, she's able to push past it quickly.
She smiles. "You do. And there is a certain appeal to that. Sometimes, you don't even realize you like it. Have you read The Body Keeps the Score?"
Mom shakes her head.
"There's a section where the writer—he's a therapist—learns the EMDR technique. It's a modality where you use the movement of the eyes to integrate trauma. It can be done without a lot of back and forth. The patient recalls the experience in their mind."
Mom nods, following, or at least pretending to. She's like me. Good at playing her part.
"When the writer first tries it, he's disappointed he isn't able to talk with his client, and one of his colleagues chides him, tells him to go listen to drunks confess if he wants to be a voyeur.
Or something to that effect," Ivy says. "It's harsh, but he needs to hear it.
I enjoy some clients more than others, of course.
It's like any job. But I'm not there for my enjoyment or entertainment.
I have to remember I'm there to support people.
I can't push them to share before they're ready, even if their story might be exciting. "
Mom takes a long sip.
"It was hard to learn that, of course," Ivy says. "I have to fight the impulse sometimes. There is something appealing about learning people's secrets, isn't there?"
Mom nods. "But there's a weight to it too."
Ivy's eyes fill with surprise. She sits up a little straighter. "There is."
"That must be hard. To always carry other people's secrets," Mom says.
"It can be," she says.
"My brother used to ask me to keep secrets from our parents," she says. "At first, I liked being responsible for the information. I liked the trust. But when they were bigger secrets, he roped me into his deception, and the weight of that was heavy."
"It is hard to lie," Ivy says. "Thankfully, that doesn't come up."
"No." Mom smiles. "I suppose it's good, everyone knows you're supposed to keep things confidential. You don't get husbands calling to check up on their wives."
"Not often," she says.
"But here we are talking about work again," Mom says. "I've become such an American." She laughs and shakes her head how could I. "It's getting late, but before I show you to your room, tell me, how did you two really meet?"