Page 19 of The Cruiser
“Wow. I actually got an emotional reaction out of you?”
“Don’t be petty,” she says. “The facts are, you have a successful business and you make more money than him. You made his career by foisting him onto Stryker. Of course he’s decided to shack up with…” She shivers, unable to say it. “He probably feels better about himself.”
No matter how bulletproof I think I am, mom finds the cracks. In this case, her barrage is bang on and all the more hurtful because of it. But it’s one thing to find fault in someone else’s affairs, and entirely another not to address your own shortcomings.
“What’s your suggestion?” I ask. “Find a new, rich husband? Live the life of leisure, à la you?”
Her flat-handed slap cracks loudly on the countertop and stings just like it used to on my bare bottom. “Vandana Georgia Hillman. I’ve tried and tried to help. Suggesting boyfriends. Setting you up with Vaughn. I advised you not to take Derek’s last name, and thank god for that moment of clarity.” Derek was pissed when I took Mom’s advice, but in retrospect, Vandana Slaughter did not pair well with managing luxury brands. I don’t know if he ever forgave me that one. “Despite our differences,” she continues, “I’ve always admired your drive. That you’re the breed of woman who likes to do it all. But everyone needs a backup plan. If you marry well, you’re set.”
Adrenaline coats my tongue and is the sour, metallic reminder of similar wars we’ve waged. I never met my grandmother Pauline, but she obviously had a sixth sense about her only child. It takes a certain kind of foresight to understand that by naming your daughter Ivy, she will sprawl unchecked and eventually strangle everything.
“If marrying well means turning into you, forget it. I’m not going to live a lie.”
It’s not the first time I’ve thrown it into her face. How she’s overlooked my father’s behavior all these years, I’ll never understand. I promised myself never to have a marriage like theirs. A power union. Love is somewhere in the picture but never in the forefront.
Her mouth quivers with a response, but the familiar purr of dad’s Mercedes pulling into the driveway signals a much-needed break in the drama.
Mom straightens her blazer. “At least I’m not a divorcée,” she says. Then, with my new, horrifying life status confirmed, she swans past me, triumphant. “We’ll see what your father has to say about all this.”
* * *
Dad is a successful businessman turned politician, and it’s not surprising he’s gregarious, a good listener, and possesses the ability to see both sides of the story without committing to either. But after twenty minutes of gale-force winds from Hurricane Ivy and me contradicting everything she says, we’re all exhausted. Dad suggests we take a time-out to snap the family photo, our brittle smiles passing as real. He encourages us to regroup over dinner, but I beg off, foolishly mentioning the trip to Monaco. Upon hearing that, Mom immediately shuts the idea down. I can’t manage the narrative from overseas, she claims. If Derek struts around in public with his new lover, questions will fly fast and furious. Dad agrees, suggesting I stay put until the election is over. We dissolve into another heated argument and I flee their house, tears stinging in my eyes.
I roar down my childhood streets back to PCH, speeding all the way to Newport Beach. My lungs ache from all the shallow, anxious breathing. Goddamn my mother and her attempts to micromanage my life. And she wonders why I rebel. Try living life with endless meddling. It builds up into a familiar sensation bubbling just under my skin.
Fight or flight.
I tell Siri to dial TQ.
“Good afternoon,” he chirps. “This is your captain speaking. Buckle up, you’re in for the trip of a lifetime.”
I burst out laughing. Thank god for small miracles like him. “How did you know?”
“Oh, honey,” he consoles. “Your mother is the equivalent of a bad hair day, a migraine, and a flat tire in the middle of nowhere all rolled into one. If you don’t want to run away screaming after seeing her, then something is very wrong in the world.”
“You have no idea,” I say, my voice a degree darker.
“Trust me, I do. I’ve met your mother.”
“No surprise, she doesn’t think Monaco is a good idea.”
“Sunshine,” he says, with softness. “Don’t let her mind-meld you. What do you think?”
I think about my kiss with Morgan. How we lost our way for those few seconds, swallowed up in a purple twilight hush. The distinct revving of my libido that had been stuck in idle for way too long.
“I think Morgan and Monaco are the perfect distractions,” I say, before realizing TQ has no clue I need a distraction.
“Ha!” he says, not picking up on my slip. “That is excellent news. And you can’t change your mind because I just hit send.”
