Page 20 of That's Not a Thing

After we hang up, I feel all warm inside, the way I so often do around Aaron, like I’ve just finished a steaming bowl of wonton soup. Instead of focusing on the nasty bits of my career, the ashy taste they leave in my mouth, I am filled with gratitude for my fiancé, and then with a nagging guilt about all the time I’ve spent recently thinking of Wesley. It will be useful, I tell myself again, to get myself back to the soup kitchen regularly and determine that Wesley is not the white knight I’ve made him out to be. There is more to life than the vibrancy and passion of the relationship I had with him, and I’m just going to keep telling myself that until I start believing it. I know better than to squander a man like Aaron on useless nostalgia. Don’t I?

A FEW HOURSlater, Aaron, my mom, my dad, and I are sitting at a round, cloth-covered table at Herby’s, my parents’ favorite neighborhood Italian spot. Even if Aaron and I weren’t present, my parents, who are in their late fifties, would bring down the average age of the patrons here by about twenty years, but they love the old-fashioned ambience for some reason I can’t understand, and Aaron loves the gnocchi, so here we are.

“How’s that preemie with coarctation of the aorta?” my mom asks Aaron. Ever since recovering from her cancer, she has become somewhat obsessed with medicine. She knows all about these random conditions that have nothing to do with anything that has ever happened in her own life. Accordingly, she often goes all fangirl on Aaron, lapping up details of the surgeries he has performed. He’s more tolerant than I would be and tends to put up with her questions until he can redirect the conversation.

“One of the cutest babies I’ve ever treated,” Aaron answers as the waiter shows up with my penne à la vodka—so fattening, but impossible to resist at this establishment. “His mom is Samoan and his dad is half black, half Swedish. Man, does that combination make for a cute kid.” He refills my wineglass from the bottle of chianti on our table.

“But what about the angioplasty? Did it take?”

“He seems to be doing fine now,” Aaron says. I can tell he’s being deliberately vague.

“Leave him be, Karen,” my dad directs her as he takes the little toothpick full of olives from his martini glass and places it on her bread plate. “You know he’s not allowed to divulge the details.”

“Thanks,” she says as she picks up the skewered olives. She sucks one off the toothpick before adding blithely, “Yeah, yeah, but you can’t blame a girl for trying.”

I hate it when my mom and dad start with this breezy banter. I still haven’t managed to get past my father’s shittiness before my mom’s illness. Maybe if they had clued me in to what was actually going on in their relationship, I wouldn’t have spent a year hating my dad for apparent abandonment of my mother during her time of need. What in fact happened was that my mom’s illness made my father realize how important she was to him. The cancer apparently saved their marriage. They reconciled almost immediately after my mother’s diagnosis, but they made the asinine decision not to tell me. They thought it would be too difficult for me if my mom didn’t make it, knowing how much I had lost. So, instead of telling me that my father’s interest in the woman he’d met during our cruise vacation had evaporated, or that my mother had pardoned my dad’s philandering, they allowed me to remain submerged in anger. They let me seize on my fury toward my father as some sort of life-line, like it might keep me going during my mom’s treatment. Practically speaking, I’ve forgiven him, or them, but the intense anger and betrayal I felt for so many months is hard to forget. Looking at them, all cutesy with each other now, so many years later, still has me feeling all twitchy.

“So, I got a call from Mary at the catering company,” my mom starts, changing the subject. “She said she has a band and florist all lined up and that she’s sure we’ll be delighted with both of them.”

“That’s a relief,” I say, speaking into my penne as I push it around with my fork. My mind has gone off in another direction and, against my better judgment, I ask, “Did Aaron tell you who we ran into last week?”

“No, but maybe if you called us half as often as your handsome fiancé does, you could have told us yourself.” My mom looks at Aaron and adds, “You wouldn’t know it from the way she behaves now, but she used to call me every day, often multiple times a day.” She relays this tidbit for the billionth time as she pushes her tortoise-shell glasses up on her nose.

“Mom.” It’s a command. I’ve told her over and again that I work long hours and my life no longer allows for random phone calls where we do little more than catalog our activities for the day and listen to each other breathe. And, like I said, a lot has gone down over the past few years, and sometimes talking to my mother requires me to rehash too many painful memories.

“Okay, sorry,” she relents as she reaches her manicured fingers toward the next olive on the toothpick.

“Who’d you run into?” My dad tries to get us back on track.

Aaron takes over, responding before me. “Remember I told you Lana and Reese were taking us out for our engagement?”

“Yeah.” My mom nods at him, her high cheekbones more pronounced as she sucks on the olive in her mouth. I’m now anticipating the many potential pitfalls of this conversation and wishing I could withdraw my last question. I shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place.

“Turns out the swanky hot spot they took us to is owned and operated by none other than Meredith’s ex. It’s a lucky thing I’m a confident guy, because that man cooks some damn good food.”

The penne in my stomach turns to rotting clay. I drag my eyes away from Aaron and reluctantly meet my mother’s gaze. All the color has drained from her face.

“He’s back?” she asks.

“He’s back,” I respond, trying to keep it light in front of Aaron. “I’m glad for him,” I say casually. “It’s nice to see someone achieve their dream, especially when I spend my own days slaving away for cash instead of ideals.” I’m hoping this statement will get us off the topic of Wesley. My parents love to discuss career goals with me. Since we can no longer talk about my academic pursuits, my professional trajectory is the next best thing.

“I don’t understand why you don’t apply for a clerk-ship with a judge,” my mom says, taking the bait and re-hashing a conversation we’ve had a million times.

“I told you, it won’t solve anything. It’s a great job, but it’s only a one-year appointment, and at the end of that year I’ll be right back to wondering what to do with myself. It’s fine. I’m good at the firm. The pay is right, and the pro bono case is exciting and worthwhile. If I do a good job, I can get more pro bono work. It’s all good.”

“I think Meredith should go into public interest law,” Aaron tells them. “I keep saying it, and she keeps ignoring me.” He winks at me, and I know he’s just playing.

Even so, I, too, am a bait-taker. “Well, I just don’t think it’s fair that I have to take a pay cut if I want to do something more meaningful.” I realize I’m pointing my fork at him and put it back in my bowl as I continue. “You get to do critical work, life-changing work, and then laugh all the way to the bank.” Turning toward my dad, whose dark eyes are fixated on his tuna steak, I say, “You guys should have told me to go to med school.” I make a mock mean face just for effect.

“You’re a germophobe.” My dad.

“And you hate blood.” My mom.

“And biology.” My dad.

“And needles.” My mom.

“Whatever.” And just like that, I’m a teenager again. Aaron’s presence has somehow worked its usual magic, and I’m relating to my parents like I used to, like we didn’t have an acute period of harrowing events a few years ago that drove a wedge between us all.