Page 84 of Lucas & Melissa Falling in Love
“I—thank you.” I don’t know what else to say, but the calming effect of his words is miraculous, even as I wonder which of those attributes Lucas would change, which of those attributes I owe most to my birth parents. And what attributes he’s left off the list that are buried inside me, genetically predisposing me to be a selfish prick like my father or a dependent wimp like my mother.
I wonder when these attributes will expose themselves and whether or not Lucas will still find me so beautiful then.
Now he leans over to kiss me and I wrap my arms around his neck with more vigor than necessary as I curse my emotional desperation. No wonder Lucas can read me. I’m a shameless open book with him, leaving my heart exposed. Trusting him could be dangerous, but I do. I hope to God my trust isn’t misplaced.
For the rest of the two-hour drive, I’m less jittery, more resigned, with his words running through my mind and heart telling me I am what I am and nothing will change it, even when I meet my birth parents. I manage to crowd out the doubt with the comforting logic of Lucas’s wise words.
By the time we arrive, I’m twenty percent hungry and eighty percent sleepy, but I know my mother has dinner for us.
“I hope you’re hungry,” I say to Lucas as we traverse the walkway bordered by mounds of snow to the front door.
“I could eat,” he says. “How about you?” He knows me too well. I shrug as we climb the three brick steps to stand on the landing in front of the door. Taking a deep breath and feeling calm and determined, the nerves are gone now that the test has begun. I open the storm door at the same time that my mother opens the inner door and we face each other.
A burst of fondness and love bubbles up and I step inside and give her a hug. She’s surprised, but she hugs me back with meaning. We’re not usually so demonstrative, but I figure it’s Lucas and his family that have rubbed off on me. After spending time watching the Fierro family warmth, and how wonderful those hugs made me feel, I want it for my family.
Feeling Lucas behind me, I let go of my mother and he hugs her next. My mother says, “Oh my,” in her flustered surprise, her cheeks getting pink. I close the door and when Lucas lets my mother go I take his hand and lead him to the living room where my father rises from his chair to greet us. He has a smile and an outstretched hand for Lucas, forestalling any hug. I know Lucas would have given him a good man hug, but he adjusts to the handshake and gives a nod.
I don’t let my father get away with holding me off—I throw myself in his arms and hug him extra big, partly out of defiance, partly because I need to. After all, this is where I can afford to be emotionally brave, can’t I? These are my parents who I trust more than anyone in the world. There is no risk in showing my affection because they’ve proven they love me in so many millions of small and big ways over the years. The first and biggest way was by adopting me. They wanted me from the beginning, so much so that they went to the trouble of going through the adoption process. I’m a lucky person. I know I’ve hit the adoptive parent lottery with Tim and Elise Cooper.
“I smell something delicious,” Lucas says. I wonder if he knows that’s the perfect strike to win my mother’s heart forever?
“Oh yes, I’ve made pot roast for dinner. It’s one of Melissa’s favorites. I hope you like it, Lucas. I’m afraid I’m not an expert at Italian dishes.”
“I’m sure I’ll love it, judging from the tantalizing scent,” he says and gives her that smile like she’s a goddess. I know that smile and I know it’s sincere. He likes my mother as she stands there beaming at him, her hands folded over her apron looking like an ad for Betty Crocker.
“Then let’s eat. I’m starving. We can catch up over dinner,” my father says.
We take off our coats and I put them on the couch knowing that the front coat closet is full. We don’t have a lot of closet space in this house and my mother keeps her vacuum cleaner in the coat closet, so I don’t embarrass her by bothering to open the door to check.
We all file into the dining room where my mother has set the table with the china and silver normally reserved for holidays. Then it hits me—maybe they think this is a special occasion. Maybe they think we came here to announce something special along the lines of an engagement. My heart plummets at the thought and as I sit at the table opposite Lucas, I feel an urgency to spill the beans, to dispel any notion that this visit is about me marrying Lucas. I feel helpless sitting so far from him, ironically, and wish he was within touching distance.
As my mother brings in the platter of beef and vegetables, even before she sits down, I say, “I bet you’re wondering why we drove all the way here for dinner on a weeknight.”
Lucas darts me a troubled look. I eye him back, trying to communicate the urgent need, but I’m afraid I look more frantic than determined.
He says, “Can I help you with anything?” as he half rises from his chair.
“Oh my, no. I have everything. But you’re so nice to offer.” She raises a brow in the direction of my father who holds a smile in check except at the very corners of his mouth. I’ve seen that same smile in the mirror and wonder how I could have inherited that. Then I realize it’s something I got from him by osmosis, by living with him for eighteen years and learning everything I know about people and relationships from him and my mother.
Though true, I’m not at all sure if it’s good or bad. But it could be in conflict with my nature, which would explain some things. My mother is busy serving Lucas and I decide to help myself because this is my home, isn’t it? I’m not a guest, am I? As I spoon some potatoes and carrots onto my plate, I feel like I’m on that precipice between home and guest, not quite at home and not really a guest and I wonder if all grown children have that sensation when they return to their childhood homes to visit their parents.
It’s the sort of question I’d ask Margo. But I can’t ask her because her parents are dead. Then I realize how lucky I am and the nerves, the urgency, the trepidation all disappear and I find I’m hungry. So I eat while my father talks about the neighbors and their kids, people I know and what they’re all up to.
Lucas eats and listens. I’m not sure if he’s being polite or if he’s really interested. My mother interjects a word here and there and I laugh and ask questions when my curiosity to know more of the story baits me.
The grandfather clock—non-heirloom standard 1960s model when they were all the rage in middle-class suburban home décor—chimes and I realize we’ve been here almost an hour and the meal is over and I haven’t uttered a word about the real reason for our visit.
“So you asked if we were wondering why you were visiting midweek?” my father says as my mother clears his dish.
I dart a look at her and she hurries off. “Don’t say a thing until I get back,” she says as she almost runs to the kitchen with a stack of dishes.
Lucas gives me a look, worried, as if it just dawned on him what my parents’ expectations are about.
“I’ll help you,” I say and pick up a plate and leftover serving spoon. Then I head to the kitchen. My mother is right. I can’t tell them without her in the room. Realizing I’m leaving Lucas to fend off my father’s growing curiosity, I can’t help it. I need to soften the blow for my mother.
In the kitchen, I say to her, “Mom, it’s not about Lucas and me.”
“What do you mean? What is it about? Is everything okay?”
