Yup. Some people actually do play croquet. My parents. Along with bocce ball and any other game that involved standing on the lawn in white pants with a drink in one hand.
Actually, that sounds kind of ideal. Except for the white pants thing.
Out front there’s an iron gate flanked by a pristine brick wall that spans the brick driveway, stately columns on the front porch. At the back there is a clay verandah that looks over the oasis and pond.
That’s where I find my mother, Uncle Seth and Aunt Sylvia, huddled around the table, sipping tea from fine china and snacking on scones and crustless cucumber sandwiches from a copper tiered serving tray. My mother likes to pretend her house is the Empress Hotel when guests are over.
“There you are,” my mother says as if they’ve been waiting for ever. “Your father was worried.”
I roll my eyes and don’t even bother pointing out that I’m early.
My mother gets up and gives me a light hug. She smells like Chanel and disappointment. Aunt Sylvia gives me a shy little wave and Uncle Seth just nods. He doesn’t say much in general, which is just as well because the few times he does say something it’s usually racist or sexist.
“There you are,” my father says, coming out from behind me, wiping his hands on his apron. At least his hug is more genuine than my mother’s. I bask in the affection for exactly three seconds before he says, “You know I had lunch with Alan’s parents the other day.”
Everything inside me freezes. “Great. Hope they’re well.”
No I don’t. I fucking hated his parents.
“Where is Alan?” Aunt Sylvia yells in that grating, nasal voice of hers. Think George Costanza’s mother on crack. Uncle Seth can’t hear that well and she assumes no one else can hear well either.
My mother gives her a look. “You know they broke up in January, Sylvie.”
I look at my dad, dying for a change of subject. “Let’s eat, I’m starving!”
There’s a vague sense of awareness in his eyes before he heads back into the kitchen that perhaps I don’t want to talk about my ex.
We head into the dining room and sit down at the table, all made up with layers of place settings like royalty is coming. My father serves my favorite salmon salad and as usual there’s more tea.
Aunt Sylvia gets an extra strong martini though, as that’s her thing. All day, every day. In fact, my father leaves the shaker beside her glass and a small jar of olives because he knows how fast she’ll go through them. Saves time this way.
“So how do you feel having only one year of school left?” my mother asks as she picks at her salad.
Hmmm. A “how do you feel” question. I rarely get those.
“Great,” I tell her. “I love school but I honestly can’t wait to be done.”
“Have you started looking for jobs?” my dad asks.
Sigh. I glance at him, keeping a smile pasted on my face. “Not yet. Next year.”
“Do you still want to be a writer?” Sylvia yells over her martini.
Another sigh. “I’m studying to be one.”
My dad puts his elbows on the table, folding his hands over each other in a near offering of prayer as he looks to my aunt. “With her degree, Amanda can work as a teacher if she wishes.”
“But I’ll be a writer,” I remind him.
“Even though writers don’t make money,” my mom scoffs. “Who is going to pay for your place and your clothes and everything else? Once you’re done school, our help is gone. You’ll be living on the streets.” Here we go. Same old, same old. “You really made a big mistake breaking up with Alan.” She throws down her napkin, genuinely upset.
“Um, I didn’t love him,” I reply testily.
“Why not?”
“Maybe she loves women,” Aunt Sylvia yells.
I give her a withering glance before turning back to my mom. “Because I didn’t love him. I don’t know. He’s a nice guy but...”
“The best guy,” my mother finishes.
“Men like him don’t come around very often,” my father says, jumping in. “He’ll make one hell of a dentist.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good thing,” I mutter, spearing a piece of salmon with my fork.
“But he could have supported you,” my mother says. “If you had just said yes, you’d be planning your wedding right now. I’d be planning it! Then you’d get married when you graduate, you’d be having children by twenty-five and learning what it’s like to be a mother, a real woman, and then if you still have your flights of fancy, you could dabble in writing on the side. Maybe write children’s books.”
My face is burning up with rage. I have a million things I want to say and yet my throat is so choked with anger I can’t even say it.
“There’s nothing wrong with being a lesbian,” Aunt Sylvia prattles on.
My mother ignores her. “Amanda, you threw away the one good thing you had going for you. Alan would have made you a woman. Instead you broke up with him, humiliating him in the worst way, and you’re back to the petulant child that you are. You’ll never grow up now, you’ll be lonely and single and chasing something that doesn’t even exist.”
I’m close to tears now and I never cry.
“I love writing,” I manage to say, staring down at the salad. “It’s what I’m good at. It’s what I love.”