Whenever I had to make a decision, I would hear my mother’s voice of reason. I knew we were not the same, my mother and I, I was sure of it. After all, I was my father’s daughter, too. But sometimes I felt her path made more sense. The safety and predictability of her thought-out plans was appealing to me. She was sensible; she made decisions with her head. Yet even though my mother was the more grounded parent, growing up I continued to heed my father’s words; his passion was contagious. The last time I spoke with Pops, he reminded me to give love and get it in return and to quit fixating on my future. It wasn’t your typical father-daughter talk, but then it never was with him.
My stepdad, David’s, advice on the other hand was mostly logical and usually in the form of a written exercise. If I had a hard decision to make he would say something like “Draft me a list of pros and cons, Princess.” My mother would always be standing right behind him, nodding in full agreement. Before I left for Europe, he insisted that I create a detailed itinerary complete with train schedules and weather forecasts. It was a bit over the top, but it came in handy.
Pops’s only words before I left for Europe were “Have a blast, luv, and stay away from the opium in the Red Light District.”
In the more recent years at the end of every phone call we shared, Pops would address me by my real name and quote Arthur Rubenstein. “Remember, Mia, ‘Love Life and life will love you back.’” He was the eternal lover and optimist; he took it seriously and he wanted me to do the same. I imagine that he and Will would have hit it off.
When the café phone rang I darted behind the counter. Martha grabbed the receiver and in a singsong voice answered, “It’s a beautiful morning at Kell’s. Oh hi, Liz, how are you?” I listened intently as Martha spoke to my mother. I kept my back to her, looking out into the café, but I was hanging on every word. “Oh yes, dear, Mia is adjusting quite well. Really?”
I turned around, shot my hands out, and mouthed “What?” to Martha. She shrugged her shoulders and continued listening. “I’m not sure, Liz. Mia is right here, though, if you’d like to talk to her.” I frantically shook my head back and forth, signaling a firm no. She held the receiver out to me and arched her eyebrows. I took it from her hand but stood there transfixed before putting it to my ear. After Martha disappeared into the café kitchen, I looked over at Jenny, who was slowly catching on. She darted to the espresso machine and flipped the old monster on.
“Oh, hey, Mom!” I yelled. “It’s really busy here and I don’t know if I’ll be able to hear you over the espresso machine, but I’m fine, everything is great! I’ll call you later!”
“Okay, honey, I just wanted you to know I’m coming out next week. Just me. I miss you!”
“Okay, I love you.”
“Love you, too, be safe!”
Jenny turned the machine off while I stared blankly at her. She must have sensed my dilemma. “Mia, you’re an adult and Will seems like a nice guy. I mean, I’m sure there were co-ed dorms at Brown, what did your mom think of that?”
“No, Jenny, it’s the tattooed, starving artist, musician types that my mother rejects.”
“Well, she liked Pops enough, ‘cause here you are.” She smiled.
She had a good point. Could my mother really preach to me about this? Will would simply be my roommate—I wasn’t sleeping with him and he wasn’t twelve years my senior like my father was to her when they met. She had been a wild child compared to me.
After I graduated from college, I went traveling through Europe for a year with my three roommates from Brown. My grandparents funded the entire trip. They told me to get everything out of my system because they expected me to come back and be a grown-up. In Europe I went to every museum possible, spent a lot of time watching live music, and even more time chugging back the wine.
Still, I was the only one of the girls who didn’t have a different guy in her bed every night. I had plenty of offers—European guys don’t hold back. I remember once in Barcelona I met this beautiful Basque man, suitably named Romeo. We hit it off immediately and the attraction was strong. I kindly turned down the offer to go back to his place that night because I had planned to get up early the following morning. My plan was to take the three-hour train to Madrid. I was dying to get back to the Reina Sofia Museum so that I could stare at Picasso’s Guernica a little longer. I thought since Romeo and I were obviously into each other, I would invite him to come along to Madrid with me. He admitted he had never been to the Reina Sofia. I thought what Basque man would not want to see this amazing work of art that has so much historical significance to his people? He wasn’t intrigued; he turned me down and continued his conquest to find a woman to bed that night.
The next day, I stood in front of the giant Guernica, wondering what Picasso had been thinking, when it occurred to me that it’s more about what he was feeling: how he projected that into his art is what inspired me. And so it began, my secret and suppressed obsession with the sensitive, tortured, artist soul. An obsession I was still fighting tooth and nail and one I wouldn’t admit to anyone, namely myself.
The two years after Europe I spent living with my mom and David in Ann Arbor, trying to figure out what to do with my life. It seemed like I was always so scared I would make bad decisions. I dated no one because the guys I was attracted to didn’t seem suitable for the future I envisioned. I gave piano lessons to kids, studied for the MSAT, and researched colleges for grad school. When my father died, the decision to move to New York was made for me. Still, I was determined to stay focused on success. I would only pursue sensible relationships while I worked on getting Kell’s back to its glory and I would continue working toward a bigger career in business. I knew art and music would always play a role in my life, but I refused to fall into the bottomless and crowded vat of starving artists.