She went into the kitchen as soon as they got home and picked out a knife to chop the garlic. He went up behind her and gently took it out of her hand. “I’ll make supper,” he said. “You go take a nap.”
He poured himself a Coke and then got busy in the kitchen. He put on a pot of water to boil, chopped the garlic, added a few sprigs of basil, and quickly fried it in a pan of olive oil. He hunted in the fridge for the can of Parmesan cheese. “Dinner should be ready in about ten minutes,” he yelled as he set the small table in the kitchen. All this time, while he was working, nervousness rattled like a large ice cube in his stomach. Should he give her the ring during dinner or immediately after? Should he slip it into the pasta, or was that gross? He wished he had consulted with his dad but also knew why he hadn’t—David would have been appalled at the thought of Anton proposing to a girl whom he and Delores had not met. Anton would’ve had to sit through the you’re-too-young-to-even-think-about-marriage lecture. He knew his parents loved each other, but his dad had recently confessed to him that he wished he had dated a bit more before settling down. Except he hadn’t put it quite like that. He’d said something about wishing he had sowed some more wild oats, and Anton had cringed, put it down to the kind of yucky, cringe-making things parents said.
Carine had switched into sweatpants and one of Anton’s shirts. “This looks yummy, baby,” she said, dipping a finger into the olive oil sauce and licking it.
He pointed toward the tiny dining table. “Sit. I’ll be there in a sec.”
They were both hungry after a full day of classes and ate in relative silence. “So did your parents decide if they’re going?” Anton asked with his mouth full.
“Yep.” Carine swallowed before continuing. “To Mozambique. For two weeks this time.”
Each year, ever since she had turned seven, Carine’s parents ran a free medical clinic somewhere in the third world. It was like missionary work, she had explained to Anton, except her parents were not religious. It was simply her father’s way of giving back, uncomfortable as he was with the affluence of his life in America.
“So you’re going to be alone here over Thanksgiving?”
She gave him a quick glance. “Guess so. Though Veronica has already said that I could go home with her. But honestly, Anton, I have so much homework that it’ll be easier just to stay around.”
“How about going with me? To the Cape?”
She gave a short laugh. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. They just sound like . . . like not my kind of people.”
He did his best to not show the hurt that he felt. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Just that . . . your dad’s the governor, for chrissake. And I don’t know, your family sounds so white.”
“Veronica’s family is white.”
Carine covered his hand with hers. “Honey. I’m not trying to pick a fight with you. And I don’t mean to be rude, either.”
He shook his head, offended. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Are you saying you’re never going to meet my family?”
“Of course not. Just . . . not yet, okay? I mean, it’s too soon, for one thing.”
The silver ring in his pocket suddenly felt heavy, a ridiculous object that weighed him down. “After a year it’s too soon to meet my family? That’s insulting.”
He saw the flame leap in her eyes. “Have you even told your white parents about me?” She looked at him for a second. “No, I didn’t think so. I’ll tell you what. That’s insulting.”
“They’re not my white parents, Carine. They are my parents.”
“Fine.” She nodded her assent. “Agreed. But let me ask you this: How come you never talk to me about your birth mom?”
A hole opened up in his chest. She was going too far. He tried to control his temper, but when he spoke, his voice shook with anger. “Because there is nothing to say about her. I have told you everything that you need to know. You know that I was adopted.”
They stared at each other stiffly, their bodies rigid, but suddenly, she capitulated, her face soft. “Aren’t you curious about her, Anton?” she pleaded. “Don’t you want to know where she is? Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
She was clawing at a wound that had scabbed over for ten years. He looked down at his pasta bowl, trying to steady himself lest he say something that he would regret. “I don’t want to talk about this,” he said at last.
“But that’s just it. Why not? She’s your mother, for crying out loud. Don’t you even care whether she’s dead or alive?”
He turned toward her savagely. “No. I don’t. She could be rotting in a crack house or rotting in her grave for all I care. That’s the honest answer. And if you can’t fucking deal with that, then, well, it’s too bad, Carine. I don’t have to explain myself to anybody. So you can take your judgmental tone and shove it.”
He got up from the table, walked into the living room, paced around a few times, and then opened a window. It felt hot in his tiny apartment, and crowded, and he wished she would leave.
“Anton.” She came up behind him and he tensed, hoping she would not touch him, not while his body was still pulsing with anger. She did not. “I’m sorry, I was totally out of line. I just wish you would talk to me about your past a little bit more. I just want to be let in, baby, don’t you see?”
He looked down at her. “Don’t ever call them my white parents. They are my only parents. They were the ones who took me in when she wanted nothing to do with me. Because the drugs were more important than her only child. Everything that I have, everything that I am, is due to my mom and dad.” Even through his anger, he was aware of the burning in his throat. Strange how raw, how close, the pain felt.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised his index finger to stop her. “And one more thing. Something that I’ve learned from my father. Life is about moving ahead, not looking back. That’s the American way. And that’s what I believe. I refuse to waste even ten minutes of my life looking back. So before you ask, no, I’ve never Googled my birth mom to find out her whereabouts. Because, frankly, I just don’t care. And if that makes me a monster, well, you know where the front door is.”
Carine looked at him, aghast, and Anton looked away first. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Do you want me to leave? To leave you alone?” She was openly crying now.
He gathered her in his arms. “No. Of course not.”
“Good.” She sobbed against his chest. “Because I really love you, Anton.” She looked up at him and her eyes were worried, probing his face for something. “Please just know that if you ever want to talk to me about anything, I’ll be there for you.”
“I know. I will.” But he was desperate to get off the subject.