I nod, refusing to add words to my lie, but for now, respecting Natalie’s request that our parents remain out of it. I could easily relay anything to either one of them. As furious as they would be about how she cornered me, they wouldn’t interfere if I asked them to stay out of it, but I allow the white lie anyway.
Mom opens a box of pasta and dumps it into boiling water as Natalie’s confession about our parents’ dating comes to mind. Her back-pedaling today and request to forget she mentioned it has me curious.
“Hey, Mom? Did you ever seriously date anyone other than Dad?”
She turns to me, her brows furrowing. “What?”
“You heard me. Did you?”
“Yeah, I did. We didn’t get back together and marry until I was on the downside of my twenties, so of course I did,” she replies easily enough, her eyes going a little distant before focusing back on me. “Why?”
“Just curious…”
She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Oh, shit.”
She does the sign of the cross, and I snort. “Mom, you’re not religious.”
“I am religious, more so now if you met a girl. Did you meet a girl? Please lie if it’s serious, especially since you’re about to hit stardust.” She sighs dramatically, placing her palms on the island between us as if to draw strength. “Look, no matter which way JR,” she dips her chin to insinuate I call my junk JR, “is directing you right now, walk away from the light.”
When I give no reply to the utter ridiculousness of her statement, she mutters a curse before pulling the fridge open to check the egg carton for a count. Realizing what she’s up to, I quickly speak up.
“Mom, chill. No open eggs under my bed, or white sage, or whatever superstitious voodoo shit you’re conjuring up in that crazy brain. You don’t even really believe it.”
“Eggs are for bad dreams anyway. I think I’m supposed to clean your bedroom door and then bury the rag or something. I’ll check with your grandmother.” Mom is half Latina and practices the superstitious rituals her aunts in Mexico instilled in her—which Dad finds hilarious. I did too, until middle school when she chaperoned a field trip near Cedar Lake for a picnic. The second I set foot in the river, she placed her hand on my head and screamed my name three times, explaining if she hadn’t, the river spirits would take me away. The kids around us immediately fled the water, some crying. It embarrassed the shit out of me, and I still haven’t forgiven her. Even as I inwardly roll my eyes at her rituals, she pinches and disperses oregano into the bubbling saucepan in a cross formation.
“Do you really believe in that shit?”
“You know I do. Your father and I have had some really insane crap happen over the years, mostly in a good way. I believe in fate, karma, and things that work together for the greater good. If a little practiced superstition helps negate the bad, what’s the harm?”
“Well, don’t call Grandma or bust out the Hocus Pocus handbook just yet. I’m not getting married.”
“Ever?” She deflates. “Look, I know your generation doesn’t really believe in marriage anymore, but there are perks.”
“Not saying never.”
“Oh, thank God. I want grandkids.”
“Those I can deliver in spades,” I wink. “Married or not.”
She points her weapon of choice—a wooden spoon she used to threaten me with—at me, “That’s not even remotely fucking funny.”
“I disagree,” Dad says, walking in half-asleep in nothing but sweats. “What in the hell are you up to, Grenade?” He circles her with his arms and presses a kiss to her temple. “Or should I say burning?”
“Sorry, did I wake you with the music?”
“No, you woke me up by not being in bed,” he eyes the pots behind her. “But it seems I woke to a living nightmare.”
“You both want on my shit list today?” Mom snaps, wriggling free of him and looking between us. “Seriously? What have I ever done but love and adore the two of you?”
“I can think of a few hundred headaches,” he chides. Her eyes narrow, and he lifts his palms in surrender. “Easy, baby,” Dad says, pressing a quick kiss to her temple before grabbing a water from the fridge and eyeing the clock on the stove. “Why are you attempting to cook for the first time in a decade at midnight?”
“I’m hungry, and I cook,” she defends weakly.
Dad and I collectively bite our lips.
“I do cook. Sometimes. Occasionally. Okay, never,” she turns back to the sauce and stirs. “I’m just a little restless,” she adds with a shrug.
Dad’s lips quirk as he studies Mom carefully. I see it the second he pegs the reason for her unease.
“Babe, we talked about this. You have to be patient.”
He runs a reassuring hand down her back, her shoulders slumping forward as she softly dips her chin in response. Dad looks over at me, and I frown, unsure of what’s happening. “What?”
He gives me the pointed look that reads, ‘see what you’re doing to her?’ just as it dawns on me.
“Mom—” I start as she speaks up.
“It’s fine,” she lifts her tone in an attempt to try and hide her disappointment, her back to me to keep me from seeing it. “I understand. I didn’t let anyone read my articles early on.” She glances back at me, hurt clearly visible though she’s trying her best to hide it.
“It’s not that I don’t want you to hear it—”
“I’m a critic.”
“No, Mom, you’re The critic,” I add, and the one that matters most to me. But I don’t voice that, opting for a different part of the truth.
“I don’t want you to feel torn between your bias for me and the truth of how you really feel about it.”
“So, you want to release it to the rest of the world first?”
I give the firm dip of my chin as she studies me. “I know that hurts you, but I promise all I’m trying to do is protect us both.”
She’s never going to write about my music. We agreed on that when I decided to entertain releasing it. Even though she wrote about the Sergeants early on, that was a different lifetime ago before they became synonymous with the greats like The Rolling Stones, U2, and other classic rock bands that have a place in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. The Dead Sergeants were inducted a year and a half ago, and it was a surreal experience seeing my father and his band honored and revered that way, though they’ve been bestowed so much already.
Natalie is right, I have a legacy to live up to, and I fucking hate that aspect of it. When I sat down to record years ago, I didn’t take that into account. I just wanted to make music. So I did, with no real intent to release it. Now that I’m about to expose myself in this way, all of the bullshit I kept out of it is coming into play. My mind drifts again to the beauty who rode in my truck, seeming as confused as I was today. The longer we rode together in comfortable silence, the longer I drove, nowhere near as anxious to leave her as I was back at the bar.
Though she cornered me in the worst imaginable fucking way, nothing about her confession at the garden seemed contrived. She was far too vulnerable to have made any of that up. Though I swore to myself I would never give a single interview—no matter how well my music did—I find myself wanting to trust her with the insight as to why I won’t.
“Mom, if there’s anyone in the world I want to hear it, it’s you.”
“I understand, I do. I’ll deal,” Mom assures me as the water boils over and the tell-tale fizzling sound goes off behind her. Oblivious and intent on our conversation, she ignores it. Dad snaps into motion, turning off the heat fueling both burners before smoothly sliding the saucepan to safety, his chuckle rumbling through the kitchen.
“Babe, you’re not going to turn into Gordon Ramsay tonight. Let’s spare your pride.”
She keeps her gaze fixed on me. “No matter what, I’m proud of you. I know how unbelievably talented you are, no matter what, okay?”
I can’t help my grin. “Thanks, Mommy.”
Dad gives me his signature scowl, but Mom smiles, her watery eyes gleaming with pride. “That natural shift to smartass is all me,” she declares proudly to Dad.
“Let’s not exaggerate by taking all the credit,” Dad quips back, opening a drawer full of take-out menus and tossing them on the counter. “I’m sure something’s still open.”