"Right," he replied. "She set him up to attend some farmers' markets and art fairs in the area. She talks about an Etsy shop but my dad doesn't believe in the internet. It's his South American chronic concussion conspiracy." Another grumble. "He has PTSD. He hasn't worked steadily—hasn't done anything steadily—since returning home from the first Gulf War. Whether he's following through on counseling and meds is a different story but I get it. I get that things are tough. My parents don't own a television. Or a microwave."
"You could send them a microwave," I said. "Or a television. Or both."
"And you can ship your parents off on that cruise or pick up some good cheese."
"I do buy the good cheese," I replied, laughing. "But I tear off the sticker, hide the receipt, and lie about the price. I tell them I found a new market near my house and everything is really cheap. My mother is devoted to her local grocery store and wouldn't consider leaving it so they never question me and my affordable cheeses."
"And I lie and tell my mother pharmaceutical reps drop off all the samples and supplies and new equipment I send her each month."
"Lies," I said, laughing. "Sometimes they're a good thing."
"The intentions are good," he said. "I imagine they wouldn't be thrilled if they knew the truth."
"Do you think they do?" I asked. "Perhaps they realize what we're doing and go along with it because they're proud and we're generous, and calling these lies on the carpet injures everyone in the process?"
"Maybe," he said. "It wouldn't kill me to tell my mother I want to restock her supplies. She won't take a microwave. Honestly, she wouldn't use one and my dad hates anything that beeps. But she'd accept a portable sonogram if it showed up on her doorstep."
"But it's the lie that allows her to keep her pride, Cal," I argued. "She doesn't want you to think she's struggling. No one likes to admit that. When my parents drove down to Florida to visit my uncle last year, my sisters and I hired a handyman to fix up a few things around their house. We said it was their Christmas gift. They appreciated it but they also hated it. They didn't want us replacing their kitchen sink. It didn't feel right to them and it doesn't matter if it's tied up in some weird layer of parent-child financial politics. People don't like feeling small."
He squeezed my leg. Lower this time, as if he knew we were nearing my parents' home and couldn't finger me in their neighborhood. "I don't disagree with you, Stella."
"Don't mention anything about cheese or concussions to my dad. If he asks, change the subject. Talk about the Patriots' depth chart. He has strong opinions on the matter."
"Should I expect that? A conversation about cheese?"
I shook my head slowly. "It could happen. Stranger things have."
It was his turn to hesitate. "Okay. Mary in the bathtub and the price of cheese. What else do I need to know?"
"Those are the biggies," I replied. "I mean, my older sister Sophia and her wife Kailey are hardcore into the dogs-as-children thing. My younger sister Serina has been known to throw hands over that but otherwise, no worries. Just don't weigh in on the dog-children topic if you want to get out unscathed."
"Right. The Madonna. Cheese. Dog-children. Got it." He nodded. "What's the long-story-short on your sisters?"
"Sophia is"—I blew out the exaggerated sigh that accompanied my older sister—"an executive life coach which basically means she helps CEOs and other high-ranking folks sort out their shit."
Cal glanced at me, his brows quirking up. "How does one get into that line of work?"
"Well, you start as a professional organizer," I said. "You go to people's houses and deal with their clutter. Then you move on from the clutter in their closets to the clutter in their heads."
"Fascinating," he murmured.
"Truly," I replied with a laugh. "She's been married about five years now. Her wife is a pastry chef and they have two dog-babies. Yorkies named Nemo and Dory. She has a low-key drinking problem in the sense lots of professional women have 'Isn't it cute that I'm drunk all the time?' drinking problems. She's functional, she never drinks before five o'clock on weeknights, and she never, ever gets incoherent or blackout drunk but she definitely needs that cocktail every night. She'll cut the bitch who gets between her and the Grey Goose. Serina and I keep going back and forth on what to do about it. We haven't solved that one yet."
I turned down the street leading to my parents' house, fighting back a quick swell of nerves.
Stella Stella Stella Stella. It's fiiiiiiiine.
"Serina runs a mom life blog. According to her, it started out as a fun thing she did to display photos of her kids. But I know she went to work on building it out and monetizing it. And she's succeeded. I don't know what she earns but I know it's decent. I think it covered their fully loaded, bells-and-whistles trip to Disney last year and it's paid for some really high-end photo equipment. To be honest, I think she started the blog as a way to cope with postpartum anxiety. She doesn't talk about it. She works hard at keeping a happy face regardless of how she's feeling, and I know she's on medication so that helps. Her husband Toby is great. He installs windows and roots for the Mets—"
"What?" Cal cried. "You allow that? You hated me because you thought I had Clemson laces."
"I did not hate you based on the Clemson laces. I just didn't have an interest in talking to you." I laughed. "Believe it or not, my father is the biggest Boston fan in my family."
"Wow," he replied. "Toby must have some balls of steel."
"I can't speak from personal experience but I'm told his balls meet expectations," I said. "They've been married forever. Serina's the youngest but does everything first. Married at nineteen. Pregnant at twenty." I shook my head, laughing. "They have three kids. Georgia, Preston, and Blaine." My parents' house came into view. "Don't worry. You'll do fine."
"Oh yeah?" he asked. "You don't sound too sure. You sound like you're feeding yourself some lies right now. How many have survived the Allesandro family inquisition without falling into the aforementioned death traps?"
