“Who said that?”
Leo looks at me. “I can just tell. You wouldn’t be this nervous otherwise.” Leo took my face in his hands. He kissed me.
My parents came then, so I didn’t have time to tell him he was wrong. They weren’t serious. At least, my dad wasn’t. It’s just that so few people had folded into my family before. That it has been me and them for such a long time. That I was worried about including him this late in the game—when so much had already happened, so much he’d never be able to experience because it was context now.
“Honey!” My dad threw his arms around me. My parents had come without Sylvia, who had her standing card game. Her card game is serious: If you miss two in a row, you’re out for good, and the month before she’d been down with a cold.
“She apologizes,” my mother said, and I wondered if it was strange to Leo to note a grandparent’s absence from a meet-the-parents dinner.
Marcella took in Leo. “It’s really nice to meet you,” she said.
Leo ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, same. You, too.”
Dad ordered a beer, Mom a glass of Sancerre.
“Lauren tells me you’re a photographer,” my mother said. She sipped her wine, two interlocking shawls cascading over her shoulders. That night she had on a mauve linen dress under the outerwear. She looked softer somehow.
“Sort of,” Leo said. “I mean, yes. But I’m a DP.”
My mom looked at my dad. Neither of them had any idea what he meant, and I felt momentarily annoyed that Leo had used the acronym.Just tell them. This isn’t their world.
“Director of photography,” I said.
“Right,” Leo jumped in. “I help a director shoot the film, or television show—whatever it may be. I’m responsible for a shot list—really the whole creative direction of the piece.”
Leo was prideful about his art, sometimes it came off as slightlyarrogant. I didn’t care—hadn’t cared—because I assumed this was how all photographers felt. This was how all artists felt. But sitting there with my parents I felt like I suspected they did—that he was being purposefully obtuse. Leaving us out of an experience we clearly couldn’t relate to.
“How exciting,” my mother said.
“It will be,” Leo said, and I felt his affability creeping back in. “I’m working on building my career, truth be told. I was an assistant director for a long time. And only moved into photography recently. It’s really where I belong, but I have to pay my dues.”
I felt instant relief at his vulnerability. My mother smiled.
“I don’t know if Lauren has told you but I was a teacher,” she said.
Leo leaned his elbows on the table, grateful, I thought, to have the spotlight off him for a moment. “No, she didn’t mention it.”
My mom nodded. “Webster Elementary. I started when Lauren was about sixteen.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
Dave laughed. “What a question!”
Marcella smiled. “Loved it. Taught second grade. It’s a really interesting time. Children are becoming so aware of their environment and each other. There’s a lot happening, and so much of it gets formed in the classroom.”
Leo picked up his beer and took a sip. I could tell he was trying to follow her but wasn’t sure where she was going with this, how it related to what came before.
“I always felt like it was where I belonged, in that classroom,” she said. “I got a late start, but once I got there it was like everything clicked. It saved me, in a way.” She took a small sip of water. “So I think it’s wonderful when people pursue their passions.”
Leo smiled. Ah. “Thank you, Marcella. I appreciate your sharing that.”
One thing about Leo is he means what he says. I felt his genuine warmth pervade the table. I put my hand on his knee and squeezed.
“Why did you end up retiring?” he asked.
Marcella shook her head. “I don’t know—it just got harder. I probably shouldn’t have, if you want to know the truth, but it’s tough these days. Parents want their kids to be guaranteed Harvard admission at eight.”
I remember thinking it was funny she’d critique that because that was how she felt, too, wasn’t it? She wanted me to go to a good college, wanted me to succeed at something. Academics was important to her—more important than it was to my dad.
