“It’s nuts,” Leo said. “You’d think with rising depression rates they’d just want them to be happy.”
Marcella nodded slowly. “I didn’t feel like I could connect with students in the way I was used to. I found myself watching too many of my words. Maybe I stopped trying as hard.”
I remember the years when my mom taught. In many ways teaching was the thing that helped her reconnect to the world, that gave her a path forward after the accident. She’d come home with stories about her classroom—the kids loved her, and rather than feeling jealous I felt proud. I loved that other students saw her, saw the parts of her that made a great instructor—that made her a great mom. Because she was that. No one knew how to impart the rules quite like my mother.
She taught up until I was out of college, at least. Although in that moment at dinner, I remember thinking I didn’t remember when she stopped.
A waiter came by and delivered sheep’s milk cheese withtriangles of warm, doughy pita, and Taverna Tony’s signature spread—half hummus, half cream cheese and olives. Dave beamed proudly.
“Thanks, Ivan.”
We dug in. Leo is not a shy eater—he loves food. On one of our first dates he took me on a taco crawl of the east side of LA. I have a strong stomach, always have, and I liked the way Leo respected my appetite. I didn’t feel like I had to be shy taking down tacos or pulling apart ribs with him. The more I ate, the more he loved it.
I looked at Marcella. I could tell she wasn’t finished with what she had to say. And I felt a pang of sympathy for her—that we were all prioritizing our hunger over what she was trying to share. I was surprised at how I wanted to get back to it, too. I wanted her to be able to sell herself in this capable and gentle light.
“Parents can be total assholes,” Leo said, through a mouthful of pita, somewhat unprompted.
Marcella hates swearing—but then I looked at her face. She had a small, slightly pulled smile on. She was trying not to laugh.
“They really can,” she said.
Leo reached across the table and offered his fist, and Marcella, impossibly, bumped it.
I looked at my dad, who was laughing into his beer.
That was it, they loved him.
Dinner was charcoal-grilled octopus, roasted eggplant puree, tangy grape leaves, lamb souvlaki, and Greek salad.
“My favorite is the moussaka,” my mom said, serving herself more of the layered eggplant, beef, and béchamel. “I never eat anything this rich, except here.”
I made a face. Moussaka is decidedly not my favorite. Leo clocked it.
“More for me and your mom,” he said, taking the serving spoon from Marcella’s hand. She and Leo exchanged a glance. She wasn’t looking at me, she wasn’t even talking to me, but I felt more connected to her than I had in years. In that moment, we were just any other mother and daughter, meeting the new boyfriend.
My father ate the octopus, eggplant, and salad. He steered clear of the lamb. He’s always been cognizant of his cholesterol—he had open-heart surgery thirty years ago to fix two clogged arteries. He had been only thirty-nine, practically unheard of. Dad’s diet changed radically after. He was mostly vegan for a while, then added in some lean meats. My mother joined him at first, but then slid back into her favorites as the years went on—although in solidarity there is still no “real” milk in their fridge. I know it’s been a learning curve for her to cook for him—Sylvia, too. They are used to heavy oils, and a pad of butter for the pot.
“Well, that was excellent,” Leo said when we finished.
He fought my dad on the bill, which I’d asked him to, but it still made me happy anyway. Dave refused.
“Next time we’ll try the spare ribs,” Marcella said.
Leo smiled at her. “You’re on.”
After dinner we said good night to them and drove home along the silver water. The sun had long since set, and the road was wide open—just a few taillights a long way in the distance. The radio was on. I heard Van Morrison hum softly through the speakers.
“They’re really nice,” Leo said, taking my hand. We were in his old Subaru, affectionately named Berta. “Your mom is funny.”
I thought back to whether anyone had ever described Marcella that way. She had loved Stone, but in the way you love the boy you’ve watched grow up—she was invested inhim, I thought. Not necessarily our relationship.
Had I ever seen her smile that much? Banter with someone? Eat two platefuls of cream sauce?
“I’ve never seen her like that,” I said to Leo. “She loved you. It’s important to both of them that they get along with who I’m with. We’re close.”
It was both true and it wasn’t. We were the kind of family whose narrative could only be that of closeness, but were we actually close? My mother didn’t know the contents of my wardrobe. I didn’t call her when I had a rash or a fever to ask her what to do. If the roof leaked, they never found out. I’d spent my teenage years arching away from her, and years after observing her from a distance while we both worried about my dad.
Maybe having a partner was a way to get closer, to come to them as an equal, two for two. There would be someone else to open the door.
