Entering my house is always a tricky proposition.
I never know when she’s going to be home. Also, this is the day after an incident. The day after is always up for grabs. I’m halfway up the staircase and so far no noise is coming from upstairs. I exhale, quietly.
“I’m in the living room.”
Shit.
“Come here.” Her voice sounds like it’s coming from the sofa.
I’m at the top of the stairs now and I can see her. She’s on the sofa, legs off to her right side and slightly tucked under one of the sofa cushions. All the drapes are closed and she only has one table lamp switched on. There is a dish towel draped over the shade, and what’s left of the daylight is streaming in from where the drapes don’t meet. She’s wearing her dark-blue terry-cloth bathrobe with a light-pink nightgown underneath. When she’s in this outfit midday, it’s a sure sign that she’s not feeling well. She must not have gone into work today. The belt of the bathrobe is wrapped around her head. She uses it to help alleviate migraines.
“Sit down, please.” She motions to the chair next to the sofa. Her voice is calm and collected, which is even more scary. I take a seat.
“How was school?”
“Fine.”
“Your uncle Tasos called. He met one of your Christian friends from Bible camp. Greg?”
“Gaige.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about him? Why not give him your number? He has to track you down at your uncle’s?”
“He lives in California.”
“He’s a good Christian boy. Not Greek, but at least a Christian. Right?”
Ugh. The fuckery. On so many levels.
Being a Christian makes up for so much that even if you happen not to be Greek, you’re still in the running to be accepted by the Panos Family.
“The Lord helped him remember that you mentioned your uncle’s restaurant. The boy is here for a tour of the Loomis Bible College in Chicago.”
“Oh. Good.”
Not good.
“You should see him while he’s here. Maybe bring him over for dinner while we still have this house. Has he ever had Greek food?”
So completely not good. “I think he has. He likes it.”
“Who doesn’t like Greek food? You even like it.” Under her breath: “You don’t like anything.”
“I like a lot of things.”
“Nothing your father and I do. This is the kind of people you should be hanging out with. Gaige. This kind of influence.”
She looks at me for a second with her mouth so straight and flat. Then, the corners turn up slightly. She leans in. “You can’t hide.”
I want to get away but I force myself to try and act casual. “A bunch of kids from school are going out tonight. It’s the last week that Bugle’s will be open.”
It’s like she hasn’t heard me. “Your father can pretend or genuinely not know . . .” Her voice is calm.
“What?”
“But I know you have evil in you.”
The palms of my hands are drenched in sweat. “Mom, I’m trying. I don’t . . .”
She leans back and continues to speak calmly and with purpose. “You have to be willing to do the work. It’s heavy lifting and it requires constant attention. You can’t be lazy.”
“No.” Anything to get her to agree to my getting out of here.
“I want you to see Gaige. Show him the you that is good.” She looks toward the kitchen, lifts her hands, and runs them through her hair. “Who is going out tonight?”
She’s still looking away.
“Um, you know. The usual. Jeremy, probably Tess—the girl he likes—and Lonny Cho, Scott, Gabe, their girlfriends . . .”
“Beans too?”
My parents tend to describe people before they even try to remember their names. They find the one defining characteristic and then call them that from that day forward, even after they’ve learned their real name. To this day, my mom refers to Henry as “Beans” because she thinks he’s built like a string bean. (This was prior to his new, more muscular physique, of course). My dad used to call our immigration lawyer “Onions” because he would smell like onions in the summer when he sweated. Jeremy is “Fire Hair.” Red hair. Original.
“Yes. Probably Henry’s sister too.” I’m sure Claire’s not coming. She’s away at college. As far as I know it’s just Henry and me, but it helps to have a solid male-female mix when trying to get permission to do something with secular, non-Christian friends.
“I can help with your hair tomorrow?” I offer with as much warmth in my voice as I can muster. “Friday is enough time to help relax the curl by Sunday.”
She’s looking down at her robe and picking at the little worn fabric balls that accumulate on any old piece of clothing. “Not too late. Invite Gaige. He left his number with your uncle.” I have his number.
Okay. I can handle this compromise—I’ll text and invite him. Also, I’m doing everything in my power to not express any sign of excitement about her allowing me to go out. After an incident like yesterday’s, her behavior tends to go one of two ways.
She feels guilty and will agree to a lot in order to make up for what she did.
Or she is in such a downward spiral that anything, anything, will set off a greater and more intense scene.
Thankfully, number one is where we are right now.
She looks down at the sofa cushion and brushes the fabric with her hand. All the fibers need to be lined up in the same direction. “I wept the whole train ride to Greece from Austria on our way to pick you up.”
I’ve heard this story my whole life. My first four years were spent with my father’s parents, in Greece. My parents both worked and lived in Austria. They went there because jobs were hard to come by in their own country.
“You were so small. Maybe your grandmother didn’t feed you properly, or you wouldn’t eat. I don’t know. Do you remember?”
I nod. I do remember.
“You were scared to come to us. You held on to your grandmother’s apron with one hand and your grandfather’s pant leg with the other and just looked at your father and me as if you didn’t know who we were.” She starts to cry. “Your eyes were big. So wide. I’ll never forgive myself for leaving you.”
“Mom . . .”
“It’s why you’re not close to me. You didn’t want me. You resented me.”
“I don’t—”
“You still do. It’s my fault. We needed the work. I didn’t know what to do with you, and when I finally got you, it was too late. You had already decided to hate me.”
I think about how all I wanted was to feel safe. To be loved.
She’s so small when she’s like this. So vulnerable. So harmless. She looks right at me. “You still have big, beautiful eyes.”