We head out, the pup prancing proudly in between us, and I hope that Lynne takes his training seriously, because if she doesn’t, she’ll be living with the enemy for the next twelve to fifteen years.
• • •
Thank you, lovey, this is perfect,” Aunt Claire says, taking a sip of the Boulevardier I have poured her.
My mom comes into the living room with a tray of cheese and crackers. “Claire, put something in your stomach before you end up schickered,” she says. Claire is famous for drinking without eating and getting loopy.
Claire snags a chunk of cheddar and two crackers, making a little sandwich. I pop a square of Swiss into my mouth as my mom settles into the couch next to Claire and reaches for an olive. I take a sip of my own Boulevardier; my mom is sticking to wine.
“So, are we doing Jewish Christmas this year?” Aunt Claire asks. The three of us usually go to a movie double feature and then out for Chinese food on Christmas Day.
“Can we do Jewish Christmas Eve instead? I’m supposed to help Teresa with her Christmas Day celebration, and I’m dropping off some dishes for Glenn to bring to his brother’s big potluck.”
“Of course! That is so sweet of you to give Teresa a hand, and that will be fun to have a big traditional Italian Christmas Day,” my mom says. “Tell Glenn we send our love, and we’re looking forward to seeing him next week.” Mom and Claire are taking Glenn to a bowling event for one of their charities.
“Will do. I’m sure Teresa would love for the two of you to join, if you want.”
“Thank you, but no. The two of us will find something fun to binge on Netflix,” Claire says, answering deftly for both of them. My mom and dad and I used to do Christmas Eve and Day with Claire and Buddy, always something quiet and fun and intimate. I know both of them miss it, and even after all this time I think the idea of doing anything big or overly celebratory would feel too weird.
“Well, your choice. If you change your mind, lemme know.”
“We will, thank you. It’s lovely that you girls have reconnected. How special for you all. Will Lynne be at Teresa’s?”
“Nope, she’ll be with her family at her aunt’s house. If she can leave her new dog!” I fill them in on Lynne’s new family member and our afternoon activities. They think it is hilarious. I know I’m just stalling, I need to tell them about Shawn and I’m not really sure how to handle it. Aunt Claire tells a story about when Buddy brought home their bloodhounds, Bob and Bandit, and the neighbors threatened to call the cops if they didn’t stop howling. My mom says that they were like the Bumpuses from A Christmas Story, and Claire sticks her tongue out. We never had dogs growing up because my dad was allergic, but now my mom loves when I go on vacation and Simca comes to stay with her. Spoils her rotten.
I take a deep breath and decide that casual is the way to go on the Shawn thing. If I talk about it like it is no big deal, maybe they will treat it like it is no big deal. “So, New Year’s Eve, I’m bringing a date. Friend of Lawrence’s that I’ve been seeing a bit.”
Aunt Claire stops her drink halfway to her mouth, and my mom drops a cracker into her lap.
“Seeing romantically?” Claire asks.
“Yes. We met at the Halloween party and have been spending some time together.”
“So a couple of months, then. Is it serious?” my mom asks, the cracker still resting on her left thigh.
“It’s very nice, and we are enjoying each other’s company. I don’t know how you define serious, but we like each other and are seeing where it goes.” This seems nonchalant enough. Except my mother’s eyes fill with tears.
“Oh, honey . . . that is so great.” She wipes her eyes, and Claire reaches over and squeezes her hand.
“Yes, it is, doll face, good for you. Tell us all about him.”
“Hey, it’s not a big deal, don’t get all emotional. I’m just dating him.” Oy.
“It’s a very big deal,” my mom says. “I thought that man in France ruined you forever. It makes me very happy that you are dating again.”
This stops me cold. I never told my mom about Bernard, not once. He was a lot older . . . the whole ex-wife nightmare . . . he was my boss. I was pretty sure she and my dad wouldn’t have approved, so I never mentioned him. “What do you mean the man in France?”
“Good Lord, Eloise, do you think we are all dumb? That we all just fell off the turnip truck? When you got home it was clear you had left someone behind, whatever brave face you put on it, and it was even more clear that whoever he was, he had broken your heart into a million pieces. And any suspicions have been amply confirmed by your patent refusal to have anything remotely resembling a romantic life ever since,” Claire says pointedly.
“We have so hoped that you would get over him, get back out there. You deserve so much love in your life, sweetheart,” my mom says through her tears.
“But you never said anything!” I feel like an idiot: of course they would have figured it out. My family is a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.
“Wasn’t for us to pry. It’s your life. You live it the way you want. But it’s about time you were at least getting laid,” Aunt Claire says, handing my mother a napkin and retrieving the cracker from her lap.
This makes me blush. “Well, I’m glad to oblige.”
“Tell us the important stuff,” my mom says, finishing her glass of wine, then blowing her nose loudly.
“His name is Shawn and he’s an orthopedic surgeon specializing in sports injuries. He’s from Chicago originally, divorced, no kids, lives in the Gold Coast.” I pause. “He’s very smart and kind and funny, he’s forty-four, former pro football player, good-looking, and he’s African American.”
“Sounds lovely all the way around, dear heart. Is he tall?” Claire asks.
“Six foot five,” I say.
“Whew. That is tall. The two of you must look stunning together!” my mom says. I love that neither of them are commenting on the race thing; not that I was really worried, but you never know.
“Do you have a picture?” Claire asks.
I pull out my phone and pull up the photo of him on his practice’s website, and show them.
Claire snags the phone first. “Hot damn, girl, when you get back in the game you do not mess about. This man is gorgeous!” She whistles softly.
“Claire! Stop that. Gimme,” my mom says and takes the phone. “Well, never mind. Your aunt is right, this man is delicious.”
“Ewww. That is not appropriate, Mom!”
“Well, I’m just saying,” my mom says, handing me back the phone.
“I’m glad you approve. Anyway, you will meet him New Year’s Eve, and I’m counting on you both to behave yourselves.”
“Oh we will, don’t you worry,” Mom says.
“Now, tell us everything from the moment you met and all the dates you have been on since. Don’t leave anything out!” Claire says, snuggling back into the couch like a kid getting ready for storytime.
“Well, leave the naked bits out. I’m still your mother,” Mom says, eyes twinkling.
I sigh. “Okay, well, when we first met at the party, I thought he was gay . . .” If they have been sad and worried about me all this time, and hurt that I never shared my secret Bernard pain with them all these years, then the least I can do is tell them the nonnaked details of the new man in my life. And as the story unfolds I realize two really important things. One, not only should I have been more forthcoming all this time, but I should be more forthcoming in general. My self-protective, secretive nature might suit my natural inclination to not have to listen to outside opinions, but it isn’t fair to the people I love most.
And two? For all my protestations that my relationship with Shawn isn’t serious, it is. It is very serious, at least to me, and that scares me more than a little bit. Because I can feel in the way I am describing him
to Mom and Claire—the way I am presenting all the funniest things he has said, the most romantic gestures, the kindest actions—that I am really falling for him.
I want them to be predisposed to love him.
Because I love him.
Damn. That complicates everything.
But as I unfold the tale, I look at their rapt faces and at least I know one thing. If it all ends in tragedy, at least this time I’ll have them to lean on. I promise myself that I will, if I need to, which is as big a step for me as falling in love.
• • •
When I get home, after the full tale has been told, and the three of us have decimated a pizza, the story being longer and more hungry-making than anticipated, I call Shawn.
“Hello, you, did you have fun with your mom and aunt?”
“I did have a lovely evening. They are both very much looking forward to meeting you on New Year’s.”
He pauses. “You told them about me?”
“I did.”
“And they didn’t disapprove?”
“Of what?”
“Of you having a black boyfriend.” I can hear in his voice that this is actually something he was worried about.
“Do I?”
“Do you what?”
“Have a boyfriend.” He said the word so casually, but it made my heart jump.
“Well, goodness, woman, I’ve been operating under that assumption. Do I have a girlfriend?” he says with a wicked tone.
“You do, of course you do,” I say, the world’s widest grin on my face.
“Good. Tell all your other boyfriends that they are off duty, will you?”
“I’ll send out a mailing tomorrow, if you’ll do the same with all your side-pieces.”
“That’s a pact.”
I can’t believe we’ve just had the exclusivity conversation in such a joking way; it is not what I expected at all, and yet, it is completely in line with how easy and free we are together. “And so you know, they don’t care in the least that you’re black, by the way. I hope nothing I ever said would have given you the impression it would have been a problem.”
“No, nothing like that. I just noticed that you don’t talk much about your family or friends, and I got the sense that you were playing your cards close to the vest on our dating, so I wondered what that was about.”
Well, if I have a boyfriend and want him to stay that way, then my pact with myself earlier tonight about honesty and vulnerability needs to extend to him, especially to him. “Yeah, you know I told you about Bernard?”
“Yes, the French ex-boyfriend.”
“Well, it was a truly devastating and horrible breakup, and in the aftermath I just closed myself off to dating and romance. I haven’t dated in years, like, not at all, so when we met and it was so lovely and natural and fun, it was hard for me to trust it, and I kind of wanted to just keep it for myself for a little bit. But I’m really excited for you to meet my family, and they are really excited to meet you.”
“Well, I’m very honored to be the man that you waited for. And I can’t wait to meet your family, and to have you meet mine. Of course, you’ll have to wait for Easter when my snowbirding parents get back.”
The idea that he is presuming that we will still be together at Easter makes my heart skip a beat. “Sounds like a plan. Be forewarned, Aunt Claire is going to flirt with you mercilessly, and probably inappropriately once the champagne starts flowing.”
“Is that so?”
“I showed them your picture. They both went gaga.”
“I am a fine brother,” he says in an extra-deep voice.
I laugh. “Yes, yes, you are.”
“Hey, girlfriend?” Putting emphasis on the word in the most wonderful way.
“Yes, boyfriend?” I think that may be the best word in the English language.
“Do you have an early morning tomorrow?”
“No more than usual. You?”
“No more than usual. I was thinking that perhaps I should come over, make sure you and the dog are safe on your walk?”
“I think that would be a very good idea.”
“See you in fifteen.”
“Yes, you will.”
• • •
I have a boyfriend. And my mom knows about him. Holy shit.
Fourteen
Chicago is bustling. Nothing like December twenty-third. It is always crazy insane in this city. Last-minute gifts, last-minute trips, last-minute parties and gatherings. Usually I’m hunkered down, cozy at home, relaxing, fully stocked with food and drink and not thinking a thing about the season, except what to binge on, both food-wise and entertainment-wise. Since the Farbers are always traveling this time of year and I don’t always go with them, we have an annual holiday dinner celebration together, usually around the second week of December, where they all cook dinner for me and we exchange our gifts. It is very sweet, and I look forward to picking out special things for the kids, and receiving their expressions of love, usually hilarious.
This year Robbie gave me a bottle of Jean Naté perfume, which I did not know they even made anymore, but which smells exactly like my childhood, since I gave it to my mom when I was about seven. Darcy made me a mix CD of her School of Rock band playing some of my favorite hits from the ’90s, which was super sweet. Ian gave me a bottle of birch syrup, a rare sweet elixir that is similar to maple syrup but more complex and interesting. And Geneva made me a calendar, with every month a different picture that she drew. Of herself. Shelby and Brad gave me my usual generous holiday bonus, and a pack of ten massages at Urban Oasis, since I confessed to Shelby that my return to a more athletic lifestyle has been okay, but that the aches and pains of almost-forty are very different and harder to shake off than the ones I remember from my teens.
I gave Robbie a wallet, to show off his new driver’s license. I enlisted Marcy’s help on a fun and funky shirt and some cool tights for Darcy. I gave Ian his own professional knife roll, with a couple of new knives. And Geneva got the full set of Eloise books. It seems appropriate to introduce her to my literary namesake, although I’m a bit worried that she might find them a little too inspiring. For Shelby and Brad, a really special old bottle of Armagnac, one of the last bottles that I brought back from my time in France. Something for them to dole out in little nightcaps when the kids are all in bed. We ate a great dinner and watched some of the old Christmas specials and had a wonderful celebration before they left for Miami.
So usually, on the twenty-third of December, I’d be anywhere but out. Tomorrow night I’ll do movies and Chinese with Mom and Aunt Claire, and Sunday will be Christmaspalooza at Teresa’s. But today I am running around like the proverbial chicken because tonight is Shawn’s last night in town before he leaves to see his folks, and we are spending it together. He wants to cook for me. Which is both wonderful and nerve-wracking. I am freaked out about finding a present for him. On the one hand, what if he isn’t bringing me a present? After all, we’ve only been together, like, two months, so I certainly wouldn’t expect one. But we are officially boyfriend and girlfriend, so that seems like gift exchange wouldn’t be unexpected either. And then there is the level of gift . . . what if I get him something nicer than he gets me? Or much less nice? I haven’t had to think about this sort of thing in so long, and I was never terribly good at it to begin with. It’s a family trait. We’re historically sort of terrible gift givers. The kind of gift givers where husbands give wives vacuum cleaners for their birthdays, and wives give husbands tickets to avant-garde Bulgarian dance productions for anniversaries. Kids who get socks and underwear at Hanukkah do not grow up to be awesome present pickers. Trust me, when a Kahn or a Rosen gives you cash or a gift card, that is actually showing wonderful thoughtfulness and not indifference.
I’ve been in and out of every store in the Water Tower on Michigan Avenue. Everything see
ms either too generic, too expensive, or not expensive enough. My hands might know the contours of Shawn’s body, but not enough for me to feel confident about guessing his clothing sizes. Jewelry is too much, a scarf too little. Cologne too Father’s Day, and besides, I love what he smells like already and wouldn’t want to change it.
Exasperated, I pick up the phone.
“Darling!”
“Lawrence, I need help.”
“I’m here for you, you know that. What do you need? Bail money? Rent boy? Kidney? Name it.”
“I have to get a Christmas present for Shawn.”
“Ha! Delightful, so delightful. If he were on my team, I’d fight a duel with you over him.”
“Yeah, well, we’re in a tricky spot. He’s coming over tonight, and I’m pretty sure he is bringing me a gift, and I want to have one for him. But we haven’t been together long enough for me to have a good sense of what he might want or what might be appropriate.”
“Breathe, child, breathe, this is not complicated. The key is to get something sweet and adorable, something that would remind him of you in a playful way. That way it is truly the intent of the gift and not the extravagance that is the thing. I once had a lover for a brief time, and he would come over and I, being the consummate host, would ask if I could get him anything, and he would invariably say ‘A pony?’ So for his birthday, which came very early on in our romance, I bought him a small stuffed pony. It was only fifteen or twenty bucks, but he said it was the best gift I could have gotten him.”
“That’s a great idea, something cute and funny, instead of trying to go all elegant and meaningful. Thanks, Lawrence, you’re the best!”
“Merry Christmas, sweet girl. I look forward to seeing you both to ring in the New Year.”
I get out my phone and type in a query. It gives me exactly what I need, and I head for my car to go get it.
• • •
The kiss hits me right in the heart, and other parts southerly. “Hello, you,” Shawn says when we come up for air.
“Hello back. Can I help with those?” I reach for one of the grocery bags that he is carrying.
How to Change a Life Page 18