The Way You Make Me Feel

by Maurene Goo

  The interview took place outside, where my mom lounged on a pale pink sofa, the white sand beach and sparkling blue ocean as her backdrop. Her hair fell in waves over her tanned shoulders, and she wore a long white linen dress with thin spaghetti straps, her legs tucked under her casually. She looked like a fancy mermaid.

  With a camerawoman behind her, the interviewer—a young Mexican blogger with a bleached-blond bob named Teresa—started asking Mãe questions.

  “We’re here with influencer and tastemaker Juliana Choi in gorgeous it destination Lotus Hotel in Tulum.” Gotta get that product placement. “Jules, as her fans like to call her, does it all with her four million followers—travels the world, sits in the front row of every major fashion event, and collaborates with designers to add that extra. She’s also a mom to a very chill teenage daughter who’s here with us. Can you even?”

  Luckily, I was sitting in a chair behind the camera woman, so they couldn’t swing the camera over to me or anything. Nonetheless, I still felt uneasy being discussed. My mom winked at me, and I was sure her fans would love that authentic private moment between mother and daughter.

  “So Jules, tell us about your creative journey.”

  I resisted laughing.

  Mãe settled back into the patterned cushions. “Well, since I was a child, I was always drawn to beautiful things. I grew up in Brazil, surrounded by lush tropical landscapes, and that sensibility still informs me.” I couldn’t help but wonder—informs what? Social media people always talked about “creating content.” It seemed like a catchall to legitimize careers built on taking photos of yourself in aspirational settings. But people loved it, so who was I to judge? Also? My mom grew up in São Paulo, a huge city that I wouldn’t exactly describe as “lush.” She continued, “Not to mention the cultural influences—Catholic icons, the people, the food, the rich layers of diversity.”

  Teresa nodded intensely. “Yes, girl. So inspiring.” Huh? She barely said anything! Didn’t “journey” mean talk about actual events? But Teresa moved ahead. “What was your childhood in Brazil like?”

  I knew what it was like. Her parents struggled financially running a small grocery store and were so strict and religious that my mother grew up feeling stifled and alone.

  “Wild and free,” Mãe said with a laugh. Huh? “You couldn’t ask for a more magical childhood. Children played on the streets. I’d be fed by the street vendors and I ran amok. It was just so liberating.”

  It was hard for me to keep a straight face as she kept talking about this magical childhood of hers. My mom had hated her childhood—it was what drew her to my dad, their common ground. I knew my mom was probably lying because the reality was so depressing, and this wasn’t exactly a probing profile by the New Yorker, but still … It was so disingenuous it made me itchy.

  “Speaking of liberation, do you have any plans to ‘settle down’ and work for a designer? You’d be great at branding,” Teresa said.

  A little wrinkle appeared between my mom’s eyebrows. “I adore all the designers I’ve collaborated with. But I’m not sure if I could ever pick a city in the world to live in for that long, you know?” Teresa nodded in firm agreement. “I love … the world. Discovery. I get to meet different people every month or week. I guess if most people are trees—putting down deep roots—I’m like an air plant?”

  “Amaaazing,” Teresa declared, her eyes closing worshipfully. I was trying not to laugh. Leave it to my mom to pick an of-the-moment hipster plant to compare herself to.

  Suddenly Teresa was looking at me. “Let’s get real and talk about being a mother! How did you find time to raise such a great kid and follow your dreams?”

  My skin tingled waiting for her answer. Because for sixteen years I had managed to gloss over, in my own memories, how absent my mom was. It felt like she was there because my dad made sure of it. She never missed a birthday call, gift, or holiday. But she wasn’t actually there.

  “I was really young when I had Clara,” Mãe said. She took a long pause. “Obviously, right?” she said with a little laugh. Teresa laughed. She had a way, my mother.

  “When I moved to LA with her dad, I was so lost,” she said. And there it was. A genuine moment. “I thought that if I was a teen mom, I had to give up on my dreams. But, with Clara’s dad’s support, I was able to strike out on my own.”

  If I was being resentful, I would say that was an understatement. My dad’s support? He raised me.

  But everything about my mom—her uncomplicated ambitions, the superficial friendships, never leaving her comfort zone—it all reminded me of … well, me. And I understood her.

  I just didn’t want to be her anymore.

  As she continued the interview, a rosy revisionist history of our past, I snuck back to my villa and booked a flight home.

  CHAPTER 33

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  I looked up at my mom while I packed a few hours after the interview. “No! You didn’t. I promise. It’s just time for me to go back home. I left a lot of things hanging.”

  She sat down on the edge of my bed and nodded. “I got that feeling. Is it about that boy, Hamlet?”

  I smiled. Hearing his name said by my mom was sweet. I liked her being in the loop. “Yes. But also the KoBra. Pai. Rose. I let people down.” I willed my voice not to waver as I threw my new sandals into the duffel.

  Mãe was quiet as she watched me pack. “I’ll miss you.” And even though my mom could be astonishingly clueless and self-absorbed sometimes, I knew I would also miss her.

  “Me too.”

  “You’ll miss you, too?” she joked.

  I cracked a smile. “Good one.”

  “I know.” She crossed her legs, turning herself into a tidy, folded little mermaid person. “So, why are you in such a rush?” I was catching a red-eye tonight to make it to LA by morning.

  “Because the food truck competition is tomorrow.” I wasn’t sure if I could pull it off—I had e-mailed Rose and she’d responded immediately, saying she’d figure out a way to get the truck and meet me at the competition. I could tell she was still a little mad, but she seemed as invested in this contest as I was.

  “Whoa. Bold move. Adrian was against it, right?”

  Ignoring the nervous flutter against my ribs, I nodded. “Yep. But I still want to go through with it.”

  She squinted at me. “That’s new.”

  “What, this?” My hand drifted up to the little silver hoop in my left ear cartilage, pierced a few months ago.

  “No. This … drive.” She paused and I was self-conscious. I hated that I wanted my mom to think that I was cool. “I like it,” she said. “It suits you.” The second person to say these words.

  I tried to hide my pleasure by making a face, crossing my eyes. “I have so much drive. The best drive. Huge.”

  Mãe cracked up. “Well, good luck, minha filha.” It was both optimistic and ominous.

  After saying my good-byes to the social media squad that I had grown rather fond of, I got into a car headed to the airport. My mom popped inside to give me one last hug. “See you soon, filha. Te amo.”

  “Love you, too, Mãe.” I was usually so sad when we said our good-byes—never knowing when it would be that I’d see her next. And it wasn’t that I wasn’t sad this time. It was just that there was a lot for me to look forward to outside of this good-bye. Real life.

  As the car drove away from the hotel, the sky rumbled and fat raindrops splashed onto the windshield. I tried not to read too much into the timing.

  * * *

  The flight back home wasn’t too bad, even though the grandma next to me farted steadily the entire time. At least it was direct.

  Bright eyed and bushy tailed after two hours of sleep, I swept through customs in record time and ran down the long LAX corridor lined with colorful subway tile.

  I only had a few hours until the food truck competition started. It was going to be nuts since my phone was still broken and I would
have to grab a cab and hope Rose was all set up.

  The international terminal exit had a row of people waiting for their loved ones.

  A very large, very neon yellow poster caught my eye. It said: MY GIRLFRIEND. And the person holding it was flipping it around his head, much to the annoyance of everyone near him.

  My smile hurt my face it was so intense, and I ran toward Hamlet. When I reached him, jostling people and apologizing along the way, he dropped the sign and closed the distance between us in two big steps.

  We were so close that I could see the bit of sunblock left smudged and white on his cheek.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurted out.

  He frowned, and for half a second my heart stopped. Then he leaned over and kissed me. Kissing Hamlet felt like coming home, for real. I stood up on my toes to deepen the kiss, my duffel smashed between us. When we finally broke apart, he smiled down at me, all tenderness. “I forgive you.” Just like that. Hamlet was the least complicated thing in my life.

  “That’s it?”

  He picked up the poster and tapped my butt with it. “Lucky you.”

  Suddenly it occurred to me—“How’d you know I was coming?”

  He turned red. “Well, I might have talked to your mom.”

  “What?”

  He took my bag from me, trying to distract me from what he was about to say. “Well, when you left I started following her on Instagram and, uh, well, she messaged me yesterday to tell me you were coming home. She wanted someone to be here to pick you up.”

  That’s when I noticed Hamlet was wearing a KoBra T-shirt. “What’s that?”

  He grinned. “I’m going to help at the competition today.”

  Something warm bloomed in my chest. “You are?”

  “Yeah. Why do you think I’m here? We have to haul.”

  Minutes later, we were sprinting toward Hamlet’s car in the parking garage. “We still have three hours before the competition!” he yelled, glancing back at me as he ran with my duffel carried easily over his shoulder.

  We threw everything into the car, slammed on our seat belts, and peeled out of the parking lot. I braced myself against the dashboard and laughed. “Dang, James Bond.”

  He immediately slowed down and glanced over at me sheepishly. “Sorry, I just got caught up in the moment.”

  “I’m not complaining!”

  “Well, it’s not safe,” he grumbled, pulling on his sunglasses primly. I shook my head but couldn’t keep the smile off my face.

  We got onto the freeway, starting our long trek to the competition. At the moment, we were on the westernmost side of town, near the beach, and the competition was a good twenty miles away at Griffith Park. I looked at the time nervously. “I hope the traffic gods are on our side today.”

  “Don’t worry, I know all the best ways to avoid traffic,” he said firmly. “The question is, what the heck was your plan? You were going to steal the truck and take it to the competition? Just you and Rose?”

  “Well. Yes.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “What?” I stuck my chin out.

  “It’s just … the worst plan, that’s all.”

  Hamlet drove across three lanes until we landed in the ExpressLane. I looked at him in surprise. “You have a FasTrak?”

  “No.”

  “I’m really into this Jason Bourne side of you.”

  Again, he slowed down. “Don’t get used to it. Is your seat belt on?” he barked.

  “Yes, sir,” I said with a wink, which only flustered him further.

  We flew by some gridlock, but I kept my glee to myself. There’s this LA curse—if you actually express your smugness at passing traffic, you will immediately hit some. It happens every single time.

  “This is going to be the best surprise!” Hamlet exclaimed, slapping his hands on the steering wheel happily. “Rose kind of hates you right now, though. Just FYI.”

  “I’m counting on it.” The thought of being stuck in that stuffy truck bickering with Rose filled me with the most intense relief. I found myself missing the weirdest stuff lately.

  And, like with Hamlet, I knew the first thing I needed to do when I saw her was apologize.

  We were quiet for a few seconds, long enough for the car to be filled with a huge elephant. His love confession and my non-reciprocation. I chewed my lip down to bits trying to decide if this was the right time to bring it up.

  Hamlet’s phone buzzed with a barrage of texts. THANK GOD! I picked it up gratefully. “Rose is freaking out.”

  “Ignore it,” he said, speeding up again.

  “You got it, Bryan Mills.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “You know, Liam Neeson’s character from the Taken movies?”

  He shook his head and turned on the radio. Loud.

  The rest of the drive was quick—there was no traffic, and we found a parking spot in a secret lot that Hamlet knew about. I found this competence very attractive.

  Taking a few trails off the main path shaded by ancient live oak trees, I could hear and smell the trucks before we arrived. They were parked in a giant lot bordered by the gnarled old trees and gently sloping hills of brush. As we got closer, my nerves finally caught up with me and I was filled with trepidation.

  When I saw the KoBra, I took a deep breath. Here we go.

  CHAPTER 34

  Rose stared at me, frowning.

  For normal friends, it would have been a moment ripe for a hug. But I was me and she was Rose. So we stood there awkwardly without speaking. I punched her arm. “Hi.”

  She punched my arm back. Hard. “Hi.”

  “Sorry for leaving you,” I said, the words whooshing out of me. And I was surprised by how easy and natural it was. Words that usually had to be yanked out of my insides with a crowbar.

  Her delicate chin quivered. I was mortified. Seeing Rose cry would be like breaking the seventh seal to bring on the apocalypse or something.

  “We can talk about that later,” she said, her voice steady. Before I could answer, I spotted my dad in the doorway of the truck. What! What was he doing here? The happiness that flooded me in that moment almost knocked me off my feet. Never had I been happier to see that lucky Dodgers cap.

  I looked over at Rose and she smiled. “Surprise!”

  “Adrian?” Hamlet exclaimed from behind me.

  But my dad kept it cool. He leaned against the truck’s doorframe and crossed his arms—the birthday tattoo visible on his forearm. “Well, well, well.”

  Looking at my dad in his truck—a culmination of decades of blood, sweat, and tears—the e-mails I’d read yesterday flashed through my mind, paired with the strongest memories of my childhood.

  The day my mom left, the feeling of her hair pressed against my face and the wetness of her tears immediately forgotten when my dad scooped me up in his arms and took me down to this very park we were standing in. Putting me on the little train that traversed through creeks, horse stables, and trees. The worst day turned into a magical one.

  My first day of kindergarten, the first time I’d been truly apart from my dad and left with strangers. He let me wear his old Bone Thugs-N-Harmony T-shirt, tied into a knot at the waist, and the animal charm bracelet my mom had mailed me for good luck. When I wouldn’t stop crying, he stayed parked outside the school, within view of the window all day—missing his first day at a new job and getting fired.

  Being picked up from a sleepover in fifth grade when all the girls circled around me and asked me why my dad was so young and was he really my brother and where were my real parents. My dad pounded on the front door of Lily Callihan-Wang’s house so hard that the entire family woke up. He bought me a McDonald’s hot fudge sundae on the midnight drive home and we sang along to TLC’s “No Scrubs.”

  My dad’s expression as he sat in the doctor’s office with me as I got a shot for a bacterial infection, wailing. Not being able to tell if it was his palm that was sweaty or mine as he grasped my hand, so tight.
<
br />   My dad’s expression, again, as he read the instructions on the back of a tampon box out loud to me as I lay curled up in fetal position on my bed, torn between laughter and tears.

  And his expression, now. I realized right then—how disappointed you could be when you were all in with someone. When you cared so deeply. How your heart could break, so precisely and quickly.

  But I’d always known that. Ever since my mom left my dad, left us. And everything since then had been an attempt to keep myself so far away from all that. Anything real, anything difficult to hold on to.

  As I stood there surrounded by three people who had the ability to do just that—crack my chest open to all the disappointment and difficulty and grief—I knew I still wanted it. The risk of the bad stuff was so worth the good stuff. People who would be there for you even when you messed up and behaved like a little jerk? They were the good stuff.

  My fear that my dad would move on without me, with Kody or whoever else, seemed so absurd then.

  It was hard to keep the emotion out of my voice. “I’m back.”

  “I see,” Pai said, cool and distant.

  I took a deep breath. “And I’m the worst person. Do you still want me as your daughter?” The words came out choked, garbled.

  His posture relaxed and he smiled, somehow sad and happy at the same time. “Sure, Shorty.” He stepped down from the truck and when he reached me, I hugged him fiercely.

  “I’m sorry,” I said into his shirt, the tears dropping rapidly—they’d been at the ready since the second I saw him. I heard Rose and Hamlet tactfully walk away from us.

  His chin rested on the top of my head, and he wrapped his arms around me, too. “I know.”

  “I’ll never do anything like that again.”

  “I canceled my credit card, for one thing.”

  I laughed a little, snot running down my face. “I overreacted. I was just disappointed and it was hard and Mãe was easy.”

  He pulled back and rubbed the snot off my face with the dish towel from his back pocket. “Yeah, she has a way of making everything seem simple.”