I stand at the kitchen counter, rushing to sort the mail with one hand, while I pour my afternoon coffee with the other. I will respond to the fundraising packet from Loyola Law School after Michael’s graduation tomorrow. The symphony subscriber’s magazine can go on the stack of reading material next to the couch. The envelope with the quarterly payments for the family of Rashid Siddique will have to go to the bank. I resent the timing, the necessary trip to the safe deposit box, the inevitable bad dreams when I have so much to do to prepare for Michael’s law school graduation party.
I place the money in my purse, next to a printout of directions to the hospital where my father is dying. My mother discouraged Ted and me from coming earlier this week. As Father had already outlived the doctor’s expectations given the cancer, my mother expected he would hold on for news of his grandson’s graduation.
“Mom! Open up,” Andrew bangs on the door. I open it to see him struggling under several restaurant catering trays. I clear a space on the table, where he sets them with a groan. “Are we really going to need all this food? Who’s coming?” He takes off his UC San Diego baseball cap and combs back his sweaty dark hair.
“Hello,” I say, demanding a proper greeting.
“Hi, Mom,” he says dutifully. “So who’s coming?
“I’ve invited our usual people, Ted and his family, Oscar, Ed. Mostly, Michael invited a lot of new friends from law school, and some of the people he’ll be working with at the ACLU.”
Andrew rolls his eyes as he opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of juice. “So a whole room full of lawyers.”
“Is Hema coming?” I ask.
He sets the bottle down. “Why do you always have to use that tone when you talk about my girlfriend?”
“What tone?” I turn to open cupboards so I don’t have to mask my discomfort from him.
“You know, the tone that tells me how much you dislike her. Is it because she’s Egyptian? Muslim? You’re prejudice against Arabs, aren’t you?” He moves closer, so when I turn around he stands in front of me, challenging me.
“It’s not Arabs,” I say, feeling my stomach tighten. “Hema’s a beautiful girl, I’m glad she doesn’t wear a headscarf, so you can see how beautiful she is.”
“But?”
I step around him, pull paper plates and napkins from a grocery bag on the floor. “It’s just more complicated to be with someone from a different culture. It can cause you a lot of problems.”
“What the fuck, Mom…”
I spin on my heel to face him, “Don’t you dare swear at me.”
“Sorry,” he says too quickly, “but really. I mean you married a Greek guy,” he emphasizes the words sarcastically.
This is the first time Andrew has mentioned my husband, his father to me, taking a sideways strike at our family taboo.
“And this Johannes guy you try to keep away from us, what is he? Dutch? Danish? Isn’t that another culture?”
“Johannes came to this country as a child.” I stumble, reach for the counter to support myself. “That has nothing to do with this. Is Hema coming or not?”
“No,” he says defiantly, “I didn’t want her to have to drive over here to take this kind of crap from you.”
I sigh. “Can you just help me get ready for this party? I have enough on my mind without you…” I let the sentence hang, unfinished. I look around to assess my preparations. “Can you go and get a couple bags of ice?”
“Like it isn’t already chilly enough around here.” He steps out and slams the door behind him. I wonder where the sweet child who used to sit on my lap has gone.