Hemingway seems to have many more lampposts he needs to sniff today, while all I want to do is walk fast from Bookends to my parents’ house to expel some nervous energy. Why did I have to say that about the U-Haul? Why did my mother have to invite Zoe to lunch in the first place? I’m aware that I’m mostly nervous about telling mom and dad about Zoe and me. Not about giving them the actual information, but what it implies about us—about our relationship, if you can even already call it that. This is all happening way too fast for me and my slow-processing brain.
Then Zoe threw in the comment about sex—that we have not slept together yet—and now my brain, while it’s still processing all of that, is about ready to combust. Because telling my parents and taking things a step further with Zoe are both an act of vulnerability. And in the end, showing vulnerability is my biggest weakness. The mental hurdles I need to overcome to put myself in a position of vulnerability are almost impossible to take—and there are many.
“Come on, Hem,” I half-shout, taking my frustration out on my poor dog. To make it up to him, I give him a thorough scratch once he catches up with me.
Too soon for my liking, I reach the house where I grew up—it really is a theme these days. I could do with another fast walk around the block, but Hemingway sprints onto the driveway, announcing our presence.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask Mom, once I’m inside.
“Workshop,” Mom says, knowing I don’t need any further explanation. “I think he really is turning an old door into a chair this time.”
“He probably is.”
“Last night was fun, wasn’t it?” Mom says.
“Yeah.”
“Pity there weren’t more new people to welcome, but Zoe was more than enough, wouldn’t you agree?”
Great. She’s fishing already. I wonder if I should get my dad so I can tell him in person. He won’t know what to say, anyway. Still, it feels important to tell them both at the same time. It’s not because my mother is much more outgoing and in the know that she has automatically earned the privilege to be told everything first.
“I’m just going to say hi to Dad.”
“Do you want to stay for lunch?” Mom asks as I head into the corridor that leads to the garage slash workshop.
“Yes, please.” Any meal I don’t have to prepare for myself is a win. This reminds me of the meal Zoe never cooked for me.
Dad is hunched over a bench in the workshop. He’s wearing a dust mask, as though he’s performing surgery on a piece of wood, and a pair of plastic protective glasses.
“Dad. Hi.”
He pulls down the mask, takes off the goggles and his eyes light up.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he says. Neither one of us is a naturally tactile greeter and we’ve learned long ago that a hug hello or goodbye is not required in our relationship.
“Can you come into the kitchen, please? I need to talk to you and Mom.”
Behind me, from the doorway, Hemingway gives a pitiful yelp. We taught him from the start that the workshop is not a safe place for him to freely wander.
“Sure. I’ll be there in a second.” As soon as he’s clocked Hemingway, my dad starts putting away his tools.
“What are you making?”
“A birdhouse,” he says.
I swallow the words ‘another one’. Both mine and Jamie’s back yards are full of these things already. They’re my father’s favorite object to make.
“Why don’t you let Anna paint them and I’ll sell them,” Jamie once offered.
Both Dad and I had many arguments against that plan, because even though we really like to create things, everything changes once you start producing them for money. It would take away an essential part of the joy we feel when engaged in our arts and crafts.
“I could do with another one,” I joke, and go back inside to wait for Dad. Hemingway remains seated in the doorway.
Mom looks at me with a very practiced look of patience on her face. But I have to give her some credit, because being my mother hasn’t always been a walk in the park—I suppose it still isn’t. Dad just sits there, waiting. With him, it’s not a matter of patience, I know. He’s just giving me the time I need to gather my thoughts, which I should have done on the way over, but I was too busy obsessing over my conversation with Zoe.
“Zoe and I are dating,” I blurt out, quickly, as though I’m telling them I’ve contracted an embarrassing infection or something.
“Oh, Anna.” Mom clasps her hands together.
“Who’s Zoe?” Dad asks, and I burst out laughing.
Mom shakes her head, but she does a good job of hiding any disdain she might feel.
“She’s the new owner of Bookends, Sam,” Mom says. “I told you about her.”
“You tell me about so many people. I can’t keep up.”
From this exchange, I can only conclude that my mother hasn’t told my father anything about Zoe in relation to me, because I know he would remember that. I secretly applaud her for that.
“Good for you, darling,” Dad says, then turns to Mom. “Do we like Zoe?”
“We do. Very much,” Mom says.
“Good.” Dad nods. “I’m happy for you then.”
“She’s the one I invited to Sunday lunch. Zoe and her daughter, Brooklyn,” Mom says.
“You invited strangers to Sunday lunch? Again?” Dad says.
“They’re not strangers. Anna’s dating Zoe,” Mom tries to defend herself.
“But you didn’t know that, because Anna only just told us.”
“Don’t be so difficult, Sam. I’ve met Zoe quite a few times and we hit it off last night at Lenny’s. And, for your information, Brooklyn’s dating your grandson.”
“That’s right, I helped Jaden make a Valentine’s Day present for his girlfriend, actually.” Dad scratches the stubble on his chin. “Does this mean I need to dress up for Sunday lunch?”
“You can dress however you like,” Mom says, then she looks at me. “I had an inkling of this, you know, Anna,” she says. “I couldn’t be sure, but I was beginning to have my suspicions.”
I just nod. I don’t feel like challenging her on this, even though I’m pretty sure she had much more than an inkling.
“I’m happy for you too,” Mom says.
“The reason I’m telling you today is because I don’t want any fuss made over this tomorrow at lunch. We’ve only just started seeing each other and we don’t need any added pressure from my family.”
“Of course not, dear,” Mom says. “But I’m glad you told us.”
I find my father’s gaze. He gives me the slightest nod of the head.
“Neither one of them are vegan or vegetarian, are they?” Mom asks.
“I’ll need to check for any dietary restrictions.” Once again, it hits me that this is all happening too soon. But this is how it is. This is how the events were set in motion. I would be foolish to stop them now.