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I’m sitting on the patio at Ginger Scoops, waiting for Valerie’s mother and trying to think of some cool embellishments for my story. Maybe I once saved a child from a burning building and the mayor presented me with an award.
Nah, better make it three children. That’s more impressive.
Maybe I graduated at the top of my class in med school.
I chuckle at the thought. I wasn’t a particularly strong math and science student. I mean, I wasn’t terrible, but I wasn’t great, and my parents always reassured me with their “we all have our own strengths and special gifts!” talk.
I suppose I’m thankful for that.
Hmm. Maybe in addition to being a doctor, I’m a champion ping pong player or golfer or figure skater.
Maybe I only need two hours of sleep a night and spend my free time learning languages.
Maybe I was a music prodigy and became a concert pianist at the age of eight.
Maybe I won a national spelling bee.
My phone buzzes and I look at the screen. It’s my father.
We went to Hanlan’s Point today. Thought I’d send you some pictures.
I yelp. No, I do not want to see pictures from my parents’ trip to a clothing-optional beach, thank you very much.
“Peter? What’s wrong?”
I look up and see a woman of about sixty frowning at me.
Well, that’s great timing.
I jump to my feet. “Hi, Mrs. Chow. It’s great to meet you. Just got some bad news about the test results for a patient, that’s all,” I say breezily.
“Ah, call me Cynthia,” she says. “Your job must be stressful, yes?”
I nod. “Stressful, long hours, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” I pause. “Would you like some ice cream?”
“No, that’s okay.”
I’m not sure how to do this. I’ve met a girlfriend’s mother many times before, but never have I met a girlfriend’s mother while lying about being a pediatrician. Never have I met a girlfriend’s mother at an ice cream shop.
My cellphone buzzes again. Probably pictures from a nudist beach.
I don’t look.
“You should get that,” Cynthia says. “I know you’re an important man. Maybe it’s more test results.”
Now I feel like I have to get it, but I make sure she can’t see the screen.
There’s a picture of the Toronto skyline, as viewed from the Toronto Islands. No people in sight. I breathe out a sigh of relief.
“My parents,” I say. “I’ll talk to them later.”
“What do your parents do?” she asks.
“My dad’s retired. He used to work at Fong Investments.”
She nods her approval.
“My mother...”
Oh, dear.
I’m tempted to lie. Tempted to tell Cynthia that my mother is a pharmacist, optometrist, engineer, or similar.
But even though I was thinking up lies I could tell about myself earlier, I figure it’s best if I stick to the truth here.
“My mother is an artist.”
“Would I know any of her work?”
“I doubt it.”
This, I’m aware, is not quite meeting Cynthia’s approval, but more details aren’t going to help. My mother’s paintings celebrate women’s sexuality. She had an installation at Nuit Blanche last year, and she used to work as an art therapist.
I once gave that description to a former girlfriend’s parents, and it did not go over well, especially when they insisted on seeing some of her work. They assumed I was lying about the “celebrating women’s sexuality” part.
I was not lying.
I’m not ashamed of my mother, but life would be easier if she had a different occupation.
“Your last name?” Cynthia says.
Right. I know Valerie has refrained from mentioning it so far because she doesn’t want her family to Google me, but if I refuse to give my last name, it will seem suspicious.
“It’s So,” I say, not wanting to lie about that, either.
“And your parents are from Hong Kong?”
“Yes, but they were both raised in Canada.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “You are third generation, then?”
“Yes.”
“Do you speak Cantonese at all?”
“Not much.”
She clucks her tongue. I wonder what she’d say if she knew what I actually do for work.
“Are you sure I can’t get you something?” I ask. “If not ice cream, then tea or coffee?”
“Coffee would be nice, yes. Valerie knows how I like it.”
I head inside to get us each a coffee, rather glad to have a break from that conversation.
“One coffee for me and one for your mother,” I say to Valerie.
“How’s it going?” she asks.
“Not bad, but I told her that my mom paints pictures of vaginas.”
“Peter!”
“What? It’s the truth.” I grin. “Just kidding. I kept it at ‘artist,’ don’t worry.”
When I return to the patio and hand Cynthia her coffee, she returns to questioning me. “Where did you go to med school?”
“U of T.”
“And for undergrad?”
“Queen’s.”
She nods. “What made you decide to be a pediatrician?”
“I really like children.”
Which is true. At least, I like most children. My cousin has twins who are absolute terrors, and I can’t say I particularly enjoy it when they’re around. I’m not sure how my cousin doesn’t have severe hearing loss by now, because...wow.
But in general? Kids are good.
“So, you want to have children of your own?” Cynthia asks.
“I do.”
“Tell me, which hospital are you at right now?”
“Sick Kids.”
“What rotation are you doing?”
Unfortunately, I have no idea how medical residencies work. Nobody in my family is a doctor, nor are any of my friends, and it was never of interest to me. But apparently there are rotations?
“Um,” I say. “Broken bones.”
That’s one of the main reasons children would have to go to the hospital, isn’t it?
Cynthia looks at me like I have two heads.
Right. I might have broken a couple bones when I was younger, but that doesn’t sound like a proper medical rotation.
“Just kidding,” I say, although why I’d be kidding about something like this, I don’t know. “I’m doing a rotation in the ICU.”
“The NICU or the PICU?”
“NICU.” That’s the one with babies, right?
I’m making a hash of this.
I’m usually better at the meet-the-parents business, but it’s tough when I’m supposed to pretend I’m something I’m not.
“Valerie had to be in the NICU for a month after she was born,” Cynthia says, her voice suddenly quiet. “She came early, so tiny. We were very worried. But they treat us well, here in Canada. I just didn’t always understand what the doctors were telling me, you know? Because my English wasn’t perfect then, and I didn’t know all the fancy medical words. That’s why it would be good for Valerie to marry a doctor—if anything happens, you will be able to understand it all. Be in a good position to make decisions.” She looks off into the distance, and I get the feeling she hasn’t talked about this in a long time. “Everything turned out okay, though. I just want her to be a smart, successful woman.”
“And she is.”
Cynthia grunts. “She’s not reaching her full potential, but hopefully you will help her do that.”
What does Cynthia see as Valerie’s “full potential”? I assume this is related to Valerie’s previous career. I have no idea what happened, but I do know it’s a sore spot.
“Valerie is perfect the way she is,” I say, needing to defend her.
Cynthia smiles. “You really like her.”
“Of course.”
“Good, good.”
Valerie walks toward us. “Are you scaring him off, Mom?”
“Me?” Cynthia’s voice is upbeat again. “Of course not! He tells me he is working in the NICU right now—why would I want to scare him off? You should marry this one.”
I guess I didn’t make too much of a hash of this. Turns out I said exactly what she wanted to hear.
“But if you’re not careful,” Cynthia continues, “someone else will snap him up. You must keep him happy.”
“You’re talking about me as though I’m a piece of meat,” Valerie says.
“Wah, not a piece of meat! Well, maybe a very expensive, delicious cut of meat.”
I snicker. I can’t help it.
“Clearly you were not keeping Stephen happy!”
Valerie balls her hands into fists. “Stop it. Don’t you dare talk about Stephen.”
“Fine, fine. Just saying, that’s all.” Cynthia stands up and turns to me. “I hope the test results for your patient are not as bad as they seem.”
“What patient?” Valerie asks.
“Oh, one of the babies in the NICU,” I say airily.
I better make sure my lies don’t get out of control.
* * *
Valerie brings me a double scoop of taro and matcha cheesecake ice cream in a bubble waffle, along with an envelope.
Careful not to spill any ice cream on it, I open up the envelope and find a blank card with an elaborate set of pop-up red hearts inside.
My heart kicks up a notch. She got me a card! And it’s such a cute one. I’ve never seen a pop-up card quite like this before.
“You forgot something,” I tell her. “You didn’t sign it.”
“Ah, sorry. The card isn’t for you.”
“Huh?”
“It’s for you to give to me. So just sign your name and draw a few hearts or something and give it back to me. I’ll put it in my bedroom, my mother will see it, and it will fit our act.”
“What should I write?” I lean back in my chair and lick the taro ice cream. It’s good, but not as good as the matcha cheesecake. I’m particularly fond of that one because it reminds me of when Valerie and I had Japanese cheesecake. “Maybe, ‘Valerie, darling, you are the light of my life’?”
She mimes throwing up.
“What about, ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and durian is disgusting’?”
“That doesn’t rhyme.”
“Is that your only objection?”
“You know I object to calling durian ‘disgusting.’”
“When did you first try it?”
“I was nine, I think. My mother has some family in Malaysia, and we went for two weeks when her cousin got married.” There’s a dreamy smile on her face, which makes me smile, too. “I remember running on the beach with my cousins...the hot weather...the durian. It was a nice trip.”
“Valerie,” I say, “if you want me to give you a card, just tell me. I can pick it out myself.” I lick my matcha cheesecake ice cream, and her gaze seems to be fixated on my tongue.
Excellent.
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” she says, “but for now, you can give me this card.”
I think for a moment, then write something simple: The last few weeks with you have been amazing, and I look forward to more time with you. I hand the card back to Valerie.
“Thank you for not including any bad poetry about durian,” she says.
“You’re welcome.”
“How did it go with my mom?”
I shrug. “I told her that my current rotation is in, uh, broken bones, before changing it to the NICU. She approved. She wants me to help you reach your full potential.”
Valerie rolls her eyes. “Yeah, she doesn’t approve of this.” She gestures around the patio. “But at least I have a hot doctor as a boyfriend now, so she has something to like. Just don’t say anything stupid, okay?”
“I solemnly swear to do my best.”
She touches my knee, just for a moment, before she heads inside.
* * *
The truth is, I could write lots of poetry about durian, hopefully better than the line I came up with earlier.
You see, I think Valerie is like a durian.
Now hear me out. I’m not saying she’s spiky and stinky. In fact, she smells vaguely of vanilla and coconut—I like her scent. Though she’s kind of spiky on the outside, it’s true.
Inside, however, she’s a bit mushy. Sensitive.
I like her contradictions.
I don’t know everything that happened to her, but I want to know. She told me it’s hard for her to let someone in, and I feel like she is letting me in, slowly, and I don’t think anything good will come from trying to push her too fast. She let someone in once, and he screwed her over; I suspect she was always hesitant and wary, but even more so now than she was before. I hate him for hurting her.
I just want to be the guy she tells things to. The guy who knows everything about her. I want to get further past the spikes than I have so far.
To Valerie, durian is a delicious treat that not everyone appreciates.
I see her the way she sees durian.