Everyone Worth Knowing (43 page)

"What about your parents?"

"They're sixties throwbacks," I said, "and they take it very seriously.

My mother cried the first time I shaved my legs, when I was

thirteen, because she was afraid I'd subjugated myself to the maledictated

cultural expectations of female beauty."

He laughed and started to settle in, stretching out his legs and

putting his hands behind his head. "Please tell me she didn't talk

you out of that particular practice?"

"No, she didn't, at least not now . . . although it took me until

college to shave again. They once insisted that I alone was responsible

for disrupting an entire ecosystem because I bought a snake-

skin keychain. Oh, and then there was the time I wasn't allowed to

go to the biggest slumber party in fourth grade because they noticed

that the parents of the girl hosting it refused to recycle their

newspapers. They thought it was a potentially evil environment for

a child to spend twelve hours in."

"You're joking."

"I'm not. It's not to say they're not really great people, because

they are. They're just
really
committed. Sometimes I wish I were

more like them."

"I sure didn't know you well in high school, but I remember

you being more like that than, uh, than this New York thing."

I didn't quite know what to say.

"No, I didn't mean it like that," he hastened to say. "You know,

you just always gave the impression of being really involved in so

many causes. I remember you wrote that editorial on a woman's

right to choose in the school paper. I overheard some of the teachers

talking about it in study hall one day—they couldn't believe

you were only a freshman. I read it after I listened to them and I

couldn't believe it, either."

I felt a little frisson at the thought that he'd read and remembered

my article, as though we all of a sudden had an intimate

connection.

"Yeah, well, it's hard to maintain. Especially when it's something

chosen for you, and not something you come upon yourself."

"Fair enough." I could see him nod out of the corner of my

eye. "They sound interesting."

"Oh, you have no idea. Luckily, even though they were hippies,

they were still
Jewish
hippies, and didn't much love the deprivation

lifestyle. As my father still constantly points out, 'One is no

more convincing coming from a place of poverty than coming

from a place of comfort—it's the argument that matters, not the

material trappings or lack thereof.'"

He stopped sipping his coffee and turned to look at me. I

could feel his eyes on my face and knew that he was listening intently.

"Oh, yes, it's true. I was born on a commune in New Mexico, a

place I wasn't totally convinced was an actual state until I saw the

2000 electoral map on CNN. My mother loves recounting how she

gave birth to me in their 'marriage bed' before all the commune's

children, who'd been brought in to watch the miracle of life unfold

before their little eyes. No doctors, no drugs, no sterile sheets—just

a husband with a degree in plant science, a touchy-feely midwife

who coached with yogic breathing, the commune's chanting guru,

and two dozen children under the age of twelve who most likely

went on to remain virgins well into their thirties after witnessing

that particular miracle."

I don't know what it was that kept me talking. It had been

years and years since I'd told that story to anyone—probably not

since Penelope and I met during orientation week at Emory,

smoked pot in the bushes by the tennis courts, and she admitted

that her father knew his office staff better than his family and that

she'd thought her black nanny was her mother until she was five

years old. I figured there was no better way to cheer her up than

to show her just how normal her own parents were. We'd laughed

for hours that night, stretched out in the grass, stoned and happy.

Though my boyfriends had met my parents, I'd never talked to

anyone about them like this. Sammy made me want to tell him

everything.

"That's absolutely incredible. How long were you there? Do

you remember it?"

"They only lived there until I was two or so, and then they

moved to Poughkeepsie because they got jobs at Vassar. But that's

where my name came from. First they wanted to name me

Soledad, in honor of the California prison that housed Berkeley

protestors, but then their shaman or someone proposed Bettina,

after Bettina Aptheker, the only female member of the Steering

Committee of Berkeley's Free Speech Movement. I refused to answer

to anything but Bette when I was twelve and The Wind Beneath

My Wings' was a hit and Bette Midler was actually cool. By

the time I realized I'd renamed myself after the redheaded singer

of a sappy Top 40 inspirational, it was too late. Everyone calls me

that now, except my parents, of course."

"Wow. They sound so interesting. I'd love to meet them sometime."

I didn't know quite how to respond to that—it might be a bit

unnerving for him if I were to announce that they were his future

in-laws—so I asked him about his parents. Nothing came to mind

when I tried to recall Sammy from high school, and it occurred to

me that I had no clue about his home life. "What about you? Anything

juicy about your family, or are they actually normal?"

"Well, calling them normal seems like a bit of a stretch. My

mom died when I was six. Breast cancer."

I opened my mouth to apologize, to murmur something ineffectual

and cliched, but he cut me off.

"Sounds really shitty, but I was honestly too young to really remember.

It was weird not having a mom growing up, but it was

definitely harder for my older sister, and besides, my dad was

pretty great."

"Is he okay now? You mentioned something about him not

being well."

"No, he's okay. Just lonely, I think. He was dating a woman for

years, and I'm not totally clear on what happened, but she moved

to South Carolina a couple months ago and my dad's not taking it

well. I just thought a visit would be good for him."

"And your sister? What's her story?"

"She's thirty-three. Married with five kids.
Five
kids—four boys

and a girl—do you believe it? Started right out of high school. She

lives in Fishkill, so she could see my father all the time, but her

husband's kind of a prick and she's busy now that she's going

back to school for nursing, so . . ."

"Are you guys close?" It was strange to see this all shaping up,

a whole world that I never knew existed for him, that I could

never have imagined existing when I saw him slapping backs with

the various moguls and moguls-in-training at Bungalow 8 every

night.

He seemed to think about this for a second as he popped open

the can of Coke he pulled from his backpack, offering me a sip before

he took one.

"Close? I don't know if I'd say that, exactly. I think she resents

that I left home to go to college when she already had one kid and

another on the way. She makes lots of comments about how I'm

Dad's reason for living and at least one of us has a chance of making

him proud—you know, that sort of stuff. But she's a good girl.

Christ, I just got heavy there. Sorry about that."

Before I could say anything, let him know that it was okay, that

I loved hearing him talk about absolutely anything, a Whitesnake

track came on and Sammy laughed again. "Are you serious with

this music? How do you listen to this shit?"

The conversation continued easily after that—just chitchat

about music and movies and the ridiculous people we both dealt

with all day long. He was careful not to mention Philip, and I returned

the favor by steering clear of Isabelle. Otherwise, we talked

as though we'd known each other forever. When I realized we

were only a half-hour outside of town, I called to let my parents

know that I was dropping someone off and would be there

shortly.

"Bettina, don't be ridiculous. Of course you'll bring him by for

dinner!" My mother all but shrieked into the phone.

"Mom, I'm sure he wants to get home. He's here to see his

family, not mine."

"Well, be sure to extend the invitation. We never get to meet

any of your friends, and it would make your father very happy.

And of course, he's more than welcome at the party tomorrow.

Everything's all set and ready to go."

I promised her I'd relay the information and hung up.

"What was that all about?" he asked.

"Oh, my mother wants you to come over for a late dinner, but I

told her you'd probably want to get home to your dad. Besides,

the stuff they try to pass off as food is atrocious."

He was quiet for a second and then said, "Actually, if you don't

mind, that'd be really nice. My old man isn't expecting me until tomorrow,

anyway. Besides, maybe I could help out in the kitchen,

make that tofu a little more palatable." He said this tentatively, trying

to sound indifferent, but I sensed (prayed, hoped, willed) that

there was something more.

"Oh, uh, okay," I said, trying to come across as cool but instead

sounding mortally opposed to the idea. "I mean, if you want, it'd

be great."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. I'll give you a ride home afterward, and I promise not

to keep you trapped any longer than absolutely necessary. Which

will still be long enough for them to try to convert you to a meatfree

lifestyle, but hopefully it'll be bearable." The awkwardness

was over. I was ecstatic. And slightly terrified.

"Okay, that sounds good. After the stories you've told me, I

feel like I have to see them now."

My mother was sitting on the porch swing wrapped in multiple

layers of wool when we pulled into the driveway, which bisected

the nearly six acres of land they'd lived on for a quarter-century.

The hybrid Toyota Prius they kept for emergencies (I often wondered

what they'd think if they knew that Hollywood's entire A-list

drove them, too) sat in the driveway, covered by a tarp, since they

rode bicycles 99 percent of the time. She threw down the book she

was cradling in her mittened hands
(Batik Technique)
and ran to

meet the car before I'd even put it in park.

"Bettina!" she called, yanking open the driver's-side door and

clasping her hands together excitedly. She grabbed my arm and

pulled me out into an immediate hug, and I wondered if anyone

besides my mother or my dog would ever be so happy to see me.

We stood there for a moment longer than was necessary and I immediately

forgot how much I'd dreaded this visit.

"Hi, Mom. You look great." And she did. We had the same

long, unmanageably thick hair, but hers had turned a beautiful