there wondering if that means she likes me, or if it’s just a Russian thing. Whatever the reason for her actions, it was nice. I can still smell a hint of her perfume.
When they begin to head back, I turn to enter the car rental place. Before I do, I’m pulled into the Quiet again.
It’s Mira.
“Darren,” she says, “I want to thank you. I haven’t seen Eugene this happy, this animated, for a long time.”
“Don’t mention it. I like your brother,” I say, smiling. “I’m glad I had that effect on him.”
“I also wanted to say that, as he is my brother, I, above all, don’t want to see him hurt.”
“That makes sense.” I nod agreeably.
“Then we have an understanding,” she says evenly. “If this whole thing is a lie, I’ll be extremely upset.” Her eyes gleam darkly. “To put it in other words, if you hurt my brother in any way, I will kill you.”
She turns around and walks to her frozen body, which is standing a few feet away.
I don’t get a hug this time around.
Chapter 12
I’m driving the piece-of-shit car I picked up at the rental place. They didn’t have anything nice, but at least this thing has Bluetooth, so I’m listening to Enigma’s “T.N.T. for the Brain” from my phone on the car speakers. I raise the volume to the max.
In a confused stupor, trying to digest everything I’ve learned today, I follow my phone’s GPS directions. I know I need the Belt Parkway and the Verrazano Bridge after that, but once I get on Staten Island, I typically get lost—usually only a few blocks from where my moms live.
I called ahead to make sure they were home, but mentioned nothing of what I want to discuss. I plan to ambush them with my questions. They deserve it. I love them dearly, but I’ve never been angrier with them than I am now—not even during my rebellious mid-teen years. I’m especially mad at Sara.
Alternative lifestyle aside, Sara and Lucy are living, breathing stereotypes of two similar, yet different, kinds of moms.
Take Sara, for instance. She’s a Jewish mom to the core. Never mind that she’s the most secular person you’ll ever meet. Never mind that she married a non-Jew, which isn’t kosher. She still regularly hints—and sometimes outright says—that since I’ve finished my degree from a good school (of course), I should meet a nice girl (meaning a Jewish girl) and settle down. At twenty-one. Right. And she has all the usual guilt-trip skills down to a T. For example, if I don’t call for a couple of days, I get the whole ‘you don’t need to trouble yourself to call your own mother; it’s not like I’m in any way important,’ et cetera, et cetera. And then there’s the weird stuff, like if I’m out late and make the mistake of mentioning it to her, she’ll want me to text her when I get home. Yeah. Never mind that on other nights—when I don’t talk to her—I might not come home at all, and she’s fine with my lack of texting.
Lucy is no better. Well, in truth, Lucy is better now. She only expects a call from me once a week, not daily. But when I was growing up, she was worse than Sara. She must’ve read that book about being a Tiger Mom and tried to apply it literally, with probably the worst possible subject—me. In hindsight, I think I had ADHD when I was a kid. When it came to the violin lessons she tried to force me to take, I ‘accidentally’ broke a dozen of the stupid instruments to test her resolve. When I broke the last one (over another student’s head), I was expelled, and that did it for musical initiatives. Then there were the ballet lessons. I was kicked out for beating up a girl, which was not true. I knew from a very early age that you don’t hit girls. Another girl pushed the victim, but I, because of my reputation in the class, took the rap. Lucy also wanted me to learn her native Mandarin. I don’t care if I mastered a little bit from her when I was a baby, or that I can string together a few sentences even
When they begin to head back, I turn to enter the car rental place. Before I do, I’m pulled into the Quiet again.
It’s Mira.
“Darren,” she says, “I want to thank you. I haven’t seen Eugene this happy, this animated, for a long time.”
“Don’t mention it. I like your brother,” I say, smiling. “I’m glad I had that effect on him.”
“I also wanted to say that, as he is my brother, I, above all, don’t want to see him hurt.”
“That makes sense.” I nod agreeably.
“Then we have an understanding,” she says evenly. “If this whole thing is a lie, I’ll be extremely upset.” Her eyes gleam darkly. “To put it in other words, if you hurt my brother in any way, I will kill you.”
She turns around and walks to her frozen body, which is standing a few feet away.
I don’t get a hug this time around.
Chapter 12
I’m driving the piece-of-shit car I picked up at the rental place. They didn’t have anything nice, but at least this thing has Bluetooth, so I’m listening to Enigma’s “T.N.T. for the Brain” from my phone on the car speakers. I raise the volume to the max.
In a confused stupor, trying to digest everything I’ve learned today, I follow my phone’s GPS directions. I know I need the Belt Parkway and the Verrazano Bridge after that, but once I get on Staten Island, I typically get lost—usually only a few blocks from where my moms live.
I called ahead to make sure they were home, but mentioned nothing of what I want to discuss. I plan to ambush them with my questions. They deserve it. I love them dearly, but I’ve never been angrier with them than I am now—not even during my rebellious mid-teen years. I’m especially mad at Sara.
Alternative lifestyle aside, Sara and Lucy are living, breathing stereotypes of two similar, yet different, kinds of moms.
Take Sara, for instance. She’s a Jewish mom to the core. Never mind that she’s the most secular person you’ll ever meet. Never mind that she married a non-Jew, which isn’t kosher. She still regularly hints—and sometimes outright says—that since I’ve finished my degree from a good school (of course), I should meet a nice girl (meaning a Jewish girl) and settle down. At twenty-one. Right. And she has all the usual guilt-trip skills down to a T. For example, if I don’t call for a couple of days, I get the whole ‘you don’t need to trouble yourself to call your own mother; it’s not like I’m in any way important,’ et cetera, et cetera. And then there’s the weird stuff, like if I’m out late and make the mistake of mentioning it to her, she’ll want me to text her when I get home. Yeah. Never mind that on other nights—when I don’t talk to her—I might not come home at all, and she’s fine with my lack of texting.
Lucy is no better. Well, in truth, Lucy is better now. She only expects a call from me once a week, not daily. But when I was growing up, she was worse than Sara. She must’ve read that book about being a Tiger Mom and tried to apply it literally, with probably the worst possible subject—me. In hindsight, I think I had ADHD when I was a kid. When it came to the violin lessons she tried to force me to take, I ‘accidentally’ broke a dozen of the stupid instruments to test her resolve. When I broke the last one (over another student’s head), I was expelled, and that did it for musical initiatives. Then there were the ballet lessons. I was kicked out for beating up a girl, which was not true. I knew from a very early age that you don’t hit girls. Another girl pushed the victim, but I, because of my reputation in the class, took the rap. Lucy also wanted me to learn her native Mandarin. I don’t care if I mastered a little bit from her when I was a baby, or that I can string together a few sentences even
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