Like a Love Story(21)

“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess maybe because he politicizes it. Can’t we just, like, follow his lead?”

She nods. She knows what I’m trying to say. She knows how wrong it is that one disease could be more socially acceptable than another.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I say.

“It’s not what I’m thinking,” she says, conflict etched all over her face. “It’s what others think.”

“Why do we care what others think?” I’m pacing the room now.

“Sweetie, come sit next to me.” She pats the bed, like that’ll convince me to calm down.

“I know what other people think. That they deserve it. That he deserves it.”

“No,” she says. “Not at all. Nobody deserves this, and nobody I would call a friend would say that.”

“What then?” I ask, staring her down. “I just don’t get it, Mom.”

“It’s not a disease that you get at random. It’s a disease you get because of a behavior . . .”

“Oh my God, Mom, stop! He’s your brother!”

“And I love him. I worshipped him when we were kids. Don’t you think I know how magnetic he is? Don’t you think I emulated him when I was young just like you do now? Don’t you think I understand why Mommie Dearest is funny? I’m his sister. I’ve let him be like a parent to you. I haven’t seen my own mother for over a year in solidarity with him, because I hate the way she treats him. It’s just not always so simple, Judy. I’m not saying he did this to himself, or that he deserves it, or that anyone does. I am saying that the reason people might prefer to say someone died of cancer or pneumonia is because certain things are private. I’m saying there are discussions I would rather have with him, with you, but not with women who wouldn’t understand. That doesn’t lessen my love for him, and he knows it.” She catches her breath. I think she may not have breathed for that whole monologue.

“Well, I’d like to make people understand.”

“Fine,” she says. “That’s your choice, and I’m not stopping you.”

“You know, not everything is a choice, right? Like maybe he didn’t choose to be gay, and maybe I can’t just choose to be thin.”

“I’ll give you the first one,” she says.

How generous of her.

“And think of the things he did choose to do,” I continue fervently. “He could’ve been some fancy lawyer, right? He chose to help refugees and asylum seekers. You always say yourself how noble that was.”

“It was,” she says.

“And now he chooses to be an activist. He’s always choosing to change the world. What have you chosen?” This last question was cruel, and I know it. Stop when you have the moral high ground, Judy.

“I chose to work hard, marry a good man, and raise you right,” she says, defensive. Then she takes a breath. “I’d say my brother and I both did some pretty good things.”

I hate when she does this. It’s always when I say something totally bitchy that she’s at her nicest, like she wants to shine a light on my awfulness.

“Sweetie,” she begins again. Uh-oh. “I know we are very different women, and I’m generally okay with that, especially since I was once not completely unlike you, so there’s hope we’ll grow closer. . . .”

Oh God, please don’t let me turn out like her.

“Mom, where is this going?”

“I just want us to be close, especially because . . .” She trails off. “Your uncle, he may not be around much longer.” I feel the tears coming, but I’ve just done my makeup, and it looks good. I try to squeeze them back. “And I want to be here for you. And I want you to be here for me.”

She’s done it. She’s succeeded in making me cry, and in making me sit next to her on the bed. She grips my hand in hers. She seems to glance with disgust at my nail polish. Half the nails are black, and the other half are yellow. “I just don’t get it,” she says.

“It’s a look,” I say. “And I wanted to bring together the black and yellow of the outfit.”

“No,” she says. “Not your nails, which are strange, I must admit. I just don’t get how somebody so vibrant could . . .”

“Mom . . .” I’m too sad to say anything else. She’s crying too.

She wipes the tears from her eyes and looks at me again, assessing me. “You put a lot of effort into an outfit for Sunday movie night,” she comments.

“Not really,” I say.

“Last week, you went in sweatpants and that leather vest I hate.”

“Last week, I felt run down,” I say.

She glances at me with interest. “I know you better than the back of my hand, you know. Of course, I won’t look at the back of my hand ’cause it looks so old. Hands are the first to go.” She places her hand on my cheek. “Whoever he is, just don’t come on too strong. You can be a little intense. And if you invited him to your uncle’s, don’t let Art scare him off either.”

I want to say that maybe this guy likes intense, that maybe this guy likes girls that come on strong, but I say nothing. Because I will not confirm that there is a guy. That will lead to follow-up questions, and I’m not going there. “It’s just another movie night,” I say.