Like a Love Story(49)

I see my doorknob turn, my mom trying to shove her way in like she always does. “Sweetie, will you zip me up? Your father can’t seem to make a zipper work. Why is this door locked?”

I quickly throw a sweater and jeans on over the lingerie and open the door. I force a smile. My mother is wearing her little black dress, the same one she wears anytime she goes somewhere nice. She says the beauty of the little black dress is that it can be worn anywhere and never goes out of style. I want to explain to her that when the little black dress first became popular, when Audrey Hepburn wore one, it was like a revolution. Back then, women were supposed to be all busty and curvy and frilly, and here came this skinny, boyish woman wearing sleek, simple clothing. She was a middle finger to the establishment. But then her style became the establishment, and now it’s like all the moms of the world want to look and dress like her. I hope that when I become a designer, my creations never become the establishment. And if they ever do, I’ll change. I’ll reinvent.

“What were you doing in there?” she asks, peeking into my room for a clue, like I’d be stupid enough to leave one for her.

“Turn around. I’ll zip you up.”

She hesitates for a moment. She doesn’t want to turn around yet. She wants to know why I would lock the door. But she turns, and I carefully zip her up. “Honestly,” she says. “What is it about men and zippers and clasps? Your father still can’t help me put on a necklace either.”

“Hand me the necklace,” I say.

She does. The necklace is gold, with a tiny little diamond dangling from it. Simple. Elegant. Classic. The clasp is small and tricky. You’d need a microscope to see it. My hands are behind her neck, and she pulls her hair up for me. There’s something so painfully intimate about this, these rituals of ours. “This necklace belonged to my mother,” she says softly. “She gave it to me for my thirtieth birthday.”

“So she was capable of kindness back then,” I say coldly.

“She’s capable of kindness now,” my mom says. “Just not toward Stephen.”

“Are you defending her?” I ask.

“I am not,” she says. “But I think it’s important for you to remember that we are complicated people. Who we are at our worst doesn’t define us, just as who we are at our best . . .”

“She won’t speak to her own son,” I say.

“And she deserves our silence,” she says. “But she also read to me every night when I was a little girl, and made us the most delicious birthday cakes every year, and took us on trips, and gave me this necklace.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure Ronald Reagan read to his kids too, but that doesn’t mean I forgive him for killing all of Uncle Stephen’s friends.”

I finally clasp the necklace.

She turns to face me. “You know Reagan didn’t literally kill them, right?”

“He could have stopped it.”

“Maybe,” she says.

“Definitely,” I say.

“That’s the thing about the past, sweetie,” she says. “You can never go back and say a different outcome is definite.” She lets out a sigh and shakes her body, like she’s ridding herself of my bad energy. “So, how do I look?”

“Fine,” I say. And then, because I know I need to be kinder but don’t want to be fake, I say, “You look just like Audrey Hepburn.”

She smiles. She loves hearing that. “We’ll tell Art’s parents you say hi.”

My dad emerges now. He’s wearing the same blue blazer, white shirt, and khakis he wears every time he goes out. Not exactly style icons, my parents. Yet I can’t help but feel a twinge of affection for their consistency. “Nice of them to invite us,” my dad says. “Such nice people.”

“Kind of,” I say. “Except they basically don’t want Art to be gay.”

“Sweetie,” my mother says, “no parent wants their child to be gay. They should accept it, but don’t ask them to want it.”

“When I have kids, I want them to be gay,” I say. “But I’ll accept them if they’re straight.”

“You’ll change your mind,” she says. “You’ll want grandkids.”

“Major assumption there, Mom,” I say. “Anyway, I’m sure Art’s parents would never mention any of this to you at the theater. I’m sure they don’t even tell people their son is gay, or that he just beat up a homophobe at school.”

“Did he . . . Is he . . . You know, it’s none of our business, and we’re going to be late.” My mother goes to the living room to grab her purse, then returns and gives me a peck on the cheek. “Are you seeing Reza tonight?” she asks.

“Yeah, he’s on his way,” I say.

“Have fun, and lights out by ten,” my dad says, with a smile that indicates he knows how absurd he sounds.

My mom lingers after my dad leaves. There is something unfinished about our conversation. There’s always something unfinished about us, like we’re a sentence that ends in a comma.

“I don’t want grandchildren too soon,” she finally says.

“Gross and goodbye,” I say.

“I’m assuming no girl who has helped her uncle distribute condoms would . . .”