My blood runs cold as she mentions what had just happened.
Being the White Anglo-Saxon Protestant that she is, I did not expect for her to actually bring that up and her statement comes from left field.
I feel my cheeks get flushed and I force myself to take a few deep breaths.
“I know that it is not very tactful of me to bring it up, but I saw what I saw and I am concerned. I am your mother and when I was dating, we never took things that far.”
I take a deep breath, struggling for air. At this rate I will need an oxygen mask to get enough air.
“Mother, if you wanna talk about my sex life, we should really make an appointment with a therapist. I'm going to need one.”
She shakes her head dismissively.
“I don't want to talk about this anymore than you do. I just had one question for you.”
“Go ahead,” I say cringingly.
“That was consensual, right?”
“Of course it was! What the hell do you think is going on?”
“I don't know anymore,” she says, shaking her head. “All of these women on television talking having been sexually assaulted or made to feel uncomfortable by things that men have done for centuries. And now suddenly it's wrong?”
This is the first time I have ever heard my mother talk like this. My mouth nearly drops open.
“That's the whole problem,” I say when I finally regain the ability to speak. “That's the whole fucking problem. They have been doing the same thing for years. And finally someone is calling them on it. Grabbing women's asses when they are just walking past them. Telling a complete stranger to smile so that she will look prettier for him, as if she owes him something. Women have been putting up with these unwanted sexual advances for as long as there have been women in existence, and we are sick of it.”
“If that's the case, then what the hell was going on in that apartment that I walked into?” she asks.
My mother doesn't curse, and the fact that she uses the word hell instead of heck chills me. But she is genuinely confused and as much as it pains me to talk about my sex life with her, I decide that I don't have any other choice.
“That was consensual," I say. “It was just something we were doing for fun. He thought that the blindfold and the restraints would take me out of my head and relax me a bit, and he was right.”
She shakes her head, finishes her martini, and asks for another round. I don't know what I was expecting. Perhaps some understanding or compassion, but she lives in an entirely different world, one that I could never access, no matter how much I try.
“Okay, I think we have gotten off track here,” she announces.
“Yes, I agree,” I say, letting out a sigh of relief.
"But we do we understand each other?” she asks. I look up at her and into her wide green eyes.
“About what?”
“About Henry.”
“Well, I know that you don't like him, you've made that perfectly clear.”
“So, you will not be seeing him again?” she asks.
I furrow my brows and shake my head. “No, absolutely not.”
“So, I guess we have not reached an understanding.”
“No, we haven’t,” I say.
“Okay then, let's put it this way. If you want to keep seeing Henry then you can do so on your own. But your father and I do not want him living in the apartment that we are paying for.”
Blood drains away from my face and I look down at the table, picking at a little crumb left by the French baguette.
This is what I have been afraid of, a definitive no.
She has showed her disapproval before, but she has not come out and actually said that I would have to move out.
“I don't understand why,” I say. "What do you think Henry is doing? Do you think that he is lying about who he is?”
“No, I don't think that. I think he’s telling me the absolute truth and that’s what scares me the most.”
I shake my head.
She puts her hand over mine, startling me.
The tone of her voice suddenly becomes softer and quieter.
“I know that you have feelings for him, Aurora. And he may be a good person.”
“He is,” I insist. “He's a good man.”
“That doesn't matter,” my mother says. “I am very sorry. Perhaps I should have prepared you for this sooner and that's my fault. But you are a Tate, and though your personal life can be your personal life, that does not mean that you can make any sort of significant commitment like moving in with someone, let alone marrying someone, without our permission.”
“And why is that?” I whisper, pressing my fingernails into my palms as hard as I can.
"You are a Tate. You're not just an Aurora Penelope whomever. And you have certain responsibilities that come with that.”
“Don't you want me to be happy? I mean, how much money do we need to have so that I'm not forced into a marriage of convenience?” I ask.
“I'm not forcing you into anything. Do you see me introducing you to eligible bachelors? No, this has nothing to do with that. All I'm saying is that Henry Asher is not a good match for you and your father and I will not support you living with him.”
“You know, you two came from nothing. I thought you would be a little bit more sympathetic to people who are struggling,” I say, trying to hold back the tears that are building up at the back of my eyes.
“We are sympathetic, but he is not going after anything. He is perfectly content just being a teacher, and his greatest dream in life is to write short stories. How is he going to support you on that? Or is he going to depend on us forever?”
“Is that what you're really concerned about?" I ask. "You have more money than anyone could ever spend in ten lifetimes and you're worried about spending a little bit of that to make sure that your daughter has a comfortable life with the man of her dreams?”
“No, that’s not what concerns us. We are worried about you not following the rules. We are worried about you doing whatever the hell you want.”
18
Henry
When Aurora shows up that evening after she had lunch with her mother, I took her into my arms and promised her that everything would be okay. I don’t renew my weekly sublet and we move back into my apartment. She thought that it would be horrible to live above 120th Street in a fourth floor studio walk-up, but our life is total bliss for the next two months.
My work is right across the street so I never get in late even when I have overtime. Now, it’s her turn to do the long commute to Columbia and, at first, I worry about her, not sure how she will handle it.
The whole trip with the bus change and the subway ride and the walking takes almost an hour, but after the first few trips, she stops complaining.
In fact, she even tells me how much she enjoys having that time to think and process everything that has happened. She has never ridden the subway much before, or the bus, and she enjoys the people watching.
Frankly, I thought she would have a much more difficult time adjusting to life as I know it, but she surprises me. She stops using credit cards that her parents pay for, and even gets a job at the Humanities Library to bring in some extra money.