My jaw sets. I’ve been ducking her blows for years now, doing my best not to engage with her, or if I did engage, it was on a superficial level. But at this point, staying out of her way is no longer good enough. It’s not me. Well, at least not theme of late. My dad’s right, I am back on my feet. And if I want to continue with them firmly planted on the ground, I’m going to have to meet her head-on.
“I love you, Mom,” I tell her quietly. “But I’m a grown woman and I won’t allow you to belittle the man I love.”
“I just want what’s best for you.”
Holding back my retort of ‘you mean what’s best for you?’ I go with, “I know. But since we can’t agree on what that is, I need to know that you’ll respect my choices. I’m offering you an olive branch here. If you don’t want it, say the word and we’ll leave.”
A slight crease forms between her brows, another indication her habitual armor is slowly coming apart at the seams. That doesn’t stop her from making one more attempt to make me see sense. “His family,” her head jerks in the direction of Peter, “has hundreds of millions.”
I remain unchanged.
Her shoulders slump. “You’ve always been the most difficult child.”
This time when I approach, she doesn’t pull away. Squeezing her tight, I tell her the truth, “I learned from the best.”
“Okay, buddy.” We all watch as Chris takes hold of a very nonplussed Peter and turns him in the direction of the door. “Smelly Ellie has spoken. You’re out. The pauper’s in.”
Matt starts laughing. “Smelly Ellie. Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in years.”
I look to Scott and the love and bemusement I find there reels me to him. Sinking into the comforting safety of his arms, I whisper, “Should we get out of here?”
“Sure. But first I have to hear the Smelly Ellie story,” he says, chuckling softly, moving me closer to where my siblings are mocking my childhood self. I don’t mind though, I loved eight-year-old Smelly Ellie. She didn’t let anyone hold her back.
In more ways than one, I have Scott to thank for giving me back my family. If he’d let me cancel the dinner party, I’d never have stood up to my mother, and without the need to protect him, who knows how long I would have continued to side-step the woman. The possibility of now having a warmer relationship with her appeals to me more than I could have anticipated.
One thing that becomes very apparent over the next few months, though, are the differences between my family and Scott’s family. There may be the same amount of teasing in Scott’s house, but there’s a lot less of a tendency to jump to indignant conclusions. It’s not even that they forgive each other more easily, it’s that there’s never the assumption of malicious intent. Passive-aggressive behaviour just doesn’t come up. It’s wonderful, and over the summer I get to experience it every Sunday after work when I’m invited for dinner. This sense of belonging is only amplified when the girls and I fall into the habit of my reading aloud to them in Spanish after dinner in our quest to improve their vocabulary, usually with Scott in attendance.
And Scott and I? Things have been good. So good. Not exactly smooth sailing, but nothing like our bigger bumps in the road. We’re learning the ins and outs of each other’s personality. Yes, he gets annoyed when he finds day-old dirty dishes in my sink or a wet towel on the bathroom floor, but by the same token, I get annoyed by how uptight he can be about things that don’t matter to me. I don’t, however, complain when he washes and vacuums out my car, or when he solves the mystery of the check engine light, which turns out to be cracked gas cap and is easily fixed. A girl should know when to be suitably grateful.
We’ve found that rough patches are best ironed out the old-fashioned way, with S-E-X. Make-up sex, angry sex, rough sex, celebratory sex, languid making-love sex, quickies, marathons – it’s all delicious. And instead of becoming routine, it only gets better and better.
With my personal life going so well, I can almost ignore my growing worry over my professional life. Almost. Despite my best efforts to find myself a ‘real’ job, by August I’m still working at the cafe. I’ve been offered a few low-paying internships locally, but since I’m not a fresh-faced twenty-one year old, I decide to hold out for something more substantial. It’s hard to tell if I’m just postponing the necessary, painful first steps of a career or if I’m being smart. At least it’s only a risk to my sanity and not my bank account.
My patience finally pays off on a random Tuesday in August when an email pops up on my phone while I’m sitting in the break room at work. It’s from an organization called the Settlement Project which provides assistance to asylum seekers. They’re requesting a copy of my CV if I’m still looking for employment. Holy shit! A combination of joy and nerves hits me like a one-two punch.
I immediately send Scott an emoji-laden text to convey my excitement. Even though he’s working and probably won’t be able to answer me right away, having someone to share the news with makes the situation all the more real.
As soon as I get home, I start my research on the company. It turns out to be a non-profit with a very healthy operating budget that does work all over California, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas. Without hesitation, I sit my ass down and compose what I hope is a kick-ass cover letter and send it along with my CV that very same night. I don’t even care that the invitation didn’t include a specific job description. The company is legitimate and my days of being picky are done. Decently paid or not, if they offer me a job, I’m taking it. If I can’t survive on what they pay me, I’ll ask my dad for a loan.
The next day, I receive a reply asking me to choose from a variety of available days and times for an interview, and by Friday, I’m parked at a respectable strip mall in San Jose, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm my nerves. My phone buzzes in my hand.
Scott: Knock em dead, Opal. Love you.
Some of the anxiety loosens inside of me.
Ellie: I will. I’m going in this very second. Love u too.
Slipping my phone into my purse, I lock up my car and head for the front door. I’ve got this.
Inside, the chairs in the reception area are unexpectedly filled with people, and my steps falter. Approaching the receptionist, I smile. “Hi, I’m here to see Mara O’Brien.”
Behind the desk, the woman looks a little harried, but she returns my smile as she picks up her phone. “I’ll let her know. I’d tell you to take a seat, but . . .” She gestures vaguely.
“Not a problem. I’ll be over here.” I point to an empty spot against the wall.
On closer inspection, I realize the people waiting are mostly families. The children are all unnaturally quiet and well-behaved, leaning against the adults or even holding other children who are younger than they are. It hits me that they must be refugees. When I read asylum seekers on the website, I don’t know why images of journalists, political activists, and athletes from repressive regimes came to mind instead of the many families who flee violence in Central America.
A toddler slips off her mother’s lap and teeters her way over to me. She tilts her head way back to peer up and then offers me the small stuffed animal that’s in her hand.