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“That’s not how he behaves when he’s truly interested in someone,” Sarah insists whenever talk of my former lover and the father of my child surfaces. I deflect these conversations as best I can, yet I can’t help but picture him captivating viewers on their screens with his intense expression during competitions or when he lights up with joy after each victory. He has been practically unbeatable.
“And… action!” my dad interjects, snapping me back to reality.
It’s Thursday, which means it’s time for my segment on the podcast. The camera is rolling, ready to capture me. I’m positioned at an outdoor kitchen setup that my dad has constructed specifically for these shows. With the spotlight on, I flash a wide, genuinely happy smile, ready to engage my audience.
“Today, we’re diving into a new baking adventure—rosemary and blackberry scones filled with creamy ricotta.” I gesture toward the vibrant group of women who’ve known me all my life. They’re the heart of our podcast, the empty nesters who lunch, notorious for their candid chats about their kids. I’ve miraculously stayed off their radar, but as life throws its curveballs, I wonder how long that will last.
“For a twist,” I continue. “Our mystery ingredient is…”
The ladies exchange looks, their excitement bubbling over. “Cayenne!” they announce in unison, throwing me a culinary curveball.
“Okay,” I sing, accepting the challenge. My mind is already racing with possibilities. How to incorporate the fiery heat of cayenne into the delicate sweetness of the scones?
Linda eyes me with a mix of curiosity and a dare. “Is that enough of a challenge for you?”
It’s my job to smile at her question. My performance as the cheerful yet capable dessert chef has been impeccable thus far. That’s why podcast listeners and viewers love me. “Absolutely!” I exclaim. “It’s all about balancing the unexpected.”
“But she’s always up for it,” Carrie remarks with a knowing wink. “Who could forget her vanilla bean and lavender sweet potato croquettes?”
My mom theatrically clasps her hand over her heart while stretching out her other hand to give Carrie’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Indeed, Carrie, they were a hit, and they sold out way too fast. But hey, she’s my daughter. So guess how I convinced her to make more of those treats for the woman who endured thirteen hours of labor bringing her into the world?”
Joyce gasps exaggeratedly. “No? You played the birth card?”
Carrie raises a finger for emphasis. “I too would play the birth card for a batch of those croquettes.”
With a megawatt smile directed at the camera, Nori wraps up. “And remember, the scrumptious dessert that’s whipped up by our brilliant chef today will be ready and waiting for you to buy at The Calypso Café come Monday morning. You already know you should get there early because they never last long!”
“Everything she makes is mouthwatering,” my mom boasts.
“Are you bragging, Faye?” Joyce teases, her voice laced with amusement.
With a playful shrug, my mom replies, “What can I say? My daughter is perfect. She didn’t even hurt my…” My mom’s whistle sounds like ‘woo-hoo’… “when she came out after that fifteen hours of labor.” My mom’s tone is comedic.
“You said thirteen hours, Faye,” Linda, another cohost, teases.
“Thirteen, fifteen, what’s the difference? Who am I kidding? She stretched me to kingdom come, that one.”
All the ladies laugh except for Joyce, who emits a playful huff before declaring, “Well, I’m beginning to doubt I have the perfect son.”
And now, it officially starts, which is why I lower my gaze. I want to make sure I don’t get dragged into the burgeoning gossip fest.
Everyone in my class who attended Roosevelt High remembers Mike Nelson, Joyce’s son. He wasn’t the star of the school, but somehow, he was everywhere. He was standing with the photography club at assemblies. He’s still memorialized in the hallways in a photo of the chess club from the year they won the state championship. I used to see him climb on a bus with the debate team to go to competitions. Once, he was honored by our principal for organizing a successful food drive. He nearly snagged the title of class valedictorian. Mike was also in the band, a benchwarmer for the varsity basketball team, and even took part in the drama club. Mike was a do, do, doer. Now that I know Joyce much better, I understand why.
The latest on Mike is that he left his software programming gig in Silicon Valley. “He’s joined a band,” Joyce reveals with a hint of disapproval. “In New York City, no less.”
The other ladies express their surprise, my mom included, which catches me off guard. After all, she has been through her own dramatic career changes, just like me.
“From making twenty-five thousand dollars a month to joining a garage band?” Carrie’s disbelief is obvious, as if Mike’s decision defies all reason.
“She never specifically said it was a garage band,” my mom interjects, her comment marking a return to her more rational self. “What kind of band is it, Joyce?”
“I don’t care what kind of band it is. It’s still a band, not a real job,” Joyce retorts, clearly frustrated.
Turning to me, Nori inquires, “What do you think, Gina?”
At that moment, I realize I had stopped working to stare at them. Dang it! I didn’t mean to seem like I was paying attention. They’ve done this before, asked me to comment on gossip about one of my peers. Usually, I say something like, “I think you should change the subject.” They laugh and then move on to the next kid.
But this time, I don’t want to do that, especially now that I’m expecting a child of my own. “Bravo for him because he’s finally choosing to do something for himself.” I hold back from adding “and not you” out of respect for my elders, as my parents taught me.
