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Gracie had done some snooping, and as far as she could tell, nothing was amiss. Work was still Willow’s focus, according to the glowing reports from above. Friends said she was happier, she kept all her fitness appointments, and the doctor assured Gracie that Willows’s annual check-up had come back as it should. She was a perfectly healthy woman of her age.
But something was different. The distance between mother and daughter had become a chasm, and Gracie wasn’t prepared to let it go on any longer.
She wouldn’t ambush Willow at work. That could create an unsavory scene, which would be no good for anyone. So instead, Gracie had asked the security guard there to give her a call when Willow left the office alone late one night. Then she could start her “happenstance” meeting, with no cynical looks from her sometimes-too-smart-for-her-own-good daughter.
There was a dark-haired woman loitering nearby in a cheap, too-short skirt. Gracie noticed her the same way you might notice anything else that didn’t warrant your attention. A quick scan, an assessment, and then forgotten. That was, until Willow came out of the building and went running to her.
Gracie knew the look on Willow’s face. It was love. Romantic idealism and the hope that the world wouldn’t taint this love. That this love of hers was forever.
But love was not on Gracie’s agenda for Willow. Willow was supposed to be marrying suitably--for everything except love.
Love clouds what is important in life, Gracie knew. She would never give into something as pointless as love herself.
She screwed her face up in disgust. Willow was kissing the girl. The girl who looked like some kind of low-class hooker.
Gracie’s voice came out steely, the same tone she used when they had misbehaved as children. When they had been caught in the act. She didn’t show the shock or surprise she felt at Willow kissing this woman, just the cool, authoritative tone of a mother chastising her child.
Gracie saw the world crumble in Willows’s eyes as she turned, and she had a feeling in her stomach that the chasm between them may have just split wide open.
16: Willow
The rest happened in a blur. Detaching from Lola, told her I needed to go--not meeting her eyes as she asks if I will call her later. Not meeting my mother’s eyes as she ushers me into the luxury, chauffeured car.
The silence was not merely deafening. It was suffocating and I felte like I could choke on it. That the silence could swallow me whole. Then I wished it would, so that I could escape the nightmare of what was about to come. It took a few minutes becaues my mom’s brain was on overdrive. I could almost hear the mental checklist she was running through on how to limit the potential shame I could cause her. Then the questions started. They were matter-of-fact. Cold and detached, more like a lawyer than a mother.
“How long has it been going on?” she bit out.
“Six or seven months.”
“How did you meet?”
“A strip club.”
“Does anyone know?” By “anyone,” Mom meant anyone important.
“No.”
“Does she know who you are?” In other words, who my father is.
“No.”
“What is her name?”
“Lola.”
“Lola . . .?”
“Just Lola.”
At that, she gives a cold laugh. “Like the showgirl.”
“Exactly. She is a stripper, her name is Lola, she works in a strip club. She doesn’t follow politics. She has no idea who I am, or who the Rutherfords are. Nobody you know knows Lola. She isn’t after my money and she isn’t a bad person. None of this has anything to do with her, so leave her out of it before you start judging her.”
My mom bristles beside me. “Willow, you are very naive and stupid to think she has nothing to do with any of this. If she did know who you are, it would only be a matter of time before she asks for money. The fact that she doesn’t know who you are only means we can pinpoint the exact moment she will ask for money—the second she finds out.”
I turn to my mother angrily. “You don’t know a single thing about her, and you have no idea what kind of person she is. But I can tell you, under no uncertain terms, that she would never ask for money. And where are we going? Why are we going to the house? Just take me home. I don’t need an intervention. It is my life, goddamn it, and I am not going to be told how to live it by you.” I start to tap on the glass to get the driver’s attention, but he studiously ignores me.
“If you are quite finished with your tantrum, you should know that he can’t hear you. I like to feel sure that my private conversations are just that. You may think I don’t know that girl, but I know a thousand like her. A pretty face and some big boobs. While I thought I would need to keep that kind of trash away from your brothers, I never . . . well . . .” Her voice trails off as if she isn’t at all prepared to acknowledge that I am actually gay. “Anyway. You will come back to the house, Willow, because there are things to be done. You tell me, Willow, how hard is it for a woman to achieve the success you are aiming for? How many women have held that job? I’ll tell you- zero.” She turns to look me straight in the face.
