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I waited a moment, just in case this would be one of those occasions where Dad asked about me, about my life, where he showed a little interest in the kid who was still breathing. But this didn’t seem to be one of those nights.
I sighed, giving a quick wink to my brother, who was staring down from a photo on the wall, that little smirk on his face that he used to give me to remind me that he was older and wiser, and naturally much smarter than me. I missed him too. But unlike my father, I was trying to move on.
“What are you making?” I asked my mother, relieved to step into the kitchen with its picture window facing out over the back patio and the ocean beyond. Light spilled in aroundus, immediately lifting the shroud that fell across my shoulders whenever I crossed through the living room.
“Salmon and green beans. Nothing special.”
“Everything you cook is special,” I reminded her. Mom was a classically trained chef, and when she and Dad got married, she’d been running one of the most revered fine dining restaurants in La Jolla. She’d given it up for us. I guess raising kids and running a top-notch restaurant weren’t compatible. “Wow, that smells amazing. How do you make green beans smell so good? When I do them it smells like I’m boiling a wet sock.”
Mom laughed and guilt shot through me at the sound. Mom didn’t laugh much. And I bet when I wasn’t here, she didn’t laugh at all.
She needed me. And I was hardly ever here.
At least I was nearby. But there was a big part of me that knew I couldn’t hover forever. I wanted freedom. I wanted to explore. It was a big part of why I was working so hard to become a travel writer.
But how could I leave Mom?
Alone here with Dad, she was forced to relive and rehash the worst events of our lives over and over, mired down in his fixation over things none of us could change. My bright, vivacious mother was trapped here. And even though I watched her lighten and shine when I was here, my presence alone enough to lift the curtain for a couple hours, I didn’t come often. Not often enough.
It was too hard.
“Tell me what you’re working on while you set the table, Em.” Mom handed me a bundle of silverware, and I headed down the back steps to the table on the patio. I was just below the enormous kitchen window, which was always open, so Mom and I could continue chatting easily while I worked.
“A couple things,” I told her, happy for her interest. “The editor I’ve worked for a few times at the travel magazine wants a roundup of San Diego hotels. Kind of an off-the-beaten path thing where we focus on activities not everyone would expect, like this little place that offers pie-baking lessons out in Julian while you’re there.”
“Oh, that sounds interesting. It’s so nice that you can write travel pieces without actually traveling.”
It wasn’t though. I was the opposite of a real travel writer. I was a San Diego writer.
I blew out a laugh. “I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t mind traveling now and then. But you’re right. I’m lucky to be in a place most people want to visit.” The assignments came regularly, thanks to my location and my insider knowledge of my hometown. But I was pushing for more. The chance to actually travel, to see the world.
“What about the book?” Mom had been encouraging me to follow my passion and explore longer-form work. I wanted to write a novel. I just wasn’t quite sure where to begin with the effort. I had multiple abandoned drafts on my laptop, and still hadn’t come upon the thing I really wanted to write. I didn’t think I was meant to be a novelist, but it seemed to make my mother happy to think about me that way, so I hadn’t really abandoned the effort either. Just sort of pushed it to the back of a high shelf.
“It’s still churning in the back of my head,” I told her, pausing to look up at her through the window. The warmth in her eyes encouraged me to go on. I did have some news, and it was kind of novel-related, though that wasn’t really the draw for me. “There’s actually this conference I kind of want to go to. It’s a week of craft talks and workshops, and some really amazing writers will be presenting there.”
“Em, that sounds amazing. Is it here in town?”
I shook my head. This was the thing I hadn’t really wanted to get into. But now, with Mom looking so eager for me, I figured it couldn’t hurt. I could tell her the barest details. “It’s in Colorado.”
“Oh, how exciting,” she said. “Tell us all about it over dinner. Come get a plate and I’ll get your dad to pour some wine.” Trepidation shot through me. Dad would not be fond of the idea. Dad would revile the idea, actually. Once he found out where exactly the conference was.
I’d thought about this moment a lot. If I told my parents where the conference actually was, they would probably know I had an ulterior motive for wanting to go. It was much less about learning to write a novel, and much more about the place itself—and about my best chance to make a name for myself as a real travel writer. I’d already pitched my idea to the editor I worked with the most, and he’d given me the green light.
I didn’t expect my parents to be as enthusiastic as he was though. Especially Dad. There was a chance he might explode when I told him, that he might spiral somehow, end up even worse off than he was now—if that was even possible. But it also didn’t feel right to keep it from them.
I contemplated what I should tell them while I finished up setting the table.
When we were all settled, the Pacific creating an idyllic backdrop beyond the quasi-tropical foliage on the patio, Mom brought it up again. “Gabe, Emily’s thinking of going to a big writers’ conference out of state. Isn’t that exciting?”
Dad chewed for a moment, and then lifted his eyes to me. The barest hint of interest flickered there. I tried not to wish for more from him, tried not to imagine how interested he would have been if he wasn’t trapped in his grief. It hurt. But I knew it wasn’t about me. “That’s great, honey.”
He dropped his gaze again to his food, and I could feel Mom’s frustration like a buzz of energy around us, begging him to engage. It made me almost angry, but this was one time it was actually okay with me if he wanted to let the subject drop. Mom didn’t want to, though.
“She’s still toying with the idea of writing a novel,” Mom tried again.
“Mm-hmm.” Dad didn’t look up.
Mom shot me a wide-eyed look, and I felt like I had to add something. “I’ve been taking writing classes online forever, but I think this kind of in-person instruction could be really helpful. Plus, there should be a ton of other writers there who I could learn from. Remember my friend Christine? The one with all the romance novels? She’s going too. It would be a whole week, so hopefully I could absorb some writerly wisdom or something,” I laughed, trying to get my father to join the conversation, if not for me, then because I felt my mother’s need for it.
