“You mentioned something to me about angels a couple days ago. What’s going on, Evey? You want to find a church and go pray or something?”
Brooklyn had been raised atheist. She had a total, absolute disconnect from anything religious or spiritual besides her mom’s religion of vegetarianism.
“No, no, I’m fine. Gonna head to work.”
I drove fast and recklessly. I missed him. Why? Him—who was him?
“Lucian!” I yelled as I drove fast across the Golden Gate Bridge. “Lucian!”
When I got to the other side of the bridge, I pulled into a space in the Vista Point parking lot and shut off my engine. I called my mom.
“Hi, honey,” she answered.
I hadn’t seen or talked to my mom in three weeks since I had told her I hated her for being so hard on me. My words were harsh toward the woman who had brought me into this world, but I had had years of resentment built up toward her. I had always been closer to my dad because I could do no wrong in his eyes. But my mom despised Brooklyn and thought fashion was silly and would never look at my sketches. It hurt me. It drove a wedge between us. I wanted her approval more than anyone’s, but she and I were different, and what I did didn’t interest her. It was hard to accept that my own mother could be so selfish that she wouldn’t even humor me by acting interested in what I had created. There were no siblings to talk it over with. I just had to learn to accept it. I couldn’t change her, but I vowed if I ever had kids, I would never dismiss their passion by telling them that it was a pipe dream, or by saying it didn’t interest me.
My parents were working-class Oakland lifers. My mom was a schoolteacher, and my dad was a UPS driver. They had been married for thirty-five years. The first ten they had spent trying to have a baby, then I came along. And I’m the only one. Imagine the pressure.
“Mom, I’m sorry about what I said to you at dinner.” I was going to take the high road.
“It’s been three weeks.”
“I know,” I said.
“I was giving you space, but I didn’t think it would take you this long. Better late than never, I guess. I appreciate the apology, Evelyn. I only want the best for you.”
“Mom, what is your idea of ‘the best for me’?”
“Some stability, that’s all.” Here we go again.
“I’m twenty-five. Stability is right up there with doing my taxes.”
She laughed. “You’re so spirited.”
Something came over me. “Speaking of—how come we never went to church?”
“Where are you right now, Evelyn? Shouldn’t you be at work?”
I got out of my car and walked toward the lookout. “I’m looking at the Golden Gate. I’m headed to Tracey’s. I just pulled over because I was thinking about you and I wanted to call you.” It was true. I had been thinking about her and the mysterious Lucian.
“We didn’t go to church because your grandparents were extremely staunch, devout Catholics who beat each other in front of me, told lies, were hypocrites, cheated on each other, and then divorced. It kind of left a bad taste in my mouth.”
My mom’s candor was shocking. “I can’t believe you just said all of that.”
“I don’t want you to hate me, Evey. I’m human; I make mistakes. I won’t always get it right, but I love you more than anything in this world, more than myself, and I want so badly for you to be happy. Your father and I didn’t take you to church, but we tried to be an example of love and honesty. We tried to show you that life can be fulfilling, that couples can be happy, and that you can be happy and have pride in what you do. But we also don’t want to see you fail. We don’t want to see you heartbroken either.”
“I have to decide what makes me happy. And maybe you have to let me fail sometimes, Mom. Maybe I need to experience a broken heart for once. You can’t control everything.”
“I know. I’m sorry I’ve been pressuring you.” A few seconds of silence passed before she added, “You have so much spirit. You’re someone’s muse—probably someone up there. You don’t have to go to church to believe in a higher power, sweetie. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“You want to talk to your dad? He took the day off. He’s here.”
“Sure.”
She handed him the phone.
“Hi, DD.” My dad had always called me DD La Rue. DD for Darling Daughter. Even my mom had started calling me that sometimes.
“Hi, Dad. How are you?”
“Good. Your mom is making me banana macadamia nut pancakes. I can’t complain.”
“I miss you.”
“Miss you too, DD. Come see us, we’re not that far. I saw that you were at that concert in Oakland. Two miles from the house.”
It stung that I had hurt him. “How’d you know?”
“Facebook, silly.”
“Ha! Well, I was on a date.”
“Anything serious? A good guy?” he asked.
“I thought I liked him, but in the end, he wasn’t who I thought he was. I’m sure I won’t see him again. No big deal.”
“Be safe, my Darling Daughter.”
“Always, Dad.”
We said I love yous and good-byes, and then hung up. I headed toward the pedestrian path on the bridge. I needed ten extra minutes before dealing with Tracey. It was a crisp and clear morning. No San Francisco fog in sight. I shivered from the breeze as I walked quickly toward the center of the bridge. I was chanting the name Lucian in my mind.