Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin [66]
As I cross Darcy's yard into my own, my dad throws up his arm and gives an exaggerated, overhand wave as if signaling a far-off ship. "Hello, counselor!" he belts out, all grins. The novelty of having an attorney daughter has yet to wear off.
"Hi, Dad!" I kiss him and then my mother, who is hovering at his side, already examining me for possible signs of anorexia, which is ridiculous.
I am nowhere near too thin, but my mom does not accept New York's definition of thin.
As I field their questions about my flight, I notice that the hall wallpaper has changed. I advised my mother against wallpaper, told her paint was the way to go for a fresher look. But she stuck with wallpaper, switching from tiny floral print to slightly tinier floral print. My parents' taste has not evolved since around the time that Ronald Reagan was shot. Our home still has lots of country touches—cross-stitched expressions of good cheer like "Back-door friends are best," a scattering of wooden cows and pigs and pineapples, stencil borders throughout.
"Nice wallpaper," I say, trying to sound sincere.
My mom doesn't buy it. "I know—you don't like wallpaper, but your father and I do," she says, motioning me into the kitchen. "And we're the ones who live here."
"I never said I liked wallpaper," my dad says, winking at me.
She shoots him a practiced look of annoyance. "You most certainly did, John." Then she tells me in a whisper, designed for him to hear, that, in fact, my father picked the new paper.
He gives me a "Who, me?" expression.
They never tire of their routine. She plays the fearless leader, corralling her unruly husband, the good-natured fool. Although I spent much of my adolescence irritated by the monotony of it, particularly when I had friends over, I have come to appreciate it in recent years. There is something comforting about the sameness of their interaction. I am proud that they have stayed together, when so many of my friends' parents have divorced, remarried, morphed two families into one, with varying degrees of success.
My mom points to a plate of cheddar cheese, Ritz crackers, and red grapes. "Eat," she says.
"Are these seedless?" I ask. Grapes with seeds just aren't worth the effort.
"Yes, they are," my mom says. "Now. Shall I throw something together or would you rather order pizza?"
She knows that I'd prefer pizza. First, I love Sal's pizza, which I can only get when I'm home. Second, "throwing something together" is an exact description of my mom's cooking—her idea of seasoning is salt and pepper, her idea of a recipe is tomato soup and crackers. Nothing strikes fear in my heart like the sight of my mother strapping on an apron.
"Pizza," my dad answers for us. "We want pizza!'
My mom pulls a Sal's coupon off the refrigerator and dials the number, ordering a large pizza with mushrooms and sausage. She covers the mouthpiece. "Right, Rachel?"
I give her the thumbs-up. She beams, proud to have memorized my favorite combination.
Before she can hang up, she is inquiring about my love life. As though all my phone updates informing them that I have nothing going on were just a ruse, and I've been saving the truth tor this moment. My father covers his ears with feigned embarrassment. I give them a tight-lipped smile, thinking to myself that this inquisition is the only part of coming home that I don't like. I feel that I am a disappointment. I am letting them down. I am their only child, their only shot at grandchildren. The math is pretty basic: if I don't have children in the next five years or so, it is unlikely they will see their grandchildren