I glanced at Hudson and my cheeks warmed. There was no way I was telling my parents about walking in on Hudson and my ex-roommate. Or about how I crashed into him and turned his shirt into a Jackson Pollock painting.
Luckily, Hudson said, “We are taking the same photography class and we paired up for a project.”
“Oh, something creative. How nice,” my mom said. “What was the project?”
We told them about the interviews we had to conduct and showed them the results, and my mother noticed the photographs I had from the dumpling-making day.
“What are those?” She peered closer. “It looks like you’re cooking something.”
“They’re dumplings,” I said.
“Really? Those are the weirdest shaped dumplings I’ve ever seen,” my mom said, having enlarged one of the photos.
“They may be weird,” Hudson said, “but they taste like heaven.” He kissed his fingers in appreciation. Ruby and I had made a couple of batches since then. They were handy to keep in the freezer and cheap to make.
“One of Ruby’s old professors is Chinese and she invited me and Ruby over to make dumplings,” I explained.
My parents exchanged a glance.
“What’s that look?” I asked.
“We’re just…surprised,” my dad said.
“Ever since I can remember,” my mom said, “you’ve been adamantly opposed to anything Chinese. We tried to introduce you to all sorts of things, but you refused to cooperate. We even signed up for a summer camp for families with children adopted from China, which we thought sounded perfect. The kids had activities—dancing, crafts and games and the adults had their own sessions about the phases of adoption and our children’s heritage. But you cried for hours and begged us not to make you go.”
“You actually screamed at the top of your lungs,” my dad said. “It was a fit like you’d never thrown before so, against our better judgement, we cancelled the trip.”
“I…don’t remember that,” I said. I searched my memory and found nothing, but that didn’t mean anything. There was a lot about my childhood that was a blur.
“How old was I?”
“About six, I think,” my mom said.
My dad nodded in agreement. “So, even though we didn’t go to the camp, we tried to teach you about your heritage, but you made it clear you didn’t want anything to do with your birthplace, so eventually, we gave up.”
I sat there, stunned and speechless at this revelation. I’d been harboring a grudge against China since I was a little girl and forced my parents to go along with it.
“I had no idea,” I said. “All this time, I thought you were just, I don’t know, trying to make me assimilate more fully as an American.”
“You thought we were racists?” my dad asked, looking hurt.
“No! No, I didn’t, honestly. If you were racist, you would have adopted a white girl.”
“But you thought we valued our culture over yours,” Dad said.
“I did, yes, but I know now that isn’t true.”
Hudson cleared his throat. “You know what this means, right?”
“What?” I asked.
“It means you’ve got to make us dumplings for dinner,” he said.
My parents agreed wholeheartedly. “That sounds wonderful!” my mom exclaimed.
“Can you make enough for staff meal?” my dad asked.
“I can. We can,” I said, glancing at Hudson. “The recipe makes a lot.”
As I got a piece of paper to write down a list of what we needed to pick up from the grocery store, I was filled with a relief I couldn’t even describe. I’d come to think that part of my reluctance to explore my Chinese side came from the mistaken belief that my parents wouldn’t like it. I owed them so much and I tried never to displease them out of respect and love. But now that I knew the truth—that they wanted me to embrace my heritage—I was free to be as Chinese as I wanted. What a revelation.
28
Hudson
I hadn’t understood until this road trip how much it took for Indi to “make herself presentable”—her words, not mine. I’d thought she put on something to cover up the birthmark and then regular makeup on top of that. Boy, was I wrong.
I know this because on the day we were setting out for Brooklyn for part two of our Thanksgiving road trip, I convinced her to let me watch her do her face and it took a long time and a bag full of products—stuff to moisturize, stuff to prime, stuff to cancel out the purple, stuff to conceal. And there was so much blending. I swear, she spent half the time dabbing at her face with a sponge so it looked smooth. Eventually, she put on stuff I was more familiar with—mascara, eye shadow, blush.
When she was done, she turned and smiled at me. “Here it is. Totally worth the effort, right?”
“You look beautiful, as always,” I said in a tone that must have pinged her radar in some way.
Narrowing her eyes, she put her hands on her hips. “But…?”
I hesitated to tell her what I really felt, but in the end, decided honesty was the best policy. All I wanted was for her to realize, to me and her parents and everyone who loved her, she was perfect the way she was and nothing extra was required.
“But…is it all or nothing?” I asked. “There’s no middle ground? Because with girls I know, even my mom, there’s like a sliding scale of stuff they do to their face…like a light version for like just going to the grocery store or wherever. Like just mascara and blush, you know?”
I knew from the frosty expression on her face that I’d stepped in it.
“Oh my God, Hudson, it’s like you didn’t just watch me go through my whole routine. No, I don’t have a light version of my face to fall back on. I wish I had the choice, believe me, I do, but I can’t just go out with mascara and blush like other women.”
“When was the last time you went out without makeup?” I asked.
She scowled at me. “Not counting that time I ran into you at the Marketplace, eight years ago.”
“And you were how old?”
“Thirteen. We’ve been over this. I told you that day at Waterfront Park how much I was bullied, that my life was a misery before I started wearing makeup.”
“I remember. But you were just a kid back then. At that age, we’re all fucked-up and insecure, surrounded for seven hours a day by other fucked-up insecure little pricks. But it’s got to be different now that you’re older. Plus, society has made a little progress too, hasn’t it? I mean not too long ago, hockey players slung homophobic slurs around as a matter of course. These days, at least on the ice, there are fines and punishments. People in general are more sensitive, aren’t they?”
“You know, if I’d known when you asked to see my makeup routine I was going to get lectured afterward, I would never have said yes.”
“Indi, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lecture you.”
“Damn straight. You have no idea what I’ve been through or what it’s like to look like me. You look like a Greek god, for shit’s sake. You do realize that, don’t you? Unless something major happens to your face—God forbid—you’ll never know what it’s like. You’ll never be told your face would make a great Halloween costume or watch people back away from you because they’re afraid they’re going to catch whatever disease it is you’ve got. So do me a favor. Until you’ve experienced that firsthand, keep your suggestions to yourself.”
Then she announced she was going for a walk, alone, and left the house.
In the aftermath when I went downstairs, Bonnie said, “How about a nice cup of hot cocoa?”
“With marshmallows?”
“Of course with marshmallows.”
“That sounds perfect,” I said, sitting down at the table.
She put some water into her electric kettle and turned it on then got out two mugs and two packets of instant.
“You heard, I take it?” I asked.
“I heard some kind of argument going on. Indi gets loud when she gets angry.”<
br />
“And boy, was she angry.”
“But I don’t know what it was about.”
I told her.
“Her birthmark is a touchy subject, that’s for sure,” Bonnie said. “Always has been. I will tell you, though, it’s a sign of how much she trusts you that she lets you see it.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t negate the fact that I royally fu—er, messed up. She’s probably out there right now buying a bus ticket back to Burlington so she won’t have to come to Brooklyn with me.”
Bonnie shook her head. “Trust me. I know my daughter. Indi’s crazy about you. And for the record, so are Kevin and I. You’re exactly what she needs, Hudson.”
“Oh? What’s that? A guy who can’t seem to resist pushing his girlfriend’s buttons?”
“From what you told me, you didn’t push any buttons on purpose and Indi will realize that. Eventually.” Bonnie poured the boiling water into the mugs and brought them to the table along with two spoons.
I cleared my throat. “I believe I was promised marshmallows.”
“Oops!”
She jumped back up, dug out a bag of mini-marshmallows and laughingly shook some into our mugs. I stirred mine a little longer to get the marshmallows all gooey, then took a sip.
“Man, this hits the spot. Thank you.”
“Not at all,” she said, sipping her own cocoa with her spoon. “Now as I was saying, Indi will realize she overreacted and when she comes back, she’ll apologize.”
“And I’ll apologize right back. She was right. I don’t know what it’s like to have a birthmark on my face. I should have just kept my mouth shut.”
“I disagree.”
I blinked at her in surprise.
“If you ask me, the makeup is a crutch that she’s been using far too long. Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against makeup. I really don’t. It helped her get through a very rough time, but at the risk of mixing metaphors, it’s time she started riding without the training wheels. It’s always been her dad’s and my hope that she wear the makeup to enhance, not to hide.”
“Yes, exactly! That’s exactly what I want too, I just didn’t know how to put it into words. But how can we do that?”
She smiled ruefully. “I think we can’t to anything. This is something Indi has to figure out for herself. All we can do is support her.”
Bonnie did indeed know her daughter. When Indi came back, she immediately walked up to me and hugged me fiercely. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how on edge I was. On some level I had been afraid I’d ruined everything and destroyed her trust and that when she came back she’d break up with me. But now, with her face pressed into my chest and her arms around me, those fears flew away.
“I’m sorry I blew up at you,” she said, her voice muffled. “You didn’t deserve it.”
“And I’m sorry I was an insensitive jerk.”
She stepped back and looked up at me. “You weren’t being insensitive. I was the one being oversensitive. I just…” She shook her head. “I thought you understood why I wear makeup.”
“I do. I do understand.”
“Good. Then we never have to talk about it again. It’s my choice. Mine. You don’t get a say.”
“Of course not. It’s your face.”
“Exactly.”
We were about fifteen minutes away from my parents’ house when I said to Indi, “Remember how you had to warn me about your mom and dad’s group hug?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I wanted to warn you that my parents like extravagance, they like to spend money. Understated is a four-letter word.”
“I don’t care. I just want to see where you grew up.”
“I actually only lived a couple of years in the State Street house. I was born in Philadelphia where my dad played for three years. Then he was traded to Boston. We spent five years there. Then the rest of his career, eleven more years, we’ve been here in Brooklyn but in three different houses.”
“That’s a lot of moving,” she said. “Occupational hazard?”
“Yep,” I said, wiggling my finger in my ear. “One that’s a lot more disruptive than smelling like pizza.”
“Still hearing that noise?” she asked.
I’d noticed a high-pitched ringing when we were driving from Burlington to Brattleboro and thought something was going on with the Jeep, but then I’d heard it again yesterday afternoon when we were in the Briscoes’ living room.
“Yeah,” I said, frowning. “It comes and goes.”
“It’s called tinnitus. I get that too once in a while. I happen to know that it can be caused by a build-up of ear wax. There are kits you can get at the pharmacy to clean out your ears. We could get you one if you want.”
“Look at you, getting your doctor on,” I teased.
She laughed and punched me in the arm playfully. “Stop it. I’m a long way from being a doctor.”
“Let’s give it a try. This is three times in the past few days.”
We stopped at a drug store to get the ear wax kit and a decongestant. My head was feeling a little stuffy and I wondered if that could be a factor too. I made a mental note to do more research on tinnitus if cleaning my ears didn’t make it go away.
“Do me a favor. Don’t mention the tinnitus to anyone, okay?”
“Why?”
I sighed. “I might as well tell you. You’re going to see it firsthand as soon as we get there.”
“See what?”
“My family has no boundaries when it comes to me. I told you all about how I’m the only one of my generation to be drafted…”
“No, you told me you’d been drafted, but not that you were the only one. How many of your cousins play hockey?”
“Three.”
“And you’re the only one who was good enough?”
I shrugged. “Anyway, the family has a reputation to uphold, which means I have a reputation to uphold, so everyone feels like they have a stake in my career, which means they all think nothing of sticking their noses into every aspect of my life.”
“How annoying. Can’t you tell them to stop?”
“I’ve tried, but it doesn’t work. It’s better to just not give them any ammunition in the first place. Trust me.”
29
Hudson
“Hudson!” Tears in her eyes, my mom embraced me with a squeal then leaned back.
She was a beautiful woman, my mom—tall and lithe with loads of blond hair and a body she worked hard to maintain. She was gracious and warm and loving, generous to a fault and loved company, but she was no pushover. She couldn’t be, not and be married to my dad.
“Smile,” she commanded me.
I obeyed and, as per our ritual, she inspected my mouth, saw that I still had all my teeth, then patted me on the cheek.
“Where’s Dad?” I asked.
My mom waved a hand. “He had something to go to in Minneapolis. He promised he’d be back tomorrow in time for dinner. Indi, darling. I’m so glad you could come.”
“Thank you for having me,” Indi said after the obligatory hug. “You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Forte.”
“Call me Marlene. Would you like a tour?” my mother asked.
“I’d love one,” Indi replied.
Even though I’d told Indi to expect lavishness, I could tell she was still awestruck. I didn’t blame her. I should have told her about the temperature controlled 1500 bottle capacity wine cellar in the basement; the rooftop terrace where the hot tub was, the third-floor terrace off the second kitchen (yes, second kitchen) that was part herb garden, part lounge area; and the phenomenal view of the Manhattan skyline, visible from the fourth and fifth floors.
I worried she was going to look at me differently after she saw, in person, how wealthy we were. It had happened before. Friends who had been perfectly comfortable around me before became suddenly awkward once they realized either who my family was and/or how much money we had.
“I made reservations for t
he three of us at Alec’s at seven thirty. Indi, that’s a steakhouse, but if you don’t eat red meat they have other options. Personally, the truffle fries there are to die for. So is are the mashed potatoes with truffle butter. It’s like truffle heaven for me every time we go there.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“Indi’s parents own a pizzeria in Brattleboro,” I said.
“Really? How wonderful. Dom wants to open a restaurant but I don’t think it’s a good idea. It seems like a lot of work.”
“It is a lot of work,” Indi said. “The hours are insane and you’re almost never able to take a vacation.”
“Do me a favor,” my mom said. “Tell Hudson’s father about the nitty-gritty reality of restaurant ownership. I think he has this grand idea that he can just breeze in whenever he feels like it, schmooze a little, eat for free and leave.”
“I suppose he could do that, if he had good people working for him,” Indi said. “But honestly, it’s a tough business and if he has no restaurant experience…”
“Just eating in them,” my mom said.
“Then he’s probably better off just investing in someone else’s restaurant. That way, he can say he’s an owner, but doesn’t actually have to do the work or know what he’s doing for that matter.”
My mom looked at her smart watch. “I’m afraid I have a spa appointment I have to go to now, a facial.” She pursed her lips. “Indi, would you like to come along? I’m sure Brayden could fit you in.”
“Marlene, thank you so much for the offer,” Indi said, “but I’m beat. I’d like to just lay down and rest until dinner.”
“There’s nothing more relaxing than a facial,” my mother said.
“Maybe next time,” Indi said. “I’ve got studying to do too. I only have two more months before the MCAT.”
“All right, I understand. I’ll be back in a couple of hours, you two. In the meantime, there are a few snacks and a bottle of Chardonnay in your room to tide you over.”
Darkroom: A Moo U Hockey Romance Page 19
