Scratch the Surface

My mother, who had never been accepted—she was from a coal mining town in West Virginia, for heaven’s sake—was welcomed wholeheartedly into the fold when they noticed her chairing benefits, saw her face on the covers of all those different magazines, and especially when HGTV came calling and put her and my older brother in their line-up because they flipped houses together. It was like none of the unpleasantness had ever happened. The thing was, though, my mother was not, by nature, a trusting person, and her memory was long.

“You guys,” Courtney sniffled, blowing into the tissues I was holding to her nose and allowing me to clean up her face without ever losing eye contact with her phone screen. “It’s Cody,” she announced before pressing the speaker. “We’re all here.”

“Where the hell are you guys?” he growled at us. “It’s just me and Mak here, and shit, Mom’s gonna explode like Vesuvius any second now.”

“It’s fine, everything’s fine,” his wife, Makayla, assured us. “Though your cousin Justin did just ask me if I was a citizen before Cody and I got married, and I had to explain to him that I was actually born in Santa Monica.”

“He what?” Cody Gallagher asked his wife breathlessly, and I could hear the snarl and the rise in his voice at the end.

“That’s okay,” Seth snorted. “Aunt Bedelia asked Court if she was sad her babies would be Black and not white like her.”

“Is that why she wasn’t at their anniversary party in October?” Makayla questioned him, snickering at the same time.

“Yeah.” Seth sighed, reaching over the seat to take Courtney’s hand, which she grabbed. “I didn’t even know Court knew that many curse words.”

“And when Mom heard me,” Courtney announced, “she grabbed Bedelia’s arm and walked her right out the front door.”

Bedelia was my father’s youngest sister, and he had a soft spot for her, but as I knew he loved Seth more, there was never a question about who he was keeping in his life.

“That’s it, I’m clearing the room,” Cody announced angrily.

“Sweetie,” Makayla Gallagher, née Ruiz, who had an MFA in ceramics and who was a studio potter and a college professor as well, sounded a bit concerned. “Take a breath. The whole family isn’t full of racists; it’s just a few bad apples. I have some in mine, and Seth has them in his.”

“Without question,” Seth assured her.

“In your extended family,” Cody replied, making that point clear, “like ours. In our immediate family—that’s us, here on the phone, plus Mom and Dad—we’re all good, so why the hell do these people need to be here, huh? Why?” he asked, and his voice held an edge that I knew, from growing up with him, was one step from total combustion.

“Uhm, guys?” Makayla almost squeaked.

“We’re turning into the parking lot now,” I announced loudly to my sister-in-law. “Seth’s going to drop us at the front, and we’ll be up while he parks the car.”

“Why is he even talking to my wife?” Cody demanded, clipping every syllable.

“He’s breathing through his nose,” Makayla informed us dryly.

“We’ll be right there,” Courtney insisted, ending the call as Seth came to a jolting halt in front of the main doors.

We scrambled out, Courtney taking a moment to turn and threaten Seth with dismemberment if he didn’t get back fast, and I was suddenly missing Jeremiah almost painfully.

I wanted him there, sharing the experience of being elated over my father’s recovery, horrified over the obtuseness and privilege of my extended family, and keeping my mother from saying something she might or might not regret.

It made no sense to miss a man I barely knew, but somehow, I’d cast him in the role of boyfriend, and it felt wrong that he wasn’t with me.

My sister and I had to get out our IDs to show the hospital security guard. It was too early for visiting hours, after all, but my father’s cardiologist had put us on a special list. Even with that, it took longer than I thought it would to get us checked in. Lot of work for a paper sticker on my jacket. In the elevator, the two of us stared silently up at the display, probably freaking out the rest of the people in there with us, willing the floors to go by faster. When the doors finally opened, we heard voices layered one on top of the other.

Turning the corner, we saw the large waiting room filled with aunts and uncles and cousins, and at the center, standing at a large window, watching the rain that had just started to fall pelt the glass, was my mother. She was hugging herself, never a good sign, and trembling slightly.

“Excuse me,” I ordered loudly, and everyone moved aside, as they always did. My father said I had a certain tone—cold and icy—and my mother turned and fell apart.