“I called you on Wednesday.”
“Wednesday was four days ago. You could be dead.”
“I’m not dead, Ma.”
“How would I know? I have to find out from Instagram that my son is alive. You posted a picture of pad thai last night. You don’t even cook.”
Ellis glanced up from his tablet. I mouthed, “My Mom,” and he nodded, returning to his reading, but I caught the shift in his attention. He was listening without looking like he was listening.
“The pad thai was from a restaurant.” I kept my voice light. “Thai Villa on Graham.”
“Is it good? Your tía Rosa says that place has roaches.”
“Tía Rosa thinks everywhere has roaches.”
“Because everywhere does. This is New York.” She paused, and I could hear her moving through her apartment. The familiar soundtrack of pots being shifted, the creak of the cabinet above the stove, the faint radio she always had on in the kitchen playing bachata or the news, depending on her mood. Sunset Park sounds. Home sounds. “Are you eating enough?”
“I’m eating fine.”
“You look thin in that picture.”
“Ma, you can’t tell body composition from a food photo.”
“I’m your mother. I can tell everything from everything.” Another pause. The pot sounds stopped. Here it came. “Mijo, are you seeing anyone?”
My stomach dropped. Not dramatically. Not the way it would have if she’d asked a year ago, back when the answer was “several people, none of them worth mentioning.” But now the answer was different. Now the answer had a name and a watering schedule and hazel eyes, and was currently three feet away from me pretending to read about JavaScript frameworks.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re twenty-four and you never bring anyone home. Daniela’s getting married next October, and your abuela is going to ask. I’d like to have something to tell her besides ‘he’s too busy with his little parties.’”
“They’re not little parties. They’re corporate events with six-figure budgets.”
“Mijo. Answer the question.”
I looked at Ellis. He’d stopped scrolling. His eyes were still on the tablet, but they weren’t moving, and his jaw had that set to it that meant he was concentrating on something that wasn’t the screen.
“I’m seeing someone,” I said.
The silence on her end lasted exactly one and a half seconds, which for my mother was an eternity.
“Since when?”
“Few months.”
“Few months and you’re just telling me now? What’s wrong with her?”
The pronoun landed like a stubbed toe. Her. Not “him” or even “them” or “this person.” Because even though my mom had been fine with me being gay since I was sixteen, her default setting still drifted toward the feminine when she pictured my future. She’d accepted that I liked men the way she accepted that I’d moved to Bushwick with grace, publicly, and with a private undertow of hoping I’d eventually change my mind.
“Nothing’s wrong with him, Ma.”
“Him.” A pause. “What’s his name?”
“We’re not there yet.”
“Not where? I’m asking for a name, not a blood sample.”
“When it’s serious, you’ll meet him.”
