That was my mother.
Not to be outdone by the Sondervans—which, in all fairness, was not their real motive—Mother and Whitt took Jared and me to the club the following weekend. School was out, and I was officially a senior in the fall, so that was definitely worth celebrating.
Cascade Hills Country Club is the site of all VanHorn-Oliver Celebratory Dinners and miscellaneous other No Special Occasion dinners too. Mother rarely cooked and never for celebrations.
We talked about college, which I was practically in, so that was fine. I could contribute, and it looked like a real conversation, not just a list of polite questions or an inquisition.
My parents are not actually the inquisition type, so that’s good. They’re the 1) remember to let the dog out; 2) remember to buy milk; 3) remember to tell daughter we’re proud of her type. And that’s good too. We never run out of milk.
“I’m told there’s a secret to the Roommate Questionnaire,” I said just after we ordered.
“That’s right,” Jared confirmed.
“I don’t remember that,” Mother said.
“No, there is, and I’m refusing to divulge it until Bronwen tells me her second most favorite place on earth.”
“Oh, that’s Hilton Head,” Mother said.
I blinked at her.
“Is it?” Jared asked.
“No,” I said as Mother said, “Yes. Isn’t it?”
“No.”
“You love Hilton Head.”
“I like Hilton Head.”
Peter loves Hilton Head. Baking in the sun. He and Mother are two of those rare blondes blessed with melanocytes. They don’t exactly bronze in the summer, but they do turn a gorgeous toasty brown. I use so much sunscreen I swear I’m waterproofing myself.
“So where is it, if I may ask?” Whitt said. “And what’s the first?”
“The beach,” Jared said, which made me smile.
“At Hilton Head?” Mother asked.
“No. Ottawa,” I said.
(Ottawa Beach is the name of the public beach in Holland where— hello, Mother? —we grew up going with both my dad and Whitt.)
Whitt remembered. He smiled at me.
I thought I might turn pink.
This brought the conversation back around to Hope—five short miles from Ottawa Beach—and then college in general and where Mother and Whitt each went.
I was pleased with the tangent because it directedeveryone’s attention away from my other Most Favorite Place on Earth.
Truth was, it wasn’t so much a secret as one of those things I just did not feel like talking about. It was too—I didn’t know—too something. Too much something I didn’t feel like poking around in, conversationally that is. I thought about it all the time. Passed the place all the time. But it was one of the things that was all mine—unlike my teeth and my interest in journalism, apparently, which had to come from someone else, couldn’t just be mine. So if I didn’t share this with the whole table, it would remain, beautifully, all mine.
And then as a non sequitur, Mother asked, “Jared, how is your sister? I understand she’s getting married.”
“She is. Next June.”
“Do your parents like her fiancé?”
“They do. We all do. He’s terrific.”
“What does he do?” Whitt asked.
“He’s an attorney. Like Lauren.”
“Same firm?” Mother asked.
“No. He works for Veenkamp-Roy. He’s in their Business Transactions Group.”
I looked at Mother, who was dabbing her lips with her napkin and nodding.
Come on. Come on, say something, I privately rooted. Your second chance.
Come on.
“Where does Lauren work?” she asked.
Aw.
So I’m not telepathically gifted.
From there we talked about all sorts of things, including journalism, including the news.
I rode back to my house with Jared, and we took a walk, and he held my hand, and he said he had a really nice time with my parents, whom he happily called okay, and I agreed that they were. Definitely, very okay.
“Family is everything,” he said of families in general. “I’m really blessed to have mine.”
“Hey, speaking of your
Not to be outdone by the Sondervans—which, in all fairness, was not their real motive—Mother and Whitt took Jared and me to the club the following weekend. School was out, and I was officially a senior in the fall, so that was definitely worth celebrating.
Cascade Hills Country Club is the site of all VanHorn-Oliver Celebratory Dinners and miscellaneous other No Special Occasion dinners too. Mother rarely cooked and never for celebrations.
We talked about college, which I was practically in, so that was fine. I could contribute, and it looked like a real conversation, not just a list of polite questions or an inquisition.
My parents are not actually the inquisition type, so that’s good. They’re the 1) remember to let the dog out; 2) remember to buy milk; 3) remember to tell daughter we’re proud of her type. And that’s good too. We never run out of milk.
“I’m told there’s a secret to the Roommate Questionnaire,” I said just after we ordered.
“That’s right,” Jared confirmed.
“I don’t remember that,” Mother said.
“No, there is, and I’m refusing to divulge it until Bronwen tells me her second most favorite place on earth.”
“Oh, that’s Hilton Head,” Mother said.
I blinked at her.
“Is it?” Jared asked.
“No,” I said as Mother said, “Yes. Isn’t it?”
“No.”
“You love Hilton Head.”
“I like Hilton Head.”
Peter loves Hilton Head. Baking in the sun. He and Mother are two of those rare blondes blessed with melanocytes. They don’t exactly bronze in the summer, but they do turn a gorgeous toasty brown. I use so much sunscreen I swear I’m waterproofing myself.
“So where is it, if I may ask?” Whitt said. “And what’s the first?”
“The beach,” Jared said, which made me smile.
“At Hilton Head?” Mother asked.
“No. Ottawa,” I said.
(Ottawa Beach is the name of the public beach in Holland where— hello, Mother? —we grew up going with both my dad and Whitt.)
Whitt remembered. He smiled at me.
I thought I might turn pink.
This brought the conversation back around to Hope—five short miles from Ottawa Beach—and then college in general and where Mother and Whitt each went.
I was pleased with the tangent because it directedeveryone’s attention away from my other Most Favorite Place on Earth.
Truth was, it wasn’t so much a secret as one of those things I just did not feel like talking about. It was too—I didn’t know—too something. Too much something I didn’t feel like poking around in, conversationally that is. I thought about it all the time. Passed the place all the time. But it was one of the things that was all mine—unlike my teeth and my interest in journalism, apparently, which had to come from someone else, couldn’t just be mine. So if I didn’t share this with the whole table, it would remain, beautifully, all mine.
And then as a non sequitur, Mother asked, “Jared, how is your sister? I understand she’s getting married.”
“She is. Next June.”
“Do your parents like her fiancé?”
“They do. We all do. He’s terrific.”
“What does he do?” Whitt asked.
“He’s an attorney. Like Lauren.”
“Same firm?” Mother asked.
“No. He works for Veenkamp-Roy. He’s in their Business Transactions Group.”
I looked at Mother, who was dabbing her lips with her napkin and nodding.
Come on. Come on, say something, I privately rooted. Your second chance.
Come on.
“Where does Lauren work?” she asked.
Aw.
So I’m not telepathically gifted.
From there we talked about all sorts of things, including journalism, including the news.
I rode back to my house with Jared, and we took a walk, and he held my hand, and he said he had a really nice time with my parents, whom he happily called okay, and I agreed that they were. Definitely, very okay.
“Family is everything,” he said of families in general. “I’m really blessed to have mine.”
“Hey, speaking of your
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