Yellow Lights-Chapter 8

Chapter 8 of "Exit, Stage Left"

The days that followed Liz meeting my mother and Frank have been great. I couldn’t ask for a more natural, tension-free time. Since then, Liz and I have met Billy, Hannah and Danny for pizza, we’ve had lunch at my mother’s cafe where she got to meet the crew. I got a very distinct wide-eyed, slow nod of approval from Ben and Stephen (“with a ‘p-h’..”) who happened to be there that night, too. She’s been to the theater a couple times to hang with me. I’ve spent a few nights at her place when I’ve been able to finish work at a decent hour. I guess you could gather that things have been easy over the last two weeks or so. That’s not to say there haven’t been moments when I see a yellow light. Yellow lights are different from red flags, so let’s get that straight. A red flag indicates a severe slamming of the brakes, and possibly even a step backwards to reassess things. A yellow light merely makes you aware that proceeding with caution may be a good idea. Sometimes, a yellow light doesn’t even stem from Liz or  me. Outside factors can play a role in causing a yellow light to blink. Especially when you haven’t prepared for any yellow lights because things are going so well.

“When you told me she was a little older than you, I didn’t realize it was almost twenty years older,” my mother says, one evening on the phone with me. 

“Oh, mother, it’s like fifteen years. Don’t exaggerate.”

“I’m just saying. Not in a bad way. Dina, being 35, you’ve still got things to do, places to go, your life is still wide open about the things you need to do to feel fulfilled. At 50, your needs become different. You start whittling off the things you’ve learned along the way that you don’t want in this next phase of life, and surrounding yourself with the things that make you feel settled, comfortable and established. By the age of 50, you understand what satisfies and fulfills you.”

“Are you saying I can’t satisfy her because I’m 35?” This is what you call selective hearing at it’s finest. I can already feel myself getting hyper defensive.

“No, not at all. What I’m saying is quite the opposite.”

That hung in the air for a second.

“Well, I think we get along great. She’s got a successful career, her business practically runs itself, she owns income property, she’s traveled all over the world, she’s met all kinds of people, and-- “

“And that’s wonderful, but... have you? Because now is the time all of those things are going to be happening for you. That’s where you’re at. She’s done it. You’re just getting started. I just don’t want you to change the path you’re on to suit someone else’s needs, that’s all.”

“I’m not. I’m not doing anything differently. That’s the good thing, I don’t have to!”

My mother knows when she’s upset me. Typically, it doesn’t happen this fast. It hardly ever happens, really, at least since my teen years. Then again, I’m still new being in a relationship, so instead of just listening to her and processing it as advice, I’ve gone haywire in my head, like I’ve got to defend my “relationship’s honor”.

“Okay, okay. I’m not being negative. You guys make a great couple, and I can see how happy you make each other. Dina, I’m over-the-moon for you. I think Liz is wonderful, and I’m not trying to say anything wrong here or upset you.”

“I know. I just don’t see any issues with anything. Things are fine.” 

And there was the first yellow light. And I blew through it like I do at Water Street and Knight’s Way when I’m running late for work. 

Yes, my mother was probably right about some of that stuff, but how could she really know? I mean, my feeling is that Liz is supportive of my career. She wants me to have all those great experiences that she had and is completely comfortable being along for my ride, probably even help guide me along, and re-live all those eye opening adventures again. Besides, I can’t really see my life being as exciting as hers was, anyway. I mean, what on earth would take me to Paris, Milan, or London other than a once in a lifetime vacation? I run a 275-seat theater in a little town in upstate NY. Okay, so, potentially, I could one day produce or direct a show that makes it to Broadway in the Big Apple. That's about the extent of it and that’s barely even a long distance relationship we're talking about. My career dreams are not going to cause this relationship to de-rail. Everything else will just fall into place organically, like it has been. 

At pizza night with Billy and Hannah, a yellow light happened, without even an ounce of warning. 

Billy was telling us about how a family recently moved in on their street with three kids, but they were all way older than Danny. 

“My Mom and Billy said that when Dina has a baby, I’m going to have a play mate for life!” Danny blurts out of his big sauce-ringed mouth. 

No one saw that coming, I can assure you, because I gagged on a piece of crust, Hannah nearly dropped her glass of water with lemon, and Liz’s Diet Coke straw stuck to her lip as her mouth fell open across from me. Billy, being the idiot he can be, tried stuffing a mozzarella stick in Danny’s mouth. “These are good, right, Dan?!” he says, almost frantically. Then came the awkward silence as we all watch Danny spit out pieces of cheese.

“What did he just say?” I ask, after a gulp of water to get my pizza crust bite the rest of the way down my throat. 

Hannah, laughs, nervously, “Oh my God, one time, Danny was complaining about not having any kids his own age to play with, and we jokingly said that when Dina has a baby, he’ll be set for life. You know kids. They can be so literal!” 

“Can I have some quarters to play the games?” Danny asks, pointing the arcade area. Billy jumps up, and takes his hand, “Yeah, Buddy, let’s play some air hockey!” Leave it to the guy to dodge his way out of this one.

“Oh my goodness, that IS funny,” I say, doing my best not to freak out. I can honestly say that I haven’t even thought about having a kid since probably the first year Billy and I were dating. Even after we got married, we were in that semi-selfish stage, getting the house the way we wanted it, having the cars we both wanted. Being able to go away for weekends, sleeping in on the weekends, it was all just too good to give up. I think we may have discussed getting a puppy once, but we just sort of knew that we weren’t ready for kids. Even when his parents would ask us about it, we would just say, “Not ready yet.” It didn’t even spawn huge debates or discussions, we just really, honestly didn’t give it any thought. 

After I came out, kids were the furthest thing from my mind, and it’s been that way ever since. I mean, I see the perfect little “alterna-families” all the time and I think it’s adorable and wonderful, but I still wasn’t ready. 

“Did you ever want kids, Liz?” Hannah asks, innocently. Well, we might as well go there since your son blew that door wide open on this topic, I think.

“No, not really. I mean, I adore other people’s children, but I just knew I didn’t have the patience or inclination in my twenties. I didn’t truly hit my personal stride until I was in my late thirties. And by that time, my career was taking off, so it wasn’t really an option. I don’t know. I don’t feel badly about it. I love my sister’s kids. My niece and nephew mean the world to me, but I don’t have any regrets about not having children,” Liz says, arranging her silverware on her dish, and dropping her napkin on top of it, signaling she was done. She slowly pushes her plate away a bit.

I wouldn’t describe it as there being tension in the air, but something had happened. I got the feeling this wasn’t the first time Liz has been asked about the children thing because her answer had a sort of stoic certainty that seems to stay suspended in the air. 

Hannah nods, taking her last few sips of water before looking over at Billy and Knucklehead, playing air hockey. “I’m just going to go check on the boys,” she says, excusing herself from the table. I am staring into my water glass, not really ready for any eye contact yet, because I still didn’t know whether this whole conversation is a good thing or a bad thing. 

“What about you, Dina? Do you ever think about having a baby?” she asks. My head was telling me this was one of those times to just be vague and gently avoid this topic. My heart, on the other hand, was telling me to be honest and open about my thoughts on the topic and just because they may not be what Liz wants to hear, I shouldn’t not say them. Man, when my head and my heart clash, theres no telling what may come out. 

“Have I ever thought about it? Yes. Have I thought about it recently? No.  I haven’t thought about it in a long time. I guess ...because I know I have a while longer before it becomes a priority. I don’t know if it’s because of my career, or the fact that I haven’t met anyone I would consider having a child with, or my own fears about it in general, I just haven’t thought about it. But, I think that’s okay ...because there are things I want to do first.”

She’s leaned forward a bit, folded both arms on the table, listening to me. I know I’m looking at her for some sort of sign whether that answer was a good one or bad one to her and I can’t really make it out. She reaches out and covers my hand with hers, and just simply says, “It is okay. Whatever you’re feeling on the subject is perfectly okay.”

I smile, a bit relieved. Not sure if the relief is coming from this topic being side lined for now, or if it’s because I didn’t stun her or upset her, or because she seems to be alright now after having to defend her choice not to have kids, or even if it’s from being honest, and not having the roof collapse.

About two weeks later, Liz and I had come back to my place from my mother’s house after an early brunch. I had taken a shower, and was still in my towel, fluffing out my hair, as she sat on my bed with her iPad on her lap. She usually checks her email and schedule that way, so I was used to seeing her with her sexy glasses on, looking all business-like. As I walked over to the night stand where my moisturizer was, she reaches out to stroke my super smooth, just-shaved leg, while she continues to read. “Ooo, that’s nice and smooth,” she says.

“Careful now, it’s still light out,” I tease. We’ve had many discussions about how we both feel even more vulnerable having sex with the lights on, or when it’s light outside, because you can see every imperfection up close. She laughs, tossing the iPad aside. “I was just going to help you with your lotion,” she says, making room for me to sit. “Oh, well in that case,” I say, handing her the bottle and sitting next to her. I’m propped up on my pillow, knees bent, and she’s now more or less, lying along my body, running a firm, lotion-covered hand from the top of my foot, up my shin, to my knee and back down again. I can feel my insides stir. She slowly starts to peel away my towel. My first instinct is to hold it, because, like I said, it was still light out. Not like twelve o’ clock high noon sunshine, but still light enough to show every ounce of cellulite, blemishes, and a few scars. “Baby, it’s okay,” she says, opening my towel more. She studies my exposed flesh, still sensually slathering me in moisturizer. “I see all shapes and sizes in my line of work, and all sorts of things,” she says, “so, just relax...” I nervously nodded, and shut my eyes, just trying to focus on what her hands were doing to me. “Lay back,” she says, “and exhale.”

I do exactly what she says, and in a few minutes, I’m completely unaware of the evening sunset pushing it’s way through the half open window blinds, or the scar on my knee from a bicycle accident when I was 16 or the dry patch I always get on my left elbow, or the spiky stubble streak I missed on my leg when shaving. She uses the perfect blends of pressure along my legs and thighs, which she parts expertly.  

After a perfectly mind blowing orgasm from the steadiest, rhythmic penetration ever, I can barely open my eyes, let alone my legs to allow her hand free. “God, that was amazing,” I say, finally uncurling my toes, and un-tightening my legs. She snuggles up for a soft kiss, and traces a light line with her finger tip along my bottom lip. “It’s always amazing with you,” she whispers, “and look...it’s almost dark out now,” she giggles. 

“Hey, you’re still dressed,” I say, between kisses. She grins a bit, “I know, but I just wanted to make this all about you.” She nestles up along my naked body, and runs her fingers up and down my chest. 

“Don’t answer this now, but I just got a notice that my renter’s canceled for Thanksgiving at the cabin, and I was thinking how nice it would be to go up there, just us. I can cook for you. We can spend the nights...like this.” she says, trailing her hand down my torso, and back up again, “Just think about it.”

“It sounds great, but we have a final dress rehearsal on Friday night and we open on Saturday. I can’t go away.”

“But we could leave on Wednesday evening after your rehearsal, and come back on Friday morning. You’d have plenty of time to get to the theater for the dress rehearsal. It only takes an hour or so to get up there.”

“I don’t know, Liz...in thirty four years, I’ve never missed a Thanksgiving with my family,” I say, hoping to not sound like a baby.

“I know, but we’re not making a new tradition here, it’s just this once, and besides, we’ll be with all of them at Christmas, I promise.”

“Did we scare you with our description and all that ‘organized chaos’ stuff? Because it’s not as bad as it sounds, really,” I say.

“No,” she laughs, “Oh, honey, no, not at all. I just think you’ve been working really hard, and have had such long hours, so it would be nice to have some uninterrupted, quality time together,” she says.

Well, that much is true. I’m used to the hours, because I’m doing what I love, so it doesn’t bother me. It’s not like I’m digging trenches, or anything, but maybe it would be nice to spend Thanksgiving in a low-key way, rather than be dead center in a Category 2 food storm. 

“Okay, how about this. I’ll run it by my mother and if she doesn’t ‘fall on the casket’, we’ll do it.”

“Fall on the casket?” she asks, up on one elbow.

“Yeh, that what me and my cousins call it when Italian mothers get dramatic and overreact about stuff. Like, in the movies when an a little old Italian woman, all dressed in black at a funeral, dramatically throws herself on a casket at the cemetery, wailing inaudible words and stuff,”  I explain.

She laughs. “So...okay. See how it goes.” She pauses a minute, thinking about it. “We’ll have so much fun, really. I just had the place cleaned and stocked, we can even bring your play up there. I’d love to read it. Oh! I’ll make us ‘special’ brownies,” she giggles,  “we’ll crack open the wine, take a long, hot bubble bath together,” she says, nuzzling my neck with her lips.

It’s hard enough to think in a post orgasmic haze, but she has a way of revving up my motor to the point where I can’t even talk, so I basically just groan in agreement. 

The next day, I was on the phone with my mother, on my drive to the theater, trying to gauge her mood before dropping the bomb. My family has a flair for the dramatic. That great Aunt from Batavia, that I mentioned before, is the most theatrical of them all, so it’s easy to see where we get it from. When her son, David was 15, he got caught stealing sunglasses at the mall, and the store owner called the cops, who gave David a lecture and brought him home. My Aunt threw herself across the kitchen table, crying about what a juvenile delinquent she raised, started pulling out money from her bra to pay for the glasses, sobbing about how they always taught him to be a good boy, sticking out her wrists and telling the cops, “Take me instead!” David can reenact it perfectly to this day and make us crack up, laughing. I’ve only seen my mother lose it twice. Once at the hospital when my father was in intensive care and some young woman who had a crush him from the softball league he played on, showed up at the hospital with with candy and flowers. My mother went ballistic, to the point where she yanked the flowers out of the woman’s hand in the hallway and threw them clear across the nurses’ station, then knocked the candy out of her other hand and stomped on it until the security guards had to calm her down, and escort the woman out. Quite the show for woman who is 5’ 3’’ and probably weighs 109 pounds soaking wet. The other time, I was about 13 years old, and testing the boundaries of my swearing, and after a typical parent-teen argument, when she grounded me from a George Michael concert, I called her a b***h under my breath as I was walking away. She dropped the pan she was carrying to the stove, and chased me down the hallway to my bedroom, where I had shut and locked my door, panting like an Iditarod Sled dog. “Open this door, Dina Marie Duranti!” she yelled. I turned up my radio, like a brat. “If you don’t open this door in the next 3 seconds, I swear to God, I’ll knock it down!” She was jiggling the door handle as she spoke. I was no dummy. If I opened the door, she would beat my a*s, so I was just going to wait until she calmed down enough to discus-- BOOM! Like the Hulk, she shoulder checked that door right off it’s hinges! Now, that’s a ‘falling on the casket’ moment, right there, so I know what my mother is capable of. 

“So, um..Ma, listen. Liz and I were talking last night, and she’s had a last minute cancellation and her cabin is free, so...she wanted to...maybe...spend a few days up in Ellicottville,” I stammer out. 

“Oh, that’s great, how nice!”

“Over Thanksgiving,” I add.

“Over Thanksgiving?” she says, loudly.

“Yeah.”

“What about dinner...and the play?”

“Well, we would go up tomorrow night, she wants to cook and we’ll be back Friday morning,” I say, nervously biting my index finger nail at a red light. 

There’s a long pause before my mother say anything more.

“Well, okay. If that’s what you want to do,” she says. I can sense she isn’t thrilled, but she’s not falling on the casket. 

“I think it’ll be fun. I mean, I’ll miss you guys but it’s just something different for a change, and besides, we’ll be with you for all the Christmas stuff,” 

“Alright, ...so, I guess I’ll see you at Opening Night?”

“Yes, definitely, of course,” I say. 

“Okay, then. Have a good time and be sure to call me on Thursday so I know you made it there safe.”

And that was it. We had hung up on decent, if not, dare I say, good terms. But I wasn’t feeling great about it. All my daughter-guilt kicked in and I began worrying about if she would have enough help, was she really okay or just saying she was okay. Wait, did she even say she was okay? No. Did I hurt her feelings? Was I over-thinking this?

I call her back. 

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Are you okay with this? I mean, do you have enough help? Are you mad?”

“What? No, I’m fine. Marti will be over early, like usual, Frank is here, Hannah will help like she always does, it’ll be fine. I’m not mad. Do I wish you guys were going to be here? Of course I do, but I understand you want some private down time. You’ll have fun, honey. Don’t worry about me. It’ll be a crazy good time like it always is.”

Well, she didn’t fall on the casket at all. In fact, she barely even looked at it.