Craning her neck, Alice inspected the kitchen and living room from the hallway. The furnishings, most likely yard sale finds and parent hand-me-downs, looked rather hip together—an orange sectional couch, retro-inspired coffee table, Brady Bunch–style kitchen table and chairs. The white walls were bare except for a poster of Marlon Brando taped above the couch. The air smelled strongly of Windex, as if Lydia had taken last-second measures to clean the place before Alice’s arrival.
In fact, it was a little too clean. No DVDs or CDs lying around, no books or magazines thrown on the coffee table, no pictures on the refrigerator, no hint of Lydia’s interests or aesthetic anywhere. Anyone could be living here. Then, Alice noticed the pile of men’s shoes on the floor to the left of the door behind her.
“Tell me about your roommates,” she said as Lydia returned from her room, cell phone in hand.
“They’re at work.”
“What kind of work?”
“One’s bartending and the other delivers food.”
“I thought they were both actors.”
“They are.”
“I see. What are their names again?”
“Doug and Malcolm.”
It flashed only for a moment, but Alice saw it and Lydia saw her see it. Lydia’s face flushed when she said Malcolm’s name, and her eyes darted nervously away from her mother’s.
“Why don’t we get going? They said they can take us early,” said Lydia.
“Okay, I just need to use the bathroom first.”
As Alice washed her hands, she looked over the products sitting on the table next to the sink—Neutrogena facial cleanser and moisturizer, Tom’s of Maine mint toothpaste, men’s deodorant, a box of Playtex tampons. She thought for a moment. She hadn’t had her period all summer. Did she have it in May? She’d be turning fifty next month, so she wasn’t alarmed. She hadn’t yet experienced any hot flashes or night sweats, but not all menopausal women did. That would be just fine with her.
As she dried her hands, she noticed the box of Trojan condoms behind Lydia’s hairstyling products. She was going to have to find out more about these roommates. Malcolm, in particular.
They sat at a table outside on the patio at Ivy, a trendy restaurant in downtown Los Angeles, and ordered two drinks, an espresso martini for Lydia and a merlot for Alice.
“So how’s Dad’s Science paper coming?” asked Lydia.
She must’ve talked recently with her father. Alice hadn’t heard from her since a phone call on Mother’s Day.
“It’s done. He’s very proud of it.”
“How’s Anna and Tom?”
“Good, busy, working hard. So how did you meet Doug and Malcolm?”
“They came into Starbucks one night while I was working.”
The waiter appeared, and each of them ordered dinner and another drink. Alice hoped the alcohol would dilute the tension between them, which felt heavy and thick and just beneath the tracing-paper-thin conversation.
“So how did you meet Doug and Malcolm?” she asked.
“I just told you. Why don’t you ever listen to anything I say? They came into Starbucks one night talking about looking for a roommate while I was working.”
“I thought you were waitressing at a restaurant.”
“I am. I work at Starbucks during the week and waitress on Saturday nights.”
“Doesn’t sound like that leaves a lot of time for acting.”
“I’m not cast in anything right now, but I’m taking workshop classes, and I’m auditioning a lot.”
“What kind of classes?”
“Meisner technique.”
“And what’ve you been auditioning for?”
“Television and print.”
Alice swirled her wine, drank the last, big gulp, and licked her lips. “Lydia, what exactly is your plan here?”
“I’m not planning on stopping, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The drinks were taking effect, but not in the direction Alice had hoped for. Instead, they served as the fuel that burned that little piece of tracing paper, leaving the tension between them fully exposed and at the helm of a dangerously familiar conversation.
“You can’t live like this forever. Are you still going to work at Starbucks when you’re thirty?”
“That’s eight years away! Do you know what you’ll be doing in eight years?”
“Yes, I do. At some point, you need to be responsible, you need to be able to afford things like health insurance, a mortgage, savings for retirement—”
“I have health insurance. And I might make it as an actor. There are people who do, you know. And they make a hell of a lot more money than you and Dad combined.”
“This isn’t just about money.”
“Then what? That I didn’t become you?”
“Lower your voice.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“I don’t want you to become me, Lydia. I just don’t want you to limit your choices.”
“You want to make my choices.”
“No.”
“This is who I am, this is what I want to do.”
“What, serving up Venti lattes? You should be in college. You should be spending this time in your life learning something.”
“I am learning something! I’m just not sitting in a Harvard classroom killing myself trying to get an A in political science. I’m in a serious acting class for fifteen hours a week. How many hours of class a week do your students take, twelve?”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“Well, Dad thinks it is. He’s paying for it.”
Alice clenched the sides of her skirt and pressed her lips together. What she wanted to say next wasn’t meant for Lydia.
“You’ve never even seen me act.”
John had. He’d flown out alone last winter to see her perform in a play. Swamped with too many urgent things at the time, Alice couldn’t free up to go. As she looked at Lydia’s pained eyes, she couldn’t remember now what those urgent things had been. She didn’t have anything against an acting career itself, but she believed her daughter’s singular pursuit of it, without an education, bordered on reckless. If she didn’t go to college now, acquire a knowledge base or formal training in some field, if she didn’t get a degree, what would she do if acting didn’t pan out?
Alice thought about those condoms in the bathroom. What if Lydia got pregnant? Alice worried that Lydia might someday find herself trapped in a life that was unfulfilled, full of regret. She looked at her daughter and saw so much wasted potential, so much wasted time.
“You’re not getting any younger, Lydia. Life goes by too fast.”
“I agree.”
The food came, but neither of them picked up a fork. Lydia dabbed her eyes with her hand-embroidered linen napkin. They always fell into the same battle, and it felt to Alice like trying to knock down a concrete wall with their heads. It was never going to be productive and only resulted in hurting them, causing lasting damage. She wished Lydia could see the love and wisdom in what she wanted for her. She wished she could just reach across the table and hug her daughter, but there were too many dishes, glasses, and years of distance between them.
A sudden flurry of activity a few tables away pulled their attention from themselves. Several camera flashes popped, and a small crowd of patrons and waitstaff gathered, all focused on a woman who looked a bit like Lydia.
“Who’s that?” asked Alice.
“Mom,” said Lydia in a tone both embarrassed and superior, perfected at the age of thirteen. “That’s Jennifer Aniston.”
They ate their dinner and talked only of safe things, like the food and the weather. Alice wanted to discover more about Lydia’s relationship with Malcolm, but the embers of Lydia’s emotions still glowed hot, and Alice feared igniting another fight. She paid the bill and they left the restaurant, full but dissatisfied.
“Excuse me, ma’am!”