I snicker to myself as I walk down the stairs. I can't even imagine bringing Fil home to meet my parents. She is crass and borderline rude. Oh, and she is out of the closet, in your face gay. Celia Burnham, for sure, would have a heart attack.
I reach the bottom of the stairs and my mother is waiting there for me. She is a beautiful woman but her face holds an icy veneer that I've rarely seen crack.
"Honestly, Emily, why do you always have to be late," my mother chastises me.
I sigh. "I'm not late, Mother. I'm here at the exact time you told me to be here."
She picks up her purse and gives herself a quick once over in the foyer mirror. Patting her chignon for non-existent stray hairs, she says, "Well, you know I don't like to be late and what if we hit traffic?"
I sigh again, a little more loudly this time. "Then you should have told me to be ready a bit earlier."
"Don't patronize me," she snaps. "I'm under a lot of stress right now trying to organize the Boston Hospice Charity Gala and I don't need you making it worse."
It would serve me no purpose in arguing, so I merely said, "Yes, Mother. I'm sorry."
But I'm not.
It is so rotten of me but sometimes I like getting under my mother's skin, just so I can see something other than her plastic exterior. If I can get her to show emotion, any emotion, then I can convince myself that she has the capacity to feel things other than disdain, judgment or antipathy.
I follow her out of the house and we get into the waiting limousine. As soon as we are seated, she starts in on me. "It's time for you to declare your major at Columbia. Have you decided yet?"
I know what this means. She's not asking me what my choice is...she wants me to tell her that I will agree to her choice. My mother expects me to go to law school or medical school. Or, she would actually be perfectly happy if I met and married a wealthy bachelor and raised perfect little, wealthy babies.
"I'm still undecided," I say vaguely.
I'm not, actually. My mind has been made up for months that I wanted to pursue a Journalism degree. I want to be a sports writer and that's about akin to me telling my parents I want to be a topless dancer.
"How can you not be decided? We talked about this. You are either pre-med or pre-law."
I really don't want to fight with her about this so I just tell her, "I can't decide between the two. I'm still thinking."
"Well, don't wait too long. I want to release it to the press as soon as you declare. It will be a nice, domestic piece your father can use in the media."
Of course. It's all about what will help my father’s political aspirations, not what will make me happy and fulfilled.
Just one more week, and I'm out of here.
My mother changes the subject to one that is equally abhorrent to me. "Remember your father will be home this weekend and we are attending that fundraising dinner at Stan and Margot Craft's house. I've invited Todd to be your date."
I feel my face redden as I sputter, "Todd?"
"Yes, he's such a nice man and if you give him half a chance, he'll prove himself to you."
I am beyond furious. "You cannot set me up with my ex-boyfriend, Mother. I will not go with him."
She doesn't even blink when she responds. "You will go with him because his father is one of your father's biggest contributors."
I take a deep breath and try to calm myself. Todd Fulgram was my boyfriend during my junior and senior years of high school. Although at first our relationship was nice, we parted on very bad terms the summer before I left for college. He used to be charming —in a rich and cultured way —and he was very cute. He also pressured me for months and months to give my virginity up to him and I did near the end of our senior year.
And it was horrible.
And then he turned horrible.
Todd became mean and verbally abusive. He always seemed to be angry at me, his parents and at the world. I took the brunt of his angst because I was the most accessible and frankly, I was able to ignore his tirades most of the time. I was the perfect outlet for him.
Sex with Todd sucked because it was all about him. I never once had even achieved an orgasm when we were together because the two-minute man couldn't last long enough and he couldn't be bothered to spend any extra time on me. After that first time I gave in to his pressures, I was always the one that had to initiate any sort of intimacy. Sometimes, I felt like it was a chore for him, which didn't do anything for my sexual ego. Luckily, back then, I had enough of an elitist ego that I could let that one roll off my back. This meant we had sex very infrequently, which ultimately became fine with me. I never really felt I was missing anything with him.
The old Emily could easily overlook the lackluster sex. I mean, back in those days, I was only thinking about my wealthy, socialite future and Todd Fulgram was a great catch. But his abuse was something I would not tolerate. It started out as verbal but soon escalated. He never hit me but there was no doubt in my mind that real violence was just over the horizon. He mostly just grabbed me hard or shoved me, particularly when he was drinking. And he drank a lot.