My father picks up his bag and we walk, still without talking, out of the terminal.Once outside, he takes one of my hands in his I feel his fingers tremble “Do you mind?” he says. “Could I?” I don’t take my hand away.”It isn’t brown,” I say of his suit as we get in the car.”Yes it is,” he says.”Isn’t it more of a tan or a khaki?”"It’s brown.”The trip home from the airport is mostly silent. I can’t think of anything to say, and I don’t dare do what I want, escape into music on the stereo. Turned sideways in his seat, my father watches me, and his look doesn’t allow my hand to reach for the knob As I drive I make mistakes I rarely make My hands, wet with nerves, slip on the steering wheel. As we cross an intersection, my foot loses the clutch and I stall the car in traffic.At home, my mother is wearing the clothes she set out the previous night: black trousers and a cream-coloured cashmere sweater that sets off her dark shining hair.
She’s in high spirits, a little too high perhaps – her laughter sounds shrill to me. On her breast is a small gold miraculous medal, rays of light bursting from the Virgin’s open palms My parents embrace quickly, almost shyly. They kiss each other’s closed mouths with their lips thrust forward in prissy, monkey-like puckers.We try hard to make it work, the three of us together.We sit in the living room and drink iced tea. “At last,” one of us says, “a family.” Calling ourselves this, saying the words – Who says them? My mother? My father? Do I? – it’s meant ironically, but the pain the words bring, the admission of failure, is so intense that afterwards no one speaks My mother breaks away and goes into the kitchen. She returns with a platter of cheeses and vegetables and little sandwiches, her comments arranged with as much care as the food.We all stare at one another, fascinated, years of observation collapsed into minutes We catalogue similarities, differences. Whose am I? From the neck down I’m a replica of my mother, but my head resembles his.
The line of his jaw is echoed in mine, as are his cheekbones, his ears, his brow. And how mysterious it is that my father and I do the same things with our hands as we talk. I’ve never had the chance to see his gestures and learn to mimic them.I watch and listen as my parents begin to argue. They can’t construct a year, a season, or even a week from the past without disagreeing.
