Page 37 of Goalie Secrets
“She coordinates with local shelters and health clinics, that sort of thing,” Ken adds.
“You must be so proud of her,” Vanya says to me with a smile.
Of course, I’m proud of my mother. She escaped extreme poverty and political instability as a young woman from Guatemala. She’s now dedicating her life to helping others who, like her, have crossed the border in search of a better life.
“Yeah, she’s incredible,” I confirm before taking a bite of the dish she taught me to make since I was a teenager.
“Jeremy sends them money. That’s why he’s still in this little house.” Rose speaks excitedly, barely keeping her fork from flying as she points at mylittle house.
I roll my eyes and shake my head. She’s exaggerating. Sure, I helped start a foundation with my mother, but it’s a drop in the bucket of what people need.
“It’s not that little,” Vanya states. “The house, I mean. It’s homey and lovely, Jeremy yet beautifully updated inside. And the fact that you send to the organization instead of spending money on yourself, that’s admirable.”
“Enough about me,” I declare, because I didn’t put together this dinner to talk about my mom. I did it to get to know the woman in front of me. “How about you? Are you close to your family?”
Vanya’s smile wavers slightly, but she answers with a steady voice. “My mother and stepfather live in Toronto. I visit when I can. Oh, Sabrina, I meant to ask you about that restaurant on Hyde street.”
It isn’t lost on me that she changed the subject. And if Ashley’s raised brow and tightly pressed lips are any indication, I’m not the only one who noticed.
By the time I drop Ashley at the airport for her flight, I’m ready to collapse from exhaustion. We stayed up every night to catch up. I’m reminded that I’m no longer in my twenties. Going to work early and then hanging out with Ashley has taken its toll. But I loved every minute.
The boudoir session turned out to be a fun highlight of the long weekend. We were photographed privately but knowing she was in another room of the studio, doing her own photoshoot, lessened my nervous self-consciousness.
There was something uniquely sensual about dressing up for myself, moving my body freely, and having pictures taken that I know are only for my eyes. Well, apart from Linda, my photographer. She guided my poses gently at first but after a few minutes, she simply offered encouragement. I moved on that studio’s bed more smoothly than I’ve ever moved in front of a lover.
Speaking of bed, I can’t wait to plop into mine for a quick afternoon nap. Unfortunately, before I can give in to fatigue, my phone alerts me to the third voicemail from my mother.
I can guess it’s similar to the other two messages. The holidays are approaching. She and my stepfather expect me to join them in Mexico for Christmas. It’s their annual trip from mid-December till the New Year. I’ve managed to skip half the time.
This year is definitely a skipping year.
“Hello, Vanya. I’m ordering some bathing suits and there’s a very flattering high cut you should consider,” my mother saysinstead of answering with a hello. “It has a special construction control top to smooth out your side and stomach. I’ll send you a link.”
I despise control top stomach suckers. They feel like a vise restricting lung capacity. Full-figured women deserve the right to oxygen too, for fuck’s sake. But I’ve been my mother’s ugly duckling project for as long as I can remember, so being told I need to get the right kind of swimsuit—one that will pull, hide, and flatten—is no surprise.
It has taken a lot of self-reflection and work to appreciate my body for its strength instead of criticizing it for not being pageant-perfect. This body gets me through long days and tough workouts. I care for people in a very physically demanding job. And after that boudoir photoshoot, I can attest to my ability to rock a lace bustier.
Unfortunately, adolescent insecurities can creep up on a woman, even after she’s turned thirty.
“Sorry, Mom, I can’t go. I’m swamped at work.”
She makes a dramatic sigh of epic parental exasperation. “You don’t have to stay the full two weeks, Vanya. Surely you can fly in for a few days. If Andrew can take the time off, you can, too.”
The unspoken subtext is that my stepfather is an important surgeon in a prestigious hospital. How could I possibly be more essential to the medical industry? I’m not, but I don’t think she wants to hear the real reasons. She never celebrated the holiday when I was a kid. But now that she’s worked the season into her @ZaraGlow brand, I’m expected to be a prop. A control-topped, salad-eating, forced-smile prop.
Besides, my days off will be an opportunity to hunker down and rest—an indulgence I usually cannot afford with my typical schedule. I could also catch up on research and writing.
“It isn’t possible with my new job.”
As if on cue, my phone beeps to indicate a call coming through.
“That’s work calling right now,” I say hurriedly, although I haven’t yet checked who is calling. “Have a great trip! Can’t wait to see the pictures!”
“You need to be on Instagram for—”
I hang up, pretending not to hear her final reprimand.
“Hello?”