Page 37 of Holly Jolly July

Mariah

As we park in the neighbourhood of squat rectangular houses in varying shades of beige, I begin to question my sanity. I’ve

taken great lengths to avoid my parents over the past several years, and now I’ll be seeing them for the first time in months

with Ellie at my side. And I have no idea what to expect with her.

She’s her usual chipper self, bright-eyed, taking everything in. All the houses are copy-and-pastes of each other, a design

often referred to as “BC Boxes”: a simple split-level with a garage on one side. The neighbourhood is nice enough, with wide

front lawns and in-set sidewalks. While the houses are at least sixty years old, the residents range from new families out

walking their dogs and babies to older couples watering their hydrangeas in the front yard.

My parents’ house is meticulously kept, as it always has been, with not a smidge of dust on any of the windows, not a blade

of grass trimmed the wrong length, and every begonia evenly spaced between two matching white peonies on each side.

It’s as if I never left.

“We don’t have to do this,” I say, my steps becoming slower and heavier with each inch we make toward the house. “They haven’t

seen us yet. We can turn around. Go home. I know more food trucks we can try!”

Ellie wraps her arm through mine. “It will be fine! Don’t worry, I’ll be here the whole time. You won’t even have to talk.

I’ll do it for you. You can do your due diligence as a daughter, rip the Band-Aid off, and cross this off your list for at

least a few months. You’ll feel so much better after, I promise.”

I look down at Ellie, and she looks up at me, and even though I’m panicking, I know, somehow, it’s all going to be okay. She gives me a reassuring smile, my arm a gentle squeeze, and I reciprocate with a slight nod.

The front door opens while we’re still approaching, and out steps my mom. I am the spitting image of my mother. I’ve always

hated it. She’s blonde, her hair cut in a neat shoulder-length bob. She’s tall and thickly built like me, but instead of accentuating

her curves, she still subscribes to the notion that they are something to be ashamed of, meant to be hidden beneath layers

of formless clothes. She’d tried to impress the same shame on me ever since I can remember—being told to stand up straighter

because good posture will hide a belly, that somehow the amount of fat on your body is correlated to self-worth, that the

clothes you choose to wear are linked to your morality.

I rebuked that nonsense, choosing self-acceptance and love instead. It didn’t happen overnight; it took years of un-learning.

Yet here we are, two women with matching bodies and just twenty years in age separating them, me with my rounded belly showing

beneath my shirt, my breasts prominently displayed with a long line of cleavage, and tight pants that don’t disguise the fact

that I don’t have anything close to a thigh gap and never will. While her clothing, hair, and makeup is meant to blend into

her surroundings, mine is carefully curated to stand out, from my half-shaved head of bright teal hair, to the dark makeup

around my eyes, and the bold shade of red I chose for my lips. We couldn’t be more the same, and yet we’re completely different.

I did that on purpose.

I force my shoulders back and stand proudly, even as I prepare for her cutting words, asking me if this is what I chose to wear, asking what on god’s green earth I did to my hair, or if she can grab me a sweater despite the thirty-degree

July heat.

But it doesn’t come.

Her arms are open, beckoning, the smile on her face lined far more than I remember. “Welcome home, Maria!”

I tense at her pronunciation. Ellie must feel it and tugs me closer. “Hello, Judith!”

“Oh, you must be Ellie.” Mom steps out of the way so we can climb the short flight of stairs and meet her on the landing.

“Yes, so good to meet you.” Ellie releases me and hugs my mom, who squeezes her tightly as if they’ve known each other for

years.

Mom releases Ellie long enough to hold her at arm’s length. “Lovely to finally meet one of Maria’s partners.”

Wait... partners? Does she think—

“Yes,” Ellie agrees. “And I’ve been telling Mariah forever that I wanted to meet my girlfriend’s parents. Where is Wes, anyway?”

Girlfriend?! What the f—

“He’s inside. Come on in!” Mom pauses to look into Ellie’s eyes as if she’s some sort of magical creature. Then Mom looks

to me, arms still open for a hug.

I hesitate, unsure of what to do. Mom senses this and drops her arms. I notice a flicker of sadness behind her eyes, but she

blinks past it. “Come in, come in,” she beckons, holding the door open for us.

Ellie and I shuffle into the tiny entryway. It smells the same as it did before. How is that even possible? The aroma of Mom’s vegetable lentil soup must be etched into the paint along with the lemon pledge she uses to shine the

antique wood furniture, melding together to form one scent that elicits thousands of memories.

“I’ll go tell Dad you’re here.” Mom walks up the stairs and out the back door by the kitchen, where she pauses to shout for

him.

Meanwhile, I grab Ellie’s arm and whisper-shout in her ear, “What the hell! She thinks we’re dating now!”

“Rule number one of improv.”

I scrunch my face. “What?”

“Always agree and say yes.”

I scrunch my face harder. “That is the worst rule ever created.”

She chuckles, leaning in to explain, but we’re interrupted by Mom. “Come on up, you two. I made Maria’s favourite, lasagna.”

My stomach rumbles at the thought. I haven’t had Mom’s lasagna in years, and damn is it good. I may look like my mom, but

somehow she didn’t pass down her “excellent cook” genes; my best dish is ramen noodles with Cheez Whiz.

After toeing off our shoes, Ellie takes my hand and pulls me up the stairs into the living area. Her comfortable self-assuredness

seeps through her hand and into mine just like her warmth.

We pass through the living room with its oversized floral sofas, ticking grandfather clock, and upright piano with a doily

atop it along with several stoic family photos. In the kitchen the table is already set with the good china reserved for Thanksgiving

and Christmas dinners, fresh rolls, and a square of butter in its dish. Ellie pulls my chair out, which I return with a stern

look, but take my seat as she settles next to me.

Dad comes in a moment later, the exact same as I remember him, from his grey Supercuts hairstyle and his thick-rimmed glasses

right down to the short-sleeve button-up shirt hanging off his body. While Mom is thick and rounded, Dad is thin and wiry,

despite eating every plate set before him and asking for seconds at nearly every meal. He brightens when he sees me, saying

nothing, but giving my shoulder a light pat as he passes by to take his usual seat at the head of the table. Dad was a long-haul

trucker, so he was gone a lot of the time growing up. Our relationship has always been as reliable yet distant as his treks

along the Trans-Canada Highway.

“You must be Ellie,” Dad says. His voice still has the same pastoral tone it’s always had, as if he’s about to sit in a circle

of young folk, put his elbows on his knees, and talk about the temptations of the human body and which scriptures to turn

to when faced with lust.

“Yes, sir.” Ellie beams her radiant smile at him.

“So how long have you two been seeing each other?” Mom asks, bringing the lasagna over and setting it down on an orange hand-knit potholder.

I’m shaken by this question, with no idea what to say or where to begin. I sit there, gawping like a fish. The last time I

told my parents I was dating a woman they returned my news with shocked silence, followed by an Are you sure this is how you want to live your life?

Even though it was years ago, it still stings.

“Oh, for a while now, hey?” Ellie says, taking my hand once more. “It’s one of those things where we started as friends and

then turned into more, so it’s hard to remember exactly when things shifted from friends to... friendlier, if you know

what I mean.” Ellie winks. Winks! At my mom!

Mom returns the wink with her cawing laugh, followed by a snort eerily similar to my own. “That is so sweet. A love that starts

out as a friendship is so wonderful. You know, Wes and I met at church.” She continues to tell the story about a picnic and

him sharing his pickle with her (not a euphemism).

Meanwhile all I can think is, Who the hell is this woman and what has she done with my mother?

And Dad, he’s acting like this is totally normal, like, why wouldn’t I bring my girlfriend over for dinner?

What the hell kind of Twilight Zone did I walk in on?

The entire meal passes in the same manner, with polite conversation, swapping stories (several of which are made up by Ellie),

and me pinching myself to wake up from this surreal dream. The food is delicious; Mom packs up the leftovers for us to take

home, and then serves a homemade strawberry-rhubarb pie and lukewarm Orange Pekoe tea for dessert. Everything is the same,

but somehow my parents have been body-snatched.

The whole time, Ellie is a natural. With every warm look she gives me, every touch of my thigh beneath the table, every story she weaves of our history together, she even has me convinced that we’re dating.

The idea brings far more comfort than I care to admit.

I have to keep reminding myself that it isn’t real, that the butterflies I’m feeling are one-sided, that she’s a convincing actress, and it’s nothing more than that.

After we’re overly full from dinner, Mom and Dad clear the table while I take Ellie to show her my old room, at her request.

Everything else in the house is the same except for this room. Not that my old bedroom reflected who I was at all, with the

white metal bed frame, crisp white linens, and faded pink wallpaper. Now it’s home to a crafting table, a sewing machine,