Well, not quite.
"Oh, not again," my Mother sighs wearily. She is not
happy. I admit, it's rare that I call home, so when I do, she's
always hoping I'll talk about my fabulous film career, or the
fabulous new man I'm dating, or the fabulous new novel I've just
sold for millions. Most of all, she hopes for an update on those
fabulous grandchildren I'd yet to give her. But instead, once
again, I tell her I am moving to Paris. "I don't understand
you," she groans, "you just got back into the studio system,
you're making good money, you can afford a good Lupus specialist
now. You know, you can't keep jumping around like this. Sooner
or later you have to settle down, do what's right. President
Bush is going to be making a lot of changes in the economy, you
can't be so careless anymore."
"Hell-o, I'm talking Paris", I bleat at
her, "as in France? As in, leaving the country?
Baby Bush is President of the United States, Mom,
not the world."
"Don't get smart, you know what I mean,"
she volleys back. "You always say Paris when
something's wrong. What's wrong now?" When I try to
sell her on the notion that quitting ones job and
sinking into poverty six months before you threaten
to move out of the country doesn't necessarily mean
anything's wrong, I quickly realize she ain't
buying it. Instead, she pulls out the big guns.
"Roger," she huffs in desperation, "please talk to
your daughter."
This time the confusion is in baritone. "Is
this about that young man you were seeing?" my
Father asks softly. I am silent as I ponder how to
respond. How do you tell someone who's never
breathed Paris that a failed love affair is
precisely what Paris is about? How it's not the
real Paris, but the idea of it that draws the
dreamers? The idea that you can reinvent yourself
there, study art there, eat well there, speak
pretty words there, and most of all, mend a broken
heart there by falling madly in love with really
inappropriate people. How do I tell my parents, the
people who love me most in all the world, that
there is absolutely nothing wrong, and that that's the problem?
Finally, I resolve to tell them a half a
truth and say that love's got nothing to do with
it. I listen as my dad 'ummm hmmm's' in that
way that all daddies 'umm hmmm' when they know it
was you and not the cat that licked all the
frosting off the cake. Finally, he says this:
"Well, obviously we love you and don't want you so
far away, but you have been talking about it for
years, so I guess I'd rather you find out now than
spend the rest of your life regretting it."
'Thanks, Dad," I reply and blow him a
big, went kiss across the country. "Mom?" There
comes a sweet, loveable grumble from the other end.
I hate myself at that moment. I know I broke her
heart when I first moved to L.A.. Now, sixteen
years later, I am doing it again.
"We'll talk about it when you come home for
Thanksgiving," she says finally. Silently, I blow
her a kiss, too.
