The Language of Kin by Lynne Hugo

Author:Lynne Hugo
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Amphorae Publishing Group, LLC
Published: 2023-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

I showed up at Marc’s house, or his mother’s, at seven, as he’d told me. I brought her an assortment of herbal teas. I would have brought Marc a bottle of wine but thought it might make a bad impression on his mother, and we were asking her for a favor. A giant favor.

I parked on the street, by the curb, and was glad I hadn’t ever described the house I’d grown up in because their house could have fit into it at least twice. Probably more. But this was where Marc had grown up, the house his mother was afraid to leave. Theirs had no garage, a yard like a Post-it note, with a little covered porch and three steps from the front down to a short walk, sidewalk, street. Neighbors close enough to eavesdrop. Marc could have moved; I knew his salary. But he was loyal, and abandonment wasn’t his style.

“It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Lopez,” I said, giving the hello sign that Marc had taught me to use with my mother. “I’m Kate.” His mother looked delighted. She signed something, and Marc looked at me and said, “I’m very happy to meet you too, Kate. My son speaks very well of you.”

I realized that I needed to look at her, not Marc, when I spoke to his mother, although during the first couple of exchanges after my initial success, I’d looked at him. He cued me with a small head gesture. He was smooth, an experienced translator and although it was awkward, I was determined not to do the stupid things he’d told me his high school friends had done.

Breathe, I reminded myself. She’s a regular person. Just look at her and talk. When she asks a question, answer it. Smile at her. Give Marc a chance to translate. I tried to find the rhythm. “I want to learn to sign,” I blurted, surprising myself. I didn’t think Marc translated that. I never knew, of course, exactly what he was translating.

“What did you tell her?” I said to him.

He didn’t answer.

I took another sip of the chardonnay he’d poured me, and Ms. Lopez drank her tea. We sat in their small, cozy living room in a triangle configuration, me in the middle of a green couch, she in a beige wingback chair, and Marc in an uncomfortable-looking wooden one. There was a hand-knit afghan folded behind me, on the back of the couch, and a patterned area rug on the wood floor. Several framed pictures of Marc at various graduations were on lamp tables. One had a faded picture of young, blonde Ms. Lopez hugging a dark-haired man (her father? I wondered) both wide-smiling. I could see a resemblance between Marc and the man. There was another picture of a young Marc, a golden retriever, and elderly frail-looking woman. Marc was holding a trophy.

Ms. Lopez asked if I’d met Eve, from which I guessed that Marc hadn’t told her much about our roles at work.

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