Finding Me (5 page)

We stake claim to a spot on the far side of a small coffee shop that already has a line winding along the brick front. Fitz suggests that I pile on the blankets and get comfortable to sit for the next five hours while he gets us some breakfast.

We spend the next three hours drinking coffee and eating brioche as we wait for the parade to get underway. Waiting turns out to be an experience all on its own. A woman from South Africa sits on one side of us with her nine-year-old son, and a large group of Germans sit on the other. We take turns going in small groups to find restrooms and refills, and converse easily. One of the Germans, a girl about my age named Anna, is thrilled to learn that I’m from California after I relay a question to Fitz and explain that I’m from the West Coast. She asks me several questions about rappers and music. I think she’s disappointed when I know few of the answers. We discuss customs and traditions, and by the time the parade is about to begin I feel like I’ve known all of them for years.

When you watch the parade on TV they cut to commercials and commentators so frequently that sometimes the parade seems to last far longer than it really does. Being here, it feels like only seconds before people are standing and cheering loudly as Santa emerges.

“I never realized just how big the floats are!” I say in amazement as we watch Santa descend down the street.

“Santa is such a funny name. And having him wear red? It makes me laugh,” Anna says as we remain seated and watch the crowds begin to disperse. “You guys combine Saint Nikolas and Krampus.”

“Krampus?” I ask curiously.

“Your Santa gives presents to the nice children and coal to the not-so-nice ones. Well, Saint Nikolas, delivers gifts to nice children on December sixth, and he places them in our shoes. But Krampus, or Knecht Ruprecht, visits the not-so-nice children, and he puts them in his bag. Then on Christmas Eve Christkindl visits.”

“Our red suit sounds a lot easier to orchestrate,” Fitz says with a smile, standing as several of the others do. “And a little less traumatizing.” Although I’ve loved hearing the stories and differences in cultures, I can sense Fitz is eager to be back in the car, ready for some solitude promised with the couple-hour drive to get to his mom’s.

“And the reindeer?” Anna adds. “What is that all about?”

“What does your Saint Nicholas arrive on?” I ask with a smile, linking my arm with Fitz as he balances our chairs in his other hand.

“A horse!” Anna cries.

I can’t help but laugh in return, and she seems to understand the humor shortly after and joins in.

By the time we arrive at Fitz’s mom’s, it’s after three. She lives in a small, quaint house in a neighborhood that shows no reflection of the city that we just emerged from.

Thanksgiving at my house has always been a day packed with people, food, and noise, but when Fitz opens the door, the only sound is soft classical music drifting through the air, carried by the aroma of food.

A woman pokes her head around the corner from what must be the kitchen, and Fitz’s cheeks widen with a smile as he greets her.

She starts speaking in return, her words flowing faster than water from a hose, and my eyes widen with the realization that I have no idea what language she’s speaking. Fitz laughs and then replies just as fast, and I feel like the world’s worst friend because I had no idea Fitz spoke any other language, let alone that his mother seems to only speak whatever it is. She pats her hands on the white apron tied around her wide waist as she makes her way to where we’re both standing with the door still open, allowing the cold to seep into the warm house.

Fitz says something again and gestures with his hands from me to the woman and I smile, hearing my name in a flourish of words. I turn to look at her, keeping my smile on my face and she walks closer to me. She’s several inches shorter than I am, and her hair is the color of midnight, woven with some gray hairs that frame her face. Her eyes are wide and a dark brown, similar to my own, and they’re glossy with tears. I look to Fitz for some sort of interpretation or clarification and feel her tiny hand wrap around my chin with an impressive strength. My eyes widen as they move back to her. She either misses my confusion, or ignores it, as she moves my face in several directions, clucking her tongue and using her other hand to brush loose wisps of hair out of my face. She presses a kiss to each of my cheeks and then starts pulling up the sleeves of my sweatshirt before inspecting my hands and sliding her hand up and down each of my arms, squeezing a few times as she goes. I move my eyes to Fitz in alarm, and his brown eyes dance with laughter.

“Harper, this is my oma. My grandma, Alala.”

I turn my eyes back to her and try to smile again.

She releases me and throws her arms around my waist, hugging me and speaking at a much louder voice with her face raised to the ceiling. I look back to Fitz for direction, and he shakes his head a few times.

“Maxwell?” My eyes divert to the hallway and a woman approaches. She looks like Fitz. Her skin isn’t quite as dark, and her eyes aren’t quite as round, but there’s an undeniable resemblance. Her words come out in a much quieter and softer tone, but just as fast as his grandmother’s had, and I focus on her still gripping me too tight.
Alala
, I say her name several times in my head, letting the syllables roll off my tongue.

“You must be Harper.” My attention turns back to the beautiful woman, and she smiles affectionately at Alala, who’s still tied around my waist and then says something more in the foreign language before Alala’s arms fall unwillingly to her sides.

“Sorry, she still can’t accept that I’m gay. She thinks you’re my girlfriend,” Fitz explains, shaking his head again. “Harper this is my Mom, Hosanna. Mom, this is Harper.”

Her brown eyes gleam, similar to Fitz’s when he’s excited. Something I generally only see when it’s just the two of us together, since Fitz really isn’t much of a people person, though, today he has been exceptionally friendly with everyone and has even seemed to thoroughly enjoy himself while doing so.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harper. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you.”

“Thank you so much for having me. I really appreciate your hospitality.”

“Certainly, certainly.” She takes a few steps closer and then holds me just as tightly as Grandma Alala did. Hosanna pulls back and kisses both of my cheeks, her lips cold against my skin.

When she moves to hug Fitz, Grandma Alala begins lifting the hem of my shirt, and my hands fly to hold it down as she
tsks
and speaks in what sounds like a disapproval. Of what, I have no idea. Hosanna takes her hand and says something in just as harsh of a tone, and the two exchange several words and glares before Grandma Alala releases my shirt and throws her hands in the air before stalking back into the kitchen.

I raise my eyebrows at Fitz, still keeping a firm grip on the hem of my sweatshirt as my eyes beg for some clarification.

“She says you’re too thin. She’s going to go make some more food.”

We spend the next few hours together as Fitz or Hosanna act as an interpreter between Alala and me. I learn that Fitz is Greek, and that he’s actually first-generation American. Hosanna asks me questions while Grandma Alala shoves food toward me, beckoning me to eat with her hand gestures and Greek words I don’t understand, but clearly do the meaning.

Once again, I’m too slow to take a bit of the cheese-filled pastry that she’s placed before me, and she fires words off to Fitz.

“Eat.” He sounds reluctant, then turns to look at me, and I notice his forehead is creased and the corners of his lips are lifting forcibly with guilt.

“Eat, eat, eat!” Grandma Alala repeats, pushing the plate closer to me.

Dinner is delicious and completely untraditional. Rather than turkey and potatoes, Fitz’s mom and grandma make a traditional Greek feast, filling the small table with dishes I can hardly pronounce and can barely find room for after all of the food Grandma Alala shoved at me while it was being prepared. I think had I been notified that we weren’t going to have a traditional Thanksgiving meal, I would have in some ways been disappointed. However, sitting around the small, cozy table filled with the delicious dishes I’ve never tasted and surrounded by the foreign Greek language and bits of English, I feel relieved and happy to have this day be as equally special as past Thanksgivings, but completely different and unexpected.

“So, Harper, Maxwell mentioned you’re extremely smart,” Hosanna says as she cuts into the dessert: homemade baklava.

“Fitz is being generous. He’s the genius in there.” He is. Fitz is in fact six years older than me, though his appearance makes that deceiving. He graduated with his doctorate at the age of twenty-four.

“She’s being modest. She doesn’t even have her degree yet, and she could probably wipe the floor with most assistants.”

“Have you been doing this long?”

I shake my head and set my fork down, earning a scowl from Grandma Alala that forces me to lift it back up. “My father was in medicine, and science has always been an interest to me, but medical science is new experience.”

Hosanna nods patiently. “We all find our callings.”

“And the lab’s a better place to work than a lot of other college jobs, like retail or something,” Fitz adds, stirring his coffee. “God, I remember having to do inventory every quarter. We couldn’t start until the store closed and would have to be there all night and then go directly to class. Those days were the worst. Plus, Ben’s really cool.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “I mean I don’t really have another employer to compare him to, but he’s a really good guy and seems to genuinely care about not only the cause and the company, but the employees.”

Fitz’s head tilts back and his gaze slides to me. “Wait, you mean to tell me you’ve never had a job before the lab?”

I shrug. If this wasn’t Fitz, I’d probably be unjustly defensive, but he’s right. I’m twenty-one and have never had a real job before. “No. My parents always insisted that we focus on school and being kids because you have your whole life to be an adult.”

“That sounds scary as hell. You’re suddenly flung out of the nest with zero preparation or understanding of the real world,” he says. “Or maybe I’m just envious because I’ve worked since I was sixteen.”

Fitz is right. These past five months have taught me a lot about life and the real world.

By the end of our two-day trip, I have a clear understanding of one Greek word, and that is: wedding. Grandma Alala took to measuring me on several different instances between her attempts to shove more food in my mouth. Though I loved most of it, there was still a dish or two that I prefer not to think about what I ingested. Regardless of her insistence for me to eat and marry Fitz, I fall for her soft pats on my cheek and loud laughs that often arise through her conversations with Hosanna or Fitz. Hosanna is her polar opposite, quiet and sweet with one of the tenderest hearts I’ve ever experienced. Everything about her makes me want to lie with my head in her lap and listen to her tell me stories of when she was a girl growing up in Greece.

It’s the first time I’ve experienced a family environment in months. Though there are few similarities to my own, there are far more differences and I focus on them, finding comfort.

“If you’re going through hell, keep going.”

–Winston Churchill

I
t’s been a week since we returned from New York and Fitz is whistling along to a Christmas song, much to my dismay. I still hate whistling. I grind my teeth to prevent myself from snapping at him because I’ve already pleaded with him to stop a dozen times this morning, and yet he seems completely lost in another world today. Evidently, one that requires a lot of whistling.

I look down at the notes I’ve been working on, trying to distract myself enough to drown out the sound, and see my phone alight in my purse. The lab doesn’t really have a policy regarding phones. As long as you’re not in the middle of a lab, no one seems to mind what you do. After spending an extensive amount of time and money attending school to earn a doctorate, most people seem pretty driven and don’t require many rules.