Lynda Sandoval - One Perfect Man

“Once you marry and have children, your place is at home with them, not—”

“—gallivanting around the globe,” Erica finished, her tone droll. The sixty-some-odd-mile drive from Santa Fe to Las Vegas, New Mexico didn’t count as globe-trotting in most people’s books, but Susana Gonçalves’s book told another story altogether. If she could keep her children within the city limits of Santa Fe until she ascended to the pearly gates, her life would be considered a success.

“Exactly,” the older woman said. “A husband and children will nip all this travel in the bud, so no sense getting accustomed to it. That’s all.”

Annoyance pricked at the calm reserve Erica tried so hard to cultivate prior to meeting with colleagues. She took a moment to line up the dry-erase markers in front of the whiteboard and straighten the projector screen. And breathe.

“Did you hear me?”

“Oh yeah, I heard you.” The cell phone slipped from its precarious shoulder clutch, but Erica caught it in midair and held it back to her ear. “Which is exactly why a husband and children aren’t in my future, Mother, a fact you well know.”

“Oh, honey, you talk, but—”

“Are you listening to me?” Erica pronounced each word with crisp, controlled clarity. “Do you ever hear what I’m saying?”

“I just don’t want you to give up hope.”

A fireball of frustration ignited in Erica’s chest. Hot blood pounded in her ears. “Hope! Hope?” She smacked her palm to her forehead, all attempts to stay calm and cool rendered instantly futile. “Listen to yourself, Mama. Why does it always come back to this? What you fail to acknowledge is that some women have no desire to fulfill the roles of wife and mother, and your daughter is one of those women.”

“But, it’s important, honey, and I worry—”

“Why is it so damn important? I take perfectly good care of myself. You always seem to ‘worry’ just when I need to be focused before an important presentation or meeting.” She lowered her voice to a rasp, glancing at the door to make sure no one had showed up early to catch her in mid-rant. She had a business reputation to uphold, after all. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d almost think you were trying to sabotage my career.”

“Don’t be silly. You do know me better.”

True. But, still. Erica closed her eyes and counted to ten in English, then in Spanish. “Mama, listen to me. Six very important words. I don’t want marriage and family. I have no desire to raise human beings, and there’s nothing wrong with admitting that. I can’t even keep plants alive. Not to mention—do you remember what happened to my hamster, Morton?”

“Hamsters don’t live forever. You were only twelve.”

“Old enough to know better.”

“Hmph.”

Erica sighed. “I am simply not suited to your role. You need to accept the facts.”

“You can learn.”

“Sure, if I wanted to. The point is, I don’t want to.” She clenched her fist against her chest with fervor, though her mother couldn’t see her. “I love my career and my independence, and I love to travel. Alone. I want my life exactly the way it is. Why can’t you respect that?”

Susana uttered an unhappy sound. “Was it so bad, Erica? Growing up with a full-time mother in the home? So bad that the very thought of walking in your mother’s footsteps makes you speak to her with such disrespect?”

“I’m—” Erica bit her lip as defeat weighed heavily on her shoulders. She furrowed her fingers slowly through her hair and willed the bite from her tone. “I don’t mean to disrespect you, Mama. You know that. And, of course I don’t regret growing up in a traditional family. I loved having you there.” She struggled for words. How could she explain? “But living that way, putting the family first, was your choice, right?”

“Of course.”

As much as Erica doubted the veracity of her mother’s answer, she nevertheless went with it. “Well, all I’m asking for is my choice, as well. I am walking in your footsteps, Mama,” Erica said, feeling like a liar. In truth, her mother gave up too much of herself for the life she led. Erica was trying to avoid her mother’s footsteps—at least those she took after marriage. “Can’t you see?” She paused, hoping this time it would sink in. “I’m trying to live the life of my choosing. That’s all. Just like you did. My choice is simply different from yours.”

“Don’t you want love, m’ija?”

Erica eased out a breath. Sure, it would be great to have the love of a lifetime yadda, yadda, yadda. Who wouldn’t want that? Unfortunately, that type of love was an empty Hollywood concept. Real love came with strings and ties and required sacrifices she wasn’t willing to make. Real love grabbed you and took up camp in your world, like an occupying force. Real love twisted your life around and left you with the one thing she absolutely refused to have: regrets.

So, she wouldn’t experience marital love in her life, but that didn’t matter to her. She’d find companionship and sex along the way, with men who wouldn’t compromise her goals, men with their own goals, and she’d have her independence. Not a whole lot sounded better than that.

“I love my career,” she said, finally, knowing she could never adequately explain it to her mother. “That’s enough.”

Silence hung between them like a tug-of-war rope. Erica was tired of all the yanking and balancing. “But I really have to go. The artisans will be here soon and I want to be composed.”

“You’re always composed, little one. Too composed for your own good.” Mama laughed, but sounded tired. “You’re a regular Mona Lisa, don’t you know that?”

“Ha.” A grudging smile twitched Erica’s mouth.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, m’ija.”

“You didn’t,” Erica lied, to keep the peace. “Look, I’ll call you tonight. Okay?” She really did love her mother.

“Okay. Is your hotel room safe?”

Erica rolled her eyes. No, she didn’t know any better, so she’d taken a room in the local crack house. “Of course, Mama. It’s a small town, remember? Only sixty miles from home. I’m fine. The hotel is beautiful. Nothing to worry about.”

“So you claim. The optimism of youth.” Another unsettled sigh came through the line. “Well, then, I guess there’s nothing else for me to say.”

“Okay, then.” Erica rolled her hand. Get to the goodbye. C’mon, Mama, please.

“Good luck with your meeting. Be careful, and use the dead bolt and the chain when you’re in the room.”

“Always do,” Erica sang, in an overly patient voice.

“And keep your eyes out for available men,” Susana said in a rush. “Be open-minded. That’s all I’m saying. Life is all about options, baby.”

“Mama!”

“Bueno, bye.”

The abrupt disconnection clicked in Erica’s ear, and she pulled the phone away and stared at it a moment, incredulous, before shaking her head and snapping the flip-front down. Her mother would never stop trying to marry her off, no matter how many times Erica tried to explain her dreams and goals. A pity her mother expended so much energy on a lost cause.

It wasn’t that Erica didn’t like men. She did. She just didn’t want to be subservient to one, as her mother had been to her father. Susana Gonçalves might claim she’d been fulfilled by feeding children, washing clothes and putting everyone else’s needs before her own all these years, but she had been a promising folk guitarist in her youth, on the fast track to giving Joan Baez a little healthy competition.

Then she’d met Erica’s father, and the rest was history. Moises Gonçalves had been raised a kind but strictly traditional man, and into the attic went his wife’s guitar. No time for “frivolity” with babies on the way and a husband to tend, Erica supposed. What a shame.