A Different Perspective

Three

I parked the car right as the first raindrops fell. I ushered Benjamin inside. Once we crossed the threshold into the typical two story colonial style house, we were greeted by the smell of Southern food wafting through the air. Heat from the kitchen also spread throughout the house, and old jazz could be heard playing as well. Mother was in full swing, it seemed.

Benjamin was quick to kick off his sand filled shoes and run up the stairs to change out of his damp clothes. I watched him go with a smirk. My kid brother was never lacking energy. From the second his feet hit the ground in the morning he was an unstoppable force. I closed the front door behind me and ventured deeper into the house. I walked to the kitchen, and my smile only widened. Oh yes, a feast was being prepared.

My mother, Jamie Holden, was doing what she did best: cook. She was a woman of the South and believed that a home cooked meal could solve any problem. Her kinky black hair was in its natural state of an afro. Her dark skin was beaded with sweat, her chocolate brown eyes warm and kind. She wore a navy blue blouse and jeans. She hummed along to the jazz music playing from the radio, gliding from the stove to the fridge in a dance only she understood. I could smell chicken baking and from the looks of it, we would be enjoying potatoes and collard greens as well tonight.

"Ciao, Ma," I said, taking a seat on a barstool at the counter.

"Hey, Bonnie," my mother said. She paused from her dance to flash me a wide grin. "You and Benny have a good day?" she asked. Despite being away from the South for many years, my mother's accent was still thick. She sounded like a classic Southern belle from the old movies we used to watch.

I nodded. "Yeah, we just hung out with the guys at La Push."

I decided to leave my trip to the Cullen house out of the conversation. Although Edward and I had begun dating at the end of spring, both my parents remained skeptical of him and his family. Something's not right about them, they said. I had a hunch that they wanted me to desperately date Jacob. They were always saying that we made a cute couple and they knew that Jacob cared deeply for me. Still, they were polite to Edward whenever he did come over, and they did try to be on their best behavior for me.

I was taken from my thoughts at the sound of heavy footsteps. My father walked into the kitchen, a half empty glass of red wine dangling dangerously from his hand.

"Topolina!" my father said. He kissed my forehead, sitting next to me at the counter.

A stark contrast to my mother, my father, Antoni Holden, was an Italian-American with a passion for knowledge. He was a professor at the University of Washington and taught classes on American history, Native American Cultural Studies, and a million other things. His salt and pepper black hair was slicked back, and his ocean blue eyes were filled to the brim with curiosity. My father was dressed in jeans and a loose button up, his lazy day clothes, as he put it. He smelled heavily of expensive cologne and cigarettes.

"Ciao, Babbo," I said in my father's native tongue.

Although I had heard the story of my parents' meeting nearly 20 years ago, I always thought it was amazing how different they were. A proud black woman from the South of the U.S. who had worked for every dollar she owned and a spoiled son of a military commander who had spent his youth in Italy. Fate was funny in how she arranged for meetings of romance.

My father finished the rest of his wine in an easy swig, and set the glass on the counter.

"Cara mia," he said to my mother with a sly grin. "Molto vino, per favore?" he asked.

My mother rolled her eyes. "You know I don't speak Italian, dear," she said with a grin of her own.

That was a lie. My father had spent years rambling to my mother in the language of his ancestors, and ensured that she had a basic understanding of the romantic tongue. Still, she loved to tease him about it.