Touched by an Alien

MARRYING Martini until Mom said no one would let us. Then the rebellious part of me that had me reading Betty Freidan and putting up Susan B. Anthony posters in my room two decades past the height of the Women’s Movement kicked in.
    “It’s not their choice, it’s ours.”
    “Your little Jews in Space line is more on the mark than you realize,” Mom said patiently. “Orthodox Jews from Space might be more accurate, though.”
    “I know you and Dad had issues in getting married—”
    “And only the fact I was in the Mossad and had saved his life allowed his parents to manage to accept me. Your father and his siblings rebelled against their parents’ strict outlook, but they had the rest of the world to support them. The A-C clan doesn’t. For example, Jeff has no options for health care other than from another A-C being, unless he’s excited about becoming a human experimental toy. You couldn’t have your children at any hospital at home, for the same reason. They’ll look human on the outside, but on the inside, the A-C genes are dominant.”
    I took a deep breath. “I’m not ready to get married, so this is sort of a silly conversation.”
    “You need to know what you’re getting into. I didn’t think I was going to marry your father, either. It just sort of happened, falling in love, real love, not lust.”
    “I do lust Martini,” I admitted. “I don’t know if I love him.” I thought about the flashes of pain I’d witnessed and the way he’d looked lost and lonely talking about the home world he’d never seen and never would see. “I care about him, though.”
    “It’s clear he cares about you, as well. Just be aware—he’s not the only one.” Mom stood. “We’d better go. I’m sure you’re hungry after getting a lot of, ah, exercise last night.”
    “Says who?” I stood too, hoping I looked righteously innocent.
    “Says the supremely satisfied glow and relaxed body language. I’m your mother, let’s please remember. Lost your virginity in college my ass,” she added as we went to the door.
    “Oh, let him keep his illusions.”
    “I will. He’s hard enough to live with when he’s got them intact. Every shattered illusion takes weeks to get him over.”
    “Sorry.”
    “It’s okay. I’m used to it. Besides, he makes up for it in other ways.”
    “Too much information! I don’t want to hear another word about your sex life. We’ve already covered more of mine than I wanted to share.”
    “That’s fine, we can talk about your shoes instead. Starting with, why?”
    We wandered down unfamiliar corridors, but Mom was striding along as if she’d lived here all her life. “All I had, thanks so much. You were packed for a trip, and Dad got to bring whatever he wanted. I was lucky Martini broke a rule and took me back to my apartment to change out of my suit. Besides, they’re comfortable.”
    “You look as though you’re trying to bring the eighties’ suit and tennis shoes look back. Comfy, yes. Attractive, not so much.”
    “What are you, the Terrorism Fashionista?”
    “Just get a more appropriate pair of shoes before we have to go anywhere.”
    We hit the dining area just in time. It was a sea of black and white Armani. I saw Martini waving, but I’d have found them without the help—Dad’s yellow polo shirt stood out like a beacon. “Why don’t you do something about his wardrobe?” I asked as we made our way to them.
    “He’s married, you’re single.”
    “I thought we were avoiding that train of thought.”
    “Only for now.”
    The dining room was filled with long tables and typical industrial-type chairs. It gave me the feeling of being in a military unit that just happened to wear designer fatigues. Dad and Martini were at the end of one table; Gower, Reader, Christopher, and White were with them. There was an empty chair between Martini and Reader and one between Dad and Christopher. I knew where I was sitting. We reached the table, and Martini pulled out the chair for me. Christopher beat Dad to Mom’s chair. I saw Dad give him a glare similar to the one he’d shown Martini earlier. Good, at least one of them wasn’t ready to adopt Christopher into the family just yet.
    There was no menu. Food was served family style, with a wide variety of options. This was a relief—hearing Dad’s complaint about pig products being the only breakfast option was never fun, and I’d learned it by heart before I was five.
    Mom and I filled our plates