Intuition
"A mother understands what a child does not say." Jewish Proverb.
They meet in a classy restaurant, in a 5 start hotel, in Manhattan. Her mothers choice. Olivia doesn't truly understand why, although she knows its part of the pattern. Always the best for mama's baby. Ironically. Considering everything, not least the fact that she'd be just as happy in a cosy little Italian or bistro or something. This is too much, especially after a crazy day at work. She feels overwhelmed, and underdressed, and of course, her mom has to comment on the latter.
"You don't wear a suit to work these days?"
She shakes her head, laughing slightly, wondering how many vics, witnesses and perps she'd get to open up to her if she ditched the street clothes for the kind of designer threads her mom would put her in. Very few she suspected.
"But you're enjoying your work?"
She can hear the guarded tone to her mom's voice, and she knows why. They had the discussion - argument - whatever - when she'd first discovered that her transfer to Special Victims had been accepted. Her mom had instantly expressed concerns about everything from the kind of people she'd be mixing with, to what her motives were for taking the job; impressively, Olivia thought, without mentioning her own past or Olivia's parentage.
And so, she nods hesitantly, forcing a smile, "Yeah. Its real good. Rewarding." She leaves that particular point at that, not seeing the need to share with her mom how satisfying she finds it to put each and every bastard perp away, and how worthwhile it feels to provide help and support to the victims.
"And the people you work with? They're nice?"
She picks up her napkin, starts to fiddle with it, feeling awkward although she's not really sure why. She smiles at her mom and then nods again, "Yeah. They're great." Her mother looks at her expectantly and so she feels obliged to offer up more details about the squad. "The Captain is great. And there's Munch. He's," she thought briefly, trying to decide how to describe her several times married, absolutely paranoid colleague, "quirky. And Monique's nice and Cassidy seems ok. Yeah. They're lovely."
Her mother's eyes narrow suspiciously and Olivia wonders what she's said to earn herself such a look, only realising when she is hit with a particularly pertinent question.
"Which one of those is your partner?"
She bites her lip nervously, again finding the cloth napkin to be the most interesting thing in the world, folding it one way and then the next, anything to avoid looking at her mother. "None of them. He's called Elliot."
"He?" Her mother doesn't sound in the least bit surprised, and when Olivia looks up she's not exactly taken aback to see her smirking slightly. She steels herself, knowing instinctively what is being implied and not liking it in the slightest.
"Mother…" she says warningly, but said mother is having none of it, already off on one.
"Mother nothing Olivia." She retorts firmly, "You've got that same stupid look on your face as you did when Mr Stevens taught you math in 7th grade. You're mid crush and there's no point denying it. Not to your mother."
To an extent, Olivia is unimpressed by the scene her mother is playing out in front of her, as indeed she always is when she insists on playing super mom and pretending she knows her so well when the truth is that she's spent such a vast proportion of her life being too drunk to recognise her, let alone knowing or understanding what was actually going on in her head, but, at the same time, she has to admit, her mom is actually getting something right.
"He's just really nice." She murmurs still staring down at the napkin, picturing her partners kind smile, beautiful eyes, and rippling physique although she's not about to share that with her mother "I like him. As a person."
"As a person?" Her mother nods knowingly, "Is that so?" She lets Olivia nod and a beat pass before asking a follow up question, "He's married I presume?"
Olivia feels her back stiffen. She hates her mom when she gets like this. All knowing, all seeing, too motherly, too protective. It might be justified with other mothers and other kids but not with them. She looked after herself too long for her mom to start trying to be helpful now. She glares at her, "Yes, he's married. But I don't think its relevant. He's just my partner."
Her mom smiles, but not so knowingly this time, perhaps guessing how much she's upsetting her and not wanting to labour the point. That said, she can't resist adding some final words of wisdom on the subject.
"Of course Olivia, and I'm completely teetotal. Just be careful darling, I don't want you to get hurt."