another, I’m really not sure. But
suddenly, it wasn’t about my wanting
a driver’s license. It was all about
how my being gay is a sin, at least
in Dad’s eyes. I asked him when my
qualifying for heaven became a priority.
And all he could say as he slurped
Irish coffee was, I’ll pray for you.
A Soft Whistle
Escapes Alex. Wow. I knew your dad
isn’t exactly accepting. But I had no
idea it’s because he’s religious.
“He’s not. I mean, when I was a little
kid, we used to go to church all
the time. But then he started to travel
a lot. And then his mom, who was
the religious one to start with, got run
over crossing the street. After she died,
he never went to church again. If he
lost his faith, whatever. But that does
not give him the right to turn into
a no-good, nasty, loser drunk, or to try
and make me believe God hates me
because I’m some sort of an abomination. . . .”
I’m out of breath and losing steam.
But now Alex wants to know, So, you
believe in God? I mean, considering . . .
“Considering what? That I watch
porn and smoke weed and have
a boyfriend? Yes, as unlikely as it
might seem, I do believe in God.
See, I never felt exactly ‘mainstream’
as a kid. The closest I ever got was
when we went to church and the pastor
would say stuff like we are all God’s
children and He made us in His image.
Christ was all about walking with sinners,
Alex, and paving a path to heaven for
whores and homos and such. I bet his disciples
even strayed now and again, you know?
I mean, after all, they were men walking
the wilds with other men for weeks at a time.”
I wink and he laughs, but then he gets
all serious and says, And you believe
in heaven? That there’s life after death?
Death
I can’t stand thinking about
that word in relation to
Alex, but he’s waiting for me
to answer, and I think he needs
to hear what I’ve got to say.
“Yes, I believe that there is life
after death. Any physicist will
tell you that energy doesn’t die,
it only changes forms. What
makes you you, Alex? That
hunk of gray matter inside
your skull? No way. You—all
of us—have a life force. Energy.
Some people call it a soul.
Whatever you call it, it makes
you you. And when your body
dies, your energy will remain.
I can’t say for sure what heaven is.
But I have faith that it’s a special place,
and that you will be welcome there.”
Alex
Faith
Belief in unproven theory, in
what cannot be seen or heard
or touched, is something
I
have never known. Such
an amazing gift, to rise
above the realm of
wish-
ful thinking, all the way
to certainty of life beyond
the curse of early death. If
I
had been immersed in it
as a child, would I still carry
it with me now, and
could
it mute the throbbing
fear? If I reach for it now,
is there a chance that I will
find
it, sure as day follows night
follows day? If I hold Shane
tightly enough, can I absorb
faith?
Harley
If You Hold Someone
Tightly enough, can you make them stay?
Seems like everywhere I look, people
get together, only to break up again.
Especially people I care about, like Dad,
who broke up with Mom, plus a string
of girlfriends, before finding Cassie.
I hope they stay together, but sometimes
I hear them arguing. Can you argue and
still stay together? Is it worth it if you do?
Then there’s Mom, who broke up with Dad,
and who just hooked up with a really cute
guy a few weeks ago. Robin is from Australia,
and has a hot Down Under accent. Mom
has had dates before, but she never really
talks about them. This time, she actually
brought him home for dinner. Not only
that, but she asked me to help her cook
it, so I knew she wanted a heart-to-heart.
I was peeling apples when she launched
it, gushing about Robin and how wonderful
he was. When I didn’t say anything,
she insisted, What? Talk to me, Harl.
Which made me confess, “I just never
thought about you falling in love.”
It was obvious that she had, and yet
she swore, Whoa, now, wait a minute.
I never said anything about love.
Then she stood there, hands on hips.
“I know. But since you met him,
you’re . . . different. Happier, I guess.”
Totally true, and when she asked why
that bothered me, I said something totally
stupid. “I want you to be happy because
of me. Not him. Not anyone else.”
Totally Stupid
Because I do want her to be
happy, and she never really
seems that way. I get that
she’s lonely. Feel bad that I
am not enough to change
that. But when she started
talking about Chad and how
I feel when he smiles at me
and how every woman wants
that solid rush of pleasure, even
a mom (and a single mom at that!),
I completely understood. But then
she had to use the M word. Anyway,
I’m just having fun with Robin.
We’re not getting married or
anything like that. You know?
Married? She’d never do that
again, would she? “Not now,
you’re not. But that might change.”
I still don’t get why that bothers
me, and neither did she. Her eyes
kind of glittered, angry. Harley,
how come it doesn’t piss you off
that your dad found someone new?
I’d already thought about that, so
the answer came easily. “I never
expected anything different from
Dad. He’s got personality flaws.”
And it was just so accurate that
she snorted, Ha! Ain’t it the truth?
Ain’t it the truth? And that stupid
saying made me laugh and some
sort of barrier fell. Then she said,
Honey, don’t worry, okay? Robin
and I have only gone out a few times.
He’s leaving for Vegas tomorrow.
It’s a friendship, not a commitment.
I just wanted him to meet the girl
who will always be my top priority.
Let him see why I love you, okay?
How Could I Say No?
Still, as I sliced the apples into
a saucepan and added a little water
(per Gram�
�s yummy applesauce recipe),
something kept eating at me—
the commitment thing again.
Does love have to be temporary?
Or is that only lust? “Did you ever love
Dad? I mean, were the two of you really
in love?” I was little when they split
up, and I can’t really picture them
together, walking hand in hand along
the beach at sunset, or whatever.
She considered the question for
a few. I definitely thought so once.
But young love doesn’t always last.
But it does sometimes, like with
Bri’s mom and dad, who have
been together for, like, forever.
When I argued that, she agreed.
And then I really needed to know
something else. “Have you ever
been in love with anyone besides
Dad?” When she said no, I asked,
“Then why did you get divorced?”
I said it kind of mean, and I meant
it that way, and it stung her. First
she looked mad, then she looked
hurt and I felt bad when she said,
all soft and almost whispery,
Sometimes love isn’t enough.
Right about then the doorbell
rang, and the way Mom smiled
made me know she’s in love with
Robin, for whatever it’s worth.
I can’t really blame her. He’s
pretty much all that, and more.
I Didn’t Want to Like Him
But I couldn’t help it. From
the minute he walked through
the door, he made everything
be about me. He even asked my
opinion about stuff—like what
I think about politics and war
and immigration. When I didn’t
have a good answer, I made stuff
up and he pretended every word
was valid. Then, when we sat
down to Mom’s amazing sage-
and-garlic-rubbed pork roast and
she told him I made the applesauce,
it was me he complimented. Beauty,
brains, and a fabulous chef too?
Where have you been all my life?
And even though I knew it was
just a line, it made me feel great
that he cared enough to waste
it on me. Oh, yeah, I liked him.
So I’m Sorry
I’m Afraid Her Heart Will, Too
Especially as I happen to overhear
her talking on the phone to Bri’s mom.
I called Robin, just to say hi.
Some woman answered.
She told me he was asleep,
and it was obvious she had
been sleeping, too. God! I can’t
believe I was nothing more
than a three-night stand. . . .
Now Bri’s mom is saying something.
When Mom starts again, her voice is tired.
His sister? Yeah, right. Oh,
I suppose it’s possible. But
likely? Don’t think so. He
said he isn’t married, but
never said he isn’t attached.
Anyway, if he really cared,
he would have called me by now.
I can’t listen anymore. What’s wrong
with Mom? Why can’t she fall for
someone who will love us both?
Trace
Listening In
On adult conversations
is one of my favorite pastimes.
With much practice, I have
become a regular master of
eavesdropping
from the top of the stairs.
Somehow, the people below
never seem to know I’m here.
Amazing, how nonchalant they
can be
about secrets. Or maybe Mom
doesn’t care that I know about
her friend’s latest hookup, come
unhooked. I guess I do feel
bad
for Andrea. She has always
been nice to me, and a second
mom to Bri. She’s close to over
the hill. Probably not easy
for
a lady her age to connect
with someone who’s not
a creepster. Middle-aged
dating has got to be hard on
a person.
Mikayla
Dating
Is such a weak word.
“Going out” is an awkward
phrase, too. Neither defines
my relationship with Dylan.
We aren’t exactly engaged,
but we are something like
promised to each other. That’s
what the ring I’m wearing says.
“Promised.” He gave it to me
after the biggest fight we’ve
ever had, that day at Washoe
Lake. When Dylan pulled up
and saw me with Ty, he flipped.
Not that I had done one single
thing wrong. He just assumed
the worst. And how dare he?
Dylan was the one who had been
sneaking around. Not me.
We kissed and made up days
ago. But it still makes me mad.
I would not party without him,
especially not at an old boyfriend’s
house. He swears nothing happened
with Kristy, and I mostly believe
him. But there was something
like guilt in his eyes. I would ask
Ty if he knows anything more,
but Dylan would be pissed
and I love him too much to risk
another blowup. Anyway, I’m not
grounded at the moment. Tonight,
evenings like last night, waylaid
by Mom’s fortieth birthday party.
She said I could invite Dylan,
but he’s scared of my parents.
Don’t really blame him—he’s not
their favorite person. But even if
he was, I’m kind of glad he didn’t
come. It was a strange evening.
For One Thing
It was supposed to be a surprise
party. Obviously, since Mom said
Dylan could come, she knew about it.
Brianna and Harley planned it.
So I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise
that it wasn’t a surprise. Relentless
giggling is a surefire sign. Mom
faked it pretty well. But I think
the biggest shock was that Grandma
and Grandpa Carlisle came over.
They sort of put up with Mom,
but it’s clear that they don’t really
consider her family. When my
grandmother bothers to talk
to Mom at all, the condescension
reeks. No one thinks I’ve noticed
it, but how could I not? So I was
as startled as everyone else when
the doorbell rang, and there
stood the elder Carlisles, birthday
orchid in hand. Grandma knows
Mom is death to houseplants.
But Grandma was nice enough last
night. She even tried karaoke—
the Beatles’ “Yesterday.” Who
knew she could sing? Who
knew she knew the Beatles?
Mom sang, too. “Material Girl,”
by Madonna. Not bad. But she
seemed distant. Barely there
at all, like she so wanted to be
somewhere else. And not just
because of my grandparents.
She doesn’t think I’ve not
iced
that, either. But something is up
with Mom. Something disquieting.
Case in Point
Her almost non-reaction to
Paul Driscoll totally denying
the sperm donation that resulted
in a little baby Mom. I showed
her Leon Driscoll’s email and,
though I could see she was, like,
punched in the gut, all she said
was, I never expected anything
else. But thanks for trying, Mik.
And when I told her I wasn’t
done trying, that there is some-
one out there named Sarah Hill,
all she said was, Don’t worry
about it. You and Trace and Bri
are all the family I need. Which
pretty much mimicked Dad’s
take on the whole birth parent
search thing. And then, rather
than think things over, she made
a phone call and took off for
the evening, stumbling back home
very, very late. Yet another thing
she doesn’t think I notice—later
and later evenings. More and more
often. Drunker and drunker when
she finally wanders in. Yet, somehow,
she is up early to run the next day.
I think she deserves a nod from
the Guinness Book of World Records
for “Distance Run on a Hangover.”
Do I worry about her? Definitely.
Will I discuss it with her? No freaking
way. Because she’s my mother, forty
years old and able to make decisions
for herself. But I really have to wonder.
Why hasn’t my father noticed?
I Think About These Things
Lounging in bed late this morning.
Karaoke and cake kept us up late.
I don’t hear a lot of movement in
the house. And it’s weird, but I’m
still tired, despite eight hours of
sleep. Tired, and a little nauseous.
Hey, Bri and Harley made the cake.
Who knows if the eggs were good?
Eggs. Yuck. The very thought makes
my stomach turn. In fact, I think . . .
I throw back the covers, sprint
for the bathroom. Barely make it
to the toilet before I have to let fly.
Stomach cramping, I heave. Heave.
Heave until there’s nothing left
to do but lay my head against
the chill porcelain, half hoping