by Chase Connor
Peter knew the answer to that, so I was not required to answer verbally. His arm was laced through mine again, and he continued leading me toward the park, and I didn’t resist.
Love Is Not Conditional
“Well, that’s it then.” My mother’s raspy, phlegmy voice came from behind me where she was perched on the bed.
Ignoring her statement, I gently lowered the lid onto the box and eased it down until it was secure. The box was no bigger than one a pair of large winter boots would have come in, but it held an entire life. It held years of a person’s existence. Plain, brown, and unable to explain the memories and dreams held within, the last box of Ila’s possessions sat before me as I knelt on the floor before it. All in all, three boxes of similar size, and a large bag had been sufficient to pack up what was left of Ila’s personal possessions. Economics had left us all with very few things that we each called our own, and Ila was no exception, as was outlined by the packing I had done.
My head was throbbing, and I felt numb. My lips, mouth, and throat felt like a desert, and my eyes could not focus as my hands stayed atop the lid of the box. I wanted to swallow down my grief, but even that was too much to manage with how parched my throat felt. It was the crying. I had done so much of it that I felt as though there wasn’t a drop of moisture left in my body. Whether or not my refusal to eat or drink anything over the previous two days was based on grief or self-flagellation, I wasn’t sure. But my body felt withered and weak, and I did not know how I would manage to carry the boxes to a shop to be donated. I did not want to donate Ila’s things, but I also did not know if I would be capable even if I had wanted to donate them.
As the strongest and healthiest and most capable person in a household, which has only half of its members left, one finds the world upon their shoulders. Choosing whether to allow oneself to be crushed under the weight or to continue to push against it is a difficult choice. My body told me to crumble, to let myself be pressed into the Earth until ever standing again seemed impossible, while my mind told me that my mother needed me more than ever. That filled me with rage that I did not have the energy to express.
I found myself replaying the history of my family in my head as I knelt there before the last of Ila’s things. Other than my own health issues—which were more than manageable on the worst of days—my childhood had been perfectly ideal. Mother. Father. Son. Church and school and plenty to eat and clothes to keep us warm. A nice home with plenty of rooms to grow within when we had lived in France. Holidays with the little family we had and summer vacations that, while not luxurious, were always filled with fun and laughter. Somewhere in our timeline, the happiness had been stripped away, and our family began to shrink. Was it because my parents had been so old compared to other people with children my age? Had they waited so long to have a child that it was inevitable that I would not have my parents by my side later in life like most people my age? Had my parents overreached in adopting two other children with special needs, unaware of what was lurking in the years ahead? Had letting my grandmother move in with us driven a wedge between my father and me? Or had we, like a lot of families, been torn apart by the modern common problem of economic uncertainty, poor health and substandard health care, and the marginalization of immigrants (regardless of why they had migrated to begin with)?
All of the thoughts swirling through my throbbing skull left me wondering if anything I knew about my family was real. What did I actually know about my parents and siblings, and what had I just assumed based on my own youthful fantasies? Does anyone really know the people in their family—or do they decide that their parents are heroes, they will have their brothers and sisters with them into old age, and that no one in the family is harboring secret jealousies and angers? The question that banged around the loudest in my head was this: what had decimated our family? Economic uncertainty and choices made without thought for the future—or our failures at never truly sharing who we were, not just as a family, but as individual people?
What does bad health and death actually destroy if a family is united? It may cause sadness, of course. Grief is unavoidable, just like death. A healthy family, however, will always be able to look back on the memories and be glad that they had those times. But if that were true, that would mean that no one in my family knew each other at all. My family was a group of strangers, going through the motions. Waiting to see who would be the last angry and bitter person standing. Somewhere along the line, jealousy, disappointment, and anger had seeped in the cracks that death after death created.
“Je suis gay,” I said, simply.
My mother was silent, but her breathing was not.
Even before my father had dropped his bombshell on me, my mother had surely been struggling. I had just not been aware. Children never notice their parents’ declining health when it is not convenient for what is going on in their world. So, my mother’s raspy breathing behind me reminded me of all of the times I had ignored signs that she was not well. The memories brought on a flurry of emotions that I was both not capable of and not strong enough to process. Guilt ran into rage ran into sadness ran into dread ran into acceptance. My family was dying. And I was gay.
“Homosexuel.” I shifted to look at her over my shoulder. “Je suis homosexuel, Maman.”
“I know.” She said, a raspy inhale of breath followed by a cough that was quickly covered with her hand. “I have been aware.”
“Okay.” I turned away.
“Why do you tell me this?” She asked. “Now?”
“You know why.”
“Because I am dying.”
“Yes.”
“Your father, grandmother, and I knew, Enzo.”
“Okay.”
“Are you asking for me to absolve you of your perceived sin?”
“I don’t know what I am asking, Maman.”
We sat in silence, the weight of our religion, past and current circumstances, the timing of my statement, and Ila’s deafening, boxed up memories between us. In the archives of my mind, I pulled out files of my mother sitting in pews as priests proclaimed that the Devil resided within homosexuals. I examined the index of all of the times we had prayed that people with such twisted perversions in their minds found their way to the one true God through Christ. Though, they surely would never be forgiven. Not even in confession. Encyclopedias of how homosexuals would be punished in a God-less Hell flashed through my mind’s eyes. I thought of how Downs could not be accepted by our church—our religion—how could my homosexuality be any different? And Ila had been the purest soul I’d ever known. Quick to laugh, to offer a hug, to hold a hand, to tell someone they were pretty, to want to be friends. The first to look up at the stained-glass windows and whisper in awe: “Magnifique.”
With a strength I didn’t know I still possessed, I picked up Ila’s box of things, hoisted it over my head in a rage, and threw it at the wall. The box split open, books and trinkets clattering to the ground, her favorite Christmas ornament exploding into a million tiny pieces. Just like our family. Just as quickly as the rage overtook me, I laid my hands back on my thighs and continued to kneel there amongst the wreckage that was now another life unfulfilled. If someone had approached me and thrown a fist into my gut, I wouldn’t have reacted. I would have merely toppled over and prayed for God to put me in the Earth as well.
I could hear Noe making his distressed groaning noise in the living room, the one he always made when he was anxious and scared. Normally, I would have rushed to him and comforted him. But I couldn’t. I was rooted.
If you were to examine my childhood, or at least the second half, the part where I had been blessed with a brother and a sister, two things would stand out. One, my brother was my best friend. Two, my sister was my other best friend. Both of my siblings, though odd as it may seem to people who do not have children with special needs in their families, were my very best friends. Noe did not communicate well or often. Ila had Downs. Yet I felt as though I knew and understood t
hem more than anyone else on Earth. Above all things, I loved and wanted to protect my brother and sister, to make sure that their lives were as happy and normal as possible. How does one protect their siblings from God, though?
“Your father did not hate you, Enzo.” My mother’s hand landed like a butterfly’s wing upon my shoulder.
“For being gay or for grandmother’s love?” I asked.
“Either.” She said. “He hated himself for not knowing about you sooner so that maybe he could have his own absolution. He hated himself for being too stupid—too macho—to admit that he loved his mother and needed her affection as much as you received it.”
“Fuck him.”
Mother laughed, which shocked me.
“I think he would agree.” She said.
My mother slowly eased herself off of her bed in the room she had shared with Ila and shuffled gingerly towards the door. Noe was still groaning, though his volume had decreased. I felt so ashamed for terrifying him, even if that had not been my intention. My mother turned in the doorway, one hand going to the jamb to brace herself.
“Your father loved you, Enzo. And he always wanted to be your father.”
“How do you know? You don’t know what he said to me.” I growled with what little strength I had left.
“He told me what he said to you. He regretted moving us here—to this place. But he mourned the loss of his humanity from what he had said to you more. And like so many things, he did not take the time he had to say so.”
I stared up at her.
“So, here we are.” She gestured vaguely, weakly, with her free hand. “What do we do with this? I am dying. There is nothing that can be done about that. Soon, this family will be two. What do you do when God has chosen to take the reins away from you so that you cannot steer your own destiny, Enzo?”
“Do you still love me? Did Dad? Grandmother? Even though I am a sinner?”
My mother gave an incredulous laugh as her arms came to fold over her chest, and she leaned against the doorjamb. Noe was silent now.
“You seem to think that love is conditional, Enzo. We did not set parameters for our love when we found out that I was pregnant with you. Nor when you were born. Or your first year, second year…God did not give you to us after a lifetime of trying with a list of conditions. Nor Noe or Ila. We loved you just as you are, every day, every year. Until our ends. We did not say to ourselves or each other: ‘We will love him only if.’ Enzo…regret darkened your father’s soul. His inability to accept that his choices were not bad…they just turned out to be wrong…darkened his soul. Through no fault of his own. One doesn’t know when they decide to take a job whether or not it will be the best thing for them and their family. They simply have faith. But faith is the illusion of control and the assumption of truth in a world that is chaotic and full of different truths. Do not let anger and grief do the same to you.”
My mother pushed away from the door.
“Never stop loving someone because they are not what other people see as perfect, Enzo. Never let your perception of what is perfect keep you from loving others.”
“But—”
“Being gay is not a sin, Enzo.” My mother stated firmly, her foot stomping gently against the floorboards. “Maybe we should have spoken to you more about the things you heard in our church, explained that church, like people, is imperfect. There are a great many things, at the end of a life, one can say that they wish they had paid more notice to, that they talked about, that they clarified. At some point, though, this ceases to matter. All you can do is forgive yourself for the mistakes you have made and pray that those you have made them against are kind enough to do the same. Here we are, Enzo. Make your choice about what you will do, but either way, love, in any of its forms, is not a sin. And, even if you can’t believe that right now, remember this: Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers a multitude of sins. I do not want to say more about this. It is not a discussion. You are gay. Your grandmother loved you. Your father loved you. Ila loved you. I love you. Noe loves you. I am dying, and I will tell you every day that I love you until I am done—but I will not tolerate your doubt. I can accept that what our family has endured is God’s plan, but your doubt, I will not abide. To lose a child to God’s plan is one thing, to lose them to doubt is another.”
“Yes, Maman.”
“Your brother will need you, Enzo.”
“I know.”
“Come.” She reached a hand out to me. “We can clean this up later. You need to eat and drink something and rest. Noe will want to sit with you.”
“Okay.”
When I left the room with my mother, even though everything was already ruined, I made sure to not step on any of Ila’s memories.
Life’s Simple Pleasures
Peter found a bench within moments of us scaling the inadequate fencing that surrounding the side of the park we had been walking along. Obviously, more intimate with what it meant to be dangerous than I was, Peter simply sat down and extracted the packages and boxes of chocolate candies from his coat pockets. He looked perfectly at home in a park that was supposed to be closed to the public from midnight until six in the morning. I, on the other hand, kept my hands in my pockets and glanced around nervously, expecting a police officer…a security guard…someone to come tell us that we were in trouble. Maybe we would be arrested? At the very least, we would be given a scolding and told to leave immediately, or there would be consequences. Swallowing my fear and my Good Boy tendencies, I eased myself down to sit beside Peter on the bench. Not merely because I wanted to be dangerous for once, but because I had been simply existing for so many nights in succession that I had forgotten what it meant to live.
Settling in beside Peter on the bench, making sure that the side of my leg touched his, and glad that he did not mind in the slightest, I watched as he held the candies out to me in one hand, one box of Smarties and a bag of M&Ms. Smiling, I reached out and took them from him, making sure that my hand lingered against his for as long as possible. Peter made sure his fingers brushed along mine, the tips of our fingers dancing as he transferred the candies to my hand, his eyes never leaving mine. It’s a funny thing, being a virgin and having intimate contact with another human being, the things one finds to be erotic when they have no concept of what “erotic” really means. Having no experience with sex, so many things, such slight, innocent touches could electrify one’s body. I found that just having the tips of my fingers play along the tips of Peter’s fingers affected my body in ways that nothing else ever did.
Of course, it could have been Peter more than the thought of sex itself that did this to me. It was possible that had there been a different man sitting next to me, the sensation of fingers against fingers would have been clinical and uninspiring. Just one person passing candy to another person, no undertone of danger and sensuality. As it were, I knew, without asking, that if I had asked Peter to hold my hand or lay his on my thigh, to touch me anywhere on my body, he would have obliged. If I had asked him to kiss me, his lips would have found mine. I could have asked anything of Peter in that moment, and he would have granted my wish. Not just because he felt obligated, but because he wanted those things as much as I thought I did. He was merely waiting for my acquiescence. He wanted to know that I wanted those things as badly as he did, but he was letting me lead. There is nothing worse than feeling someone has been honest with you about their attraction, yet being rejected when you take them at their word.
We were performing a dance. Our desires clear and omnipresent, but both participants afraid to take the next step unless the other person led. It was frustrating and infuriating, nearly pushing me to the brink of anger. It was the most satisfying type of foreplay.
“So,” Peter began, obviously unaware of the battle going on in my brain, “are Smarties actually good, or were you teasing me, just to trick me into trying them?”
I chuckled.
“Non,” I said. “They are good. My broth
er used to—”
Peter just watched me, waiting for me to finish a sentence I hadn’t even planned to begin.
“They are good,” I said finally, looking down at the packages of candy in my hand.
“Enzo?”
“I do not want to talk about that.”
“Okay.”
So, in silence, both of us opened candy packages. I decided to eat my M&Ms first, though I really wanted to save both to take home. I could portion them out as treats for the following few days, but I knew that it would be rude to do such a thing since Peter had purchased them for us to enjoy during our night together. Using the tips of my fingers like a pincher, I reached into my bag of M&Ms and extracted a candy, then delicately deposited it on the tip of my tongue and savored the feeling of it rolling into my mouth. It had been many months since I had experienced the luxury of candy-coated chocolate rolling around in my mouth. The candy rolling around in my mouth made me smile, not because it was delicious, though it was, but because it was such a simple thing to think of as a luxury. The sheer amount of the candies that would be consumed in a day in one city alone was astronomical, and I felt as though I was eating edible gold.
Peter was silent, other than the sound of the candies being poured into the palm of his hand and then tossed into his mouth. He stared out at nothing in the park as he sat beside me, the sides of our legs touching and candies were eaten. Guilt, but not of the Catholic kind, flooded my chest as I chewed my candy slowly, considering whether or not I had been rude to someone who had shown me nothing but kindness all evening. Had it been wrong of me to refuse to talk about Noe with Peter? Or was that within my right to decline to speak about something that was still like an open wound on my heart that I was certain would never heal—especially if I kept picking at it? Then again, did I want a wound, which was really the memories of people I loved, to become scabbed over, turning into yet another ugly scar?
