by Aimee Herman
Dear James,
What about me made you think I was gay too?
Wednesday, December 8
Dear James,
So I guess Shirley is dating now.
She invited some guy from her therapy group to eat with us.
As I walked down the stairs, I noticed a strange man with a brown sweater vest and comb-over sitting at our kitchen table. He got up as I peeked into the kitchen.
“I’m Ted.” He reached out his hand and I just kind of stared at it. It was doughy, like those Pillsbury rolls that start out in a cylinder, and then you pop the paper flap, and it all just combusts.
“I’m Eleanor, but you probably know that.”
Was I supposed to make it easy for this guy?
“Well, yes, your mom has talked much about you. And Greta too.” I watched his eyes glance over at Shirley in this gross way. Gross to me, because it’s a man looking at my mom like she’s a woman. And not my mom. Like he’s picturing her giving birth to me or something.
I let my lips curl into themselves. This was code for uh-huh.
“Thanks for letting me join in on your dinner. Smells delicious.”
Ted had a pen clipped to the inside of his pant pocket, which I only noticed because it was leaking, leaving a puddle of blue by his thigh. I’m not sure he knew about it and I wasn’t about to tell him. It’s not my place to tell him this. He smelled like mouthwash and talcum powder, which reminded me of dad and he also smelled like sour sour cream. He told me about his cat named Fiona, which he had a picture of in his wallet and didn’t hesitate to show me and he has a grown daughter named Sally who lives in Florida. She’s got cats too.
I didn’t talk much during dinner, which was a casserole with chicken, string beans, corn, cream of mushroom soup, basically a dish of everything in our fridge. Oh, and fried onions on top, my favorite from the can. Ted had three helpings.
Okay, I will admit that it was nice to see Shirley smiling so much. Ted doesn’t seem so bad. And maybe it’s a good thing to date someone who understands what it’s like to be sad. It’s not like I’m waiting for her and Dad to get back together. I much prefer how it is now to when they fought so much. It’s just weird to see her put her hand on someone else and to googley-eye him so much.
Wednesday, December 8
Dear James,
In school, I spent five extra minutes trying to unlock my locker. I hate these stupid locks. 31-28-14. I spun and paused. 31-28-14. But it wouldn’t open. I felt my body get sweaty. This is what happens when I feel rushed or stressed or angry. Finally, it popped open and I noticed a neatly folded piece of torn loose-leaf in handwriting I didn’t recognize.
Elenor,
I don’t really know what to say except that yeah, it’s me. Can we talk after school?
Brian
Okay, so I wasn’t going to mention it in my letters to you, James. Not like you are reading this. But there is something about writing things down that make it real. I just figured I’d put a note in Brian’s locker, the Brian I assumed you were talking about in your notebook. I actually didn’t expect him to write back, even though I mentioned my locker number just in case.
After school, Brian and I sat in the back of the auditorium while the drama people practiced for the school play. I think they are doing Flowers for Algernon. It was definitely awkward at first because I never spoke to this Brian before. I’ve talked to Brian C. a bunch of times because he was my lab partner last year in Science class. Brian Z. and I used to be acquaintances. Brian M. and I live on the same block, so Dara and I used to go to his house to play board games until he bored us. But Brian S. and I somehow never crossed paths.
“So, James told you? I didn’t realize you guys were friends,” Brian said as we ended our uncomfortable bout of silence and realized that someone would have to make the first move with words.
“Not exactly. His mom . . . I got his notebook. And I guess he was sort of writing to me for some reason. He mentioned you a bunch of times and . . . I slowly started to figure out which Brian he was talking about.”
“Who’d you tell?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean who’s gonna call me a fag now?”
James, I immediately felt uncomfortable, worried that I made a mistake.
“I didn’t. I . . .” I didn’t really know what to say.
“We were friends and then we weren’t. That’s pretty much it,” he said.
James, here is what I wanted. What I wanted was for Brian to tell me all about you. Tell me he loved you but didn’t know how to show it. I think I wanted him to apologize even though it was too late. Even though none of it mattered now. But it’s like he was all carved out. A hollow tree.
“He really cared about you,” I said.
“Yeah, well, he’s gone now. Not much matters about that. Just . . . don’t tell anyone alright? I’m not gay, if that’s what you’re thinking. And even if I was, I can’t be. Not here. Definitely not here.”
“I don’t care if you are, Brian. But I am.”
“You’re what?”
“Gay. And you know what? I don’t care who you tell. James killed himself because he was tired of not being allowed to be himself. Always feeling like he was wrong. Do what you need to do. Pretend or whatever. That’s on you. Just know that you meant a lot to him. I guess that’s all I wanted to say.”
James, I am starting to realize that how we imagine things in our head is often far different from how life actually goes. I thought we’d hug, leave as friends, maybe even start a movement of coming out, ripping out all the nails, tearing down the door to our closet—you know, what we come out of?—and start a revolution. Too far? Probably. Anyway, I left feeling like life is far more complicated than that.
Thursday, December 9
Dear James,
Tonight, at group, my mind was elsewhere. It’s like my brain was packed and ready, traveling through various conversations and distracted by everything that has happened in these past few months. It traveled from Aggie to you to Reigh and T’nea to Brian and even Dara. Your mom mentioned something about counseling and separation, and that’s when I dumped out my brain’s suitcases and tried to focus.
“. . . and it just hasn’t gotten better. I’m realizing that I have been very dormant. I should have stood up for James. Should have encouraged him to be whoever and however he wanted to . . .”
James, your mom and dad are separating. This isn’t new, I mean, this happens a lot. Peter has mentioned several times the difficulty for parents to remain together after the loss of a child. A bunch of people at group have gotten divorces. I wasn’t going to tell you. I wasn’t going to write it down, but I am trying to be free in here. Ms. Raimondo said that the moment we edit, we are stopping the natural flow. Like placing a giant boulder in the middle of a stream. The direction changes. No rocks allowed.
I talked to Helaine after group, as I often do. She always asks me for an Eleanor report. How things are at school, home, in life. I told her about T’nea and she smiled. I also mentioned my interaction with Brian.
“Eleanor, we all aren’t ready to be who we are at the moment others want us to be. And the other way around, which is . . . which was James’s cross. All we have control over is how we live and lead our lives.”
“I’m really sorry about you and Burt,” I said.
“It was coming. You know, I grew up with parents who absolutely hated one another. I used to stare at their wedding photo and wonder how they were able to smile that long for the camera, standing closer than I’d ever seen them. I carried some of that into my marriage with Burt. I didn’t want to give up, but I know it harmed James to see us. To see me not stick up for him when he needed me most.”
A few nights ago, I was talking to Reigh on the phone. She’s staying in Red Bank with a friend. She said that we are disco balls. Some of us turn real fast, illuminating our mirrored edges, showing off all the sides we encompress encompass. While others have turned
ourselves off. They don’t rotate, staying still, refusing to open themselves up to new opportunities or ways of thinking. James, I’d like to think I have begun to spin. I’d like to think that this is my disco ball moment.
Friday, December 10
Dear James,
This year is almost over. Soon, I will be sixteen. Today in English class, Aggie’s braid was starring in a silent film against her back and I just watched it. I stared at her glistening black strands, while thinking of T’nea. Is that strange?
This time last year I had no idea what was ahead. So what waits for me now?
Saturday, December 11
Dear James,
My parents had me late in life. Most of my friends’ parents are younger. Even Helaine looks super young to be a mom. I wonder what it’s going to be like when I’m old and my parents are so old that I have to sew post-its to their clothes to remind them what to do and how to do it. Hopefully, it won’t come down to that. Shirley is dating Ted—it’s official. But Dad is still alone. I hope he finds someone who knows how to sew. Greta came home yesterday. Her friend was having some sort of birthday celebration, so she went to that last night. She’s still sleeping, amidst a pile of dirty laundry that she brought home because she is too lazy to collect quarters and do it herself. She surprised me by leaving a note on my desk that she was going to join me at Dad’s for the weekend. It’s been awhile since it’s been the three of us.
Downstairs, I could hear Shirley cooking breakfast. French toast with cornflakes on top: Greta’s favorite. After breakfast, Shirley is driving us to Dad’s. This is the weekend I practice my coming out skills once again.
Aggie reminded me about what we read in class from Audre Lorde. All about breaking our silence. And what happens. Doors open.
A few nights ago, Flor was over for supper and while Shirley was cleaning up, I shared with Flor my nervousness about telling Dad about my sexuality.
“I guess I just wish this was like one giant game of telephone where one person whispers to the next and they whisper what they hear to the one beside them and it all just gets carried away.”
“But you know, Eleanor, in that game it never ends up the way it started. It’s best to always hear news from the newsmaker.”
I thought about this for a moment. “Okay. So, what do I do? I mean, do you think Shirley told Dad already?”
“She’s in the kitchen. Go ask her.”
I screamed out an exasperated sigh. “I almost don’t even want to know. Knowing he knows and hasn’t said anything would make it worse!”
“Then how about you head into your weekend. Enjoy this time with Greta and allow it to just come out in the way you need it to. I will say one more thing about it, Eleanor. It really doesn’t matter if he knows or not. You telling him is less about him knowing and more about you getting more and more comfortable with speaking your truth.”
Sunday, December 12
Dear James,
It’s interesting what one notices. Whenever I go over to Dad’s house, I am reminded of how different his house smells compared to Shirley’s. This makes me wonder if our house’s smell changed after he left.
Yesterday, Dad marinated spareribs while Greta and I worked on the dim sum. She sat across from me with a large, metal bowl between us filled with freshly ground pork—so deeply mashed up that it became a paste, various spices, scallions, soy sauce and freshly ground ginger. We each scooped a heaping tablespoon full of filling onto a thin wrapper, pinched the tops closed, then placed on a plate for Dad to steam because Greta is on a diet and nothing can ever be fried anymore.
Making dim sum together has become a ritual at Dad’s, even before he moved out. Oftentimes, it would be a full day affair of steaming or frying up the dim sum, while pork spare ribs sizzled in the oven and Dad would stand by the stove with a giant wok full of fried rice.
The rice is always best when it is already a bit old and even hard or stale. He always has leftover chopped pork pieces in the freezer just for this occasion. Peas. Scallions. Fresh bean sprouts from the Asian supermarket where I have a difficult time remaining because the smells are so strong. Not quite rotting fish, but stale, unwashed, smelling of sour salt water fish. Dead fish. Gutted fish. And roasted ducks, with their faces still on. But I never miss a chance to go with Dad because he always buys me my favorite: a pork bun.
Sometimes Dad will make a new recipe like shrimp toast. Once, he attempted egg rolls, which came out kind of bendy like slinkys. Food always brings us together and solves things in this family, or at least tries to. So many hours have been spent creating this Chinese feast, eating in stages, all throughout the day.
After we ate, Greta went into the other room to watch television. I let her know that this was the weekend I had been planning to come out to Dad and she wanted to give us some alone time.
Dad was mixing Uno cards. I kept thinking about all the times we’ve made our many announcements during games. Now, it was my turn.
As he dealt, I noticed his beard looked like it was bleeding from some leftover sparerib sauce. I pointed to his chin and leaned over to swab away the stain.
“Hey, Dad, can we talk about something?”
He put his cards down and took a deep breath. Did he know?
Suddenly, there was a collision of words like a twelve-car pile-up in my head and I was completely silent.
“I, uh . . . I feel like a lot has changed recently. Greta going to college and Mom getting sick again and—”
“She’s doing better, your mom, no?”
“No. I mean, yeah. Yeah, she’s doing better. Going to group and meeting people. It’s just that I feel like this year has been kind of stressful but also . . .”
Dad’s face tightened like the sun was in his way. I know he holds a lot of guilt for Shirley getting sick again. He blamed himself, even though it had nothing to do with him. With any of us. Maybe it’s a Jewish thing, this guilt. This sense of when bad things happen, it’s because of someone doing something, rather than sometimes, bad things just happen.
“I’m so sorry, Eleanor.”
“Dad, why are you apologizing?”
“I made a promise when I married your mom. I never wanted to let you or Greta down.”
I watched Dad watch me. There were more than enough sounds to fill our uncomfortable silence: the hum of the refrigerator; the odd birthing of cracks arriving in the walls—yes, I could actually hear that; Dad’s belly grumbling from over-eating.
“Eleanor,” Dad took a deep breath. “Even though I’m not where you are all the time, I’m always here for you. I don’t care where I am, even if I’m traveling or working.”
“Yeah. I know. Thanks.”
“Is there something that you want to tell me?”
My chest jumped out of my body and into my lap. I watched it beat between my thighs.
“Yeah. Umm.” Deep breath, Eleanor. C’mon. Don’t be a wuss.
“Dad, the thing is . . . I’ve been thinking about a lot of things and well, I’m still actually figuring them out. So, I mean, you know, it’s not like I get all of it. Something still feels a bit off and so I’m reading some books and maybe there are movies? I’m not sure. Actually, I’ve been able to talk to some friends about it. Aggie. She’s so great. I really want you to meet her. Actually, maybe she can come with me next time and you can teach her how to make dim sum too. Oh, she’s vegetarian, actually. Vegetable dim sum? And it’s not why I cut my hair, either. Well, I mean, that isn’t what I was thinking about. Or maybe . . . maybe I was. Oh, I guess I could have been . . .”
It’s like I was a character in a movie who had forgotten all their lines. I knew the gist of what I was supposed to be saying or wanted to say, but when I put my tongue against my teeth and pushed the sounds out, all sorts of other ones came out. Maybe I already said it? No. I had actually said nothing. Dad looked at me, patiently waiting.
“I’m a . . .” For a brief moment, I was going to utter lesbian. I thought that that would
make it clear, but I couldn’t even sound it out. It already felt wrong in my head. For some reason that I couldn’t yet quite explain, that word wasn’t right.
“. . . gay. I’m gay, Dad.”
I couldn’t look up. My eyelids were one hundred pound weights, forcing me to look down. Oh no, was he crying? Maybe he left the room. Maybe he collapsed. He wasn’t saying anything. I looked up. Scrunched my forehead. Aggie calls my furrow skin waves.
“Umm . . . do you want to say anything or . . . ask . . . anything?”
“Eleanor, there really isn’t much you can say to me that would make me stop loving you. Nothing has changed. Does your mom know?”
“Yeah, actually, I thought maybe she’d told you.”
“No. And I’m glad she didn’t. She probably felt that I should hear it from you.”
I realized I hadn’t been breathing, so I took a giant breath in.
“Dad, I . . . I’ve been so nervous to tell you. I mean, I knew you’d be supportive. I hoped so at least, and I guess it just feels like . . . it feels weird to have to announce, but . . .”
My hands rested on the table, wrapped in themselves as though my fingers were going to fly away or something, completely detached from my knuckles. He grabbed them and squeezed. His skin was so much rougher than mine. Like gravel to my sanded-down wood. As a kid, I was always mesmerized by how much darker his skin was compared to the paleness of Greta’s and mine. He would always respond with, it’s just dirt.
“So tell me more about Aggie,” he inquired.
DEAR ELINORE,
EVEN THOUGH I DON’T BELIEVE IN GOD, SOMETIMES I PRAY THAT MY DAD AND MOM WILL BREAK UP AND MY MOM AND I WILL MOVE SOMEWHERE MUCH COLLER COOLER THAN NEW JERSEY LIKE CALIFORNIA OR CANADA. I READ THAT DREW BARRYMORE DIVORCED HER PARENTS WHEN SHE WAS LIKE OUR AGE WHICH I DIDN’T KNOW KIDS COULD DO. I DON’T KNOW HOW TO GET A LAWYER OR ANYTHING LIKE THAT, BUT WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF I JUST RAN AWAY? I COULD JOIN THE CIRCUS. I PRETTY MUCH KNOW HOW TO JUGGLE. OR I COULD COOK FOR RICH PEOPLE. MY MOM TAUGHT ME HOW TO MAKE CHICKEN CACHATORRY. I FEEL LIKE I KNOW ENOUGH TO GET BY. SCHOOL IS AWFUL AND I’D RATHER JUST HICHIKE HITCHHIKE TO DIFFERENT PLACES ACROSS THE COUNTRY.
