Having to explain the situation to a teenager, oddly enough, helped me to understand it better than I had before. “Can you imagine what it’s like to feel like you’re getting a second chance at life? To go back and undo your mistakes?”
Ethan shook his head. “Not really, no. Not when it means leaving my wife and kid behind.”
“He had a good reason for leaving, and I understand.” I took a deep breath. “Your father is transgender. He, I mean she, moved to Canada, changed her name and started a new life. That’s why we weren’t happy. Because she knew, deep down, that she was living a lie.”
Ethan stared at me, unmoving. My heart pounded in my chest, but I was afraid to say anything else. Then he reached for the handle, opened his door, and vomited all over the parking lot.
∞ ♡ ∞
Perhaps providing a burger, fries, and a giant milkshake right before dropping a bomb on someone was a bad idea. Ethan refused to go into the restroom to clean himself up, so I started the car and headed toward Dr. Anker’s office. When Ethan ignored all my efforts at conversation, I turned up the radio to listen to the news. I should’ve known I’d screw this up. I should’ve asked Teddy to come with me to break the news. Or insisted that I tell him while sitting in the therapist’s office, ready to go in.
Three blocks down the road, Ethan leaned forward and turned down the radio. “So my dad’s alive?”
“Yeah. He is. She is.”
“And you’ve spent my entire life lying to me?”
His words broke my heart. “No, sweetie. I didn’t know. I told you what I believed to be true: Your father had a seat on United Flight 175, which crashed into the World Trade Center on 9/11.”
“But he wasn’t on the plane?” Now he managed to sound both sad and reproachful.
On the floor of the car, my cell phone beeped. Teddy, probably, wanting to know how the conversation had gone or how his ex looked. I wished I could use the speaker and let him have this conversation with Ethan for me. Maybe it would help to hear it from the only father figure he’d ever known.
“No, he left the airport before the plane took off. Flying terrified him. Your father didn’t really want to go to the job interview anyway, but I insisted. Sometime after I dropped him off at the airport and went home, he changed his mind about the trip and walked away.”
“Why didn’t he come home?”
“When the plane crashed, he realized that everyone thought he was dead. And it seemed like a good opportunity to start a new life.”
“A new life without a wife and kid?”
“He didn’t know about you, sweetie. I didn’t even know about you yet. I suspected, but I wasn’t sure. My doctor’s appointment was scheduled for later that day, and it got canceled because of the attacks. If I’d known—if your father had known—I’m sure he would have stayed.”
I wasn’t sure at all, actually, but I put as much force into the words as I could, because I needed Ethan to believe it. Maybe Brett would have stayed if he’d known, but more likely we would’ve kept fighting about money and the future, he would have kept being miserable, and Ethan would have had a front-row seat for a horrible, messy divorce.
Maybe he would have watched his father transition instead of finding out about it after the fact. I had no idea if that would’ve been easier or more difficult. Kids are more resilient than adults, and the world seemed more accepting than in 2001, at least in Massachusetts. To me, anyway, but what did I know? Maybe instead of any of that, Brett would have gotten on the plane and died that day. We wouldn’t be having this conversation.
“So he didn’t choose to leave me?” Ethan asked.
“No, honey.”
“Does Christa know about me now?”
I paused. “Yes. She wants to meet you. But I asked her to stay away until I had time to think about stuff, process it, and talk to you on my own. It’s been just you and me for a long time, kiddo. I didn’t know how either of us would feel about a third party joining us. That’s not the kind of decision I can make on my own.”
Ethan studied me solemnly. “We’re a good team, you and me.”
“You bet we are. The best team.” I leaned over at the stoplight and ruffled his hair. The older he got, the more he complained, but…mother’s prerogative. “You must have a lot of questions for me.”
“Do I have to meet her?”
“Not if you don’t want to. You’re almost eighteen, so I won’t force you. But I think you should at least consider it.”
“Why do you sometimes say he and sometimes she when you’re talking about the same person?”
“Good question.” I really hadn’t found my own peace with any of this, and I had to think hard to use the right pronouns myself. I wanted to give the “right” answer, but maybe it was okay to let him know that I struggled sometimes, too. “It’s tough, honestly. This is a new situation for me. Sometimes I have to stop and make sure I’m saying the right thing.”
He nodded. “Like when Mrs. Leone asked why I didn’t have my math homework, and I couldn’t tell her I was reading comic books in my room instead of doing it.”
My mouth twisted into a hard line to keep from grinning. “We’ll talk about that later.”
He ducked his head, so I continued answering his question. “Christa uses ‘she’ and ‘her’ to refer to herself, so I do, too. Or at least, I’m trying. Does that make sense?”
He watched a group of pedestrians jaywalk in front of the car. “I guess. There’s a senior at school who used to be named Julie, but now goes by Jules and uses the boys’ bathroom. Jules likes everyone to use ze and zir instead of he/she or him/her.”
Silently, I thanked that unknown child for making this moment easier on me. “What really matters is what each individual person wants to be called. I’m trying to respect Christa’s wishes.”
I turned the car into the therapist’s office, and Ethan leaped out practically before I shut off the car. I trailed him into the building. After Dr. Anker introduced himself and took my son into his room to talk, I tried to read a magazine, but couldn’t focus.
My poor son, so confused about everything. He was smart, and mature for his age, but I was a grown woman and I still had questions. I sincerely wished I had all the answers for him, but I didn’t even have all the answers for me. It was easy to put on a brave face and say the right things, but my emotions were still a big, messy ball of what-the-fuck? If Ethan sensed my inner turmoil, I’d only make everything worse.
There was only one person who could really talk to Ethan about why his father left, help him understand, and make things better. That person wasn’t me. The therapist had told me on the phone that Ethan would likely benefit from a meeting, and that doing it sooner could help him come to terms with what happened.
With a sigh, I pulled out my phone and started typing.
I told him. Call me?
A few seconds after I sent the text, my phone rang. She must have been waiting.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.” An unnecessary phrase since the invention of Caller ID.
“I know. How are you?” I asked.
“I’m fine. How are you?”
This conversation was painfully awkward. Time to cut to the chase. “I told Ethan.”
She knew this from the text. When did I lose the ability to carry on a normal conversation? Mentally, I kicked myself. At least things could only go up from here.
Impatience seeped through the phone when she spoke. “And…? What happened?”
“He’s confused, of course.”
“Right,” she said. Who wouldn’t be confused when a dead parent returned to life? Or when a parent comes out as transgender?
“I think he needs to meet you. He hasn’t asked me yet, and he might not even know it himself, but meeting you will help him answer a lot of questions.”
She let out a huge breath. “Thank you, Jess. That’s music to my ears.”
I paused. “Honestly, I’m still not sure we’re
okay. I don’t know how I feel about any of this. But Ethan has spent his whole life wondering what it would be like if his dad hadn’t been killed by terrorists. He’s always felt different from other kids. If meeting you will help him feel better about anything, I can’t take that away from him.”
“I’m so glad to hear that.”
“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” I asked.
“Next week?”
“What? No—at the end of November. You know, Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, right,” she said. “Sorry. Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving on Columbus Day. You’re welcome to come next week, if you can make it, but I don’t usually do much.”
“That’s too short notice,” I said. “Can we come up for a few days next month? We can stay at a hotel. It doesn’t have to be the one you work at.”
She took a deep breath, tugging at her hair with one hand. “You can stay with me. I have plenty of room.”
That didn’t seem like a good idea. It could lead to a lot of awkwardness, or worse, if Ethan didn’t take to her. But maybe I needed to give her a real chance to make things right. “I’ll think about it. He could still say no. I already told him I won’t force a meeting.”
“I understand,” she said. “Thank you.”
We said our good-byes, but then I paused. “And Christa?”
“Yeah?”
I summoned my internal Mama Bear when I spoke again, and added a touch of the anger I felt at this entire situation. I wanted my words to slap her in the face. “Ethan’s been dreaming about his father since he was old enough to know what a father is. If you fuck this up, neither one of us will ever speak to you again.”
PART III
There's only us, there's only this
Forget regret, or life is yours to miss
No other road, no other way
No day but today
— Jonathan Larson, No Day But Today
Chapter 16
November 2019
Christa
The day before American Thanksgiving, I met Jess and Ethan outside the security gates at the Montréal-Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport. For agonizing minutes, I scanned the face of every person who walked by, searching for a sign. My excitement was palpable. I drank in everyone’s features, eyes moving constantly. Was that my son with the freckles and the red hair? Or that… sixty-year-old Chinese woman? Okay, maybe I needed to get a grip.
And then, finally, they appeared. Jess walked a step in front, but even if she hadn’t, I could never question the identity of the young man trailing behind her. Even if he was more focused on the screen in front of him than where he was walking.
My son was the most beautiful, perfect person I’d ever seen in my life. From the moment he and Jess stepped into view, I was enchanted by his long, dark lashes, his dancing eyes so much like Jess’s, his dark hair that matched my own. He had Jess’s snub nose and my rounded chin.
Had someone Photoshopped pictures of me and Jess from senior year together into one face, Ethan would be the result. He towered over his mother but still needed to look up to meet my eyes. Probably that was because I wore three-inch heels, while he wore sneakers and a Boston Bruins T-shirt. In Montreal. Silly kid. We’d have to talk about not wearing clothing in public that could get your ass kicked.
We embraced briefly, and I kissed Jess’s cheek, getting a familiar whiff of lilac from her hair. She seemed a bit stiff, probably as nervous about this meeting as I was.
“Nice to see you again,” I said. One wrong move and I feared I’d send them scurrying back to Boston. More formal seemed better.
“You, too.” Jess turned toward the young man. She hesitated as if she wasn’t sure what words to use. “Christa, I’d like you to meet Ethan. Ethan, this is... your father.”
His father. I was a parent. A father, or maybe a mother. Ethan’s mother. Something I never thought I’d have a chance to be. I blinked back tears, swallowing, while Jess smiled at me over the top of his head. For a long moment, I felt too overwhelmed to speak. My heart grew three sizes.
“Hey, Ethan.” My voice cracked on the words.
“Hey.” He squinted up at me. “What do I call you?”
I wondered how Jess would want me to answer. I glanced at her for help, but she shook her head. When I cleared my throat, she spoke up. “It’s entirely up to you, kiddo. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
I blinked tears out of my vision. Mentally, I cursed myself for forgetting to put tissues in my purse. To give myself something non-emotional to focus on, I directed them toward the parking lot. Jess moved woodenly, uncertainly, as if she wasn’t entirely sure why she was here. It hurt to see that she still didn’t trust me, but I hoped that in time we could find an easiness, if not our old familiarity.
“Since we just met,” I said, “I’d understand if you want to call me Christa. I know this is an unusual situation. Maybe in time, when we’re all comfortable with each other, you’ll be okay addressing me as a parent. One thing at a time.”
Ethan eyed me skeptically before breaking into a smile, and I relaxed. I’d apparently passed.
“Thanks, Christa.”
The trip through the countryside was uneventful, with Ethan exclaiming over road signs written in French, the metric system, or both. In the front seat, I pointed out the sights, talking about the countryside and Canadian history.
When I paused to focus on the road, Ethan peppered me with questions. “Do you play hockey? Mom wouldn’t let me bring my stick, but I play at the local community center.”
“You can’t carry hockey sticks on a plane!” Jess protested.
He rolled his eyes instead of answering.
“It’s okay.” My eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. “I’ve got a spare. We can go out tomorrow. It’s not cold enough for real ice yet, but there’s a rink not far from my house. You can rent skates.”
“Cool, thanks."
Even after we got back to my house, I kept looking from Ethan to Jess, marveling at the similarities and the differences. At the fact that we created this person. That he’d walked the earth for seventeen whole years, so like me and yet so different, but I’d never had any idea. It was both amazing that he existed and devastating that I’d missed out on so much of his life.
∞ ♡ ∞
Jess
I leaned back in the car, listening to Christa and Ethan talk. I still wasn’t sure how I felt about her, about any of this, but keeping the two of them apart would have been wrong. Overall, I thought I’d done a pretty good job raising Ethan on my own. Still, there was the pang of jealousy at how excited my son was to meet his other mother. What if he decided Christa was so much more exciting than me that he wanted to move to Canada? He was about to start applying to colleges, and McGill had an excellent reputation.
Beneath that lurked a deeper, more sinister emotion: resentment. I’d given up so much to provide for this kid: juggling medical school with raising a child, swallowing my pride and accepting help from my mother because she provided free daycare, giving up my dreams of moving to Los Angeles, missing out on most of the first years of my son’s life while I worked toward getting a good-paying job. Not to mention skipping years of sleep during medical school.
Meanwhile, Ethan’s father faked his death, moved to Canada, became a woman, and contributed nothing. Not a dime of support, not a birthday card, not a phone call. I wanted to understand, wanted to forgive. But I didn’t know how.
During college, Brett and I lived in the dorms. We rarely went to his room because the socks, food wrappers, and other crap that littered the floor presented a safety hazard. Our first apartment had been pretty spartan due to our lack of means, but he’d let me pick out all the furniture. The one time I asked for input on decorations, the response was something like, “I love you, but I don’t give a rat’s ass whether the sofa cushions are teal or turquoise.” We’d lived in apartments because Brett didn’t want to do yard work or shovel a driveway.
&n
bsp; The memories gave me a little trepidation at the thought of spending four days in Christa’s home. Enough that I secretly booked two rooms at a nearby hotel as a backup. So when we pulled into a driveway of a beautiful, gleaming white Victorian house, my jaw dropped. The perfectly manicured front lawn suggested I’d been overly harsh in judging her.
Maybe she had a landlord who cared about such things, and the inside was a mess. Oddly, the thought comforted me.
“Welcome to my humble home,” Christa said.
“This is yours?” I asked. “Do you have a roommate who also happens to be an interior decorator?”
She laughed. “I bought it about ten years ago. Still plenty of payments left, but it’s partially mine. No roommate, I did all of this myself. Wait until you see the gardens.”
Had she mentioned purchasing real estate on Mars, I couldn’t have been more surprised at the words coming out of her mouth. My spouse gardened? On purpose?
“Mom, why’s your mouth open?”
Suppressing a grin, Christa led us deeper into the house. In the hallway, gleaming hardwood floors led to a staircase in front of us. To the right, a mahogany table filled an elegant dining area. To the left, a brown leather couch sat before classic wooden coffee tables. Throw pillows, an area rug before the fireplace, and other accents added touches of color throughout. Not a dirty sock or a fast-food wrapper in sight. It resembled a page from a magazine.
“Who are you and what have you done with my husband?” The words tumbled out, and I winced at the use of “husband” by mistake, but she put one hand on my arm.
“It’s okay. I was your husband. You can say that. I’m not offended. This situation will take some getting used to for everyone.”
“Yeah, I guess it will.” This whole situation still felt like something in a movie. I hadn’t figured out how I felt about anything yet. All I knew was that I needed to keep things together for Ethan’s sake.
Finding Tranquility Page 14
