by Kat Fletcher
I drop the iPad, run to the door, and she spills in and wraps herself around me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask softly.
“My mom,” she says. Her voice is nervous and trembling. “She’s like completely freaking out. She’s screaming and… and she’s… freaking out.”
I take her hand and lead her over to the couch. She sits, then scoots over away from me and hunches over on the edge of the cushion. Now, I’m freaking out too. The Rach I know sprawls and confidently takes up space. She doesn’t curl herself up and perch. This isn’t right.
“What’s she freaking about?”
“Me. She’s like going on a crazy rant about how I can’t be gay.”
“Why now?”
“I don’t fucking know,” she says, looking up, holding her head, and leaning, staring at the floor. “Today was going really well. We drove out to Wellfleet and we all got along for a change. We got lunch. Then when we got home, we’re sitting around talking and she asked where I bought the necklace. You know. The pink triangle you gave me?” she holds it out as if I might have forgotten. “I told her you gave it to me and said we were going out and she just went fucking ballistic.”
“Shit,” I say, thinking back to what my mother said. “Remember what I said? Your mother thought you were faking being gay for attention.”
“I don’t even,” she snorts. “She’s like yelling at me about my future and babbling about Harvard and something about my career prospects. She didn’t make any sense. One minute she’s mad I’m gay and then she’s mad I’m paying attention to you instead of schoolwork. I have no idea where it’s all coming from.”
She looks up at me and her voice turns desperate. “She has gay friends. I swear. She’s totally not homophobic, but it’s like she’s anti-gay just special for me.”
“What about your dad?”
“They’re arguing. He’s trying to get her to chill, but… okay, I love my dad, but she kind of walks over him. He’s too relaxed for his own good. Usually that’s no big deal, but she’s not listening. Like at all.” She looks up and there’s a bare trace of a smile. “He stood up for me. She went crazy, but he stood up for me.”
Tears start to drip down her face and I move over and put my arm around her and pull her close and she collapses onto my chest. She’s still and I hold her. I’m not sure how long we’re there, but the sunlight starts to fade and my parents come in from the deck. My dad regards me quizzically and I shake my head and mouth “later” to him. Whatever my parents’ flaws are, they are able to figure out this isn’t a good time and head into the kitchen to leave us alone.
“Sorry,” Rach whispers. “You don’t need this.”
“Shut up. You’re my girlfriend.” I never actually asked if we were officially girlfriends, but she doesn’t object and I don’t know how we could not count as girlfriends after the past week. “Let me tell my parents what’s going on. They’re worried.”
She nods and I give her a kiss on the forehead, get up, and head for the kitchen. As I walk through the door, my mom and dad look up expectantly from the table.
“You were right,” I tell my mom. “Mrs. Gill didn’t believe she was gay and when Rachel mentioned we were going out, her mom freaked and started screaming at her.”
My dad shakes his head. “I can’t believe Carol would do that. She’s so controlled at work.”
“Mike,” my mom says to my dad, “She’s not controlled. She’s wound too tight. I’m not surprised something happened. She barely knows what way is up. Is Rachel all right?”
“Well, no,” I say. “Not really.”
“You’re worried about her?” my dad asks.
“Yeah.”
“Then go be with Rach,” my mom says. “I’ve gotten to know Jim while your father and Carol were working. I can get the lay of the land from him and figure out what we’re going to do.”
I gaze upward for a moment, in a silent plea for ideas, but here’s no inspiration up there, just a ceiling with a few coats of paint on it. I go into the living room again. Rach looks over and opens her mouth, like she’s going to say something, but she remains silent. I sit down and put my arm around her. It’s more friendly than romantic, never mind sexy. “TV?”
She laughs. “Okay.”
Just “okay.” Not “definitely.” I pick up the remote and flip through the channels and we land on some stupid action movies on Spike. Good enough to kill time I think.
It’s about an hour later before my mom comes in. “Rachel?”
She looks up, embarrassed and nervous.
“Rachel, I talked to your dad and he agrees it would be best if you stayed here tonight.”
“And my mother?”
“She’s not happy about it, but your dad got her to go along with it.” I notice Rach’s face change, a bit of surprise, and maybe a tiny bit of hope. “If you really want to get back into this tonight, you can, but I think having a night to cool off would be a good thing. I’m sure Sarah has something you can wear.”
We both nod and I squeeze her hand. She doesn’t squeeze back; it just sits limp and cold feeling in my hand, but we go upstairs and I get her set up with a pair of sweats and a fresh T-shirt. “Let me go talk to my mom for a second while you change.”
“Sarah? Thanks.”
“No,” I say firmly. “You don’t need to thank me. You’re my friend. You’re my girlfriend. How can I not help you?” I pull her into a big bear hug as if I could just make it all better by squeezing all the bad out.
“And thank your ‘rents too please? Especially whoever talked to my dad.”
“That would be my mom.”
I head back to the living room. My parents are talking in quiet serious tones and stop abruptly when I come down the stairs.
“She’s changing. We’ll probably watch TV. I don’t know if she’s going to sleep, but if she does, I was going to give her my room and I can sleep down here.”
My mom and dad give each other a glance. “Nobody needs to sleep on the couch,” my mother sighs. “But separate beds. Door open. And don’t abuse my… our trust.”
My dad gives me the slightest bit of a smile and I nod to them and stand awkwardly. It has the vibe of something that should be a big family hug type moment. They haven’t thrown me out and they’re helping out Rachel and now they’re trusting me this way. Somehow I’m not feeling it though. Celebrating my own luck with my family feels kind of wrong.
In the end, it doesn’t matter because she comes down the stairs and stands next to me. “Mr. and Mrs. Fisher. I wanted to thank you for letting me stay tonight. I hope it doesn’t get you in any trouble at work or anything.” Her voice is soft and the words are such a strange sincere echo of her joking banter yesterday. It’s agony to listen to and I take her hand and just hold it.
Chapter 17
When I wake up, Rach is still asleep, curled almost into a ball. She’s tossed the covers off during the night, if she ever pulled them over herself. There wasn’t much sleeping. We just stayed up and binge-watched TV, sitting together on the bed. I fell asleep at some point and woke up with the TV turned off and her sleeping across the room.
I guess it’s for the best that I’m here in this bed and she’s there in the other one. I don’t want to abuse my parents’ trust in letting her sleep in my room. Except I want to be with her. It’s not sex—I’m too upset to be horny. I am guessing that’d be double or triple for her. Definitely not sex. I just want to hold her. To feel her against me and do everything I can to make her feel like it’s all going to be okay.
Quiet as possible, I pad across the room and then head downstairs. I’m pretty sure I heard my parents get up about an hour earlier so I check to see if they’re out on the deck, but despite the nice weather, it’s empty. Instead, I find them in the kitchen, sitting at the table, sipping coffee, neither looking particularly happy.
“Morning,” I say. I’m not sure of what else to do, so I get coffee. It feels stupid to not immediately ask a
bout anything, but it’s all still so weird. Two days from coming out of the closet to them sheltering my girlfriend? That’s got to be fifty shades of fucked up for them.
“How’s Rachel?” my dad asks.
It catches me off guard, but I finish pouring the half and half, then turn to them and lean against the counter. “She’s still asleep. We stayed up. Watched TV. I fell asleep after midnight. Not sure when she did.”
“I’m glad she’s getting some sleep at least,” my mother adds.
I stir the coffee mindlessly, put the spoon on the counter, and watch the little puddle of coffee form under it. “How long can she stay?”
There’s an uncomfortable silence before my mom speaks, “Her parents would like her to come home this morning.”
“Was that last night or today?”
My mom sighs, “Jim and I talked a half hour ago.”
“Has her mom calmed down?” I ask snappishly. I know I’m being kind of a bitch, but I sort of don’t care. This whole thing is stupid and Rach’s mom is acting like a brat.
They don’t need to answer. Their faces say it the second I ask, but my mother shakes her head.
“It’ll be okay Sarah,” my dad starts. “She’ll go back to their cottage. Jim and Carol will spend some time with her on Cape and get used to the idea. I’ve worked with her for the last five years. Carol is not that kind of person. And Jim certainly isn’t. Just give them some space and maybe the two of you can back off spending all your time together. You know,” he smiles gently, “limit it to an eight-hour work day.”
I can feel myself filling with a mixture of anger, impatience, and fear. “If she’s not that kind of person, why is she doing this?”
“Sarah…” my mother sighs. “I think she’s just surprised and a little embarrassed. She invested a great deal in the idea that this was a phase.”
I start to respond, but then I think the better of it. I’m tired and it’s not like they can do anything about her mom. Arguing about it is just going to get us all upset. I sit down at the table with them. “Sorry.”
* * *
It’s a good half hour of the weird quiet before I hear Rachel stirring upstairs. “I’ll see how she’s doing.” I excuse myself and head upstairs.
“Morning,” I say as I open the door.
“Morning.” She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands folded on her lap. Her lips lie straight without even the hint of her usual brief smile. She’s not frowning either; she’s just blank. There are these horrible dark shadows under her eyes. She has such beautiful light skin and it makes them vivid and disturbing.
I sit down next to her, not sure what to do. I want her to come down ready for battle. Ready to stand up for herself. Instead, it’s like all the life has gone out of her. And all the joy. “Coffee?” I offer. She loves coffee and for a moment I let myself hope it might bring some sign of life back to her face.
Instead she shakes her head. “I should go deal with my ‘rents.” The tone in her voice is all fatigue and defeat.
“My parents think she’ll have calmed down by now.”
“So fucked up.” She frowns. “I left the clothes I wore last night on your bed. Didn’t know where else to put them.”
I reach down and caress the back of her hand with my fingers. “That’s not important,” I assure her.
“Still.”
“My parents think we should try not to be so intense until your mom gets used to things, but maybe we can go for a walk later?”
“Yeah,” she sighs, “that’s a good idea.”
We stand up and head down to the living room. My parents come out and stand silently. If they were in prison uniforms, I’d think Rach was going to be walked down the green mile, like the old movie. It has that vibe.
“Hey. Thanks a lot for letting me crash here. I appreciate it,” she says, giving them a brief, almost embarrassed smile.
My parents nod and I step forward and wrap my arms around Rach in a comforting hug. “Hang in there,” I whisper into her ear before pecking her on the cheek. The words sound totally useless, but I don’t know what else to say. We press our lips together in a quick kiss that leaves me with a dark terror that it’ll be the last one I ever have with her, and she slips out the door.
* * *
My mom takes me on a mother-daughter bonding trip that is pretty obviously a “keep Sarah busy” thing. We drive around to a series of scenic views, parks, and historical buildings. Mostly I go along with it and check my phone every other minute, hoping for some news.
If I thought Cape Cod would be dreary before I got together with Rach, I hadn’t estimated how terrible it would be after I’d met Rach and she’d been kidnapped by her mom. Okay, possibly kidnapped is a little over the top. I assume they are still on Cape Cod, but kidnapped is kind of how it feels to me.
My mom does care about me though and it’s nice to know it, even if the result isn’t a thrill a minute.
After a morning of being dragged around, we’re sitting in a clam shack. Mom let me pick where we were having lunch and out of some kind of hidden masochistic impulse, I chose a clam shack. I even half thought of ordering fried clams, but I know I don’t like them even if I wish I did because Rachel loves them so much.
That first night, when she was waggling that squishy monstrosity in my face, she had this amazing little smirk on her face. Just thinking about it takes my breath away. There’s nobody waggling anything today though. Instead I’m running the plastic spork across the chicken finger, tracing a small indent in the bread crumb coating, and thinking about what could be going on with her and coming up with horrible ideas of why she hasn’t messaged me.
“Not hungry Sarah?” my mother asks. Her voice is the same lilting sympathetic tone she uses when I’ve got a particularly bad cold.
“Sorry?” I say trying to buy a few moments to make sure she hasn’t said anything else. “Oh. Just thinking I guess.”
“Sometimes talking about it is a better idea than going over it again and again,” she says.
I feel irritation welling up and stuff it back down along with a bite of the chicken. “I know, Mom. It’s just that it’s totally not fair,” I whine.
“Well Sarah, I have to agree with you there, but people aren’t always rational.”
“I’m afraid her mom is going to do something to her.”
My mother looks at me and tilts her head. “They’re not going to ‘do something’ to her.”
“How do you know?”
She cocks her head and gives me a dubious expression. “What are they going to do Sarah?”
“Send her to a church camp?” I mutter, terrified my mother won’t contradict me. We’re not religious other than talking about going to church Christmas Eve and then not actually going because it’s not safe to drive after my dad’s had two glasses of the eggnog with booze in it. Anti-gay religious camps? I can’t imagine what that’s like. Being sent away and have people tell you how horrible you are? I don’t understand why that’s not illegal.
“You’re being dramatic. In any case, you’ve obviously never heard Carol Gill holding forth on her devout atheism,” my mother says sarcastically. “Trust me, there will be no church camps.”
“No. But why would she hate gay people if she wasn’t religious?”
“She doesn’t hate gay people,” my mother sighs. She pauses for a moment, thinking. “Carol is reacting poorly. I think it’s probably that she hates being wrong.” My mom pops a french fry into her mouth and chews it thoughtfully. “That’s almost certainly it. Carol doesn’t like being wrong.”
“I don’t like being wrong either, but if I went spastic like that, you’d ground me for life.”
“Being an adult gives you the right to act like a child sometimes,” she says bluntly. My mom must be pretty pissed at Mrs. Gill to say something like that.
“I guess. It’s still not fair.”
“No it’s not. Neither of you should have to go through this. I’m not su
re why Carol can’t trust her daughter. I don’t understand how this all feels either, but I know I trust you to know.”
“What do you mean? ‘How it feels,’” I ask, not sure of where she’s going with that.
She puts down her fork and looks me in the eye. “Sarah. Please don’t get upset when I say this until you hear me out. But it’s hard. I don’t understand what it’s like to feel that way for another woman. I’m not sure I even understand why men like women. It’s just not in me. I imagine it’s the same for Carol.”
If I wasn’t sure where she was going with this, now I’m kind of wishing I’d never asked. I guess if I’ve jumped into this pool, I have to swim. Or sink. “Are you asking how can I be attracted to Rachel?”
Her face turns ashen and she meets my eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just something that in some ways I’ll never share or understand.”
I shake my head back at her. “I know you didn’t mean it bad.” I think about all the little things that make me love Rachel and try to compose an answer. “Well, she’s beautiful.”
“I know that,” my mom answers, “but I can see that someone is attractive or dresses well and it doesn’t mean anything.”
“She has a great sense of humor,” I add.
“Back in the ancient times, we used to say that about people nobody wanted to go out with,” my mom quips back. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s an issue for Rachel. Even I can tell she’s attractive. I know what men like in women. Big boobs. That sort of thing. Is it like that for you?”
I think about the first day and checking out her butt when she and her parents were walking back to their cottage and that first time I slid my hand across the back of her jeans, and how soft and curvy it was. OMG. That is so not a Mom-and-Sarah conversation. Hell no.
“Maybe you should ask someone other than me,” I say, blushing. “I’m not sure you want to hear me answer that question and I’m real sure I don’t want to tell you.”
