Most of all, I dread the sight of a child running towards me—a child with her eyes and a proud nose of the man chasing him. I dread the man with a proud nose greeting me a warm welcome, taking my luggage because I am a guest. I am mortified that I want to punch this man that may or may not exist. Will I be the guest, the intruder, the photobomber to an otherwise happy family portrait? The mere thought of it is like a stab to the heart. I don’t want to be the guest. Let the others be the fucking guests. I want to be the keeper of the house we live in. I want to hold hands during many a stormy night. I want to change her diapers when she’s too old to walk to the bathroom. I don’t want to be anything else but everything to her.
I cross the cracks of the broken pier and wait for the child to materialize. Any moment now, I brace myself. Any moment now. I round the last bend and find myself on a straight shore. I see Clara sitting there, knees pulled together, looking out into the sea. Is she thinking of me? One heavy step forward. She sees me. She doesn’t break for it. She just sits there, waiting, unassuming, her hand on the empty spot beside her. I don’t make a run for it, either. The last thing I need is for me to fall flat on my ass at this crossroads in my life. But, imagine the stories you’d tell—tempting, but I decide to walk like a normal adult. Moderate pace, chin up, keep my tears in check.
I reach her, but for some reason, I couldn’t put my bag down. If I put it down, that’s it. There’s no going back. If I put it down, it means I’m going to do this. If I put it down, I’m staying. She expected nothing, did not force me to be square when I was round. She loved me, square or round or shapeless. She loved me when everyone else was scared to try. She loved me enough to let me go and navigate my way to her on my own. Even now, she just waits, almost amused, curious at what I am going to do next. I don’t know the exact instance I let go. I just feel the weight fall from my shoulders. The bag falls and makes a dent on the pebbled shore.
“Rest, at last,” I sigh. There are no words to describe how light I feel. I could float, dance, fly away. That’s the closest I could ever approach this feeling. My burden has lifted. I fall to my knees and lie down on the sand. She lies down next to me. Her palm is open. I take it, this time without hesitation, without struggle. I sing “Arithmetic.” I find that I have been singing it wrong all this time. I kept in perfect time and pitch. I kept score of the notes I hit and missed. I sang in my head, always a chord ahead, never in the moment. Now that I sing it from my heart, with Clara humming along, I finally understand what it means to stare at the sky in marvel, to be cleansed of all the wrongs I had to make to lead me here, to have everything that I could ever want. It doesn’t have to be the whole world in my hands. It just has to be something that is the world to me.
A place in the sun. It’s all I ask. I don’t need to see the world, stomping my unworthy feet on every inch of it. I just need a spot, a tiny sliver of this planet, where happiness shouldn’t be so much of a struggle. Will I find it here? Maybe, maybe not. I raise my hand to catch the sunlight. If some great heavenly body a billion miles into space could spend a tiny amount of energy to keep me breathing, then maybe I deserve to be alive. Maybe, maybe not. Will there be temptation to run back to the comfortable? Maybe, maybe not. There is no telling what goes from here on out. But, by heavens, this is a good start.
END
Acknowledgments
Thank you to the amazing people who helped me endure the writing pains and finally deliver my first-born book baby, Don’t Tell My Mother.
Thank you, Mommy, for your unconditional love and acceptance of the batshit-crazy, stubborn, morbidly curious woman I’ve grown to be. I hope this book makes you proud enough to talk about me in casual dinner conversations and on Facebook.
To my literary critic/beta reader/co-conspirator, Oya, for helping me whittle my wild, too-late-in-the-day-for-this, where-did-that-come-from musings into workable, sensible plot twists, ideas, scenes, and dialogue.
To Anvil Publishing, especially those under the Spark Books imprint, for organizing the #SparkNA writing workshop, and taking a chance on this daydreamer with a story to tell. Also, to the editors and designers, for sparing me the burden of font selection, layout, cover design. Left to my own terrible devices, this book would have had Comic Sans and Clipart all over it.
Thank you to our #SparkNA instructor, Mina V. Esguerra, for spot-on advice at literally every turn, from outlining the plot to escalating the kilig to driving that first draft home.
I owe you all big time.
PLUS
Guide Questions for Book Club Discussion
1. Comment on the religious and socio-economic landscape of the novel. How did the setting affect the story?
2. Which of Sam’s childhood flashbacks did you relate to the most?
3. Pretend you are Sam’s mother. What do you think are the primary motivations for her actions throughout the novel? What would you have done differently?
4. How do you negotiate between standing true to your own beliefs and being accepting of other people’s beliefs? Where do you draw the line?
5. How did Sam change throughout the novel? What about Clara?
6. Right at the end, Sam’s mother threatens to send her to a conditioning camp to inhibit her homosexuality. Do you think homosexuality can be ‘cured’? Discuss this scene in the context of nature vs. nurture.
7. Of Sam’s decision in the end, were you satisfied with the ending or would you have chosen a different path?
8. Looking beyond the novel, do you think Sam’s mother would have changed her mind about homosexuality? Would there have been reconciliation between them? Why or why not?
About the author
When she’s not chained to a desk writing software code, Brigitte writes lesbian fiction and poetry. She participated in Anvil Publishing’s very own #SparkNA writing workshop, where her first book baby, Don’t Tell My Mother was born. Brigitte is a huge sports freak and considers crying over sports strangely therapeutic. She has never met a doughnut she did not like and atones for the overeating by taking long walks or riding her bike around the city.
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