by Colleen Sell
“I’m so glad we got different dinners, sweetie. Now we can taste each other’s and share,” Brad said happily as he clasped her hand.
They grinned at each other. He ordered her coffee very light, no sugar, iced. She reminded him not to put the salsa on his chicken because it would give him heartburn. He redid the last three bottom buttons on her blouse, which she has misaligned. She read the dessert menu out loud because he is a slow reader. They managed to split their check fairly and asked for my help to figure the tip. They sat close, exchanged know- ing, intimate glances at each other, and cuddled. It all seemed so . . . normal. What was happening? They were happy, and it was infectious. I floated to my car.
A few weeks after this dinner, I was visiting Dayna at her apartment when she ran into the kitchen waving her portable phone and asked me to show her how to put it on speaker.
“Mom, Brad wants to talk to you,” she said excitedly.
“Hello, Priscilla,” Brad’s voice was very loud, and he sounded nervous. “Dayna and I have decided to move in together.” No icebreaker.
“Brad, there is no way she is giving up that beautiful apartment and moving out of state.”
“Oh, I know. She made that clear. I’ll have to leave my sister’s apartment. That’s where I’ve lived since our mother died, two years ago. I’m not sure what to do because I never moved away from my family.”
His mother died? Dayna’s father died a year ago. And I have worried more over her future since I became widowed.
“I’m sorry your mother died.”
“And I’m sorry your husband died. I help Dayna about her grief over her dad. My mother had cancer, too. We know we can’t live with our families all of our lives, because our families die before we do. We have to be our own family, so we can take care of each other. We hope you understand.”
There was a strong, well-defined, and purpose-driven “we” now and it brought me more relief than concern. I had to say the right thing. It wasn’t about me; it was about them. And I had to give them a fighting chance.
“Brad. Dayna. Of course I understand.” Each word had to be pushed out, like a birthing.
Dayna burst out with, “Oh, thank you, Mommy!”
Brad right behind her. “Thanks a lot, Priscilla! We appreciate it.”
It was a good start, but they deserved more. No more faking it or manipulation. Brad had grown on me, and I appreciated what he brought to my daughter’s life. So I offered, “What can I do to help you two?”
They put in their wish list, and over several months, they moved in as a couple, each named on the HUD lease.
Yes, Brad and Dayna continue to hold their own. They’re happier together than they were apart, and they improve each other’s lives. That they are disabled is the lesser portion of their identities. Primarily, Brad and Dayna are defined as a happy couple.
To this day, every time I hear either of them say “we,” I smile. And my heart leaps when I watch them kiss each other hello or goodbye, always followed by their mantra, “I love you greatly.”
— Priscilla Carr
Garlic Soup
I stand at the doorway, hands in my pockets, rocking back and forth on my heels, watching him cook. I’m not allowed in the kitchen here, at his mother’s house, where he lives. He does all the cooking for her and for me — long, elaborate meals with big pots and many dishes. Years of working as a cook in Spain taught him the value of fresh ingredients, small portions, finesse preparation. He doesn’t start with a recipe, but with a feeling. Then he slices and mixes and stirs, sometimes allowing me to stand behind him and watch. But mostly I am banished.
I stand there, needing one last thing from him. Without talking about it, we have slowly made our separations. My books gradually made their way back on my shelves. His CDs had been returned to the rack, one by one. We have divided up the mementos from our two summers in Spain, me giving him most of the coins and postcards to share with his Spanish classes. I took all the maps. We each got a set of pictures. We are running out of property to divide and are inching perilously close to having to talk about our unmaking.
Two years dating, and still no commitment. No “I love you.” Not much physical contact. We move through the world like brother and sister. As humanities professors at the same university, we share the same geography, the same general worldview, the same politics. We both love good food, and he cooks garlic soup for me when I am sick, bringing it to me on a bed tray. We both love to travel, and we took two trips to Spain together, my first time outside the United States. We both love to ride bikes, and we have ridden everywhere we can on two continents.
Overall, we are easy together, so we continue on like sixth-grade kids who say they are “going together” but don’t really know what that means. Yet, this is no longer working for me. Obviously, it has never truly worked for him either. We are ready to move on, and our most recent experiences in Spain made it all the more clear that we need to.
We’re in a bar in Piles, a small pueblo south of Valencia. The friends at our table have a small boy sitting between them. For once, I can keep up with the conversation because everyone is speaking slowly enough so the boy can keep up. Finally, I can participate. I talk more than any other time since I’ve been in Spain. I start to feel confident.
“Where are you going next?”
“Extremadura,” I answer, the home of the conquistadors.
Then, as I struggle to find the Spanish words to explain that I am a woman with some American Indian blood, returning to the Old World to follow in the footsteps of the conquistadors, John interrupts me and explains my research in fast Castillano.
The friends look from him to me, pleased and surprised.
“Why are you so interested in the conquistadors?”
“Because . . .” I roll into my answer at a good pace.
John interrupts me to correct my verb tense. Twice. From then on, each time I speak in Spanish, he cuts me off, corrects me, or ignores me. Finally, I quit.
This scene is repeated as we backpack across the country to Extremadura, into Portugal, and back across the border. We visit museums, libraries, and research centers devoted to the conquistadors. We look at faded documents in sixteenth-century Spanish, as different from the Spanish I know as Shakespeare’s English is from the language my West Virginian students speak. John becomes my voice, asking for the answers I need. He also makes meaning for me, translating what I hear, explaining what I see. He loves his role as leader.
At home, in the United States, he is in my territory. Spain is his turf, and he wants me to know it. I can do little without his approval, his help, his control. I had learned in my graduate studies that the language we use shapes our thinking. Now I learn how true that is. I develop such a complex about speaking Spanish that I can’t breathe whenever any-one speaks to me. My thoughts become fragmented, and I feel hesitant and confused. I don’t initiate conversations. I stop going out on solo adventures. I become fearful of what I can’t even name — that something will go wrong, that I won’t be able to find my way home. That I will lose him, my link to the world.
We’ve rented a car to drive back to Madrid, and I see, for the first time, a field of sunflowers stretching as far as I can see. I love sunflowers, with their preposterously large heads that follow the sun’s movement across the sky. I love the small yellow petals, like rays from a black star. I also love sunflower seeds, crusted with salt and crisp. I want to walk in the field, to see that abundance stretched before me. I want to touch them.
“Can we stop?”
No answer.
“I’d like to take a picture.”
No answer.
“John, please.”
“No! No! No!” he finally yells. “Not now, not ever. We’re not stopping like tourists along the road to take a stupid picture.”
I look at him, dumbfounded.
“You don’t get it, do you? Without you, I fit in here. Without you, no one knows I am from the United States. Wi
thout you, they all think I am Spanish. You blow it for me. I’m not a tourist, but you make me one.”
I turn to watch the sunflowers pass by as the car moves away.
In his mother’s kitchen, back home in the United States, I watch him turn the tortilla from the omelet pan onto the plate.
“Can you write down that garlic soup recipe for me?”
He doesn’t turn around, but takes a deep breath. He steadies himself with his hands on the counter. He turns and comes to take my hand. “Come here. I’ll show you.”
I enter the forbidden kitchen. In a dry pan, he tosses the bread cubes to make croutons. He takes down a bulb of garlic, breaks it in half, and we each start to peel. We place the boullion in the warm water to let it dissolve. We slice each clove, tossing the thin pieces into another pan with heated olive oil. When they are transparent but not yet starting to brown, we pour in the pimenton and let the spice warm up in the oil and mix with the garlic. Then we pour in the water with the boullion and stir. Once it boils, we slowly add the beaten egg, letting it dribble in like egg drop soup. We let the egg cook and turn off the heat. We ladle it into a bowl, his hand over mine on the handle, and we sprinkle in the croutons.
John writes down the recipe for me. Then I take my bag of pictures and leave.
Later, as I look through the pictures from Spain, I find one that isn’t a photograph. It had been carefully cut out of a magazine and backed with construction paper. Then it had been laminated. The picture shows a field of sunflowers, disappearing into the horizon. His last gift. Apology, forgiveness, acceptance, love. I still have that picture. I keep it to remind me of how love takes many forms and of how, sometimes, it can appear in a final gesture of simply letting go.
— Amy Hudock, PhD
Love Check
As I search through a basket filled with assorted scented soaps, I’m absorbed with selecting a birthday present for a woman friend, my mind far, far from romance. But there beside the basket I find a small, pink book. I pick it up and read the cover. Printed in a dreamy script across overlapping hearts, the title Love Checkbook sounds intriguing. I look inside. The size of a checkbook, this novelty gift contains one hundred pre-printed coupons for one lover to give another, pledging an assortment of mostly PG-rated presents: a walk in the park, a bedtime massage, a no-sports weekend, a romantic dinner, one hundred kisses. Like a bank check, each pink coupon contains a line for the recipient’s name and a space at the bottom for the giver’s signature. Printed under the signature line are the words “Your Devoted Lover.”
Twenty years ago, I would have thought this checkbook interesting but contrived. Two years ago, I would have judged it hopeless. But now I picture an opportunity for my husband and me to walk on the beach, read to each other, or sneak away from the office for a midday rendezvous. The thought occurs to me that I want to do these things with him again. Priced at twelve dollars, the checkbook is worth a try.
When I arrive home, I find our son building Lego racecars and our daughter talking on the phone to a string of friends. My husband, Kirby, sits on our bed reading a magazine and without looking up says, “How was shopping?”
“I found Monika a great gift,” I begin, but feel as if I’m talking to an empty room. Pulling the love checkbook from my purse, I toss it onto the bed beside him. “I bought these for you.”
Picking up the book, Kirby flips through the pages. I search for any change in his expression, but he looks at the checkbook with less interest than I perceived in his face when he was reading the magazine.
“Thanks,” he says. He shifts his weight on the bed so that he can push the book into the back pocket of his jeans. Then he resumes reading.
I had planned to explain that I’d bought the certificates for us to give each other, but now I don’t. What was I thinking? How impractical of me to buy that checkbook!
The next morning, my workday starts earlier than my husband’s and kids’, and I’m out the door before they wake. My day is completely scheduled, with one meeting after the other, and by midday I have to travel to another city for an afternoon staff meeting. I know the area well, and calculate that I have time enough to stop at the nearby Subway for lunch. It’s after one o’clock, and the restaurant is empty.
“Lettuce, tomatoes, and olives,” I say to the woman making my sandwich.
A couple walks in, her arm around his waist and his around her neck. They get in line behind me. Only they, the two employees, and I are in the restaurant. As I reach into my purse to pay the cashier for my chicken-breast sandwich, the couple stand next to me at the counter and start to kiss. They kiss once, then again. Their third kiss is prolonged, indiscreet.
I quickly carry my sandwich and Diet Pepsi to my favorite table near the back, but not the last table, and facing the windows. With just twenty minutes before my next meeting, I look forward to being alone. Relaxed for the first time since six o’clock this morning, I concentrate on opening my sandwich and I sip my Pepsi.
Directly behind me, I hear the smacking of lips. I turn to find the couple sitting in the booth nearest me. They kiss loudly. I pause, jarred by their rudeness. Except for my table, they had the whole place to themselves. They keep kissing. Their sandwiches lay tightly wrapped on the tray in front of them. I think of moving and decide instead to ignore them, refocusing on my lunch.
On our first date, twenty-five years ago, Kirby took me to a fish-and-chips place.
“Best fish and chips in town,” he said.
He didn’t ask me if I liked deep-fried fish topped with catsup and tartar sauce. I didn’t, but surviving on a college student’s budget, I knew the towering pile of thick French fries and deep-fried cod were a bargain. I found Kirby intelligent and tender. I loved his blue eyes and the fullness of his lower lip; I didn’t care about the food.
I turn again to glance at the couple sitting near me. Their eyes are on each other, and they whisper, smile, and touch each other’s cheeks. The man looks older than the twenty-something woman, maybe in his late thirties. His face is tanned and rough, as though he works outdoors. Wearing a red T-shirt, she is short and heavy, and her black hair falls into her face. I wonder how they stole this midday moment together. Do they have children? Do they work together? Are they married or having an affair?
I look at the efficient, stark environment: food counter, soda fountain, straight aisles, and hard booths. There are no slim waiters here, no orchids and votive candles on the tables, no dim lights to encourage handholding; yet for this couple, Subway fuels romance.
That evening, after our children are in bed, I find Kirby working at his computer. I hover near him trying to read the screen. How important is the work he is doing, I wonder?
“Are you going to be a while?” I ask.
“Another hour or so.”
“What are you working on?”
“A report due tomorrow.”
I consider waiting that hour for him, but I have my own list of to dos and need to be rested and alert tomorrow. I go to bed wishing that Kirby and my schedules were not so different or that my family lived nearer and could watch our children for a weekend. When we fell in love years before, we couldn’t think of anything more lovely than to build a life together. We did. And even though I believed it would never happen to us, we, as a couple, got lost in the very life we made.
The next morning, Kirby and the children leave before I do. After I fit in one more phone call, I can take off for work. Dialing the number and adjusting the pillows on my bed for back support, I’m annoyed with something poking under my shirt. I reach behind and pull it out from under me. It’s a pink check with hearts on it. One of the love checks?
I read: “To Patricia: Payment of a romantic dinner for two. — From Kirby.” I read it again. In the payment-due section Kirby gave me two weeks to cash in his offer. A deadline? Aren’t we both too busy to meet deadlines? I read the coupon a third time. It sounds luxurious, a dinner for two. I remember the couple in Subway and their untouched s
andwiches. I write, “ACCEPTED!” in huge blue letters across the coupon and place it on top of Kirby’s pillow.
But as I grab my purse, I glimpse the coupon resting on the king-sized pillow, a small, light piece of paper with its edges curled up. I envision it slipping off onto the bed and getting buried in the sheet and blankets, or when Kirby opens our bedroom door, being caught up by a gust of air and floating unnoticed to the floor. If that happened, it could end up lost under the bed. I push the palm of my hand deep into Kirby’s pillow, forming an indentation. There in the furrow I nestle the pretty pink invitation for a date with my husband, where he’s sure to find it.
— Patricia Ljutic
Improv at the Altar
Walking in late to the shipboard commitment ceremony on our women-only cruise of Alaska, my partner Barbara and I took in the scene. At least 100 of the 800 mostly lesbian passengers had gathered for the event. Everyone except us was dressed in fancy clothes; we wore shorts and tees. One by one, a member of each couple said their names, where they lived, and how long they had been together. Those whose relationships spanned more than ten years received hearty applause from everyone — except me. My hands stayed at my side because I never assume that the quantity of a relationship is indicative of its quality. Take, for instance, my parents’ highly dysfunctional marriage, which ended just short of their twenty-fourth anniversary with the premature death of my mom. So let’s hold the applause unless we know that a couple’s long-term relationship is also a good one.
When it was our turn to introduce ourselves, I grabbed the mike and said, “We’ve been together fourteen years. I was a child bride.”
Titters from several of my fellow passengers and a few hearty guffaws greeted my comment.
Silence, though, deflated the good cheer when I added, “I think the quality of a relationship, not its length, should be the measure of its success.”
