The Milk of Human Kindness

by Lori L. Lake

  My daughter is a lesbian.

  It hits me like a ton of bricks and suddenly, I’m plugging Devon’s name into every “gay” or “lesbian” or “homosexual” in the article. My stomach churns.

  I never wanted my kid to be gay. What parent does? I’ve had a difficult time dealing with it—and that’s probably the understatement of the year. If I’m going to be honest, though, it’s mostly because of me…because of my life and my image and my reputation and my desire for her to have the traditional wedding and my expectations of having a son-in-law and two-point-five grandkids. I realize, for the very first time in the seven years since I’ve known about my daughter’s sexuality, exactly what she’s up against in the world. I can feel my heart cracking in my chest for her. My eyes well, and I don’t wipe the tears as they course down my cheeks. I don’t want this adversity for my child. I don’t want people calling her a sinner or a pervert or a lesser American.

  “She’s a good girl,” I whisper into the silent kitchen.

  I take the paper to the recycling bin and bury it beneath a bunch of empty cans and bottles. I don’t want to see it again. I don’t want to touch it or read about it or even think about it. I want it to go away.

  My daughter is a lesbian.

  And right then, at that very moment, I understand that it will never go away.

  AS I LIE in bed that night, my mind is swirling with a million different thoughts. I could have stayed up longer with the girls—Lord knows my brain isn’t ready to settle down for the night—but I wanted to give them a little space. We watched Miss Congeniality. Both Devon and Holly seemed rather smitten with Sandra Bullock while I was busy drooling over that handsome young man who used to be on Law & Order. Despite my occasional distraction by thoughts of the newspaper article, it was a pleasant evening, though it became a bit obvious to me that the girls were overly conscious of their proximity to one another. I think they were nervous about making me uncomfortable. I appreciated that—I probably would have been uncomfortable—and that’s the reason I pretended to be tired and turned in. I stretched and yawned and put on a good show. Still being on Chicago time, Devon said they were going to stay up and channel surf for a while. So now I lay here, sleep so far away I don’t expect to see it at all tonight. It’s a curse of middle age, or so I’m told.

  I’m thirsty and I’m bored. I sigh and blink at the ceiling. My book is down in the living room, which doesn’t help me at all. Also, I know there are six fresh bottles of Poland Spring water in the refrigerator, and the more I think about them, the thirstier I feel. I finally get up, annoyed with myself, and open my bedroom door, which is right at the top of the stairs. I strain my ears, but hear nothing except the television. The lights are off, too, from what I can tell. All I see is the eerie blueness cast by the screen, though I can’t actually see into the living room from up here. The last thing I want to do is walk in on something that will be seared painfully into my brain forever. I debate for several minutes, but after still hearing nothing but the television, I make my move.

  I tiptoe down the stairs, thankful that I know where each and every squeak resides. As I reach the bottom, I can see the couch as it faces the TV. I stop, shadowed by the darkness, and am inexplicably touched by the sight.

  Both the girls are on the couch. Devon is leaning with her back against the arm and her feet stretched out. Holly is sitting in front of Devon, tucked snugly between my daughter’s knees and leaning back against her chest; they’re almost spooning. Devon is still awake, her eyes on the TV, but Holly is sleeping soundly.

  I can’t seem to move. I just stand there watching them, feeling simultaneously like a voyeur and a guardian.

  Devon tightens her arms around Holly as Holly shifts a little in her sleep, burrowing more deeply into Devon’s body. Devon smoothes a few stray, blonde locks of hair off of Holly’s forehead and places a soft kiss there, and I’m shocked by the fact that it brings tears to my eyes. Even in nothing but the weird, ethereal light of the television, I can see the love and devotion on my daughter’s face; it’s as clear as if I was standing over the two of them, only inches away. Today seems to be a day of realizations and firsts for me as once again, I’m struck by something I never before understood. It hits me like a truck: my daughter is completely and utterly in love with this woman. And as I watch, she rubs her cheek against the top of Holly’s head and smiles a gentle, easy smile of contentment.

  My daughter is happy.

  I wipe at tears that unexpectedly roll down my cheeks, take a deep, satisfied breath, and make my way silently back up to my bedroom. All of a sudden, I’m very tired, anxious to get some much-needed sleep so I can be up early and spend as much time as possible with the girls while their visit lasts. I smile. Then maybe we can discuss the arrangements for Christmas.

  My daughter is happy.

  ***

  ABOUT MEGHAN BRUNNER

  Meghan Brunner has lived in Minnesota all her life and is blessed with the love and support of blood family, her partner, an extended circle of heart-kin, and several four-legged fur people. She's written three novels and plans many more for her Faire-Folk® series. Her first novel, From The Ashes, was a 2003 Gaylactic Spectrum nominee.

  Meghan has an undergraduate degree in English from the University of Minnesota, and her focus in her writing, thus far, has been upon lesbian dramas of urban fantasy and magical realism. When asked what has influenced her writing most, she says, "The voices in my head have been giving me stories for years. I'm afraid that if I don't write them down, they'll hunt me down and tie me to a chair until I do."

  A Mother Just Knows

  Fiction by Meghan Brunner

  THEY SAY THERE are some things a mother just knows.

  With her copper-red hair and olive-green eyes, no one would mistake Ryna for a child of my blood. Aside from our common slightness of build and lack of height, there is little resemblance between us. Even so, Ryna was and will always be the daughter of my heart… and after six years of trying with her father, I had begun to realize she was the only child I would ever have.

  At only ten years her senior, I usually felt more like a big sister or an older friend than a mom. I had missed her first words, her first steps, her first laugh, her first tooth…but I had been there for those first squeaking notes on her fiddle, and I watched helplessly as her first romance—with a fellow named Josh—dashed her young heart and hopeful fantasies. And I cried for weeks after she went to live with Angela, her biological mom, so she could attend high school for three years.

  I like to think that love makes a mother. I’d told myself that for years. But during that sweltering August not long after she’d turned sixteen, for the first time, I felt like a mother.

  I watched her with Niki, and I just knew.

  I’d never thought of Ryna as lesbian, or bi-, or anything, really. Not even straight. She was just herself—proud, defiant, and passionate. When she brought Niki and Tanek to our camp at Pendragon Renaissance Faire decked out like Gypsies and introduced them to the family, we all knew they belonged. She had already adopted them as we soon would. She loved Tanek as the brother she’d never had—but her love for Niki transcended family ties.

  She had been infatuated with Josh. But with Niki… I think that was the first time she was really, really in love.

  And it was the first time I was really, really in hate. I had been furious with Josh for breaking my Ryna’s heart, but the scars he left caused her former gusto to turn to shy wistfulness. And that I could never forgive.

  And, as a mother, it was something I could not ignore.

  RYNA WATCHED WITH a faint smile as her step-mom, Kaya, retrieved a last scarf from the dirt-browned plywood of Caravan Stage’s floor. The cobalt-and-gold fabric matched Kaya’s outfit; she draped it artfully over one shoulder as she sauntered toward Hollow Hill and the enticing, spiced smells of curried chicken and tabouli. And a kiss from my father, the fiddler thought with a knowing grin.

  Early evening
had come to Pendragon—thank several gods—though Ryna wished it had brought some relief from the day’s muggy, suffocating heat. It was Labor Day—the third day in a row that Pendragon’s cast had spent trying to look chipper for the patrons while sweating their collective skins off in layers upon layers of garb…and Ryna had loved every blessed, familiar second of it.

  She plopped down beside the luxuriously furnished, open-faced Gypsy wagon nestled behind Hollow Hill’s grassy mound. The variety show that had just ended had been Niki’s first time belly dancing on stage, with only a few spotty lessons from Kaya as preparation. Niki still glowed with triumph, and rightfully so—hell, one dance and already she had a fan club. The slanting, orange light outlined her like some mystical being, standing among the cheap wooden benches, absently clinking her bangle bracelets as she chatted with her admirers. Even after three days of ninety-billion-degree heat and crappy shower facilities, she looked beautiful and poised. One of the Fae, surely… no one with Niki’s feline grace could be mortal. Someone to protect, to cherish, to love. A woman worth dying for.

  A touch of breeze toyed with Niki’s wavy, caramel-brown hair, and Ryna let herself imagine her hands running through the silken strands, braiding them as she had that first time in the school cafeteria. Maybe Niki would agree to come on the road after they graduated, travel from faire to faire with the other Gypsies? Ryna had been saving up to build a Gypsy-esque trailer of her own, but to design it for the two of them to live in together… to be able to show her friend the world of Magick and wonder that awaited outside their drab small-town high school with its narrow-minded locals…

  Lost in daydreams, Ryna almost didn’t notice as Kaya folded easily to the ground beside her, battered leather mug in hand, and shook hair the same shade as Niki’s from her eyes.

  “You love her, don’t you,” Kaya said quietly, more statement than question.

  Ryna glanced at her stepmother, then quickly away, sure she matched Niki’s burgundy garb. “How’d you guess?”

  “You nearly fell into Robyn Hood’s pond because you were too busy watching Niki to pay attention to where you were walking,” Kaya teased.

  Ryna put her head in her hands briefly. “Gods. That obvious?” She barely stopped herself from asking who else knew.

  Kaya laughed, a sound like faeries dancing. “Princess, there’s nothing wrong with it. Love is beautiful.”

  “I know,” she said with a sigh. “Even if Angela doesn’t.”

  She could feel the wave-fierce rush of protectiveness ripple through Kaya, though her voice remained deceptively calm. “Your mother’s been giving you a hard time?”

  “You are my mother, Kaya. And nothing I can’t handle. She’s convinced I’m hot for Tanek because she thinks he’s cute. She’d put me in psychotherapy if she knew the truth.”

  “Are you sure? She worked here too, even though it was a long time ago.”

  “I’m sure. She lives for beige power suits and expensive manicures at the spa. Ramen makes her gag. She’s not our people, Kaya. She just played at belonging until she could score a man with big bucks.”

  A small smile quirked Kaya’s lips at that. Ryna wondered suddenly if her stepmother had feared Angela would usurp her position—and snorted. Not bloody likely.

  “Niki’s quite the catch,” Kaya pointed out, deftly returning to her original topic. “Smart, funny, caring, beautiful—a lot like a certain redhead I could name.”

  “She thinks of me as a sister.” Tears caught in Ryna’s throat just at the thought, which was ludicrous. It wasn’t as if Niki had ever given her firm hope, after all.

  “Do you know that for certain?”

  “I did an asking spell a few months ago. Just to see if there was—you know—hope.”

  “And?”

  Ryna shrugged, turning careful attention to plucking the blades of grass near her moccasined feet. “She falls a little in love with everyone, Kaya.”

  “So she’s a little in love with you.”

  Ryna fell quiet for a moment, watching her love, trying to banish the claws that squeezed her heart, trying not to let the pain show in her voice. “I can’t live with a little, Kaya. I can’t. I don’t know how. I love people with everything I have—or not at all. And…and if she—”

  “I know, princess.” Kaya reached up, gently brushing tendrils of sweat-dark hair from Ryna’s face. “And sometimes you have to be accept that love is beautiful however it comes and be grateful for what you have. But sometimes…sometimes little things can sneak up on you.”

  Ryna tried for a flippant smile, tried to not make it all matter so much, tried not to think how at the end of the day she’d have to leave this incredible woman and go back to the shrew who had birthed her. “So you think it’s okay if I sneak up on her?”

  “I think that never knowing what might’ve been is the worst way to live a life. The rest is up to you.” She kissed the crown of Ryna’s head as she stood with the light grace of a pixie. “And I think that, should you wish to plot an ambush…” Kaya gave her an impish smile and a wink.

  Ryna grinned. Only two more years, and I can come home forever. “Thanks Kaya.”

  The smile that touched Kaya’s eyes carried a lifetime of tenderness. “Any time, princess. Any time.”

  I HAVE NO idea what thoughts raced through my heart-child’s mind as I left Ryna there, watching the woman who’d won her love but not claimed it. I would like to think my words granted some courage, unraveled a bit of the uncertainty Josh had planted in her soul. Even all these years later I can’t think of him without that fierce undercurrent of anger. But even though Angela took her from me for three years, Ryna returned with hugs and gratitude. It makes me think that I am, maybe a little, the mother I aspire to be.

  What I aspire to be…what every mother aspires to be. To foresee every disaster, to prevent everything we predict. But what woman, what mother, can do that? Children are ours to hold, but their lives are their own. We may need to stand by, unable to shield them from the world’s hurts, but we are never truly as helpless as we believe. Our hands may be bound, but our arms can always be open.

  And sometimes, no matter how old they or we get, a mother’s kiss can still heal her daughter’s wounds.

  ***

  ABOUT CARRIE CARR

  Carrie Carr likes to call herself a “true Texan.” She was born in the Lone Star State in the early sixties and has never lived outside of it. Currently a resident of the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, she lives with her partner of 10+ years whom she legally married in Toronto in September 2003.

  As a technical school graduate and a quiet introvert, publishing her fiction—lesbian-based books—was something she never expected. She says, “Living on a farm probably influenced me the most because I had to use my imagination for recreation. I made up stories for myself, and my only regret is that I didn’t save the ones I had written down and hidden away when I was growing up.” Her writing also brought Carrie her greatest joy – her wife, Jan, who wrote her when she posted Destiny’s Bridge online. They’ve been together ever since.

  She has written seven books in the Lex & Amanda series, and has recently completed the first draft of the eighth, titled Trust Our Tomorrows. Carrie has also written three stand-alone romances, the most recent being Piperton.

  Hiding in Plain Sight

  Memoir by Carrie Carr

  MY SHAKY HAND stretched upward, found and gripped a cold, metal object, and pulled it from the high shelf. Then, through bloodshot eyes, I took a long moment to check over the small-caliber revolver. Everything appeared to be in order, so I trekked back through my family’s quiet house. On my way to the back door, I dropped a sealed envelope on the kitchen table, then gathered up the cordless phone and the fifth of Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum.

  The immaculately kept yard held no interest for me this day, as I slipped the gun into the waistband of my jeans and tucked the phone under one arm. Moments later, I was at the far end of the yard. I struggled with t
he heavy back gate, finally able to pull it open far enough to slip through. The back alley was vacant at this time of the day, for which I was thankful. I didn’t want or need an audience.

  Once through the gate, I sat down against the fence, leaned back, and closed my eyes. A wave of despair washed over me, and tears leaked out .The pain of hiding who I was to everyone I loved was wearing on me, and I could think of no other way to get through the agony that was my life. I pulled the gun from my jeans and looked at it carefully. The snub-nosed thirty-eight belonged to my mother, although she had never actually used it. It had been a gift from my father on their last wedding anniversary, and he kept it cleaned and loaded for her.

  After an entire life of denying who and what I am, I had finally come to the sad realization that I was the one thing my father and brother had railed against for as long as I could remember - I was gay. Almost thirty years old, and I knew I should have gotten a clue years ago. Some of the people I worked with had been trying to get me to “come out” for the past couple of years, but I vehemently denied their good-intentioned pestering. Five years prior, I’d had a brief relationship with another woman, but in my denial, I chalked it up to loneliness and experimentation.