The Prodigal Daughter

by J. P. Garland

  The sketches were far better than they would have been had I done them at the time. I had raw talent, but it had not been honed into the precision and the depth that these new drawings presented. Were they idealized versions of my family? As I looked at each, I did not think so. My siblings today were just updated, more cynical versions of what I drew. My parents were still much the same, or at least were when I last saw them. Maybe a bit harsher.

  It had gotten late when Mel jerked me out of my world.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m kind of sad and kind of happy.”

  “Happy?”

  “Yeah. I’m glad you made me let you come. All of my cards will be on the table. I’m not optimistic about my dad, but maybe I can get acceptance or at least tolerance from the others. We haven’t spoken of it for a few years. Not sure about my mother. It’s one thing to hate the ‘gays.’ It’s another to hate a woman, a person with whom a daughter or sister is in love with.”

  “Do they hate you?”

  “I like to think they just don’t understand me.”

  “I hope you’re right. It’s a healthy way to look at it.”

  And we settled into our own thoughts. I put my pad away. I then lay on my side on the bed. Then Mel was next to me. She was on her back, and I was to her inside, nearer the window. My head was on her chest and her right arm was holding me to her. After a while, I was very tired. I lifted my head and kissed her on her left cheek as she stared at the ceiling.

  “Thank you for coming with me.”

  She looked at me. “It’s what lovers do for one another.”

  “I know. But I still need to thank you.”

  She kissed me on the forehead and turned to get off the bed. I got up to pee; the close confines had long since erased any discomfort in it and we were used to it from home anyway.

  The Lake Shore Limited

  Mel is big enough that she got the upper bunk down. I wanted to sleep there, but she insisted. I pulled the shades. We wished each other “goodnight” and told each other that we loved them—as we do every night—and soon I was asleep. It must have been a little after eleven. We gained an hour when we crossed into the Central Time Zone.

  I woke a little after dawn. I did not recall them, but I knew my sleep was troubled by dreams. I heard Mel moving about. I reached up: “Wake up sleepy head.”

  After we were up and dressed, we headed to the dining car for coffee. The cars were quiet as they swayed, and only a few fellow passengers were up. I nodded to the porter as I passed him in an aisle and after saying he hoped we’d slept well he said he would put the upper berth up for us.

  We bought pastries and decided to sit at a table on the left side of the train to watch the passing scenery in the low sun. Holding hands, we again spoke of what to expect, but we did it so often in the last days that we were just going around in circles.

  “All we can do is see.”

  We were alone in our thoughts as we watched the countryside and towns pass. When the dining car began to fill, we returned to our compartment. The porter had put everything away and tidied up, and we resumed our seats by the window. Mel put her bare feet across so they were in my crotch. Nothing sexual, mind you. Just comfortable as I ran my fingers randomly around her ankles as we gazed out.

  We packed our things and stayed in the compartment until it was announced that we would shortly be at Chicago’s Union Station. When we entered the station, I called my brother Tim, telling him what commuter train we’d be taking to the house.

  “We?”

  “I’m with my girlfriend.”

  Pause.

  “Okay. I’ll pick you up.”

  As we walked to the commuter train, I thought of the happy days I spent in Chicago. Especially while in college, when I came into the city at least once a month. Sometimes with an agenda and a destination and with friends. Sometimes not. But I was always energized as I walked onto the street from the station and that energy is a reason I moved to New York. The two cities, I found, are much alike, with slight, subtle differences. Had it not been for my family issues, I would have liked to be in Chicago, much as I loved being in New York.

  Ghosts

  Well, Chicago was where I was at that moment, and I quickly found the track for the next leg of the trip, and we got on-board and settled.

  It was good to see Tim waiting in the station’s parking lot. Before we left, I accepted his offer of a spare room in his house, and I hoped he would at least accept Mel sharing it with me for a few days. He shook Mel’s hand when she was introduced, but she reached to hug him, which he returned a bit uncomfortably. He then took my bag, and Mel had hers and we put them in his trunk. We drove to the house, Mel in back.

  “Everyone’s there. Be forewarned, though. It doesn’t look like Father Michael is leaving any time soon. He showed up right before I left, and I think he’s extended his stay when he heard that you were coming. I didn’t mention that you weren’t alone.”

  Tim gave me a run-down of the gossip, more to pass the time and educate Mel than anything, and said that things looked bad for our father. As we neared the house, he suggested that “your girlfriend” try to lay low. Mel was quiet for the drive, listening from the back seat, smiling a bit when I said, “She has a name. It’s Melissa.” A “sorry” came from Tim.

  “I think Melissa should lay low at least until you see Dad.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Are you okay with her staying with me in your house.”

  “Do I have a choice. I’m sorry. That came out wrong. She’s your friend and she can of course stay with you as long as you don’t—”

  I looked to the backseat, and a trace of her demon smile crossed her lips and she winked at me. I shook my head with a smile.

  “Not to worry Tim. We’re not rabbits. We’ll be good.”

  He fell over himself trying to mumble an apology but before he managed it, we were at the house. There was a line of cars in the driveway, and he pulled behind another car on the street. We were in front of the Johnson’s so we would not be seen by my family until we were on the front walk.

  Before we got out of his car, Tim turned to me. “Are you okay?” and I said as much as I would ever be. The front door opened just as we reached it and Marcie stood there. Her eyes went from me to Mel and to me. She stepped back without a word so we could go into the living room. Everyone else was there, looking up.

  We shared hugs and good-to-see-yous and how-is-New-York?s.

  “This is Melissa. She is my girlfriend.”

  We discussed how to do it on the way and decided to simply cut to the chase. Everyone was polite, and after a moment Marcie then Sheila and Dorothy hugged her. My brothers-in-law shaking her hand. Then things got quiet as they others returned to where they were before we interrupted them.

  Marcie took me aside.

  “I’m not going to say anything about her being here.”

  I glared.

  “Look. I’m not going to sugar coat it. It’s bad. Father Mike, who’s upstairs, has his little last-rites kit with him. Dad’s been asking about you for the last few days. ‘Is Beth home yet?’ Stuff like that. It might be a bit of dementia. I do not even know if he remembers about you being, you know, gay. When you go to his room, though, you won’t see a picture of you. He banned them years ago. Mom has one hidden in a drawer, but she’s afraid to pull it out.”

  I nodded and took a deep breath.

  “Good luck.”

  Things were quiet in the living room, everyone looking my way. I was the wrench in the happy family everyone wanted to be a part of. Mel stood a bit to the side and nodded. I touched her hand discreetly as I passed her and turned to climb the stairs. From the steps I caught the booming voice of Father Mike, somewhat subdued given the circumstances. I heard him say, “...not your fault. She did it to herself.” He must have heard me come inside the house. As I turned into the bedroom, I saw my half-conscious father and my mother, she plying her rosary bea
ds and staring dead-eyed at her husband.

  The priest’s head turned when he heard my approach. His eyes cold.

  “Elizabeth. Your father is almost gone. You can help him on his way.”

  I glared and nodded. “Father.” It was all I could say. His message was clear: Your father does not want to reconcile with you. He wants you to reconcile with him. The Pope may have acknowledged his inability to judge; neither my father nor his priest was so modest.

  A Dying Man’s Room

  The room was bright. There was an IV-stand and various pill-bottles on a hospital table that was moved in. I looked around at the many photos, but none was of me. I was removed from the family record, like some out-of-favor apparatchik. I passed around Father Mike as he left, likely to lurk and eavesdrop, to my mother, who hugged me.

  “It’s important to him, baby. Tell him you’re not really—”

  “I am what I am, Mom.”

  “But—”

  “I’m not here to fight or to argue. I’ve been led to understand that he had a change of heart about me. Is that not true?”

  “We all thought when you saw him, you’d understand, that you’d come around. Why can’t you just do that? For me?”

  “That’s what it’s come down to? You want me to lie to him—this is not some phase I’m going through, this is who I am, as god made me—to soften the blow after all he’s put me through. After his denial of my family?”

  “It’s not who you are. Don’t blame God for—” and my look froze her. I was trying to control it, but the emotions of the trip were washing over me. The memories of what he said to me those years ago. His refusal to bend in the slightest. His constant hectoring about my sinful life, a hectoring that ended only by cutting him off.

  “And what do you want me to tell my girlfriend, who’s downstairs.”

  “You brought her here? What were you thinking? How could—?”

  “She’s part of me. She’s my family now. Coming here is important to me so it’s important to her.”

  “But—”

  “Mom. You can meet her or not. It’s up to you. As to Dad, I’m truly sorry. If he cannot reconcile himself to who I am, if you cannot reconcile yourself to who I am in his final hours, there’s nothing I can say. You both understand I wouldn’t come where I’m not welcome, hard as it has been for me over these years, when I’ve heard nothing from you. I can see that I am not—”

  My speech was interrupted as my father stirred and looked up.

  “Beth. Is that you? I knew you’d get better. I knew you’d come home again.”

  “Dad, I’m here because I was told you’ve had a change of heart, that you want to embrace me. For all of my faults. All of what you perceive are my faults.” I do not know how much of this he understood.

  “I do, honey. I do. Please tell me you’re normal again. Grant a dying man’s final wish. I’ll forgive you for what you’ve done to yourself and your family and your God.”

  It tore me up. It did. For the entire trip, I hoped what I was told was true, that he had a change of heart and was accepting me. That my mother was accepting me. Neither was true. As I rode on the train thinking about what I would do if my father...I was not sure what I would say if he asked—begged—me to deny who I am. To say it was all some kind of misunderstanding. To tell him he was right all the time and how wrong and sorry I was.

  In the end, it was his eyes. He wanted his last act not to be acknowledging that he had done something to his daughter that required forgiveness. It was to be his converting that daughter and steering her away from the sinful life she embarked upon. It, undoubtedly with the encouragement of Father Mike, was his last crusade.

  More than anything, when he realized I would not change, his eyes flashed hatred. At me. For having betrayed his family’s name and his family’s honor. The neighbors would talk after he was gone about how he failed by bringing such a creature into the world. He and my mother. It was insane, but it was the world in which they lived. Hate the sin and hate the sinner, and I was that sinner.

  He saw me hesitate. Now fully awake, he glared, whispering so only he and I could hear, “my greatest regret is having a daughter like you have and ruin my name.” I do not know the extent to which, if at all, my mother heard. It was a repeat of what he said to me when I came out to them years before. No. He did not change. Not one iota. He was the same hateful, unfeeling man he was when he said he never wanted to see me again.

  My mother was cowed. It was his house, and his word was law. Perhaps when he was gone there would be reconciliation. She was, is, a good woman. But that was for later. At that moment I stood in a bright room with medicines and photos of a family of which I was apparently no longer a part staring at a dying man who in his final breaths was determined to berate his child.

  “Goodbye.” I turned. “Goodbye, Mom.” And I was gone, nearly stumbling past Father Mike. As I started down the stairs I heard, “you did your best” without knowing whether that was directed at my father or my mother. It did not matter.

  When I turned into the living room, things again were quiet.

  “He hasn’t changed. I’m going home. Tim, can you drive us to the station.”

  They looked one to another and back again.

  “I’ll get a cab if I have to, but I am not staying another moment in a house with that hateful, spiteful man.”

  I do not know what they expected, but it was not this. I’d come from New York and spent less than ten minutes with my parents and I was leaving.

  Marcie grabbed Tim’s keys.

  “I’ll drive you.”

  I gave a general, “Goodbye, I’m sorry,” and Mel, making a show of holding my hand, and I followed Marcie out of the house. As we approached the car, Marcie said, “You are both so stubborn. But we just hoped—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. He hasn’t changed. On death’s door, and he hasn’t changed. I’ve always been an embarrassment and I always will be. I’ve my own life to live. I have my own family in New York. With Melissa.”

  I glanced at my love as we were about to get in the car. I had never seen her so torn. She saw in my eyes that there was no hope, that the worst-case-scenario we discussed happened and our only option was to turn and return to my home. In Brooklyn with her.

  The drive to the station was quiet. Marcie gave Mel and then me a hug at the station where we’d catch a commuter train into the city.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “So am I. Just let me know how Mom is on the other side.” She nodded.

  With that and one look back to see her wave, Mel and I entered the station and took the train to the city. In the car I switched our Lake Shore Limited reservations to 9:30 that night. Mel and I got something to eat. She had never been to Chicago, and we had the time so we walked to the lake. She could not believe that a “lake” looked like an ocean. It fascinated her. Things were a bit spooky in the dark, though, so we pulled our bags and sat outside the Art Institute watching the passing traffic until it was time to get to the station. We got some snacks to eat while on-board and decided not to get wine. We settled into our compartment about ten minutes before the Amtrak began to roll eastward.

  Through our walking and sitting, we did not speak much. Mostly about my experience in the city while growing up and being at college. Something was simmering, and she was waiting for me to open up about it. It was too early.

  While we had a roomette heading west, we were able to get a larger compartment on the way home. Which meant that the toilet was a little bit away and there was a shower. More a maneuverable showerhead that you spray yourself with. We were both still largely quiet as we watched the lights of Chicago pass by until about a half-hour later when Mel opened up the small table that went between the seats and pulled out the bag of goodies we’d gotten. It was dark and we were both tired.

  I began to talk about growing up in the area. It all had the flavor of sadness and regret.

  “I could have been happy h
ere but—”

  “Then I wouldn’t have met you.”

  “You would have met someone better.”

  “Don’t be so modest.”

  I reached for her hand.

  “I don’t know if I could ever be happy without you.”

  “You make me very happy. You know that don’t you?”

  I nodded. With smiles, we returned to more mundane topics. We decided to try not to use the upper bunk on the way home. It would be tight, but we wanted to be with one another in bed. When we changed and got in, Mel draped her arms around me. The shades were down, and the lights were off, and it was dark. Feeling the car’s sway, I found myself telling her details about my pre- and post-coming-out life. She punctuated what I said with little kisses on the back of my neck until I was asleep.

  Going Home

  I was the first to wake up. I peeked under the shade, and dawn was just beginning. I extracted myself from Mel and peed in the small washroom. When I returned, I saw her clutching my pillow to her chest. Having nowhere else, I sat on the vibrating floor and I watched her light snoring, a satisfied look on her beautiful face. I did not do this as often as I should, and it overwhelmed me. Seeing her erased all of the pain I experienced over the prior thirty-six hours.

  I did not know where we were. Ohio. New York. It did not matter. I was in the small, rackety space with a makeshift bed and a tiny toilet and I thought myself the luckiest woman in the world.

  “What?”

  I smiled as she tried to wake up.

  “You are the most beautiful sight I have ever seen.”

  “Obviously someone is still asleep and it ain’t me.”

  “Stop.”

  I waddled to the bed on my knees. I did not realize until later that I was, in fact, on my knees when I reached Mel.

  “I want to wake up and see you every morning. Let’s get married.”

  “For real?”

  “For real.”

  “Sweets. I’m not saying ‘no.’”