There was a pause, and then Gus added, “It’s true, Xeni. When you have a child, you try so hard to become the person you want to be, for them. Sure, sometimes they drive you nuts, but overridingly they give you the greatest gift a person can receive, unconditional love.” Gus paused, and reached his open palm toward Xeni. “We’re your family now. No matter what happens, we’ll back you up.”
Callie found herself tearing up at Gus’s words. It’s true. We tried so hard to be the people we thought we should be for Manny. But no matter what our flaws, or family configuration, Manny loves us all the same. Callie watched as Xeni took Gus’s hand and, finding herself crying happy tears, suggested they go up to the maternity ward.
No More Secrets
Callie and Gus sat in the waiting room on the third floor of Alta Bates Hospital while Penny took Xeni to triage to get checked by the hospital staff. The room was packed with expectant parents and grandparents. Some stood wearily against walls or draped onto padded seats, while another group sat huddled praying in a circle while their loved one labored. All carried a look of utter exhaustion and excitement, as if they too were laboring under the promise of a life on the brink of transformation.
“Did you really mean what you said down there?” Callie asked Gus.
“What?”
“About us all being family now?”
“Yeah, I guess. I mean, Xeni is Manny’s godmother. That makes her family.”
Callie hesitated. “Are we still family?”
“What? You mean because you told Xeni you were in love with her in front of me, God, and everyone at the Greek Church?” Gus said crossing his arms and snorting.
“Look, Gus, I’m sorry. I should have talked to you. I’ve been trying so hard to make it work with you. I wanted Manny to have a stable home and a dad, all the things I didn’t have. And I wanted to give you what you wanted. And what your mother wanted. I tried my best to be a good Greek wife, but in the end—I’m just me, Callie, child of a hippie, lover of world culture, kind of a dork with weird boundaries, but someone that always tries hard to do the right thing.”
Gus put his arm around Callie. “Look, Cal. We both tried. I love you. You gave me a beautiful son. But we never really fit together. I think it’s all right to say that now.”
Callie nodded. “Do you regret it?”
Gus paused for a moment and said, “Nah, it’s been great,” and gave Callie’s shoulders a squeeze. “But I will admit, since we’re coming clean—I have a secret that I should have told you about.”
“You do?” Callie asked. “I have one, too,” she said as she looked down at her palms.
“Another one?” Gus smiled. “I don’t know if I can take another one.”
“Well . . . you go first then.” Callie smiled weakly.
“Don’t get mad, okay?”
“Uh . . . okay, I guess,” Callie agreed.
“After you got pregnant with Manny, I kind of freaked out. I wasn’t ready to be a father. I mean, you know, it was a one-night stand that turned into some fun dates that turned into being an expectant Dad all within a month.”
“Yeah. It was really, really fast.” Callie nodded.
“Well, like I said. I kind of freaked out and I did something and I didn’t tell you.”
“What did you do?” Callie asked.
“I was scared and definitely not ready to have any more kids, but I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“And . . .”
“I got a vasectomy.”
“Huh?”
“A vasectomy.”
“You got a vasectomy?” Callie stood up and stared at Gus.
“Uh yeah. You mad? I mean. It doesn’t really matter anymore. To you. Does it? We just broke up, right?”
“Yeah. We just broke up.” Callie paused. “What do you mean, a vasectomy? That’s when they ‘snip snip’ and you can’t make babies anymore, right?”
“That’s it. I’m sorry. I freaked out. I wasn’t ready to have an instant brood of kids.”
“When did you do that? The vasectomy? When did you do it?” Callie’s voice was rising in volume, and the other people in the maternity waiting room stopped their vigils to turn and look their way.
“It was a long time ago. Right after you got pregnant. Forever ago,” Gus said.
“You freaked out and so you went and got a vasectomy? Who does that?” Callie asked. “Most guys are terrified of getting snipped.”
“Yeah, well. I guess I was terrified of being a father.” Gus looked down.
“Are you sure it worked?”
“Vasectomies are about ninety-nine percent effective. So yeah. I’m sure.”
Callie’s mind was swirling. If Gus had had a vasectomy, then how had Xeni gotten pregnant? Did vasectomies ever fail? Could it be a miracle? Callie felt all the confusion and guilt of the last nine months fall away, and felt new emotions rise—awe and elation. Xeni was pregnant. Callie had tried her best to bring it about, and whether through the power of good intention or the ultimate power of love, a miracle had occurred. Xeni’s wish had come true.
“Gus, when you asked Xeni at the church how she got pregnant, what did she say?”
“How’d we get back to Xeni?”
“Do you remember? What did she say?” Callie asked again.
Gus shrugged. “She didn’t say anything.”
Callie rushed out of the waiting room and out into the hall, looking up and down the wide corridor to see if she could catch a glimpse of Xeni. It was meant to be. This was all meant to be. From that first moment when we met in the grocery store.
“Hey! Callie! Where are you going? You didn’t tell me! What’s your secret?” Gus called out at her retreating back.
“I don’t have any more secrets, Gus!” Callie cried as she started running down the halls searching for Xeni. She wanted nothing more than to find Xeni and to be with her as their miracle baby emerged into the world.
Birth
The new self, filled with ideas to forget, and wisdom to relearn, tries unsuccessfully to turn, to readjust, to get comfortable, and finally enters a phase of willingness. As this moment forms, so does a new thought: What else? As the connections are made between desire and impulse, the corporeal form starts to secrete a whirling substance that rises and floats from its body, coloring the amniotic fluid with an unexpected directive. The substance triggers another substance in the body of its host, which in turn triggers another substance, and it is as if a key has turned in some ancient lock allowing the possibility of release. Release from the comforting embrace of the womb and out into the unknown. As the bloody key falls out of the lock, and into the outside world, the process of emergence begins. The liquid drains from the cramped chamber, and a pinprick of light begins to slowly enlarge as the mighty cervix begins its process of opening the gates to the world, with all of its imperfections and adventures. The self, about to become a human child, with all of its accompanying labels and legends, begins its slow descent through the bony passageway of the pelvis, head first, with chin tucked down into its chest. The womb, no longer a place of rest, becomes active, contracting and expanding to create waves of movement that help push the self along. No longer padded by the cushion of watery membranes and sensing that there is no turning back on this road, it willingly follows the compulsion to immigrate by pressing its pliable head against the cervix, dilating it further with each push until the passage is fully open. The self, pressing on the portal to the world, turns its head toward the opening and, unable to catch a glimpse, cranes its head backward. On the precipice between two worlds, it rests for a moment with the cervix hugging its crown, until the next big wave hits, and it pushes against the walls of the womb with its feet, cranes its head back again, and feels a pop as its head emerges into a waterless and blindingly bright place. It turns its head away from the light and toward the thigh of the woman who is home—and in a fast-forward flash the child emerges all at once; a shoulder pops out, another wriggle, another shoulder, a
nd it suddenly catapults outward, chest, heart, back, legs, and feet at last out into the new world. Taking its first breath, with lungs freshly wrung dry by the journey, it inflates and hovers, exhales. It rests with the knowledge that it has forever left the body, its homeland, and is filled with a hunger so intense that it screams with the desire to return to what is known, what is familiar, and weeps with the sudden knowledge that what once was, is lost, and what is, is unknown. With that thought, the child is lifted onto the belly of its mother. It nests into her deflated womb, closes its wailing mouth onto her nipple, and finds divine comfort in suckling the tiny drops of honey that emerge.
Marina
My daughter. I am holding my daughter in my arms. My sweet, amazingly new, perfect child. She has my eyes and mouth. Her hands are strong. One day she’ll hold a knife in her hands and slice ripe watermelon into thick slices and we’ll eat it in our sunny garden, juices running down our arms.
My daughter. She is real after all. This first year has gone by so quickly. I remember when I first brought her home. She cried and pooped and screamed all night. She clamped down on my nipples and sucked until I bled. She was so hungry, and I could never give her enough. Now while she nurses I can see words floating through the quiet air of our bedroom, “Manoula, tha se faw.” She will eat me alive, and I will willingly give her my flesh, milk, blood, heart, whatever she needs to grow strong and feel loved. She will always feel loved.
So many people love her. My world used to be so small, just me and my desires, bitter and hopeful. They used to fill my mouth with a cottony numbing regret, like when you eat a persimmon before it’s ripe. But now, the world is expansive. I have a family. They have all gathered round in our home to love her, and celebrate her first birthday. They love her so much that they forget to fight with each other. They sing her songs and rhymes in Greek. We gather together in the dining room and eat and eat. We pass her around from one pair of loving arms to another, Penny, Gus, even Mrs. Horiatis has come to visit. Manolaki is just big enough to carefully hold her in his lap. He and Penny’s kids all stand in a circle around me and gently touch her toes and fingers. They call her little sister, athelfoula. But she always comes back to me to rest, to find comfort, to eat.
And Callie. After everything, Callie did learn how to be a good Greek wife. And she taught me a lot about how to be a good mother. I see God in her eyes, an unshakable faith and infinite love. She can make miracles happen.
What is God?
God is in the kitchen.
It is the same as when you put water, yeast, olive oil, and flour in a bowl. You don’t know how it happens, but it does. The separate ingredients join and rise into something wondrous. The scent of it makes your heart happy and open, the warmth of it in your hands is reassuring and safe. God gave us bread to remind us of what humans can do on this Earth.
Put together the ingredients, say a little prayer, and watch as the miracles rise.
Acknowledgments
This book was sparked out of a deep need to heal and process my grief after miscarrying my first baby at ten and a half weeks, when I thought I was almost out of my first trimester and safe. There is silence around miscarriage and loss, and I needed a place to express all of my sadness, anger, unacceptable thoughts, and unending longing for a baby. When my baby’s heart stopped, Xeni was born, and my thirst for a miracle began. After years of infertility, I truly never thought I’d have a baby, and endured a second miscarriage along the way. So first I’d like to acknowledge all the women who have lost a baby and continued on despite carrying that huge hole in their heart. I see you and your strength and loss.
Thankfully, life has shown me that miracles do happen, and that they come in threes. Somehow through the miracles of science and God, and perhaps my persistent nature, I now have three brilliant, kind, funny, smart, and amazing children who are my sun and moon and reason for living. I love you with all my heart Skyler, Theoni, and Apollo. Thank you for choosing me to be your mother.
Around the time of my first miscarriage, I had just started an MFA program in Creative Writing at San Francisco State University. What interesting timing that I would experience such a significant life experience within a laboratory to write. During that time I was lucky enough to work with Toni Mirosevich who taught me to leap fearlessly, Nina Schuyler who introduced me to the art and craft of writing a novel, Maxine Chernoff who encouraged me to trust my instincts, and Robert Gluck who made me feel I could never be too weird. Also during that time I met my writing group partners, The Quintet, who over the years read so many versions of this novel it would make your head spin. Thank you, Patti Wang Cross for always getting me and my work in the deepest of ways, Maggie Harrison, Dan Johnson, and Eva Guralnik.
I’d also like to thank both Martha Klironomos and the Modern Greek Studies department at San Francisco State University for giving me an important grounding in my culture and Greek American literature within an academic setting and honoring me with the Thanasis Maskaleris Scholarship.
I have such gratitude for all the writers I have met in my travels. You have become my virtual writing community who have inspired me, shown me the way, and given me hope. Seeing your books on my shelf keeps me going.
Thank you, Brooke Warner for seeing the promise in this book and pushing me to reach ever higher than I imagined I could. You are a true writer’s advocate and a dazzling guiding light.
Hilary Zaid you are the kindest, most generous writer friend I could have ever dreamed up. You stood by me and opened paths, held my hand and put up with me. You are an amazing editor. Thank you.
There are no words to describe the gratitude I feel toward the brilliant Salem West, who surprised me on April Fool’s day with an offer of publication with Bywater Books. She urged me to apply for the GCLS Writing Academy and the Sandra Moran Scholarship, and I was awarded both to my great honor. Salem, your encouragement kept me on this writer’s path when I was about to give up. While I can be prone to exaggeration, this is one time that I can sincerely say you have made my dream come true and I will always, always be grateful. Thank you to Ann McMan for your kind words, good humor, and gorgeous cover design.
Eternal thanks to the Golden Crown Literary Society and their wonderful Writing Academy. I am actively creating new writing community and it feels like coming home.
Thank you to Willy Wilkinson for your support, belief, and feedback over time.
Over the years I searched for a place to feel comfortable as a first-generation Greek American femme lesbian. Until my thirties, I literally thought I was the only Greek lesbian, and that is also a huge part of why I wrote this book. I needed to write us into existence. I have collected as many Greek LGBTQ+ friends as possible and as this book is released out into the world, please know that I wrote it for all of us, with great love.
Thank you to Alexandra Kostoulas for inviting me into a Greek American writing community and letting me read and write alongside you. Thank you to Patricia V. Davis for your Italian magic, you’ll always be Greek to me. Also, I cannot forget my time spent with the Moms and Tots group of the Greek Orthodox Cathedral of the Ascension. It was my first attempt to enter a Greek church community as my full self, and I am grateful to those moms who welcomed me in. The Ascension Cathedral holds a special place in this book. It is both a symbol of home and of exile for me, and it brings me to tears each time I enter those cool, serene walls.
As most of my relatives are in Greece, I’ll raise a glass to them, the faraway family I always long for and love. Thank you to my sister, Athens Kolias, who enthusiastically cheers me on and whose creativity and intelligence I sincerely respect. Big love to my sister from another mother, Alexandra Threadgill-Inouye. Your steady presence in my life has brought me so much comfort. And to the woman who taught me to love with my whole heart, my mother, Christina Kolias, the original Fierce Greek Mama. No matter what we went through growing up I knew one thing for sure—my mother loves me with the power of a thousand shining stars and I have a
lways rested easy in that knowledge.
Alex Delgado, you caught me by surprise. I wasn’t expecting you to come into my life like a force of nature. You are larger than life, my sweet ferocious brute. I love every day by your side and live for your laughter. Thank you for loving me, and giving me your gifts of humor, intelligence, passion, loyalty, and honor. I love you enough for a thousand lifetimes.
I can’t possibly name every name or kindness, but I want to thank every generous soul who has walked alongside me on this journey. Your love, belief, and support kept me going.
And a special thanks to the angel who sparked this story, and whispered it into my ear.
About the Author
Georgia Kolias grew up in a traditional working-class Greek immigrant family in San Francisco during a time of queer liberation. She was deeply influenced by both the unchanging ritual and interdependence of Greek culture, and the American values of freedom and individuality, and always seeks to embody both. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing and an MA in English from San Francisco State University. Her first person essays have appeared in The Huffington Post, Advocate.com, The Manifest-Station, Role Reboot, Everyday Feminism, When Women Waken, and various anthologies.
Georgia has spent her professional life chasing the written word, and has worked as an acquisitions editor, a teacher of creative writing, a bookseller, at the public library, and in literary management. Georgia lives in Oakland, California with her three beautiful children. The Feasting Virgin is her first novel.
You can find her at www.georgiakolias.com, on Facebook at Georgia Kolias, Author and on Twitter @georgiakolias.
Bywater Books
Copyright © 2020 Georgia Kolias
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