You and No Other

by Jane Weiss

  Sometimes, after a particularly hectic weekend with both of us tending to the needs and schedules of Edward, Moria, and Erin, and delivering them back to their father Sunday evening, we retreated to our bedroom, and I held Jane as she silently wept tears of longing for her own children. Their absence in her life, and the frustration she felt at their being kept from her, left within her a black hole of grief that was nearly unbearable to see. Virtually every day she wrote in her journal, meditated, and prayed that some breakthrough would occur, and that she could once again be a strong presence in their lives. We both prayed that her children would come to some new understandings, despite the messages their father and Jane’s extended family were giving them.

  After all, divorce had become much more common, and ways were found for both parents to remain intimately connected to their children. Certainly that was the case with Brian and me, as we created a pattern of shared responsibility for the kids. Jane and I both held the naïve fantasy that, at some point, we would live in a house with as many of our eight children as possible.

  Every week when I picked up or delivered the kids back to our family home, I’d ask Brian if he would consider trading places with me. The demands of being a single parent and maintaining the house and yard were wearing on him, and he often looked overwhelmed. I suggested he might find it easier to live in the apartment, and for Jane and me to have primary responsibility for kids and household. But he consistently refused. He took up long-distance running to relieve stress, and prepared for his first marathon. David was conscripted into more babysitting with the younger kids than he preferred, but, all things considered, Brian’s running became a positive coping mechanism in his life—a life I’d thrown into such disarray.

  Mixed Blessings

  Two months after Jane and I moved in together, I was dreading not being a part of my family’s Easter rituals. Traditionally, before going to bed Saturday evening, Brian and I wrapped a present for each child and hid each Easter basket with the gift someplace in the house. We carefully placed candy eggs in every nook and cranny of the living room and dining room. In the morning, the kids had to find all baskets and gifts before egg gathering could begin. It was not unusual to have three kids helping the fourth find his/her basket so the hunt could commence. We’d done the ritual so often that David, even as a teenager, still participated good-naturedly by giving hints to the younger siblings for finding hidden treasures. The trick was to keep everyone from eating too many goodies prior to Easter dinner.

  I had only been living in our apartment a few weeks, and still couldn’t gauge how much the kids felt things had shifted in their lives. They spent about three days a week with me; I talked to them by phone every day, and Brian and I had frequent conversations about them. There weren’t signs that anyone was unduly struggling, but I was concerned that changing a holiday routine this soon could be really disturbing to them. I didn’t want to risk that or miss this warm family time, but I felt nervous talking to Brian about this.

  When I delivered the kids back home the Sunday before Easter, I asked him, “Would you mind if I came to the house early next Sunday morning, so you and I could hide the Easter baskets and candy? I’ve already bought little gifts for each of their baskets, and hopefully, their rituals could go on as usual for this first holiday that we’re apart. I wouldn’t plan to stay long after the basket and egg hunt, but I’d also not like to miss it.”

  “I suppose we could do that,” Brian graciously agreed. “How about if I leave the door open, so you could slip in quietly and not awaken anyone? What time would be best? Around six?”

  That Easter Sunday, all went as planned and, though it was difficult to leave the kids midmorning and return to the apartment, I was thankful Brian was generous enough to let us retain that piece of normality ’midst all the other disruptions. I felt guilty and undeserving of his kindness.

  The Easter event, in addition to being a positive experience for everyone, had unanticipated consequences for Brian and me. Being together with the family, even for that brief period, slightly widened that tiny crack of uncertainty about my decision to live with Jane. I knew she was my true love, but, never having experienced anything like this before, would I always feel that way?

  Having the family all together felt so good, so natural—was I sure I had to live with Jane? For the thousandth time, it seemed, questions loomed like dark clouds over my hard-won, briefly held happiness, and I was torn yet again. Brian must have experienced something similar, because he called me at work two days later and asked if we could have lunch that day and talk. This was the first time since I moved out of our house that he had shown any interest in meeting alone with me. I wasn’t sure what was on his mind because it seemed he was becoming quite settled with our separation, and the kids said he had been seeing another woman. I wondered what was important enough for him to take time off work to meet with me.

  I met him at the Café on Forty-third and Upton, a charming fixture in our apartment neighborhood that accommodated no more than twenty people at a time. Mary—owner, cook, greeter, and part-time waitress—called out to us from behind the counter to take one of the four tables and give her our order when we were ready. Red-and-white-checked oiled tablecloths, worn but squeaky clean, were stretched across the tables and tacked to the undersides. Three or four regular customers sat at the counter, carrying on lively exchanges with Mary and each other. Brian and I chose the table by the window, and quickly became engrossed in the dog-eared, one-page menu.

  Suddenly, I felt a presence behind me. I turned around to find Jane framed in the doorway, a smile fading from her lips when she saw that I was with Brian.

  Embarrassed at how the scene must look, I explained, “Jane, I tried to call your office to tell you I was meeting Brian here, but you weren’t in, and I didn’t want to leave a message with your secretary. Anyway, will you join us?”

  “No. Thanks, anyway,” she begged off. “I came home to pick up a report I’d forgotten, and thought I’d come over here to grab a sandwich before going back to work.”

  The three of us conversed uncomfortably while her carryout was prepared. Then, with a final distraught look back at me, she was out the door. I felt wretched that I’d been unable to connect with her, and knew how frightened she must have been to come upon Brian and me having a lunch she didn’t know about.

  We finished eating, and Brian asked if we could walk one block to my apartment so we could have privacy to talk. Somehow, we ended up lying on the bed next to each other, fully dressed, while we talked, cried, and consoled one another. The Easter event with our family together had touched off the depth of our mutual sadness at knowing it might never happen again. After being married nearly fifteen years and raising children for thirteen of those years, the comfort of our togetherness in family routines was powerful. And the unknowns of the lives we were headed into were terrorizing.

  We both acknowledged our pain around being separated the last several weeks. Brian was quiet for a few minutes, then looking into my face, he asked, “Would you consider going to counseling with me to repair our marriage?”

  I had longed to hear those words nearly all the years we were together, but I couldn’t believe he was finally saying them. I thought a long while before answering, and weighed the possibility of saying what he wanted to hear. If we went the counseling route, and it didn’t work out, I would feel better about getting divorced, knowing we had done everything possible to save our marriage. In the past, he had always refused counseling, even though I was becoming more emotionally bankrupt in the marriage, and told him so. Now that I’d fallen in love with someone else, I knew how starved I’d been for emotional and physical intimacy, and couldn’t imagine how he and I would ever find what came so naturally for Jane and me.

  I finally answered, “To be perfectly honest, your offer feels like too little, too late, and I couldn’t in good conscience go into counseling with the goal of putting our marriage back together. I would begin coun
seling with you to see if either of us has the willingness and energy to figure out how our relationship went awry, and whether either of us wanted to learn how to be in a relationship totally differently because that’s what I think it would take.”

  He thought for only a moment before responding, “That won’t work for me. I wouldn’t be able to put forth that kind of effort if it wasn’t for the express purpose of rebuilding our marriage.”

  Silently, we turned away from each other, got up from the bed, and parted, never again to discuss trying to mend our marriage. After Jane returned home the same evening, I relayed to her Brian’s and my entire conversation, and how it was concluded. She was not comforted by my explanation. She asked how I would have reacted if the situation had been reversed, and she and Charles met under those circumstances. I realized how fragile our trust and confidence were in this relationship—not from desire, but from the sheer unknowns of building a future together as two women in an intimate partnership. I was sorry my behavior created more doubts and fear for Jane, when these feelings were already abundant. In hindsight, that occasion was a watershed for me, for I knew beyond a doubt that my marriage wasn’t retrievable, and that before me lay the relationship of which dreams are made. I vowed to never again give Jane reason to distrust my love.

  Can We Continue?

  May was upon us before we knew it, and Mother’s Day rapidly approached. Jane wondered aloud whether she would hear from any of her children. Though they spoke with her only occasionally, I hadn’t considered that they might overlook her on this special day. In my extended family system, Mother’s Day was a time for putting aside grievances—even if only temporarily—and honoring all that a mother is to her children. Considering the “supermom” Jane had always been, I couldn’t imagine her kids not acknowledging that, nor could I bear to think how deeply wounded she would be if that occurred. In my mind, that was tantamount to saying she didn’t exist!

  “Jane, let’s not even let those thoughts enter our heads. Michael, Lynn, and Andrew are eighteen, sixteen, and fifteen, and Charles can’t control them to that extent. I’m sure at the least they’ll call or send a card.”

  But that was not to be the case. Early evening brought the stark realization that beloved Jane had been completely shunned by those she had mothered for so many years. She sat in silence, staring blankly across the room, with tears cascading down her cheeks and onto her blouse. I didn’t know what to do except hold her. I worked to contain my anger at their well-executed denial of her motherhood. There were no words to say other than, “I’m so sorry.”

  When I suggested we walk down to Lake Harriet and watch the sunset, Jane followed me, zombie-like, out into the cool night air. My heart ached for her, and I wanted nothing more than to create an invisible shield to safeguard her from pain. I also became frightened. How could she withstand what appeared to me like intentional, hurtful behavior? What else would they do? How could our love stand up to this and more?

  “Jane, do you need to go back to your family? I’ll understand if you do. I can’t imagine being without you, but, more so, I can’t imagine your being without your children. Somehow, I’d make it if we had to split, but can you survive if your family keeps treating you this way?”

  Jane was quiet a long time as we continued around the lake in silence. Eventually, she answered, “No, I can’t go back. If I did, it would be for all the wrong reasons. I don’t choose to be married to Charles any longer, and I think that’s a big part of his anger. I don’t know how much influence he’s having on the kids, but he won’t be able to keep them from me forever. Let’s both be true to ourselves for now, and let’s keep praying for them and for us.”

  Despite how the day unfolded for Jane, in the middle of it, she had still somehow managed to celebrate with me my children’s Mother’s Day tribute. The younger kids spent the day with us, and David even made an appearance for lunch. There were roses from David, a hand-colored card from Edward, a specially decorated oversized cookie bought with Moria’s allowance, and a booklet Erin’s preschool teacher printed from Erin’s verbal dictation of, “My mother is special because …”

  I was taken back to my first mothering experience. Carrying a pregnancy had been difficult for me, due to having a bifurcate uterus—one shaped more like a heart than a light bulb, with a vertical septum partially dividing it into two chambers. Having lost two early pregnancies, I was thrilled to deliver full-term, magnificent Edward by caesarian section in September 1969.

  At the beginning, life with Edward was difficult. He had colic, and cried at least six to eight hours a day. In the middle of the night, the couple living below us in the apartment building would rap on their ceiling, signaling their displeasure at being awakened by his howling. When he was two weeks old, he began projectile vomiting—throwing up a feeding with such force, that it landed several feet away on a wall, furniture, or the carpet. While I was cleaning up the mess, he wailed again from hunger, due to his empty stomach. After a diagnostic workup, doctors decided he would eventually outgrow the colic and vomiting within six months with no loss of health.

  Brian began his Ph.D. program three weeks after Edward was born, and he spent most days on the University of Minnesota campus. Days with Edward were so draining for me, that I generally met Brian at the apartment door when he returned in the afternoon, thrust Edward into his arms, took the car keys from his pocket, and headed to Lake Nokomis for a respite from the noise and tension of home.

  Neither of us was sure how we survived that period, but as the doctors predicted, Edward’s colic and vomiting stopped fairly abruptly when he was about four and a half months old. He remained healthy for a couple of years before developing significant allergies with asthma. For most of the fall and winter, he and I spent more nights upright in the rocking chair than in our beds. After several years of allergy shots, fortunately, he outgrew the condition by age eight, and remained a picture of health from then on.

  When Edward was two, I miscarried a five-month pregnancy and was very distraught about it. Edward was exceptionally lonely as an only child, and frequently stood at the screen door, crying for long periods after relatives or playmates departed. Neither Brian nor I wanted to raise him as an only child, and we were both fairly battered emotionally from the last miscarriage. We decided to take action on our earlier discussions about adoption, and by the time Edward was two and a half years old, he had become brother to sixteen-month-old Moria and eight-and-a-half-year-old David.

  Edward had become a middle child overnight, and didn’t know how to find his new place in our expanded family. One day a few weeks after David and Moria’s arrival, it was late morning; David was at school, and Moria was in the kitchen with me, when I noticed there was no sound coming from Edward’s room. This was scary, since he was usually boisterous and loud, playing with his toys.

  Glancing into his room, there he was curled up in the middle of his bed facing the wall, sucking on his finger and stroking his favorite “deep,” a diaper he used as a comfort blanket. I saw tears coursing down his cheeks. He couldn’t tell me what he was sad about, but suddenly I was overwhelmed with the seriousness of what we had done to him. Tears streamed from my eyes as I gathered him to me, and we rocked together in our mutual sorrow.

  Edward rebounded more quickly than I was able to resolve my remorse about how we had irrevocably changed his young life. But I need not have worried. Soon, he was faring just fine within the new family scenario, he and Moria squabbling like any close siblings, and he and David eventually developing a warm brotherly relationship.

  No matter how difficult parenting had sometimes been for me, I felt unworthy being honored this Mother’s Day of 1982 when Jane was not. In her family, she had done most of the child rearing, homemaking, landscaping, lawn care, and furniture building, refinishing, and reupholstering with little assistance from Charles—whereas Brian and I equally shared home and child-rearing responsibilities. I moved out of our family home just as Jane had hers
, and I was also living with a woman. But how differently our families responded!

  To my knowledge, Brian never gave our children negative messages about me or about my relationship with Jane, though he was the first to tell my sisters what was happening—much to my dismay. But he spoke to them factually and without judgment. Brenda and Penny didn’t call for a few weeks after they learned about us, but that was the extent of any punishment—if it could be called that—from my immediate or extended family.

  Brenda and Penny were honest in relaying sentiments—that they couldn’t understand or accept what I was doing—but they respected my right to live my life, and said they would love me no matter what. I told them I wasn’t clear about what was going on with me, either, but asked if they would like us to talk further as I gained more knowledge and understanding. Both readily agreed, and we talked openly with them on numerous occasions.

  My brother and his wife were strong fundamentalist Christians who openly and frequently espoused their beliefs. I couldn’t imagine how they would react. Once again, though we never openly discussed the subject of homosexuality, they were always kind, respectful, and loving to both Jane and me whenever we were together. I know they held their own views about our relationship, but that didn’t get in the way of their love.

  Considering all the relatives, telling Dad was perhaps the most difficult for me. He was sixty-six years old, and he had mellowed immensely in the five and a half years since my mother died unexpectedly in her sleep December 30, 1976. He was retired, had remarried shortly after my mother’s death, and was living in Alabama. I saw him only once or twice a year. How could I tell him the whole story? I was preoccupied with how he’d react to my potential divorce, not to mention my having fallen in love with a woman!