You and No Other

by Jane Weiss

  “Mom,” she yelled in my ear, “you need to come home now! I can’t stand it anymore! Erin is being a brat, and I’m sick of it. Edward always thinks up reasons why he can’t help, so I’m stuck with her. I hate it here! I hate Minnetonka High School! I wish you never made us leave Minneapolis! I want to go live with Dad!”

  Moria still refused, even after four years since Brian and I separated, to talk about her feelings surrounding our family breakup. In hindsight, there were signs she was growing more troubled. She spent hours alone in her room with the door closed. When she did emerge, she was often sullen and uncommunicative. Her friends didn’t engage in conversation with Jane or me when they came to our home, or when we drove them places. If Moria went out evenings, I became accustomed to getting phone calls around curfew, asking if she could stay overnight at a friend’s rather than coming home. She grew impatient with all of us—particularly with Erin—and didn’t try to hide her disdain for Jane. Periodically, she went on tirades for hours over minor incidents—like not being able to find a clean towel when she wanted to shower.

  She and I argued frequently about her angry behavior, her disrespectful treatment of family members, grades, missing curfew, heavy black eye makeup, and other issues not uncommon for teenagers. In fact, it was difficult to know whether her behaviors were signals of deep distress or the individuation of normal adolescent development. I asked on occasion if she wanted to talk with a counselor about what was troubling her. She wasn’t interested. But now something had come to a head, and had to be dealt with.

  “Moria, please calm down. It’s difficult to talk about this over the phone. Give me five minutes to pack up my books and get to the car, and I’ll be right home, okay? Could I talk to Erin for a minute?”

  “Mommy, I didn’t do anything,” Erin bellowed into the phone. “Moria’s just being mean, and now you’re going to be mad at me.”

  “I’m not angry, Erin. I just need to sort out what’s going on, so I’ll be coming right home. Until I get there, would you please go to your room and read quietly?”

  It became obvious with this incident and others that Moria was indeed deeply troubled. She never felt like she fit in with the kids at Minnetonka High School—“They’re snotty and uppity”—and that added more misery to her already disrupted life.

  Things improved at our house when Moria moved to Brian and Marilyn’s home in Brooklyn Park, a northern Minneapolis suburb about thirty-five minutes from my house. Moria finished the last quarter of her high school freshman year there. When she visited our house on weekends, I often asked if she and I could seek counseling because she still seemed so angry with me. I explained I’d like to have her back living with us, but only on condition that she and I work through whatever our issues were. Again, she wasn’t interested.

  Brian reported that most of Moria’s difficult behaviors followed her to their home as well. She lived with Brian and Marilyn throughout high school and her first year at a vocational technical college before moving into her own apartment.

  Through these years, her secrecy and seclusion precluded Brian or me from being helpful through many other traumatic times and events. We insisted she get counseling at one point, but she only talked about her friends and boyfriends with the counselor, and made no observable progress in understanding or managing her own behaviors. Whether she was reacting to abandonment by her biological mother, our “broken” family, her learning disability, her beloved brother David leaving home, Jane and me together, or my “lack of respectability,” she displayed a pattern of anger, resentfulness, and eventually self-destructive behaviors. I did not know how else to help her.

  I was reminded over and over again that I had no choice but to let go. I couldn’t demand that she value my pathway when most of society didn’t. Would God protect her until she could grow into her own wisdom? Could I learn how to be more supportive through her trial-by-fire approach to life’s lessons? Could I find the soul lessons she brought to me?

  Jane was a steady source of inspiration and hope that Moria could turn her life in the blink of an eye, once she chose to do so. These things I prayed over and over again when it felt as if the only means of caring for my daughter was through prayer.

  Blue Christmas

  In mid-December, 1986, Jane and I had been together nearly five years, and we made the bold move to go to Hawaii again. I had never been apart from my children and family over Christmas, but this year was different. David was in his second year at the University of Hawaii, and was finally coming home December 29th for a break. We had decided to wait for his arrival in Minneapolis for our family gift opening. I had a two-week winter break from graduate school, and desperately needed some quiet downtime with no demands. Jane’s children still refused to be with her at our house over the holidays, and once again, Charles would be taking them on a family trip just after Christmas. I couldn’t imagine Jane’s grief at suffering through another Christmas alone. Edward, Moria, and Erin could spend two weeks with Brian and Marilyn, so it seemed a perfect opportunity to completely change the holiday rituals for Jane by whisking her off to paradise. Plus, that would give me the added bonus of an extended visit with David before he returned home, where I would have to compete with everyone else for his time.

  The magic of Hawaii once again seemed to be doing its work on Jane and me. We could hardly believe we finished all our shopping and wrapping, and now could luxuriate in each other, with the sun and magnificent ocean as our daily companions. Water was a healing gift for both of us. At home in Minnesota, we still regularly made the half-hour trek into Minneapolis to Lake Harriet when we needed to be comforted or calmed. But there was nothing like the ocean for slowing the frenetic pace of life, soothing the pain of fractured relationships, and healing hurtful wounds. For the first week or so, we felt quite smug that we’d pulled off “Plan B” in response to her family’s holiday treatment of Jane.

  But the closer it came to Christmas Eve, the less effective our strategy was, and the more we began missing all our children. Coming from Minnesota—where we were often graced with a foot or more of sparkling, new fallen snow outside as we snuggled cozily inside—seeing Christmas lights on palm trees and Santas in Bermuda shorts just didn’t cut it for us. When I called Brian’s house to talk with the kids on Christmas Eve, eight-and-one-half-year-old Erin sobbed her disappointment at not having us all together, and she would not be consoled.

  I reminded her that even if I were there, we had agreed to wait for David before opening gifts and celebrating, but that made no difference to her. I couldn’t shake the blues for hours after hanging up the phone, and couldn’t remember when I had ever felt lonelier. Jane’s experience was similar to mine and, for the first time, the incessant beating of waves on the shore could not mesmerize our psyches into forgetfulness, nor change our gloomy dispositions.

  I knew then this would be the last time I voluntarily separated myself from my children at this season—no matter what Jane’s kids or Charles managed to do in future years. We had learned an important lesson: No matter where you go, there you are.

  Jane’s remorse at not being able to spend Christmas with her children wasn’t at all lessened by our being away from home. Thinking this type of diversion could assuage her grief only resulted in unnecessary grief for me and for my children. But it also provided me at least a momentary glimpse of what she had been experiencing the last five years, being apart from her kids.

  Again, I stood in awe of her fortitude, and was deeply humbled by her love for me. How could she continue to be deprived of their love and presence, when I was beside myself with grief after experiencing only one such episode, which I had voluntarily instigated?

  Erin had been upset enough by my absence on Christmas Day that she brought the subject up at school in her small group for kids who were going through significant family change. She typed out this letter on the computer the morning of our delayed family celebration:

  Dear Mom and Jane,

 
; Will you keep a secret? Well I wanna tell you some things that I want us to keep a secret. Is it a deal I sure hope so. Well if it’s not a deal then you can’t read the rest of this letter o.k. Well at first I was kind of mad at you and Jane because you would be gone for Christmas. So I was kind of mad about that. But then I thought you didn’t go because you were mad at me or anything. You went because you needed a vacation and that was the only time you could go. And I’m glad David came home.

  I also cried a few times while you were gone. But Friday our last day of school I had family change class. Mrs. Sohlberg said Erin think about the good things and your family will be opening presents when everyone else is just sitting around because they already opened all there presents. And I thought about that for a while I thought about the good things not the bad it kind of worked. But let’s go open presents.

  P.S. I love you a lot

  Sincerly, Erin

  Our late Christmas reunion and celebration were extra-sweet for me that year. As I looked into the faces of each of my children, now ages eight to twenty-three, my gratitude was overflowing for the privilege of having each of them—and the lessons they brought—in my life.

  Mission Accomplished

  Through all the children’s travails, somehow I completed the second year of my master’s in healthcare administration, did the required research, wrote my thesis, and graduated in May 1987 at forty-five years of age. To my utter amazement, I was chosen by my classmates and the faculty to be recipient of the Howard K. Johnson Achievement Award, a coveted honor bestowed on one graduating individual each year. Jane was in the audience with Edward, Moria, Erin, and my sisters when the announcement was made, and they were immediately on their feet hooting and clapping as I walked to the podium to accept the award. I was so shocked I could hardly speak as I looked out over the auditorium and located my rowdy cheering section among all the other families. I knew I was about to lose it, so my remarks were very brief:

  “Thank you more than I could ever say.” Then directing words to my classmates, many of whom were young enough to be my sons or daughters, I said, “You really are rascals, aren’t you?” They broke into laughter and applause at the familiar label I’d used on them over the last two years when they offended my middle-age sensibilities, and then teased me non-stop when I objected to their antics.

  Before leaving the stage, my eyes again sought out my glorious partner standing with my family midway back in the auditorium. I was humbled by her constant love and support that let me realize this goal. She held down the fort when I was mostly checked out and preoccupied with things other than family and home. She gave me full-body massages at bedtime when she sensed my tension level was over the top. She held me as I sobbed long into the nights with worry and fear about Moria. She was surrogate Mom to Erin when I was unavailable for snuggle time, shopping, or mealtime conversations. She kept a magnificently decorated, spotless home for us, and she served elegant meals to our families and friends. She was always lover par excellence, even when I felt unworthy and undeserving. I was saddened that I hadn’t the courage to publicly acknowledge her from the podium.

  We held an open-house celebration to commemorate the big occasion with family, friends, and professional colleagues. Erin, now nine, could not be more excited that this day had finally arrived. She proudly presented me with a special booklet created out of lined tablet paper, pencil, and colored markers. Her words made obvious that she’d been missing time with me, too.

  Dear Mom,

  I guess it was a good idea for you to go back to school now we will have more money and more fun times and I think the computer will get a lot more rest. You probably bonked its brains out. We can also finally start seeing each other more. That will be great! Won’t it?

  Love,

  Erin

  Despite all the prophecies that I’d never land a job in the shrinking healthcare marketplace, I was offered three positions before I graduated. The one I accepted was with Minneapolis Children’s Medical Center as associate administrator. I had always been partial to pediatrics, and now I’d be able to devote full time to addressing the healthcare needs of children.

  But I also had fears about being in a high-profile job in pediatrics. Myths and stereotypes about homosexuals and children were still abundant. People confused homosexuals—individuals who are attracted to those of the same gender—with pedophiles, those who are attracted to children. I worried that if the nature of my relationship with Jane became known, my job in a pediatric facility could be jeopardized, due to this confusion.

  So I continued living the lie with which I’d now become proficient. People knew I lived with Jane, and that we spent much of our leisure time together. But I remained careful to omit her name from conversations with colleagues nine out of ten times, so it wouldn’t appear she was “special” to me. I was always deeply saddened that our beautiful relationship could be given no more dignity than this.

  I had been at Children’s somewhat over two years when I was promoted to vice-president, Quality Management, and began reporting to the president. The chief operating officer (to whom I initially reported) and I had become close friends and often shared deeply and honestly with one another. One day, we were discussing legal issues around hiring when he said, “You know, I’ve never told you this. But early in the process of interviewing you for the associate administrator position, Abby and Melissa came into my office and said they got the scoop on you, and that you were a lesbian.”

  Abby was one of the department managers who reported to me, and Melissa had previously been an administrator at Children’s. I was nearly frozen with fear, and dreaded where this conversation might go. But I managed to calm the quaking enough to respond with, “Well, both Jane and I knew that by living together, we were taking the risk of being labeled that way. What did you say to them?”

  “I told them I didn’t want to hear anymore about this sort of thing, and asked them to never bring it up again. But you know, Bonnie, even if what they said was true, it wouldn’t have made any difference to me. You were the right one for the job.”

  The lump in my throat began to slowly subside as I absorbed the meaning of his comments. I couldn’t be sure whether he was fishing for information about Jane and me, or whether he wanted me to know he had upheld Children’s non-discrimination hiring policy in defense of me. But I wasn’t ready to share that part of myself in the workplace, even with someone I knew and trusted. So I thanked him for his support, and then moved our conversation in a different direction.

  During my tenure at Children’s, I had no way of knowing whether the basis of my fears about my “lifestyle” was imagined or real. But I was so grateful to have been hired as an administrator, and I couldn’t risk being embarrassed or shamed if my same-gender relationship became an issue.

  Some ten or twelve years later when I attended a Minnesota Gay Men’s Chorus concert, I was jolted to see a previous Children’s board member in the audience—a male, then probably sixty-plus years old, cuddling unabashedly with a young man who didn’t appear to be more than twenty. This board member had always been so outspoken with his opinions and judgments about everything, that I had been particularly threatened by what he might say publicly if he learned about Jane and me. As I approached him at concert intermission, he seemed genuinely pleased to see me. He introduced his significant other, and we made small talk about the concert until dimming lights signaled intermission’s end. What irony to realize this was the man who symbolized the basis of my fears during the years I spent at Minneapolis Children’s!

  Thank God, Edward was simply Edward throughout these otherwise stressful years. Actually, he was probably relieved that attention was diverted away from him by the stress on me of graduate school, starting a high-level job, and by our various incidents with Moria. Basically, he kept his head down and kept plodding. He had transitioned easily to Minnetonka High School, and other than not keeping his grades at the B level Brian and I expected of all the kids,
he wasn’t much into breaking the rules or causing problems. Overall, he was an amiable, handsome, athletic young man. He graduated in 1988, and continued living at our house while he attended Normandale Community College.

  David remained in Hawaii for five years, but after changing majors three times in as many years at the university, he didn’t have the required concentration of credits in one area to graduate. He found a job as waiter in a posh French restaurant in Honolulu, and within a few months, was promoted to manager. A Japanese businessman who owned the restaurant took a liking to David, and asked if he would be interested in joining one of his several companies in Japan. So what began in 1988 evolved into David’s seven-year period of work in Japan and China. While in Japanese language school in Tokyo, he met a Chinese woman who became his business partner, helping to bring about matches between western business investors and Chinese venture capitalists or the government. He moved about in China a great deal, and I heard from him only infrequently. Often, I didn’t even have an address or phone number where he could be reached. I sadly resigned myself to the possibility that he and I might never live in close proximity again.

  They Hate the Way we Live

  Throughout Erin’s years in school, there were bright spots, and we tried keeping those memories alive when things got really difficult. For example, in fourth grade, the kids were asked to prepare a presentation to the class about a hero who had been oppressed or discriminated against. Having recently watched a public television special with me on Harvey Milk, the San Francisco city councilman who was murdered because he was gay, Erin decided Harvey Milk would become her hero for the class presentation.