That Secret You Keep

by Brenda Benny

  We’ve reached a lookout opposite a fully enclosed bedroom, and it makes me think of Max’s tree house at home – when we were under the blankets together that night. Max scans the room, smiling at first, and then appears to withdraw into himself, and I think that I’ve said something wrong.

  “Does that make me sound crazy?” I shake my head, trying to discard the awful, feathery images. “Sorry. I’ve probably said enough about this already today.”

  “No, no,” he blurts out. “That’s not it.”

  He straightens abruptly, then, and advances along the stair walkways, further into the treetop. I follow him, close behind. He stops once, mid-flight, as though he’s about to turn my way. Then he continues on, further, until he reaches a second room called the Crow’s Nest, where the storied boys obviously slept, hammocks slung in a space at the highest point of the tree. He sucks in a breath, and finally sinks down to the ground like the Swiss Family boat going under.

  I can see he’s wrestling with something – he keeps wincing like he’s in pain, then appears as though he’s about to speak. Approaching him slowly from the landing, I look down for some indication he wants me to join him. I’m a little confused – and a lot worried that I’ve freaked him out with the talk of voices in my head. He meets my eyes, at last, and his look is begging me to stay. I slide down beside him, our legs touching where we’ve pushed them through the interlaced rope rails.

  “Listen,” he finally begins, grabbing my hand, “You were so honest with me today. I think I need to be honest with you.”

  My eyes rove between his ever-changing landscape of agonizing expressions, and the sight of his fingers worrying across my knuckles.

  “It’s true about Hayden and me.”

  My neck makes a sound like a branch snapping, as my head lifts to stare at him. He grimaces uncomfortably when our eyes meet, and then looks towards the ground below, unable to hold my gaze.

  “Just…not anytime recently,” he goes on.

  Relief washes over me. I don’t say anything, but simply let him continue at his own pace. His feet are swinging back and forth slowly from where they hang over the edge of the platform, like they are walking him through this story at a faltering pace, but urging him forward, nonetheless.

  “It was when we were younger – not yet in high school. We were… together. But not like we were a couple, or anything.”

  It’s like after everything I told him today, he’s decided he needs to share this with me. I trust him: he obviously trusts me.

  “I think I’d be lying if I said ‘it didn’t mean anything to me’,” he starts to explain, “but really, it was just like …” He pauses like he’s unsure what to say next. “The problem was that Hayden thought I’d been lying to myself all this time. About not being gay, I mean.”

  I tilt my head, considering this. Max isn’t coming right out and saying it, but obviously some people thought that Max and Hayden were together – Vanessa certainly questioned this. And I think you only ask those questions if it seems like one person has those kinds of feelings towards another – even if no one is admitting it out loud. Maybe Hayden felt more than just friendship for Max.

  “And, now?” I ask. “Does Hayden still…? I mean, you two are just friends.” It’s a statement, but the question hangs on my uncertain pronunciation of the last word. His expressions change quickly, moving from disbelief through discomfort, and onto resignation. He shakes his head again.

  “It was complicated. He was my best friend. He still is. But he knows, now, that there will never be anything between us.” He bites his lip. “I think that’s why he was always so crusty with you, before.”

  On any other day, it would be a lot to absorb that the guy I’m in love with is still best friends with the boy he fooled around with before high school. But today has not exactly been a regular day: I’m perched atop a reconstructed, fictional tree house in an imaginary land after having a very authentic breakdown this morning.

  I rest my head on Max’s shoulder. “In a weird way, I think he was criticizing me all along for not reaching out to you.”

  I’m staring straight ahead, but I can hear the smile in his response. “Yeah, well, now he knows it’s not like I’m hiding something – or afraid of being what I am – or what he thought I was.”

  A guilty tightness inside me unfurls and begins to release.

  “No. That was just me,” I tell him.

  He cranes his neck around to look at me, perplexed. “What do you mean? What were you afraid of being?”

  “Crazy?” I answer.

  He laughs, and then bumps my shoulder lightly with his own. “You can be crazy about me, if you want.”

  I smile back at him, a giggle bubbling up my throat. “You are such a cornball!” I bump him back.

  Crazy. I was so worried about anyone finding out that I was going to therapy. But that was only the first rock in the dreaded landslide. Admitting that I was in therapy meant acknowledging my greatest fear. Grief and loss over the death of my mom was a knife in my gut on any given day – the memory of being in the car with her only sank it deeper. But living with the secret that I was completely, and totally, responsible for the accident was the final twist of the knife. I don’t know that I’ll ever feel it wasn’t my fault, but having finally told this horrible secret out loud – recognizing that Max knows about the therapy – about his dad – about my phobia of cars – and the truth about my mom’s accident – I feel as though it’s lifted something from me.

  It strikes me, then, that some secrets aren’t what we are afraid others will discover about us. Some secrets are what we are afraid to truly believe about ourselves.

  Max puts his arm around me and squeezes me close to him, his lips pressing softly to my hair for several seconds before he pulls them away. We’re both quiet for some time, looking out across the darkened rooftops.

  “You know, when my mom died, it just felt like all the pieces fell apart and scattered all over. I was broken. It felt like I was a shattered record that wouldn’t play any more.” I shrug my shoulders, and add, “I’m just not sure I know who I am without her.”

  Max grimaces, and looks unexpectedly uncomfortable. “Sometimes I feel exactly the same way.”

  He’s lost me. I feel like we’re having another one of our unusual misunderstandings. “What do you mean? You miss my mom?”

  He smiles at me in the most tender way – apologetic, yet caring. “I mean that I can appreciate why you would miss her so much. Your mom. Just the idea of having a mom. You know – somewhere out there I actually have a mom, too. It’s bizarre. And, sometimes… Well, sometimes I just ache for that connection.”

  Was it even possible to miss a mom you never knew? Maybe it was no different than yearning for any other experience you’d never had, but coveted in others: like longing to travel to Paris because you’d seen their photos and decided it was something you wanted to experience for yourself.

  “But, you’ve got your dads. And it seems like they’re pretty awesome parents.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  We’re both quiet for a minute, and I can tell Max is working up the courage to tell me something else. “Next year I’ll be nineteen,” he begins before moving onto what seems to be more arduous for him to say, “I can look for my birth parents, then. It’ll be legal for me to do it.”

  I nod, then, understanding why it’s so difficult for him to tell me this. It’s not just a passing thought: he already has a plan. “Are you going to do it?”

  “I don’t know.” He looks at me directly, first, then away to the castle, far in the distance. “Okay, that’s not true. Yes, I am. I just don’t know how to tell my dads that.”

  “Max, I’m sure they’ll understand. Your dads, of all people, don’t exactly seem like the intolerant type.”

  “I don’t think they’ll be intolerant,” he clarifies.

  Could gay parents be intolerant? I’ve never thought about this. I mean, if some straight parents
have a hard time when they find out that their son or daughter is gay, maybe it was the same thing for his parents. Were they disappointed?

  “How did they react when they found out that you weren’t gay?”

  He pauses, as though considering his answer. “Fine, really. It turns out they’ve known for a long time.”

  When I think back to my sessions with Mr. Bauer, I’m not exactly surprised. “That’s a good thing, right? Maybe this adoption thing wouldn’t be much different.”

  He scrunches up his nose in the cutest way. “I’m not so sure about that. I’m not worried they’ll be disappointed – I’m worried they’ll be hurt.”

  “Why? Don’t you think they’ll understand that you want to know where you came from?”

  “It’s complicated. I think wanting to look for my birth parents will make them upset – like I don’t think they’re good enough. What are they going to make of that? Even to me, it sounds like I’m trying to replace them.”

  I’m not sure if I should ask this question, but it seems like it’s dangling there in front of us, obscuring the road ahead. “Do you think your life would be different if you hadn’t been raised by your two dads?”

  Guilt visibly descends on his shoulders, and he looks smaller than I can ever remember his enormous frame appearing.

  “I’ve wondered about it. What it would have been like to be raised by a mother and a father? To have a mom? Are there things I’ve missed out on? Would I be a different person?”

  “Lots of people grow up without a mom.”

  It seems that we both have that in common, now. A thick wad of reality materializes in my throat and becomes difficult to swallow around.

  He squeezes my fingers, and a flicker of a rueful smile is there, and then vanishes. “I know that. It’s still hard not to wonder. And maybe she’s out there – somewhere. It might just be a matter of finding her.”

  He’s probably right. And I know immediately that I’d like that for him: finding his mom. And maybe she’s not too far away, as the black bird flies – like my mom used to say.

  “I know it’ll be stressful – but I think you should talk to your parents about that. You know, once you get home.” He nods again, but I’m not sure he’s convinced.

  Home. Tomorrow, we’ll be flying home. It’s hard to believe we’ve been gone only a matter of days.

  “What are we going to do when we go home?”

  “Home?” he asks with mock astonishment, and finally grins. “What? You don’t want to stay here? There are plenty of good sleeping quarters in the treetop.” He inclines his head towards the hammocks behind us.

  I reply in an equally sarcastic measure. “It might be a little weird in the morning, though, when a constant stream of people comes by, peering at us.”

  “Yeah. I suppose so.”

  A brilliant white flare suddenly illuminates the nighttime like a beacon of hope. It looks like the brightest star in the sky, its eternal glow visible from anywhere in the world, and inviting us to wish upon it. Then, the first burst of the evening fireworks show explodes, and we can see the castle spires, beneath, light up in the distance through the treetop branches.

  He looks at me, then, serious and appraising. “Are we okay now?”

  Not crazy. Not totally back to normal. But definitely okay.

  It seems so obvious to me now. All these secrets we’ve held from one another: sometimes we let them make us weak, vulnerable and scared, holding us down. We can let our secrets define us, cage us, or peck away at us, bit by bit. But if we can admit them, even to ourselves, we might spread our wings and take flight: it can set us free.

  “We’re okay,” I say.

  And just like the fairy tale ending, we kiss.

  Chapter 19

  Max

  Her sun-kissed skin glows in the candlelight. Two perfect teardrop reflections sparkle against her deep brown eyes. Really, there’s nothing more to wish for.

  “Come on, ya’ bugger. Blow out the friggin’ flames so that we can get at ‘er! I’m starvin’ over ‘ere!”

  A round of laughter bursts from everyone, interrupting my daydream, as they all react to Finnegan’s taunt. I obey before I have to suffer any more harassment. Careful to leave one red candle burning from the total eighteen, I pluck it out with my fingers and pass it to Serena. She smiles, and blows it out. A round of applause and cheers erupts, followed quickly by the clinking of plates and cutlery.

  “That’s more like it!” Finnegan congratulates me, slapping me on the back.

  I start cutting pieces of chocolate cake and setting them onto plates, passing them to Hayden who is adding ice cream. Meanwhile, Peter is busy taking pictures, the flash blinding us all repeatedly. Hayden offers a piece to Finnegan’s vibrant date whose hair is bright purple and arms are more colourful than our neighbour’s garden, sleeved with tattoos of roses, vines and butterflies.

  It’s a small dinner gathering during our March break. As a kid, I used to hate having my birthday at this time of year because no one would ever be around to come to a party on my actual birthday.

  “So, you’re still not of age, boyo! One more year of sneakin’ ya’ into the pubs and clubs, I gather.” Finnegan squeezes my shoulder, and then seems to take notice of Peter beside me. He scratches at his ruddy coloured stubble nervously, and adds, “Not that I was any part of that before this, of course, Mr. O’Sullivan. You can be darn sure o’ that!”

  Peter just laughs. “Speaking of which – does anyone want some more champagne?”

  “Absolutely!”, “Top ‘er up!”, Gary and Charles call out simultaneously, raising their glasses to me.

  “Guess I’m the designated driver again,” Hayden mutters, rolling his eyes.

  It’s actually the perfect party. We’ve stuffed ourselves with spaghetti and garlic bread, Ray Brown is playing with Oscar Peterson on the stereo, and all of my favourite people are here.

  Everyone’s glasses and plates are now full of dessert, and I see Jonathan talking to Serena over on the couch. Serena comes around to my house a lot more, now, since she worked it all out with my dad. Jonathan even suggested a couple other therapists that she might want to meet, and she found someone that seems to be helping her. She’s got so far as to try sitting in the front seat of the Range Rover with me – in our parking spot out back, anyway. I’ve even backed it out into the lane a few times, but she says she’s not quite ready for us to venture onto the street. Most of the time, we just end up back in the driveway, fooling around in the car, like we’ve gone “parking” somewhere, old school style. It’s not like I’m trying to take advantage of her fear of driving, but I can’t say I mind this “therapy” time when she initiates it. I’m convinced that one day, soon, she’ll be going for her license – and I’ll be there to celebrate afterwards.

  “So what did Peter and Jonathan get you?” Hayden has crept up next to me, watching me observe Serena.

  “No recording studio or new car, unfortunately. Guess I’m going to have to figure those out on my own.”

  He smiles at this. “Looks like things are working out between you.” He motions across the room, as Serena rises with her empty plate and excuses herself from Jonathan, walking towards us.

  “Yup. And it only took three years and seven months.” I wink. “Easy-peasy.”

  Serena places her dish on the counter and joins us, leaning into my arm, and entwining her fingers with mine. The touch of her skin still thrills me.

  “Will there be gift opening, tonight?” she asks.

  “That depends. Is your present something that that should be revealed in front of a roomful of parents?” I tease.

  Hayden pointedly averts his gaze, still looking away from us when his phone chimes. He pulls it out, spending more than a brief moment reading his text, followed by an uncharacteristic bloom of pink on his cheeks.

  “Wow! What does that say?” I ask, laughing at him. “That couldn’t possibly be Marcus, could it?”

  He smirks,
unable to deny it.

  Serena looks from Hayden, back to me, and asks, “The stunt guy from Disney?”

  I nod, and speak to her in an exaggerated conspiratorial whisper. “Yup. They’ve become quite the sexting couple, I think. And now, Hayden is much more seriously looking into NYU than before – since Marcus is moving back there.”

  “That’s not the only reason,” Hayden argues pointlessly. He will probably get in anywhere he’s applied. Still, it is one of the best programs.

  “Right,” Serena says, “It must be to hang out with Vanessa, if she gets accepted there.”

  “Please!” Hayden scoffs, “Don’t ruin it for me!”

  Serena laughs, even though she and Vanessa are still, implausibly, close friends.

  “Well, I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. I got you a leather bound music ledger,” says Hayden, motioning over to the small pile of unopened gifts. “And now, I need to gather up the bubbly dads and float them into the departing vehicle.”

  I reach out to shake his hand and slap him on the back with the other. “Thanks for the present, man. I’ll be sure to use it. I’ll write you a song. Maybe have Serena sing it to you, if you’re lucky; me, if you’re not.”

  He gives a small wave to Serena and heads over to collect Gary and Charles.

  The party breaks up after the cake is devoured and the champagne bottles emptied. It takes a few tries to get Finnegan out of the kitchen, but his inked girlfriend seems to have him well under control, and maneuvers him to the door. We try to help Peter and Jonathan clean up in the kitchen, but they push us away.

  “Shoo! The two of you!” Peter says. “It’s your birthday, Maxwell. Continue your celebrating until the wee hours like a good little eighteen year old!” There’s a hint of melancholy bracketing his eyes that lingers from our discussion earlier today.