When Andy got home and discovered me on the couch reading a book with a soft-focus baby on the cover, he froze in place. I shrugged. He gave me a tiny, brittle smile and wandered away.
But a couple of days later, I found him browsing one of the other baby books at the kitchen counter while he sipped his Saturday-morning coffee.
He looked up, squinting. “You have to feed them every three to four hours for the first month? Around the clock?”
“So they say.”
“How?”
I grabbed a mug for myself. “By losing a lot of sleep, is my understanding.”
He looked at the book again. I expected a snarky retort, perhaps Better you than me. Instead he said, “My parents did this four times.”
“And check it out, you’re all still alive. Them, you, your siblings.”
“Huh.” He examined the page a few more seconds, then shut the book.
My parents had only done it once. Raising me had apparently been enough of an ordeal. But why dwell on that?
Chelsea emailed me to arrange some radio and TV interviews, taped ahead of time, to run on entertainment shows as the New Romantic air date approached.
After taking care of the interviews, I emailed back:
Hi Chelsea,
Just did the last radio show. Everyone was great, and it was cool to visit the different studios.
Listen, I wanted to ask you, is Fiona okay? She sounded so down when I last talked to her, and I haven’t heard from her. I’ve been worried. Please let me know how it’s going and what I can do to help, if anything.
Thanks,
Sinter
She answered the next day.
Hi Sinter,
Thanks for getting the interviews done. I’m looking forward to seeing/hearing them.
Fiona’s still all right although having a rough time of it, I think. She’s only doing marketing now, and it isn’t her favourite part. Basically, she’s between projects, between relationships, and pregnant, which isn’t easy. I don’t mean to sound as if I’m blaming you; I don’t think there’s anything else you could do. It’s already quite admirable of you to offer to take the baby. Going through with the pregnancy was what she wanted, but I think it’s proven harder than she expected. So is raising a child, I feel I should warn you! But then, no one can ever really be ready, as they say.
She needs a new project, and I’ve proposed several from our list of script ideas, something we could write together, but nothing’s caught her fancy yet. I’ll keep reminding her, but at some point I just become a nag. I don’t know; I’ll keep trying, but I don’t want her to feel pressured.
Sebastian’s been around a fair amount, and I think his company cheers her up more than mine. She does have people around who care about her, at least. And thank you for caring too.
Hope all is well with you.
xo,
Chelsea
They could say they didn’t blame me all they liked, but guilt gnawed into me like a pack of rats.
It wasn’t helped by this feeling of secrecy. Though Fiona hadn’t explicitly said “Don’t tell anyone about all this,” she hadn’t encouraged me to spread the news, nor did she seem to be talking about it herself.
But if I did take custody, I’d obviously have to tell people.
Imagining how I’d break the baby news to my parents deprived me of countless hours of sleep. I thrashed around on the guest-room bed, trying to envision some scenario that did not result in them losing their shit.
No such scenario existed, but at least they might eventually come around to liking their grandchild. What, then, if that grandchild had two dads at some point? How would that ever not make them lose their shit?
This lying around awake was at least good training for the sleep deprivation that came with caring for an infant.
Early on one such morning, cloud-dimmed sun filtered around the blinds. I’d managed maybe two hours of sleep. My eyelids felt like sandpaper. Andy still slept, down the hall in his room.
I won’t ever do this to you, I thought to my kid as I scowled into my pillow. Even if you end up a neo-Nazi, I’ll listen to you. I’ll find common ground.
My chest softened then. Somehow, my frustrated internal conversation with my child soothed me—because we would get to talk, if things went reasonably well. We’d get to know each other, forge a bond completely independent of my parents. I didn’t always have to care what they thought.
I rolled over and picked up my phone. There was a new message from Fiona.
Fiona: I’ve had the ultrasound today. It’s a girl. All appears to be well with her
She included a photo attachment. A black-and-white ultrasound.
I sat bolt upright.
A girl.
I had a daughter.
I zoomed in on the screen, my fingers trembling.
Was that curve a head? Was that thin smear an arm? Were those her knees, bent up? I honestly couldn’t tell, but I fell instantly in love with the photo anyway.
I tapped back a response.
Sinter: That’s so cool!! This makes my day. I really hope all is well with you too, please let me know how it’s going
I lay back, sending a dazed smile at the ceiling. Then I threw off the blanket, went down the hall, and climbed onto Andy on his bed.
“Mmf,” he protested.
“Hey. Hey.”
“What,” he said, fists against his eyes. “What time is it?”
“It’s 6:25. Your alarm’s about to go off anyway. Look, Fiona had the ultrasound. It’s a girl.” I held my phone above his face.
He uncovered his eyes to squint at it. “A girl?”
“Yeah. She looks fine. Everything seems good.” I was still beaming.
His mouth sprawled into a smile. He sat up, took my phone, and examined it. “Oh wow, dude. A girl.” He tilted his head at the image. “Daughter of the boy in eyeliner. So we’re talking Wednesday Addams?”
“God, I hope.” I set my chin on his shoulder, looking at the photo with him. “That’d be awesome.”
He picked up his glasses from the nightstand, put them on, and studied the ultrasound again. “I admit I’ve been curious what the demon spawn of Sinter Blackwell will be like. Is this the head?”
“I think. I can’t actually tell.”
“I think it is. And legs here …” He traced the bent-knee line I had guessed at. After gazing at it another few seconds, he handed me back the phone. “Well. When the time comes, I’ll teach her to drive a stick. Meanwhile, you can teach her about makeup.”
I snorted. Then, on impulse, I threw both arms around him and hugged him.
He didn’t call me crazy, or chuckle and pull away. He held me a long time, resting his head on my neck. He felt warm and smelled like sleep.
I shut my eyes, longing for a different reality, one in which he was more than just her dad’s buddy and her occasional driving teacher.
But he wasn’t ready for kids. He was going to Asia. We hadn’t discussed tender feelings. I wasn’t even properly out. My family was batshit. Et cetera.
Still. A guy could wish.
CHAPTER 30: IN BETWEEN DAYS
THE DVDS OF NEW ROMANTIC ARRIVED, AND ANDY AND I SAT DOWN AND WATCHED IT ONE NIGHT. I HAD to fortify myself with two beers first. Watching myself on-screen did not generally make the list of activities I enjoyed. Fiona was right, however; the film had turned out fabulously, and given the new-wave costumes and music, I would have loved it if anyone but me had starred in it. But even with alcohol softening my edges, I couldn’t watch the whole sex scene. I had to hide my face in a couch cushion while Andy laughed and made remarks like, “Aw yeah, girl, shove those jeans off him.”
I gave one of the DVDs to Chris and Kam so they could drool over Ariel in it. I sent another to Andy’s parents, who had requested it. I also sent one to my parents (who had not), with a brief note: Just received a bunch of these, so here’s one in case you want to see it. I think it turned out well. Take care, S
.
I kind of hoped they wouldn’t watch it, what with the sex scene and all. On the other hand, maybe it would introduce them to a few cool songs they should have paid attention to thirty years earlier, and spark a new interest for them. Ha. Sure.
Mom emailed me a few days later.
Joel,
We got the DVD. Haven’t watched it yet, but from the cover it certainly looks like the 1980s.
(I could hear the irony. As if she had hoped never to see the 1980s again, but there they were, back to haunt her.)
Granddad’s 80th birthday is July 7, and we’ll be having a family get-together. It’s near where you live, a country club east of Seattle. It’s one of Granddad’s favorite golf courses, owned by a friend of his. They’ll want to see you, so pencil in the date and try to come. You could bring a guest.
Take care,
Mom
“Oh yay,” I said out loud, though I was behind the counter at the café when I got the email. “Can I, please?”
“Hmm?” Kam asked, bustling by with a tray of mugs.
“Nothing. Talking to my email.”
Customers came in. I made them their caffe Americanos, agreed it was a beautiful day, and watched them take a seat.
Although …
I did need a support network. I wanted to be on better terms with my parents. Putting in an appearance at this thing and acting pleasant for half an hour might help.
Plus, what if I brought Andy and made some progress on that front too? He was far better at being charming in these settings than me. He’d help me win people over. In any case, I sure as hell didn’t want to visit that pit of perdition alone.
I emailed Mom back.
I’ll pencil in the party. Would it be all right if my guest was Andy? I don’t really have other close friends up here yet.
Thanks,
Sinter
Admittedly, I did also view this as a challenge. Mom would either have to say “yes” or “I’d prefer you didn’t.” This was her side of the family (Granddad was her father), so the guest list would be more her call than Dad’s.
Your move, Mom. I dare you.
She answered by the end of my barista shift.
I suppose you could bring him, but I hope you make it clear you’re just friends. And I would prefer if you didn’t discuss his “lifestyle.” There’s no purpose in upsetting your grandparents and everyone else when the event is in their honor; I’m sure you’d agree.
Anger seethed under my ribs.
Wow. Fuck that.
Kam studied me as I grabbed my jacket off the hook in the kitchen. “You look like you’re ready to punch someone in the ’nads.”
“My parents are buttheads. Today they email me: ‘Yes, you can bring Andy to this family party, but you can’t talk about his lifestyle because we wouldn’t want to upset people.’ What the hell?”
Kam and Chris still didn’t know we slept together, but they knew I was bi and he was gay, and Kam had teasingly remarked more than once that we seemed very flirtatious for best friends.
She sealed the lid back onto the flour tub. “I hear you. My parents were cool, but Chris’s? Took them freaking years to be able to say ‘wife, this is our daughter’s wife.’”
“Did you avoid them? ’Cause I’m thinking I should just refuse to go if they’re going to be like this.”
“We blew them off sometimes, for sure. But …” She looked at me with a twist of the mouth. “It may be smart to go. Agree to their stupid condition just this once.”
“Why?”
“Because then your relatives get to talk to you and Andy and get to know you as people, before the whole ‘guess what, they’re gay or bi’ reveal. Right now, they might be thinking they don’t know any of those types. But if they learn their grandson and his friend, who were so nice at that party, are like that, then …”
“They’ll start thinking and voting differently?” I let the skepticism into my voice, but in truth I began to see her point.
“Maybe. Long shot, I know. But if you stay invisible, you definitely won’t make any difference.”
“Hm.”
“Is this a party for you or someone else?” she asked.
“Someone else. My grandfather’s birthday.”
“Then yeah. Play by their dumb rules this time. But next time, and definitely at your own events, no lying, no hiding. Tell them that.”
“I’ll see if Andy’s even willing to go.” I sighed. “Thanks, Kam.”
“I’ve got your back, bro.” She shoved the tub of flour onto a shelf.
I related the whole thing to Andy that evening while we emptied the dishwasher. He rolled his eyes at my mom’s request, but fell quiet when I fed him Kam’s reasoning.
“Hmm,” he said. “That’s kind of true.” Then he threw a put-upon glance at me. “You’re really going to make me go to this thing?”
“It’s not like I want to either. But what if we just put in an appearance? An hour.”
“Half an hour.”
“Forty-five minutes.”
He allowed it with a nod. “Deal.”
“It’s not till July anyway.”
“Yes,” he said dryly. “I’m sure they’ll have totally accepted my lifestyle by then.”
The Fair Youth opened on the Green Sea Theatre stage. Andy’s parents came up to see it, as they’d promised. It was something of a rush, given this was the first role in which I acted out a romance with another man—in front of the family of the man I was currently sleeping with. Not that they knew it. Still, I felt a certain secret pride in representing what I actually was. When theatrical reviews came out in the papers (consensus said the cast was good, though the writing and pacing could be better), I wondered how long it would be before someone who knew my family saw one of the articles and forwarded it to my folks.
I did it myself just to prove I wasn’t hiding. Reviews are coming in for our play, I emailed, with a link. They look good. Let me know if you want to come up and see it. I can get you free tickets.
They, of course, declined politely, claiming they had too much work and vacation scheduled soon. Likely, the real reason was they had followed the link and learned the play was about me snogging Shakespeare.
Meanwhile, I had my own kid to keep track of.
Sinter: Hey, checking in to make sure everything’s okay. I want to stay in touch, but I don’t want to bug you with too many messages. So maybe is it ok if I check in once a week? Say every Monday?
Fiona: That would work. I’m trying to write again but I don’t know, I don’t think I like where this one’s going
Sinter: Still, that’s good you’re working on something. What’s it about?
Fiona: Sort of like the last one. But I’m not satisfied yet
Sinter: I hope I get to hear more about it soon
Fiona: Perhaps. If I get anywhere with it
Sinter: Listen … I haven’t told anyone but Andy about the baby, because nothing’s certain until after the birth and all. But I was wondering how many people know on your side. I mean, should I start telling people?
Fiona: Up to you. If I had my way, only Chelsea, Sebastian, and my doctor would know, but of course I’m starting to show so there’s no escaping everyone knowing
Sinter: That’s got to feel intrusive. Strangers asking questions
Fiona: Yes. I did tell my parents and sister
With a cringe that stretched all the skin on my face, I pictured her dad, the formidable Alec, chairman of Islands Broadcasting, surely positioned to place a call from across the globe that would result in a hit man ending my life fifteen minutes later.
Sinter: How’d they take it?
Fiona: My sister thinks I’ll change my mind and keep the baby, which I doubt. Mum and Dad both have posh doctors they’d like me to start seeing, which I declined. They’re fine with the idea of giving up the baby to you. Said they’d start her a trust fund. Then went back to asking me when I’ll write something commercial for them
Fiona: They don’t care much, is how I’d put it
Sinter: Well that kind of sucks
Fiona: It’s just as well. I don’t want their interference
Sinter: My parents will care in the sense that they’ll be horrified. Not looking forward to that
Fiona: You don’t have to do this, you know
Sinter: I know. But I want to
Fiona: Then I suppose we’ll talk Monday next
Sinter: Yes, good luck, talk soon
CHAPTER 31: I DON’T LIKE MONDAYS
THE SUN THAT HAD BEEN SO NOTABLY ABSENT IN WINTER SOON SEEMED TO BE PRESENT ALL THE TIME, streaming into windows too early in the morning, cooking our brick apartment building, and hanging out on the horizon until after nine o’clock at night. Shortly before we wrapped The Fair Youth, I auditioned for the next play our director, Dominic, had lined up: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, touring at several different parks in the Puget Sound area in July and August. Dominic cast me as Puck.
“A fairy?” Andy said, all innocence.
“I know you’re not going to comment on that,” I said.
“I could’ve made better jokes with ‘Bottom.’”
I continued honoring my promise, checking in with Fiona each Monday.
Sinter: Hey, how are things?
Fiona: Oh, I don’t know, still stuck.
It was a warm June morning, and I was wandering through Volunteer Park, one of the future Shakespeare locations. In our last few check-in texts, she’d been brief: said health issues were normal, and she was working on a script, albeit slowly.
Sinter: Still not going to tell me what it’s about? :)
Fiona: Might I ring you? I’m tired of looking at screens
Sinter: Sure, no, let me call. Is now good?
Fiona: Yes
Ducking into the shade of a huge cedar, I tapped her number.
All the Better Part of Me Page 18