“This is a serious place,” he used to scold them, and they went off again, giggling even more. At times, Clara felt that he only said so because he knew he’d get them started, the old fart.
The two young women became close friends and spent most of their free time together. Dating wasn’t as easy then as it was today, where boys and girls spent much of their time either apart or in larger groups.
Clara fell in love with Lara almost the instant she saw her, but she never said a word, knowing how much trouble she’d be in if things ever got out. Instead, Clara suffered quietly.
After a few weeks, spending time with Lara became painful. She longed to touch her friend, kiss those lips, touch her breasts, be close to her skin. Smelling her earthy perfume became almost intolerable. Clara did the only thing she knew she could do. She withdrew—not with a bang, oh no—no scandals, but just slowly, gently, making up excuses why she couldn’t join Lara for dinner or drinks. She didn’t accept her invitations to join her to swim in the Aare or visit the “Bärengarten,” where the city of Berne kept the bears that had given the city its name. Eventually, Lara tired of asking Clara, and they drifted apart.
One day, Clara noticed that Lara had quit her job at the office. Later, she learned that Lara had returned to Savognin to care for her elderly parents, ever the good daughter. Clara never saw her again.
After Lara, she never fell for another girl. It was just too hard, and she missed her friend too much, her heart lost to a girl somewhere in a tiny mountain village in the Swiss Alps, destined to never see her again. Instead, Clara decided that it would be best for her to shut down her heart for good, denying anybody entry for the rest of her life. To her nieces and nephews, she was the evil aunt, the one who never smiled, the one they were afraid of.
Even Sascha, and he’s not afraid of anything.
Clara’s train pulled into Zurich Central Station, where she quickly changed to her Intercity that would take her the last leg of her trip home to Berne.
Lara, Clara thought and sighed. I wonder if you’re still alive. I hope you had a good life.
* * * * *
Dinner
Back at their parents’ house, Dan was busy making dinner. Mike stood on the front porch smoking, far away in his thoughts, it seemed. Sascha gave the boys a bath, both of them tired after a long day.
I wonder what happened to Mike, Dan thought as he chopped an onion for a bowl of guacamole. Note to self, be supportive. Whatever it was, it’s taking a heavy toll on him.
Dan and Mike were like most in-laws. They didn’t really have a choice to start a sort of relationship. Mike had come as a package deal when he met Sascha, and Dan loved Sascha more than life itself, so he made it work with Mike and Helene.
Having grown up in a single-parent household, Dan was used to having few relatives around. His grandparents had passed away early on, leaving him and his mom to fend for themselves. Family was always defined as him and his mom, no one else.
When he had met Sascha, that all changed. There were Mike and Helene, who had been dating for a couple of years already. There were Joseph and Anna, who at first were very hesitant to accept Dan. They saw him as this American jock, always happy, always upbeat, who had seduced their son and drawn him into the sinful dark pits of gay hell. Or so it had seemed to Dan at the time. And then, finally, their two boys, so kind, so innocent.
Dan remembered the day they were born, that moment when he and Sascha got to hold them in their arms for the very first time.
* * * * *
Mumbai
They had chosen a clinic in Mumbai for the surrogacy process. Mumbai was worldly, “Western,” and easy to get to from Europe, the United States, and Singapore.
The process had been easy enough, and they were lucky to get pregnant during their first attempt. Although there were plenty of bumps along the road, they finally arrived in Mumbai late at night on a flight from Singapore, two days before the scheduled birth of the twins. They had been warned that twins would have to be delivered with a C-section to minimize the risks of complications.
They had mostly spent the first day in bed, relaxing from the flight, adjusting to the time difference. In the afternoon, they had stopped by the office of their surrogacy agency to meet up with the doctors and discuss final preparations. As gay relationships were not legally valid or recognized in India, Dan, as the biological father, was the only person anyone really cared about at the clinic or at the agency. It was he who signed all the contracts, and it was he who received all correspondence. He was the one everybody talked to, and it was into his care the nurse would leave the boys. Sascha barely existed. But neither of them cared.
The mother would be admitted in the morning for the procedure while Dan and Sascha waited in an adjacent room. It seemed to take forever, although the procedure was fairly straightforward. But both of them were extremely nervous, not really ready for the moment that lay before them, not to mention life with two babies, Dan had to admit in hindsight.
Then the doors to their room opened, and a nurse walked in with a bundle of blankets on her arms. “Mr. Dan, congratulations. It’s a boy,” she said, then left. Dan’s knees feel like Jell-O. Because gender information was illegal to obtain in India, he had no idea whether they would get boys or girls, and neither he nor Sascha cared.
The nurse turned around. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, sir.” And with that she left Sascha and Dan to their tears of joy, meeting their firstborn son.
“Shane, hi, this is your daddy Sascha. Can you say hi?” Dan took the baby’s tiny arm and made a small waving gesture at Sascha, who laughed through his tears. The world stood still for a few brief moments as the two of them got acquainted with their child.
The nurse returned, all smiles. “Excuse me, sir, your second-born son.”
Dan handed Shane over to Sascha and took the second bundle into his arms.
Here they stood, in a hospital room in Mumbai, India, two tiny babies in their arms. “They’re so small,” Dan said, “so tiny, so cute. Hey there, Pascal, say hi to Daddy.” He kissed the little boy on the forehead and received a yawn as his only reply.
Dan smiled, and his heart ached with joy and love for his amazing husband and their two boys.
After a few minutes, the pediatrician and the nurse joined them. Photos were taken, congratulatory handshakes were exchanged. There were more tears, much laughter. The hospital needed to know the names of the boys. Then a nurse took them away for some testing, including a DNA test to prove their genetic relationship to Dan.
Sascha and Dan had to be admitted to the hospital for a couple of nights so that they and the boys could be observed and to make sure that everything was as it was meant to be, that the feeding worked, and to learn how to change diapers. Oh my, those first diapers, Dan remembered. Gross, that smell!
Now, here they were. A family. Sascha and the boys walked into the kitchen. Both boys wore their pajamas, and a soft scent of soap in the air surrounded them.
“You guys ready for some dinner?” Dan smiled at Sascha and kissed him in thanks for bathing the boys.
“Yeah, tacos,” both boys screamed at the tops of their lungs.
Their excitement elicited a faint smile from Mike, who was coming back in from the front porch.
“Well then, gents, let’s eat!” Dan waved his arms as if that would help get his family out of the kitchen and into the dining area.
At the table, the boys dug into their tacos. The adults ate quietly and made small talk, and Dan could feel the tension, the gentle dancing around a touchy subject.
When they finished eating, Mike offered to clean up the table and kitchen while Dan and Sascha got the boys ready for bed.
Shane had taco sauce and sour cream all over his face and pajamas.
“You need another bath, it seems,” Sascha teased him.
“No, Dad, please no, I don’t wanna.”
Sascha and Dan laughed.
“Okay, but let me clean your fa
ce, then you brush your teeth, and I’ll go and fetch you a different pair of pajamas, young man.” Sascha smiled as he walked out of their bathroom to go and dig for a T-shirt or something the boy could wear that night that wasn’t soiled yet. “Unbelievable how much laundry they cause those rascals,” Sascha said as he rummaged through the suitcase.
“Did you say something?” Dan called from the bathroom.
“No, just talking out loud. Sorry, Hon.”
With a fresh tee in hand, Sascha rejoined Dan and the boys in the bathroom where Dan was supervising their teeth brushing. What an adorable sight, two small boys, with their brown hair and brown eyes, toothbrushes in their open mouths, brushing with all their might. Dan was busy keeping up with them, making sure that particularly Pascal kept the foam off his pajamas since they were running low on clean clothes.
“I’ll need to run a load of wash tonight,” Sascha said. “That’s the last clean T-shirt I found.” When Shane finished brushing his teeth, Sascha dried his face, pulled off the soiled pajama top, and put on the clean shirt.
“But Daddy, that’s not mine. That’s Pascal’s, silly Daddy.” Shane giggled.
Sascha wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Listen, boy, this is the last clean one, so you wear it tonight, okay? Once you’re in bed and asleep, you won’t notice, I guarantee.” He lifted his gaze, looked at Dan’s reflection in the mirror, and rolled his eyes. “Give Shane another two years, and he’ll be shopping on Orchard Road for sure. You’ve got a fashionista brewing here.”
Dan had to laugh at that comment. It was fun to watch their boys grow up into these small individuals with very different personalities. Shane was the outgoing, vocal boy, at five already aware of subtle nuances around him, while Pascal was the dreamer, the more quiet one, content to play alone in his room.
They’re only paternal twins, Sascha thought, considering the fact that the boys developed from two different fertilized eggs that had been implanted into the surrogate mother. Had they been identical twins, having developed from one single zygote, they probably would have looked and acted more alike.
They were still close, and they spent a lot of time together. Both fathers were adamant that their sons got along, although for different reasons. Sascha was determined that his sons would not grow up estranged as he and Mike had. Dan just tried to encourage them to realize how amazing it was to have a sibling.
Once both boys were ready for bed, they tucked them in, and Dan read them a story. Sascha kissed them goodnight and went back and joined Mike in the kitchen to see if he needed any help.
* * * * *
Mike
Standing on the front porch with another cigarette, Mike didn’t hear Sascha come back into the living room.
“You all done with the kitchen?” Sascha asked.
“Yeah. Wasn’t that much to take care of. Boys in bed?”
He nodded. “Dan’s reading them a bedtime story. I guess they’ll be asleep soon enough. It’s been a tough day. They may not really understand what they’ve been through, but I could tell they were tired. I just hope they’ll save all the questions until morning and not bother Dan now.” Sascha smiled, thinking of how their little boys often would get all wound up over something, asking question after question until they were satisfied with the answer. “How are you holding up?”
Mike fixed his gaze on no particular point on the horizon. “I’m okay, I guess. I’m glad this is all over. Although, the funeral is one thing, but I guess the real work starts now, taking care of the estate. I’m glad that the brunt of the work was completed when Dad passed away.” He inhaled once more from his cigarette then tossed it onto the lawn and turned around to look at Sascha. “Thanks for talking to me today.”
He walked by Sascha back into the house.
Sascha watched him leave, puzzled at the odd emotionless de facto statement by his brother.
“You sure you’re okay?” Sascha said, and followed Mike.
“What do you expect? Of course I’m not. I hurt, okay? Go on, rub it in. I understand how happy you are, playing the perfect family, you and Dan. We all get it. But do you have to be so obvious about it? Do you always and constantly have to rub your fucking queerness into everyone’s face?” Mike was furious, Sascha stunned, unable to understand where the anger came from.
“Mike, what—”
“Oh come on. You were always the saint, always sucking up to Mom and Dad. Don’t for a minute think I didn’t see it. You were always their favorite son, the one who was always there to help, always the one they would call for anything they needed, leaving me on the fringes. God I hated you so much for that.”
* * * * *
Mike and Sascha
Mike had always looked up to his brother, admired him, even adored him, the way little brothers do.
He was aware that Sascha was bullied in school. He saw the way the boys kicked and beat Sascha at recess, the name calling. Oddly, he was never exposed to that. He couldn’t help Sascha though. The unwritten law of never ever helping a bullied kid told him not to. If he did, he would just suffer the same fate. His self-preservation instincts told him to stay away, to watch his brother from a distance.
Yet he admired Sascha for taking all the beatings in stride, never once complaining to their parents, never once rattling the cage, telling on his oppressors, or calling the teachers. They knew, of course, but they didn’t care. It was fitting enough that the “duke’s” son would feel a bit of the wrath so many in the village felt against his dominance. In a way, Sascha paid the price for his father’s power, the hatred in so many adults turned into violent action by their children, executors of their parents’ unspoken desire to hurt the Meyers.
It wasn’t until that day when Sascha had been picked up at school by their dad, that Mike realized something was seriously wrong. He came home an hour later and found the house a place of terror, the tension running so high that it felt to Mike as if every step he took could get him killed or at least grounded for the rest of his life.
His mom was sitting in the living room, sobbing, and Sascha and his dad were nowhere to be seen.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” he asked her, but she wouldn’t move, didn’t say a word, didn’t react to his question. She just sat there, crying.
Mike walked upstairs to his room, past his father’s home office and found it closed. Muffled voices came from behind the door. He carefully put his ear to the door, trying to hear what was being said inside.
He could decipher his brother’s voice, laden with tears. Obviously he’d been crying too. His father was calm, yet there was a sharpness and a coldness to his voice that Mike had never heard before, making him shiver. Goosebumps chilled his arms. He couldn’t really hear what was being said, but he snapped up some morsels and the word “gay” came up. He also heard “phase,” “forget Australia,” “killing your mother,” and “psychiatric care.”
Mike was scared. He didn’t understand what was going on in there. Had Sascha somehow hurt their mother? Was that why she was so sad? He was about to get up and walk to his room, when he heard movements inside the office. He had barely been able to stand up when his father opened the office door and looked at him as if he’d never expected to see him there.
Coldly, he said, “Mike, go to your room, wash up, and come down for lunch. That goes for you, too, young man!”
Mike looked back into the office, where he saw his brother sitting in tears on one of the office chairs.
Instinctively, Mike knew better than to say anything, afraid that whatever it was hanging in the air at the Meyer house that day, might go off. Lunch had been awkward, to say the least. His mom cried all the time, sobbing whenever she laid eyes on Sascha. Mike felt that it was Sascha’s fault somehow that his mother was so sad, and his resentment of his brother grew.
Later that afternoon at school, he overheard some of the boys talking about Sascha being a chocolate pusher.
“Yeah,” one of them said. “His dad had to come for him in
class and take him home. Ha, the little poof, serves him right.”
His mother didn’t get any better in the next two days, and Mike started to really worry. No one would talk to him, not his mom, not his dad, and he certainly didn’t want to talk to Sascha, who remained locked up in his room almost the entire time.
In school, rumors were buzzing, and Mike started to feel some of the heat. The boys from Sascha’s class began pushing him around.
“You a chocolate pusher, too, eh?”
Mike was hurt, and he hated his brother.
It was all Sascha’s fault.
Life at home improved, but their family was never again the same, certainly not when his mom had the accident. Sascha had been in Australia at the time, and Mike had to take the brunt of her accident. He had to grow up sooner, looking after the house, cleaning, mowing the lawn. His father was too busy between his work and the hospital.
When his mom had finally come home, Mike noticed the difference, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t care. He’d decided that his mom had changed that day when he came back from school and saw her crying. That was Sascha’s fault. The riding accident was Sascha’s fault. Everything was Sascha’s fault.
I hate him, he had thought.
His mother was so proud of Sascha, how well he was doing in Adelaide, how nice his host family was down there, how he had ventured out into the world, and how his excellent grades in school had made it all possible.
“If only you did as well in school,” she’d said to Mike. They never saw how hard he worked, between keeping the house in shape, his homework, and school. They never once thanked him for the fact that he’d been the one to keep things together during the three months when his mother was in the hospital.
No, instead, they’d go on about Sascha. Had they forgotten he was queer? A chocolate pusher? They’d picked on Mike, his grades, the dirty socks on his bedroom floor.
Family Ties Page 7