The Change Room

by Karen Connelly

  She figured out how to sync her calendars. As she ticked items off her to-do list, one by one, she added more items. She did not miss any appointments. Flowers arrived in boxes and left in elegant or soft or tightly sculpted displays. At home, she lifted the filets of salmon out of the marinade sauce, grilled them perfectly and listened attentively to Andrew. She cajoled and humoured Marcus and Jake through their homework; they printed; they added and subtracted. She policed Jake into brushing his teeth more diligently. In the mornings, her shower was quick. She did not go swimming.

  On Saturday night after putting the boys to bed, she cleaned the whole house from top to bottom, thinking, as she washed the kitchen floor on her hands and knees, that it could be like this again, as it was before. She could do it. She would stop seeing Shar.

  When she finished washing the floor, she was hot, sweaty, and so tired that she lay down where she’d started, which was already dry, and began to remember her lover. It was a form of saying goodbye. She played out the details of one encounter after another, conversation, laughter, that spontaneously written private language of in-jokes, tenderness, moment after moment, hip bones, breasts pushed together, nipple against nipple against clit—the extreme particularity of sex with a woman, the intelligent specificity of the tongue and fingers searching, pushing, insisting, opening. Stacey! If men knew about strap-ons, they would want them banned. She’d been right to resist that instrument of sexual delirium, a threat to heterosexual marriages everywhere. Or maybe a gift?

  In the dark, on her clean kitchen tiles, she pulled off her sweatpants, spread her legs and came as quickly as her fingers could get her there. She lay shuddering in her whole skin, every pore, millions and millions of them, each one open like a mouth.

  —

  Eliza held the door for Janet, then followed her in. The café was packed with the Sunday morning crowd. She looked around gratefully. She loved being in a place where the code held firm: people paying for good food and drink, people making money from that service. They read the chalkboard menu and ordered. Besides the coffee and egg sandwiches, it was baked goods and tattooed hipsters and the old painted trays on the walls, rectangles and circles of teal and sienna, worn-out ochre and robin’s egg blue. The food wasn’t fancy but it was delicious, made in the cramped kitchen at the back. The young woman behind the counter had dreadlocks; her tattooed hands put two Americanos down on the wood counter. “I’ll call you when the sandwiches are ready,” she said with a smile.

  Janet forged ahead and found a table at the window. They poured cream and stirred; Janet kept looking around. “It’s a cute spot. I can’t believe I’ve never been in here.”

  “I’ve been here a few times now.” Three times, with Shar. After swimming. “You said Sophie likes it.”

  “She swears by the coffee.” Janet took a sip. “And she’s right. It’s really good.”

  “So, what’s up? You were being very mysterious on the phone.”

  Janet stared at her for a solemn length of time, then said, “I’m only telling you. Don’t tell anyone else, okay?”

  “Our secret.” Eliza tore open a packet of sugar and stirred it in.

  “All right. It’s about Sophie…”

  “I thought it might be.” Sophie was pregnant. She would get an abortion, wouldn’t she? Eliza took a sip of her coffee and saw Janet’s fearful expression. Oh, god, Sophie wasn’t sick, was she? “Janet, what’s wrong?”

  “Sophie is…” Her voice dropped so low that Eliza saw the shape of the word before she heard it. “Gay.”

  It was like stepping on the old garden rake, so obvious there in the grass, so stunning when it knocks you in the head. “Gay?” She matched Janet’s whisper.

  “That black friend of hers is. That Binta.”

  “Binta?”

  “I told you how Sophie was always going to her house. Sleeping over!” Janet shook her head.

  “Oh. Binta is Sophie’s—girlfriend?” Eliza sat there open-mouthed, her mind snapping back to that night when Sophie babysat, the house so quiet when she opened the door. The two girls coming down the stairs like sleepwalkers. She nodded slowly, feeling stupid. In the midst of her own secret attraction, the obvious had not even occurred to her. “Sophie’s a…a lesbian?”

  “No! It’s just a phase. You know, she’s experimenting. It doesn’t mean anything. Didn’t you ever fall in love with a girlfriend when you were in high school?”

  Eliza blinked, then expelled a laugh. “Ha! No. I mean, yes. I know what you mean. But…what did Sophie say?”

  “She said she’s gay and she’s in love with Binta. And Binta’s parents know. They’ve always known. It’s unbelievable that they would let the girls be…doing…whatever it is they do. Can you believe that? Like, is that something black people do? Just…let their kids…The parents didn’t even tell me! I can’t believe how angry I am. I am so furious at her. At them, too. I already talked to a lawyer, but he said there was nothing—”

  “A lawyer?” Janet was homophobic and racist? “Janet, what do you mean, something that black people do? Have gay children?”

  “No! I mean, why didn’t they tell me? It’s so irresponsible! When…when…Who knows what the girls have been doing?”

  “I have a pretty good idea. And maybe Binta’s parents think their daughter has a right to privacy.”

  Janet stared into her face, shocked. “But they’re just…” Her mouth opened, closed.

  “In love?”

  Janet exploded, “How does she know she’s in love? How can she know that?” Several people at nearby tables glanced their way, and Janet dropped her voice. “She’s fifteen fucking years old! How can she know she’s in love if she’s still a virgin?”

  The words knocked the breath out of Eliza’s chest. She wanted to stop the conversation, or at least slow it down, so she could prevent her friend from doing more damage. She sat back and spoke as calmly as she could. “Sophie’s not a virgin if she’s having sex with another young woman.”

  Janet’s forehead cinched up. “But what if they’re just…just…fooling around? It’s not the same thing. It’s not…”

  Eliza shook her head, speechless for a few seconds. Then she leaned forward and whispered, “It’s sex.”

  Janet leaned toward her. “I know that what I’m saying seems offensive. And I’m sorry. But it’s just…I find it so…not exactly disgusting, but…” Just as she made a visor of her hands over her eyes, which were tearing up, the dreadlocked barista called out, “Two breakfast sandwiches.”

  Eliza went to get the food. Food was good. Food calmed the body. And chewing would make Janet shut up. Eliza carried the plates to the table and put them down. “Let’s eat. And drink this excellent coffee. Let’s think about how much we love Sophie. She’s bright, she’s…engaged with the world. She’s your girl.” Those words turned the spigot; the tears spilled freely down Janet’s face. Eliza handed her a handful of napkins. “Blow your nose and eat your breakfast. Then we can talk.”

  They did precisely that, chewing slowly. When Eliza commented on the food and the coziness of the café, Janet looked forlorn. She said, “Sophie comes here a lot with Binta. This is their café.”

  “We could have gone somewhere else.”

  “No. I wanted to come here.” Janet pulled her napkin across her lips. “I don’t know why I’m so upset about it. I think because she lied to me. She’s been lying to me all this time. She somehow knew that my reaction would be—would be—”

  “You’d be surprised and upset.”

  Janet leaned toward her over the table. “But, Eliza, I’m not just upset. I’m…horrified. And it’s not because Binta’s black.” She closed her eyes. Opened them. “Really. Though somehow that made it more…I don’t know! But really it’s Sophie wanting to be, saying, that she’s a lesbian. I’ve never thought about it before, except in a distant way. You know, Pride Day, the rainbow flag they all have, whatever. It’s fine. For them. Gay people can marry each other, have ki
ds. It has—it had nothing to do with me.

  “There’s that couple across from Annie’s with all their kids, you know, the dads. Anybody can see they’re great parents. And I have a gay co-worker, Amelia. I have no problem with gay people. Really. But. Why Sophie?” She turned her head to the window, shielded her face with her hand, and wept.

  Eliza’s sympathy for her friend was nearly drowned by her anger. Why Sophie? As if it were a disease. Yet she knew that Janet was afraid of the difference. To have a child who was the anomaly, the one among many. Eliza knew because she was afraid of being that, too. She wasn’t one of them, she was just flexible, as Shar always said, with a laugh. They laughed about it, she and her lover, gay, bi, queer. Liar, adulteress. Fucking slut. She was a married woman with two little kids. She loved her husband. Yet she was passionately involved with another woman. Despite her week of quiet restraint, that was the fact of the matter. She could not imagine her body existing in the world without Shar. What was that, but love? She felt strangled, her throat thick with confusion. With shame. Not shame at the substance of her secret but shame that it was a secret. So Eliza folded her outrage up and put it away, because at this moment she had to speak well. For Sophie. Who had the courage to be honest. Which was remarkable. She coughed, to warm herself up. “I think…”

  Janet met her eyes, her own full of yearning. “What? What do you think?”

  Eliza picked up her coffee cup. “It’s understandable that you’re shocked. When you told me that Sophie was having a lot of sleepovers, I thought it was probably to cover for a boyfriend.” It sounded so lame now. So plainly dumb.

  “Exactly! That’s why I started digging around. I snooped in her phone. I watched her key in the password a week ago. Then, two days ago, while she was in the shower, I looked at her photos.”

  “Oh, Janet.”

  Her face crumpled with guilt. “That’s not all.”

  Eliza felt her anger roil up again. “What else did you do?”

  “I deleted them. All the pictures of her and Binta. And they weren’t even bad. They weren’t bad pictures. She’s not a bad girl. They were hugging and kissing. But…I didn’t want anyone else to see them. That’s how it all came out. We had a huge fight.”

  “Did you apologize?”

  “About the pictures? I did. Yes. But she’s furious. Said she’s been invaded. She called me a racist, homophobic asshole. She’s gone to Binta’s house and she says she never wants to come home.”

  “She’ll come home. After she…forgives you.”

  “I keep thinking I must have done something wrong, you know, when I was pregnant with her. Isn’t there a study, about stress on the fetus? How that can turn babies into homosexuals? We moved into this neighbourhood when I was pregnant with her. It was so stressful! Charlie’s work was all over the place. We didn’t know if we really had the money for the mortgage payments. I was already beginning to think that he was having an affair. Way back then. Maybe the stress did something to her brain…”

  “Janet, moving while you were pregnant did not make your child gay. Do not feel guilty about that. You don’t need to. Sophie is a wonderful young woman. Just think, she’s in love for the first time. She must feel so alive. Remember what that was like? To feel that way?”

  In the contours of Janet’s face Eliza could see Sophie’s face, too. It was like seeing another woman underwater. Eliza’s anger softened. Sometimes the depth of life with children felt unbearable. “There’s only one question here.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you love her any less?”

  “No. I love her more. Having her leave the house—it was awful. I just feel…destroyed. I can’t lose anyone else in my family. How could I not love her?”

  “Just tell her that. That’s all she wants. Your love, no matter what. The rest you will figure out one day at a time.” Thank god clichés were so dependable. She took Janet’s hand on the table, kneaded the strong, muscular root of her thumb. “You know what girls are like with their phones. I bet Binta has most of those photos anyway. Or the best ones.”

  “She told me that herself. Screamed at me. Mom, forget it, you can never delete who I am!”

  Eliza said, “So your next move is simple. You call her up and you tell her that you would never want to delete who she is.”

  32

  Thalia

  ANDREW FLICKED OFF THE TV IN DISGUST—THE NEWS had not been good—and said, “Why don’t we go to bed early tonight? Lie in bed and…read.” He peered down his legs at Eliza, wedged in at the end of the sofa, sewing a button on one of his shirts. “What a good woman.”

  “Does it turn you on to see me doing wifely tasks?”

  “Sewing on a button is good. But nothing gets me going like you washing the floor.”

  She raised a single eyebrow. “Were you spying on me, the last time I washed the floor?”

  “You wish. Why, what were you doing?”

  “I really needed an orgasm.”

  “Eliza! I hope this didn’t happen during daylight hours.”

  “The other night. I was discreetly tucked in the corner. Even the kids, coming down the stairs, wouldn’t have been able to see me.”

  “Hallelujah.” He stood, winked at her. “I like your hair like that. It’s long enough for you to put up again.”

  “More traditional romanticism.” She snipped the knotted thread. “My hair’s a mess. I just haven’t had time to get it cut.”

  “A sexy mess.”

  She balled up his shirt and tossed it at him. “Your shirt, husband.”

  “Thank you, wife.”

  Their eyes met. She held his gaze, her expression slowly becoming more suggestive.

  “You’ve lost weight. All that swimming. You look great. Have I told you that lately?”

  “The chlorine is turning my hair into straw,” she said, putting the lid on the cookie-tin sewing basket. “I don’t know what I would do without that pool. Swimming keeps me sane.”

  “You’re my mermaid.”

  She closed her eyes, trying to remember the word. “Sirena, in Greek. Come, let’s go up to bed. I already turned off the lights in the kitchen.”

  On the stairs behind her, Andrew said, “I thought the sirens were the bad ones, who lured innocent fishermen and brave warriors into the water with their beautiful songs.”

  “They drowned happy.”

  “How long has it been, since you were young and in Greece?”

  “Twenty years.”

  “You’re keeping track, I see. Normally it takes you five minutes to figure out how many years ago anything happened.” They were in their bedroom now, undressing. “Martin’s there right now.”

  “Where?”

  “In Athens. Some conference.”

  “Hmm. It’s an interesting time to be there. A heartbreaking time, I think. Poor Greece. I often think about the paradise it was then and the disaster it’s turned into now. Lesvos especially. Did you see that article in the weekend newspaper about all the refugees? More and more of them are landing on the island.”

  “I wonder how that woman is doing.”

  “Which woman?” Though she knew precisely who he meant.

  “Your hot lesbian affair. On Lesvos! Didn’t it ever occur to you what a cliché that was?”

  “It’s not like I planned it. The taxi driver dropped me off at the wrong ferry. I thought I was going to Crete.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  He followed her into the bathroom as she continued, “I was exhausted from that bloody train journey through Italy. And I had no idea how to get my backpack; it had disappeared into some oily hold. The ship’s purser was so sweet to me. He said that his ferry company would honour the ticket even though I’d gotten on the wrong boat. So I went to Lesvos.”

  Andrew was already brushing his teeth, but she understood his response. “And duh rest is pushy-licking hishtory.”

  “Andrew! What’s up with you! Have you been watching porn?”

/>   He grinned through the mouthful of toothpaste. They finished up their nighttime ablutions, though Eliza always took longer in the bathroom. Female maintenance was a chore she liked to do privately. She leaned toward the mirror, searching for errant hairs—eyebrow, chin, nose. Pluck pluck pluck. Then there were the creams for this spot or that spot, and the regular moisturizer, and that brightening Vitamin C—based elixir that was supposed to make her glow like a twenty-year-old. She had been sucked into that around Christmas, by a persuasive, expertly Botoxed lady at the Bay cosmetic counter. She had since discovered that the only thing that made her glow like a twenty-year-old were multiple orgasms, a luxury not for sale at any department store. As she finished putting the cream on her face, she chanted, “Love the crow’s feet. Love them!”

  Andrew called, “What are you doing in there?”

  “Praying.”

  “What was her name again?”

  Why was he asking about all that? Maybe because Martin was in Greece. She walked into the bedroom. “Thalia.”

  “Do you think about her sometimes?”

  “I think about her every time I open the newspaper and read about Greeks picking through the garbage for food. Or chopping down all the trees in their neighbourhoods to heat their apartments. I remember how much she hated the idea of Greece joining Europe. The country was still trying to get into the union, but Thalia thought it would be better to wait another century, to see how the Eurozone would pan out. It’s weird, how right she was. She used to say that only the shitty history repeats itself. She’d go through the list: the Romans, the Venetians, the Ottoman Empire, the English, the Germans, the Americans, all the foreign powers that had occupied or manipulated Greece. ‘And now Europe will fuck us, too.’ That was her position on joining the EU.”

  “You never told me that she was some great political oracle.”

  “Oh, a lot of the Greeks had the same idea. The old shepherds in the countryside, they all felt the same way. They disliked big foreign powers and they loved to talk about it. But Greeks love to talk about everything. Loudly. When we’d go out for dinner, I’d hear all these people yelling at each other and I’d think, okay, tonight someone will throw a punch. But Thalia always told me not to worry, they were just arguing about politics, or someone’s sheep getting into someone’s field. Or who should have won the soccer game.”