by Lori L. Lake
There’s a knock at the door and commotion in the foyer, and I have no time to absorb the little tidbit of information my sister’s just plopped into my lap. “Damn it, Celia,” I hiss into the phone. “Why don’t you just wait until the very last minute to tell me something like that?” I hang up on her laughter and go to greet my child, whom I haven’t seen since last Christmas.
I’M SHOCKED WHEN I turn the corner and see her. We stand and stare at one another, and my daughter grins knowingly the entire time. Gone is the blonde streak and her rich, cocoa brown hair is past her shoulders and all one color again. The eyebrow piercing is gone as well, though I do detect a small diamond stud still glittering in her nostril. She’s dressed neatly and casually in a pair of faded jeans and a black, v-neck sweater, and she looks incredible. The smile on her face and the gleam in her dark eyes are like icing on the cake. She looks happier than I can ever remember.
“Hi, Mom.” She holds out her arms to me and we hug tightly.
“It’s so good to see you, honey,” I say softly, and I mean it.
“You look terrific. I love the new hair cut.”
My hands go to my hair self-consciously. “Thanks. You look terrific.”
She blushes and steps aside, and for the first time, I take a good look at the woman with her, the woman I’m intending to hate. Well, intensely dislike anyway. She’s not at all what I’m expecting. She’s a tall, stunning blonde, and she’s smiling politely in my direction. Her khaki pants and navy twin set are simple, but tasteful. Her blonde curls cascade to her shoulders in controlled waves. There is a friendly sparkle in her blue eyes.
Devon’s voice softens as she makes the introductions. “Mom, this is Holly Carter. My girlfriend.”
Holly holds out a hand to me and I take it, trying not to stare at the woman, not to grip her hand too tightly, as a father might do to a boy courting his daughter. Her handshake is firm, confident, but not overpowering. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Scott.”
“Please,” I say. “Marti. Mrs. Scott makes me sound old.”
Holly nods, still smiling. “It’s nice to meet you, Marti.”
“Same here.” I didn’t expect her to be so pleasant. So pretty. So polite. I’m still shaking her hand. I realize with surprise that my daughter has brought home the All-American Girl.
“So,” Devon says, obviously trying to keep us from falling into an uncomfortable silence. “Let’s get our bags upstairs, and then we can visit.”
I finally let go of Holly and the two girls head up to Devon’s bedroom. For a split second, I hope Devon will lead her friend to the spare room, but even I know I’m being ridiculous. Of course, they’ll stay in the same room. Of course, they’ll sleep in the same bed. Of course. I sigh and saunter into the kitchen.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, both girls join me in the kitchen as I’m preparing dinner. They’ve changed into fresh, unwrinkled clothes and look relieved to be out of the car.
“Damn, that’s a long drive,” Devon says, pulling out a chair and plopping down at the table with a sigh.
“All you have to do is move closer,” I respond automatically as I unwrap the chicken. My answer is practically the same every time, and Devon usually gets annoyed with me. This time is different.
“Maybe one of these days I will.”
I don’t turn around to face her, but I can feel my own shock plain on my face. I never knew that the idea of moving closer to home even crossed my daughter’s mind. I struggle hard to keep myself from jumping on her response.
“What are we having?” she asks, pulling the subject out from under me.
“Chicken cutlets.”
She cheers from her seat, and I smile. Every mother knows her child’s favorite dish and I’m no different.
“Can I help?” This comes from Holly, and I turn to meet her gaze. She gives me a sideways grin that’s quite charming, and I try hard to resist it. “Or at least watch? I know how much Devon likes your chicken cutlets. I hear about it all the time. I’d like to learn how to make them for her.”
“So you do the cooking?” I ask.
“I try to keep Devon out of the kitchen. It’s for our own safety.” We both chuckle.
“Hello? Sitting right here.” My daughter’s protest is feeble and she knows it. She hates to cook. She always has.
“Well, come on over here,” I say, trying to keep any reluctance out of my voice. After all, I want to make Devon’s favorite meal, and I’m not really thrilled to have this Holly stealing my thunder. Part of me, though, is flattered, and I move over a bit to make room for her at the counter. When she stands next to me, her statuesque figure is even more prominent. She’s at least three inches taller than I am, and her perfume is a subtle, musky scent I like immediately. I hand her the meat tenderizer, which looks like a hammer with teeth. Then I gesture at the boneless chicken breasts on the counter. “Beat the hell out of these. Do you have a boss or somebody who’s gotten on your nerves lately? That helps. Get them good and flat.”
Holly smiles wickedly and goes to town.
I mix up the seasonings and breadcrumbs in one dish and the eggs in another. Then I get out my electric frying pan. The thing is ancient, but it works, and chicken cutlets are just not the same done in a skillet on the stove. I pour in the oil.
“No fat in that,” Devon comments, raising her voice over Holly’s pounding.
“I’ve made them the same way your entire life, Ms. Health Nut. You never complained before.”
“I know. Hey, Mom, do you have anything to drink? Wine, maybe?”
I realize what a great idea it is. A glass of wine would be wonderful at this moment, especially for me, as I share cooking duties with my lesbian daughter’s lover. “I bought a couple bottles of your cheap junk. They’re in the fridge. If you could open a bottle of the Merlot on the rack, you can pour your mother a glass of that.”
“Hol?” she asks.
Holly stops her pounding to answer. “A glass of Merlot would be great. Thanks.” She gestures to her project. “How’s this?”
“Good,” I say.
“That was fun. You’re right; smashing heads makes it even more entertaining.”
I nod and take her through the next step, checking to see if the oil’s hot enough. Then we dip each breast into the egg, then the seasoning, and finally place them into the pan.
“What’s in the seasoning?” she asks as Devon hands us each a wineglass.
I hesitate for a second, wondering if I can play the ‘it’s a family secret, I can’t tell you’ card and get away with it. I know Devon will pounce all over that, so I go for honesty instead. “A little bit of everything. Bread crumbs, basil, oregano, parsley, salt, pepper, parmesan. It depends on your mood and what you have in the house.”
Holly nods with understanding, then sips her wine. “Oh, this is nice.”
I glance victoriously at my daughter, who playfully sticks her tongue out at me before drinking her White Zinfandel.
“So, Mrs. Scott,” Holly begins, then corrects herself. “Sorry. Marti. Devon tells me you work in the office at the elementary school.”
“That’s right.” I nod, pleasantly surprised once again that my daughter talks about me in any way, shape or form. “I’ve been there for…” I do a quick calculation and my eyes widen at the total. “…twenty one years now. Good Lord.”
“I remember Mrs. Pritchard in our office. She was the nicest lady. When you’re seven years old, it really helps to have a familiar, friendly face you can turn to for help.” She grimaces sheepishly. “Our school was huge. I got lost constantly.”
Devon chuckles from her seat. “She’s still lost constantly. She has no sense of direction whatsoever.”
“I do, too!”
“Sweetie, you don’t, and you know it.”
Holly sighs in defeat.
“I don’t either,” I whisper to her, surprised by my sudden desire to be conspiratorial with her. “Devon’s father always made fun of me; I’d get con
fused and turned around so easily. He, on the other hand, could find his way home from the center of the earth.”
“Well, I think your daughter inherited that.”
“I think so, too. Lucky for us, huh?” I sip my wine, trying to ignore Devon’s grin.
THE GIRLS DON’T let me move after dinner. They clean up around me and start a pot of coffee brewing, and I’m a bit embarrassed by how good it feels to be pampered. I tell Devon I made a coffeecake and to bring it out. As Holly is wiping down the table, Devon calls to her. “Honey, you’d better give your mother a buzz and let her know you made it here in one piece.”
Holly looks up at me. “May I use your phone?”
“Of course. It’s right in the hallway.”
She excuses herself politely as Devon brings me a steaming mug. “This is the first Thanksgiving she’s spent away from her mom in twenty-eight years,” she says quietly.
I’m both surprised and impressed, but Devon returns to the kitchen to finish the dishes before I can respond. I suddenly realize how much it says about my daughter that Holly is willing to give up Thanksgiving with her family to be here. I’m also sad for Holly’s mother. It’s not easy to feel the stinging absence of your child during the holidays. I know this from experience. I stir sugar into my coffee, lost in the reminiscence of time gone by.
Both girls return to the table a few minutes later with their own mugs, the coffeecake, and plates and forks.
“Everything okay at home?” I ask Holly, much to my own surprise.
“Yeah.” She seems a little melancholy and I find myself longing for the smile I was beginning to associate with her presence.
I feel my Mother Sense kick in, and I can tell something is bothering her. A mother knows these things and has no choice but to explore. “You’re sure?”
Holly sits and meets my eyes. “I’m sure. Thank you. It’s just a little weird being away from my mom this time of the year. I think she’s having a hard time of it, even though she doesn’t want me to know and doesn’t think I can tell.”
I smile at her ability to read her mother and I figure Devon can probably read me just as accurately, though I’d be hard pressed to admit it. “Where does your family live?” I feel Devon’s eyes on me, and I suspect she’s surprised, but I ignore her.
“Cleveland.”
“Are there a lot of you?”
“I have two younger brothers. One is in college and one still lives at home.”
“And are they home now?”
“Yes.”
“Then your mom isn’t missing all her kids. That makes it a little better for her.”
Holly nods and sips her coffee, absorbing my words. “I suppose.”
“You and your mother must be close, what with you being the only girl.”
“We are. Very.”
“And your dad? Is he still around?” Even after all the years, I still feel badly that Devon’s father isn’t.
Holly smiles. “My parents have been married for thirty years. They’re wonderful together.”
For some reason, I find myself surprised that Holly comes from what seems to be a perfectly normal household. “Have they met you?” I turn to ask my daughter, honestly wondering.
She nods enthusiastically. “They’re really great.”
Holly chuckles. “I tease my parents about the fact that they love her more than me. When my dad calls and Devon answers the phone, he’ll talk to her for twenty minutes. I get five and he’s done with me.”
“Hey, I can’t help it if he’s dazzled by my charm.” Devon’s smile is wide and I know instantly that she has a soft spot for Holly’s dad. Part of me is relieved she finally has somebody in that role. The other part is a little jealous, hurt that I was never able to fill the whole void for her.
“Charm has nothing to do with it,” Holly chuckles. “He just thinks you’re cute.”
“I am cute.”
“And humble, too.”
Their easy banter brings an involuntary smile to my face, which catches me off guard. I can’t remember the last time I saw my daughter so relaxed and playful. I’m unprepared for the way it warms my heart. Deep down, I know Holly is at least partly responsible. I’m not sure how to deal with that.
My daughter is a lesbian.
Funny how that phrase pops up at the most inopportune times.
The phone rings and Devon jumps up before I can move a muscle. I smile as I have a quick flash of her as a ten-year-old who loved to answer the phone. Holly and I sit in silence listening to Devon talk. After a short time the identity of the caller becomes clear.
“Aunt Ce,” we say simultaneously, then laugh.
Our chuckles die down and we sit quietly, sipping our coffee and picking at the remainder of the coffeecake. Internally, I’m having a battle with myself. I want to break the silence. I want to make this Holly more comfortable. At the same time, I don’t want her to think she’s won me over so easily. I hold tightly to my stoicism.
Suddenly, her eyes light up as she looks over my shoulder into the living room. “You’re reading Mary Higgins Clark.”
I nod, following her gaze to my book lying open, pages down on an end table.
“Have you read them all?”
I nod again. “I have all the hard covers.”
“Me, too,” she says enthusiastically. “I have them all out on a shelf at home. Do you have a favorite?”
I’m suspicious about her; is she intentionally trying to find common ground with me? I want to let her know that I’m on to her, but the question about the books intrigues me. I never really thought about it before, and I tap my finger against my lips as I ponder. “It’s been so long since I’ve read some of them, I can’t remember them all. I really liked the one about the doctors…it was one of the early ones…which one was it?” I wrack my brain for the title.
“The Cradle Will Fall,” she says, grinning widely.
“That’s the one.”
“Definitely my favorite, too.”
Isn’t that convenient? I think, narrowing my eyes as she continues with her praise for my favorite title. Devon must have given her this information.
“It’s so well constructed,” she continues. “I’m always amazed by the fact that she’s still going strong after all these years.”
“I just saw an interview with her on one of the morning shows recently.”
“I think I saw that, too. On the Today show?”
“She was pushing that book.” I point to the one I am currently reading. “She’s very charming.”
“And classy,” Holly adds. “She’s a very classy lady.”
Before I realize what’s happening, I find myself sucked deeply into conversation with her about our favorite authors; many are the same. Tami Hoag, Sue Grafton, Steve Martini, Lisa Gardner. I realize that my daughter couldn’t have possibly given her girlfriend a list of all my favorite authors, that we really must have the same taste in literature. Slowly – and totally against my will - I’m discovering Holly to be intelligent and witty and fun to talk to. Devon returns, and we’re so deep in conversation that we don’t notice for several minutes. She lingers in the doorway, and when I finally look up, she grins my way. I resist the urge to childishly stick my tongue out at her.
“Aunt Ce says hi.” She looks at Holly. “We’re going to meet her for breakfast in the morning, okay?”
“Sounds great.” Holly turns her blue eyes my way. “Will you join us?”
I’m extremely flattered that she even asked, and I pretend I don’t see the quick flash of panic that shoots across Devon’s face. I somehow even manage not to let it offend me. I’m well aware of how close my daughter and my sister are and, despite my occasional jealousy, I don’t want to infringe upon that—even though I often wonder what they talk about. “Thank you, but no. You two go and have a good time. I’ll see Celia on Thursday.”
Devon tries—unsuccessfully—to mask her relief, and I mentally shake my head and roll my eyes. “Mom,
you’ve got a Blockbuster card, right? Should we get a movie?”
I’m happy they’ve decided to stay in for the night, tired from the drive. I expected them to run out and meet up with Devon’s school friends. I begin to wonder if she might actually be content here with me. The thought warms my insides a bit. I hand over my Blockbuster card and try to give her a ten-dollar bill.
“Ma, please. It’s okay. I’ve got money.”
“Sorry. Old habits.” I chuckle to cover my slight embarrassment as I return my money to my wallet. Does a mother ever stop wanting to take care of her child? I don’t think so.
I’M UNPREPARED FOR how quiet the house suddenly seems once the girls leave to rent a movie. They’ve only been here for a few hours, but already I miss the company. I take my coffee cup into the kitchen and rinse it out. As I turn, I notice the evening paper on the counter. The headline seems distortedly large to me.
Bush Says No to Gay Unions.
I pick the paper up curiously and read the article. It’s not a pleasant one. Many in the government want to specify that marriage can only occur between a man and a woman. A gay man interviewed says he’s fine with that, as long as there is an alternative for gays—a union of some sort.
“I’ve been with my partner for seventeen years, but when he dies, I won’t receive his Social Security benefits, nor would he get mine.” He goes on with a list I was never aware of. “If he’s in the ICU at the hospital, the doctors can legally deny me entrance to see him. We had to go to a lawyer and have specific paperwork drawn up so that I can make his medical decisions, should something incapacitate him. If President Bush wants to make marriage a religious thing between a man and a woman, fine, but he needs to take all the civil, non-religious benefits that go with it off the table. That’s where the problem lies. Separation of Church and State.”
I’m not at all politically savvy. I hate politics; I always have. I think there is way too much lying and twisting of the truth to do anybody any good, and I try not to dwell on that fact. I usually avoid reading articles or watching any news reports about the President or the government because I get too disgusted by all the double-talk. I know that’s not a very responsible attitude for an American, but I can’t seem to help it. This article, however, has captured me, and as I read on, it occurs to me just how many members of the government and the religious sects are against equal rights for gays and lesbians. I can feel the hatred and intolerance of some of them as it almost drips off the paper. I half-expect it to burn my hands. Honestly, it’s a little frightening. Continuing with the article, it doesn’t seem to me that the gays and lesbians are asking for special treatment, as many accuse them of doing. It appears to me that they’re just asking for equal treatment. I could be wrong, but the whole argument seems quite simple to me.