Chapter Thirty-Seven
.
Quinn
.
cruel mothers are still mothers.
they make us wars. they make us revolution.
they teach us the truth. early.
mothers are humans.
who sometimes give birth to their pain.
instead of children.
.
Rachel doesn't let me go to my house. It's not as if I want to, but I just don't want to be more of a burden than I have been in recent weeks. My protests are useless, though, and I'm too exhausted to fight against my Quinn management team. They're relentless sometimes, and they're all so damn stubborn. Including Brittany. I swear, she's probably the worst of all of them because she knows I can never say no to her when she turns those baby blues on me. Rachel brings out the pout, and Santana gets tender.
Really, I'm such a sucker.
Santana drives me to her house, so her father can take a look at me when he gets home work. I'm actually a little embarrassed by it all. I don't want them to have to worry so much about me, but I have to accept the fact that I'm powerless against it. Right now, at least.
The good news, I suppose, is that it's nothing more nefarious than my lungs deciding to take a little break as a result of dehydration and overexertion, though Rachel still looks worriedly stern and annoyed. It's not as if I wanted this to happen. I've been keeping up with my diet and medication. I just... overdid it a little. When we get to the house, I'm sent up to 'my' room, where Brittany tucks me into bed and fall asleep to the sound of my fellow blonde singing quietly in my ear.
What feels like seconds later, I'm woken by Dr Lopez, who explains to me that I have to be more careful. It's one thing to worry about my shoulder, but it's my left lung that's always bothered him the most. I'm supposed to be more aware because there's a strong possibility I'll end up back in the hospital for exactly that reason. If the shoulder gives out, fine, but if my lung does... well. He doesn't have to say much more than that. I don't know about anybody else but I tend to be a fan of breathing. Maybe it's just me.
"Get some sleep, Quinn," Dr Lopez says, his hand gentle on my forearm. He's always been very careful with me, never really touching me or raising his voice - as if he just knows. And, maybe he does. As a doctor or as a father, maybe he's seen the trauma of an unloved child in my eyes. He sees something. "You'll feel much better when you wake up."
I have no choice but to believe him.
And, when I do wake up to a soft body pressed against mine, I figure that Dr Lopez has also never lied to me.
I do feel better, but I can't be sure it's because of the rest or because of the warmth of Rachel Berry. It's probably both, but my brain is telling me the former and my heart is screaming the latter. She's not asleep, but rather fiddling with something on her phone and looking slightly put out.
"Hey," I breathe, getting her attention.
She sits up immediately, her eyes raking over my body to determine if I'm still in one piece. Once she's satisfied I'm not falling apart, she bends to kiss my cheek and whisper in my ear. "Why oh why do you insist on doing this to me?"
"It keeps things exciting?" I offer, raising one shoulder.
"If you weren't so damn pretty," she mumbles, shaking her head. "How are you feeling?"
I lick my lips, my mouth feeling dry. My chest feels a little tight, but I do feel better, and Rachel still looks skeptical when I assure her of that. "I'm telling the truth," I say.
"I don't think you're lying," she says, running a hand over my hair. "But, that's physically. Tell me about your mental state."
I blink. "I'm seeing the new therapist tomorrow, right?"
Her lips purse. "You are, yes."
"There are only a limited number of them in this town, you know," I point out. "So, you can't just keep firing the ones you don't like."
"I would send you to mine if it wouldn't be too weird," she mutters, and I slip a hand around her neck to pull her closer. I just want to kiss her, and she lets me. She crawls over me, careful not to rest any of her weight on my chest. She straddles my hips, her fingers in my hair as our mouths make music: perfect, wonderful, amazing music that I've never been able to get enough of. It's the greatest sound I've ever heard.
She pulls away from me with an audible sigh. "So, Britt insisted on making you another bacon burger, but Santana and I managed to curb her enthusiasm."
I pout. "So, no bacon then?"
"No to the bacon burger, but yes to the bacon."
The grin I give her makes her giggle, and it's the sound I've wanted to hear all day. Her loose hair is curtained around us, and I can just make out the glint in her eyes through the light streaming in through the strands of her hair. She's perfect. She's absolutely perfect.
"Are you hungry?" she asks.
"For you?"
"For food, silly," she says, laughing as she kisses me again. Before I can even attempt to touch her skin, she's climbing off me and completely standing. "Come on, let's get some food in you, and then we can make out some more."
"Promise?"
She shakes her head, amused. "I promise, Fabray."
The promise of time alone with her, without the heaviness of emotions and breakdowns, is what gets me through the evening. We do homework and have dinner - a salad with chicken and bacon for me - and then we sit in Santana's living room to watch a film. Brittany chooses Annie, which, in hindsight, isn't the best choice for me but nobody can say no to her. Rachel just holds my hand tightly whenever the subject of being an orphan comes up, and I lean against her, soaking up her warmth. She softly sings along to the songs, and I rather listen to her than the film.
At some point during the penultimate chase on screen, Rachel leans over and presses her lips against my cheek at the same time Santana makes a gagging sound. I barely register it as I quickly turn my head and kiss Rachel's lips instead. She's surprised, but she smiles into the kiss, automatically moving to deepen it, and then remembers.
She pulls away suddenly. "Quinn!" she squeals, desperately wiping at her mouth. "Bacon!"
"Oh, shit," I gasp, eyes wide. "I'm so sorry... I completely forgot." I run a desperate hand through my hair, suddenly feeling like the shittiest girlfriend imaginable. "Oh, my God. What happens now? Do you have to like, uh, ask for forgiveness or something?" It's kind of a stupid question to ask because I know Rachel's main reason for 'no bacon' is because she' a vegan first and 'Jewish' second.
She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, and my attention is drawn to the movement. "No, I think it's okay," she says. "I didn't really taste anything. It was more the smell."
"I'm sorry," I say again. "I should just go and brush my teeth." I move to get up but she grabs my arm to stop me and I sink back into the couch cushions.
Without preamble, she brings her lips to my ear to whisper: "I don't know what it is, but there's something incredibly arousing about the idea of my being able to have my mouth on your body but not yours on mine."
I swallow audibly. "So, basically, you intend to torture me?"
"Exactly."
I stare at her, blatantly ignoring the film on the screen and the sound of Santana and Brittany not even trying to be quiet as they make out. Then, slipping a naughty grin onto my face, I say, "Do your worst."
She does.
By Friday, things have settled. Sort of. My new therapist is... okay. Less forceful than the last one, and she definitely doesn't push for things I don't want to say. She lets me talk while she listens, and I find myself avoiding talk of Rachel. I mean, in all my life, I never thought that having a girlfriend in Lima, Ohio would be the least of my problems. It's almost a joke at this point. Nobody outside of a closed group of people knows that I'm... gay. I'm gay.
Jesus.
Even though I admitted it out loud to Rachel, I don't know if I could admit it to anyone else. It just seems like the most personal thing about me right now, and I would rather have this stranger know that I lived in a less-than-ideal home than have her know I'm in love with a girl. I've yet to unpack that, so I hold off on trying to explain it to Dr Caitlin McMaster. It's really the most 'doctor' name I've ever heard, and she laughs when I tell her. She's younger, so maybe that helps, and she's new to Lima.
"Why on earth would you come here?" I asked in our first session.
"My husband," she responded with a shrug.
"Are you happy?" It was an important question for me to ask, given that I'm still toying with the idea of following Rachel to New York and attending Columbia. I would do it for her, even though I promised myself I wouldn't do things for other people. I just - would Rachel ask me to go to New York if she knew? Am I doing us both a disservice by keeping it from her? I should at least give us the chance to talk about it, surely.
I've gone back and forth about it for days, weeks, and my constant badgering is the reason I decide I will tell her. I just have to find the right time because I'm unsure what kind of reaction I should expect from her.
"Most of the time," Dr McMaster eventually told me. "It's not what I would have chosen, but I love him, and this place is growing on me."
"And that's the first lie you've told," I joked. "This place grows on nobody."
She laughed, and it was the moment I knew she was going to be a good fit. At least for the last few months of my stint in Lima. Rachel seemed satisfied with my mood when I got back, and she's even more satisfied right now, breathing unsteady and entire body flushed. She has me working on giving her the level of orgasm that makes her forget her name, and I seem to be failing.
"We both know the only way that's going to happen," I murmur, pressing kisses along her jaw.
She props herself up on her elbows and I roll to the side. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asks, her voice serious.
"About what?" I ask unnecessarily.
"About sex, Quinn."
I shift awkwardly into a sitting position and give her my undivided attention. "What about it?"
She also sits up, reaches for her t-shirt and slips it back over her body, hiding her perfect skin. We probably both need it if we're going to concentrate on this conversation. "Not that I don't enjoy what we're doing now," she starts; "but there is a natural progression to this aspect of relationships."
"I know."
She presses her lips together. "Have you discussed any of this with Dr McMaster?"
I shake my head no.
"Okay," she says; "we'll revisit this discussion when you've had a chance to, okay?"
"Okay."
"In the mean time, we can keep doing this," she says, grinning madly, and then diving for me. I can't help my squeal, and the two of us spend majority of the weekend trying to outdo the other, and trying to get used to merely the idea of the other's hand down there.
All I know is I'm definitely bringing this up in my very next session.
Dr McMaster doesn't look surprised when I bring up Rachel during our Tuesday session. She just writes something down on her yellow writing pad, and I try not to feel uncomfortable with having my confession immortalised. What if someone finds it? What if somebody learns the truth?
She speaks before I can devolve into mild panic. "Tell me about Rachel," she says, and I automatically smile.
"I don't even know where to start," I say.
"Why don't you start at the beginning?" she suggests, and she clearly doesn't know how complicated my relationship with Rachel actually is. We have history.
"I didn't really know who she was until sophomore year," I say. "As a freshman, I just tried to stay afloat; tried to prove myself to the cheer squad. There were certain... expectations to being a cheerleader, and I was... mean. I was cruel and awful and I'm so ashamed of it. I never really did much, other than say words, and get the boys to do my bidding. Rachel was one of those who got caught in the crossfire."
Dr McMaster writes more things down, and I shift in my seat.
"It went up a level when I took over the squad the summer before sophomore year," I explain. "I put a lot of pressure on myself, and I had a school to rule, and everything was falling into place and falling apart at the same time. I remember thinking that I was... unravelling. Things at home were... as bad as they usually were, and then Rachel. She set her eyes on my boyfriend."
Dr McMaster gasps quietly, and I almost laugh.
Like I said, we have history.
"He ended up joining this club, Glee, because of her, and it was obvious his eyes were straying. I got mad about it, and we ended up breaking up for a whole day. We talked it over, and I ended up joining the stupid club to be near him; to support him and keep an eye on him. I found out I was pregnant not long after, and, well, then shit really hit the fan."
I gloss over the pregnancy and the homelessness and the adoption. I touch on how Beth and my fall from grace forced me to reevaluate my path and the person I was trying to be. I talk about regaining my spot as Head Cheerio, and how I've worked so hard to keep the bullying to a minimum in school. It's hard work, and I've never been so thankful for Santana than in that specific endeavour. She can be cutting without even having to bring out the 'Lima Heights Adjacent' in her, and her threats are enough to keep people in line.
"In trying to distance myself from who I was before Beth, I think I distanced myself from myself." I bite my bottom lip, suddenly thoughtful. "I don't know. Something went wrong, and Finn - my ex-boyfriend - ended up breaking up with me." I laugh. I mean, it's actually really funny, now that I think about it. "Somehow, I ended up at Rachel's house. I don't know how or why, but I did, and she..." I trail off, smiling wistfully.
"She what?" she prompts when I've been silent for too long.
"She's amazing," I say breathlessly. "She helped me through all of that, and we started as friends, but I don't think we've ever been friends. We always clashed, and she likes to joke about it being misplaced sexual tension."
"Do you believe that?"
"I believe something," I say. "All I know is she's been the best thing to happen to me, and I know it hasn't been easy for her being with me, but I want to get better. I need to work on myself to love her the way she deserves to be loved, and - " I stop, sighing. "I didn't know love like this could exist."
"It's the greatest lesson this life will ever teach you."
I'm tempted to roll my eyes, but I don't. "Honestly, I think this life has taught me one too many lessons, if you ask me."
Everything changes on Thursday.
It's almost as if my mother enjoys messing with my life on this particular day of the week. Joe's just dropped me off from physical therapy, and I'm stiff and sore, and the last thing I want is to have to deal with my mother and whatever new crazy she's wearing this week. I find her in the kitchen when I go looking for a snack, hoping to bide my time in silence as I wait for Rachel to get out of her dance class and fetch me. I couldn't exactly ask Joe to drop me off at her house, now could I? I suppose I could explain it, somehow, but lying is exhausting, and I'm tired enough as it is.
"Good evening," she greets first, speaking when all I've managed to do is skip a step at the sight of her. I didn't expect her to be at home, but I can't say I'm surprised. I just know she's going to talk to me about Rachel because Rachel's been coming around more than usual, given the fact that my mother doesn't seem to care about my recovery beyond the purchase of a new car and seeing to my medical expenses not covered by my insurance. I mean, I don't want to complain, given that it's more than other people get, but it's all relative suffering, isn't it? I recognise that, and I understand it, but it doesn't make it hurt any less that she's probably disappointed I didn't die; disappointed the car she bestowed upon me is the only reason I'm even alive and walking today.
"Hi," I say, somewhat tensely, as I move towards the fridge to retrieve a bottle of Vitamin Water.
"Where were you?" she asks, which gives me pause.
I drag my eyes away from the fridge door and look at her face. Is she serious right now? "Physical therapy," I eventually say.
She presses her lips together as she mulls over that. "How did you get there?" she asks. "I noticed that your car was still in the driveway. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen you drive it."
"My friend, Joe, took me," I tell her truthfully. Maybe she'll latch onto the name Joe. She's always been rather predictable in that regard.
"Joe?" she questions, which is unsurprising. "Who's Joe?"
"We're in Glee Club together," I tell her. "He goes to St Matthew's Church."
She blinks. "Oh." Then: "Speaking of... church."
I arch an eyebrow, expectant. I'm surprised it's taken her this long to bring up the incident at church. Reverend Jimmy even took me aside to discuss is when I did make my return. He did it to reassure me that I would always be accepted by him and by God, so long as I chose to live a peaceful and love-filled life with God. It seems somewhat conditional, but I try not to think about it. I've already lived a life without God and without faith, and I'm not sure I want to go back to that.
"I need to talk to you about your... friend," she says.
I let out a long-suffering sigh and lean against the counter, bringing the bottle of vitamin water to my lips. I take a long drag, swallow and then level her with a glare that would make anyone flinch. But, in this house, it's just the 'resting Fabray face' and my mother barely reacts. It almost makes me smile. Almost. "Which... friend?" I ask.
"I suppose that is a valid question," she says; "because it seems all you do is spend time with those... sinners."
I raise my eyebrows, waiting for her to get to the point.
"That little stunt you pulled at church hasn't gone unnoticed," she says.
"My... stunt?" I question. "Is that what you call those women essentially attacking us, just because I deigned to return to church after I almost died?"
Her eyes narrow. "Why would you bring her to church?"
"How else was I supposed to get there?" I ask pointedly. "It isn't as if you were offering to take me."
Her jaw clenches. "I bought you a car."
"And you expected me to be able to drive just one week after I was released from hospital," I snap. "Are you crazy?"
"Why did you even bother to go to church?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
"If you were so weak; why did you insist on going?"
"Says the woman who dragged me out of bed with a hundred-and-four fever when I was nine to sit through three hours of a sermon," I remind her hauntingly. "I do not have to explain myself to you."
"As long as you live in this house, you do," she says, and there's that threat again. It hangs over us in the worst way, and I just wish she would stop stalling. Just kick me out already. Break my heart completely, so I can rebuild it without all the hurt and pain of an unloving family and a heartbreaking childhood. So I can be free.
Just, let me go.
"You don't dictate when I go to church," I say. "Not anymore."
"I am your mother."
"And we both know you wish you weren't."
We fall into charged silence, and her eyes don't stray from my face. I'm so tempted to look away, but I don't. Try as she might, I'm not backing down. I may be battered and bruised from years with this woman and this family, but she won't beat me now. I can take her, which is something I've never been able to do before. Before Rachel.
"Why do you insist on doing this?" she eventually asks, breaking into our impasse.
"Doing what?"
"Going against your religion," she says. "You know that associating with them will make you burn in Hell."
"Is that what your God tells you?"
"It's what everyone's God tells us," she snaps. "Why must you associate with them?"
"They are my friends."
"Don't stand there and lie to me," she hisses. "Santana and Brittany may be your friends, but I know she's not," she says, and I swallow audibly. "That girl is not your friend. Don't you think I see? Don't you think I hear the two of you?"
I say nothing. She can't possibly be talking about that because Rachel and I haven't done more than kiss and cuddle in this house when she's been here. Right? I've tried to make sure of it but even I know there's a possibility she might have come home while we were... busy.
"I don't want her in this house," she says. "I forbid you to spend time with her. With them. I won't have this family looked upon with disgust because of your choices. Don't you think you've already brought about enough shame?"
"Shame," I echo, my heart twisting. "Shame? You think I'm the one who's brought shame to this family? Have you looked in the mirror lately, Floozy? And where's your precious husband, huh?"
"Where's your bastard child?" she snaps.
I bare my teeth, slamming my bottle down on the counter. "Don't you dare!" I hiss. "Don't you dare drag my daughter into this! I know I've made mistakes and I've made choices, but I've grown from them. At least I'm not stuck in the past like you. At least I'm not some bitter old woman who's living vicariously through her older daughter and wishing her younger one would finally just bite the fucking bullet!" I'm breathless and raging. "I mean, do you even care that I could have died? Or would you rather I had, so you can finally just get rid of me?"
She flinches, but it doesn't seem to register with me.
"Just hold on a little longer, Mom," I force out, dragging my bottle across the counter. "I graduate in a few months, and then you never have to see me again. I promise, it will be like I really did die, and you and your daughter and your ex-husband can all go on with your perfect lives without having to worry about the obvious mistake you've been trying to hide from the moment you realised I would never be like any of you!" I can feel my entire body heat up with the level of my anger. "And, you know what, for so long, I turned myself inside out to be just like you; to fit the mould you all so painstakingly created for me, but I don't care about any of that now. I'm done. I'm finally who I am at my happiest and, if anyone is going to burn it Hell, it's you." I let out a rough growl, and then move to walk out of the kitchen.
She grabs my arm, her fingers digging into my skin. It's the first time we've even touched since... I can't even remember. She's never been violent with me - that was always Russell - but her nails are probably going to leave marks. "Where do you think you're going?" she grits out.
I rip off her hand. "Easy there, Judy Fabray, it's not in your nature to get involved, now is it? I thought it was your husband who did all the heavy lifting?"
Her eyes narrow.
"And, if you must know, I'm going out."
"With her?"
I level her with such a glare that, if it weren't directed at her, she would probably be proud. "Yes," I say. "With her." I take a breath to stop myself from lashing out. "Her name is Rachel, Mom, and, unlike you, she loves me, which is an emotion I'm coming to learn you are incapable of." And then I do walk away, and she lets me. I rush upstairs to collect my things, and then exit the house and wait on the front porch for Rachel's arrival. My entire body is shaking from the encounter with my mother, and my mind is spinning.
It's how Rachel finds me. She practically scrambles out of her car, barely allowing the car to stop before she shifts into 'Park' and rushes to my side. She's a little breathless, probably from her dancing, but also from worry.
"Quinn, what happened?" she asks, dropping onto the step next to me and running a hand over my hair. "Baby, what's wrong? Are you okay? Why are you sitting out here?"
I don't even know how to answer her questions, so I just turn my head to look at her and make the one request of her I can muster. "Please can we just go home?"
Her back seems to straighten and her hand stills over my hair. "Of course," she says. "Of course, Quinn. Come on, let's go." She rises to her feet and pulls me to mine. We exchange no more words as she drives us to the Berry home. The radio is off and the silence is deafening. I can tell she has questions, but I honestly have no answers for her.
Her fathers greet us when we arrive and I plaster on a smile long enough to answer questions about therapy and school and Glee, and then I excuse myself, citing homework, and I go upstairs to her bedroom. I don't touch my books. I rather just crawl under the covers of her bed, hide my head, and cry. I don't want to cry - it's the last thing I want to do - but I can't help it. I hate that my mother can do this to me; I hate that I let her.
I don't hear Rachel come in, but I feel the bed dip, and then the covers lift. She slides into the dark with me, and wraps me in arms that are both strong and comforting. She doesn't say anything, which I greatly appreciate, and we just lie together as my tears subside and my breathing steadies.
"Do you know who you are?" she eventually asks, speaking in a whisper. "Do you know who you are, Quinn?"
I know she can't see me, but I still shake my head.
"You're Quinn Fabray, Head Cheerio, Miss Four-Point-Oh GPA. You have killer friends, and you're popular, respected and totally hot." Her hands slide to my cheeks and she wipes my tears with the pads of her thumbs. "You're strong and confident, and you take no prisoners. You're getting out of Lima. Your parents don't matter."
I suck in a breath, this moment feeling all too familiar.
"You're Beth's mother," she says. "You're my girlfriend, and you are so loved, Quinn. You are so loved."
I turn my head to kiss her fingers.
"This is who you are," she says, her voice strong and confident. "I know it, and you know it, and nothing else matters. Your mother doesn't matter. Only you do. We do. God, I love you so much, and I just wish this would all just stop happening to you. I wish I could make it better for you, Quinn."
"But, you do," I automatically say. "Every day, you make everything better."
She sighs. "I guess I just hate it when you cry."
"Believe me, I do too."
She chuckles softly, and I bury my face in her hair. "Whatever it is, we'll get through it together."
"Together," I echo.
"Because I love you."
I hum in content, temporarily setting aside the heartache from earlier. "You love me."
"I do, Quinn, I really do," she whispers, lifting the covers to allow the day to shine in. "I promise, the light is so much better," she says. "Let me show you."
It's almost inevitable that I find my mother waiting for me in the kitchen when I get to the house from therapy on Friday. Honestly, I'm not even surprised. Given the way we ended our last conversation, I almost expect her to pick up right where she left off.
I'm not wrong.
"Good evening," she says, her eyes tracking my movement as I head to the fridge to deposit my leftovers from Blaine's and my impromptu post-rehab waffles. I'm definitely regretting not just asking him to drop me off at Rachel's house. I definitely could have just worn her clothes... but it's the weekend. I need my bag, and I definitely should have planned this better. The last thing I want is to engage in whatever this is... particularly after last night.
"Wow," I mutter anyway. "Two nights in a row. It must be some kind of record."
She bristles slightly, but she remains composed. "I expect us to finish the conversation we began yesterday."
I scoff. "Well, I expect a lot of things too. It seems we're both going to be disappointed." I know I'm being purposefully antagonistic, but I can't seem to stop. It's almost as if she's bringing it out of me.
"When did you become so rude?" she asks, almost incredulous.
"Probably around the same time you stopped talking to me," I say. "Isn't it funny, Mom? You made me this way."
"The Devil made you this way."
"Oh, yes," I coo. "He and I, we go way back... he visits me by inhabiting the form of my father."
She has no idea what to say to that, so she steers us back to what she believes to be the issue at hand. "Did you spend the night with her?" she asks.
I narrow my eyes. "If you're asking if I spent the evening in a house where I'm loved and welcomed, then yes, I did."
Her upper lip twitches. "But this is your home," she says.
"No, it's not," I say. "This is just a house; not a home. People make a home, and this is not a home. We both know I'm definitely not welcome here."
"Don't say that," she says. "Of course, you are."
"Oh no, Mom," I counter. "We're having such a nice conversation. Let's not start lying to each other now."
"Fine," she says. "Then stop telling me she's just your friend."
"Fine," I return hotly. "She's not. She's not just my friend. She's my best friend, and she's my girlfriend."
She just stares at me at the longest time, her face blank.
"We've been together since January," I continue, the word vomit pouring out. This is it, I suppose. "I'm in love with her and, before you say anything, I really don't care about your opinion on this particular matter."
She practically growls. "What about God's opinion?" she asks, her tone cold and calculated.
"God's opinion of me is my issue to deal with," I say; "not yours."
"What about this town?"
"What about this town?" I counter. "This town doesn't know and, even if they did, why should it matter to me?"
She looks lost for words for a moment. "Why shouldn't it matter?" she suddenly snaps. "You are a Fabray."
"Stop that," I say. "Stop trying to claim me when you know I haven't been a Fabray since the first time you let your husband look at me and decide I would forever be a disappointment to the perfect family he envisioned for himself."
Again, she doesn't have the words.
"It seems you don't fit his ideal picture either," I say. "It's amazing, isn't it? It must burn to have something in common with me, isn't it? Seeing as I'm gay and all."
Her head snaps towards me. "Don't say that."
I raise my eyebrows. "What? That I'm gay?"
She shakes her head. "Stop saying that. You're not g - " she stops, unable to say the word.
"Gay," I say. "Gay, Mom. It's just a word. You can say it. You won't spontaneously combust if you say the word."
She glares at me. "It is a sin," she says, serious and tense.
"To you, maybe," I say, because I'm not naive enough not to acknowledge that, just because I've accepted myself in the eyes of the Lord, it doesn't mean that everyone will. I didn't expect my own family to accept it either because, really, if they kicked me out when I fell pregnant, I was always going to be ostracised for being gay. It's not something you can sweep under the rug because it's not something I'm willing to suppress just for the sake of appearances. Not anymore. I tried that. I tried being the person everyone else has wanted, and I failed miserably, so I'm done with that.
"To the world," she presses. "To the church, and to God."
"Stop using God to hide behind," I snap. "This isn't about God, and we both know it. It's about you."
"But the Bible says - " my mother starts.
"I know what the Bible says," I interrupt, irritated and done. "It says we must love. 'Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.' So, you don't get to stand there and preach to me when you have no love to hide all your sins."
"Quinn," she says, and it's probably the first time she's actually said my name in months. It catches me off guard for only a moment, but then I remember, and I see red.
"No," I say harshly, shaking my head. "No. There is nothing you can say or do that will make me not love Rachel," I say, and I mean every word. It strikes me as odd that I can say it so freely now. I love her, and I want everyone to know. Including this woman. I don't even care about the consequences. "Kick me out, freeze me out, try to beat it out of me. Do your worst, Judy, because this thing - this beautiful, glorious love - that I feel for this perfect, amazing, caring woman isn't just going to go away because you will it to." I suck in a breath but, God, I'm not done. It's been building, and it's coming out right now. "I love her. I am so desperately in love with her and I know you'll never accept that. You've never accepted anything about me, and I don't expect you to start now. I've been a disappointment since the moment I was born. I've never been able to live up to my father's expectations, and you've always been too fucking weak to protect me from his hatred and his anger.
"So, really, what did you expect? I received nothing from this house. No love, and no compassion, so I went out there and I found it for myself. I found love and happiness in a place where I'm accepted for exactly who I am; who I've finally allowed myself to be. I don't have you and Russell and Frannie looking at me with that look, those crushing expectations tearing me apart from the inside out. I'm finally happy, and I don't care what you or your hypocritical church-goers say!
"You want to talk about sinners." I laugh humourlessly. "What do you call a woman who sits idly by and watches her husband beat her four-year-old? What do you call a mother who drowns herself in spirits while her baby girl cries herself to sleep every night because her parents don't love her; because she'll never be good enough; because she'll forever be Lucy Caboosey and she'll never know happiness? What do you call a woman who just sits there while her husband kicks her child out of the only house she's ever known, because of one mistake? A woman who just stands in silence while her husband hits a pregnant teenager? You want to talk about sins, Mom, tell me what you call those!" I scream. "I don't care what you think of me but, if you think what I've done in my life is a sure ticket to Hell, then you're on the same fucking train as I am. Just because you wear pretty dresses and go to church and say your prayers doesn't make you any less of a sinner than me, or Rachel, or her fathers. In fact, if the worst they've managed to do in their lives is love someone so fiercely that they don't see the body, then they're better people than we'll ever be, and everyone knows it!"
She just stares at me, wide-eyed and silent.
I deflate instantly. God, this isn't what I wanted out of my Friday evening. "We're just people," I say, tired and defeated. "Despite what you think, Rachel and her fathers, me, we're normal people, who love exactly the same, only different." I take a deep breath. "I will leave," I say. "I've been counting the days, and I will finally give you what you want."
Her eyes widen slightly, and it gives me pause.
"It is what you want, right?" I find myself asking, and the little girl in me is grasping wildly at her silence, and it just makes me hate myself a little bit. It's the only reason I'm still standing here; still trying. It's the only reason I even consider asking her the one thing I know I probably, definitely, shouldn't. "Will you just meet her?" I ask, hating how hopeful I sound. "Just, meet her properly. Sit down, have a meal with us and actually talk to us. Talk to me, and talk to her, before you decide you want nothing to do with us, because we're together, and I love her, and, if you want even remotely anything to do with my life, then you're going to have to find some way to get comfortable with that."
The silence drags on and on, until she finally breaks it. "Okay," she says.
I blink in surprise. "Okay?"
She nods once. "We'll have dinner," she says. "Tomorrow night."
Now, it's my turn to stare at her, bewildered. "Okay," I echo, struck dumb. "I'll cook."
"Is seven o'clock all right?"
I nod.
And, when she returns the nod and spins to leave the room; I just know Rachel is going to kill me.