CHAPTER 29

As I sat there, for what seemed an eternity, so many awful potential scenarios raced through my mind...

...way too many to list here, but I'll give you one example: when she asks me how long Emma and I have been together...

...and I tell her honestly that it's been a year and a half...

...she'll be furious that I hid it from her for so long.

And then, who knows what she's going to do?

Even though Mom was making a lot of noise, she was taking her jolly time in the kitchen...

...and as the minutes stretched on, endlessly, I sat on the couch dying a thousand deaths.

Is she dragging her feet because she's dreading this as much as I am?

I had no idea.

What usually only takes her about twenty minutes...

...went on for well over an hour...

...until, just as I was about to lose my nerve and run crying to my bedroom...

...she finally emerged from the kitchen and walked over to her favorite chair...

...and then sat down, directly across from me...

...and stared down at our coffee table...

...for I don't know how long.

And then, at last, she raised her eyes to mine.

But still, we sat there staring at each other in silence.

And all I could think about is how quickly this could go south. Due to our past track record of discussing problems, and the usual outcome, I was terrified.

The silence was unbearable, but as badly as I wanted to end it by saying...well, anything...

...I knew that she needs to speak first, especially since she's the one who said we'd talk tonight.

And so, I have to sit here, as her hostage, until she decides. And then, when she finally does speak...

...I have to try to follow her lead.

And then, I reflected that maybe the silence isn't such a bad thing...

...because right now, I don't have any idea what to say.

Still, it was incredibly unnerving...

...and, once again, I was dying to say anything to break it.

"No, Alyssa," I told myself, "just sit here and keep your yap shut and let her speak first; and then, do your best to follow her lead."

Finally, Mom took a deep breath...

...and I knew we were getting close.

And at that moment, I solemnly promised myself that, no matter what happens, I'm going to speak to her like an adult. Even if she yells, I'm going to keep my composure and discuss everything rationally and calmly.

Finally, she spoke...

...but her opening remark was not at all what I expected.

"Alyssa..."

She paused, then continued, "...do you have any idea how it feels...how much it hurts me...to hear you say that your life is so hard? From the very beginning, I've always tried my best to-"

I should have waited politely for her to finish before answering...

...but instead, I cut her off...

...and even though I promised myself I'd speak to her calmly...

...all of that went right out the window when, hearing what she said, I immediately went on the defensive...

...and yelled, "I know you try...but it IS hard! Being gay is hard enough without you constantly heaping all of that...extra pressure on me!"

"What pressure?" she said. "I...only want you to do well in schoo-"

"It's a lot more than that!" I shot back.

"No it's not."

"Yes, it is!" I insisted. "You're always forcing me to do things I don't want to...and even when I tell you I don't want to, you insist that I join anyway! I hate cheer leading! I hate it! And then, you expect me to get "A" grades...on every single assignment! And worst of all, you hang Dad's return on me being perfect! You expect me to be perfect...but I can't! I try...but I can't! No one can! Well, those days of me believing you about Dad are over! He's never coming back! You know it, and I know it! But yet, you keep dangling the prospect in front of me! Well, I'm not going to accept that empty promise from you...ever again! We both know that he's gone...forever! I can't take all of this pressure anymore, but when I try to tell you about it, you don't even listen to me! You don't have any idea what it's like to be gay! How hard it is! Living in constant fear of losing everything...and everyone! It's a gay person's worst nightmare! Look at how evil Emma's parents are! What they did to her! They utterly failed her by throwing her out of the house!"

At the mention of Emma's parents, Mom started to cry...

...and sobbed, "I can't have a gay child, too!"

And I kicked myself for yelling at her...

...and forcing myself to speak more calmly, I said, "No, wait, maybe that...didn't come out the way I meant it. Having a gay child doesn't make you a failure. I didn't mean that at all. Her parents are horrible because they threw her out. I didn't mean that you're a failure!"

But, Mom shook her head. "I can't have a gay child, too!"

I had seen her cry before, but now I clearly heard the anguish in her voice...

...and it broke my heart...

...and so, I got up off the couch and walked around the end of the coffee table and over toward her chair...

...saying, "I'm sorry! I didn't mean it that way! I swear, I'm not comparing you to them! They're evil...but you're not! I know that you love me, and I know you would never throw me out of the-"

And then, Mom looked up at me...

...and with tears streaming down her face...

...she answered, "NO...I CAN'T HAVE A GAY CHILD, TOO!"

And at that moment, I froze where I was standing...

...and felt my blood turn to ice in my veins.

And stood, staring at her in disbelief...

...as I realized that what I thought she meant...

...and what she actually did did mean ...

...were two entirely different things.

No.

Oh, my God.

She couldn't possibly mean...

...could she?

And then, lowering her gaze to the floor, she answered my question.

{Marilyn}

"When I first met your father, I thought I was dreaming.

I was at the agency, in my office, when someone rapped on my open door.

I looked up from my desk to see an incredibly good-looking man, one I'd never met before, smiling at me.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, "I'm looking for Gregory Watson."

"Down the hall, make a left, and it's the first door on your right," I answered.

Ten minutes later, I went to the room where the shared files are kept, and Rachel and Allison came rushing over.

"Did you see the dish who just headed to Greg's office? Rachel asked.

"Yes, I did. Do either of you know him?"

They didn't.

An hour later, the three of us were sitting together in the break room when we heard Mr. Watson's approaching voice, saying, "Well, I'm not going to send you back out on the road with an empty stomach. Come in and have a snack."

And then, guess who walked into the room with him?

The two of them had coffee and crumb cake and talked sports, and the three of us at the other table somehow managed to resume our conversation about Rachel's new car.

As soon as they left, Allison said, "Marilyn, did you see the way he was looking at you?"

"What do you mean? I asked. "He glanced a few times in our direction."

But they both insisted that he definitely was looking only at me.

Mr. Watson handled new hires, so we concluded that he was probably looking for a job and, since there were currently no open positions, we wouldn't see him again.

Imagine my surprise when about a week later, he stopped at my door again and said, "I didn't want to walk by without saying hello."

Since Mr. Watson dealt with the commercial side of the agency, and I the residential side, it seemed unprofessional to start asking questions about this new person, so I didn't.

But on his third visit, he walked into my office, and over to my desk and extended his hand, saying, "I don't believe I've actually introduced myself. I'm Phillip Greene."

I shook his hand and introduced myself to him and asked how he knew Mr. Watson. He told me he specialized in corporate insurance and that the two of them had just begun working on a long-term, mutually beneficial deal.

He soon became a frequent caller at the agency, not on any regular schedule, but he never passed my door without saying 'good morning' or 'how's your day going so far?' and we'd chat for a few minutes.

One day, a few weeks later, he walked into my office and said, "When I was out-and-about, I saw these and immediately thought of you."

And then, he set a flat box, tied with a burgundy ribbon on my desk.

Looking through the clear plastic lid, I exclaimed, "They're my absolute favorite! How did you...what about them made you think of me?"

With a smile, he pointed over to the far wall of my office.

Sitting there, on top of my file cabinet, was the gift Rachel had given me last Christmas. It was a large, heart-shaped ceramic picture frame with an easel back. At the top of the heart was a ceramic ribbon banner which read 'The Love Of My Life'. As a joke, she'd cut a picture of chocolate-dipped coconut macaroons from a magazine and put it in the frame.

And he'd noticed!

A few weeks later, on his way out, he stopped by the break room where I was sitting alone and said, "Marilyn, I was wondering if sometime you'd have dinner with me. There's a new bistro over on Sassafras Street that I've been meaning to check out.

Of course, I accepted the offer.

That was the first of many restaurants we visited. And then, one evening he invited me over to his place for the following Saturday, and said he'd cook dinner, and I agreed.

But in the days leading up to it, I wondered if I'd made a mistake. In the past, I'd had to fight off more than one man trying to maul me on dates, even while parked right in front of my parents' house, back when I lived at home!

And now the two of us were going to be alone in his apartment?

To my surprise, his place was clean and nicely furnished, not like some bachelor flats I'd seen. It turned out he was a decent cook, and after we'd shared an excellent grilled salmon, he suggested we sit on the couch...

...and I began to worry. I mean, the two of us had kissed before, mostly on my doorstep when he dropped me off, but this was an entirely different situation. Still, I sat down with him, and since I'd asked in the past about his family, he pulled out two photo albums and we looked at them.

And then, I rested my head on his shoulder.

And he held my hand.

And we kissed.

And then, he took me in his arms and leaned back and held me. And it was so nice. But I knew that we needed to have a conversation - right up front.

I had to tell him that I was waiting until marriage.

Somehow, he read my mind.

"Marilyn, I already know what you're about to say, and you don't even have to." He looked into my eyes and said, "I respect that decision, and I promise nothing will ever happen between us that you don't want."

During the next eighteen months, we frequently went to each other's homes for dinner, and for the first time ever, I felt safe. Afterward, we'd lie together on the couch and kiss, but never once was he rude with his hands; and it was such a relief to know I could trust him.

By then, I was also more than a little smitten.

He was so intelligent, so well-read, and so witty...and I enjoyed his company so very much.

Still, although we talked about all sorts of things, I felt that there was even more to him...so much more...buried deep inside. He was like a fascinating book into which I had only glimpses, and I decided that I wanted to know every single thing about him: all of his likes, his dislikes, and his opinions on everything.

He was renting a two-bedroom apartment, but since he lived alone he'd set up the extra room as a woodworking shop. The space wasn't big enough for him to build large items, like furniture; but still, he had a properly outfitted workbench in there.

There was also an extra chair, and one of my favorite ways to spend evenings was in there with him, watching as he made little gifts for his friends, and marveling at his beautiful craftsmanship.

One evening, while at my apartment, he asked about my family; and I offered to show him some pictures.

I gestured toward the four huge photo albums on the shelf under my coffee table and said I wasn't sure which one to show him...

...but he eagerly said he'd like to see them all.

And we spent the next few hours doing just that.

I saved the very best album for last: the one of my beloved Grandmom, Belle Howell.

She lived in a small, cozy house three blocks from where my parents and I lived, so I used to go over there every weekend...and we'd spend hours on end in the kitchen, her favorite place.

She was the most amazing cook, and from her, not only did I learn almost everything I know about it...but also to love the culinary arts passionately.

This fourth album was almost exclusively pictures of us...most of which were taken in her kitchen.

And then, I told him how devastated I'd been at twelve years old, when she passed, especially since Grandad had died only three months before.

I also told him that what saddened me more than anything is that now I have nothing to remember her by. I mean, yes, there are the photos, which I will treasure forever, but unbeknownst to me, right after she died, my father hired a clean-out company, who emptied their house from top to bottom...

...and I dearly wish that I could have something that had been hers...even if it was only one of her cookie cutters.

But, as heartbreaking as it is, I don't.

While your father had looked politely at all three of my other photo albums, he showed an especially keen interest in this one, looking closely at the countless pictures of us in Grandmom's kitchen, and asking me all about her and the time the two of us had spent together.

Three months later, we celebrated my birthday at his apartment, and he cooked a lavish meal. After we'd had cake and ice cream, he cleared the table and then headed down the hall and into his bedroom.

A minute later, he came back and set a large, wide package in front of me...

...and said, "Happy Birthday, Marilyn."

Because of its size and shape, at first I thought maybe he'd bought me a heavy jacket, or an overcoat...

...but upon closer inspection, I realized that the dimensions were different from a standard department store box.

I unwrapped it, then lifted the lid and moved the tissue paper inside...

...and what I saw left me speechless.

Reaching into the box, I lifted out a perfect replica of Grandmom's wooden spice rack.

It was an exact copy...right down to its size; the shape of the hand-turned spindles and rails; and the intricately-carved fretwork across its front...

...and not only did he match the shade of every single color perfectly...he'd also painstakingly duplicated the elaborate, hand-painted tulip designs.

He recreated it all flawlessly, and entirely from memory...

...from looking so closely at those pictures only once.

And then, I realized why he'd made it: because I had nothing to remember her by.

As I looked up at him, he said, "I know that this can never replace the original, but I thought you might like to have it...as a reminder of her."

I started to cry and threw my arms around his neck...

...and that's the moment when I realized that I was completely and hopelessly in love with him.

The following New Years Eve, we were sitting on his couch, watching TV and waiting for the Times Square ball to drop, and I looked over at him. I know that some people get defensive when you ask if they've made any New Years resolutions, so instead I asked if he'd set any goals for the coming year.

He told me he'd been offered, and had accepted, a promotion with his company. It was due to start in February, and was an expanded territory which would require him to be on the road five days every week, but he'd have weekends off.

He also said that he was planning to buy a house and had saved enough money for a sizable down payment...

...and he wanted me to help him find the right house...

...because he really wanted me to like it...

...because he hoped, with all his heart, that I would share it with him.

And then, he got off the couch and down on one knee, and pulled out the most beautiful engagement ring I'd ever seen.

We were married in the early fall, and according to my doctor, you were conceived during our honeymoon.

Alyssa, I've never told you this, but you weren't meant to be an only child. We wanted four children. That's why we chose a house with so many bedrooms, and such big ones. We were supposed to be a big family who could pile into our minivan and take weekend trips, to places like the beach...

...and as soon as your father and I found out that you were on the way, we were so excited and started making endless plans.

But, to be honest, I had a very difficult time. There were several complications, and one outright scare, but finally you were born, and you were perfect, and your father was over the moon.

We'd occasionally had his business colleagues come to the house for dinner, but it soon became every weekend because he was so eager to show you off. I loved it because I got to spend hours on end in the kitchen cooking up a storm; and you loved it because you got to stay up late when we had guests...and they all loved you. All you had to do was ask, and a minute later grown men would be sitting next to you on the floor, playing with your dolls.

You were such a sweet, loving child, and I couldn't wait for you to have a little brother or sister.

Finally the doctor told us it was safe to try again. That first night, your father said to me, "We're going to take our time, and whatever God sends us will be fine; even if it's not four." I can't tell you how much it meant for me to hear that...I had been so afraid that he would end up being disappointed; but him saying it took all the pressure off me.

But unfortunately, things weren't going well. Part of the problem was about us...being intimate. Sometimes your father wasn't able to...finish. I'd look up at him and his eyes would be closed, and he would be trying so very hard.

I knew he had recurring back problems and tried to get him to give up racquetball, since that seemed to aggravate it, but he refused.

Finally, one night he rolled off me and started to cry.

And I really began to worry.

If he was in that much pain, I had to intervene.

I called Dr. Crawford. Since you were due in his office the following week for booster shots, he suggested I bring your father along and he'd casually bring it up then.

And when I did, he said, "Phil, when I pulled out your family's file, I was reminded of your back. Has it been acting up lately?"

He admitted that it had.

Then the doctor said, "Your condition is almost certain to worsen over time, and since none of the treatments have really helped, not even the cortisone injections, I strongly suggest that you seriously consider surgery."

And your father became very upset. As it turns out, the procedure was somewhat risky, and being an athlete he couldn't deal with the possibility of having to give up sports; but since he wasn't constantly in pain, Dr. Crawford and I didn't push him further.

In bed, I did what I could to try to make things easier for him, but he was still having a very hard time.

A year later, I found out why.

Every Sunday evening, I'd pack his suitcase so it would be ready for him to take the next day. That Monday morning, after he'd left, I was checking to make sure his pockets were empty before dropping his suits off at the cleaners; and, in the inside chest pocket of his gray flannel jacket, I found...a photo.

It was a closeup of...of...a man's genitals.

On the back was printed, "Until the real one pops up again, Phil."

And even though what was pictured in the photo looked similar to your father's, I wasn't sure.

But it HAD to be! It HAD to be him! To even consider the alternative was absolutely unthinkable.

I didn't know what to do. I never dreamed that he'd cheat on me...and I realized that it was at least part of the reason why things in the bedroom were going so badly.

I was devastated.

But, what could I do? How could I possibly tell anyone about something as shameful as this? Counseling was out of the question, because everyone in Edgewater always ends up knowing everyone else's business - even things that that have been told to others confidentially...behind closed doors, during therapy.

And I was too afraid of losing him to confront him directly.

When he came home that weekend, he didn't even try to be intimate with me.

When he left on Monday morning, I knew that I had to do something...and so, I called Reverend Carson, asking if I could speak to him about a "family problem" we were having.

Two days later, I broke down crying in his office.

While he didn't ask for details, I think he suspected what was upsetting me. He said that couples often face different kinds of challenges, including more serious ones such as alcoholism. I knew he wanted to say infidelity, but was trying to spare my feelings. He recommended two books, and I bought them at the Christian bookstore.

But instead of offering sound advice, both books strongly implied that everything I was going through was entirely my own fault...

...and that it was my responsibility to improve myself and to be the perfect wife...

...and if that didn't help, then I had to rely on prayer and patience...

...and to trust that God would do what was best.

Months passed, with us now rarely being intimate...but, I was still too afraid to talk to him about the reason why. I didn't want to lose him!

But then, one afternoon I found you lying on your bed...with a magazine.

A girly magazine.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

And then, to find an entire chest full of them! At first I prayed that I was mistaken, that it was only one or two, and the rest were regular magazines...

...but as I pulled them all out of the box, I saw that every single one of them was the same - filled with photos of naked women...who were depicted in the most degrading ways possible.

That evening, when your father arrived home, I was burning them all in the fireplace.

Then I walked upstairs.

And I confronted him...about everything.

At the end of it, I put the photo into his hands.

And he didn't say anything.

Finally, I said, "There's someone else, isn't there?"

He sank down onto the end of the bed and nodded.

"Is it a woman, Phil? And I want the truth."

And while looking down at the floor, he slowly shook his head.

I started to cry and said, "I know why you put all those girly magazines where they'd be so easy to find. You discovered that your photo was missing, and knew I'd realize that it wasn't a picture of you; and so, even though you have no interest in reading them, you bought them all, hoping I'd find them and believe that you're straight?

He didn't answer.

"And now," I continued, "not only did you cheat on me - with a man - and hide the fact by bringing pornography into the house, worst of all is that now our daughter is...exhibiting symptoms of the same disorder!"

Looking horrified, he jumped up and yelled, "No, she's not! That's impossible! I meant for you to find them, not her! I'm sure she had no idea what she was looking at...she's only seven!"

I continued to stare at him in silence.

Finally, he said, "She can't be! Look, I'll talk to her! I'll tell her that I did something very bad...that I made a huge mistake...and it's wrong for anyone to read those kinds of magazines...and that I apologized to you and promised that I'll never do it again; and then, I'll tell her that she has to come to you and promise the same-"

"No, Phil," I told him. "I don't want you to talk to Alyssa about it."

"Why not?"

"Because, since she's beginning to...I don't want you to...be a bad influence on her."

The color drained from his face.

Two minutes later, he walked out.

The next morning, I woke up to see him standing in front of the mirror, tying his necktie. When I asked what he was doing, he said he was going to church.

I told him, "Phil, you have your days mixed up...it's Saturday."

But he insisted that he really needed to be in church and told me Reverend Carson had agreed to let him stay in there, alone, all day.

I offered to make him some sandwiches, but he refused.

I didn't see him again for the rest of the day, but when I came downstairs the next morning, he was lying on the couch asleep, and his suit was all wrinkled, and it was obvious he'd been crying.

Later that day, he told me he called the person he'd been seeing and the two of them had mutually agreed they should break up and that they'd never see or contact each other again. He also told me that he would never do anything like it again, with anyone, and swore that he was going to straighten himself out.

He paused for a very long time, but then promised me that he was absolutely going to make things in the bedroom be...normal again.

And that they were going to happen often.

He said that at church, he'd confessed everything and had begged God's forgiveness.

And then, he begged me to give him one more chance.

And I agreed.

And then, six months later, you begged me to take you to the movies.

It's no secret that I'm a huge fan of Charles Winfield, and when you asked me to take you to his new Paul Revere movie, I checked with friends to make sure there was nothing in the film a little girl shouldn't see, and finally agreed that we'd go the following Tuesday evening.

The night before, you brought me the newspaper and showed me an interview in it, which featured him and his co-star Veronica Adams, and told me how much you were looking forward to seeing the movie.

And then, you pointed at the picture and said, "Veronica is so pretty. Her lips look so soft; I wonder what it feels like to kiss them?"

And I stared at you aghast.

I told you that we were no longer going to the movie. You begged me, but I refused and wouldn't tell you why, and you started to cry. Then I rushed upstairs and called your father.

I told him exactly what happened, and that you definitely had...homosexual traits, and that I wasn't sure if it was genetic or because he was a bad influence on you; but, whatever the case, the only hope we had of you turning out...normal was for him to stay far away from you.

I heard the panic in his voice as he kept insisting that you didn't have any understanding of what you'd said, and that it had just been an innocent remark.

I said, "Phil, how old were you when you started to realize that you were...different?"

He wouldn't answer me.

And then, I told him I wanted a divorce.

And that there would be no joint custody and no visitations.

Ever.

He cried and begged me to let him call you sometimes and send you holiday gifts, but I refused.

But still, he continued to plead with me; until finally, I said, "Do you want her to be like you, Phil? Look how homosexuality destroys families! Is that what you want? And for her to be bullied and shunned and discriminated against by the rest of the world? And possibly even murdered in a hate crime? Do you want that kind of hard life for her...followed by eternal damnation? Or do you love her enough to do the right thing?"

And finally, he agreed.

He wouldn't sue me for custody or visitation rights.

Less than a week later, he moved out.

And it broke my heart...more for your sake than for my own.

Alyssa, that's why I constantly push you into things like debate and cheer leading, things you have no interest in...because I know you'll meet the right kind of boys there. All I wanted was for you to have a steady boyfriend.

Once you did, and I knew you weren't...'like that', I was going to consider possibly letting your father come to dinner some evening.

Because...if you were normal, your father might come back.

But you've never had a boyfriend, let alone a steady one.

And now..."

{Alyssa}

Mom stopped speaking.

Taking a very shaky breath, and unable to hide the hurt in my voice, I asked, "Is that why you cut the lingerie pages out of every one of our catalogs? Not to hide them from him...but from me?"

She nodded.

"And is that why you've never taken me underwear shopping, and why you make such a huge deal over what kind of panties I wear?"

"I...didn't want you to to even think about looking sexy for other girls."

"And that's why you never once let me go to sleepovers, no matter how hard I begged...and it's why you took my phone away; not because of the horrible things I said to you, but because you knew...about me and Emma."

She didn't answer.

I walked over to the couch and slumped down onto it.

And then, I looked across the coffee table, over to where she sat...

...and she looked back at me...

...neither of us speaking.

Finally, I asked, "And...you've never seen or heard from Dad since?"

"No."

"He...doesn't live around here anymore, does he?"

She shook her head.

And then, she got up and walked past the couch...

...and went upstairs.

A minute later, I heard her bedroom door close...

..and then, the unmistakable 'snick' of its lock sliding into place.

In a daze, I stumbled up to my room and called Emma.

She was completely silent, not only as I told her everything...

...but also long after I'd finished.

"Emma?"

More silence.

Come on, I thought. You always know what to say.

Finally, she managed to say, in a very weird voice, "I'm...numb."

As desperate as I was to discuss what happened, I realized that she needed time to wrap her head around all of this.

We both did.

And so, I asked, "Do you think maybe we can...talk about this tomorrow afternoon?"

"Yes."

"Okay. What time would you like me to call you?"

"At 3."

"All right," I agreed. "I'll talk to you then."

After hanging up, I lay down on my bed...

...too overwhelmed by what I'd just heard to even attempt to make any sense of it.

A few minutes later, I heard Mom's bedroom door open. She headed down the hall, past my room, and then downstairs...

...and then, to my surprise, I heard the front door open and close.

But even more surprising, she didn't start the car.

Instead, there was only silence.

She's taking a walk?

Alone?

At this late hour?

Where could she possibly be-

Suddenly, I had an idea...

...and walked up the hall, and into her bedroom.

Crossing it, I headed to the window...

...which overlooks the small but very pretty municipal park next to our house.

And by the light of the park's lamp posts, I saw Mom sitting on a bench by the fountain...

...with her face in her hands.

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