Unraveling Page 2

  That was good because I think I fell in love with Randy in that short moment in the dorm lobby. I think of how I read somewhere love at first sight isn’t really first sight at all—it’s falling in love all over again with a lover from a past life. When I looked into Randy’s eyes, so brown the pupil got lost in the chocolate of his irises, I swear to God I thought this was the guy I was going to marry one day.

  We’d made awkward small talk, how the summer was lingering so late into fall. What dorm are you in? Or do you live off campus? What’s your major? All the while casting glances at Kathy, whom I didn’t know well, trying to telepathically communicate the message that I wanted to arrange a more meaningful meeting with this beautiful, skinny boy with his mop of black hair and eyes that had the power to hypnotize.

  Kathy came through and arranged for us to meet up—not a real date, but it turned into one. We shared a pitcher of 3.2 beer at a bar uptown (because back then eighteen-year-olds could drink 3.2) and talked until the lights came up in the little wood-paneled joint with its peanut shells on the floor. Pure Prairie League was singing, “Amy.” Dan Fogelberg. Boston. Heart.

  Randy walked me back to my dorm and put his arm around me. At the front door, he didn’t ask to come in. He didn’t even try to kiss me.

  So I kissed him, tasting beer on his tongue and wanting, so much, to invite him up to my room. But I wasn’t that kind of girl. I could only hope he’d try to persuade me. All these guys I’d warded off at this very door, and the one I wanted to push me a little in a wicked direction doesn’t deliver! Begrudgingly, I imagined, I would give in, leading him up the stairs, our fingers entwined.

  But Randy simply turned toward the quad after our kiss. I thought, in the light from the front porch lanterns, that his cheeks were a little rosier, glowing. Now I wonder if I was imagining things.

  We agreed to meet at King Library the next night after dinner to hang out and study together.

  He was an English major, and I was in the business school. I wondered if it could work. But, oh, how I wanted it to!

  Back in the present, I fess up. “I followed you here.”

  He stares, the suspicion in his eyes making them shine, I think, a little brighter. “Why?” he wonders.

  I close my eyes for a moment. “I know. Everything.”

  Of course, I know he’ll play dumb. And he does.

  “What are you talking about?”

  I decide to begin with the most recent revelation. The one that set me on his trail. The one that got me here, in this hotel room, thanking God I’m not too late.

  “Walgreens called this morning. The pharmacy. You’d left your credit card on the counter.”

  Randy’s skin pales. And maybe a sickly yellowish sheen is creeping in.

  “So?”

  “So I went down to get it. And, ethical or legal or not, the pharmacist mentioned the sleeping pills. He knew we were married, and he wanted me to be sure to tell you to be careful with them, especially at first. They’re strong. No alcohol.” I glance over at the bottle of champagne.

  I know my voice breaks a little as I say, “Randy. One thing about you is you never have trouble sleeping. I know because I’m the one with insomnia. I’m the one who’s awake in the middle of the night, envying your snores.” I laugh, but it comes out fake. Flat.

  I’d pieced together the puzzle. He must have picked up the prescription before work. He was an advertising copywriter for a gadgets catalog on Michigan Avenue.

  When he called to say he had to stay late at work at around three, I hopped on the L and headed downtown, hoping I’d not be too late to see him emerge from his building. I needed to know where he was going with all those sleeping pills.

  Working late, my ass.

  Randy nods as he absorbs the knowledge.

  I lean forward a little and ask, “Where are they?”

  He doesn’t try to dodge the question. He points to the nightstand drawer. “In there.”

  I get up and cross the room to open the drawer. The amber pill bottle is there, next to a bible and a small pad of paper and pen. With a shaking hand, I pick up the bottle and quietly slip it in the pocket of my coat.

  He doesn’t try to stop me.

  I spy the folded piece of paper on the nightstand, and although I yearn to pick it up and read it, I don’t. It’s like a snake I believe won’t bite me if I simply don’t get too close. I’ll leave it for Randy to decide if he ever wants to share what he wrote—but I want him to be breathing when he does.

  I think of all the questions I could ask. And then I think of all the answers I’ve buried as a wife barely breathing under a heavy blanket of self-denial.

  I ignore the tears that begin to drip from my eyes as soon as I speak. “Sweetheart, I know why.”

  He looks up. “You do?”

  “I’ve known for a long time. I just didn’t want to believe. And maybe you’ve known for a long time, too—and you just didn’t want to accept.”

  He nods and I think I’ve never seen him look so pained. But mixed in with his anguish, there’s something else. And my best guess for what that might be is relief.

  The cat’s out of the bag. The door to his cell has just been opened by someone who couldn’t be more dubious about granting this release.

  “Was there something that gave me away? I swear to god, Vi, I’ve been faithful.”

  “I know you have, my love. And I know how hard that’s been. When we’re at the beach or even on the street, I see where your eyes go even though you think I’m not aware of it. I also pick up on your shame after you’ve looked at some hot man with longing.” I stop, a little breathless. Even though I’m telling the truth, it hurts me inside. To remember my husband’s lust for strange men in public places. It’s not the kind of thing we want to believe, so we tell ourselves, “He’s admiring that guy’s haircut.” Or “He likes that one’s hiking boots…or his jeans…or he wonders about that car he’s getting into.”

  Denial is an easy game to play, but one I always know—deep down—I’m cheating at.

  “Aside from that, there have been a lot of little tells over the years. Your shyness, ironically, around other men.” I laugh. “Your love for those old weeper movies like Imitation of Life or Madame X. I know, stereotypes.

  “But I found the copy of Gay Chicago magazine you hid, rolled up in a sport coat. I know about that book, The Front Runner, that you keep in your backpack, buried under papers.

  “And I know how ashamed you are. I know how much you wish you were someone else.”

  “You do?” He lets out a small hiccup of a sob. “I hate myself. I hear people say it’s a ‘lifestyle,’ or it’s a ‘choice,’ but I’m here to tell you it’s not. I’ve been trying to unmake that ‘choice’ almost my whole life.” He hangs his head.

  I set down the champagne, and I cross to sit next to Randy on the bed. I put my arm around him and draw him close. I’m relieved because he doesn’t resist. “Don’t hate yourself. And don’t believe the haters. Ask them when they chose to be straight and see what answer you get.

  “You’re a good man, no matter what you tell yourself. You’re a good dad to Henry. You’ve been a good husband to me. No lie. Our years together have been the happiest of my life because of you. You’re kind. Sweet. Sensitive. You always put everyone else first.” I stare down at the carpet, a dusty rose color. I realize, in the moment, I’m putting our good, cherished time in the past.

  I know we’re on the brink.

  “I couldn’t pretend anymore,” he whispers. “And if I couldn’t change, well, maybe I just didn’t want to be here anymore.”

  My response is short, but among some of the hardest words I’ve ever had to say. “You don’t have to change or pretend. Not with me.” These words are the antithesis of what I feel in my heart.

  “What do you mean?” He leans back and away a little, to regard me.

  She shuddered and then sighed. “I don’t want you to live a lie anymore. What that means for
our family?” I shrug. “I don’t have a clue. But we need to figure it out. We need to see how we can all move forward.” I pull the sleeping pills from my pocket and lift the bottle to show him.

  He recoils at the sight, almost as though it’s his first time seeing the container, when we both know it’s not. His cheeks redden.

  I get up, go in the adjoining bathroom, and dump the pills down the toilet. I watch as they swirl around and around when I flush. I try not to think he can simply try another way, another method. I haven’t really accomplished anything, save to stave off something horrible for a moment.

  When I come back, I find him stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. I lie beside him and regard the same. There’s a crack running from the ceiling light fixture to a corner. Cobwebs. Crown molding that needs a dusting.

  I continue to stare at the ceiling. “Don’t save yourself for me. I’m a big girl. Whatever happens, I’ll manage. I’ll even try to be grateful for having had you. But think of Henry. He’s just a little boy. Do you know what it would be like for him to grow up without you? How he may never come to grips with why his daddy didn’t love him enough to stay?” I shake my head. A tear rolls down the side of my face out of the corner of my eye. “You made a son. You need to be here for him. No matter how hard that is.” I try to keep the bitterness and pain out of my voice as I add, “It’s not just about you anymore.”

  I sit up, try to soften the blow of what I just voiced. “I wanna make it easier. Okay? Can we go home and start talking? We won’t stop until we come to some kind of solution. Okay?”

  I feel as though I’m selling my soul to a rational devil. I feel like I’m putting my love in the path of something that will steamroll over it.

  My heart is breaking, breaking, breaking—broke.

  But I can’t let him see. Not now. Not when he’s so vulnerable.

  I swallow and take a few deep calming breaths.

  I stand up. It’s hard for me to believe I’ve only been in this room for ten minutes or so. It seems like my whole life has changed in that brief span.

  And it has.

  But the change has been on the horizon for a long time like storm clouds gathering. I just chose not to look at them.

  I go to the empty chair in the room and pick up Randy’s peacoat, the bright-orange scarf he loves and I got him for Christmas. I hold them out. “Come home with me, please.”

  He pushes himself off the bed. Silently, he shrugs into his coat, wraps the muffler around his throat. He throws the champagne into the trash and crumples his note up and tosses it in after. He glances out the window. “It’s really coming down now.”

  “Winter in Chicago,” I say.

  “Who’s with Henry?” he asks as we head toward the door.

  “Mrs. Roberts.” She’s our downstairs neighbor. She has five dogs and three cats in a one-bedroom apartment. Henry gets a huge kick out of visiting her and comes home covered in fur.

  We ride the elevator to the lobby and step outside into the snow and the howling wind. We don’t talk as we head toward the subway station on Chicago Avenue.

  It’s a good thing too. Because I don’t think I can talk. My tears freeze, stinging, on my face.

  I feel like a house made of glass.

  All the supports that hold the various panes upright have just collapsed.

  Chapter Four

  RANDY

  When we get home, I run downstairs to pick up Henry.

  Mrs. Roberts, a steel-haired matron in her sixties, with a smile that belies her cold demeanor, puts a finger to her lips as she opens the door.

  Henry, my cherub, slumbers on the couch, a throw pillow beneath his head and a chenille bedspread pulled up to his chin. He breathes deeply, and his cheeks still retain the fleshiness and the rosy glow from when he was a baby. His dark hair, like mine, is a curly mop spreading out onto the orange-and-white striped pillow beneath him.

  The space Henry isn’t taking up is occupied by animals. Two cats, a Calico called Helen and an overweight black-and-white male named AJ, are curled up on the top back of the sofa, looking comfy despite its narrowness. Two small dogs, one a chihuahua mix named Kodi and a Boston terrier called Lily, slumber near Henry’s feet.

  I know there are a couple other critters around here, but maybe they’re hiding.

  I understand hiding.

  Mrs. Roberts and I don’t speak as we head over to the couch. She’s wearing a gentle smile as she watches me regard my son. She makes me think of my mom.

  I stare down and wonder what he’s dreaming about.

  I feel a rush of love so intense it almost takes my breath away.

  How could I have even contemplated leaving him? How could I have taken those steps?

  I gently touch his soft, soft hair, then pull my hand back. A film unspools in my head—Henry calling me Daddy, his first steps, changing his diaper for the first time and getting pee on my face, his fascination with balloons, his picky eating.

  My boy.

  How could I have thought to leave him behind?

  How could I have thought to leave Violet?

  I shake my head at my selfishness. The crisis has passed. I don’t know what’ll happen next, but I feel sure, deep down in my bones, I won’t do something as reckless as I tried to earlier today.

  I smile at Mrs. Roberts and mouth “thanks” and gently reach down to gather Henry up in my arms. He wiggles and sighs but doesn’t wake.

  The dogs peer up at me. Kodi hops down from the couch, stretches, yawns. His curled tail wags. Lily stays put, lowering her head and falling immediately back to sleep, snoring like a truck driver.

  Mrs. Roberts opens the door for me and nods. She reaches up and squeezes my shoulder. I think of what she sees—the innocence and love of a little boy and his daddy.

  And then I think of what I know of myself, and the loathing rises up again. The questions come at me—why can’t you just be normal? Why can’t you just pretend? These are questions I’ve lived with on a daily basis since I was, oh, maybe twelve years old.

  I’ve always known I was gay.

  I just never accepted it. I believed I could change…

  That belief was one thing that did die today.

  I mouth a second “thanks” to Mrs. Roberts as I head out the door. She closes it softly behind me.

  And I think again of what she saw and what made her smile.

  A little boy and the daddy who loves him.

  Despite all my self-loathing and shame, what she saw was real.

  Was true.

  Always.

  I BEGIN TO climb the stairs. Henry is lighter than air.

  As we approach, Violet opens the door. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, which are red, the area around them puffy.

  And I have to fight once more to not feel the shame, the guilt, the wish that I was someone else. She didn’t ask for any of this. She only wanted to love me.

  I brush by Violet and move down the hallway to Henry’s room at one end. Inside, Violet has left the small lamp on his dresser illuminated, and the yellow room has a warm glow. Safe.

  I reach over the edge of the barred headboard of his maple twin bed and place Henry gently on the mattress, on his back. I glance up at the mobile above his head, little stuffed VW bugs in pastel shades. When it’s on, it plays “King of the Road.” The music always makes Henry smile, even though he now protests he’s too old for “that thing.”

  I keep it because it always makes me smile too.

  I sometimes wonder if it will still be looking down upon him when he’s in high school.

  I’m grateful that my son is such a sound sleeper.

  I turn off the light and close the door as I exit the room.

  It’s time to talk.

  VIOLET AND I huddle close on the couch, wrapped in a white-and-yellow afghan my late grandmother made. It binds the two of us together in a cocoon. On the coffee table before us, an empty red wine bottle and two glasses with dark dredges in the
bottom bear testimony to our long talk.

  I wonder for a moment how simply talking can be so exhausting. I feel as if any energy I had in reserve has been ripped right out of me.

  The sky outside our window is that indescribable gray that’s more a quality of light than a color. We’ve passed the whole night on a magic carpet of words.

  Words that made us cry. That wounded. That opened doors. Words that made us collapse into each other’s arms, holding tight, pining for a dream we now know will never come true. Words that hurt. Words that angered. Truth.

  They say our thoughts become words, our words become actions, and our actions become our reality.

  Tonight’s conversation was one of those landmark ones that will surely shape our reality going forward.

  Violet is the soul of kindness, the heart of giving.

  “I want you to be yourself,” she tells me. “And whoever that self is, Randy, it’s still you. And I’ll always love you.”

  She doesn’t know it, and until I hear her say the words, I didn’t know either that I’d been waiting all my life for someone to tell me that. See, when you hide as I have, I question—do the people who say they love me really love me? Or do they love an ideal? A ghost image of a person who doesn’t really exist?

  The pain of wondering if anyone really loves you for you is real and cuts deep.

  Violet has said more than she knows, and I will always be grateful for the words—words I know that come at great personal risk and sacrifice.

  Violet also lays down some ground rules for us as long as we live under the same roof—neither of us knows how much longer that might be; it could be years, months, or days—we’re very fragile and tenuous right now.

  The first rule, which I protest by saying I’m not ready for anyone else right now, is I not bring any men home. Henry can’t be confused. Violet doesn’t want to meet any potential suitors. And I’m thinking that I just came out in a tiny, hurt way. Potential suitors seem like something that will be far into the future.