let you get over it any way you had to.”
Laura sat on the chair by the bed. “What’s happening, Mom? Why now?”
“It’s the gown. And your face in the papers.” She opened the photo album on her lap. “Your father was… I guess you could say bisexual, since he is your father, and it was done naturally.”
“If I can take you with Jimmy, I can take you with Dad,” Laura said.
“But it was infrequent, and he didn’t function well. Do you know what I mean, or do I have to get graphic?”
“I’m good.”
“He came out to me when you were five.” She put her hand on Laura’s knee.
Laura wanted to argue: There was no Dad when she was five. That was the story she had told herself her entire life. She took her mother’s hand and squeezed it because Mom had always been there. Whatever Dad did or didn’t do, whatever lies Laura had created to explain it away, Mom had been there.
“We tried to stay in the same apartment for you girls. Laura, when I say he loved you, you were his jewel. When he left, it was you I couldn’t believe he abandoned.”
“I don’t even remember being called Lala in my life.”
“I stopped using it when he left. He was always buttoned up, but once he just accepted who he was, he was a hell of a lot easier to deal with, and it never occurred to me that he’d leave. But, well, I guess he did. God, I am still ...” She pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head as if casting off the residual anger. “When your dad told me, I was devastated. I mean, we had these two beautiful girls, and we were friends, he and I, and there had been sex, but like I said. It was what it was. He stayed for you guys, but there were a lot of nights he didn’t come home. I was...” She took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling.
Laura had always thought of Mom as Mom. She’d never thought of her as a woman, with romantic feelings and physical desires as strong as her own, a woman who loved deeply and whose heart could be broken and who had dreams that could be shattered by that same love. “It wasn’t you, Mom.”
“I know that,” she snapped. “He lost his job, of course, because he was pissing himself with excitement and grabbed the wrong guy at work. Someone he was managing. It was ugly. And there was no market for engineers during a recession.”
“You said he was a musician.”
“I said no such thing. Your romantic imagination said that. Can I finish?”
“Sorry.”
“Needless to say, I had to cover everything, and when he came home drunk and smelling of sweat and semen, I didn’t need it. What I needed was to keep an eye on him, and I needed him to have some good examples, because this was when gay men were dying by the dozen. So I got him a job as a receptionist at Scaasi.
“Of course, he wanted nothing to do with it. He was an educated man. He built bridges and roads. But he brought you to work one day after school, and he saw how much you loved it there. You were the Scaasi mascot, you know, the only five-year-old in history allowed to handle pins and scissors. He and some of my coworkers got to talking, and he took the job, mostly because he could be as out as he wanted to be.” Mom sighed and opened the album to a purple bookmark. “Almost a year later, the princess came with her entourage.”
Laura took the album and flipped through. People. Faces. The Scaasi studio. The saffron gown on the form. She didn’t know any of the people except Mom, with her needle and thread, and the princess in slacks and a T-shirt, smiling.
“Which one is Dad?” Laura asked.
“Look.”
As much as she hated him, she was hungry for the sight of him. She wanted to see her features in his, to know where the other half of her had come from, to bring form to her disappointment and loathing, to have the target of her anger be a face, rather than an idea. The people in the pictures were all handsome and tanned, smiling with arms around shoulders, crowding into the frames.
Laura sat on the chair by the bed. “What’s happening, Mom? Why now?”
“It’s the gown. And your face in the papers.” She opened the photo album on her lap. “Your father was… I guess you could say bisexual, since he is your father, and it was done naturally.”
“If I can take you with Jimmy, I can take you with Dad,” Laura said.
“But it was infrequent, and he didn’t function well. Do you know what I mean, or do I have to get graphic?”
“I’m good.”
“He came out to me when you were five.” She put her hand on Laura’s knee.
Laura wanted to argue: There was no Dad when she was five. That was the story she had told herself her entire life. She took her mother’s hand and squeezed it because Mom had always been there. Whatever Dad did or didn’t do, whatever lies Laura had created to explain it away, Mom had been there.
“We tried to stay in the same apartment for you girls. Laura, when I say he loved you, you were his jewel. When he left, it was you I couldn’t believe he abandoned.”
“I don’t even remember being called Lala in my life.”
“I stopped using it when he left. He was always buttoned up, but once he just accepted who he was, he was a hell of a lot easier to deal with, and it never occurred to me that he’d leave. But, well, I guess he did. God, I am still ...” She pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head as if casting off the residual anger. “When your dad told me, I was devastated. I mean, we had these two beautiful girls, and we were friends, he and I, and there had been sex, but like I said. It was what it was. He stayed for you guys, but there were a lot of nights he didn’t come home. I was...” She took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling.
Laura had always thought of Mom as Mom. She’d never thought of her as a woman, with romantic feelings and physical desires as strong as her own, a woman who loved deeply and whose heart could be broken and who had dreams that could be shattered by that same love. “It wasn’t you, Mom.”
“I know that,” she snapped. “He lost his job, of course, because he was pissing himself with excitement and grabbed the wrong guy at work. Someone he was managing. It was ugly. And there was no market for engineers during a recession.”
“You said he was a musician.”
“I said no such thing. Your romantic imagination said that. Can I finish?”
“Sorry.”
“Needless to say, I had to cover everything, and when he came home drunk and smelling of sweat and semen, I didn’t need it. What I needed was to keep an eye on him, and I needed him to have some good examples, because this was when gay men were dying by the dozen. So I got him a job as a receptionist at Scaasi.
“Of course, he wanted nothing to do with it. He was an educated man. He built bridges and roads. But he brought you to work one day after school, and he saw how much you loved it there. You were the Scaasi mascot, you know, the only five-year-old in history allowed to handle pins and scissors. He and some of my coworkers got to talking, and he took the job, mostly because he could be as out as he wanted to be.” Mom sighed and opened the album to a purple bookmark. “Almost a year later, the princess came with her entourage.”
Laura took the album and flipped through. People. Faces. The Scaasi studio. The saffron gown on the form. She didn’t know any of the people except Mom, with her needle and thread, and the princess in slacks and a T-shirt, smiling.
“Which one is Dad?” Laura asked.
“Look.”
As much as she hated him, she was hungry for the sight of him. She wanted to see her features in his, to know where the other half of her had come from, to bring form to her disappointment and loathing, to have the target of her anger be a face, rather than an idea. The people in the pictures were all handsome and tanned, smiling with arms around shoulders, crowding into the frames.
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