Where You Are. J.H. Trumble

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СКАЧАТЬ take a glass and pour some milk. “Where’s Mom?” I ask.

      “Out running errands. I told her she should wake you up to do the errands, but she vetoed me on that. She acts like she can’t get out of this house fast enough most days.”

      No kidding. Can’t imagine why.

      “You want something to eat? I made your dad a breakfast burrito.” She sighs. “He barely picked at it. There’s still some eggs and bacon left. I could put one together for you.”

      I mumble a no, thanks, but take a piece of bacon anyway.

      “I think your dad’s asleep now.” She stoops to size up a bottom cabinet, then reaches up for a large saucepan and sets it on the shelf inside. “I think he was up all night again. He doesn’t like being alone, you know.”

      He wasn’t alone. Mom was right there in the bed next to him. It’s a slight, another tiny dig on my mom—the bad mother, the bad wife. They hate her—for getting pregnant in college, for dropping out, for marrying Dad, for supplanting them in my dad’s life, for existing. She’ll never be good enough to bear the Westfall name. I know that, and so does she.

      Aunt Whitney straightens up and leans against the counter. She studies me for a moment, then shakes her head slowly. “You look so much like your dad did at your age. You should be very proud of him, Robert. He’s a very brave man.”

      I want to scream at her. How? Tell me how having cancer makes you brave or good or noble? But I don’t.

      Aunt Whitney sighs. “He would have been such a good doctor.” Her voice catches in her throat.

      She seems lost in her thoughts for a moment, then suddenly finds herself again. She examines the scarred nonstick pan she’s holding. “God, some of this cookware is just a disgrace. I don’t know why your mother doesn’t invest in some good Calphalon.” She forces the pan into a trash bag of other discards she’s been collecting in the corner.

      Andrew

      “There’s my girl!”

      I scoop up Kiki and spin her around. She squeals in delight and pats my face like I’m one of her dolls.

      Maya smiles and kisses me on the cheek. “So, what do you two have planned for today?”

      I look at Kiki. “You want to go see Santa?”

      “Ho-ho-ho!”

      Maya laughs. “Good luck with that. My guess is you won’t get her anywhere near the jolly old elf. But if you do, I want pictures.”

      “You hear that, Kiki?” I say to her. “Mommy wants a picture of you with Santa, and we can’t disappoint Mommy, right?”

      My daughter’s cat strolls out the front door, and Kiki squirms to be put down so she can pet him. I drop her lightly to her feet. “So, you spending the day with Doug?”

      “He’s playing golf right now. Maybe later.”

      “Golf? Wow. How . . . upper-middle-class straight.”

      “Quit. Not everybody can be you. And at least he wants to be with me.”

      Ouch. But that’s Maya. Letting go has never been her strong suit. And now what should have been a friendly exchange of our child has become another awkward moment between us.

      “He’s a great guy, Maya. I don’t know why you two don’t make it official. Give the poor guy a break.”

      “Are you just trying to get out of paying child support?”

      At least she can still make a joke. I take that as a sign of continued progress. I know it’s been hard on her going from best friend to one-time lover to a married couple to this.

      Kiki has thrown herself over the aging cat, who seems to have resigned himself to the assault.

      “Are you taking care of yourself?” she asks.

      “Yeah. I’m good.”

      “I don’t like you being alone.”

      “Thanks, but I spend my days in a classroom so small I can’t spit without hitting a teenager.”

      “Eew.”

      I laugh. “Trust me, after a day at school, alone is all I want to be.” I don’t look at her when I say this. “I’ll drop Kiki off in the morning.” I free the cat and scoop up the toddler.

      “Are you going to your folks?” Maya asks.

      Kiki pokes at my nose and giggles. “Yeah. I wish I could bring this one, but maybe Easter.”

      “Sure,” she says.

      Maya and I have a good relationship, but it’s had its ups and downs. We both agree though that Kiki has been worth all the bad decisions. (I think of them as bad; I’m not so sure Maya agrees.)

      Kiki looks a lot like her mom—rich brown skin, thick black hair, and huge eyes set widely apart. I love her more than anything. Maya knows that. We share her, perhaps not equally, but there’s enough play in our agreement that I never feel shorted.

      My own parents barely skipped a beat when I came out. There was some discussion about how they already knew, but I think that was just a lie to get past that awkward phase. Because even though sexual orientation is really about identity, there’s no getting around the sexual part. If I’m gay, I’m interested in what’s going on between guys’ legs, and like it or not, my parents had to face that.

      So, not surprisingly, they were shocked and more than a little confused when Maya got pregnant. When I announced we were getting married, they sat me down for a real talk, the don’t-compound-one-mistake-by-making-another talk.

      I listened patiently to their arguments, even considered some of them, but in the end I did what I believed was the right thing. I married Maya. We’d slept together only that once. We didn’t even pretend to be a real husband and wife in that sense. For me, at least, we were friends and we were parents. I don’t know why I ever thought that would be enough for either of us.

      The mall turns out to be a mixed bag. Kiki refuses to go anywhere near the poser in the red suit. I won’t traumatize her by forcing her onto his lap, but I drop to one knee just to make sure this isn’t a momentary case of cold feet. After all, you’re only two once.

      “No like him,” Kiki says, her bottom lip jutting out. She sticks her thumb in her mouth and I gently pull it back out again.

      “But he’s Santa. Like we saw in the movie, right? And Santa is nice. Don’t you want to tell him about the doll you want for Christmas so his elves can be sure and make one just for you? You could tell him how much you like Rudolph, too, and that red nose. I’m sure he’d like to hear that.”

      “Hey, teach!”

      I look up and see one of my students, a freshman. He’s holding hands with a girl I don’t recognize, and he keeps flicking his head to the side to clear his early–Justin Bieber hair СКАЧАТЬ