The frustration of it—the sadness—is suddenly overwhelming to me. As I look around searching for comfort somewhere, my eyes land on the picnic table where Jack sat yesterday. Where is he this Sunday morning? He must have friends. His life can’t be just work and books in the house on the bluff. There has to be more.
When Margo goes back inside, I pull out my phone.Where are you?I type into a text box, but the words are too demanding. Deleting them, I try again.
You’ll never guess what I just learned.Seconds later, I delete these, too. I have no idea what Jack will think of a relationship between his mother and mine. Texting isn’t the way to share it.
Guess who showed up this morning,I finally type, and this one I send.
Moving farther from the door, I watch for an ellipsis cloud, but none appears. Finally, desperate, I text Chrissie. Her ear would be nearly as welcome as Jack’s. She and I may not go back to childhood together, but we’re just as connected.
And doesn’tthatgive me pause. If my mother was gay, am I? Is that why I’ve never found a man I liked enough to commit to?
But no. I’ve never been sexually attracted to Chrissie. Never been sexually attracted to any woman. To John Sabathian? Yes. But no one else.
Can you talk?I type and send.
Seconds later, my phone rings. “Tell me,” she says without preamble.
As I walk around the square dodging Sunday visitors, then pass under the pergola to stand at the top of the beach, I fill her in, onesubject to the next. Having always asked about Elizabeth’s mental state that night on the boat, Chrissie is intrigued by the business failure part, which feeds into the therapist’s concern about suicide. For both of us, though, the issue of my mother’s sexual orientation is new.
“Margo said that?”
“She did.”
“And you believe her?”
Chrissie does not know Margo. “Why on earth would she make it up?”
“I don’t know.” I hear bewilderment, then a pause, then recovery. “So, if it’s true, how do you feel about it?”
“I have no problem. Clearly my mother did. Forty years ago was one thing, but she was on a date with a guy when she died. That was only ten years ago. She could have come out of the closet at that point, but she didn’t.”
“She was still of a certain generation,” Chrissie says. “And what about you? Are you wondering about yourself?”
Trust Chrissie to cut to the chase. I sputter a laugh. “Don’t I wish. I salivate over my old lover every time I see him.”
“Jack?” Chrissie whispers eagerly. “Do you?” The therapist is gone. She’s all girlfriend now.
“Yeah. Not good. It’s doomed.”
“But it might be fun.”
“Fun with a ton of angst afterward,” I say and my phone dings.
I read,Who showed up?
Margo!I text back and return to Chrissie. “And then there’s the issue of who my father is. Maybe it’s Dad, maybe it isn’t. I know, I know, a cheek swab. But what excuse do I give for that without upsetting him?”
“Maybe now that Margo’s back, now that all three of you are there, he’ll open up.”
Why?texts Jack.
Because I’m here. Where are you?
In Providence neutering cats.
“What do youwantthe truth to be?” Chrissie asks, and even though I have a gazillion questions for Jack, I steer myself back.
It isn’t an easy question. My memories are of this family, these parents, this life. And yes, I’d like to know why Tom Aldiss always treated me like I was one step removed from the rest. Still, the familiar is familiar. If my childhood memories prove wrong, where’s my anchor?
