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kennedycatherine · 5 years

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it was mine.

I remember the first time I spent a weekend with my new best friend in the third grade.

She had these really kind of sweet, quiet parents. They were a little dull, very settled, very content, very routine. Every aspect of the weekend was scheduled and marked by these little “traditions” where everyone knew their role and exactly what was going to happen.

It was all so simple and kind of muted. Noiseless.

On Sunday my mom picked me up in the late morning and asked me how it was.

“Different.”

My childhood was not noiseless. It was boisterous and full and sometimes a little chaotic. There were always friends coming and going, chatting loudly with my mom at the kitchen table, smoking in the garage with my dad. My sister and I’d adapted to falling asleep on many a family friends couch after being told for the 7th time “just 30 more minutes, babies.” By the age of 8, I could hold a better conversation with most adults than I could kids.

It was charmed, entirely encased with love and because of that, I grew up with a lot of “pseudo parents.” People who were always there, undoubtedly, with a listening ear or open arms. They were my parents friends but they became my people too, in our own unique ways with our individual connections.

It’s how I found myself, on a Friday night, pulling up outside a family friends home for a dinner party. I was 16 years old and going through what felt like a never ending “love isn’t real” phase. My sexuality was a mystery to a lot of people, myself included. All I knew for certain was that the idea of marriage made me deeply uncomfortable and this idea of romance I’d been sold by the novels I tried to read and the movies my friends liked to watch made me nothing but anxious.

I wanted none of it.

I let myself through the door and said hello to my parents, the biological ones, then hugged the other set, Dennis and Andrea. Plopping myself onto the bench at their kitchen table, I mumbled on about 11th grade finals and summer plans and listened intently to whatever other conversation was going on between rum and cokes and drags of cigarettes.

Then Jane walked in.

I wish it didn’t sound cliche. Trust me, I wish it wasn’t fucking cliche. That’s the horror of my memories, it was all deeply, deeply cliche. And painfully obvious.

I’d heard of her but we’d never met because her kids were mostly grown so she and her husband spent most of their time travelling when they weren’t working. I don’t remember being introduced to her or if we exchanged many words at all. What I remember most is that she couldn’t have been less interested in me. She was there to discuss a recent trip to Egypt with the friends she’d missed and I was just some obnoxious teenager she’d never met.

But it was well and truly over for me that night.

The understanding that this was attraction was not clear to me, not immediately. She was just someone I thought was interesting, with a sort of reserved demeanour but wild stories and an incredibly successful career. I wanted to know more, I wanted her to tell me specifically, to look me in the eyes while she talked about whatever thing she’d be doing next.

But she did not see me at all. And it was making me insane.

I talked more loudly, I tried to make jokes, ask pointed questions. None of it mattered. I was annoyed. Being entertaining? Kind of my shtick! I was funny and charming and people noticed. She, however, did not give a shit.

I left that night, drove away in my beat up Jeep Grand Cherokee, very likely listening to some variation of Bonnie Tyler or Bob Marley, wondering who the fuck she thought she was?

Three days later, when I was still thinking about her, I decided it was because she’d injected a newness into a room that had become otherwise stale. And while that’s what I always craved, I was jealous. She was charming and engaging in a way that 16 year old me couldn’t be because I lacked the experiences she had. The ones I wanted. I just kind of wanted to be her.

Right?

Almost a year later, I was headed into my senior year of high school. I had no idea what life was going to look like for me but I had plans and dreams. I was thrilled. After my first week back at school, my dad planned a fishing trip for me, him and Dennis. One final hurrah before the end of summer weather and the real beginning of school and homework and part time jobs.

He was set to pick me up after my last class at 3:25 on Friday so I left that old Jeep, affectionally called Cher, back home for the day. But class ended and he was nowhere. I stood in the entrance of school, kicking rocks, calling and calling to no answer. My mom wasn’t picking up either. So I began what felt like the unreasonably long 45 minute walk home wondering what the fuck had happened to my dad and this supposed fishing trip we’d been talking about for days.

The anger hit me square in the chest when I rounded the street and there, about 10 houses down, was my dads truck parked in our driveway.

When I finally reached the house, I allowed the door to slam behind me and dropped my bag in the entrance, pissed off, huffy and a bit more than a little sweaty. But stepping into the kitchen I saw my dad, a man I’d never seen cry, not even at his own fathers funeral, was trying to compose himself and his tear stained face.

“Dad?”

“He’s dead.”

“What?”

“Dennis. This morning, he died.”

I laughed. “No, he didn’t. He didn’t?”

“He did, babe. He went over to our cabin to get stuff ready and he just - they found him. He collapsed. Heart attack.”

What happened after that is a blur of days, really. Dark and empty and sort of scary. I’d known people who’d died before but this was the first loss that felt like mine too. The first time I hadn’t felt like a bystander to the significant grief of someone else. Because I felt it.

I remember walking into their house, still dressed in my sticky school clothes, so shocked by the people there. He’d been dead all of eight hours and there was already just - people? Milling, fussing, sitting, crying. It was sunny outside and none if it seemed to make any sort of fucking sense.

My dad was immediately gone from my side, busying himself with the inconvenient organization of death. My mom was out of sight, in the bedroom with the widow who’d been given so many pills she was nearly sedated. I didn’t know where to look or sit or how to contain my grief or how not to. Then I saw Jane, a familiar face.

She looked angry.

I felt angry.

So, I sat next to her.

We didn’t say hello because it wasn’t really the kind of occasion for pleasantries. The silence only lasted a few moments before someones sob pierced through the stillness and my own shock began to wear off. Then the tears came. For a moment, I forgot where I was, trying to find a way out of this waking nightmare when a hand grabbed mine.

“He loved you so much, you know?”

I looked to Jane. “What?”

“He always talked about you like one of his own girls. You write, right? He was really proud of you.”

Then I cried harder. She did too.

His death was shattering in ways I never expected. Probably because I never thought to expect it at all. Everyone kept on moving in this sort of fog, raw and changed. Andrea was often a person I didn’t recognize. My dad, a man who only knew strength and strong wit, was suddenly joyless and sort of aimless without his childhood best friend and lifelong companion. My mom was a bit frantic and a lot run down trying to keep the seams together for those who couldn’t really do it for themselves.

Then.

My dad had a heart attack too. Just four months later. He survived and the fog was lifted in favour of fear and we all clung. To each other, to life.

Those next few years, in some ways, became about renewal, reestablishing. We’d always felt like a bit of a rag tag, mish mosh “family” but it became even stronger, more defined. Sunday morning brunch at Andreas was no longer an option. It didn’t matter if I was hungover in a sweat suit, or my dad and the other guys wanted to be out hunting, we all crowded that table and passed our grief around with bacon and fruit salads. Friday nights were always spent on our deck, beers and joints and tequila bottles and stories. God, the stories. Sometimes I wonder if they all lied just to keep us entertained but if I’m being honest, I didn’t really care. We cried a lot in those years too.

As we all navigated this newfound territory of feeling far more bound and at times, obligated to one another, Jane was around more. Death does that. We commune.

At first, there was just too much. Too much pain, too much mandatory functioning that felt unnatural, a heavy burden when you just want to lie down and tell everyone to fuck off with the pleasantries. And for me, too much confusion. The reality that I was interested in and attracted to women was something I often overlooked in favour of believing that love was something that just wasn’t for me. Surely, I was just a lone wolf destined to be the family spinster. That felt much simpler.

But it was becoming hard to deny.

There was a birthday party. I can’t even remember who it was for. I was debating with my mom whether or not I had to go when she started rattling off the names of everyone she knew who’d be there. When I heard Janes name, the answer became clear to me.

I looked forward to that party for weeks. When the night came, I rolled in not so reasonably late as the careless college student I was.

Jane wasn’t there.

Minutes passed, then hours, the night was winding down and she wasn’t there. My heart was in my stomach. The disappointment seeped through every limb. I wanted so badly to ask someone where she was but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t know what I was feeling only that it wasn’t quite right and I was terrified that if I spoke her name, it would vibrate through my voice and someone would know.

That night, incredibly drunk and a little bit stoned, I cried into my pillow. Because I was disappointed I hadn’t seen her, because I didn’t know when I would again but most of all, because I had no idea what any of it meant.

Months later, by complete accident, we all ended up at the same place. The “family” was all there but I’d come without them, with my best friend. Late in the evening, I found myself at the bar at the same moment as Jane. The words that tumbled from my mouth all felt wrong and I grew more and more uneasy as the conversation went. But in no way did I want to walk away and I certainly didn’t want her to walk away.

When the moment did end and I brought the drinks back to my table, my friend asked who I’d been talking to. I gave a brief explanation, opting to bypass the part about the intense emotional turmoil over whether or not I was in deep, deep lesbian love or lust with this woman.

“Oh, she’s super pretty.”

“She is, right?” I asked, a little too forcefully, a bit too excitedly.

And later that night when we all ended up at a table together, talking for hours, she said it again.

“She’s super pretty and she’s like, super successful and cool? Can I be her when we grow up?”

I was so fucking relieved. Having someone else, someone who was straight and in a loving and committed relationship with a man, reaffirm that Jane was a person worth admiring suddenly absolved me of any anxiety. 16 year old me had been right, I just wanted to be her.

But 16 year old me hadn’t cried in a pillow over not seeing her either, had she?

It was very likely only months from that moment when the grand Coming Out happened. It was a long time coming and despite the emotional turmoil, was rather simple and calming. I was just one of those people who really had to say it out loud before I could fully deal with it. And I did.

At this point, the “Jane Cycle” had been turning for a few years. I’d convince myself it wasn’t love or something like it, I’d see her and I’d crumble. I mean, inconsolably upset for days and sometimes without even realizing why. I’d just be irritable and moody, upset with the world. But it was all because I’d had my hit of norepinephrine and dopamine just to have to walk away from it with no sense of when I’d get it again. It was painful.

In coming out, I allowed the mask to be pulled off these “ambiguous feelings” I had for Jane. It wasn’t confusing. It was just a fact. I loved her. Not entirely, not implicitly, but in my own sort of tragic, puppy dog way, I did.

The first time I saw her after the gay flag had been waved, I almost had to laugh. She was not nearly the terrifying, untouchable thing I’d been holding onto for years. She was just a person I was attracted to. Though a part of me was tempted to tell her, just as a “wink, wink, nudge, nudge silly kid, hey?” moment, I opted not to. Instead, I got drunk off jello shooters and tequila and flirted shamelessly with her.

Until her husband laughed and affectionately called me a tease, lightly putting me in my place. Hold your judgements, okay? I adored her husband, he adored me. They’d been married longer than I’d been alive and ultimately, he was just thrilled to finally get to tell Jane, “I fucking told you so!” Because as it turns out, teenaged me was definitely not pulling off my sapphic yearning as subtly as I thought I was.

Sometimes I become a bit sad for a younger me. The one who struggled through years of feeling very confused and kind of defective. Who wondered why she was incapable of feelings like everyone else. I hear stories and watch movies of teenagers going through these kind of shameless, embarrassing first fumbles in love with prom nights and adolescent movie dates. Then there’s the mandatory coming of age heart break with teenage girls eating ice cream and watching rom coms and trash talking the ex boyfriend of 2 weeks in the girls bathroom. It causes a momentary heartache for the girl who didn’t have that because for her, things felt more heavy and certainly a hell of a lot more complicated.

Then I remind myself, in someways, I did get that. I got the embarrassing first fumbles and the painful, dramatic, crying into the pillow first heartbreak. Just, for me, it looked a little different. It wasn’t Tyler from Trigonometry class, it was Jane from the dinner party.

And it was mine.

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