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>Warning to fellow Winnipegers: The Conversavtory has >mice. Long creepy totally unexpected black ones. >Keep a sharp eye. > >--- > >Chapter Eleven > >Cautiously invited to dinner. At my own house. Fuck. > This is so fucked up. I’m supposed to do exactly >fucking what with such an invitation? > >This is not the way they were with Erica. Then it was >always a simple command, a reminder really. Come >home. Be home. > >Now it’s confused, hesitant. And if they don’t know >what’s going on, what they’re supposed to do, I guess >it’s because they don’t understand what I’m doing. >They’re acting different, but so am I. If Kyle was >another Erica, they wouldn’t need to ask, and though >they might not recognize the validity, the reality of >my feelings for him, they can recognize the >difference. And that’s what’s got them so worried. > >Getting Kyle to calm down, to see things my way, the >way I need him to, takes careful maneuvering. Just >the right amount of distress and emotion floating to >the surface, just enough heat and anger in my voice >and eyes. It works, though I almost thought it >wouldn’t. Not happy moments, there. But in the end, >he supports me, and how can I even claim to be >surprised? > >Coming through for me is what Kyle does. > > >The fast footwork I had to do with Kyle is nothing >compared to the dance I weave with my parents. So >much more work, because they know most of my defenses >– my maneuvers, as it were. And of course, they know >way more about what’s really going one. Not to say >that they use this against me, just that they >understand my reactions better, and can use that. > >The compromise we come to truly does baffle and please >me, even though I don’t fully trust it. We talked for >hours, using our quiet voices, the ones we’ve talked >to each other with for years, regardless of our moods, >until around hour three, I snap. They’re in the >middle of telling me, yet again, to think about what >I’m doing, to analyze my feelings (as if that’s not >how I spend my entire fucking life) and to realize >this is becoming a pattern with me, only now I’m >adding the drama of a same sex attraction into the mix >for kicks, when I lose it. I jump out of my chair, >and I release a primal scream. Not exactly a finesse >job, but it gets the job done. The loudest noise >they’re heard me make in what must be 10 years at >least. > >It’s this, not any rational arguments or heartfelt >declarations I might have made, that actually gets >them to sit up and listen, even if it was only for a >moment. > >--- > >Stay or go. > >If I stay I risk the fragile truce I’ve got going with >my parents, but if I go there are a million different >scenarios for a backslide, never mind the considerable >lack of enthusiasm Kyle is bound to have for the idea. > >In a mix of cowardice and heroics I decide not to >decide, and instead elect to have a conversation about >it with Kyle, a bold new strategy that may or may not >lead to bloodshed. > >“You want to do what now?!” > >“I don’t know what I want to do, actually. Hence, you >know. The talking thing.” > >“Go back.” > >“That’s the matter up for debate, yes.” > >“Give me a minute?” He’s got a little bit of a crazy >eyes thing going on. > >“Sure.” > >Pacing and various unfortunate facial expressions >ensue. Then he stops, and employs some rather comical >breathing techniques. Finally, Kyle looks at me, his >face softening, and comes over to join me on the >couch. > >“Do I get veto power?” > >I smile. “No.” > >“But my opinion actually matters? You’re not just >asking… I don’t know, so you can say you did?” > >That hurts. I reach out for comfort, and he’s there. >Like always. “It always matters. Too much sometimes, >you know? I get,” wow honestly is terrifying, >“Scared, you know? Of what you might think.” > >“Of what?” > >I don’t know if he’s asking because he’s confused or >because he thinks I need to say it. > >“Of me.” I grip his hand harder, I think I might hurl. > >“I love you.” > >“Yeah, but you might stop.” Holy crap, what the hell >am I saying? ABORT! > >“Not going to happen.” > >“I want… that’s where I’m trying to get to. The place >where I stop doubting that, the time when the fear >that you could and are indeed bound to stop at any >time isn’t what constantly drives me.” > >Hugs are good. Oh man. Arms, chest, so good. The >Kyle’s bigger than me thing? Also good. You know, >for the burrowing. Breathe. I can do that. > >“Thanks.” I mutter pathetically, a few minutes later. > >“Hey, that’s what I’m here for.” > >“You know that I…” So many times, I’m afraid I’ve made >him doubt me. > >“I know.” > >“My whole life Kyle…” > >“I know. Me too.” > > >Time passes. Like it does. > > >And we’re all surprised when it’s me who asks, > >“So what are we going to do?” > >--- > >It’s decided, ultimately, that I will go back. For >practical reasons, as much as anything. Another >person in the house, another mouth to feed, these are >not things Sharon and Jerry worry about, but I do. >And even though I know if I ever spoke the word >“burden” concerning how I didn’t want to be one I’d >probably receive a slap upside the head, it wouldn’t >stop me from feeling like one. And there are lots of >other reasons as well. For all that I’ve made my >decision clear, and that, if or when it comes down to >it, Kyle is my choice, I’d really rather not have to >give them up. I think maybe I know now that I can, if >they force me to, but I’m hoping we’re not there yet. >Hoping hard enough to go back and see. > >Kyle’s supportive. Hesitant, worried, full of orders >to get the hell back over here at the first sign of >trouble, but supportive. He accepts it, and he might >even be beginning to understand. I haven’t been so >good at hiding stuff lately. Those walls are starting >to crumble too fast for me to repair. I’m not sure >yet if it’s for the best. I’m hoping so. > >I call first, and talk to my mom. She’s gentle, warm. > Like I remember. We talk for awhile like it’s not >the conversation it is, and we laugh together about >the stories she tells me about my dad, leaving out the >part explaining why I’ve missed them. Eventually, we >get there. I’m alone, so I start the right way. > >“I love him – it’s not like anything before. It’s >real, and it’s not going away.” > >“He fought for you,” An observation. Almost a >compliment. Erica’s battles were always fought behind >the scenes, but Kyle brought his fight to their door. > >“I’ll fight for him.” > >“Will you come home?” > >“I want to.” > >“Do we have time?” Time not to like it, time to get >used to it. > >“As much as I do.” An admission. We’re all new to >this. So maybe we can help each other. > >“We may never trust him.” > >“I know that.” I do and I do and they’re really not >the monsters they seem. > >“But we love you.” And maybe that’s her saying that >she’s beginning to understand that accepting Kyle is >now a part of doing that. > >“He makes me happy.” > >“Happy enough?” Enough to let him in, enough to trust. > >“I think so.” > >She sighs. “Then come home. Maybe in a few weeks we >can have him over for dinner.” She’s confused, she’s >almost laughing and she’s confused, but she’s trying. > >“I love you mom,” > >“I’ll leave your light on for you my child,” She >promises, and then hangs up the phone. > >I sit there for a few minutes longer, trying to force >myself not to over think everything, trying to trust >it, and not freak out over how well it went. Once >I’ve gotten myself under control, I take one final >deep breath, and go find Kyle. > >--- > >When I come home it’s, weird, obviously, but it’s also >good. Not just because it’s safe, because it’s >familiar, but because it’s Kyle who brings me there, >who opens the door for me, and Kyle my mother says >hello to and whose hand my dad shakes. It’s tense, >and it’s awkward, but they both hug me, and there are >no looks when I return to Kyle’s side, my hand slipped >into his. I push it a bit, taking him up to my room >afterwards, just to listen to some music and do >laundry, needing to do it, not just because I’m not >ready for him to leave but because now, in all the >little ways I can, I have to make room for Kyle in >this life, I have to show my parents that he’s part of >the package now, part of my happiness, myself. > >But then, of course, he has to leave, and I’m alone >with them again. I go downstairs, where they’re >reading together, and I take my place between them on >the couch. After a few minutes, my dad’s hand comes >to rest on my shoulder, and my mom tucks her feet >under my leg. I collect my book from the coffee >table, and begin to read. > >--- > >In the morning, after my first night back, breakfast >is eggs and toast, and my parents are talking quietly >and laughing over the morning paper. I look at them, >as they sip their coffee, and I think, ‘we look just >like normal people, we could be anyone’. But we’re >not. They look up, noticing I’ve arrived, and my mom >waves me over. > >“Morning beauty,” she says, kissing my head. > >“Dad,” I can’t help from saying, my reflex, grab for >his attention. > >His smile is ready, his arms. While he hugs me I >think, ‘there’s only one place I feel safer’. > >“School today?” > >“Thinking about it.” > >“Good man.” > >“Work mom?” > >“No, errands, baking.” It’s an invitation. We cook >together, now, the two of us. Sometimes all three. >It was the only time we could ever muster much >enthusiasm for food at the beginning, and now it’s a >comfortable tradition. > >I’m tempted. So tempted. > >I sigh, regretfully. “School.” > >My dad nods, school was his push. I think he only >ever meant for me to do it so I could get out of it, >so I could be done, and back home, but still, it’s >always him who wants me to go. It was just me and my >mom home alone for all those months after Emma, trying >to fill up where the three of us had once been, and >then school threatened that. We did the quasi-home >schooling thing, the months turning into years, but >there were always so many questions. So much gossip, >so many insinuations. Going to school became easier, >in the end. > >I’m not sure if they understand now that it’s part of >the end, part of the ways I’ve learned to live without >them. I think if they did, my dad wouldn’t be any >more happy about it than my mom. > > She looks so young. They both do. Still so tall, so >proud. They stand against everything. When they go >out, to work, to buy the food and clothes they no >longer have the resources to make themselves, they’re >just two people talking about brands of toothpaste and >performing tasks, but people look at them, and wonder. > They’re too young, too beautiful to have lost what >their eyes seem to whisper, too in love, too peaceful. > When we go out as a family, people often think I’m >not their child, but something else. Something… no >one wants to think what. > >I never wondered, never cared. They were my >everything. > >Parents, I realize, is a wholly inadequate term to >describe what they are to me. We’re talking my whole >life. My companions. Friends, minders, providers of >all needs, almost all desires, the only love and >support I ever got or wanted. > >I don’t know how to stop repeating those things in my >head. I don’t know how to work that into the other >picture, the one where I’m the kinda goofy, nerdy, >laid back wisdom guy with a bunch of weird friends and >brothers and these other adults, these people who >could be my parents, and who already in some ways are. > > >As I grew older, it wasn’t just about them protecting >me from the outside world, it became, in very real, >identity shaping ways, about me protecting them. >Nobody would understand, nobody could possibly >understand, was always the mantra. I didn’t want to >apologize for myself, and I hated the idea that >someone would deign to make them apologize for how >they raised me. Because I never fought it, not even >with Erica, no matter how it seemed to her or I made >it seem to Kyle, and I grew up mostly happy, always >loved. > >So you don’t trust people, you don’t let them in, >because all they’re going to do is judge you. And >misunderstand everything. Make it small, make it >questionable. > >But now, with Kyle, it’s not the love that’s ever been >in question, it’s not my love he doubts, love is not >the thing he asks me for silently in the night. Its >trust he wants, and trust I’m not sure I’ve truly >given him. To really trust would mean more than >telling, it would mean showing too. Bringing him in, >more than just up to my room once and awhile. Showing >him, showing them, trying somehow to live alongside >one another. If I’m going to try to save some parts >of my life with my parents, Kyle has to grow familiar >with that life, with the person I am here, and he has >to find love for both. If he can’t, and I think if >anyone ever could it’s Kyle, then I don’t know what >I’m going to do. Of course, I’m not really at that >bridge yet, since I’m still not sure I even have the >stones to ask him to cross it with me.

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