My Life After Now

18

You’ll Never Walk Alone




There was no going back now.

I held my breath.

My fathers’ faces were so blank, so perplexed, that at first I thought they hadn’t heard me. And I truly didn’t know if I could say it a second time. But they just didn’t know what to do with what I’d just said.

After a while, the blankness melted away and was replaced by disbelief. Papa even let out a miniscule chuckle, as if he thought I was kidding. The first real sign of actual comprehension was the twitching of Dad’s fingers, and then the eventual reaching out and clasping of Papa’s hand.

The reality and gravity of my words began to sink in. No one said a word. Dad’s face crumpled, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each deliberate gulp of air, his eyes filling with tears. I was stunned—I’d never seen him cry before. No matter what we’d gone through, he’d always been my rock. He released Papa’s hand and collapsed against me, sobbing. Suddenly he was the child, and I was the parent. He was shattered, and it was all I could do to remain strong—keeping my own breakdown at arm’s length—and hold him, afraid to let go and watch the pieces fall away.

Papa, on the other hand, was mad. Enraged, actually. His face was beet red, veins popping through his forehead. He knocked over his chair and stormed out of the house, slamming the door so hard the kitchen cabinets rattled.

I released my trapped breath. My birthday wish had failed—Papa hated me.

“Dad?” I whispered. “Dad, talk to me.”

There was no change. The crying continued. The shoulder of my T-shirt grew wet with his tears.

“Dad,” I tried again. “Please. Stop crying.”

Still nothing. Did he even hear me?

“Dad, you’re really heavy. My arms are going numb.”

That got through to him. He weakly sat back in his own chair and blew his nose into a Happy Birthday napkin.

“Are you okay?” I asked softly.

It took a minute for him to find his voice. “How did this happen?” he said finally.

I sighed. “Does it really matter?”

“Lucy.” He met my gaze. “Of course it matters.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I guess it does.” I told him the whole story, not editing anything out; there was no point in lying now. As I spoke, I couldn’t help feeling that I was waiting on his verdict, like the emotional breakdown was just an initial gut reaction, but after he’d had time to digest all the facts then he’d decide how he really felt. So I didn’t mind that it took a long time to relay the whole wretched truth—I figured the longer I talked, the longer I could prolong his judgment.

When I finished, I hung my head and said, “I’m so sorry, Daddy.”

Dad was silent. He was staring down at his lap; I couldn’t read the thoughts behind his eyes.

This day’s black fate on more days doth depend.

This but begins the woe others must end.

When he did speak, his words surprised me. He reached over and squeezed my hand tightly and said, “No, Lucy, I’m sorry.”

I blinked. “For what?”

“For allowing Lisa to come back here…”

“Dad,” I cut him off, “this is not your fault. It’s mine.”

“Let me finish. I am sorry for letting Lisa come back. I should have known better. And I’m also sorry that you felt like you had to keep this from us. It’s been eating at you, and we should have known.”

“Dad, please, stop blam—”

“Lucy,” he continued, as though I hadn’t even spoken, “you deserve so much better than this life.” His voice broke and he paused to steady himself. “Things aren’t going to be easy for you. But your father and I love you so very much, and we are going to be there for you every step of the way. Do you understand?”

He knew the truth, and he still loved me. I believed him when he said he loved me and would be there for me, but I didn’t believe that Papa felt the same way.

“I don’t think Papa would agree with you,” I said flatly.

“He does,” Dad said. “He just needs some time.”

“I’ve never seen him that mad. He’s going to hate me forever.”

“Lucy, listen to me.” Dad grabbed my shoulders and looked me directly in the eyes. “I know Seth better than anyone. He doesn’t hate you—he’s mad at himself.”

“For what?”

“He thinks he’s failed you. And he’s right. It’s our job to protect you—from everything from monsters under the bed to…things like this.”

I noticed that he couldn’t bring himself to say the actual word.

“We tried,” he continued. “We did everything we could think of to keep you safe. I always thought, if anything, you’d get pregnant. But Papa—this was always his worst fear.”

“It was?”

Dad nodded.

“But why?” It wasn’t like this sort of thing happened all that often to girls like me.

“Do you remember Patrick?”

Patrick. Our old family friend. I hadn’t thought about him in years. All I really remembered about him was that he gave me my very first Broadway album—the original cast recording of Beauty and the Beast—and he spent Christmannukahs with us when I was young.

“Only a little,” I admitted.

“Patrick was Seth’s best friend in the world. They met in second grade and were inseparable ever since—kind of like you and Max and Courtney. He had his share of problems, but he loved Seth and he adored you. We didn’t find out until very late that he had AIDS. I don’t even think he knew until those last months.”

A memory was dislodged. I was about six, and Papa was so sad. I asked him what was wrong, and he told me that Patrick had died. He’d had a disease. I asked if I could catch Patrick’s disease. Papa took me into his arms and promised me I couldn’t.

Okay, now Papa’s reaction made a whole lot more sense.

Dad and I spent the rest of the day at his art gallery. They were closed on Saturdays, and we set up a picnic on the floor and ate falafel sandwiches and drank milkshakes surrounded by all the works of art.

I don’t know how he did it, considering it was the only thing both of us were thinking about, but Dad didn’t mention it again for the rest of the day. Instead we talked about the play and we talked about the documentary he’d just seen about a guy who decided to live for an entire year without earning or using money and we talked about the vegetable garden he wanted to plant in the spring.

We walked around the gallery, pausing in front of each painting and sculpture. Dad told me about the artists and what the intention was behind some of the more abstract pieces. I couldn’t believe how much they were selling some of them for—my favorite painting, an enormous canvas covered in different shades of blue, with paintbrush bristles dried into the paint strokes, was sixty-five thousand dollars.

As the sun started to set outside the gallery doors, Dad surreptitiously glanced at his phone. He’d texted Papa before we’d left the house, letting him know where we’d be, and I knew he’d been hoping he would show up. We both were.

“Still no response, huh?”

The corners of Dad’s mouth turned down the slightest bit. “He’ll come around,” he said, tucking the phone back in his pocket.

“If you say so,” I said.

“Lucy, have I ever told you about the time I told my parents I was gay?”

I thought back. “I don’t think so.”

He nodded. “I was seventeen. The prom was coming up and my parents asked me one night at dinner if there were any girls at school that I wanted to ask. I was so taken off guard I distinctly remember choking and spitting out a mouthful of peas. I’d thought they’d known I was gay; I’d always assumed it was obvious. I’d never shown any interest whatsoever in girls and the walls of my bedroom were covered with pictures of Luke Perry and Johnny Depp.”

I giggled and Dad smiled.

“So I shook my head and said, ‘Uh, I’m gay. I thought you knew that.’ I was so casual about it. But they weren’t. Apparently they hadn’t had the slightest idea—and they were not happy. My mother immediately started praying and my father actually kicked me out of the house, shouting that no son of his was going to be a faggot. I had to stay with friends for over a month.”

“But Grandma and Grandpa are members of PFLAG! They love Papa!”

“They do now. But it took them a while to get used to the idea.”

“Whoa.”

“The point is, Lucy, that they came around. And so will Papa. Just give him a little time,” Dad said.

We threw away our food containers and packed up to go home. “Dad?” I said as we walked to the car. “Thanks for today. It actually wasn’t such a terrible birthday, all things considered.”

He took my hand. “I love you, honey.”

“Love you too.” I let those words linger in the air for a moment. “Oh, and one more thing—can you not tell Lisa about any of this? Or anyone else?”

He studied me for a moment. “Of course,” he said, and we drove home.