Who would’ve thought that a single day could change everything so much? It’s the time warp thing again, like I told Rebecca. Sometimes it even feels like that movie Groundhog Day, with me watching him leave over and over, only there’s a different ending every time. How I wish.
Even though it’s a somber occasion that’s calling us back to his hometown today, I’m still determined to make it a special visit for Andie. That’s why we’re taking this slightly longish coastal route. It’s a beautiful day and I liked the idea of her seeing the ocean for a good part of the drive, and while she’s not full of chatty reactions, her face lights up once the beach appears off to the side of the 101. She’s always loved the ocean, whether it’s up in Santa Cruz or out at Casey’s place in Malibu. She’s pure beach bum, just like her daddy was.
As we crest a slight hill, dark, shark-like figures appear in the water, a group of them bobbing along on their boards. “Look,” I point out. “Surfers.”
“But it’s so early.” She wrinkles her nose as she looks at the dashboard clock. Seven a.m. on a Saturday, not my idea of where I’d be, paddling my way out into the chilly Pacific, squeezed tight into my wetsuit.
“Hey, you know what Daddy always said,” I remind her with a grin, and she finishes for me, “The best waves don’t ever sleep in!” We both laugh a minute, remembering, and my heart beats a little faster at the pure joy of making her smile.
“Won’t be long and we’ll be out there, too. Casey’s planning on us for Fourth of July.” We always used to spend summer holidays with Casey at his beach house, but this will be the first time without Alex.
“Well I’m not going to surf.” She turns from me, staring out the window of the truck.
“Why not?” I ask, even though I already guessed she wouldn’t wear her bathing suit, not with how self-conscious she is about that long scar on her thigh.
She only shrugs, studying the open map that I had given her to track our travel progress over the six-hour drive. From the corner of my eye, I see her taking her fingers and measuring out the distance, then comparing it to the mileage legend. Sizing up the world between her stubby little fingertips. The world’s a big place when you’re that small: everything seems super-sized compared to what you know.
That’s what I’m thinking when out of nowhere she asks, “Were you always gay?”
I almost spit coffee onto the steering wheel of my pickup truck. “Why?” I ask with forced nonchalance.
“Well.” She sighs as I watch a pair of sexy, lean guys with surfboards walking along the highway shoulder. “Gretchen Russell’s daddy is gay now. At least that’s what they say.”
Peter Russell. I’ve met him before at some of the school events, especially back in the preschool days. I remember a good chat we had once at Muffins with Mom. Guess that event takes on a whole new meaning in this context. So does the interest he took in Al and me being gay parents.
“What happened to Gretchen’s mom?” I ask, after a moment of thoughtful silence.
“She’s still her mom.”
“No, sweetie. I mean…” I pause, rubbing at my eyes. “Did they divorce? Is that what you’re saying?”
She shrugs, silent and won’t tell me any more, but I don’t think Gretchen Russell and her daddy’s conversion to my side is the real issue. Andrea wants to know about me.
“I had some girlfriends, you know,” I begin gingerly. “Before Daddy.”
She turns to me, her bowtie mouth widening in surprise. “But…” She shakes her head, unable to fathom this new catalog of information.
I can’t help but smile at her innocence. Really, it’s not that different from a straight married couple, their child’s pure belief that both parents sprang forth, fully formed, attached to one another from birth. “You find it hard to believe, huh?”
“Wasn’t that weird for Daddy?”
“I’d say it was pretty weird for me.”
“Well, what if I turn out gay?” she asks softly, closing the map book and turning toward me on the seat. “’Cause I could, couldn’t I?”
I think of how delicate and feminine she is; how even at four years old she began crossing her little legs, still sitting in the car seat. I think of how she fusses over her Barbies, taking infinite care with their sequins and satin. But I also know that’s no measure of which way one’s sexuality will ultimately swing, not even close. Consider my army airborne days if you think I’m wrong about that. After all, I’ve jumped out of loads of perfectly good airplanes, and I still went pink triangle.
So I ask, “You know that Daddy and I were really happy together, right?” She looks away, silent, and I sense her shutting down to me just as quickly as she opened. “’Cause we were, sweetheart. We loved each other.”
“So?”