But I never doubted his love for me. It was as constant as air. Mom . . . not so much. We were always her afterthoughts. Career, community, friends, then daughters. I don’t think her marriage even made the list.
They fought constantly through body language and icy silences, irritable sighs and sharply closed cabinets. Weeks could pass without them speaking to each other. When they did hiss at each other, Hannah and I would turn on the radio or take out a game and huddle together between our beds, the familiar anxiety and slight fear when one of them raised their voice or their footsteps were too heavy. There was never any violence . . . just simmering tension, hanging over my sister and me like polluted fog.
It wasn’t a surprise when they told us they were getting a divorce.
I was eight, Hannah twelve. We sat at the kitchen table after school, and Mom delivered the news in one sentence: “Your father and I are finally getting a divorce.” Hannah and I exchanged a look of concern laced with relief. “It’ll be fine,” Mom said. “You’ll adjust. Now go do your homework.” Thus was the end of our heart-to-heart.
We both assumed Mom would stay here with us, even though this house had been Dad’s and our grandparents’ before that. Hannah speculated that Dad would buy a house nearby, and things would go on more or less unchanged. That night, in our shared room, we whispered about it. It would be better, we decided. Mom wouldn’t be so irritated all the time, and Dad would probably buy us the puppy we’d been campaigning for, since HandsomeBoy was his.
“I know I should feel bad,” Hannah said, “but I don’t. Anything will be better than all this fuming. They don’t even love each other. I bet they never did.” I believed her . . . she was older and knew about relationships, having gone to the sixth-grade dance the week before.
I had a lump in my throat even with her reassuring words. I loved my father, and the specter of not seeing him every day . . . of missing the occasional bedtime talks, taking me through the woods to Newcomb Hollow Beach, scooping me up in his arms when the waves were rough, teaching me to fish. Who would bandage my scraped knees with such gruff tenderness?
I loved Mom, too, and admired her in that youthful way kids do. She was beautiful and respected, and while her affection was rare, it could make a person feel special. Kids love their mothers until they’re taught not to, and mine wasn’t exactly bad . . . she was just uninterested.
I said a prayer that Dad would move into the next house down the pond from us so I could still see him every day.
Therefore it was quite a shock when our parents informed us we could choose which parent we lived with. Oh, and also, Mom was moving in with her lover. Who was a woman.
No kid could grow up on Cape Cod and not understand what gay meant—Provincetown was one of the first places on the East Coast where being out was not only safe but celebrated, and it had been that way since long before Hannah and I were born. We grew up seeing gay couples, drag queens, trans people in everyday life. Provincetown was the brightest, most cheerful place in the world, rich with galleries and fabulous food, performers, gardens, art, music, parades. Three of my classmates had same-sex parents, and Filipe, my oldest cousin on Dad’s side, was also known as Anna Conda, singing at the Crown & Anchor each weekend in the summer (a fact that won me points among my peers).
But our mother? Mom was gay? We had no idea.
“You’ll love her,” Mom said to our gaping faces. “Her name is Beatrice, and she’s amazing.” She saw our lack of enthusiasm and frowned. “It’s really not a big deal. You’ll want to be her friend the second you meet her.”
“Don’t tell them how to feel, Ann!” Dad barked. “They get to feel however they want.” He frowned and looked at us. “You can stay here,” he said in his gruff way. “This is your home.”
“But I’m your mother,” Mom said. “And wait till you see our house! It’s right on the water on Commercial Street. You’ll love it, and there are four bedrooms!” She so rarely tried to sell us on anything that it was weird, this . . . this pitch. “You won’t have to share a room anymore, or even a bathroom . . . or live with the smell of mold.” She cast a triumphant look at my father.
Provincetown? Provincetown was fun, but it wasn’t home. It was busy and the houses practically touched, and in the summer, it was so crowded with tourists it took ages to get to MacMillan’s Wharf, where the Goody Chapman docked.
“Think about it,” Dad said. “Your decision, girls. Your friends are here. Your school is here. If you want to live with me, it won’t be such a big change. That’s all I’m saying.”
“You can get a dog with Beatrice and me,” Mom said.
“They can get a dog here, too,” Dad growled. “They already have a dog.” HandsomeBoy, who was lying next to him, thumped his tail in affirmation.
“I mean a real dog who doesn’t smell like dead fish. One that you could hold. A Yorkie, maybe, the kind with the smooth fur, Hannah.” Ooh. She was fighting dirty.
“Don’t bribe them,” Dad growled. “It’s fuckin’ unfair.”
“Don’t curse in front of the girls, Pedro,” Mom said in her church voice. “It’s vulgar. Girls should be with their mother. What are you going to do when Lillie gets her period or Hannah thinks she’s pregnant? Hm?”
“I’m not getting pregnant!” Hannah blurted, turning beet red. “Mom!”
“You both should be raised by women,” she said smugly. “Wait till you see the house, honey,” she said to me. “It’s so bright and sunny. And there are so many other kids to play with. A new school, so you can make new friends. And Beatrice will be your friend, too. She’s like an aunt who loves to spoil you.”
“Ann, don’t you think you’re laying it on a little thick?” Dad snapped. “They don’t have to be friends with your lover, goddamn it.”
Hannah and I looked at each other.
I started to cry. It usually stopped them from fighting. Not tonight, though.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Mom said. “Come here, baby.” She held out her arms to me, a rare gesture, let me assure you. Sucker that I was, I accepted after a brief hesitation, and crawled onto her lap.
“Girls,” Dad said, then paused. “Just think about it. Whatever you want, that’s okay with me. I love you no matter what.”
“Do you, though, Pedro?” asked Mom, and I slid off her lap, unable to bear her cruel words. Dad did love us. He might not say it very often, but he did. “You’re hardly ever here.”
Hannah and I were informed that we would make our choice by the end of the week for court reasons. As is true in every divorce where there are kids involved, it was awful. We would have to choose between parents, and one of them would be angry or hurt or lonely or all of those things.
Hannah and I didn’t talk that night. We just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. At some point, I got in bed with her, and she put her arm around me, and after a long time listening to each other breathe, we fell asleep.
Mom turned on the full charm offensive. She took the next three days off—something I could not remember her ever doing unless we were going to New Hampshire to see Mimi and Papa—and wooed us. First, a big breakfast at a fancy new restaurant. She let me have chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream. Then, the tour of the new house, minus the mysterious Beatrice.