In the pictures, though it was more than six years ago, I didn’t look that different than I do now. I had the same short haircut, the same stooped, too-thin frame. I had always considered myself exceedingly ugly-and the taunts of my classmates had served to confirm my low opinion of myself. I was more comfortable with my looks now. I no longer imagined that people were gawking at my small body, my pallor. Because I’d figured out how to make these things work for me. And I’d figured out that no one cared, not really. No one gave a shit about anything but himself. People were addled by their own chatter, their own personal litany of fears and insecurities, self-loathing, and selfish desires. Hardly anyone could hear over that. I was invisible if I wanted to be. And that’s what I would have been if not for Beck. She was the first person to notice me, the real me. She was the first person who ever really wanted me, who wanted to love me.
I pushed myself away from the computer. I couldn’t look at it anymore. I was about to leave, get my stuff and run as far away from this house as I could get when I noticed the light on in Luke’s walk-in closet. It beckoned me in.
I stood among Luke’s legion of blue jeans, chinos and cords, and primary-colored shirts, organized by shade and sleeve length. I snooped through a few of his drawers-underwear, socks, folded T-shirts in soft, scented stacks. Something, a draft, a sound, caused me to look up. And that’s when I saw the attic access door. I reached to pull on the dangling string, and the door came down easily. And a ladder unfolded smoothly with it. I looked up into the dark maw of the attic, and didn’t hesitate a second before I climbed up.
24
Do you believe in fate, diary? Do you believe that our whole lives are laid out before us, a path from which we cannot veer, with a predetermined end from which we cannot escape? I never believed in that. I always believed that you created your life. I always thought that all your power lay in your choices. I don’t believe that anymore.
The choices we made to bring us to Florida, to enroll our son in this new school, to be a family, a real family for maybe the first time? These were the right choices. They were positive and proactive. And it was, for a time, good for everyone, most especially our boy. But were these choices really? Or were they reactions? Reactions to something that life had thrown at us, something we didn’t choose and didn’t want. Is there a difference between reaction and choice? I don’t know the answer.
The good news is that our years down here have made all the difference for my child. Thanks to the teachers and counselors at his school, the success of a cocktail of medications he has been taking, his behavior has normalized. And the onset of puberty, albeit a much delayed onset, seems to have mostly corrected the hormonal imbalance he’d been suffering from. He’ll always be small. He’ll have little hair growth, and no discernible Adam’s apple. And, even I have to admit, there’s something decidedly feminine about him. But he’s calmer. Of course, he’s calm almost to the point of being flat. That’s the medication, though. He has loving moments, sweet moments. Moments when he seems just like any other kid. And for us, that’s a miracle.
People sometimes mistake him for a girl, but this doesn’t seem to bother him.
“I don’t feel like a boy or a girl,” he told me recently. And I didn’t know what to say. “I don’t know who to love.”
“Romantic love is overrated,” I told him. “Love yourself first.”
He nodded, seemed to understand. But maybe he didn’t. I only meant to say that I didn’t care about his sexual orientation, that he was free to be whoever he was. I just wanted him to find a way to be happy, in spite of his challenges.
And for the first time ever, I have hope that he might do that. He has attended the school for four years now. And his doctors believe that he is well enough, strong enough, to come home and go to a normal high school. And I agree. I am ready for him to return to us full-time. I only wish he was coming home to happier parents.
My husband and I have agreed to stay together for the sake of our son. I know: what a cliché. But there we are. Because our child’s mental health is so fragile, and I don’t believe he can handle another blow to his psyche, we have agreed to live our separate lives together. We won’t argue or fight in front of him. We have promised each other not to do that, and I hope we can be true to our word. I am not always great at biting back my feelings, or keeping from goading him when I’m angry. And my husband’s temper, his rage-it’s a force to be reckoned with. Is it any wonder our child has so many problems?
Whatever renaissance we briefly experienced in our love has waned again. I still have those dates in my calendar, those secret assignations where I pretended that he was my lover. It seems silly now. Any married couple knows that passion might be the pilot light of a successful relationship but it is not nearly enough to sustain you through the years. When hardships befall us, we don’t come together. We break apart.
He lost his job a while ago, or rather, his job disappeared from underneath him, leaving him in a professional free fall.
It was the blow to his ego, the loss of pride, the loss of the one thing he knew he could do better than anyone else. That’s what did him in. Because even when he was failing at home-disturbed child, marriage in tatters-he’d always had the work that he loved. The assignments that took him all over the world, the prizes and accolades, the television appearances-they nourished him. Without it all, he was starving.
Naturally, he blamed me. Because it’s always my fault. I had asked him to spend more time at home, so he took fewer and fewer assignments. We moved from New York, the hub of the universe, to Florida-its armpit according to my husband. Later, he took a position as an editor at his paper’s local field office. It felt to him like being put out to pasture. He was doing less and less of what he loved. At first, he said it was a gift, his opportunity to write the book he’d always wanted to write. But he didn’t do that.
Initially, our renewed passion distracted him from his career issues. But that proved short-lived. That was always the problem; without the big stuff-the passion, excitement, success-the little stuff was never enough to sustain us. The fighting started up again, the blaming, the accusing. It often got physical. I am ashamed to admit that there was a small, dark place inside me that enjoyed those battles. It was almost as if we craved and needed the drama. It was a welcome distraction from the day-to-day of a job he hated, the bills, the laundry, the house. Sometimes it seems as if, as a couple, we aren’t equipped to handle a normal existence. It’s almost a relief to connect in anger when we can’t connect any other way.
Now even our son has normalized to the extent that he will. Tomorrow, he’s starting at a well-regarded private high school near home. And my husband has sworn that he intends to hunker down into his novel-which is what all journalists do when they’ve been downsized. But I’m not sure that the quiet work of sitting and writing will agree with him-without the bustle of travel, the pressure of deadlines, the thrill of the interview. He’s just begun and already he is noticeably more cranky, sulky, frustrated.
And me? What about me? you ask. I suppose I’m all right. I volunteer at a group home for abandoned adolescent girls. Drawing on my distant and none-too-impressive fashion background, I teach them how to dress for success. I teach them about the message they send with their bodies, the clothes they choose, the signals that inadequate hygiene telegraphs to other people. I show them what’s appropriate for school, for job interviews, even for dates.
It might seem silly and frivolous. Does it? But I can see the girls’ self-esteem improving as they start to take pride in their appearance, maybe for the first time. I pay attention to each of them, helping them with hairstyles, light makeup, bringing clothes from my own closet, buying some things for each of them. I teach them to choose clothes that are appropriate, pretty, but not suggestive. And it’s funny how paying attention to these small things seems to make a big difference in how they feel. And I think I’m helping. And in helping them, I’m helping myself.