As the train emerged from the tunnel I looked out the window. Kerry did not say how my mother came to be at the house. I am sure she was as discombobulated as I was. Kerry was not as generous as my Aunt Mary was about forgiveness. She would forgive me anything, and had forgiven my stubbornness, but I did not know if she could ever forgive someone who hurt me. My mother hurt me.
She hurt me because of what she, and my father, did to my Aunt Mary and if that were not bad enough, her treatment of my Aunt Mary meant she would treat me in the same way if she knew I too was a lesbian.
What could Mom have said to draw my mother here two days before Mary’s wedding? And what about Mary? Was she involved? Had she spoken to my mother? What was Mary’s take? And most important, had my mother changed? What made her so horrible to Aunt Mary and thus to me was a part of who she was. In some perverse way, it was not fair to criticize her because her beliefs were embedded in her very soul. In her view, literally in her soul.
I did not even know if she knew that I was gay let alone that I was engaged to a woman. Had I been outed? She was sitting with Kerry, and Kerry made it clear that she controlled access to me, which pleased me. Of course, that Eileen had done something to get this whirlwind started meant that my mother at least knew I was in a close relationship with her daughter. But did she know more than that? If she did, would she sacrifice me on an altar to her God? I mean, in the end, that is what we are talking about here. My grandparents sacrificed their daughter Mary on that altar. My father did the same, after growing into the reality of Aunt Mary’s exile.
Because of what was done to Aunt Mary, they exiled me. It was like some chapter of the Old Testament.
My mother and I were never close. My father worked long hours and spent his downtime out playing golf and zipping around to conferences and seminars. My mother did her charitable work. She grew up in Oakland and had a degree from Berkeley, working at a San Francisco financial firm after graduation. She met my father at a Catholic church function held in a San Francisco parish, and they got close doing projects there.
She quit work shortly after she got pregnant with me, at which point she started volunteering at the parish in Mill Valley. While she did try, her heart, a caring heart, was devoted to the people that she worked to help, and she did good work and performed a lot of good deeds for them. But she and my father were not close to either me or to Eric, who was born six years after me. I think there were several miscarriages in the gap, and they never had another child, but my mother never told me any of this. When I asked, Aunt Mary said she knew nothing about it.
Kind as she was, my mother was also dogmatic. Abortion. Gay rights. My parents were against them. Her views on gays were part of who my mother was, and being gay was part of who I was. When I started law school, I called home each Sunday.
Over time the calls became briefer and briefer. This was on me. I was losing any interest I once had in what my mother was involved with and was getting less comfortable telling her about the mundane events of my days as they centered more and more around Kerry and I felt guilty that by not mentioning Kerry, I was not being honest with my mother. By Christmas my first year, which I shared with Kerry and her Mom, whatever connection I had with my mother was gone.
After wishing she and my father and Eric a Merry Christmas, I did not call again. I was about to enter that horrible stretch of trying to deal with my feelings for Kerry, and going through the motions with my parents was the last thing on my mind. It was unfair, I know, and knew, but it was not something I could then deal with. I ghosted them, ignoring the voicemail messages and the emails and the texts. My only communication with my parents was to tell them that I was not going to be enrolled in the law school for the Fall term and that I would no longer be living in the 87th Street apartment effective September 1.
Indeed, the first I heard from any of them in 2017 was on Thanksgiving when Eric called me out of the blue while I was helping get dinner ready at Kerry’s house.
Now my mother was waiting for me with Kerry at the Tuckahoe Station. I was in the last car and I was two stops away. I still had not formulated what I would say. Whether I would say anything. Whether I would get off the damn train.
I did much the same the prior August. Also in the last car. A Sunday morning, and I was preparing for what I would say to Kerry. Things today were different. I was not sorry, as I had been with Kerry. That my parents were gone to me, yes. But not insofar as I felt any responsibility for that. This was on them and always would be.
I knew I loved Kerry. I was not sure about my mother.
I was neither sorry for what I did nor did I feel love for who she was. As I rode the train, I could think of nothing to say when I got off. It was entirely on her. She had to show me not that she was sorry. She had to show me that she was a different person. Again and again, I came back to doubting whether that was possible or, I had to admit, proper given the importance of faith in her life.
The train rolled to a stop, and I stood at the door, waiting for it to open, taking one last, deep breath.
Another train platform for another life-altering conversation.