Royally Crushed (28 page)

“Was it the historical film with that British actor? The blond one?”

Historical film? She’s making it sound like it should be on A&E. I keep a straight face and reply, “Yes. He’s Australian, though.”

“Bet he looked pretty hot, too.”

Come again? She’s mocked my obsession forever, but I have to wonder, does
she
actually think he looks good? And then I totally crack up, because I can see from her face that she said it to be funny.

“You looked like you could use a good laugh,” she says.

“Definitely.”

I know, I know. It’s a strange thing to bond over, but I’m gonna take what I can get.

“Gabrielle’s asleep already. I thought it might be a good time for the two of us to just sit and chat if you’re not too tired.”

“Sure.” I’m beat, even though I took a nap after the girls left this afternoon just so I wouldn’t crash at the movie, but I figure now’s as good a time as any to talk to her—especially if she’s in a jokey mood.

She looks a little uncomfortable even though she’s still smiling, and I get the impression she wants to talk about Dad—how he’s getting along in Schwerinborg, if he’s seeing anyone, if he’s making sure I’m eating healthy food, all that type of information.

Since the absolute last thing I want to do is report to Mom about Dad, or vice versa (mostly because Jules warned me about this happening and says not to even think about telling one parent about the other), I decide to make a preemptive strike. “You know, this afternoon I saw you kiss Gabrielle on the cheek in the kitchen when I was talking with the girls.”

One of Mom’s eyebrows arches up at this, but I keep going. “I know you two are trying to keep things low-key so you won’t freak me out. I mean, it was obvious at the airport. You never got within arm’s reach of her, but you kept giving each other looks when you thought I wasn’t watching.”

“Was that upsetting to you?”

“No. Not really.” I pick at a piece of lint on the arm of the chair, then make a face. “Well, maybe it was. But I think you two should just act normal around me, even if
I’m only here for a week. Dad says we’ll move back here for good after the next election, no matter who wins the White House, so I’m going to have to get used to you guys being together sooner or later.”

Mom reaches over and puts her hand on top of mine. “Gabby and I are doing our best to make this transition as painless as possible for you.”

“I know that.”

“But you’re still pretty uncomfortable with it?”

I nod. “I don’t have a problem with you being gay, I don’t think. It’s more that you found someone else so fast. I mean, even if you’d hooked up with a guy, I’d be torqued by all of this.”

Mom is quiet, and I know she wants me to look at her. When I do, she just tilts her head and gives me one of those looks that says she knows better.

“Fine, I’m uncomfortable with the gay thing too. But I’m trying very hard not to be. I don’t
want
to be.”

“I appreciate that. More than you can ever know.” She gives my hand a squeeze and her eyes get all watery. “It might not seem like it sometimes, but you’re the most important person in my whole life, Valerie. I’d do anything for you and I want you to know that.”

“I do.”

“But I can’t not be who I am.”

In a completely non-snarky voice, I say, “You made that very clear.”

“I never wanted to hurt you or your father. I love him very much, and I always will. But when I met Gabrielle, I realized why I’ve been so . . . well, that’s probably a whole different conversation. Suffice it to say I realized that I’d been living a lie, and I finally understood, deep in my soul, why my marriage to your father never felt quite right. It wasn’t easy for me to do what I did, and it took me a long time to work up the courage to leave. Mostly because I was afraid of how it’d affect you and your father. I didn’t want you to be hurt.”

“It did hurt, though.” It
still
hurts. “But I know it wasn’t on purpose. And Dad’s been great about it all. He’s never said one bad thing about you.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and stands up. “I think we woke up Gabrielle.”

At that moment, I hear the toilet in the hall bathroom flush. “Sorry. I was probably talking too loud. She won’t be pissed, will she?”

“Don’t say ‘pissed.’ Your father will kill me if you go back to Schwerinborg using that kind of language,” she says, though she’s smiling. “And no, she won’t be.”

A minute later, Gabrielle comes out into the living
room. She has a sleepy look on her face and her hair’s looking pretty bad, but she seems agreeable enough, so I doubt she overheard anything. Not that she isn’t already aware of everything we talked about, anyway.

“How was your date, Valerie?”

I give her the Valerie Shrug. “Okay, I guess.” Like I’m going to discuss my love life with Gabrielle when I can barely talk about it with my parents—though I do give her props for being courteous enough to ask.

“Your friends seem pretty cool. I really like Christie. Jeremy and David are nice, too.”

Damn straight. “Thanks, I’ve always thought so.”

Mom gives my shoulder a quick squeeze—probably for being polite to Gabby—then starts organizing the magazines on the coffee table, which is always the signal she’s about to go to bed. “Gabrielle and I wanted to take you someplace tomorrow as a surprise, but I just had another thought. If I can get appointments, how about if we go to that day spa we always liked in Vienna first?”

“That’d be cool.” I haven’t had a manicure in ages and ages, and I love getting them. Maybe, if Mom’s feeling particularly guilty and they have an opening, I can get a facial, too. That’d rock.

But then I see a little look pass between Gabrielle and my mom. I get the feeling that wherever else they were—
or are—planning to take me isn’t going to be something I’ll like.

“So what’s the surprise?”

Mom gives me a grin that’s way too perky for this time of night. “Just that. A surprise. But I promise, you’ll like it.”

Right.

“What do you think?” I lean forward, pulling the seat belt to its max so I can extend my fingers into the gap between the two front seats of Mom’s SUV to show off my manicure.

“Love that red!” Gabrielle says, inspecting my nails. “What shade was that? I must’ve missed it.”

“It’s called Rock the Vote Red. It’s one of the Nicole colors.” I usually go for pinks, but the name of the polish screamed out to me. I figured picking Rock the Vote would be a good luck charm to make doubly sure whoever wins the White House in November hires (or remembers to rehire, in President Carew’s case) my dad.

I can only hope.

“Very pretty,” my mom says. “Which did you end up with, Gabby?”

“It’s called Blushingham Palace.” She waggles her pink-tipped fingers in the air, and her whole attitude reminds me that she’s a freaking decade younger than my mom, at least. “I think I like your Rock the Vote color better, though. I’m
going to have to remember to look at the Nicole colors next time we go back. I love supporting them, since the company gives so much money to charitable causes.”

Of course.

“I bought a bottle so I could do touch-ups,” I tell her. “I’m probably not going to take it on the plane, so you can have it if you want.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure.” The more people who wear get-Dad-his-job-back polish the better. Plus, for my mom’s sake, I figure I’m going to have to be nice to Gabrielle eventually. She might be a mom-stealer, and she might’ve made me eat whole-grain pancakes for breakfast (made with soy milk, which gave them a bizarre aftertaste—and pancakes should
not
have an aftertaste)—but maybe, if I try really hard, I can convince myself she’s not so bad.

I see Mom smile to herself. “Maybe I’ll try out the color, then, too.”

“I’ve never seen you use color.” I look at Gabrielle. “She’s worn nude polish or had a French manicure for as long as I can remember. Red would be a serious departure for her.”

“Well, life’s an adventure. We’ll drag your mother along kicking and screaming if we have to, right Valerie?” She reaches back to rub my head, like I’m in kindergarten
or something. “She needs a little change in her life!”

Okay. Bonding moment over. The whole life’s-an-adventure philosophy is too much like that moving cheese book’s philosophy (yeah, I flipped through it, so sue me) and I do
not
need to be reminded of the cheese book.

“So will you tell me where we’re going now?” We’re headed out of Vienna, toward Burke. “Or is it still a surprise?”

“Hang on for another five minutes, honey, and we’ll be there.” She’s still smiling, but the smile’s not reaching her eyes anymore. Wherever we’re going, I can tell she’s worried I might not like it.

And if she thinks that, I can safely assume I won’t.

Mom turns the SUV onto a suburban street, taking us through a neighborhood of colonial and Tudor-style homes, all with yards kept pristine by landscaping services. We pass a neighborhood park, then she slows down as we approach a church. Apprehension gets the better of me as we pull into the parking lot. There are six or seven cars parked by the back door, and that’s where Mom pulls in too.

“Um, Mom? You’re Episcopalian.” And I’m guessing Gabrielle believes only in Evangelical Vegetarianism. “You might’ve deduced from the red flag draped over the cross and the big sign out front that this is a Methodist establishment. And it isn’t even Sunday.”

“I’m well aware of the date and our location.”

“Are we going to a Bible study?” A gay Bible study, maybe? If so, this would take the cake. And it’s the kind of thing I can totally see Mom wanting to bring me to, hoping it’ll make me feel better about her and Gabrielle, and to keep me from believing the Religious Right types who are bound to tell me that Mom and Gabby are going to hell, or that what they’re doing makes them not good Christians anymore.

We always went to church together—me, Mom, and Dad—until Mom moved out. Dad only goes sporadically in Schwerinborg, and I’ve gone with him, but I figure Mom’s been going all along. And she definitely believes in God, so I know she’s not going to hell.

But a Methodist church? Are they more open to gays or something? I know there were a few articles in the newspaper a while back about some gay pastor (or bishop?) in New Hampshire, but I can’t remember what kind of church it was.

Or if it was even New Hampshire. Could have been Vermont.

“It’s not a Bible study.” Mom shuts off the ignition and gestures for me to unbuckle ’cause she apparently wants me to come into the church. As she opens the back door for me, she says, “It’s a pee-flag support group meeting.”

As I follow Mom and Gabrielle across the parking lot, I shoot her a look that says,
support group
? And
Pee Flag
? “A what?”

“P-F-L-A-G. Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays.”

“We thought you’d enjoy sitting in on a meeting while you’re home,” Gabrielle adds, pushing open the back door and leading us down a semidark hallway. I’m getting a real queasy feeling, and she must be able to tell, because she looks over her shoulder and adds, “You don’t have to participate, just listen. I think, if you allow your heart and mind to stay open to the discussion, you’ll come to understand that you’re not alone in your world experience. That your mother is better for coming out and that you’ll be better for it, too, in the long run.”

I’m so not wanting to hear Gabby’s psychobabble. As if my mind needs more opening to world experience. I mean, what does she think I got being shipped off to live in
Schwerinborg
?

And better for it? How in the world did she say that with a straight face?!

I put my hand on Mom’s elbow to attempt a last-minute appeal. “Can’t we—”

“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.” Mom opens the door to a brightly lit room with about a dozen people mingling
inside and drinking coffee from a big silver urn. A guy who I’d put at about seventeen years old waves to Mom. She gives me a little push into the room, then introduces me to “John” before I can even argue. “I’m sure you two will have a lot to talk about,” she says.

I mumble something vaguely polite to John, because Dad has drilled
polite
into my head from birth, but I can’t focus on John at all. I’m still trying to process Pee-Flag and the fact I’m here and simply
do
not
belong. I mean, please. My mom has definitely flipped out this time.

This is way worse than a self-help book.

“Hi, Valerie!” one of the women says as she bounces—and I do mean bounces—across the room to stand beside John Boy. Her smile is Hollywood fake—as in I’m wondering if it’s been surgically uplifted—and it’s clear she knows Mom (and who I am) and that this whole PFLAG ambush has been planned.

“Great, you’re here!” Mom says to Bouncy Lady. “I’ll be back in an hour for Valerie. I know she’s in good hands.”

“You’re leaving?” I hiss, trying not to be rude but really not caring at this point. How can she leave me here?

But she and Gabrielle scoot out the door without even bothering to answer me, and I’m stuck all alone in a room full of strange people. Worse, every last one of
them is staring at me like I’m the newest attraction in the National Zoo’s primate exhibit.

Great.

I glance toward a wooden rack on the rear wall of the room. It’s filled with brochures about the church. I focus on one with a little cross on the front, mostly so I don’t have to look at Bouncy Lady and John Boy and let them see my panic.

God, get me through this, please,
I scream inside my head.

Because if I don’t end up on some psychiatrist’s couch soon, it truly will be an act of God.

“I’M YOLANDA. I’M THE GROUP LEADER,” BOUNCY LADY
says. I wonder if she’s on uppers or something, but decide that no, she’s just one of those fidgety people who hops around like a little kid her entire life. Like she’s on a permanent Kool-Aid rush.

“Hi, Yolanda. Nice to meet you.” I shake her hand, but I feel like a complete idiot. A
trapped
idiot. I tilt my head toward a bunch of gray metal folding chairs, which are arranged in a C-shape in three rows at the other end of the room. A couple of people are sitting there with their coffee, but most of the chairs are empty while everyone stands and yaks in little groups. “Um, should I just sit?”