Waiting Read online

  When Caris got home, a plastic Safeway bag was hanging from the front door. Dale's toothbrush. Lena had not forgotten.

  *****

  The next week was a haze for Lena. She worked. She went to classes. She avoided her family, most of all Caris. Lena felt like a cancerous tumor was gnawing at her stomach. You have to tell Caris, you have to…

  Two weeks after the car wreck, Lena's cancer was unbearable. She woke up at eight a.m., before the alarm, and reached for the picture. She had a new morning habit. She would retrieve the photo from her nightstand top drawer. Wedding photo, only picture Lena had of Caris. Her lips had playful, dancing corner and a sly knowledge. Sensuality brimmed. Her strapless dress gave way to a delicious swell of breasts. Her curves were shapely and seductive.

  This morning, Lena studied the photo until her alarm went off at ten minutes after eight. Caris's smile and her mysterious expression were easy to get lost in.

  Lena had to tell her. Soon, before the cancer devoured Lena's stomach. Mom was transgender. And she tried to kill herself. I mean, he tried to kill himself. Kind of.

  Ugh. She was so bad with the pronouns.

  Lena could not bring herself to ring the townhouse doorbell, though. She told herself it was because her grandparents had moved in with Caris for the time being. Telling Caris with Shirley and George around would not do. Caris would need time to work through the revelations at her own pace, and they could decide together if or when to tell Shirley and George. The other, more real reason Lena was scared: Caris was accessible now, she was different. The change was slight, but it was there. Definitely there.

  Lena kept replaying the intensity in Caris's eyes during their conversation about domestic violence. Caris's touch on Lena's arm.

  Before, Caris would not have touched her.

  Caris had looked awful, no doubt about it. Purplish suitcases under her eyes. Limp hair. Until the car wreck, Caris had been too beautiful, too perfect, she had been elevated, she had been Lena's mother's wife. This post-pregnancy, grieving Caris was different. The old Caris would never have called Lena at one a.m.

  Lena padded into the kitchen to get her cellphone. She found Caris's number in her cell address book and pressed it.

  Caris answered on the third ring with a pleased, surprised: "Lena. Hi."

  Lena's heart fluttered. Brisk. Businesslike. Her gaze strayed to the trash can, where she had dumped a bouquet of calla lilies two days ago. The flowers were from Caroline. They came with a card reading: Love always, Caroline.

  "Caris, hello," Lena said. "Did you get the toothbrush?"

  "Yep. Thank you."

  Part of Lena ached to explain everything right then, about Nakeem and Aron and that one stupid night with Deonte, and that she had been looking at the children's pictures when Caris called at one a.m., but the cautious part of Lena won. "Are you free tomorrow night for dinner at my place?"

  Chapter 5

  "I'm not here to see you," Caris told Dale later that day. "Not really. I have an appointment with a shrink across the street. Figured I'd stop in."

  No response.

  "No, it wasn't my idea. Jennifer's. You know how she is. Therapy heals all wounds. She recommended him. Figured I'd give it a try."

  Did she imagine that Dale's right eyelid twitched?

  "Dr. Mark Lukaas. He's a big-name gay psychologist. Supposedly. I'd never heard of him."

  The eyelid twitched again, and Caris squeezed Dale's hand.

  Coma. Odd word. A heavy, multi-layered blend of four letters that struck fear in so many hearts. Yet it reminded Caris of a condiment. I'd like ketchup, pickles and a touch of coma with my hamburger, please. Wait. Sir! An extra packet of coma, please. Mmm! How about that coma. What's the secret sauce?

  Not only was Dale in a coma, she was likely paralyzed from the waist down. May I have combo #3 please? A chicken sandwich with paralysis—partial, please—and a side of coma fries.

  Shirley said it was a miracle that the injuries from the crash had not killed Dale. There was no "yet" with Shirley. Dale was going to live and be okay, and that was all there was to it. "It's a sign from God," she argued. "God's telling us Dale is a miracle. There will be more miracles." Whenever Shirley went on like that, George looked away, a shadow in his eyes.

  Caris was not buying the spiel either. She wondered what exactly her mother-in-law saw. Was she in denial, thinking that as long as she prayed and praised God, Dale would be okay? Shirley's religion was as newfound as a baby's smooth bottom. Before the accident, Caris had never heard Shirley use the word "God" except in occasional phrases such as "God damn it!" Foxhole atheist. As for Caris's religious inclinations, she was not sure and was in no hurry to find out. She was drained, exhausted. She was a girl Pinocchio going through the motions, yearning to be human—yearning to connect with her son and yearning to understand the person she had married.

  "Bye," Caris said, and Dale's eyelid twitched goodbye.

  *****

  Fifteen minutes later, Dr. Mark Lukaas said: "Not only are you a brand new mother, your wife is in the hospital, unresponsive. And she had been emotionally abusive. And probably cheating." A deep frown etched his face. Maybe because Caris had been thirty minutes late. "So, you're dealing with a lot of emotions."

  Einstein. "Right."

  "Were you satisfied with her before the emotional abuse began?"

  "Uh…" Caris's knee-jerk impulse was to say yes. And it seemed like the correct answer. "Yes. Dale used to do many things right. She massaged my feet. Cooked dinner. Made me feel loved. Looked at me with deep brown eyes and made the world safe."

  "What drew you to Dale?"

  "Her sharp mind. She could analyze the hell out of something, anything."

  Dr. Lukkas quirked an eyebrow as if to say: That's all?

  Caris sighed. "She projected stability. She was a rock."

  "Why was that an issue?"

  "When I was a child, my mother and I were always scrimping and scrounging. She was an alcoholic. Money went toward her drinks. I don't know who my father is. She blacked out and woke up pregnant." Caris clenched her right hand, hating how she was making herself sound. "The whole package drew to me to Dale, okay? My stepdaughter thought I was a gold digger. Oh, she never said so out loud, but it was pretty clear. I wasn't a gold digger, though. I loved Dale."

  "Go on."

  "Dale used to be a good listener. I miss telling her the little things. Like, you know, the other day I saw a poodle wearing a pink shirt and with pink bows in its hair. Really? Come on. Why do people feel the need to give poodles these ridiculous frou-frou haircuts? And names like Rocky or Keifer."

  Dr. Lukaas did not laugh. Damn. That was probably his poodle.

  "How was your sex life?" Dr. Lukaas asked.

  "Okay."

  "You were satisfied."

  Caris hesitated before answering. "We didn't have sex after my fourth or fifth month of pregnancy. If that. Our last time, she couldn't reach orgasm. She threw a fit, blaming me. She said I needed to work on my bedroom skills and that I was a lousy lover."

  "What did you say?"

  Caris ignored the lump at the bottom of her throat. "I don't remember." I don't know if I like being a mother. I don't know if I like my son.

  The timer on Dr. Lukkas' desk went off, playing a Beethoven sonata. His frown was back, as if to say: Please be on time next week.

  *****

  The next morning, Caris and Jennifer packed up Donovan and headed to the mall.

  "You excited to buy real clothes again?" Jennifer asked.

  "No. Ask me again in two months, when I have more of my body back."

  They went into a new store called Space. Caris had not told Jennifer that a specific event—pizza at Lena's apartment that night—was driving the shopping trip. She was not sure why. Having dinner with her stepdaughter was innocent. Maybe the hesitation was because Jennifer did not like Lena. Or maybe the hesitation was because it felt nice to have a little place to herself, a little know
ledge to herself. The urge to escape, to not be Caris Ismay, to not be Dale's wife, to not be Donovan's mother, had pounded at Caris since the car accident.

  When did time alone become such a bad thing? Her mother and Jennifer hovered. George had the tendency to pop up behind furniture and point out that so and so thing needed polishing or fixing up and that he would be glad to do it. Shirley was driving Caris nuts, with being always on about Dale this, Dale that: Dale smiled today, I swear it. This is nothing, she'll be back with us soon.

  In any case, nothing wrong with wanting to buy a stain-free shirt to commemorate having dinner with someone new.

  Caris plucked a dress in size eight, her pre-pregnancy size. The dress was a sleek black number that should have come to right above her knees.

  "That won't fit," Jennifer said.

  "Give me some credit. Looking isn't a crime." Caris grabbed a few shirts. "Be right back." She locked herself in a dressing room stall. A pumpkin was her reflection in the mirror. Awesome. I'm a walking advertisement for Halloween. Black sweat pants, orange T-shirt. The pinnacle of fashion. Lena's invitation for dinner had come at the perfect time.

  *****

  Lena had to look twice to make sure the woman who met her outside the apartment building was Caris. She looked fifty. Beaten down. Worn out. Her eyes were raccoon-like. Not so different from Lena's own eyes.

  But then Caris smiled, and the twenty extra years flew off.

  Lena shook off the pitter-patter of her heart and indicated her building. She lived only five minutes from the townhouse, but Caris had never been inside Lena's building. Perhaps she had driven by once or twice. Lena had no idea. "Welcome to my old maid among nubile virgins," she said. The house stood out among the renovated homes on the street. "I couldn't resist the color."

  "Cafeteria mystery meat color is nice."

  "Nice peeling, huh? Reminds me of a bad sunburn. Come on in."

  Lena led Caris through the house. Lena had separate keys for the main entrance and for her own unit. No buzzers, which was why she'd had to meet Caris outside. "I'm on the second floor."

  They walked up the staircase.

  "These are the steps you fell down?" Caris asked.

  "Yep."

  "Lots of them."

  "Guess so."

  Once they were in the apartment, Caris looked around the living room, and Lena tried to see the apartment through Caris's eyes. Was Caris comparing the apartment and the townhouse? She probably thought Lena's place was shit compared with her own expansive townhouse. Of course, that townhouse was Dale-bought, Dale-furnished. Lena would take her apartment over the townhouse any day.

  Lena was a naturally tidy person—reasonably tidy—but she had not dusted or vacuumed in a while before today. So, she had spent about an hour cleaning, and she hoped her effort was not too obvious. The scent of Pledge lingered faintly.

  "You get the grand tour by standing right there," Lena said, making her voice light. "Well, except for the bathroom." From where Caris and Lena were in the middle of the living room, they could see into the bedroom. A short hallway led from the bedroom to the bathroom. The kitchen adjoined the living room. All there was to it.

  The furniture was eclectic and scrounged from Goodwill. Lena did not have a true couch, but instead a loveseat. And a purple plaid Laz-Boy, a reupholstered monstrosity from the 1980s.

  "I love it," Caris said.

  "You do?"

  Lopsided grin. "It's you, Lena."

  Lena averted her gaze. Otherwise, she would look at Caris a heartbeat too long—several heartbeats too long. "We should go back outside and wait for the pizza."

  "Can I use your bathroom?"

  "Sure. I'll wait for the pizza."

  "Lena." Caris reached for her arm. Kept her touch there.

  Don't touch me. Please. "What?" Lena hoped her voice was not high or strangled.

  Caris grinned. "I needed to get out of the house badly. You have no idea. Thanks for having me over."

  *****

  Caris unbuttoned her elephant maternity jeans and sat on the toilet. Her urination took a few seconds to get going. Hopefully there would not be blood. That had pretty much stopped, but yesterday had brought some spotting.

  Lena had a couple of framed black and white pictures on the walls, of women naked, kissing and making love. Women with perfect curves, perfect bodies. Clearly exposed breasts, nipples, trimmed pussies.

  Women who were not cows, who didn't moo, who did not have babies scrambling for their udders.

  Black and white. That was what Caris would do when Lena told her whatever it was she needed to say. The shadow in Lena's eyes just now had told Caris that this dinner was not social. Lena had something to say about her mother. Something bad. Caris would compartmentalize and keep functioning. She would get through it.

  *****

  Lena was on the loveseat. "Got the pizza." She indicated the box on the coffee table.

  The thought of eating, of cheese and grease and a secret, made Caris sick. But she forced a grin. "Smells great."

  "Drink?"

  "Do you have Sprite?"

  "Coming right up."

  Caris sat. What was Lena going to tell her? Dale was cheating? Dale was leaving her? Huge surprise. Huge secret.

  Lena returned with two cans of Sprite, one tucked under her chin because of her cast. Caris grinned and lowered her gaze to the cast. Signatures smothered it. "Guess there's no room for my John Hancock."

  "You can sign on top of whatever."

  Caris opened both of their Sprites. "You and I, sometimes it's like walking through a minefield. We're basically the same age. It's weird. I know."

  "It is, yes."

  Caris sipped from her Sprite. "I broke my leg when I was twelve. Most of my classes in middle school were on the third floor. Pain in the ass. I had to crutch up and down several times a day."

  "Hmm."

  "Will you come by sometime? Meet the baby."

  "I met him already."

  Caris felt a muscle twitch at her jaw. You met him for one second.

  "Shit," Lena muttered. "That came out wrong. I meant—yes, of course. I'll come by. Is he a good baby?"

  "He was good the first few days. Now he's a crying beast."

  "Lovely."

  Caris leaned in, feeling the overwhelming urge to confide in someone. Lena would be a good person to tell. She didn't want kids. She wouldn't get that look in her eyes. That look of surprise, disappointment. Well, hopefully. "I don't feel like his mother. Like a mother," Caris said.

  A searching gaze. Shifting browns and greens. Lena smelled good. Citrus spray, maybe.

  "I feel like I'm on Candid Camera. I'm acting. I hold him, and I can tell he's cute. He's sweet. I pat him, I rock him, I breast feed him. But there's a part of my heart that tells me I'm missing something."

  "Do you have postpartum depression?"

  "I don't think so. I looked up the symptoms. Agitation or irritability. Changes in appetite. Feelings of worthlessness or guilt. Thoughts of death or suicide. A long list of blah blah blah. Trouble sleeping. That one I have. My doctor says to just give it time."

  "You're dealing with a lot. My mom and all."

  "Can you sleep? What's your trick?"

  "No trick." Lena indicated the bruises under her eyes. "Seriously, do you think this is makeup? You think I go around looking like this for the fun of it?"

  Caris laughed. "I'm up all night. Either pacing and thinking, waiting for the baby to cry, and then trying to calm him down, or wondering how your grandmother can snore so loud. Your mother somehow made snoring elegant. Not your grandmother. She's a bulldozer. An artillery tank. A machine gun."

  "It doesn't bother Granddad?"

  "He sleeps on the couch. The pull-out."

  "Oh."

  "Yeah. So at night, I can't even go down and lay out on the couch or watch TV. I'm stuck in my bedroom. Ahh. I don't mean to talk negative. Shirley is at the hospital a lot of nights, and George sleeps in the spa
re bedroom then. So I do have plenty of opportunity for crappy late-night TV. Your grandparents are a great help. Wonderful with the baby."

  Lena offered a tentative smile. "Good. That's good."

  "Look, Lena." Caris closed her hand over Lena's non-cast hand and braced herself. "Why am I here?"

  "Mom was transgender," Lena mumbled.

  Caris was sure she misheard. "Pardon?"

  "Mom was transgender. She told me six months ago that she was a man in a woman's body."

  Caris stared at Lena a long moment, then at Lena's green curtains. They were lacy, flowing, and Caris became vaguely aware of Lena's hand still in hers. Of Lena entwining their fingers. Lena rested her back against the couch cushion and let out a little sigh.

  Lena's fingers were long and slim. Their hands fit. Dale had thick, blocky fingers. Their hands had fit too, before Dale became—Stop. Don't compare Dale and Lena like categories on an Excel spreadsheet.

  Transgender.

  Really? No way.

  Lena's hand in hers was no longer calm and reassuring. The touch burned, and scorched, like how ants under a magnifying glass on a sunny day must feel, but Caris was too shocked to do anything. For some reason, her mind traveled to the time Lena came out. Interesting: Caris had been out and proud since she was seventeen. Lena had come out to her mother and Caris only two years ago, when Lena was twenty-seven. Lena had done it in the living room at the townhouse, and Dale's mouth had fallen open.

  "Gay?" Dale said in disbelief. "Oh, Lena." In a pained, displeased way. Some kind of internalized homophobia, maybe, and provoking tears from Lena. Caris tried to hug her, but Lena pushed her away. Lena had worn her green skirt then, the skirt she wore like jeans. Her shirt had been in a blue camouflage pattern. Odd combination perhaps, but on Lena, it worked.

  Transgender. Transgender. The word bounced off the curtains and Caris's nonabsorbent brain. "Transgender," Caris echoed stupidly. Like Lena had said Dale was an orangutan, or a time traveler, or the secret queen of England.