The Reluctant Daughter Part 20

"Trust me. You'll see."

"Oh, all right, but you'll have to wait a minute. I have something for you, too." Jack and I were born a mere two weeks apart and I thought it only fair for me to give him a gift to acknowledge his upcoming special day.

"I'll get it," Allie says, striding across the lawn toward the house. She comes back a few minutes later carrying a tray of iced tea for my parents, with Jack's present tucked under her arm.

"Why, Lydia, you shouldn't have." Jack is obviously surprised and pleased by the present, which is all wrapped up in s.h.i.+ny green paper and tied with a silver bow. "Thanks a lot."

"Maybe you better wait and see what it is first before you thank me," I say, tearing open the envelope he gave me. "Oh my G.o.d, Jack."

"What is it?" Allie asks, peering over my shoulder.

"Not one, but two tickets to the Barbra Streisand concert at Madison Square Garden. Wow, Jack, I can't believe it."

"May I point out that those are orchestra seats?" Jack says, making sure I fully appreciate his gift. Which I do.

"Jack, I am truly, truly impressed," I say, putting the tickets back in their envelope and handing them to Allie. "You better lock these up in our safe," I tell her. "I'm sure they're worth a small fortune."

Satisfied, Jack shrugs like it was nothing. "Hey, what can I say? That's what you get when your cousin works in the industry. My turn." He tears the wrapping paper off his present, opens it, and holds up the T-s.h.i.+rt I had made especially for him at our local copy shop, reading out loud: "My sister turned fifty and all I got was this lousy T-s.h.i.+rt." Jack chuckles and then looks from the s.h.i.+rt to me with one eyebrow raised. "Sister?" he asks.

"Sister," I answer. "The correct word for 'female sibling.' Which is what I am to you, since we do share a set of parents." I smile at him warmly. "Do you like it?"

"I love it," he says, planting a sloppy kiss on my cheek. "Thanks a lot, Sis."

"You're very welcome, Bro."

The party goes on, lasting well into the late afternoon and early evening, and everyone continues to enjoy themselves. I look around, happy and relieved that even my family seems to be having a good time: my father is explaining to the caterer how to get red wine stains out of white tablecloths (cold water and salt is the trick) and my mother has attached herself to Vera and Serena and is telling them how to cure the heartburn that pregnancy brings (eat a few almonds every hour). Jack is handing out business cards to all the lesbian mothers and urging them to bring their kids in for a screen test, and Crystal, winegla.s.s in hand, is flirting with the handsome caterer serving drinks behind the bar. All my guests taken care of, I scan the crowd for Allie, but instead my eyes fall upon someone sitting by herself on the steps of our side porch who is staring down at her hands, not enjoying herself at all. Horrified that one of my guests is having such a terrible time, I go to her immediately.

"Hi, B.J.," I say, sinking down beside her on the porch. "You're not having any fun at all, are you?"

"No, but what else is new? And anyway, it's not your fault."

"Whose fault is it?" I ask, already guessing the answer. Whose fault is everything when you're an adolescent girl? Your mother's. Proving me correct, B.J. glances sideways and scowls with disdain in the direction of Crystal, who is now holding court at a table of pre-teens whose mothers all veer toward this side of butch and know next to nothing about hair care, clothing, and makeup. "She never, ever listens to me." B.J. explodes with the intensity and pa.s.sion only a teenager can muster. "She won't even call me B.J. It's my name and that's what she should call me. But she won't. Just because she's my mother, she thinks she knows everything . She doesn't care about my opinions. She doesn't care about what I have to say. She doesn't care about me at all. And neither does my father."

"I'm sure they care about you, even if they don't always show it. But it's hard, isn't it?" I put a tentative arm around B.J.'s shoulder as she cringes at the mere sound of her mother's high-pitched laughter.

"She wishes I was like them ." B.J. indicates the admiring girly-girls swarming around Crystal with disgust. "Well, I used to be, but I'm not anymore, okay?"

"Okay," I say, which makes B.J. turn toward me with surprise. "I think you're fine just the way you are."

"You do?"

"Sure, B.J. I think you're great. There's nothing wrong with you."

B.J. stares down at her hands again, pondering this. "You grew up with my father, right?" she asks me, looking up after a minute. I hold her gaze and nod. "What was he like when he was my age?"

A n.a.z.i, I think, remembering all the ways Jack tortured me when we were young, because of the way I looked, the way I acted, the way I thought. But I don't think it's a good idea to tell B.J. that. "He was sad," I say after a minute, which is really more the truth. "His mother died when he was just about your age, you know, and his father just took off. Talk about not caring. Jack had a pretty rough time."

B.J. considers this. "Did you know my mother's parents kicked her out of the house when she was sixteen?"

"No, I didn't know that." I look across the yard over at Crystal. "What happened?"

"I don't know." B.J. shrugs her bony little shoulders. "I don't think she meant to tell me. But one day when she was yelling at me for something, she said if I didn't change my lousy att.i.tude she'd throw me out on the street just like her parents had done to her."

"Wow." I keep staring at Crystal, who must sense she's being studied, because she looks over and raises her gla.s.s in our direction in a silent toast. "You know, B.J., n.o.body gets off easy. Everyone has a rough childhood. I'm sure your mom was devastated when they kicked her out."

"I guess. But..." As I wait for B.J. to continue, I study her face, noticing how pretty she is, despite her lack of grooming and personal hygiene. She is her mother's daughter after all, complete with those supermodel cheekbones, dimpled chin, and large green eyes. "You're a feminist, right, Lydia?"

"You betcha." Raising my right fist high, I shout, "Sisterhood is powerful," and pound the air twice as if I am hammering an invisible nail into an invisible wall.

B.J. looks at me like I'm the weirdest person she has ever met, so I sheepishly lower my arm. "It's just something we feminists used to do," I tell her. "In the good old days when we were fighting the good fight. Which, by the way, we still are."

"Is that why you don't have any children?" she asks me.

"Oh no, B.J. You can be a feminist and a mother at the same time," I a.s.sure her. "I just never wanted to be a parent, that's all."

"But how come?"

I look out over my party as I think about how to answer B.J. and my gaze falls on Vera, whose hand is resting on Serena's swollen stomach. From the expression of sheer bliss that has taken over her face, I know she has just felt the baby kick. "I guess I've always known I'm not really mommy material," I admit to B.J. and to myself. "I'm not the kind of person who can give up everything you have to give up in order to be a good parent. I mean, it's not all sacrifice; you do give up a lot but you get a lot, too. At least, that's what I've been told. But still, it's just not right for me. Though you know what I would like to be?" I turn to look at B.J. "This might sound kind of strange, but what I'd really like is to be a grandmother. Without being a mother. But I haven't figured out a way to do that yet. Can you?"

B.J. takes my question seriously. "No," she says after thinking it over. "I don't think you can be a grandmother if you aren't a mother first. But I know something else you can be."

"What's that?" I try to catch her eye but she looks away.

"You could be like a really cool aunt or something," she says softly, her face turning just the faintest shade of pink as she mumbles her suggestion.

"Hmm," I hold my chin in my hand and nod a few times. "I think I could probably do that. On one condition, though."

"What's that?"

"Only if you'll be my really cool niece. Deal?" I hold out my hand.

"Deal," B.J. says, giving me a firm shake.

"Lydia, can you come over here for a minute?" Allie calls from the midst of the party.

"I think I'm wanted. Come with me." I stand and reach for B.J.'s hand. We walk toward Allie, who is pouring gla.s.ses of champagne and handing them out to everyone. I accept one from her and ask for another. "But just fill it halfway. Not even. This much." I hold my thumb and forefinger two inches apart.

"Like so?" Allie asks.

"That's good. Thank you," I say, taking the gla.s.s from her and, in my first official act as B.J.'s really cool aunt, hand it to my recently acquired niece with a flourish.

"For me?" she asks, widening her eyes and obviously so pleased that she momentarily drops her disgruntled, sullen teenager persona. "Gee, thanks, Aunt Lydia."

"You're welcome, B.J.," I say, the sound of my new handle uttered in her sweet young voice music to my ears.

Once the champagne is distributed, and some flattering and embarra.s.sing toasts have been made, a breathless and breathtaking Marilyn Monroe impersonator shows up to deliver a silly singing telegram sent by Colleen, who couldn't leave her brood to join the fun. When she is through crooning, everyone turns to me and soon a cry goes up. "Speech! Speech!" my guests all chorus. I look to Allie for help but she doesn't offer any.

"Oh, okay, if you insist," I say, pretending that I mind being the center of all this attention. "I'm going to keep this very short and sweet."

"Like you," someone calls out.

"Like me," I acknowledge, overwhelmed by so much love. "Thank you all for coming. It means the world to me. There aren't that many people whose friends are their family and whose family are their friends." I look around until I catch my mother's eye. She smiles at me with pride. "I feel very, very lucky."

More champagne is poured as I raise my gla.s.s high. "To the next fifty years," I say.

"Hear, hear."

"Salud."

"L'chaim."

A large sheet cake covered with white icing appears out of nowhere and is placed in front of me, blazing with fifty red candles. "Oh my G.o.d," I say, stepping back from the heat. "Is it hot in here or is it me?" At first I am joking, but then I realize that the warmth I feel spreading from my chest up to my neck and face is coming from somewhere deep inside me.

"She's having her first hot flash," Vera announces to the crowd like a proud mother. " Mazel tov, Lydia!" Laughing, she hands me my fan, which I take gratefully and then flutter in front of my flushed face in a vain attempt to cool down. Then, with B.J.'s help, I blow out all of my candles, not even bothering to make a wish because everything I could possibly hope for has already come true.

"YOU DON'T LOOK a day over fifty," Allie says the next morning the split second I open my eyes.

I roll over on my side to look at her, sending a miffed Mishmosh tumbling off my stomach and out of bed. "How long have you been awake, staring at me and waiting to say that?"

"A while, sleepyhead." Allie props herself up on one elbow and smiles at me. "Did you like your party?"

"I loved my party. Except I didn't get to see very much of you. Thanks for being such a big help."

Allie shrugs one shoulder. "Hey, I was only doing my job. What else are butches for? But the party isn't over yet."

"It isn't?"

"Nope." As Allie gazes at me, her eyes darken with a look I know well. The look of desire. "What about having a little celebration for just the two of us right now?"

"Great idea." I reach up for her and just as she takes me in her arms and the festivities begin, wouldn't you know it-the phone starts to ring.

"Oh no," Allie groans in my ear. "Why does it always do that? How does it know?"

"Shh, Let me listen." I cover her mouth softly, just as our answering machine clicks on.

"Hi, Lollipop, it's Mom."

"Lollipop?" Allie asks, nibbling my fingers. I clamp my hand over her mouth to shush her again.

"I'm just calling because you asked me to let you know that your father and I got home safe, which we did. Jack's driver dropped us off late last night, just after midnight. All right? So now you can stop worrying about me, and let me start worrying about you. That's the way it's supposed to be, the mother worrying about the daughter, not the other way around." My mother stops speaking, clears her throat, and then coughs, a dry hacking sound that strikes terror into my heart. Did I find my mother so late in life, only to turn around and lose her? "It's nothing, Lydia. It's only a tickle in my throat," she continues as if she can hear my thoughts. "Listen, I'm no spring chicken, what can I tell you. When you get to be my age, you get a little ache, a little pain, a little cough, that's all. It's nothing to be concerned about. I'm fine. I mean it. Even the doctor says so, okay? He says I'll have days, and I'll have days. So don't worry about me. Just enjoy. Happy birthday again, sweetheart. I love you. And I'll speak to you during the week."

"All right now?" Allie asks once the machine clicks off.

"All right," I say nuzzling into her arms.

Much much later, after hunger propels us out of bed, I play my mother's message again. And again. And again. Allie complains, but I don't care. I'm making up for lost time. A lot of lost time.

It took me half a century to find my mother.

She was well worth the wait.

Author's Note.

The care, love, generosity, and wisdom of many extraordinary people sustained me during the writing of this book. I am grateful to: My family, whose unconditional love and support have made all the difference each and every day of my entire life; My remarkable friends, each of whom I adore and could not live without (you know exactly who you are!); The talented members of my precious writing group: Ann Turner, Anna Kirwan, Barbara Diamond Goldin, Corinne Demas, Ellen Wittlinger, Jane Yolen, and Patricia MacLachlan, who gave me invaluable insight and feedback on various drafts of this book; Other very special writers and friends whose support and/or feedback were extraodinarily helpful: Tzivia Gover, Joann Kobin, Suzanne Strempek Shea, Martha Nelson Patrick, Lynn Matteson, Beth Spong, Marilyn Eve Silberglied, Meryl Cohn, and Janet Feld; My wonderful agent, Elizabeth Harding of Curtis Brown, Ltd. for her unflagging enthusiasm, sharp eye, and ceaseless support, and her extremely intelligent, not to mention utterly fabulous colleague, Mitch.e.l.l Waters; All the amazing people at Bold Strokes Books who do such fine work, especially Radclyffe, the powerhouse behind it all, and Stacia Seaman, who never misses the opportunity to insert or delete a comma; My dream research team: Sister Factoid who was available 24/7 to Google anything and everything, and the extremely knowledgeable Julie Sulinski, R.N., B.S.N., who gave so generously of her time and expertise, answering my endless medical questions with intelligence, enthusiasm, wit, and good cheer; And finally, I am grateful beyond words to Mary Grace Newman Vazquez, who blesses my life each and every day with her own special brand of joy.

About the Author.

Leslea Newman has published more than fifty books, including the novels Good Enough to Eat and In Every Laugh a Tear; the short story collections A Letter to Harvey Milk and Girls Will be Girls; the poetry collections Still Life with Buddy and Signs of Love; the middle grade novels Hachiko Waits and Fat Chance; and the children's books The Boy Who Cried Fabulous, A Fire Engine for Ruthie, The Best Cat in the World, and Heather Has Two Mommies. She has received numerous literary awards including poetry fellows.h.i.+ps from the Ma.s.sachusetts Artists Fellows.h.i.+p Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts, the Highlights for Children Fiction Writing Award, a Parents'Choice Silver Medal, the James Baldwin Award for Cultural Achievement, and four Pushcart Prize Nominations. Nine of her books have been Lambda Literary Award finalists. Currently, she is the Poet Laureate of Northampton, Ma.s.sachusetts. Leslea's work often addresses lesbian ident.i.ty and Jewish ident.i.ty, and how the two intersect and how they collide. Her most recent books include a new volume of poetry ent.i.tled n.o.body's Mother, and the first board books for children with same s.e.x parents: Mommy, Mama, and Me, and Daddy, Papa, and Me.

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Selected t.i.tles By Leslea Newman*

NOVELS.

Good Enough To Eat.

In Every Laugh a Tear Jailbait.

SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS.

A Letter to Harvey Milk Secrets.

Every Woman's Dream Out of the Closet and Nothing to Wear Girls Will Be Girls She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not.

The Best Short Stories of Leslea Newman POETRY COLLECTIONS.

Signs of Love Still Life with Buddy.

The Little Butch Book n.o.body's Mother CHILDREN'S BOOKS.