Keeping You a Secret (18 page)

This had the smell of Kirsten. She’d made good on her threat. Damn her. Why would she do this to me? 

If only I could come out and be out. I loved Cece. I wasn’t ashamed of it. I wanted everyone at school to know. I wanted the world to know. I wanted one person in particular to know. Mom. 

It killed me to have to keep the truth from Mom. Every time she asked about Seth, this sense of betrayal gnawed at my conscience. I wanted her to know the truth. She was my mother. I owed her that. 

But the thought of telling Mom terrified me more than any thing. Why? We’d always been able to talk. Compared to most people, we had a great relationship. I just didn’t know how to broach the subject, particularly after she'd ordered me to dump Cece as a friend. Mom and I had never discussed homosexuality, per se. I mean, it just never came up.

My promise to Cece protected me, for now. When the time was right, I'd tell Mom. I’d tell the world. I loved Cece. Mom would understand. Like she said, she knew about love. After she got to know Cece, sheʼd love her, too.

***

The sleepless nights were taking their toll. It seemed as if my life flowed in one long, continuous stream — and I didn't ever want to row ashore. A person can live only so long on adrenaline, though. I could barely keep track of the days. One Tuesday or Wednesday, as I slogged home after work, dying to crash but knowing I had hours of reading yet to do before meeting Cece, I found Mom in the kitchen frosting a chocolate layer cake.

Had I spaced a birthday? It wasn’t mine, was it? No, I wasn't that trashed. Mom’s or Hannah’s. No. Faith's? Neal’s? “What’s the occasion?" I stuck a finger into the frosting bowl.

Mom threw the knife into the bowI and whirled on me. Shoving me backward, almost making me fall, she said, “Is it true? Are you seeing that girl?” 

My gaze flickered over to Faith, who'd stopped dead in the threshold between the kitchen and dining room.

I could lie to Mom.

No, I couldn’t. "Yes,” I said. 

Moms eyes blazed. “Are you sleeping with her?” 

Oh, God. Did we have to do this here? Now? "Well, actually," I smirked, “we don’t get a lot of sleep?” 

A burning sensation exploded in my head before I realised Mom had slapped me. Tears sprang to my eyes — more from shock than pain. "Mom, you don’t understand?” I moved toward her. “I love Cece."

She hit me again, harder, and I stumbled out into the dining room, my hip ramming the credenza. Neal was feeding Hannah at the table, where Faith slithered back into her seat. Mom charged me, pounding on my back.

“Mom” I tried to fend her off, but couldn’t. She was crazed.

Neal jumped into action. He corralled Mom from behind and said, “Thatʼs enough. We donʼt need to get violent here.”

Mom yelled at me, “I didn't raise you to be a lesbian!" She made it sound like the filthiest word in the English language. “It's sick. Perverted.
You're
perverted." Neal held her in a death grip.

“It’s not like that." I reached for Mom, trying to calm her, explain. “It’s beautiful. We love each other?”

She broke free of Neal and charged me. Hit me again; just started slapping and punching my face and arms and anyplace her hands connected. Neal wedged between us, palming off her blows. Trying to. “You disgust me!" she screamed.

I heard Hannah start crying. My eyes met Faith's across the table, where she’d turned to petrified wood. Almost. Did she smile? Mom said to Neal, “I want her out of here?” 

Neal said to me, “You better go.” 

"Go? Go where?” I asked. 

“Go to hell,” Morn answered.

"Mom —"

“Go,” she shrieked. “Get out, get out. Get. Out!”

“Okay. God. Can I at least pack some things?"

Her face was so purple I thought she’d explode. “Two minutes.” To Neal she said, “I want her out of this house in two minutes.”

He widened his eyes at me. Hannah howled and hiccuped. "Oh, Hannie." I paused to comfort her. Mom ripped me away and screeched, "Don’t you touch my baby! Donʼt you ever touch her again.”

My stomach churned as I charged down the stairs. God, oh God. What was I going to do?

Pack. Pack what? Two minutes? I unzipped my duffel and started shoveling things in. Everything on my dresser carrie off in one swipe. What else? Clothes. The drawers were crammed; I’d never be able to pack it all. My closet, too. Shoes. There was no room for shoes.

“You have one minute,” Mom shrilled down the stairs.

The roses? No, they’d have to stay. They were dead anyway. Let her enjoy them now. Faith, too. She could eat my dead roses. 

I grabbed as much as I could carry; heard items dropping on the floor as I charged up the stairs. I felt humiliated and helpless and shaken. Faith was just coming downstairs and we collided. l shoved her aside, seething, “I hope you’re happy. You have it all to yourself now.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but I elbowed past her. I couldn't believe she'd done this to me. Did she hate me that much?

Mom wrinkled open the door. Then slammed it shut behind me.

I staggered to the Jeep. Drove. Just drove. I was trembling and cold and my hands kept slipping off the steering wheel. My chest hurt. My check burned. My hip throbbed where the corner of the credenza had gouged me. The phone in the bottom of my bag rang, I think. Everything was ringing. My ears, still, from her screaming. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. Everything went blurry. Everything went black.

“Yeah, hello?” he said, the words clipped. 

I swallowed hard. “I'm sorry to wake you up. Can I talk to Cece?” My voice sounded hollow, detached.

“Who is this?" he demanded.

“It’s Holland. I'm sorry, Mr. Goddard. I need to talk to Cece.”

He exhaled obvious irritation. “Just a minuted.”

My forehead rested against the steering wheel.

“H’lo," Cece slurred. She cleared her throat. “Who is this?” The extension downstairs clicked off.

“Itʼs me."

"Holl?” Cece's voice rose. “I’ve been calling you for hours. Where are you?”

My throat felt dry. Raw. I sat back and said, "I’m sitting in front of your house. I need you.”

A curtain in the upstairs window lettered. "I’ll be right there,” she said. “Donʼt go away.” 

I laughed bitterly.

A few seconds later Cece tripped out the front door, her baseball jersey clinging to her legs, one hightop on her foot and the other in her hand. She sprinted down the sidewalk and across the street. Her palm spread on my closed window and she peered in before charging around to the passenger side.

“Holland? Honey?” She shut the door and turned to me. I continued to stare ahead. Unseeing, numb. "What happened?” she asked. 

I blinked over to her. “My mother kicked me out of the house.” 

"No." Cece lunged across the seat and threw her arms around in. “Holland, no.” She held me, burrowed her head into my neck. “Oh, baby, no.ʼ

"Oh, baby, yes."

Cece drew back. “You told her? About us?” 

“No.” My voice sounded harsh, the way my insides felt, “I didn’t have to.” 

Cece frowned. “Somebody outed you? Who?”

"One guess.”

“l donʼt know."

“Your friend and mine."

Cece looked confused.

"Faith," I said.

Cece shook her head. “I don’t believe that. Are you sure?”

I nodded. I was sure.

“Youʼre shivering. Itʼs freezing in here. Whereʼs your coat?”

I might’ve laughed again. “Guess I forgot it in the two minutes I had to pack.” Tears burned my eyes. "What am I going to do, Ceese?”

She held me again. “Stay here, of course, with me.” 

"I can’t." 

"Yes, you can. Come on.” She scooted out her side and ran around to open my door. Dragged me across the street and into the house.

Cece’s parents were both up now. Mr. Goddard stood by the staircase as Kate wandered in from the kitchen, tightening her belt on her robe. "Holland’s mom kicked her out,” Cece in formed them.

"Oh, sweetie.” Kate rushed over and hugged me. I didn’t think there could be any tears left, but a flood of them burst through the dam.

“She can stay here, right?" Cece said. There was challenge in her voice.

When neither of her parents consented right away, I said, “That’s okay. I’ll just go to a motel.”

"She can sleep on the hide-a-bed," Cece’s dad said. I saw him eye Kate. “Weʼll talk about this in the morning. Letʼs everybody go back to bed and get some sleep.”

My eyes strayed to the mantel, where a clock read two thirty-five. How long had I been driving? How long had I sat in front of Cece’s house? What day was it?

There was a flurry of activity and somehow the couch in the living room transformed into a bed. “This is stupid, Dad,” I heard Cece say through the fog in my brain. “Why can’t she sleep in my room?”

“Cece,” he warned. 

She muttered a curse under her breath. The next thing I knew I was slipping between the sheets. Had I undressed myself? Then Kate was smoothing my hair — or was that Cece? And my cell was ringing.

Someone had enclosed the phone in my hand. “Hello?" I answered quietly. 

“Hi, love. It's me. Are you all right? That's a stupid question, of course you’re not all right. Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Not really." I rolled over, pulling my knees to my chest. Shivering again, but not from cold.

“I wish you were up here with me in bed. I wish I could hold you." 

“Talk to me, Cece," I said. “'Talk to me until I fall asleep.” 

“Did I ever tell you about the time my dad caught me kissing this little neighbour girl behind our garage?" She chuckled softly. “My first love. Age six.”

I smiled, clung to the phone, to her voice, until all the sounds in my head muted and faded and vanished into the night.

***

Breakfast at the Goddards’ was a mob scene. Everyone converged on the kitchen at the same time, grabbing a bowl and their favorite box of cereal off the counter. Spoons clattered and clanged as a milk carton got passed around. Cece stationed me in the chair beside her. Across the table, Greg said, “Hey,” and hitched his chin, looking sympathetic. Cece must've filled him in. Eric pointed with his spoon, mouth jammed full of Froot Loops, and asked, "What’s she doing here?”

Cece replied, “She lives here now.”

“No, I don't." I glared at Cece. The tears threatened a rerun, so I got up fast. As I started folding the sheets on the hide-a-bed, I heard Mr. Goddard say, “Come on, guys. Get a move on.” I felt him come up behind me and linger. “Hang in there, kid." He patted my shoulder. “It’s not the end of the world.”

Easy for him to say; he was living the American dream. The clock on the mantel chimed eight o'clock and I trudged back to the kitchen. "I forgot my money. Could somebody loan me five dollars for gas so I can get to school?" I couldn't help it; I burst into tears.

Cece threw her arms around me. From the counter where she was pouring coffee, Kate said, “Why don’t you stay home today? You're in no shape to go to school. Cece, you take Holland up to your room so she can go back to bed."

“Really?” Cece’s eyes widened. 

“Alone,” her mother intoned. "You both look exhausted, but youʼre going to school.” She evil-eyed Cece. 

“Mom –”

“No!”

Cece grabbed my hand and dragged me through the living room and up the stairs.

***

It’s a myth that things always look brighter in the morning. Every time I’d nod off and wake up, the nightmare was blacker. Bleaker. Too exhausted to sleep anymore, I just lay in Cece’s bed, absorbing my surroundings. Her room. I’d never been up here before. She had a cache of stuffed animals in a net overhead. Stacks of CDs by the bed. No closet doors, but the space was packed with clothes. Her dresser mirror had stickers all over it; pink triangles, rainbow hearts, and lightning bolts. A few photos were wedged under the frame and I straggled out of bed to look at them.

There was a family shot — Cece, her older sister, I assumed, Greg, and Eric standing by a Christmas tree. One of Cece in a short red dress, posing like a model. The other pics were friends, I guessed, a mix of girls and guys. A couple of familiar faces, though not from Southglenn. Where had I seen them? I removed one of the photos to examine it more closely.

It was a group shot. A rainbow banner behind the group read, “LGBT Queer and Questioning." The lesbigay club at Washington Central, had to be. There were six or seven guys in it, as many girls. Cece sat on the floor in the front row, hugging her knees. Her hair was longer, darker. Everyone was smiling or laughing, their arms around each others’ shoulders. Cece was smiling, too, but it wasn’t a happy smile. She seemed far away, removed from the others. It made me wonder again why she’d transferred. 

But only for a moment. Thank God she had. 

I put the photo back. Noticed a flyer on her dresser announcing a performance of Unity last Saturday night. Last Saturday? I frowned. Cece told me she was working on Saturday. Why would she lie? She’d never lie to me. The performance must’ve been canceled, or rescheduled. 

The aroma of freshly baked bread swirled up my nose. Instinct and hunger took over. I wriggled into Cece's high-ups and headed downstairs. 

Kate was in the kitchen checking on two loaves of bread in the oven. Two more were cooling on a rack. They smelled unbelievable.

“Hi, sweetie," she said when I hesitated in the doorway. “Why donʼt you sit down and Iʼll fix you a bowl of soup. Nothing like chicken soup for the soul.”

My throat constricted. That was the book I bought Mom for Christmas:
Chicken Soup for the Mothers Soul
.

Kate ladled out a huge bowl of noodle soup and served it up with a plate of homemade buttered bread. She sliced me a wedge of cheesecake, too, then sliding into a chair across from me, she folded her hands on the table and said, “She’ll come around. It just takes time.”

I blinked up at her. “You donʼt know my mom.”

Kate cocked her head. “Do you want me to call her? I could talk to her.”

My eyes fell. “No.” God, no. It wouldn’t help to have my mother screaming at Kate. "I’ll deal with it. But thanks." I slurped a spoonful of soup. It didn’t taste like chicken; didn’t taste at all. Great. I'd lost all sensation. “This is delicious." I forced a smile.