The Wedding: A Family's Coming Out Story (9 page)

“What do you think of him?”

He said, “He’s very nice.”

“Do you think he’s Jewish?”

“No. At least I don’t think so.”

“I don’t either. But I’m glad Andrew found
somebody he cares about, and who cares for him.”

I waited for a response.

None.

“What do
you
think?” I pushed. “Are you
happy for Andrew?”

“Mmm-hmmmm. I suppose.” And, after a pause, “But
you know that just because they’re seeing each other now doesn’t mean they’ll
be together long.”

“For the moment it’s good. And you never know.”

“Why do you have to make such a big thing out of
it? Nobody’s saying they’re going to be together forever. Enough, already.” He
sealed the conversation. Closed.

96

That’s my hubby, the proverbial realist,
avoiding any projection into the future for fear that he could one day be
proved wrong, preferring to deal with the here and now. By contrast, I am the
dreamer. And I found myself fantasizing a future for Andrew and Doug, praying
that they were as right for each other as it seemed, and that they’d stay
together, happily ever after, no broken hearts.

A few months later, Andrew and Doug flew in for
the Passover holiday. We held the traditional dinner, or
seder
, at home.
For those who’ve never been to a seder, it consists of a great deal of eating,
and even more talking. The readings tell the historical significance of the
holiday, and in our house, many of us read it in Hebrew. With the last name
Wythe, we assumed Doug would be reading in English, so while trying not to
single him out, I asked everyone to read in whatever language they were most
comfortable in.

We went around the table, Sheldon, then Andrew,
both reading in Hebrew, and when it came Doug turn, lo and behold, “
adonai
elochanu melech ha-olam...
”

He’s
Jewish!,
I exclaimed silently. And I smiled as I thought,
So, we
won’t have to do a conversion!

DOUG   
A few months later, I went in
for sinus surgery. Nothing serious, but I came out of it with my nose packed
with gauze, which started to unravel. I have a phobia about suffocation, and
when the bloody gauze dripped down from my sinuses into my throat, I had a
panic attack of mammoth proportion. Even for me. Andrew was at his apartment
when I called him.

“
I’m dying!
The packing is coming loose -
I can’t breathe!”

“Have you called the doctor?”

“It’s eight o’clock - I’m sure he’s left the
office... What am I going to do?”

“Call his office, there’ll be an emergency
number on the machine.”

“God, thank you.” I called, then beeped the
emergency number. Five minutes later, no return call, and more gauze had
dripped down, dangling against my tongue. I freaked. I ran around my tiny
apartment like a caged rat smelling smoke. The enormous window that overlooked
the street seemed the only way out. As a rule, I’ve never been the suicidal type.
But this seemed a worthy exception. I ripped open the window frame, and looked
down three stories, seeing the pavement below as the only break to put an end
to the frantic pounding of my heart and the screaming of blood pumping in my
ears. I called Andrew again, with a breathless, hushed threat that sounded like
it was coming out of someone else. “
I have to jump
. I can’t take it
anymore. I can’t reach the doctor.
I have to jump
.” I don’t remember
much of the rest of the night, except for Andrew coming over, taking me to the
emergency room, and later helping me pick up a strong sedative to konk me out.
But I do remember a couple things I learned that night. For one, real love isn’t
about caring for someone at their best. It’s about seeing them at their ugliest
and sticking it out. Andrew had done that, and more. I couldn’t imagine looking
at a person as deranged as I’d been, staying calm, focused and caring. Yet
Andrew had. That night he proved himself a better person than me. In a way, I’d
given Andrew an unintended test. One that I would have failed. And once he had
passed, I was hooked.

Over the next two years, the relationship Andrew
and I built together deepened and grew. One gap that remained between us,
however, continued to separate our views of both the world and our
relationship: the difference in our ages. Five years younger than me, Andrew
was still in school and dependent on his parents, at an age when I’d been
completely on my own for almost a decade.

I’ve always been subconsciously obsessed with
time, running my life against an imaginary clock, a race with some idealized
version of myself that I couldn’t win. Now that I was in the longest
relationship of my life, and soon to enter my mid-thirties, I felt it was time
to move in with Andrew. To a significant degree, I was motivated by personal
goals outside our actual relationship. Perhaps I should have waited longer
before pressing the point, but I was convinced that if the two of us had a
future, I needed to see if we were meant to spend our lives together, and
living under the same roof seemed the next logical step.

ANDREW   
Moving in together was
entirely Doug’s idea. Maybe I would have been ready six months, or even a year
later. But he wanted to do it too early, and I felt pressured. I was just
becoming accustomed to having someone sleep in the same bed with me and here he
was asking me to move in with him? In some ways, I saw advantages to living
together, after all, moving to a larger apartment, a one bedroom, was
appealing. Not only that, but I loved Doug. However, I found myself focusing on
reasons why it wasn’t a good idea. The biggest problem I had with Doug was the
way he handled conflict. I can recall countless times when he would explode
into a rage and storm out of my apartment. Conflicts would often go unresolved
leaving us both silently dissatisfied. I have to admit that there were many
times that I unnecessarily provoked him, criticizing him for his choice of
clothes or hairstyle, for example. In fact, this critical position was a norm
amongst me and my siblings, and I hadn’t given it much thought until Doug came
into my life.

After doing some research on the rental market,
Doug and I learned that the rent we would pay together for a small one bedroom
wouldn’t be any less than the sum of what we paid separately. In fact it would
probably be somewhere in the vicinity of fifty dollars more a month. We each
had very cheap, tiny studio apartments, but we knew we’d kill each other if we
had to occupy that small an area together. With a one bedroom, we would gain
more living space, but my father chastised “You’re supposed to save money if
you move in together, not spend more!”

I didn’t believe that fifty dollars a month
warranted repeated carping, but my need to seek his approval further fed my
ambivalence. And, while it’s true that at least one of my siblings received similar
financial support while seeking an advanced degree, that didn’t cancel out the
significant factor that he was still supporting
me
. So I was tied,
ultimately, to his final decision.

SHELDON   
I didn’t see anything
wrong with the two of them moving in together. In fact, I would encourage
anybody who is moving into a new environment to find a roommate. What I did
question was why Andrew wouldn’t see any savings in rent if he were to share an
apartment. It wasn’t that I discouraged him from moving in with Doug, I only
discouraged him from moving into a fancy place.

DOUG   
I could understand Sheldon’s
financial concern, theoretically. However, it sounded to me like he was
disturbed about something other than forty or fifty dollars a month. One phrase
of Sheldon’s that Andrew repeated to me struck a chord. “I can understand you
wanting companionship. But why do you have to live together?”

Was that a question you would ask a heterosexual
couple?

SHELDON   
I saw this as two people
moving in together, like roommates. For some reason, I never put it on a
different level than that of two friends. Perhaps I blocked it out of my mind,
even after they’d been seeing each other for two years. Maybe I didn’t want to
think of their relationship in any other way.

ANDREW   
As usual, my father
capitulated, but not without tremendous effort on my part. Another agreement
needed to be made - this one, between me and Doug. He had to agree to enter
therapy. He resisted mightily, but soon he realized that this was the only way
I would agree to move in with him.

And as it turned out, I had reason to be
concerned about the conflict living together might create. Our first three
months under the same roof were nearly our undoing. Like cats vying to mark our
territory, each decision about living space instigated a turf battle that called
for bared teeth and sharpened claws, leaving both of us scarred from the combat
and wary of the other.

ROSLYN
   
I heard
the rumblings of trouble as soon as they moved in together. Sheldon and I were
visiting New York, and Doug was away at work. The three of us, Sheldon, Andrew
and I, went out to a cute little breakfast place near the apartment they now
shared.

“I don’t know if it’s going to work out with
Doug,” confided Andrew, with a resigned, fatalistic air.

“Just because you’re having troubles, you’re
going to run away from them?” I chastised. Andrew looked away, staring back at
one of the little teddy bears that eavesdrop from the tops of the semi-circular
booths, hanging just above eye-level. “Don’t you think there’s another way
before you give up? Daddy and I have had our share of problems, but we didn’t
run away from them, we dealt with them. In the beginning we had a lot to iron
out. We had to learn to compromise and work things through.”

Though I tried to sound cool as I counseled
Andrew, I was scared. I liked Doug, and loved Andrew, and didn’t want to see
them hurt. And I feared Andrew would slide into a deep depression if he
couldn’t work this one out. At least he needed to give it a serious try. So I
kept at him.

“The issues between the two of you, finding your
place in the relationship, and defining your space, they’ll exist in every
relationship you’ll ever have. You have to learn to negotiate - both of you -
and not at the expense of the other - so you can both have a share in the
relationship, so that you’ll both feel understood.

ANDREW   
We turned a corner with
our first serious purchase. For months, we had two mammoth mismatched couches
crowding our living room, the leftovers of our prior, individual lives. I
finally talked Doug into selling his sofa, with the understanding that we’d go
out and purchase a new couch and loveseat. Once we found the new furniture, I’d
get rid of my own sleeper sofa.

After what seemed like eons of furious,
fruitless couch-hunting, we heard Bloomingdale’s was having a sale. I prayed
that maybe, finally, our long home furnishing nightmare would be over.

We made a beeline to the sale area, and
immediately gravitated toward a simple set in what they called “sea foam
green”.
This is surprisingly quick
, I thought. Doug went to find a
salesperson to set up the purchase. He took too long, because during those few
minutes I had time to doubt our decision. I slowly wandered the merchandise
floor, and surveyed the many options. By the time Doug returned, salesman in tow,
I had settled on another set. Actually, it was the same style, in a chocolate
brown.

“OK, we’re done.” Doug announced.

“Have you run it through on the credit card?”

“Yeah. Is there a problem?”

“Well, it’s just that I don’t really like that
color. What do you think about this one?” I stood proudly by my find.

“It’s way too dark. Besides, we both said we
liked the green.”

“I didn’t really like it that much.”

“You liked it enough to agree to buy it two
minutes ago.”

“I don’t like that shade, and it’ll show dirt.”

DOUG   
The salesman must hear this
kind of argument all the time. He stepped back and glanced down at nothing in
particular. It was a nice effort, but he hadn’t become invisible, and I was
suitably embarrassed over having a brawl in front of a stranger.

“What’s wrong with the brown?” asked Andrew.

We picked apart and debated the pros and cons of
sea foam green and chocolate brown like the fate of Western Civilization hung
in the balance.

As I saw it, Andrew made a decision, then once I
left him alone, he began to interpret it as a compromise. Compromise was still
tough for both of us, and when it came to decoration decisions, it was
especially challenging to him. I couldn’t move a chair, or purchase a candle
without his questioning my judgment, and then overruling me.

After an interminable argument, during which we
paced half the length of Bloomingdale’s, losing the salesman somewhere between
bedding and china, I stopped suddenly, and stared him down. “I’m not leaving
this store without those sofas. Every furniture salesperson in Manhattan knows
us by name. This is it. I’m not looking anyplace else. If we can’t agree on
this now, we’ll be stuck with those two crappy old couches till we’re ready for
retirement! You were happy with this set,
in sea foam green
, then you
got cold feet. If we can’t compromise now - how can we ever do it?”