Page 73 of Everything We Thought Was True
“I don’t consider myself a loyal Catholic anymore. I don’t know what I believe in. Still, I think there is a God. I’ve decided I want to be cremated. I don’t want to be buried underground. I don’t want to be trapped. I want to be free. That way, it will be easier for my soul to leave my body and go where it needs to go.” Teresa took a deep breath.
“I want a memorial service, not a traditional Italian Catholic wake,” she continued. “I hate the idea of my body being displayed in a coffin for all to gawk at with viewing hours where everyone cries and talks in hushed tones. I want a gathering of friends and family. Have it at the community center Larry and I go to often, where everyone is welcome. Display photos of me with my loved ones, and have people tell stories and share funny memories. I don’t want it to be a sad occasion.”
“I understand,” Lena said. “I do. You want it to be a celebrationof your life.”
“Yes, exactly.” Teresa smiled. “And, Lena... I’d like to donate my organs if they’re, well, able to be donated.” She grimaced, and Lena grabbed her hand and squeezed it.
“Okay, Mom. I’ll help you with that. I like that idea.”
Lena’s lips broke into a small sad pout, and she started to cry. Teresa reached out and gently touched her daughter’s face and smoothed back her dark hair. Lena took Teresa’s hand and cupped it against her cheek. Teresa wiped away some of Lena’s tears then took her daughter’s hand and put it on her pillow. They lay like that for what seemed like a long time. Neither of them said a word, yet that conversation was one of their best. Teresa silently conveyed all her love to Lena. There was nothing left to say, not because they were alone in their grief but because they were together in it, as if they were one person instead of two.
Chapter Forty-Three
LENA - ORANGE, CA
October 2015
Ireturned from my run and saw a note from Kevin that he’d gone to the farmer’s market to get some fresh bread, fruits, and veggies and would be back in about an hour. I went into my closet, reached up to the top shelf, and brought down the hat box where I stored my mother’s cards, letters, and journals. I brought it to the breakfast nook, made a cup of herbal tea, and sat down. Atticus grunted under the table, thumping his tail against the floor lazily, comforted by my presence above him. I pulled out one of my mom’s cards.
There was her signature line:Love, as always, Mom. She ended all her notes and cards to me that way. It gave me a familiar lurch in my stomach, like I’d just ridden a roller coaster.
I opened her last journal, full of her beautiful handwriting, and had a rush of emotion, looking at the familiar shapes created by her long fingers. I flipped through the pages and saw an entry that made me catch my breath. I started reading.
March 3, 2010
Frank just visited me in hospice, and I need to write this down before I forget it, because it was one of the best exchanges we’ve ever had. Long overdue. My darling Larry gave us some privacy, shaking Frank’s hand on the way out of the room. What a gem.
I haven’t seen Frank since Lena and Kevin’s wedding fourteen years ago. And then, there he was, standing in the doorway, his familiar—and I have to admit, still handsome—face looking at me, flooded with emotion. In some ways, it felt like I’d seen him just yesterday. It was Frank—I knew him intimately.
I wanted to tell him how I felt all these years later. Now that time was running out for me. I don’t think I’d ever told him that I forgive him. So I did. I knew he loved me and couldn’t help who he was—who he is. I’m glad we were both able to move forward and find happiness, eventually. It meant so much to me that we remained connected, and I know it meant the world to the kids. We loved them enough to put them first. I’m proud of us for that.
I’d never heard my mom say these exact words. She felt empathy for my father. She forgave him. Such simple words, really, when you thought about it. It brought me relief to read that my mother had forgiven my father. Had I? I thought so. But I wondered if fully forgiving my father meant betraying my mother, the woman who’d fed and clothed us, protected us, and had always been there for us. I continued reading.
And Frank finally went on record, saying he was sorry, taking the blame for what happened to us. It broke my heart when he told me that the tragedy of his life was not only being in the closet but also hurting the people he loved the most by coming out of that closet. He was sorry for all we went through.
While he sat there on the edge of my bed, apologizing for the past, I realized something important. The fact that he was gay didn’t ruin my life. In the long run, his being who he needed to be made me stronger. It forced me to get a job, be a good role model for the kids, and put myself first. It wasn’t easy, but I did it. Frank told me that when he looks at Anthony and Lena, he thinks I should take a bow. That I did one hell of a job as their mother. I waited years to hear Frank admit thatI’d basically raised the kids alone. Yet hearing it didn’t feel like a victory. Just the reality of a messy, but beautiful, life.
Frank cried tears for himself and tears for me as he knows I don’t have much time. At one point, he gently kissed my cheek. It’d been many years since I’d felt his touch, and it was comforting and familiar. He confided in me that I was the love of his life but just the wrong gender. That made me cry. What a pair—the two of us, crying together all these years later for what once was, and wasn’t.
At one point, Frank stared out the window, looking like he was stalling for time. I think he was afraid to say goodbye, knowing it would be our last time together. In that moment, I saw the very best version of him, at the helm of our first boat, the Horizon, sunglasses on, wind whipping at his hair—which he still had back then. I remembered him saying, “We’re tied to the ocean, all of us. Our bodies have the same percentage of salt as the sea. Saltwater is in our sweat and our tears. It’s a part of us.”
As Frank stood at my hospital room window, I thought to myself, no regrets. We were a part of each other, like the salt of the ocean that he described. I couldn’t erase that history. Suppose we’d never met. In that alternate world, there might have been no Frank and Teresa, none of the countless hours we’d spent together, the shared memories. No Anthony and Lena. And my life would’ve looked entirely different. As I thought of that, I realized that even now, I wouldn't choose differently than I did. I wouldn’t change a thing.
I tasted my salty tears as they streamed down my face. I could picture the two of them together in my mom’s hospice room, healing the long rift between them while her body couldn’t heal itself. It broke my heart but also brought me solace.
I reached the last paragraph of the entry.
After Frank left, I reflected on all we’d been through as a family. I was so worried about what others thought. Consumed by fear. So muchso that I forced all of us to stay in that same closet Frank had been trying to break out of. And for that, more than anything, I was sorry.
I gasped. She was sorry for prolonging the secrecy and lies. She’d taken some of the blame.Oh, Mom.I took in big gulps of air to steady myself.
My mother’s love for her children was fierce, and that had translated into wanting to protect us—first, from the truth, then once we knew it, from the truth getting out. Keeping everything a secret at all costs was her way of sheltering us. But it had also caused us to hide in fear, often living a double life.
I realized with a sharp pang that there was more forgiving that needed to be done. I had to forgive my mother. But how did you forgive someone you revered, who struggled and sacrificed for you, and who you missed so much that your heart hurt? A sob escaped my throat.
My mother had passed away sixteen terribly long-suffering months after her diagnosis—months that felt excruciatingly slow yet flew by much too quickly. After she died, I searched and searched for the perfect words to include in my eulogy at her memorial service. When I came across a quote by William Shakespeare, goose bumps rose along my arms, and my heart pumped wildly in my chest:The breaking of so great a thing should make a greater crack...
My heart cleaved into two parts, before and after. I kept going back to the thought that my mom was gone, as if I needed to be reminded of it repeatedly or I would forget and think I’d dreamt it all. It struck me how unfair and strange it was that the earth would keep on turning without my mother in it. It seemed inappropriate for the light to be so bright and the sky to be so blue. I found myself relieved when a cloud drifted over the sun and the sky turned from blue to silver to gray in the fading light. All I could think wasI'm never really saying goodbye.
