1.
We drive drowsily through sleepy towns in the rain that drizzles across the side windows in little rivulets. I trace them with my finger on the passenger side window, my head resting on the soft pillow I put there a few hours ago. She is the pilot, changing the radio from station to station as we drift in and out of signal through the mountains. She sings along, out of tune. I smile to myself recalling each of our road trips. This one is different. We are going to my house for my mother’s wedding. She’s nervous and so am I, but I cannot show the angst I feel inside. I am also excited about seeing my family. My aunt Cassie, who I have not laid eyes on in over two years, will be there with her four sons. I remember my mom’s last wedding. I was eight and my oldest cousin, Chuck, was one. I was put in charge of him. This was a huge deal to me, being the daughter of honor also added to my ego. My grandmother has picture after picture of the two of us at the Rent-All cabin in downtown West Field. We played in the beautiful yard surrounded by geraniums and hydrangeas. I wore pink, a color I detest now. This makes me think of my outfit for tomorrow’s wedding reception; a low cut black cocktail dress, appropriate for my age of twenty years, and a tiara fashioned with rhinestones, totally inappropriate for my age. But each of my sisters and I will wear one because that’s what my mother wants. I loathe princess attire, and wonder how long I’ll be forced to stay in the heels my mother suggested I wear when I last spoke to her yesterday.
It is quiet in the car now. She has turned off the radio and is searching for her favorite CD. I spot it in the floorboard and reach for it, popping it into the CD player. She finds my hand, squeezing it softly. I doze off only to wake up in the driveway of my mom’s house in Suburbia. We’re no longer holding hands; no one knows about us. Climbing out of the car, we are met by my brother. He is nine and angry about the wedding. I hug him and ask “sup, fool?” as is our customary greeting. He high-fives Andrea, his Nintendo buddy. She grins broadly, remembering the fun times they had last summer. I grin, too, as my mom appears at the front door with tears in her eyes. I rush to hug her neck. The tears disperse as she comments on my skin and weight. “You’re so tan,” is followed by, “Eat a biscuit.” “I had one this morning, Cathcart,” I respond, referencing my high school track coach who was obsessed with weight. It was a futile effort due to the long standing relationship between an obsession with extreme thinness and long distance running. I was the heaviest girl on the team all four years, at a hundred and twenty pounds. Andrea is lost by my comment, but my mother fills in the awkwardness when her beautiful laugh forces a grin on face. My brother tries to help with the bags, but keeps dropping the pillows in the grass. My mom looks at him and grabs everything from his arms. She is nervous with the anxiety that is to come soon in the cars, full of my family members. “A drink?” she offers almost as soon as we walk through the front door. I walk swiftly to the liquor cabinet. Andrea perches nearby.
The rest of my family arrives as we finish the second round of drinks. My grandmother enters the door, “I don’t know if I like those flowers around the mailbox,” she explains to no one in particular, or, as it may be, to everyone within earshot. “Here comes the funny farm,” I announce to Andrea’s ear, in a whisper. She grabs my hand as everyone leaves the kitchen. I kiss her lower lip. The gin has gone to my head, and I want her close to me. She pulls me in by the waist. I want to linger there with her. I want to feel the normalcy of our relationship in my mom’s house, but I can’t. Not now. Not this weekend. She understands, letting loose of me.
2.
It is the morning of the wedding. Thrashing and turning with nausea on the inflatable air mattress in the floor of my sister, Polly’s bedroom, all night, I have not slept. Everyone is awake. They are loud and irritating my already pounding head. My mother is yelling up the stairs for me to, “Wake up!” because she, “needs help!” As if the last six hours of stomach churning obnoxiousness has just begun, I am suddenly forced to seek refuge in the bathroom. I am sick with every type of digestive ailment in the book, obligated to sit on the potty with a trashcan next to me. My mom comes upstairs, takes one look at me and pronounces her verdict, “Well, shit.” My brother is freaking out due to his fear of vomit. Andrea stands outside the bathroom, asking if she can help. I want her in there with me, wiping my brow with a cool washcloth and holding my head. It is my mother, however, who enters telling Andrea that, “she just needs her mother.” Andrea tells me later that her feelings were smashed then and there.
I pull it together after everyone has left the house. Andrea helps me to get dressed. I have never felt so unsexy in a low cut black cocktail dress and tiara as I do that afternoon. In the car, on the way over, I am turning various shades of green. Andrea tries to make me feel better, “Your favorite color is green!” I am not amused.
We arrive at the restaurant for the reception. There is salmon, chicken, fried food galore and Vienna sausages in sauce; all of my favorites. There is also a hell of a lot of donuts, and I don’t know why. Everyone is shaking my hand and hugging me. My grandmother is forcing champagne into my hand. I am trying to make the room stop spinning. My grandmother does not understand. She is forcing me to dance and be in pictures and kiss her on the cheek. She is drunk and not listening to me. Andrea removes herself from the shadows and explains to my grandmother that I am ill. My grandmother, having the same vomit fear as my brother, begins to sweat and becomes nervous about germs and the contagiousness of my illness. She runs away from me. I am allowed to sit down. I talk to a lady in a really big hat as my aunt Cassie approaches. She looks at me and all of my greenness and says, “So, Andrea?” She has that all knowing look on her face. I know it is time to leave.
3.
I leave work. It is the middle of June and probably approaching one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Sitting in Atlanta traffic in a un-air conditioned car wearing a polyester blouse and pants makes me sweat with every single one of my sweat glands. I am smiling because I’m on my way to meet Andrea and Dean at the hotel just outside the city. It is my first Pride weekend, and I could not be any happier than I am at that very moment.
After getting lost three times, I arrive and park next to Andrea’s car. She looks cross and is sweating profusely. Dean is tired. We check into the hotel and decide to nap. The pillows are fluffy and soft, and the air conditioning divinely welcomed. Andrea does not want to cuddle. “You’re all hot and sweaty, and so am I,” she explains. I’m still smiling. While they sleep, I go out for a cigarette. I’m too excited to sleep.
Later, we go downtown and find the park. I’ve brought a blanket, and it is cooler. There are musicians, vendors and gay couples everywhere. Gay couples with children. Gay couples in swings. Gay couples with soccer balls. Gay couples hanging out with other gay couples. Everyone is gay; it is wonderful. I think of Max, my boyfriend in high school who turned out to be gay. We laugh about it now. I look around wondering if he is here. Andrea is still testy. We pick a spot under a tree and spread out our blanket. We take turns waiting in line for chicken fingers and fries; her favorite. I get iced lemonade for us, the kind with the actual lemon in the bottom of the cup; my favorite. The lemonade reminds me of childhood trips to the local amusement park. The worker men would walk around with tray after tray of that yummy lemony stuff. It was so hot outside and when you saw that lemonade, you knew that it had to be yours. It had to be yours so badly that you were happy to pay the three dollars for it. Lying down on that blanket after a good meal with my Andrea was even better than the lemonade happiness I knew as a child. The music from the band dances over the pond and across the fields of people in the park. The people are quiet as the sun goes down, and as the couples cuddle together, I know I am with a great loving group of people; people I don’t even know, but to whom I feel so close. My Andrea and I lay there together for hours, dozing in and out of slumber and feeling a sense of belonging both as a couple and as members of the community in the park. It is one of the loveliest and most captivating experiences of my life.
The next day, we discover that Dean’s car has been towed. I drive the three of us to the impounded car lot. We are lost and stop for directions. I enter a convenience store, “Hi, do you know how to get to Adam’s Car Impound?” We arrive. The parking lot is gravel and the sun is baking the black doorknob. I grab it with my hand in my pants pocket, letting Dean inside. I opt to stay outdoors and have a much needed cigarette. Andrea is fuming because we got lost in the city, and I’m fuming because she is fuming.
In the car, as I drive us back to the hotel, Andrea’s moodiness consumes her. She makes a decision that forever changes my perception of her. She hits me. I will never feel the same about feeling comfortable with anyone, anywhere, ever again. But, I’ll always have my tiara. I’ll always love green. I’ll always buy lemonade with the lemon in the bottom of the cup. And when I drink it, I’ll always smile.
It is quiet in the car now. She has turned off the radio and is searching for her favorite CD. I spot it in the floorboard and reach for it, popping it into the CD player. She finds my hand, squeezing it softly. I doze off only to wake up in the driveway of my mom’s house in Suburbia. We’re no longer holding hands; no one knows about us. Climbing out of the car, we are met by my brother. He is nine and angry about the wedding. I hug him and ask “sup, fool?” as is our customary greeting. He high-fives Andrea, his Nintendo buddy. She grins broadly, remembering the fun times they had last summer. I grin, too, as my mom appears at the front door with tears in her eyes. I rush to hug her neck. The tears disperse as she comments on my skin and weight. “You’re so tan,” is followed by, “Eat a biscuit.” “I had one this morning, Cathcart,” I respond, referencing my high school track coach who was obsessed with weight. It was a futile effort due to the long standing relationship between an obsession with extreme thinness and long distance running. I was the heaviest girl on the team all four years, at a hundred and twenty pounds. Andrea is lost by my comment, but my mother fills in the awkwardness when her beautiful laugh forces a grin on face. My brother tries to help with the bags, but keeps dropping the pillows in the grass. My mom looks at him and grabs everything from his arms. She is nervous with the anxiety that is to come soon in the cars, full of my family members. “A drink?” she offers almost as soon as we walk through the front door. I walk swiftly to the liquor cabinet. Andrea perches nearby.
The rest of my family arrives as we finish the second round of drinks. My grandmother enters the door, “I don’t know if I like those flowers around the mailbox,” she explains to no one in particular, or, as it may be, to everyone within earshot. “Here comes the funny farm,” I announce to Andrea’s ear, in a whisper. She grabs my hand as everyone leaves the kitchen. I kiss her lower lip. The gin has gone to my head, and I want her close to me. She pulls me in by the waist. I want to linger there with her. I want to feel the normalcy of our relationship in my mom’s house, but I can’t. Not now. Not this weekend. She understands, letting loose of me.
2.
It is the morning of the wedding. Thrashing and turning with nausea on the inflatable air mattress in the floor of my sister, Polly’s bedroom, all night, I have not slept. Everyone is awake. They are loud and irritating my already pounding head. My mother is yelling up the stairs for me to, “Wake up!” because she, “needs help!” As if the last six hours of stomach churning obnoxiousness has just begun, I am suddenly forced to seek refuge in the bathroom. I am sick with every type of digestive ailment in the book, obligated to sit on the potty with a trashcan next to me. My mom comes upstairs, takes one look at me and pronounces her verdict, “Well, shit.” My brother is freaking out due to his fear of vomit. Andrea stands outside the bathroom, asking if she can help. I want her in there with me, wiping my brow with a cool washcloth and holding my head. It is my mother, however, who enters telling Andrea that, “she just needs her mother.” Andrea tells me later that her feelings were smashed then and there.
I pull it together after everyone has left the house. Andrea helps me to get dressed. I have never felt so unsexy in a low cut black cocktail dress and tiara as I do that afternoon. In the car, on the way over, I am turning various shades of green. Andrea tries to make me feel better, “Your favorite color is green!” I am not amused.
We arrive at the restaurant for the reception. There is salmon, chicken, fried food galore and Vienna sausages in sauce; all of my favorites. There is also a hell of a lot of donuts, and I don’t know why. Everyone is shaking my hand and hugging me. My grandmother is forcing champagne into my hand. I am trying to make the room stop spinning. My grandmother does not understand. She is forcing me to dance and be in pictures and kiss her on the cheek. She is drunk and not listening to me. Andrea removes herself from the shadows and explains to my grandmother that I am ill. My grandmother, having the same vomit fear as my brother, begins to sweat and becomes nervous about germs and the contagiousness of my illness. She runs away from me. I am allowed to sit down. I talk to a lady in a really big hat as my aunt Cassie approaches. She looks at me and all of my greenness and says, “So, Andrea?” She has that all knowing look on her face. I know it is time to leave.
3.
I leave work. It is the middle of June and probably approaching one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Sitting in Atlanta traffic in a un-air conditioned car wearing a polyester blouse and pants makes me sweat with every single one of my sweat glands. I am smiling because I’m on my way to meet Andrea and Dean at the hotel just outside the city. It is my first Pride weekend, and I could not be any happier than I am at that very moment.
After getting lost three times, I arrive and park next to Andrea’s car. She looks cross and is sweating profusely. Dean is tired. We check into the hotel and decide to nap. The pillows are fluffy and soft, and the air conditioning divinely welcomed. Andrea does not want to cuddle. “You’re all hot and sweaty, and so am I,” she explains. I’m still smiling. While they sleep, I go out for a cigarette. I’m too excited to sleep.
Later, we go downtown and find the park. I’ve brought a blanket, and it is cooler. There are musicians, vendors and gay couples everywhere. Gay couples with children. Gay couples in swings. Gay couples with soccer balls. Gay couples hanging out with other gay couples. Everyone is gay; it is wonderful. I think of Max, my boyfriend in high school who turned out to be gay. We laugh about it now. I look around wondering if he is here. Andrea is still testy. We pick a spot under a tree and spread out our blanket. We take turns waiting in line for chicken fingers and fries; her favorite. I get iced lemonade for us, the kind with the actual lemon in the bottom of the cup; my favorite. The lemonade reminds me of childhood trips to the local amusement park. The worker men would walk around with tray after tray of that yummy lemony stuff. It was so hot outside and when you saw that lemonade, you knew that it had to be yours. It had to be yours so badly that you were happy to pay the three dollars for it. Lying down on that blanket after a good meal with my Andrea was even better than the lemonade happiness I knew as a child. The music from the band dances over the pond and across the fields of people in the park. The people are quiet as the sun goes down, and as the couples cuddle together, I know I am with a great loving group of people; people I don’t even know, but to whom I feel so close. My Andrea and I lay there together for hours, dozing in and out of slumber and feeling a sense of belonging both as a couple and as members of the community in the park. It is one of the loveliest and most captivating experiences of my life.
The next day, we discover that Dean’s car has been towed. I drive the three of us to the impounded car lot. We are lost and stop for directions. I enter a convenience store, “Hi, do you know how to get to Adam’s Car Impound?” We arrive. The parking lot is gravel and the sun is baking the black doorknob. I grab it with my hand in my pants pocket, letting Dean inside. I opt to stay outdoors and have a much needed cigarette. Andrea is fuming because we got lost in the city, and I’m fuming because she is fuming.
In the car, as I drive us back to the hotel, Andrea’s moodiness consumes her. She makes a decision that forever changes my perception of her. She hits me. I will never feel the same about feeling comfortable with anyone, anywhere, ever again. But, I’ll always have my tiara. I’ll always love green. I’ll always buy lemonade with the lemon in the bottom of the cup. And when I drink it, I’ll always smile.
