Colleen Rae short stories, essays

SURRENDER

        I opened the closet door and scanned the slacks, shirts, and jackets hanging perfectly in order, by color. My son, Marc, always kept his closets and drawers neat as a recruit in boot camp. His shoes rested in precise rows at the back. On a shelf above I picked up his green merino wool sweater with the maroon stripe across the front, remembering he wore it the last time we ate at the Savannah Grill. It smelled faintly of French fries. He’d had steak and fries; I had salmon and rice. We laughed and chatted, pretending it was like old times. He didn’t eat all of his food because of a siege of nausea. I stopped eating too.

“Sorry, Mom.” His beautiful brown eyes gazed at me.

I nodded. “Okay, honey. If you can’t eat, don’t. No need to apologize.”

He took a sip from his iced tea glass. “I’m pretty tired. Can we go home now?”

I gestured to the waiter to bring our check. He quickly complied, and I left the money and the tip on the table. Marc started to rise and stumbled. I reached out and grabbed his arm before he went down.

“Sorry. I’m a little dizzy.” He shook his head.

He looked suddenly pale. The corners of his mouth were tinged green. His normally pink lips were gray. We stood there for a moment, mother and son, arm in arm; I was hoping the dizziness would subside long enough to get to the car. Once in the car, Marc laid his head on the back rest and closed his eyes. We didn’t talk until I got him home to Corte Madera, only ten minutes away. I pulled into the drive and opened the garage, maneuvering next to the boxes of his possessions stored there. I walked around and helped him out and into the connecting door to his room. He sat heavily on the bed and leaned back against the pillows. I lifted his legs onto the bed, and pulled the quilt up over his body.

“Thanks, Mom.”

My heart ached and I couldn’t answer. I just nodded.

“I need you to get that health form so you can have power of attorney and the DNR form, too.” I nodded again, my eyes filling with tears. DNR meant Do Not Resuscitate.

“Now, Mom. Please don’t cry. Remember I told you it’s like you‘re grieving already and I’m not even gone yet. You’ll have plenty of time to grieve later. Let’s be in the moment as much as we can and be grateful we still have time together.”

I marveled at the wisdom of my only son. He had learned so much during his seven years of living with AIDS.

“Yes, honey. I’m trying,” I said as I wiped my eyes on the back of my hand, then blew my nose. The sound was like a fog horn blasting in the room. We both broke into guffaws of laughter.

“Read to me. Something you’ve written.” My son was a great sounding board for the novel on which I was working.

“Okay. Be right back.” I ran upstairs into my office and found the latest thing I had typed out the night before. I returned to Marc’s bedroom and found him scooted down so his head was flat on the pillow. I sat beside him in the cozy blue chair and started reading. I was writing about a time in my life when I lived in Arizona with a cowboy and the adventures we had there. I read quietly, glancing up often until I saw his breathing deepen and his mouth relax. The wind outside had kicked up and the trees were scratching against the house. Fall could be beautiful in Northern California. Some of the trees had turned color and their orange, bronze, yellow and red leaves pirouetted to the ground like ballet dancers. Sometime soon, my child would take his leave from this life. I didn’t know how much longer I would have with him.

The sweater slipped from my hands as I came back to the present. There were tears on my cheeks and my vision was blurred. Wiping my face with the sleeve of my blouse, I picked up the cardigan and carried it into my bedroom. Today was not the day to go through his clothes and take them to the Salvation Army. This was the third time I had tried to do it. I went to the kitchen and fixed myself a cup of tea. Sitting at the wooden table the memories flowed over me like a waterfall. I remembered the time Marc was fifteen months old. He had just learned to walk, but he ran everywhere. He would sail across a room and stop suddenly at the coffee table with a jolt. It was as if he didn’t know how to put on the brakes. Then he would break into giggles, and I would giggle too. He was a sweet and loving child. He was always ready with a smile and a hug and loved to sit on my lap and cuddle. A child every parent would want.

When he was eight we lived in Silver Spring, Maryland. He had gotten a new sled for Christmas and was learning to slide down the hills, a new and exhilarating experience for a California kid. One afternoon, the neighbor boy came running to my door.

“Come quick! Marc’s fallen. He’s bleeding!”

I ran outside and down to the bottom of the hill behind our brick house. I hadn’t even put on a coat. Marc was lying on the ground; all the other children standing around him. Blood was pouring from his chin, crimson against the white snow. His new sled rested beside him, a trace of red on the front runner. I picked him up in one swoop, and hurried to my car. My next door neighbor ran out with an extra jacket and after I had laid Marc in the back seat, she made me put it on. I thanked her, asked her to look out for my daughter coming home from school, and slid behind the wheel. The emergency clinic was five miles away. Marc was crying in the back seat and when I glanced back, his chin was bleeding profusely.

“Put your hand on your chin, sweetie, and hold the cut closed,” I instructed him. He obeyed between sobs and great gulps of air.

The doctors wouldn’t let me come into the emergency room. While they stitched him up I could hear him scream and call for me. My heart was in as much pain as his face. I hated not being at his side. But presently the nurse wheeled him out and the doctor said he would be just fine. Marc had ten stitches in his chin and it would probably leave a small scar. By this time my husband, Jerry, Marc’s stepfather, had arrived. He drove us home while I held Marc in my arms the entire way. In a few weeks the wound healed and so did Marc and he went on to ride his sled again that year and the following winter.

A hot sip of tea brought me back to my kitchen and I marveled at the bravery of a little boy. He had gripped his chin so hard the doctor said he had to pry Marc’s fingers away. I laughed at the visual picture of my son tenaciously following my orders.

I remembered the time he came out of the closet. I was cooking dinner and my seventeen-year-old came up to me.

“Mom, can we talk?”

“Can it wait until after dinner?”

“No.”

I turned and looked at him. His face betrayed the pain he must be feeling. I put down the spatula and turned off the burner.

“What dear?”

“He took my hand and led me to the table.

“Mom, I’m gay.”

I looked at him and the information registered in my mind.

“Okay,” I said carefully.

“Is that all you have to say?”

I thought a minute. “When did you decide you were gay?”

“I think I’ve always known. But this week I was sure. I have a friend who’s gay, too.” I nodded, not knowing what more to say. We lived in Berkeley, California; it was 1973. There were many gays and lesbians and so it wasn’t that unusual or startling…unless it was your son who just ‘came out.’

Again I said, “Okay.”

“You mean its okay with you or that you don’t care?” My son sounded anxious.

“Of course I care. I care about whatever stage you go through or what you experience.”

“Mom, it’s not a stage. I know it.”

I’d always known it too, in my heart. As a child he played with dolls instead of footballs and dressed up in my clothes and shoes. But I never stopped him or told him he shouldn’t. I wanted him to feel free.

I touched his cheek with my fingers. “Darling, you can be anything you want. You are my son, and I‘ll always love you.”

“I knew you would, but what do you think Dad will say?”

“Jerry won’t be surprised either, dear.”

“That’s a relief.” He looked at the stove. “Something smells real

good. What’s for dinner?” My son stood and stretched. The pain had vanished from his face. He was smiling.

The phone ringing put an end to my reminiscences.

“Hi, Mom. Thought I’d drop by and see you on my way home from work.” It was my daughter Leeann.

“Wonderful. What time,” I asked?

“I’ll be there about six. How are you doing?”

I thought about the question. No need to hide anything from Leeann. “I just couldn’t give away his clothes today. Maybe some other day.”

Silence on the other end, then, “I understand. I know it’s hard to do. Want me to help you sort them tonight?”

“No, not tonight. Can you come and eat dinner with me? I’m making fish chowder.” That had been a favorite of hers and Marc’s when they were little.

“Thanks, Mom. Yeah. Sounds yummy. See you later.”

I put the receiver back in its cradle, laid my tea cup in the sink, and started making the chowder. So much had happened since the children were little. Jerry and I ended a thirteen year marriage in divorce although we remained friends. Both Leeann and Marc had moved away from home. When Marc was diagnosed with AIDS, he came back to California from Chicago where he’d been working, to live with his sister. The doctor in Chicago had given him an eighteen-month death sentence. But of course, he didn’t die in eighteen months. The medical profession didn’t know much about AIDS in 1985; Marc lived another seven years. When he got very sick he came to live with me in Corte Madera.

Leeann arrived on time and we went into the kitchen to sit down to a meal of fish chowder, cornbread, and a green salad with plump tomatoes, green peppers, feta cheese, crisp romaine lettuce and avocado scattered on top.

“Want me to make the dressing?” Leeann always made the best homemade salad dressing. She threw together mustard, balsamic vinegar, and a little lemon juice and water. It always came out delicious and she said the secret was the order in which she mixed the ingredients. I never could get the hang of it. She drizzled the dressing over the salad, tossed it and we sat down across from each other.

“Did you have a bad day?” Leeann’s dark brown eyes penetrated mine.

“No, not particularly. I just couldn’t get rid of his clothes. And I got into a lot of memories.”

Leeann reached across the table and patted my hand. “I know. It happens to me, too. But we have to go on with our lives. Marc would want us to.”

I nodded, blinking away tears. “Eat your soup before it gets cold.”

We ate our meal without another reference to Marc. Leeann stacked the dishes in the dishwasher and wiped down the counters. Afterwards we went into the living room and sat together on the couch, watching a little of the news on TV. But it was so depressing we turned it off.

“Why don’t I come over this weekend, say, Saturday morning, and we’ll go through Marc’s clothes. We can take some to the Salvation Army and I would like a couple of his things and maybe some of his friends in the AIDS group would like to have something of his, too.”

I thought about that. “That’s sounds like a good plan. Let’s do it.”

Leeann stood up. “I’d better get back before Janet gets home. She’ll wonder where I am.” Janet was my daughter’s partner. They had been together for six years.

“Okay, honey. Give my love to Janet. See you on Saturday morning.”

I walked Leeann to the front door, locked up and picked up a photo of my mother that had fallen face down on the bookcase. She had been a handsome woman in her youth. Dark hair and eyes proclaimed her Native American heritage. My mother could never forgive me for having two gay children and said it must be my fault. I tried to show her there was no “blame”, they were just who they were, but she would have none of it.

“I warned you about letting Marc play with dolls, didn’t I,” she would say in her self righteous way.

“Yes, Mother you did,” I would say to her, “but their sexual preference doesn’t have anything to do with that.”

After I’d had enough of her judgments, I’d cut her off with, “Now Mother, we are not going to place blame or judge any more today. I love my children and I don’t care if they want to have sex with a duck. Now we’ll talk of something else or I’m leaving.” That would usually shut her up temporarily, besides stunning her into silence with my flippant remark about sex with animals.

I could still smell the sea waters of the fish chowder in the house. I lit a stick of cinnamon incense and its essence quickly filled my nostrils. I turned off the lights except for a night light and headed to the back of the house. Entering my blue and purple bedroom, I glanced at the smiling photo of Marc on the table next to my bed. What a terrible waste. He was so handsome, a smiling, articulate, intelligent, talented man. Why did he have to die? I’d been asking something out there in the universe for the last six months, since he left this world….why? I received no answers. In the beginning, there was denial. I would have a sudden thought and run to the phone to call Marc to tell him something. Then the realization hit me, like a truck mowing me down. I felt like my heart had been jerked right out of my chest, there was so much pain. After that, anger and blame, and that had taken a while to work through. My faith in some higher being had never been very strong, and now the loose ends of my belief system were flapping in the wind. I remembered the white-hot heat of searing rage that I felt after hearing the news from my son on the phone. Eighteen months to live! I had looked in the mirror above the sink and saw my flushed face. My head began to throb. I picked up the nearest thing, a ceramic tile and slammed it against the kitchen wall. It shattered in thousands of pieces that flew across the room, some hitting me on my arms bringing blood. My heart exploded at the same time. Damn HIM! How dare he! HE? Who was he, anyway? Some higher power decided arbitrarily to take my son? How unjust, how wrong; this proved there was no HIM! I finally calmed down enough to call Leanne and she came over and comforted me as best she could. That was eight years ago when I first found out his diagnosis. I had left that emotion far behind. Now there was a great chasm in my heart without a bridge.

I undressed and climbed into bed. His green sweater was thrown across the other pillow. I tucked it under the blanket. Taking his picture from the table I cradled it between my palms. I hadn’t been true to the words I’d said to him before he died. I had relived that day a thousand times.

The late evening rain pounded the window besides Marc’s bed. He had stopped taking food and medications ten days before. During that time he had drifted in and out of a shallow coma. His heart was beating so hard I could actually see his shirt flutter. His breathing had changed in the last hour, becoming shallower. He opened his eyes and looked up from the pillow. His hand rested gently in my palm.

“Are you ready to let me go?”

I managed not to cry and looked him straight in the eye and said, “Yes, dear, I am. Whatever you need to do is okay with me.”

“Thank you Mother, for everything. I’m so glad I was your son on this earth. But then, I chose you, didn’t I?” He was referring to the Buddhist teaching that after we die and leave our bodies, we choose our parents for the next incarnation. I nodded, unable to speak.

“Remember, I want you to live a full life. Don’t grieve for me too long. You’re in love with life. Get back to it as soon as you can.”

I was still dry-eyed, thanking the Gods and Goddesses for giving me strength at this important moment.

“Yes, darling, I will.”

He closed his eyes and his heart stopped pounding. A long minute went by and then another beat of his heart. After a long interval, the thin cotton of his shirt trembled slightly. Then one last beat and he was gone. I laid my head on his chest and the tears flowed. After a few minutes, my sobs quieted. I sensed something brush my shoulder. Sitting up, I could see nothing but I knew it was my son’s spirit leaving his body.

A fog horn in San Francisco Bay brought me back to the present. I wiped my eyes and set Marc’s picture back in its place on the night stand. Beside it was a small square wooden box with salamanders carved around the sides. I touched it lovingly with my finger tips.

“Good night, my sweet son.”

It was time for me to get on with the living of life. After all, life was irresistible for me. I’d always jumped into it with both feet. I’d find that bridge for my heart. My faith in HIM was gradually being rebuilt. I was learning to surrender to the things we cannot change in life.

Turning out the light I snuggled down in the warm bed and just as I dozed off into that fuzzy place before deep sleep, I thought I felt his arms encircle my shoulders.

HOLIDAY FLING

       I was in a 747, 35,000 feet above the earth and I thought of Christmas, a mere week away. Once again I would be spending my Christmas alone. Well, that wasn’t entirely true; I was flying to Michigan to spend the holidays with my daughter. She lived in a small rural village in Western Michigan bordering Lake Michigan. I love my daughter very much and spending a week with her would be delightful, but just not the same as being with a partner. When I say alone I was really thinking back to when I had a man in my life. It seemed a million years ago. There was the artist, who talked me into posing for him – nude, and then the writer/poet whose intensity and talent seemed to overwhelm even me. Then there was the unhappy love affair with the Yacht broker. That was a fiasco and I was damned lucky to get out of it unscathed.
     I had been subscribing to Match.Com for a few years and had met the poet and the yacht broker online. The poet and I had had a long, sexually fulfilling relationship, however, he had a challenged son who lived with him, and I could not live with him and his son, nor did he want that either. I was yet to meet a man, with whom I could have a powerful, deeply emotional, and fulfilling sexual relationship as well as a spiritual meeting of the souls, and no baggage. That’s not something you can force. It either happens to you or it doesn’t.
     I changed planes in Chicago and when I landed in Grand Rapids my daughter was there to meet me. I saw her dear, sweet face shining like a homing beacon through the throngs of people.
    We hugged, and then she pushed me away to take a good look at me.
    “Gee, Mom. You look better than I expected.”
    “Oh? And what exactly did you expect?’
    “I guess I was thinking you’d start beginning to look your age.”
     I laughed and hugged her again. “Thanks darling’ for that off-handed compliment.”
    We walked to her car, I threw my single suitcase in the back and we headed for her place.
   “You know Mom, I’ve been thinking. You should get on the internet and look for someone to date since you’ll be relocating here next year.”
     We had decided after many discussions that I would move to Michigan to be nearer her and find some part time work there.
     “Isn’t it a little soon,” I said? “I mean I’m not even here permanently yet.”
     “You’ll be here in a couple of months. You can select someone from Match.com and get to know them online before you meet them. That way when you move here you can start dating.”
     It would be nice to have a little holiday fling if nothing else, I mused. The thought of some heavy breathing, hands and kisses all over my body, wet and sweaty body parts, was actually quite exhilarating. Especially after my long celibate period. I began to warm to the idea right away.
     “Okay, honey,” I replied.
     She glanced over at me. “Now Mother, I know you. I didn’t mean sex in the very beginning. You know I think you should get to know a man before you get intimate.”
     “Yes, dear,” I answered. Images of two naked bodies with the afternoon light bouncing off the fresh fallen snow and streaming in a double paned window made the idea even more exciting.
    The day after Christmas I went on Match.com and found a man that sounded like someone I’d like to get to know. He was a widower, retired, and also looking for someone to share his life with. He stated in his profile that he studied Buddhism and practiced meditation. The down side was that he lived several miles away. But he sounded so special I wasn’t to be deterred. We struck up an email communication and then I sent him my daughter’s phone number. He called - and we connected, almost immediately. We arranged to meet half way between his town and mine.
    The next day, with several warnings from my daughter, I drove to the nearby town and waited for him in front of city hall. The police station happened to be in the same building. I was standing on the corner with my purse on my shoulder, my long hair blowing in the wind. It had snowed the night before and my California heels were partly covered with flecks of white. My bare legs were cold as my skirt whipped around my calves. Several policemen gave me a second look and I was wondering if they thought I was standing there for some illegal reason. One policeman stood outside the building for ten minutes watching me. I began to feel paranoid. A half an hour went by – he was late – or worse – got cold feet. Just when I decided he wasn’t coming, and that I’d had enough scrutiny by the local law enforcement, a man in a dark green Lexus drove up and asked me if I was Colleen.

    I nodded. “You’re Eugene?”
    The man behind the wheel smiled. “I am. Would you like to go in my car for lunch?”
     “Sure.”
    He leaned across and opened the car door and I slipped into the seat just as the cop by the building took a step toward us.
     “Could you kind of pull away fast and get lost in traffic?”
     “Ok, but there’s no traffic in this little burg”
     We both laughed. He asked me what was going on so I told him.
     “I doubt if they have any soliciting on the street in this town,” he said. “They roll up the sidewalks at 8 p.m. By the way, I apologize for being late. I went to the county court house and waited for a while, then remembered you had said city hall, so I sped over here.”
       I nodded, accepting his apology and explanation.
      "How do you like Michigan so far," he asked?
     “I’m just getting used to small town life,” I said. “It’s so different from the big city.”
     “Do you miss the city?” He turned brilliant dark blue eyes on me.
     “No…..I like small towns with lots of green trees and fields of corn and fruit orchards.
     He smiled at me and I felt like melting butter.
     We drove to a nearby café and took a table in the back. I ordered a tuna salad and so did he. I proceeded to gobble my lunch while he toyed with his, talking more than I, and looking me over quite carefully.
      “Well, do I pass inspection?”
     He smiled and nodded a slight flush rising to his cheeks. “More than pass, I’d say.”
     I breathed a sigh of relief then took a deep breath and blurted out, “One thing we have to get out of the way, right now. I lied about my age. I took off nine years.”
     “He looked at me strangely. “You mean you’re nine years older than me?”
     “That’s right”.
     “Why did you do that?”
     “Well, when I put my correct age on my profile, I would get men that used a cane or a walker and that wasn’t what I was looking for.”
     He threw his head back and laughed. His full mouth and beautiful teeth caught my attention. I guess it was then I noticed his smooth, full head of hair, a wonderful shade of gray.
     “And what are you looking for,” Eugene asked?
    “Someone who is physically agile and lives an active life.”
     He smiled at my statement and nodded. “Me, too.”
     “Well, you’re looking at one active woman.”
     “Yes …I suspected as much,” He said.
     We looked at each other and laughed again. I was thinking how much I liked hearing his laugh and how good I felt when he made me laugh.
     Being a California girl I offered to split the bill which we did. He opened the outside door and the wind caught my coat, my heel slipped on an icy step and I started to slide down and away from him. Eugene caught my hand in mid-flight and steadied me as my feet grabbed the ground once again. His hand held mine very tightly and he looked into my eyes and I knew I wanted to know this man much better.
     “That was a close call. You have to be careful here in the snow and ice. Always be aware of where your feet are.” He looked down at my shoes. “You need some sturdy boots, too.”
     I looked up at him and could have kissed him right then. “Thank you,” I managed to say as my heart added a couple of beats.
I knew I had fallen for him at that moment. I was still gripping his hand, but before we got to his car I slipped my hand in the crook of his arm. He smiled down at me. When we got to the car he unlocked it and helped me in.
     As he drove back to where my car was parked, we talked of our families. He had one son and two grandchildren. He said he played golf quite often. His two cats, Samantha and Cali were always waiting for him when he returned home. By now I had a lump in my throat the size of a snow ball and my tongue felt kind of like a sticky ice cream cone topped with chocolate. There was some terrific chemistry going on between us, like a hot tidal wave pulsing back and forth. I began to sweat in my daughter’s heavy winter jacket and wished I could shed it but there was no time as I saw my car in the next block. He parked in front of my car, came around, opened the door for me and pulled me out of the seat and - straight into his arms.
We took a swift second to look at each other then he kissed me gently on the lips. When we moved apart his eyes again found mine. Then he kissed me a second time. I returned his kiss and we stood on the windy winter corner of a small Michigan town wrapped in each other’s arms. When he took his lips away from mine for the third time, I said,
“Want to do this again?” Oh my God, I thought! I don’t know why I said that. It just slipped out.
     “I sure do,” he said, his beautiful blue eyes sparkling down on me.
       I felt like a Christmas tree; all lit up. We arranged to meet two days later to spend the day together. He would drive to my daughter’s house.   All the way home I had this incredible feeling that I had met my Match.
     My daughter happened to be going to Chicago on the day Eugene visited. Actually, I think when I found out she would be away on business I very carefully forgot to tell her he was coming. He and I went to lunch at a very nice restaurant in Saugatuck and afterward walked down to the Lake Michigan beach, played with the gulls, and picked up interesting rocks and shells. In the late afternoon it started to snow so we returned to the house.
By the time he went home we were both talking of tomorrows. My daughter thinks he’s as wonderful as I do, now. My holiday fling turned out to be one I want to have… for the rest of my life.