Autoboyography
Page 36
Mom and Dad dated in secret, and for two years together, even while he was staying at her place, he still insisted he would marry a Jewish woman. Every time he said this, she would hide her hurt and say, “Okay, Paul.”
When Bubbe and Dad’s sister Bekah came to visit for three weeks, Mom never once met them. He didn’t tell them anything about her, and the entire time they were in town, she never once saw him either. It was like he disappeared. He didn’t call or check in. She broke up with him after they left, and Dad never argued. He told her he wished her well and watched her walk away.
Whereas Dad has always been mute on the subject of their time apart, Mom has jokingly referred to it as the “Dark Year.” Joke or not, I’ve seen photos of them from this time, and the images always made me mildly uneasy. My parents are capital I, capital L In Love. Dad thinks Mom is brilliant, beautiful; he thinks she hung the stars. She thinks he is the smartest, most wonderful man alive. I’m sure their time apart made them grateful for what they have, but it’s clear they felt this way even before the breakup. In those photos, they both have this sort of carved-out, hollow look. The bluish circles under Dad’s eyes seem like dark phases of the moon. Mom is already on the thin side, but in the Dark Year, she was skeletal.
He admits to me now that he couldn’t sleep. For nearly a year, he slept only a couple hours a night. It wasn’t rare to find med students who were up all night studying, but Dad is an organized, dedicated guy and had no problem staying on top of his work. He couldn’t sleep because he was in love with her. That year, it had felt like he was a widower.
He went to her old apartment and begged her to take him back.
I never knew this. I’ve always heard that they just happened to run into each other on campus one day and Dad knew from then on he couldn’t stay away from her.
“Why did you tell us that you ran into Mom on campus?”
“Because that’s what I told Bubbe,” he says quietly. “It hurt her for a long time that I married Jenna. But to think that I had sought her out and begged her to come back to me would have been a more active betrayal.”
My heart aches when he says this. Every time I go see Sebastian feels like an active betrayal of Mom. I’d just never had a name for it before now.
“Jenna sat me down,” Dad says, “and yelled at me for an hour. She told me how much it hurt to be put in a position where she had no power. She told me that she would always love me, but she didn’t trust me.” He laughs. “She sent me away and told me to prove myself to her.”
“What did you do?”
“I called Bubbe and told her that I was in love with a woman named Jenna Petersen. I bought a ring and went back to your mother’s apartment and asked her to marry me.”
Apparently, Mom said, “When?” and Dad said, “Whenever you want.” So they were married at the courthouse the next morning, another detail I’d never heard. I’ve seen countless photos of their official wedding: the signing of the ketubah, Mom obscured from view beneath her veil, waiting to walk down the aisle, my Dad breaking the glass under the chuppah, the row of photos of honored friends and family members giving the sheva brachot—the seven blessings, my parents being lifted on wide wooden chairs while their friends danced around them. Their wedding photos line the upstairs hallway.
I had no idea they were legally married nearly a year before.
“Does Bubbe know that you were married earlier?”
“No.”
“Did you feel guilty?”
Dad smiles at me. “Not for a single second. Your mom is my sun. My world is only warm when she is in it.”
“I can’t imagine what that was like for you.” I look down at my hands. “I don’t know how to stay away from Sebastian, or if I even could.” I need to ask, as much as I dread the answer. “Did you tell her that you walked in on me and Sebastian?”
“I did.”
“Was she mad?”
“She wasn’t surprised, but she agreed with what I said to you.” He leans closer, kissing my forehead. “What Jenna learned with me was that she always had power, even when she felt like I didn’t acknowledge her. You are not helpless here. But you need to be clear about what you are and are not willing to tolerate.” He tucks a finger under my chin, lifting my face to his. “Are you willing to be a secret? Maybe you are for now. But this is your life, and it will stretch out before you, and you are the only person who can make it whatever you want it to be.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sebastian texts me before bed every night and first thing every morning. Sometimes they’re as simple as Hey.
Other times they’re longer, but barely. Like the Wednesday after dinner at his house, he sent me a note that said simply, I’m glad we agree on the situation.
I take it to mean we’re definitely together.
I also take it to mean we’re definitely a secret.
Ergo . . . we’re a little homeless. My house is now out of the question. His house is definitely out of the question. We could hang out in my car, but not only does that feel too shady, it feels dangerous, like we’d be inside a fishbowl with a sense of privacy and no real walls.
So—beginning the weekend after we’re busted in my room by Dad—at least twice a week, we hike. Not only does it allow us to get away from prying eyes during a time of year when no one else is out on the mountain, but—at least for me—it helps burn off the extra energy I seem to be carting around. It’s cold as hell some days, but worth it.
Things we have done in the two weeks after he whispered the word “boyfriend” into a kiss:
• Celebrated our one-week and two-week anniversaries, in the cheesiest way possible—cupcakes and handmade cards.
• Stealing knowing glances in every Seminar class we’re in together.
• Passing off letters as subtly as we can—usually under the guise of handing him pages of “my book” to read and him handing them back. (Sidenote: My book is flying out of me, but it’s still not the one I’m supposed to be writing. Thinking about it sends me into a spiraling panic. Moving on.)
• Rereading the letters until the paper is practically falling apart.
• Finding creative use for emojis in texts.
Things we have not done since he whispered the word “boyfriend” into a kiss:
Kissed.
I know it’s hard for both of us to be able to feel closer without feeling closer, but everything else is so good right now, I won’t let the lack of groping pull me down off cloud nine.
Autumn takes a page off the stack of handouts going around the room and drops the pile onto my desk, pulling me out of my fog. Sebastian is at the front of the room, bent over a notebook with Clive and Burrito Dave. It doesn’t matter that Clive is dating Camille Hart and Burrito Dave is dating half the junior class. Jealousy spikes sharply between my ribs.
As if he can sense the fire of my stare, Sebastian glances up and then quickly away, blushing.
“Do you . . . ?” Autumn starts, and then shakes her head. “Never mind.”
“Do I what?”
She leans in, whispering, “Do you think he likes you? Sebastian?”
My heart trips over her question, and I force my attention back down to the laptop in front of me, typing the same word over and over again:
Thursday
Thursday
When Bubbe and Dad’s sister Bekah came to visit for three weeks, Mom never once met them. He didn’t tell them anything about her, and the entire time they were in town, she never once saw him either. It was like he disappeared. He didn’t call or check in. She broke up with him after they left, and Dad never argued. He told her he wished her well and watched her walk away.
Whereas Dad has always been mute on the subject of their time apart, Mom has jokingly referred to it as the “Dark Year.” Joke or not, I’ve seen photos of them from this time, and the images always made me mildly uneasy. My parents are capital I, capital L In Love. Dad thinks Mom is brilliant, beautiful; he thinks she hung the stars. She thinks he is the smartest, most wonderful man alive. I’m sure their time apart made them grateful for what they have, but it’s clear they felt this way even before the breakup. In those photos, they both have this sort of carved-out, hollow look. The bluish circles under Dad’s eyes seem like dark phases of the moon. Mom is already on the thin side, but in the Dark Year, she was skeletal.
He admits to me now that he couldn’t sleep. For nearly a year, he slept only a couple hours a night. It wasn’t rare to find med students who were up all night studying, but Dad is an organized, dedicated guy and had no problem staying on top of his work. He couldn’t sleep because he was in love with her. That year, it had felt like he was a widower.
He went to her old apartment and begged her to take him back.
I never knew this. I’ve always heard that they just happened to run into each other on campus one day and Dad knew from then on he couldn’t stay away from her.
“Why did you tell us that you ran into Mom on campus?”
“Because that’s what I told Bubbe,” he says quietly. “It hurt her for a long time that I married Jenna. But to think that I had sought her out and begged her to come back to me would have been a more active betrayal.”
My heart aches when he says this. Every time I go see Sebastian feels like an active betrayal of Mom. I’d just never had a name for it before now.
“Jenna sat me down,” Dad says, “and yelled at me for an hour. She told me how much it hurt to be put in a position where she had no power. She told me that she would always love me, but she didn’t trust me.” He laughs. “She sent me away and told me to prove myself to her.”
“What did you do?”
“I called Bubbe and told her that I was in love with a woman named Jenna Petersen. I bought a ring and went back to your mother’s apartment and asked her to marry me.”
Apparently, Mom said, “When?” and Dad said, “Whenever you want.” So they were married at the courthouse the next morning, another detail I’d never heard. I’ve seen countless photos of their official wedding: the signing of the ketubah, Mom obscured from view beneath her veil, waiting to walk down the aisle, my Dad breaking the glass under the chuppah, the row of photos of honored friends and family members giving the sheva brachot—the seven blessings, my parents being lifted on wide wooden chairs while their friends danced around them. Their wedding photos line the upstairs hallway.
I had no idea they were legally married nearly a year before.
“Does Bubbe know that you were married earlier?”
“No.”
“Did you feel guilty?”
Dad smiles at me. “Not for a single second. Your mom is my sun. My world is only warm when she is in it.”
“I can’t imagine what that was like for you.” I look down at my hands. “I don’t know how to stay away from Sebastian, or if I even could.” I need to ask, as much as I dread the answer. “Did you tell her that you walked in on me and Sebastian?”
“I did.”
“Was she mad?”
“She wasn’t surprised, but she agreed with what I said to you.” He leans closer, kissing my forehead. “What Jenna learned with me was that she always had power, even when she felt like I didn’t acknowledge her. You are not helpless here. But you need to be clear about what you are and are not willing to tolerate.” He tucks a finger under my chin, lifting my face to his. “Are you willing to be a secret? Maybe you are for now. But this is your life, and it will stretch out before you, and you are the only person who can make it whatever you want it to be.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sebastian texts me before bed every night and first thing every morning. Sometimes they’re as simple as Hey.
Other times they’re longer, but barely. Like the Wednesday after dinner at his house, he sent me a note that said simply, I’m glad we agree on the situation.
I take it to mean we’re definitely together.
I also take it to mean we’re definitely a secret.
Ergo . . . we’re a little homeless. My house is now out of the question. His house is definitely out of the question. We could hang out in my car, but not only does that feel too shady, it feels dangerous, like we’d be inside a fishbowl with a sense of privacy and no real walls.
So—beginning the weekend after we’re busted in my room by Dad—at least twice a week, we hike. Not only does it allow us to get away from prying eyes during a time of year when no one else is out on the mountain, but—at least for me—it helps burn off the extra energy I seem to be carting around. It’s cold as hell some days, but worth it.
Things we have done in the two weeks after he whispered the word “boyfriend” into a kiss:
• Celebrated our one-week and two-week anniversaries, in the cheesiest way possible—cupcakes and handmade cards.
• Stealing knowing glances in every Seminar class we’re in together.
• Passing off letters as subtly as we can—usually under the guise of handing him pages of “my book” to read and him handing them back. (Sidenote: My book is flying out of me, but it’s still not the one I’m supposed to be writing. Thinking about it sends me into a spiraling panic. Moving on.)
• Rereading the letters until the paper is practically falling apart.
• Finding creative use for emojis in texts.
Things we have not done since he whispered the word “boyfriend” into a kiss:
Kissed.
I know it’s hard for both of us to be able to feel closer without feeling closer, but everything else is so good right now, I won’t let the lack of groping pull me down off cloud nine.
Autumn takes a page off the stack of handouts going around the room and drops the pile onto my desk, pulling me out of my fog. Sebastian is at the front of the room, bent over a notebook with Clive and Burrito Dave. It doesn’t matter that Clive is dating Camille Hart and Burrito Dave is dating half the junior class. Jealousy spikes sharply between my ribs.
As if he can sense the fire of my stare, Sebastian glances up and then quickly away, blushing.
“Do you . . . ?” Autumn starts, and then shakes her head. “Never mind.”
“Do I what?”
She leans in, whispering, “Do you think he likes you? Sebastian?”
My heart trips over her question, and I force my attention back down to the laptop in front of me, typing the same word over and over again:
Thursday
Thursday
