Directions
This story was published in Sinister Wisdom: A Multicultural Lesbian Literary and Art Journal’s Summer 2020 edition.
In 300 feet, turn right.
I saw my mother cry for the first time in this house. Our home looks like it was plucked from the hills of Spain, tan stucco walls and iron railings suffocated by plants surrounding narrow balconies, curved roof tiles colored like rust. Now, mom comes out the front door, waves, fluffs the porch swing pillows, then gets in the passenger side.
“Don’t the hydrangeas look lovely?” she plants a kiss on my cheek.
“Beautiful, mom,” I said. I put the car in reverse. “I’ve kept my plants alive, I’m excited to show you. You’ll be glad to see how much better I’ve gotten at cleaning, too.”
Mom chuckled then launched seamlessly into neighborhood gossip I’d missed while I was gone. It was almost a year ago when Mr. Simms ran over his wife’s cat and tried to replace it with a look-alike, and I’d heard the scream when Mrs. Simms discovered it. Now, mom said, Mr. Simms no longer lived nextdoor, and the imposter cat had just been neutered.
I turned the steering wheel to back out of the driveway, then glanced into the kitchen’s curved bay window as we passed it. I remembered us sitting at the scratched kitchen table centered in the arched window. Mom sat on one side, her hands folded tightly in front of her. I sat across from her, my fingers nervously pulling strands of my wavy hair until they were straight. Our mouths didn’t move — between us was only an ambient, the tick of the grandfather clock in the living room. The only breath came from the coffee mugs in front of us.
Mom took a gentle sip, I mimicked her, my hands shook, causing waves in the shallow, dark pool.
“It ́s good to experiment at your age.” She grabbed our dishes and rinsed them in the sink, her back to me. She swiped her hands along the bags beneath her eyes. “Meredith ́s daughter — you remember Meredith, she’s in my book club — went through a phase just like this when she was in college, samge age as you. Last I heard she was dating a great man, a doctor I think. Meredith likes him at least.”
“I ́m not sure it ́s temporary, mom.”
“Sure, honey. If you say so. It ́s part of growing up, you ́ll figure it out.” Her chapped lips tighten in a half smile, her eyes shine like crumpled tinfoil from the building tears.
“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Dad touched my hand, then swigged the last of his beer and went to their bedroom. That ended the first of few times we’d talk about my love life.
I was frozen, stared at the table. “I think I did figure it out.” I said, watching her shoulders tighten. She slammed the dishwasher shut and grabbed a tissue as she left the kitchen, her eyes squeezed shut.
Turn left onto Farwell Street in two miles.
I see the towering multicolored playground in the school’s parking lot from a mile down the road. We inch closer to the faded brick rectangle, where kids in khaki pants and knee-length skirts beneath navy blue polo shirts scramble into the door guided by old women wearing whistle necklaces. I almost feel the collar of the polyblend button up I’d worn throughout childhood choking me again. I glance at my hands and flash to images of mom’s polished nails twisting our family car’s wheel toward the parking lot.
Mom used to keep on one hand on the wheel, blotted her lipstick with a finger of her other hand in the rearview mirror as she drove down the street. My older sister, Veronica, sat in the front seat, hidden from oncoming cars by the dashboard. Mom took the idea of Sunday best seriously enough to sport it every day of the week. She took both of our hands, after adjusting her necklace charm and greeting other moms with shouts of “hello, you!” ringing in her shrill, falsely excited voice. We’d walk into the school, three women carrying pounds of expectations on our shoulders. In two miles, turn left.
Next we pass a mud-colored brick building. On the third floor there’s open French windows. I remember the day yellow and white streamers decorated the same ones, a silver balloon escaping and sailing toward the sun. I think back to the twinkling sound of champagne-induced cackles from a herd of women in pastel dresses, who sat neatly like macaroons on a platter.
Me and mom sat on the couch, two years older than the only time I said I was gay out loud. Between us is Veronica, her dark hair tumbling and curling like the tide of a curved river, mirroring my own, her eyes lighter and wiser than mine. One hand rested on her stomach, a gentle bump massive against her small body. She grinned as she ́s passed another gift wrapped in gold paper, squealed when the shreds fell away to show white pajamas with a fat giraffe on the front. She asked me to get her more sparkling grape juice. I took both our glasses and filled mine to the brim with champagne, hoping to find solace in its electric bubbles.
Mom sits at a table with another woman, a playground mother whose dyed blonde hair was sprayed with enough hairspray it didn’t move when she leaned over her phone to show mom photos of her new grandbaby and the condo her husband had just closed on. I hear them cooing across the room. Both move their hands like every syllable is unbelievable, and raise their voices to excited volumes.
“You must be so proud of her,” the woman said, leaning back and watching my sister.
“You know I’ve been antsy about becoming a grandparent for years,” Mom shot a glance in my direction. I pretended I didn’t notice. “I couldn’t have asked for a better man for my daughter. She’s carrying on the Banks woman tradition, married well at 24, having a child at 26. Ginny’s time is coming up next year. You wouldn’t happen to know of any single men at Ryan’s firm, would you?”
Veronica snuck into the kitchen, her step silent as a dancer’s despite her bloated figure. She wrapped one arm around me, rested her temple on my shoulder.
“Hey, I was going to bring this to you,” I said, handing her the juice.
“I wasn’t sure when I’d get another chance to ask and wanted to get you alone.”
“Keep it down, mom’s right over there.”
“Tell me tell me tell me,” Veronica whined the same way she did when we had sleepovers in our fort and spilled teenage secrets. I sighed but smiled, happy to give in and gush about her.
“Her name is Harper. We met at school, she’s an art teacher. I walked my class to her classroom on her first day. I made up a fake rule that it’s required for first-grade teachers to monitor students in art class. She saw right through that and we hit it off.”
My face warmed; it’s easy to ramble about Harper. I told Veronica everything about her — her two cats named Simon and Garfunkel and her red glasses that more often pushed back her curls than rested on her nose.
“So when do I get to meet her?” Veronica asked, both hands lingered over her heart after she’d “aw”-ed dramatically at the story.
“Meet who?” Mom appeared behind Veronica, her full champagne glass and diamond necklace sparkling. Veronica and I plotted a lie silently through one anxious glance.
“A friend of mine, another teacher at school,” I said quickly.
“They must be a little more than that if Veronica’s so excited about them.”
I try to gather words to build a believable lie, not my strong suit. Veronica left and squeezed my arm to greet new guests as they walked in.
“Ginny, why didn’t you tell me? What’s his name?” mom asked.
I looked her in the eyes and inhaled deeply. “Harper. Her name is Harper.”
Mom set her glass down hard on the counter, the stem quivered and the cup’s blossom threatened to break, bloom in sharp petals.
“Virginia,” mom snapped. A nearby woman glanced over, concerned at mom’s loud volume.
She tried to laugh it off, excused herself and walked toward me.
“You couldn’t have found a better time to tell me?” she whispered sharply. “What if someone hears?”
“I suppose that would embarrass you, wouldn’t it?”
Mom looked startled, like she’s been caught in the act of something wrong. Her forehead wrinkles deepened. She avoided my gaze and drifted hers back to the living room. Veronica greeted some childhood friends who came with their mothers. One woman, an older clone of the daughter she arrived with, waved mom over to gush over how great their daughters — both pregnant — were.
Mom twisted her mouth back into a false smile, leaving me swirling as I felt the kitchen spin. She answered my question without a word.
In one mile, turn right.
There’s sepia light behind fogged windows, making it hard to see inside. Inside these windows is a lounge, dark and mysterious like a speakeasy. High-backed booths lined the walls, red jars held candles on each table.
I remember watching Veronica’s husband, Ren, balance three full glasses in a triangle between his hands. They’d started shaking as he set them down on their table.
“I’m drinking vicariously through you,” Veronica raised her water in a toast. “You said she’s on her way?”
“She’ll be here soon,” I said. I shot her a look meant to quiet her impatience. She sipped her water with eyebrows raised.
A couple minutes later, Harper strutted in with a grin as bright as her yellow jumper. She opened her arms for Veronica.
“It’s so great to meet you,” Harper said. Veronica stood to meet her, Ren shook her hand. “I got you a drink,” I said to Harper after kissing her hello.
“So, you’re an art teacher?” Veronica asked. She’d arranged the double date solely to
interrogate her.
“I am. I love working with kids, maybe I’ll teach yours one day.”
“I’ve been reading all about what art can do for the child’s psyche,” Veronica leaned forward, excited to have someone new who would listen to these things.
Harper charmed Ren with questions about his accounting work. I watched her like the first time she talked to me in the teachers’ lounge. She’d poured coffee grounds into a filter while she talked to be comfortably, like she knew but wanted to learn every fact, like she was searching for all the tiny details in a favorite painting. Her dimple pulsed up and down as Ren and Veronica answered her questions in exchange for answers to theirs. Veronica glanced at me and winked, her mark of approval. They talked through two rounds of drinks, I hardly said a word.
“Do you want another one?” Harper asked me, gesturing to my empty glass.
The band at the far corner slowed their tempo to a brassy bellow. Veronica stood up and grabbed Ren’s hand.
“Do you dance, Harper?” Veronica asked. She pulled Ren to standing and waved the two of us with them before Harper answered.
“Ginny?” Harper stood and reached for my hand, smiling. She did, in fact, love dancing.
I hesitated, scanned the room. Every woman around my mother’s age looked like they could
have been her, or a wine-wielding book club friend, in the candle’s odd shadows. I couldn’t see where they were looking but feared it was at mine and Harper’s linked hands. I felt glued to my seat, like that would somehow protect me from being seen.
“No, let’s just sit,” I said, pulling her down gently. Veronica and Ren moved slowly together, as close as they could get with the baby between them.
“What’s going on?” Harper sat closer to me, her voice dripping with concern like I was one of her students sobbing over a paper cut.
“I’m just not feeling well,” I said. Harper nodded, her eyes looked down in quiet doubt.
“Alright,” she rubbed my back softly anyway and leaned close to my ear. “Your sister’s great. They’re great together. If she’s as much like your mom as you say I can’t wait to meet her, too.”
“Except mom wouldn’t be that kind,” I said. “I wouldn’t go well at all, nothing like this.”
“I think she’d understand more if she saw us together.”
“I don’t think so, Harper,” I snapped. “I appreciate you asking to meet her so much, but it’s not going to happen.”
“Are you embarrassed to love me?” she asked, quiet after a few seconds of silence.
“No, not at all. She and I just haven’t talked about it since the shower.”
“Tell me why you won’t dance with me. Is it because of what she thinks?”
“Are you talking about mom?” Veronica said. The song had changed to a faster tempo. Ren
helped her back to sitting carefully, like lowering an elderly person into a wheelchair. “Every time we go over there she tries to set Ginny up with a different guy.”
Harper let go of my hand. “Veronica, Ren, I had a great time but I should go.”
“So soon?” Veronica said in light protest. She reached her arms toward Harper, lacking energy to stand again. “I’ll tell mom how wonderful you were, she’ll come around.”
“It would be great for her to hear that, I’m sure,” Harper said, shooting me a hurt look. She grabbed her purse and jacket, hugged Ren and Veronica, and left.
“What happened, Ginny?” Veronica asked.
I pulled cash out of my purse and pulled my coat over one arm. “I need to talk to mom. Thank you for this, really,” I threw the money on the table. “Let me take care of the tip. I’ll let you know how it goes.” I kissed Veronica’s cheek and ran outside to catch up a cab.
Continue straight for three miles, then turn left.
I noticed the burnt orange stucco blocks down the street. They’d installed those blinding automatic lights at each corner of the house. I asked the driver to drop me a couple houses away. The kitchen light glared in the angled window. I walked slowly past to see what I could; mom’s back faced the window, her arms were deep in the sink. I crept to the front door and knocked. Mom opened it after a few seconds.
“Ginny? It’s late.” She wrung a dish towel in her hands, her brow furrowed with worry.
“I’m sorry, I should’ve called. I just really need to talk to you. Can I come in?”
Mom motioned me inside. She shuffled back to the kitchen, asking lightly if I’d like any tea. “No, mom, that’s ok.” I sat at my childhood table spot, the one facing the window. She put a pot of water on the stove for herself. She kept playing with the towel as she sat down at the edge of her chair.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Harper’s angry with me. We got into a fight like we’ve never had.”
“Which one’s Harper? Your friend who teaches at the school?”
I cringed and sighed. “No, no. I love her, and you know that. You know who Harper is.
That’s all I need, that’s how you can help. I need you to act like you know, and try to understand. You have to or she’ll leave.” My voice cracked at “leave.” My eyes burned. She looked down. Her hands settle over the towel, she nodded slowly.
“Meredith’s son came out a couple weeks ago.”
“Mom, this isn’t the time for your gossip.”
“He came out, and she won’t speak to him. She was furious at lunch, said the worst things about her own boy. I’ve never spoken to you that way. I couldn’t help but want to throw my drink in her face.” She wiped her eye bags. “I never talked about you and Harper because I didn’t know what to say. I just don’t know, Ginny. I don’t understand it. But I’m not angry.”
In 52 miles, turn right. You have arrived.
I park my car along the curb in front of a building lined with wide, arched windows. Mom finishes shuffling around in her purse and spits a grey wad of gum into a torn receipt.
“I hope the inside is better kept than this lawn.” I hope her judgment stuck to that. “Let’s go in, then,” we crack our doors and step into the humid fog.
We reach the faded red main door and my hand shakes as I flip through keys on their ring. I glance back at mom. Her gaze is reading labels attached to mailboxes.
“When did you get a roommate?” she asks, with a kick to the flavor of her voice, like she already knew after doing the math — one-bedroom apartment, two-person mailbox.
“That’s what I want to show you.”
We follow the warm scent of sugar and flour making something whole in the oven to get to our front door. Inside, Harper sings loudly along with David Bowie’s tenor, copying the beat with a kitchen knife as she chopped. I walk up behind her and lightly touched her back gently to get her attention. She whips around and looks directly at mom.
“Mrs. Banks, hi, it’s so great to finally meet you! I’ve heard only the best things,” she wipes her powdery hands on her pants before reaching one toward my mother, who stands as if the kitchen archway gripped her with a magnet. “I’m Harper.” They shake hands, Harper gingerly cupping my mom’s hand in both of hers.
Mom returns the hello, and her eyes widen, the name’s clicked in her memory. She looked at me as confused creases deepened around her eyes.
“We live together, mom, and we’re very much in love. I want you two to know each other, because she’s going to be in my life — in our lives — for a long, long time.”
“Do you mean...” Mom asked.
“I want to marry your daughter, Mrs. Banks.”
A smile creeps up mom’s cheeks. Her eye’s scrunch as it does, but I see tears welling up. “You’ve made a beautiful home here,” mom said. She opens her arms to welcome Harper in. “Hello, Harper. I’m thrilled to meet you.”
