The Lies That Keep Us Warm

I think I can nail it down to that last Christmas. It was 2010. I had graduated from high school a few months before and my dad had been the accompanist at a new church, Unity, for a while by then. My sisters and I had all grown up Catholic: baptisms, first communions, confirmations, the whole thing. My oldest sister, Elizabeth, had long since moved out and started her own family, raising her two boys with a distinct absence of religion (read: absence of my parents’ influence); and my middle sister, Victoria, had moved in with her boyfriend the year before but still came around to sing for my dad, much to my displeasure. I had never been the biggest fan of my sister’s voice; that would be my dad.

Unity was different. It wasn’t Catholic. It wasn’t anything recognizable as a ‘church.’ In fact, Unity through adult eyes looks more like the beginnings of a cult crossed with new age, hippy bullshit. But that’s where we went. When my dad left the church he used to play for- the one my parent’s had renewed their vows in, the one where my sisters and I were all baptized by the same man, Father Dale Oerlick, the one that I grew up thinking of as a bonding place for me and my dad- he took a job here. Unity is a ‘church’ in a refurbished school building. The ‘worship room’ is an old gym. The ceilings are incredibly high and the acoustics are basically shit; everything echoes whether you want it to or not. And yet, there I sat. In the front row of the congregation, my dad up on the ‘stage’, which is really just a small platform barely big enough for the reverend, a podium, and an electric keyboard (they don’t even have a piano?!), while my sister is singing some overblown version of a Christmas song. My mom is sitting next to me, messing around with my dad’s new phone, an Android (remember when that’s what it was called? It was an actual Droid, not a Droid Maxx, or V30, or anything crazy…) and the first actual smartphone any of my family had ever had, while she tried to figure out how to silence it. I’m sitting there blocking out as much of my sister’s shrill singing as possible, trying to remember my part for our next song, one my mom (not so) lovingly refers to as “O Holy Nightmare”. I hear my mom sniffle. For only the third time in my life, I look at her thinking she looks fragile, delicate; like the next wind that comes is going to bowl her over and make her admit defeat.

For reference, my mother is one of the strongest women I know. She grew up on a farm, working hard for everything she ever got. She was the one who fixed things in our house. She was the one who knew what the tools were all called and could stop the sink from leaking with its constant, irritating drip, drip, drip… my mom trained as an EMT, which comes in handy when you are the mother of three girls that are perfectly spaced in age so as to hate each other and, therefore, constantly strive to inflict serious bodily harm on one another. She handles the harshest of grief and stress with courage and calm. When my sister Victoria cracked her head open, my mom came home from work, berated us for fighting in the same breath as she pacified my terrified siblings, and then drove her to the hospital with an air of tranquility. When I put my arm through the glass storm door and needed stitches, my mom was the one who sat with me in the bathroom (I was in the bathtub, trying to avoid making a mess with all the blood) and confidently showed me, when I asked, where the muscle and bone were visible through the cut. So, to see her as she was, trying to contain the maelstrom of torment and anguish that was obviously held just beneath the surface, was perplexing.

At the time, my parents were working on their marriage. Well, as far as I knew they were. There was therapy, there were date nights, there were talks that they had when I was out. They each tried to find a foothold in life. They were on the verge of having an empty nest for the first time in 28 years, and found that their involvement with each other came down to bills. They didn’t ever really talk about ‘the kids.’ I wasn’t a kid anymore; I never really had been. I was the daughter that was conscious of the fact that we didn’t have money. I was the daughter that decided to forgo class trips (all of them, including all the band excursions). I was the daughter that was far too nosy for her own good, and was constantly getting into and finding things that I had no right, no need, and no desire to find.

While my dad did his best to live a healthier lifestyle (getting us both a gym membership, working out a few times a week, actually taking his insulin as prescribed, or close enough), my mom seemed to fall apart. I knew she had always battled with depression; I had seen her at some of her lower points before, especially when we didn’t have health insurance and she had to go off Prozac for a few years. This was worse. She was crumbling.

One day, in late May the year before, having what my mom would call a ‘Curious George moment’, I decided to snoop. I had always enjoyed checking out what my parents kept in their dresser drawers: our old baby teeth, the ponytails from our first haircuts, baby pictures of us asleep on dad’s chest. My mom never had sentimental things in hers. It was always in my dad’s bottom drawer; the one that had long ago broken off the tracks, and was almost impossible to open and close. So that’s where I went, one day, with the house to myself, trying to find that little happy place where I wasn’t the forgotten child, the one that didn’t need attention because I could take care of myself. I wanted that nostalgia. The acknowledgment that I had, at one time, been of the utmost importance to my parents and had been well loved and cared for. But that isn’t what I found. For the first time I could recall, there were no baby teeth, no tiny, soft ponytails full of fine blondish hair, no pictures. There was something else that I had no business being aware of.

I had long since found my parents porn stash (if you can even call one 2-disk complimentary DVD set a porn stash), but this wasn’t where that was kept. This became where my dad had started keeping his “new identity”. I didn’t know what it was at first: the label was torn out, there was no title, no distinguishing marks of any kind. Just a plain black DVD sleeve with a non-descript disk inside. Long story slightly shorter, it was gay porn. And that was when I knew I was right.

My sister, Elizabeth, didn’t believe me. When I invited her to go work out with me at the gym my dad had gotten us memberships to, she agreed instantly, wanting a chance to hang out. (She had always been my favorite sister and with her being a married mother of two, we didn’t get to see each other much.) After our half-assed workout, we grabbed drinks from the smoothie bar- peanut butter and protein for me, and wild berry yogurt for her- and sat in the empty locker room talking. I couldn’t concentrate. My mind was stuck on what I had seen, the thing that no kid should see, and how I needed her to be forewarned. I can’t remember everything about that day, but I do remember that part of our conversation very clearly.

“I need to tell you something. It’s a little out there, and I know it’s going to all blow up soon, and I want you to know now, before you get blindsided by it.” She must have thought I was about to confide in her, something big sisters are created for, some big secret that my parents just ‘couldn’t find out about.’ I felt it all building up, the inability to break it to her gently, the inability to find the right words. So, in the end, it all tumbled out. It happened fast, like the moment of impact in a car accident, only to draw crowds of people wanting to witness and stare at its outcome.

“Dad’s gay.” That was it. That’s all I said. She said I was making up stories like I did when I was a kid.

“Elizabeth, I found his stash. He has gay porn. He and mom have been going to therapy and have been having a lot of problems. I’m telling you this, because it’s going to come out and I needed someone else to know about it, so it wasn’t just me with this thing stuck in my head. I’m telling you. He’s gay.”

She didn’t talk to me for a while after that.

I stopped going to the gym. I stopped knowing what to do with my life. I backed out of the scholarship I had to go to college, and decided to take a gap year, audition for American Idol, decide if I really had what it takes to move to New York and be on Broadway or Saturday Night Live. I got bored, didn’t make the cut, figured out that I probably didn’t have it, and then chose to go to cosmetology school, so at least I wasn’t completely wasting my year. That was when everything started to fall apart.

I’ve long had the habit of telling people that I have known since I was five that my dad was gay. He just wasn’t like other dads. He liked gardening and cooking, he loved doing our nails and hair, he loved dressing us up in cute little outfits. He never liked traditionally manly tasks, which is why my mom had to do all of it. He was the one who cooked and cleaned, who took us shopping and talked about boys (with my sisters, never with me… too weird). I could remember countless summer days, a six-year-old me running around the vast back yard of our old house. I would play pretend games with the school of imaginary friends I apparently had, while my dad would toil away in his flower beds far longer than was healthy for him to be out in the sun. My dad’s flowers were his pride and joy in the summer time. There were meticulously groomed and edged beds of daisy’s, roses, bleeding hearts, lamb’s ears, tulips; every flower that could grow in Michigan summer would find its way into the masterpiece of his secret garden, not a petal or blade of grass out of place. There are so many memories I hold, that patina of warm nostalgia comforting me in the bitterness of my current years, of him sitting us down on a footstool in front of him while he pretended to be a hairdresser, instigating a childish version of gossip while he carefully placed pink sponge rollers in our hair before bed. Countless shopping trips where he kept trying to talk me into the sparkly pink monstrosities that I despised and he loved to buy. Yes, I had known for a very long time that my daddy was different.

The August before “that Christmas”, I got a job at the Cracker Barrel (I strongly discourage anyone from eating there…. I’m just saying, I’ve seen things that cannot be unseen) and met the man that would become my husband. He was a bit of a fuck up, (well, more than a bit) with a bad-boy image and a drug problem, and a mom that was seriously off her meds in a scary way. So, needless to say, we immediately moved in together. And so it was, with me out of the house and making my own crazy, horrible, cringe-worthy decisions that go hand-in-hand with young adulthood, that my dad decided to stop pretending. When our place fell through shortly after ‘That Christmas’ (that’s a whole other story in the fucked-up saga of my life), my dad told me to come home and bring Joseph. We lived in the basement of my parents’ townhouse. Joseph got clean, we both struggled to find work after being let go just before the six-month mark at the ‘Honkey Bucket’ as we like to call it, and my parents lived completely separate lives.

I didn’t even notice it at first. The way my parents were almost never home at the same times. The way I stopped hearing them ‘in bed’ if you know what I mean (MASSIVE CRINGE). The way they didn’t interact unless Elizabeth brought over my nephews to visit. My dad told us he had joined a new gym and had taken up racquet ball, along with some new friends he had made there. My mom would constantly ask him where he was going when he went out, ask him about where the money had gone in their joint account, why he had bought new clothes for no reason.

It didn’t hit me until we were washing dishes together one day. He was washing, I was drying and putting them away. This activity in itself was odd, because this was the first place we lived that had a dishwasher, so why we were even hand-washing was a mystery. Remember that old Bill Cosby show, back before he was known for slipping people roofies, back when he was a well-respected family man? Kids say the darndest things. It was amid the silence that accompanies two people ignoring an elephant in the room, along with the clink of forks on butter knives, that I blurted out, “So, are you gay, or what?” That was me as a young adult. No filter whatsoever, and not all that different from how I am now. He looked at me, startled, whether due to my question or my breaking the silence, I’m not really sure.

“Well, Caity, I really don’t know.”

“Cause it’s not a big deal, if you are. I’m Bi.” He looked back at the glass he was washing oh-so-carefully, ignoring my question as much as his denial would allow him.

“I’m trying to figure that out,” he mumbled.

“You and mom always made such a big deal out of being who you are and loving whoever you love. How it’s no one’s business but yours what happens in your bedroom. If you are, then cool.” It was silent for a while longer, and we both just stood there, letting awkwardness spread, until I said, much quieter this time, “I’ve known since I was five. My daddy just wasn’t like other daddies.” I looked up at him side-long through my lashes quickly, then looked back down at the glass I was drying as he answered, sounding a little teary and a little frustrated. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” That was it. That was all he ever said to me about it. Even today, he has never told me he’s gay, even though he has plans to marry Mark, his partner of the past eight years in another month or so.

Maybe you think that’s where the story ends, with my mom being depressed and accusatory. With my dad still denying his true identity, and my parents no longer anything more than roomies. But it doesn’t. It wouldn’t be for a few more months, not until after the split.

Joseph, once he was totally sober, decided he wanted to go work out with my dad. They made plans for it and everything. Joseph was all decked out in his gym shorts and workout gear. He even packed a bag to shower after and grabbed my old racquet. I tried to tell him not to get his hopes up, but that day when my dad came home and grabbed a couple bags, Joseph said he was ready to go, too. My dad gave him a strange look, confusion clearly evident on his face, then said, in a patronizing tone that pains me even to think about coming from his mouth, “you know I don’t really play racquetball, right?” That was when my boyfriend figured out how messed up the situation was. “Racquetball” was his code word. That was the word he used when he was going somewhere my mom really didn’t want to know about, to do things my mom really didn’t want to hear about. It was “racquetball.” I hate that word. That word is a lie. That word, on that day, in that voice, to my boyfriend, who had considered my dad his first stable father-figure, was devastating. But, in the end, “racquetball” is just a word; just a part of the lies that keep us warm at night, meant to protect us from the things in our closets and under our beds.

I cried for Joseph that day. I cried for my mom that day. I wondered where my dad had gone. My dad, who used to try to talk me into doing girly things like nails, hair, and makeup instead of the tomboy things I loved like basketball, dirt, and worms. My dad, who cried while he held me in the middle of a semi-catatonic/semi-convulsive state in the back of my mom’s van going 95+ on the highway to Covenant in Saginaw. My dad, who… now that I think of it was never really there in the way I needed him. My mom wasn’t perfect, but at least she never made me feel forgotten. She never has. My mom always tried to pull the money together for me to go on school trips, while my dad was the one showering my sisters with clothes and gifts and trips instead. My mom struggled with her own issues for years, while trying to make enough money for us to get by, even through my dad’s manic fits of spending and neglect.

I guess that’s the thing that really changes as we grow older: we start to forget to put on our rose-colored glasses in the morning. We begin to recognize that our parents are not, and never were perfect. They’re just people who, much like myself now, have no clue what they’re doing, but have a plan and know they must try. We start realizing that the way we thought and felt about the world around us was warped and changed by the influence of our parents, families, communities. In my memories, I had a great dad; always there for me, always warm and supportive. My mother, in memory, doesn’t present as well, through no fault of her own. She was always typecast as the ‘bad guy’. She was the disciplinarian, the one who doled out groundings and spankings, (because my dad literally cried when he had to do it) the one who signed permission slips and teacher’s notes. But was it her choice? Or was it really because my dad only ever wanted to good parts of family? Maybe that’s what his bottom drawer really was; a place to hold what mattered to him and what he wanted to represent his life. Where it had been his children and family, time and circumstances had changed, and with them, so too had his priorities.

I remember very clearly the day my dad left. Joseph and I had been talking about getting our own apartment, making plans for the future. Nothing much had changed at home. My mom cried more and spent more time alone in my parents’ room, and dad was never home, but that was it. I was sorting through the copious stacks of mail that had accumulated on the table inside the doorway, when he came home from work. It was Thursday, a hot one, on the 27th of March in 2011. I told him I wasn’t expecting him home so soon. He said he wouldn’t be there long. I figured he was just going out again, like he usually did. So, when I jokingly asked, “Are you planning on coming back,” I never expected his answer.

“Not if I can help it.”

That was all he said before going into their empty room, grabbing two bags that he must have already had packed, and coming back out. I stood there, unmoving, staring slack-jawed after him, tears welling in my eyes, as I silently waited for him to say it was a joke. The noise in my head got louder and louder, a steady buzzing that threatened to overwhelm my sensibilities and make me lash out in a way I hadn’t since I was much younger. He stopped long enough to hug me with a mock tightness that was an attempt to convey his love for me, but felt more like a straight-jacket. He whispered, “take care of your mom,” and walked out the door. I mentally raged at him, screaming in my head, “That’s YOUR job! I’m the kid! I didn’t marry her and promise to be there for her until death do us part. That was YOU!” But, of course, none of that came out. I was the good child. The easy child. The child that could be depended on for things far surpassing my age and skill level. So, I simply nodded, tight-lipped, and watch my dad walk out.

I learned what happened after my dad had gotten me a job at the place he had become regional manager of. It would be after I was assaulted by a coworker. It would be after he told me, upon reporting it, that it was my fault, I’d had it coming, and that he wouldn’t take any action against the other employee who had been there far longer than me. It would be after I told him I wanted nothing to do with him, that I never wanted to hear from him or see him again. After I told him I wouldn’t have him at my wedding, I wouldn’t have him knowing my children, I wouldn’t have him in my life- in any way. That was when my mom finally told me what she had learned that Christmas eve.

My mom had stumbled into my dad’s emails while trying to figure out how to silence the notification he had gotten in the middle of Christmas Eve church service. When she read the thread of emails between my father and some unknown person offering for him to be a part of a gay orgy at the only ‘no-tell motel’ in town, that was the day my mom had to start scheduling screening tests for HIV and the STDs that he could have given her. That was the day my mother knew her life would never be what she had thought it would be. It was when she realized that her life had been built around lies, and the foundation was crumbling. Things were never going to be the same. During the deepest depression she had ever been in, my dad was enjoying his new-found freedom, fucking anything that dangled, getting his right ear pierced (I mean, seriously?! The man was in his 50s!), before meeting his current partner, who we not-so-affectionately call ‘Sparkly Mark’. What was Mark’s claim to fame, you might ask? He had once upon a time been a highly sought after drag queen, and loved to tell people about the time he smoked pot with Bette Midler back stage.

In the end, my father racked up a tremendous amount of personal debt that was all directed to their joint accounts. All told, it was somewhere in the area of $38,000, including a penile implant surgery my mother’s health insurance had payed for when they were still working on things, back before she knew the real reason things had stopped working ‘down there’.

Life goes on. Things change, decisions are made, people move forward even when they’re standing still. My mom went to therapy, found some much needed and long-neglected self-esteem, and met a great guy who is as far from gay as you can imagine. She’s happy again, and I, the responsible daughter that took seriously the order of taking care of my mom, know that she is well-loved by her new husband. Well-loved and for the first time in a long time, appreciated. I still find it nearly impossible to be around my father at family gatherings, especially now that I have a baby of my own, but I’ve always been the strong one. Que sera, sera. But the real moment when I knew my mom was moving on and things were going to be okay came from a phone call. One simple phone call that has gone down in history as one of the most memorable ‘Bob and Tom Show’ call-ins, and reminds me often where I get my sense of humor. The topic that day was something you wasted money on because you ended up getting divorced. There were, of course, husbands complaining that they lost out on the ex-wife’s boob job, but my mother was the best they got that day.

“Hello, Bob and Tom Show.”

“Hi. I just wanted to add my two cents on money you wasted on your ex.”

“Of course, how long were you married?”

“We were married for 28 and a half years.”

“Alright and what did you waste money on?”

“Well, I’m still making payments on the $12,000 penile implant my husband got about two years before the divorce”

“Oh wow, that’s rough.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be so bad if he got it for purely medical reasons like I thought.”

“Ok, so there’s more to this?”

“Oh yes. My ex-husband has had diabetes for a number of years, so what we thought was a bad symptom turned out to be something else.”

“Ok, and what was that?”

“Well, about a year ago, my husband left me after he decided he was gay…”