Do You Feel What I Feel. a Holiday Anthology Page 13

  Monica sighed again. “My dad had cancer. It was diagnosed a few days after I took my licensure exam.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She tried to smile, but it was more of a grimace. “The irony was that I had studied to be an oncology nurse, and I wanted to work with children. When Mama called, I knew exactly how bad his condition was. I’m not sure either of them did.”

  My brain flashed to the fact that my dad was in another part of this hospital getting his chemo. I flinched at the idea of having her level of understanding of a loved one’s condition. Something must have shown on my face, because she reached across the table for my hand and squeezed.

  “He’ll be fine, Brandy.” Her voice held conviction, and her expression was open. Perhaps she was just really good at her job, but I decided to trust her. It was Christmas, and I couldn’t risk doubts right now.

  “So, your dad was ill.” I prompted and squeezed her hand back.

  She pulled away, and I missed the warmth of the contact. “Yeah. So I applied for work nearby. I knew I couldn’t play an official role in treating him, but my mama needed me here.” She took a sip of coffee. “When he got sick, Mama insisted the entire family return to our parish church—‘where we belong’ as she put it—for Mass. A new priest was in charge, so Papa agreed.”

  “I’m sure that was a comfort.” I was a PK, a preacher’s kid, so I knew how people returned to the familiar in times of crisis. Sometimes the faith helped, sometimes it didn’t; but lots of people tried it.

  She shrugged. “To them, maybe. Not to me. College made me…” She paused and thought for a moment. “I found I saw the world differently after college. I had a hard time attending Mass with them, because now I knew more about the Church’s history.” She took a bite of food and chewed thoughtfully, meeting my gaze. “I tried a few of the other churches, especially those I had liked back in high school. Like your dad’s.”

  “How did that go?” I knew some pastors were welcoming to those raised Catholic, while others were hostile.

  She frowned. “Most pastors turned me off with their false piety and hypocrisy. A few learned my name and upbringing and then expressed anti-Latino and anti-Catholic sentiments.” She brushed hair from her eyes. “Your dad didn’t do either. He said he remembered me from before and made me feel welcome. He visited Papa in the hospital and prayed with my parents. When Mama reminded him they were Catholic, he told her, ‘God hears the prayers we say together, and He hears those you and your priest say. He isn’t concerned about where we pray or which denomination we follow. All God wants is our love and devotion.’”

  I’d heard Dad say things like that before, and it had caused a few problems with congregants who wanted to imagine that one church was superior to another. It was a bit of Dad’s private dogma that wasn’t strictly in line with Southern Baptist teaching, but he wouldn’t change it. He truly believed that all prayers, when prayed earnestly, would be heard. “That definitely sounds like my dad.”

  She smiled. “I was impressed, so I attended church more often after that. I even attended one of his week-long revivals.”

  I winced, and she chuckled. “I’m sorry.”

  “So was I, but I’m glad I experienced it. I like to read books set in earlier times in America, and tent revivals are often mentioned. It gave me a sense of living in a moment that was… simpler.” She shook her head. “It also made me stop attending his church.”

  I knew the revivals were intense experiences, but most people found a stronger connection to the church afterward, so I was a bit surprised. “What turned you off?”

  Her gaze locked with mine, and I felt stripped. I knew what she would say before she said it.

  “His subject that year—in all seven revival sermons—was…”

  “Homosexuality.” I finished her sentence.

  “Right.” She gave me a crisp nod but didn’t break our eye contact. “I came out to my family in my senior year of college. This was about six months after that, and I didn’t appreciate his… fire-and-brimstone approach to the subject.”

  I did some quick math, and I realized that particular revival was about three months after Mom and Dad had visited me. It was the first time they had seen me at home with Liz and six months after she and I had become lovers. “Ah, damn.”

  “What?” Monica raised an eyebrow at me.

  “That sermon was probably my fault.” Her expression said she wanted more information, so I explained about my parents’ visit.

  “Is that when you told them?” Realizing what she had asked, she laughed. “I guess it’s time for the time-honored tradition of sharing our coming-out stories.”

  I laughed, but my laugh was half-hearted. She had come out to her very Catholic family at twenty-two. I didn’t come out until a month ago, just after my twenty-ninth birthday. What would she think about that?

  “No, I…um…” I sipped my now-cold coffee and grimaced, then stared down at my plate. “I just came out to them. This past Thanksgiving.”

  She gasped. “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope.”

  “What happened?”

  I gave her a quick recap of the day’s events and wrapped up with, “I think he’s probably really perfected that fire-and-brimstone sermon now.”

  She laughed. “Surely they all knew before that.”

  “Well, Stephen, his wife, and Stacy did.” I shrugged. “If my parents didn’t know, it was because they didn’t want to face it; I wasn’t really hiding it. Liz came with me to every family function.”

  “But you didn’t announce it until Thanksgiving, which was after she left?” She studied my face. “Why not?”

  I spun my coffee cup, while considering how to answer. “I’m…I’m not really sure. I guess because Liz wasn’t that important to me. I knew telling them was a risk, that he might react by throwing me out.”

  She nodded but didn’t say anything for a bit. “No need to rock the boat for a minor fling.”

  “Exactly.” I spun my cup some more. “That’s not very courageous, I suppose. And it speaks volumes about my most recent relationship.”

  “Brandy, no one can push us to come out before we’re ready. You weren’t ready to tell them. That’s your path to walk.”

  Her words caused a warm glow to spread over my face. “Thanks.”

  She glanced at the clock. “I should get back.”

  I also checked the time and nodded. “Mom should be ready for a break soon.”

  As we walked to the elevator, Monica asked, “Are you and your family doing something this evening? Perhaps a midnight Christmas Eve service?”

  I nodded. “The assistant pastor at Dad’s church is officiating. Dad can’t attend, but Mom wants the rest of us there.”

  She looked disappointed. “That makes sense.”

  “How about you?”

  She shrugged. “I won’t be attending services, but I might play babysitter to the younger nieces and nephews so my siblings can go.”

  The elevator started to ascend, and the silence between us felt uncomfortable. “Will you still be in town for New Year’s Eve?” She tried to keep her voice casual, but her words were hurried, the way a teenage boy sounds when asking a girl to the prom. It took me a moment to figure out what was going on here.

  “New Year’s Eve?” I said slowly. “Yeah, I’ll still be here then.”

  “Do you have any plans?” She leaned back against the elevator wall, but something about her posture said she wasn’t feeling as relaxed as the gesture suggested. I began to understand what she was really asking me.

  “No, I don’t.” My tongue felt thick in my mouth, the way it did each time someone asked me out. Even if I wasn’t attracted to the person, the flood of nervous energy always made me feel that way.

  “Good,” she said as the elevator chimed past another floor.
“That’s good.” Her right hand brushed and grasped my left. I glanced down at our hands and then met her gaze. A questioning look was in her eyes.

  As I entwined my fingers with hers, I said, “It is.”

  MORE THAN A HOLIDAY ROMANCE

  by Chris Zett

  “I come bearing gifts,” Pamela announced as she knocked on the frame of the open office door. She carried a small stack of mail and used it as a fan. “Hot and sexy gifts, I hope.”

  Carol laughed. Pamela was incorrigible. “You hope? So you pretend you haven’t read my mail yet, Ms. Barker?” Pamela started to answer, but Carol stopped her with a raised hand. “What do you mean by sexy?”

  Pamela grinned. “Professor Barker to you, Ms. Baker, or I won’t give you this envelope marked not safe for work, which was in a large envelope with a note attached. I only noticed it was one of yours when I started reading it.” She sat on one of the chairs, stretched her legs under Carol’s desk, and sighed. “What a disappointment.”

  Since their last names were nearly identical, they met daily to exchange misdirected mail over lunch. A few times they had inadvertently opened letters, but nothing too private until now.

  Carol took a large plastic container from her bag and set it on the table, along with two plates and glasses. “Were you hoping for indecent fan mail from your students? It’s probably only a joke from my brother. And if you insist on formal titles, it’s Professor Baker to you, too, or you won’t get any of my chicken tikka sandwiches.”

  Pamela distributed the bread while Carol poured them both water. “Who’s Laura?”

  Carol nearly spilled her water. “Laura? The letter’s from her?” She reached for the stack, but Pamela was faster.

  “Oh, this must be good. You’re blushing!”

  Carol tried to get to the mail that Pamela hid behind her back, and they both started laughing. When she realized she wouldn’t be able to reach it, she sat down again and held out her hand.

  “Laura is my friend from New York. You know, my traveling buddy.”

  Pamela grinned and handed over the envelope and note. “You mean your fuck buddy. You’ve mentioned her before.”

  Carol’s face heated even more. “Don’t be crude.” She hit Pamela with the mail. “But yeah, my traveling slash seasonal sex partner. I don’t know what this is about; she’s never sent me an actual letter before. We used to e-mail every few weeks.”

  She played with the folded note. What did Laura want? Should she read it in front of Pamela? Well, Pamela had already read the note, or she wouldn’t be asking about Laura. Curiosity won, and she opened the heavy cream paper.

  Dear Carol,

  This is the beginning of an advent calendar. But instead of twenty-four pieces of chocolate to count down to Christmas, you’ll get twenty-four envelopes. When you open the first one, you’ll notice the theme. I want to share some of my memories of our past with you.

  The first one might not be safe to open at work, so contain your curiosity until you’re home. (I just love to tease you…)

  Love,

  Laura

  “That’s just cruel. She knows I hate surprises. And now I have to wait five more hours.” Carol wanted to frown, but found that she smiled instead. Laura knew her too well; whatever was in the envelope would be worth the wait.

  Pamela took a bite from the sandwich and moaned. “I love Indian food. Is this another recipe you picked up on your travels? Have you been there with Laura as well?”

  “Sure, we’ve been to over twenty countries. We spent nearly two month there and in Sri Lanka.”

  “How long have you been traveling together? Ten years?” Pamela asked.

  “Twelve actually. Since our college graduation. The first trip was supposed to be with a large group of friends, a classical tour of Europe. We didn’t know each other and ended up sharing a room as the only single girls. The others all quit in the first week or so; we endured and really started to enjoy the trip after we were left alone.” Carol traced the marks the pen had left in the heavy paper and smiled. The writing looked so elegant, almost artistic. “We noticed that we’re extremely compatible travelers; we share the same expectations, want to see the same sights and, most importantly, can tolerate each other’s quirks.” Carol bit into her own sandwich, and the fragrant smell triggered a memory of eating the spicy grilled chicken for the first time. It had not been in India, but in London, where she had huddled with Laura on a small bench in a crowded Indian fast food place.

  Pamela watched her for a long moment before she spoke again. “And you’ve been lovers ever since?”

  “After the last couple left us, we went out and shared a celebratory bottle of French wine as we sat on the bank of the Seine and watched Paris at night. It was all very romantic and intense.”

  “But you never tried to have a relationship after that summer?”

  Carol stood and stacked the empty food containers and tucked them into her lunch bag. “No, we were both headed to different coasts. I went to graduate school here, and she was accepted to med school in New York. We talked about it and decided to concentrate on studying and being friends instead of maintaining a long-distance relationship that was doomed from the beginning. It saved us both some heartbreak.” Even as she said it, she had to wonder if it really had saved them. The pain from last summer still lingered behind her breastbone. She took a breath and pushed it deeper inside where it could hide from Pamela’s scrutiny. Carol turned to her desk and sorted through her mail. “Nothing for you today. So, see you tomorrow in your office?”

  Pamela stood. “Mary’s cooking tonight. I’ll bring leftovers.” She hesitated at the door as if she wanted to add something, but then she shrugged and smiled. “See you.”

  When she was finally at home, it took all of Carol’s willpower to change into comfortable clothes, make herself a tea, and sit down before examining the envelope. Not safe for work, written in bold letters, was the only outward marking. She carefully cut the letter at the side and took out a self-made postcard. It showed the illuminated Eiffel Tower in Paris at night, half hidden behind several dark houses. It was an unusual angle and didn’t appear to be a professional picture at all. She smiled when she realized what it was. She turned it around.

  Remember me taking you to the Seine at night and making you sit through my amateurish attempts to get the perfect picture? This is the best of them, but I care more for the memory it evokes. I have recently sorted all my travel memorabilia and noticed that we have made love in twenty-four countries so far.

  Do you remember them all?

  Carol closed her eyes and tried to list all the places they’d been together. Had it really been twenty-four? She couldn’t concentrate as her thoughts returned to Paris. She remembered that night very well. They had shared wine, laughter, and kisses. Later at night, they had shared themselves for the first time. She had been so impressed by the earnest and focused way in which Laura had tweaked the settings of her camera. Her long slender fingers played with the zoom, and as she finally found the right angle, she’d crouched down to finish the settings and awarded Carol with a good view of Laura’s tight fitting jeans. She sighed. The image of a younger Laura stirred a longing she’d better suppress.

  Before she could think better of it, she picked up her phone and dialed from memory.

  “Hey, stranger, thanks for the tease. You made my afternoon at work unbearable,” Carol said, after Laura answered on the first ring.

  “You could never resist a hint. But I knew you’d follow the rules.” Laura’s voice was soft and full of laughter.

  “What rules? Writing not safe for work hardly constitutes a rule!”

  “Yeah, but I knew you would believe in the warning and spend all day thinking about me. Did it work?”

  Carol wasn’t sure if she should be annoyed or amused. She decided to go with the latter for now. “Cocky. Bu
t what part of it wasn’t safe? Your picture? Or the note with your subtle allusion?”

  “Um…the sketch?” Laura seemed puzzled.

  “What sketch? Was there anything else in it?” Carol took the envelope and found a thin sheet of paper stuck inside it. It looked like a page from a notepad. When she turned it around, she saw a rough pencil sketch of herself. A much younger, completely naked, and obviously sleeping self. “Ooooh. I found it. Wow, when did you make this?”

  “After our first time together. I couldn’t sleep, I still had this terrible jet lag a week after my first transatlantic flight and sat at the window, trying to find an artistic inspiration.” Laura chuckled. “I’ve never told you about this. At first I was too self-conscious, and later I forgot about the sketches.”

  “Sketches? Plural?” Carol traced the silhouette with her finger. “I can’t believe how young I was.”

  “Weren’t we both? I made maybe a half dozen that night. And a few more over the next years. Later I grew out of the jet lag and slept more.”

  “You’re really talented. I’ve only ever seen your street scenes and landscapes. So, where are the other sketches? Did you keep them? Are they as good as this one?”

  “I hid them in the books I was reading.” Laura chuckled. “You never touched my crime novels. Too mainstream, you called them.”

  Carol wondered why Laura had never shown her. Was she embarrassed because her perfectionism underestimated the quality? Or because of the content? They’d never been shy with each other, at first because they both pretended to be mature and nonchalant, later because they had nothing to hide, at least nothing about their bodies.

  She decided to steer their conversation towards safer ground. “What are you reading now?”

  For the next hour they skimmed from one topic to another, always staying close to the surface, never taking the conversation deeper. Carol avoided the more important subjects—like last summer—and guessed that Laura was doing the same. She toyed with the empty teacup and wondered who’d bring it up first.