Juliet Takes a Breath (4 page)

From under the door, she slid a worn photo of us into the hallway. Mom held me in her arms, the Hudson River behind us. My arms were outstretched towards the sun. I turned the picture over and in black ink she'd written “Mariana and Juliet, 1987, Battery Park.”

“Whenever I look at you, I see that baby. You'll always be that baby to me, so forgive me if I can't accept what you've said tonight.” Mom spoke, still on the other side of the door.

“Aren't you going to hug me goodbye?” I waited for her answer. I just knew she'd open the door and wrap her arms around me. It would all be okay.

“Call us when you get to Iowa so we know you're safe.”

“Portland, Mom.”

“You know what I mean.” I heard her get up from the floor and walk over to the bed she shared with my father. I heard the bed frame creak and knew she was laying down. She wasn't going to come to me and I couldn't go to her. I held the picture of us against my chest and rested my forehead against the door for a moment. “Dear God, please make this okay,” I prayed. I walked downstairs and away from my mother.

Titi Wepa's Thunderbird hummed in the driveway; Bon Jovi's
You Give Love A Bad
Name
blasted from its speakers. I climbed in and took a deep breath. Titi peeled out of the driveway, windows down, her ponytail swinging in the wind. A Twix bar slapped against my shoulder. “Don't worry, sister,” said Lil' Melvin, “The force is strong within you.”

I kissed his chubby fingers and said, “You're my falcon-brother soulmate weirdo.” Our red brick house grew smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror as we sped off to the airport. Titi Wepa ran a red light, blessed herself, and kept her foot on the gas pedal. After a few blocks, I couldn't even hear the trains rumbling anymore.

 

 

 

Titi Wepa drove super fast, like a surge of adrenaline released into the bloodstream. Each lane of traffic was an algorithm for her to solve using agility and the need to be faster than everyone else. As a proud, shield-carrying member of the NYPD, this was how she'd been taught to drive in order to save lives; no alternative existed, so we flew. The only thing out of the ordinary was her silence; Titi's lack of one-liners and profanity-laden nicknames for the drivers beside her created a deep void. I wondered if she was repulsed by my confession or if she thought I was a coward for spilling and running. Lil' Melvin sat in the back, nighttime erased his ability to read in the backseat. He was also out of Twix bars. I kept my eyes on the sky and looked for the moon.

When we were little kids, Mom and Dad took us on massive summer road trips to visit Titi Penny, Mom's only sister, in Vero Beach, Florida. We'd drive down, our minivan divided into two sections: one for sleeping and the other for everything else. Lil' Melvin and I fought over the last cookie in the snack bag while trying to outsmart each other in games of “I Spy.” Dad drove the entire way, focused on the highway numbers and how many miles he could squeeze out of each gallon of gas. But the best part—the part we'd beg for—was when Mom told us stories about her and Titi Penny spending summers in Puerto Rico. Their mom, my Grandma Herencia, sent them to stay with La Perla, her sister. Mom and Titi Penny chased lizards and hunted for
coquis
. They practiced arching their eyebrows to the heavens with La Perla's make up, and learned the drinking songs of the male suitors that sang to La Perla in the moonlight. Puerto Rico seemed so far away, almost made up, but somehow the stories got us to Florida faster. The car rides always seemed to last longer than the summers.

But this one, this joyless, motherless ride to the airport was nothing like those trips to Florida. As we sped along the Bronx River Parkway, the moon had still not shown itself. I wished it would emerge and offer a blessing. My heart ached, so I texted Lainie even though I knew she probably wouldn't reply until tomorrow. She'd started her internship in D.C. with the College Democrats a week ago and we still hadn't found a moment to talk on the phone. Maybe tonight would be different, maybe we'd get to talk somewhere between New York and Portland and D.C. My phone buzzed against my thigh, I flipped it open thinking it was Lainie. Instead it was my cousin Ava:

Yo prima, heard you're a big old out loud lesbiana.
Viva la Revolución. Call me.

Ava made me laugh; she and her constant talk of revolution. Even with small shit like Pop-Tarts coming out of the toaster on time and catching the bus, everything was “Viva La Revolución.” But damn, word traveled quick like the
bochinche
plague. Mom must have called Titi Penny and oh my God, now the whole family was going to know about me, and what if Portland became the only safe place in the world?

Titi Wepa swerved across three lanes to catch the exit for JFK. Her tires screeched hard as she pulled into the Southwest departing flights drop-off zone. She didn't unlock the doors. Around us taxi cabs and shuttle vans loaded and unloaded hordes of baggage-laden souls. Everyone traveling to or coming from the ends of the earth in search of family, friends, self-discovery, and a shared desire to be anywhere but where the hell they were.

Titi Wepa stared hard at me, and said, “ You were born in the middle of the night on a Monday, September 6, 1982. I'll never forget that day as long as I'm living and breathing. My brother came out of the delivery room—first time in my life I'd ever seen him cry—and told us you were a baby girl.” Titi wiped her eyes. “I've loved you from that moment and I always will. I don't care if you're gay or if you shave your head or…”

“Or if you become a falcon,” offered Lil' Melvin, from the backseat.

Titi Wepa laughed. “Or if you become a motherfucking falcon. I'm your Titi and nothing will ever change my love for you. Now get the fuck out of my car.” Her black mascara ran down her cheeks.

I reached over and pulled her into a tight hug, “I love you too, Titi. I love you times infinity.” She kissed my cheek, and left a dark red lipstick stain. I took a deep breath, inhaling her Cool Water perfume and the new car smell that emanated from the blue, tree-shaped air freshener. I wanted to bottle all of her up and take her with me. I got out of the Thunderbird and grabbed my purple and black Adidas duffel bag from the trunk.

Lil' Melvin popped out behind me, chocolate crusted to the corners of his mouth. My brother, my baby, a grey-eyed, boy version of me, I took him all in at the curb. We faced each other and he pressed a brown paper bag into my chest.

“Don't open this until you need to, sister,” he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Confidential” was written on the bag in black marker. “Ok, weirdo,” I said, grabbing him by his side chub, “Take care of everyone and mostly yourself. Love you.” I ushered him into Titi's Thunderbird and shut the door behind him. Waving, I watched them drive off into the throng of vehicles. Once I lost them amidst all of the other red taillights, I stuffed Lil' Melvin's brown paper bag into my backpack. I stepped through the doors, trying not to cry, feeling both wrecked and excited.

Every night that week, I had dreamed about Portland. Extended, epic, technicolor dreams where white lesbians appeared like fairies to welcome me as I landed in the middle of a lush forest area. They draped wreaths of Oregon grapes and flowers around my head, my hips, and all over my body. The fairies gathered in a circle around me and swayed in rhythm to the trees and the winds. I'd stood there, staring, and tried to use my phone to call Ava so she could swoop down and bring her brown revolution to save me. The white angels sang in harmony about couscous cures for all ailments and aligning our periods with the ancient cycles of the moon. Wide-eyed, I'd stared at them and lit a cigarette, looking around to see if I could catch a taxi or something. My phone never worked, and I couldn't hail a cab in the woods of my dreams. I'd wake up and peek over at the map of the United States on my wall, just to make sure Portland was a real place. I mean, if no one I knew had ever been there or even heard of it, then I had a right to wonder whether Portland, Oregon, existed or not, right?

Coming out had taken over my brain space these last few days, but before, when I had a little extra breathing room, all I thought about was how Portland was going to be different from the Bronx. I assumed that I'd have to go vegetarian or at least limit my meat intake to chicken and bacon, the most understandable “can't live without them” types of meat. Harlowe wrote about not eating meat in
Raging Flower
.

“Red meat comes from what the patriarchy calls “the industrialization of food” but in reality, it's the separation of humanity from their own food production and from Mother Earth. It's also wholly dependent on the enslavement of other individuals and animals. That terror and disregard for life seeps into our souls and bodies with every bite. It's an absolute poison to the pussy. Don't believe me? Go down on a meat-eater and tell me if you can't taste the sadness.”

I definitely couldn't “taste the sadness” but I'd never hooked up with a vegetarian so I couldn't really compare and contrast. “Vegetarian” was another word that I couldn't connect to. The idea of living with Harlowe in Portland pushed me to create room for ideas outside of my everyday life. Like, anything was possible in that space with her; if she wanted me to be vegetarian, I would. If she wanted me to howl at the moon with a bowl of period blood on my head, I'd at least give it a try. Things that I'd normally laugh at became possibilities from the moment I began reading
Raging Flower
. Portland could be anything I wanted it to be.

I imagined that Portland would be a place without bullshit. No piles of garbage lining the blocks, fermenting in the hot sun. No doped-up hoodrats trying to fight each other on the train. No young dudes trying to stick their things inside every girl who passed with winks and hollers. No one getting shot on the street by cops. Just groups of young gay weirdos being able to chill and be free without hassle from anyone. Yeah, everyone would probably be white, but white people seemed to totally be okay with gay stuff and just being different in general. It had to be a utopia if Harlowe lived there and wrote
Raging Flower
there. It had to be more soul-affirming than the fucking Bronx, right?

Sitting at gate 14, I texted Ava back:

 

No revolution here, just sad lesbian me leaving on a jet plane. Life is weird. Call you when I get to Portland.

 

Still no message from Lainie. Her mix tape was packed in my duffel bag. Her parents didn't know she was gay or that we were in love. They just thought we were super-close new college friends.

I'd wanted to say goodbye to Lainie in her twin bed: late at night, deep inside of her, with my lips pressed against her collarbone. But no. Lainie felt it'd be inappropriate and a little odd if I slept over the night before she left for D.C. Instead, we went shopping at Banana Republic—the only store she ever shopped at—so that she could have a new wardrobe for her political summer. After the mall, we said goodbye in secret. Seated across from each other at a greasy, podunk Hartsdale diner that hadn't changed its appearance since the 1970's, our elbows rested on paper placemats advertising local businesses. We shared an order of fries. Lainie dipped a French fry into a puddle of ketchup. “Scenes just aren't a thing in my family,” she said. “It's not like we'd be able to kiss and be cute at the airport, like in front of my parents. Please don't be upset.”

“I'm not upset, Lanes,” I replied, touching her foot with mine. “I get it. I'm just going to miss your face. That's all.”

Her heart felt far away from mine, like they were beating in different time zones or different dimensions of love. I should have asked for her to fight for us and to shed some fucking tears over a summer apart. If I was gonna spill my truth to my family, then so should she. But I didn't have those words—didn't even know I wanted those things—until after she was gone. All I wanted was her in my arms all night, but the clanking of dishes, the smell of stale coffee, and the absolute hetero-vibe of Westchester kept me so aware of how unattainable that was. Where could our type of love grow anyway?

After dinner, we made out in the parking lot, in the backseat of her mom's Corolla. Kissing was its own goodbye. Her lips found my lips. Our love was safe if we kept it on our tongues and in between our teeth. When we came up for air, Lainie said, “Let's make feminist power lesbians mix tapes and fall in love all over again.”

“There's absolutely nothing else worth doing, babe,” I replied, holding her hand over my heart. She smelled like all the reasons I didn't want to say goodbye, not even for a summer.

Portland, Lainie, Mom, Harlowe. Harlowe, Portland, Lainie, Mom. I was sitting at the airport, waiting for my flight, and those four elements of my life banged around in my head, fighting for space. Mom didn't hug me goodbye. Lainie still hadn't called me back. Flying off into the unknown, alone and feeling so raw, pushed my anxiety into overdrive. My chest tightened up. I took deep breaths and heard a familiar wheeze in my lungs. Airlines should assign buddies to everyone flying solo for the first time. Fumbling in my bag for my inhaler, my cell phone buzzed.

“Now boarding Flight 333, New York to Portland, Oregon,” called the Southwest gate attendant, her voice snapping me back to earth. My phone vibrated again, right next to my inhaler. I answered while taking a puff, “Hello?” Huge exhale.

“Juliet,” Lainie said, also out of breath, “I only have two minutes. Have a safe flight. Know that Portland needs you just as much as the Democratic Party needs me. Call me when you're settled. I love your whole everything, babe.”

“Yes, and yes. Go change the world through politics and fuck the patriarchy forever,” I replied, feisty, and taking another hit off my inhaler.