Page 52 of Winging It with You

Theo

The Fernandez Residence

Monona, Wisconsin

I’m having a staring contest with Lola and losing.

“You’re not very good at this,” she says, crossing her arms in victory with a smug smile.

“Shush, you.” I blink rapidly, forcing moisture back into my old, dry eyes. “Let’s go again.”

Lola laughs, taking a sip of the double-chocolate malt we each got while Mom, Elise, and Frankie still wander the farmers’ market. “Tío Dos, let’s not.” There’s pity in her voice.

Great. My life has been reduced to being pitied by a ten-year-old.

Even though it has only been a few days, we’ve all quickly fallen into both old and new habits since my return home. Stefan and my mom can always be found in the kitchen, whipping up everything from chilaquiles with homemade salsa verde to a never-ending supply of my mom’s famous tacos al pastor.

Elise works more often than not, but when she does not, the two of us take the kids on long bike rides along the lake, stopping to pick the wildflowers that grow by the water’s edge.

Frankie and Lola run and proudly present them to their abuelita every time we come back, who claps and returns their generosity with besitos on each cheek.

My father and I spend our mornings side by side in his woodshed like we used to.

I watch in awe as he uses his nimble hands to create delicate pieces.

Fine lines unfurl from the corners of his eyes while he runs a fresh piece of pine through the sander.

He’s aged, sure, and it may take him a little bit longer to complete orders these days, but everyone on this side of Lake Michigan knows that if they want perfection, they order from Alejandro Fernandez.

We have dinner under the bistro lights and play cards as a family.

I’m thankful we don’t play for money, because Elise would bankrupt us all in a single round.

We lounge on the dock well into the evening, sipping on sweet summer wine and watching with tired eyes as lightning bugs dip in between the reeds.

Lola and Frankie end up falling asleep in someone’s arms almost every night, until it’s time for one of us to carry them off to bed.

Life is sweeter on the lake. Slower and more meaningful. I hadn’t realized how badly I’d missed being here until I was right in the thick of it all again. Surrounded by the stillness of everyday life with the ones you love.

Frankie leads my mom by the hand, tugging her along with his usual partially toothless smile that’s brighter than the sun.

“Look what we got, Tío Dos,” he shouts when he’s a little closer.

I’ve been told I’m not allowed to say anything about his volume control, or lack thereof, as he’s allegedly me reincarnated at his age.

He jumps into my lap, nearly spilling my malt in the process, and shoves a basket of bright-red cherries into my face. “We got your favorite, the sweethearts.” My mom sits next to me on the bench, pulling Lola onto her lap and hugging her tight.

“You did?” I ask, tickling him as he squirms in my lap. He reaches into the basket and grabs a cherry and rather forcefully shoves it in my mouth, stem and all. “Mmm, thank you, little one.”

We all take turns trying to catch cherries in our mouths, laughing when they bounce off our teeth and noses, and then laughing even harder as we struggle to spit out the pits.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Elise take a few photos of the four of us squished together on the wooden bench and then smile when she looks down at the memory she’s just captured.

I remind myself to ask her to send it to me.

“Mija, put that thing away,” my mother scolds like, her mouth full of cherries thanks to an overzealous Frankie. She sounds just like she did when we were teenagers.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she says, typing a few more words on the screen before shoving her phone back into her purse.

“Um, excuse me, my favorite son in the whole world. Do you have a cherry for your mama?” Elise crouches in front of Frankie, pinching his cheeks as he looks for the perfect one to gift his mother.

“Here you go, Mommy,” he says, giving the cherry he’s selected a little kiss before offering it to her.

She smiles, her eyes sparkling like only a mom’s eyes do, and takes the fruit from his little hands. “Thank you, mi amor,” my sister says, plopping it into her mouth.

/////////////

“Is that your boy, Carla?” A man who I’d always thought could pass as Father Time’s older brother greets us at the old diner’s door.

My mom bribed me out of bed the following morning with a trip to Hank’s and the promise of my favorite pancakes.

“I thought we’d seen the last of you when you took off for basic training. ”

He extends a frail hand forward, which I take with a firm shake. “It’s good to see you, Mr. Greer.”

“You too. We were all sorry to hear about your discharge,” he says. His voice is somber, but his tired eyes are laced with sincerity.

“Thank you.” I don’t really know what else to say. I never have.

“It’s good to see you, Hank,” my mom says as the two share a warm hug.

“You tell Elise she better bring those kids of hers in to see me soon. It’s been too long,” he says, patting my mom affectionately on the face. “Go on, sit in your usual booth if you’d like. Penny will be right over.”

I follow my mom through the near-empty diner to a small booth in the corner.

The vinyl cushions are still a deep maroon, and they crack and crinkle when we sit.

She passes me a menu that’s seen better days, which I nudge in front of me with my knuckle, trying to avoid whatever sticky residue lingers on its edges.

It’s a formality, really. Our entire family has ordered the same meal for years.

“I’ve spent so many hours in this booth with Elise,” I say, sliding the menu to the edge of the table. “We’d leave school early and eat our weight in short stacks. This place hasn’t changed one bit.”

There’s soft music playing in the background. The lighting is dark but comfortable, casting an amber glow across every surface from the vintage globe fixtures above each booth.

“This place is all Hank Greer has left,” my mother says. “His wife passed two…maybe three years ago now,” she adds.

“I didn’t know.” Hank and Alice Greer were a staple in our small town.

They were front and center at every high school sporting event, decked out in our school’s colors.

They always made sure everyone felt cheered for.

When we would come into the diner, Alice would sneak my favorite snickerdoodle cookie into my pocket, and it was just our little secret.

Without fail.

“A lot has changed since you left,” she says, a painful nostalgia filling her voice.

She reaches across the booth, taking each of my hands in hers.

“What happened, mi vida?” my mother asks, her eyes brimming with tears. I don’t know how to answer her plea. It took me all of five minutes alone with my mother to remember why I’ve been avoiding this conversation all this time.

How do I articulate the forever pain of being outed like that?

How it felt to have every neatly woven thread of my life so easily undone against my will.

Every insecurity and moment of self-loathing laid bare for the world to see as I scrambled to pick up the pieces of the truth bomb that had been detonated on me.

“I don’t know, Mamá,” I say. A cop-out, I know.

“Can you try? Where did I go wrong?”

“Don’t say that, Mamá. You didn’t do anything wrong…It’s not about that,” I say, clasping her hands in mine.

“Why? It’s the truth. It kills me to say this, but on some level, I led you to believe I wouldn’t be there for you when you needed me most.” She takes a deep breath, straightening in her seat.

“Right or wrong, that’s the reality of your truth and something we’ve had to live with all these years.

But when you put up that wall…I think a part of me has not recovered from that. ”

I know I was doing what was best for me at the time, but I didn’t realize just how deeply my actions impacted those around me.

These are the feelings I’ve been trying to avoid.

The insurmountable feelings of loss and shame and knowing now there was so much I could have done differently.

So much I wish I had done differently. So much that was outside my control.

All this time, I kept my family at arm’s length because it was easier than having to face the judgment I thought would go hand in hand with being an out gay man.

The unease and the growing pains of figuring out myself.

And when I was outed, the opportunity to sit with that unease on my own terms was taken from me.

The words I’d been saving for my loved ones had been spoken on my behalf but were twisted and misconstrued, and instead of correcting the record, it felt easier to run.

“When everything happened,” I start. “When everything happened with Ethan,” I clarify. “There was a period when I didn’t know if life was worth living anymore.

“Ay, dios mío, mi amor,” she says, tears spilling over now. “You could have talked to me,” she whispers. “You could have given me all your pain and confusion and I would have helped you make sense of it. Or at least tried.”

“I didn’t know where to start, Mamá.” And that’s the truth.

I didn’t even know there was anything to be confused about until I met Ethan.

“It’s not like I was living this lie my entire life.

Sure, I may have had moments here and there that gave me pause.

Or made me wonder if perhaps I was different from the other boys.

But growing up, it wasn’t some painful existential crisis.

“Until it was—” my voice catches. “Everything changed for me. In a single instant, everything about my life—about me and who I am and who I thought the world would see me as—it all changed. And I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to be your gay son. Just your gay son.”

“But you’ve never been just one thing.”

“I know that. Now,” I say, squeezing her hands in mine.

“But at the time, I couldn’t see beyond anything other than the person I loved.

The person who claimed to love me for who I am, taking that choice away from me.

They robbed me of coming out, Mom. They took something so personal and so monumental to who I am and who I wanted to be and politicized it.

They made an example out of me and guaranteed that I withdrew so deeply within myself that I couldn’t get hurt like that again. ”

She’s quiet, but the tears still stream down her face.

“But if we’re being truthful with each other, son,” she says, her hands still warm in mine with the familiar comfort that only a mother’s hands can make you feel.

“I know you, Theo. I’ve known you since your very first breath.

So, when I say this, I say it with all the love and adoration in the world.

” She looks at me with knowing eyes. “I think this was more about you not loving yourself. Or not believing that you were worthy of love or even that you were scared to live a life that was authentic to you,” she says, leaning forward.

“And the fact that you’re back here, after all this time, I’m afraid that you’re still being driven by that fear. ”

“What do you mean?” I ask, my words barely escaping the lump in my throat.

She offers a small smile. “Te amo, mi tesoro. I’ve always loved you and always will.

You’re one of the greatest men I know, and your father and I are so proud of you.

I’ve watched you be there for those around you.

For me,” she says, touching her chest. “For Elise and for your friends. Without fail, you’ve dropped whatever you’re doing and shown up for them with your loving heart and bravery.

But mijo, you don’t do the same for yourself.

For some reason, you’ve decided that the best course of action when your life gets hard is to run.

It’s why you dove headfirst into work after leaving the Navy, and if I had to guess, it’s why you didn’t stay to figure everything out with Asher. ”

I feel my shoulders slump against the weight of her observation. Every part of me knows she’s right; of course she is. I’ve gotten used to a habit, and as we sit in a familiar booth at Hank’s place, I’m not entirely sure how to break it.

But I want to try.

“It’s different with him, isn’t it?” she says after a moment, rubbing my hands. “With Asher?”

“It feels different,” I admit. “But I’m scared, Mamá.

I’m scared I’ve opened myself up to someone again and allowed all those feelings to come rushing in…

” My voice trails off, and I can’t fight the lump in my throat anymore.

“And I’m scared it was all for nothing.” My mother has more strength and honesty than anyone I’ve ever known.

I’ve watched her hold it together for everyone in my life.

And when she gets up from her spot in the booth and sits next to me, taking me in her arms, whispering over and over again how much she adores me, I pray for a fraction of her strength as we all begin to mend what has been disjointed for so long.

We spend the rest of the day as a family.

Running through the tall grass around the lake, the kids giggling and trailing behind me.

Looking through old photos with Mom and Elise, each of them dabbing their eyes here and there at how much has changed over the years.

Watching my parents curl up together on that old armchair like they have my entire life, still so in love.

“Who is that, mijo?” my father asks, looking out toward the driveway after returning from the kitchen, a blackberry cobbler still warm in one hand and a can of whipped topping in the other.

Like old times, we’ve shared every meal on the patio, the stars above us and the breeze coming off the lake to keep us cool.

I squint my eyes, struggling to see through the summer haze. “I’m not sure…” I say, but when I hear the uneven sounds of a rolling duffel against the rough pavement, I know.

Asher.