Sunday, July 11, 2010

D Day Minus 193 (August 27, 2009): Still in the Closet

 “How’s Katie?” I asked during a lull of your millionth text. Well not really millionth, but you were texting each other a lot.  You sat at your favorite spot, the blue naugahyde recliner next to the nurse’s bullpen and were almost at the end of your first bag of saline.  I made sure not to talk about food, even though my stomach was growling, because you threw up before and after breakfast.

“She’s fine.”  You said, as your phone chirped the arrival of a new text.

“Is she?” I said acting disinterested because I knew you’d spill your guts if you thought I didn’t care.  I casually searched the Internet for the best ways to display information graphically -- something that I could go on about ad nauseam, sort of like you did about baking and Wegmans.

I fished for a Diet Mountain Dew, the dreaded contraband, out of my zebra bag – ignoring your stink eye blazing my way.  I took the curse off my Mountain Dew and acted nonchalant when my stomach growled.  Then I popped three pieces of Dentyne in my mouth.  And waited for you to cave. 

“Her folks are worried about how much time we’re spending together.”  You said by the time I counted to 10 Mississippi. 

“She hasn’t come clean with her folks, has she?” I arched my brows, trying not to wrinkle my forehead.

“She’s too much of a chicken.” You said.

“Well I’d be concerned if it were Morgan and this guy who broke her heart waltzed in with cancer, in the middle of divorce, and they were spending a lot of time together.  I’d be concerned not knowing what was going on – especially if she lived at home.  I know Katie’s 23 and out of college.  But I really hope she comes out of the closet soon.  First, there is the cancer thing and it is a big deal to go through.  If I were her mom, I’d want to be part of her support system.  Second, I know the circumstances of your divorce, but I don’t know if her folks really do.  Third, I wouldn’t my daughter getting hurt again.  So I’d have my radar up.”

I paused long enough for us to monitor the mood of the nurse who was sad on Tuesday as she walked passed us. I mouthed, “I think she’s ok.” And we both nodded. 

“Anyway” I said. “Timing is her choice, but I think she’s making it harder for herself.”

“That’s my Katie.” You said with a half-smile.

“And we love her.” I added.

By the time you were finished with hydration, you had plotted how to win the hearts and minds of Katie’s clan – a home cook meal – when she was ready to come out of the closet.

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