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“The difference between you and me is where we directed that anger. You have the occasional outburst. I turned all my rage inward. Everyone tonight was talking about the same thing: control, or lack of control. Well, I had to control everything I said, everything I did.
“Your tattoos? You control the narrative, you tell the story on your body. The rose is for Corinne. Sealed in blood. Every time you see it, you remind yourself of what happened. The caged heart? That’s you. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“All my art tells a story,” said Alex. “This tendril is the track of her wound. At some point, I realized she’d probably had plastic surgery to cover the scar. I decided I’d wear it instead.”
Gael continued, “Because you deserve to suffer, right? I kept it all in. And, over time, all that internalized rage morphed into self-loathing. Something bad happens? I deserve that. I’m alone or anxious or depressed? That’s where I belong; I don’t deserve anything more than that.
“You have a problem. So do I. You’re aware of that problem. So am I. You’re actively working to be healthier. Me too. So, I have to ask: are we more likely to succeed alone or together? Seems to me, the incentives are much stronger together.”
Gael stood, walked down three stairs and knelt before Alex. “I understand what you said in there. Do you think I would do anything that would jeopardize my daughter’s safety?”
“No,” whispered Alex.
“Damn right. I would die for her. I would kill for her. I will do everything in between to protect her. And I’m asking you to be in her life. To whatever extent you’re comfortable. But I want you there. In my house, in my bed, in my heart.”
Gael leaned in towards Alex’s lips, then swerved so that her mouth was millimeters from Alex’s ear. “Plus,” she cooed, “There’d be kisses. What do you think?”
Through a very different type of tears than she’d shed earlier, Alex said, “Yes. Please.”
They stood and held each other, then walked arm-in-arm to the parking lot.
“Oh my god! Wait!” Gael shouted.
“What’s wrong?” Alex asked.
“I know just what you need! Michelle taught me this strategy for when I start losing perspective. It’s called Narcissist Radio!”
“Gael, this doesn’t involve you singing, does it?”
“Shut up. It might. You pick a love song and change I to you and vice versa. It’s silly and it forces me to say nice things to myself. I bet it’d work with temper too. Here: I’ll show you an example.”
“No, Gael. That’s OK. You don’t have to do that. I think I get the idea.”
Gael started slowly, hoping for the sultry Whitney Houston purr.
“Please don’t,” said Alex
Gael showed no signs of stopping. In fact, she became more animated. She sang of “the way,” both being in it and every step of it.
“This is punishment, isn’t it? You’re punishing me.”
Gael took a deep breath as she headed into the chorus.
“The kid was right, Gael. You have the worst singing voice ever.”
Undeterred, Gael extended her arms. She sang of love, of memory, of forever. She closed her eyes and pictured Whitney in the video. She hoped, in vain, that the image would inspire her to overcome tone deafness with passion. It didn’t.
Alex covered Gael’s mouth with her own. The kiss lasted either two minutes or two decades; it was hard to tell. When it ended, Alex whispered, “I love you.”
Gael whispered, “You will always love me.”
About the Author
Clare McCarthy is an LGBTQ advocate and president of Transqat Enterprises. A former Latin teacher, she now hosts a podcast, delivers educational presentations, and tries to create a safe space for respectful conversations about trans issues and queer folks. She lives in Connecticut with her cats Newt, The Lady Bethesda, Sun, and Nomi, who wrote this bio for her.
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