Family Affair (10 page)

“Rex!” the woman coos, and reaches up to coax him from the cavity into which he’s wedged. As soon as she has him safely in her arms, she whirls back on us. “This is an unsafe setting, and I am not letting you photograph my Rex. Today or ever.”

“We’re crushed,” Trish says, and I don’t do anything to contradict her.

“You should note on your website that this isn’t a cat-friendly environment, so that other cat owners won’t make the mistake of coming here.”

“We’ll get right on that,” I say, as I usher her to the door.

“I know lots of cat owners,” she threatens.

“Bye-bye,” I say, almost singsongy.

She leaves, and Trish and I have a laugh. Trish has always said we shouldn’t shoot cats unless it’s with a gun, but there’s a hint of truth in every joke, and today didn’t do much for the cause.

Our second customer is a celebutante (whose name will go unmentioned) who brings her new Maltese puppy in for their first photo session—photos she’s hoping to sell to
People
or
Star
magazine, if that’s, like, okay with me.

She walks in wearing twelve-inch heels and hair extensions—at least I think they’re hair extensions, because last week’s tabloids had her with a bob, and if they’re not extensions I need to find out what vitamins she takes asap. She holds Maggie May (whose name is not connected to anyone she’s related to or sleeping with, in case you were wondering) out awkwardly, not gingerly per se, more like she’s just really uncomfortable holding the pup. Her detached demeanor shows she isn’t used to genuine care.

“Doesn’t Maggie have the funniest belly button?” she asks, as
she pulls on Maggie May’s tiny, hair-covered puppy penis. “I kiss her belly button every night.”

The look that passes between Trish and me is one of shock and awe. It’s this moment when we both realize that this poor dumb girl thinks her male puppy is a female. Hence the name Maggie May. How do you broach this subject with a tabloid wunderkind? How do you tell her that she’s not nuzzling her girl puppy’s tummy, she’s fellating her boy dog?

Trish just walks out of the room. Leaving me alone to deal with this. Awesome.

As my mind searches for a delicate way to put it, the celebutante becomes aware of a long pause and the anguished look on my face as I stare at the little fellow.

“Is something wrong with my dog?” she asks.

“I’m sure the dog’s fine,” I say. “It’s his
name
I’m not so sure about.”

“Her name,” she corrects me.

“Well, that’s kind of an issue, too,” I say.

I proceed to tell her about the slight mistake, and I assure her that the dog himself probably didn’t notice or mind the error, so no harm done—although maybe she should find some other part of his body to kiss good night.

She’s at first shocked, then extremely embarrassed, then almost instantly indignant. She storms out, her own handler trailing just behind as though he was on some leash of his own, and she seethes, “That breeder is
done
in this town.” And I think to myself, that poor breeder is probably just the latest in a long line of people to whom the little brat hasn’t listened.

Our third customer is a basset hound, and the photo shoot goes off without a hitch. Trish insists on setting him next to Lou in a contest of low-riders: whose ears are longer, whose belly is closer to the ground, which one looks more bored and depressed—in our human estimation, though, they’re both clearly pampered and overfed.

And then it’s time for dinner. I change into my clean, un-stretched clothes and put my second shoe on as I hop to the door. I’m nervous and excited, and nervous, and ready, yet nervous and happy. Most of all happy.

Trish watches me hop around with a stupid smile on my face and gets this bemused look.

“Tonight’s the night!” I yell, as I make my way out the door.

“Rod Stewart!” she calls back, thinking we’re playing some sort of game.

Marriage kills love. I don’t say that because I can’t get married in most of the United States; I say it because a marriage contract puts conditions on love when love is supposed to be unconditional. That said, Layla and Brett have found a way to make it work, and I’m glad. Watching her rush off to sit across from my brother all moony-eyed, holding hands and talking about making smaller versions of each other, makes me almost long for that.

But then I think about the majority of my long-term relationships and the people I know in long-term relationships, and how most of them border on best pal/roommate situations—i.e., sexless and boring. And that’s when things are going well. I don’t mean to stereotype; in fact, that’s one of my major pet peeves. News flash: All lesbians are not butch chicks or helpless femmes who date butch chicks. We are many and varied. To an extent. Apparently not
that
many and varied, because while some of
The L Word
can be a little unrealistic at times, the whole “sleeping with someone who has slept with an ex” thing is a truth. You kind of need to outsource if you want to avoid that.

I tend to consider myself an “iron femme.” I’ll wear a suit, but
I’ll also sometimes wear killer heels and a super-hot dress. I love hair and makeup yet can write a brilliant business plan, cook a gourmet meal, change the oil in my car, get my nails done, and kick ass in soccer. I get things done, but I never compromise the fact that I am a woman. I don’t need to chop all my hair off or be overly girly to satisfy or dodge stereotypes.

I’m currently between relationships and deciding between two girls. Both are exceptional, and each brings something completely different to the table. So rather than decide, I’m enjoying getting to know them both and just taking things as slow as I can—thus discrediting the popular joke: “Question: What does a lesbian bring to a second date? Answer: A moving van.” I’m not about moving in five minutes after meeting someone. No, thanks.

“I’m back,” Layla says, as she breezes back in. “Do I look like a mother?”

“You had the conversation, got busy, and you’re already pregnant?” I look at my watch. “That is impressive.”

“Not so much. I’m nervous. Am I ready? I’m totally ready.”

“You just came back to have a conversation with yourself?”

“No,” she says. “I came back because I forgot
this.”

Layla takes a stuffed owl off her desk and holds it up at me. I say “at” me and not “to” me because it’s almost threatening. I hate that owl. Her mom made it for her, sewed it from scratch, apparently, and let’s just say it hasn’t held up through the years. It’s green, for starters—I mean, owls are not green—and has one button eye, which is hanging from a thread, a dark stain on its stomach, and all in all it’s just not an attractive entity. It’s sat on her desk—I think because Brett banished it from their place when they moved in together—for the past I don’t know how many years and I’ve always hated it, but she loves it and it’s a remembrance of her mom, so I never say anything. Until now.

“What are you doing with him?” I ask.

“Who?” she asks.

“The decrepit owl in your hands,” I answer, but before I finish I realize she was making a joke.

“Hoo
, who,” she says, mimicking an owl.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, I get it.”

“I want to bring Mr. Owl to dinner.”

“Why?”

“Because when Brett brings up kids and we toast the next phase of our life, I want to have Mr. Owl there. Because someday, maybe nine months from today, I will give Mr. Owl to my son or daughter.”

“That’s abuse,” I say. “That thing is …”

I stop myself when I see her cocked eyebrow as she waits for me to desecrate one of the last possessions that ties her to her mother. I won’t do it.

“It needs a bath, is all,” I say softly. “And maybe another eye.”

“I think he looks as handsome as ever,” she says, puffed out and proud. And she shoves the thing into her purse and waves good-bye.

I’m seated across from Brett, and we’ve fallen into a conversational lull. Nothing on topic has been discussed yet, and he looks anxious but sweet. His eyes are darting around the restaurant, from the bread basket, to a waiter, to our neighboring tables, to a bizarre painting of a seductive-looking horse with a flower in its teeth, back to the bread basket, and after every few glances he lands back on me and smiles nervously.

I just want to hold him and tell him it’s okay, it’s all gonna be okay. I want to put him out of his misery and just blurt it out myself, but I know this is a big deal and I want him to bring it up in his own time.

“That sounds like quite a day,” he says. “And I guess now we know that she really is a natural blonde.”

“It was unreal. I was so embarrassed for her,” I say.

“All that
and
you lost a cat.”

“I wouldn’t say lost as much as temporarily misplaced.”

“Trish must have been beside herself.”

“She was cool,” I say. “Mostly. Until the woman blamed Lou.”

“Ha!” Brett laughs. “And she
lived?”

“Everyone got out alive,” I remark, and smile reassuringly, as
if to say,
Okay, babe, we don’t need to have any more of this filler chitchat
. But we fall into another respite, which Brett uses as an opportunity to shove bread into his mouth.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I reach across the table and take both of his hands in mine.

“Just say it,” I urge, with a gentle squeeze.

Brett’s eyes dart up and to the left, his brow furrowing. “Say
what?”

“Just … say it.” I repeat. “I know. And I’m ready, too.” He looks surprised. “You are?”

“Yes!” I insist. “It’s time.”

“Really?” he asks, suddenly sounding not so sure.

“I mean,
we
were practically kids when we met,” I say.

“Exactly,” he agrees. “We were kids.”

“And now we’re grown up.”

“And we learn things about ourselves,” he says, picking up where I left off. “And maybe who we were when we met, and what we wanted is different now. Because we’re different now. In fact, a few of the guys were talking about a biochemistry class and they mentioned how every seven years cells completely regenerate—so by that logic, we actually
are
different people.”

“Well,” I counter, “I’ve known for a while this is where things should go with us.”

“You did?”

“Of course. It kind of brings things full circle.”

“Wow,” he says, falling back in his chair and letting his shoulders drop away from his ears for the first time since we sat down. “So you’d say…you agree that we…we should maybe think about different options for moving forward?”

Does he think I can’t get pregnant? Does he forget that little thing we’ve been using called birth control? How about the weight gain I’ve suffered all these years from the hormones in that freakin’ pill? We haven’t even tried and already he wants to
adopt?

“I don’t think we really need to go there yet, babe. We should at
least
try
to do it ourselves first. Keep it simple. Plus, I hear the legal aspects and paperwork are a real bitch.”

“Wow.” His face is a mixture of unreadable emotions. “You are … you’re really surprising me here, Layla. This is not how I thought this conversation was going to go. I mean… I…I guess I’m relieved, if surprised. So do you think we should set a time to really do this? Maybe pick a neutral spot?”

“You mean like a hotel?” I ask.

“We could use a hotel, I guess. I wasn’t thinking of a specific place. I just thought…I don’t know. So how do we proceed? Is it a temporary thing?”

“Temporary?” I ask.

“I mean, how far are we taking this?”

“You mean how many?”

“How many what?” he asks.

“Kids, you goose.”

“Wait … what?”

“Are you asking me how many kids I’ll want to have, ultimately? I don’t know. I figured we’d just start with the one and take it from there.”

Holy shit. Is she pregnant? Are we in the same conversation? Am I in the twilight zone? I knew things were going way too smoothly
.

“A baby?” she says, which echoes in my head over and over again. “You look really confused.”

And then it all starts to hit me in these fast-paced, montagelike flashes, punching me in the face, knocking into my pea-brain a terrifying scenario: the recent weirdness.
Bam
. Her mood swings.
Punch
. The amount of ice cream she’s been sucking down.
Thump
. Her talk about taking up knitting.
Smack
. Layla moving furniture out of the extra room the other day.
Whack
. The ceiling-hanging mobile she bought—fuck, wasn’t that a prop for a photo shoot? How could I have missed all those signals? But now she realizes that we’re having difficulties and—

“Are you
pregnant?”
I blurt.

“Already?” she asks, like she’s surprised by the question.

“Are you pregnant?” I repeat.

“No!” she says.

“Phew!” I let out a heavy sigh. “Thank God.”

“I beg your pardon?” she says, seeming taken aback.

“Well, we wouldn’t want to bring a child into the world just as we were …”

Layla’s eyes widen. The relief I felt three seconds earlier gets replaced with panic again. Were we having two different conversations after all?

“What were we talking about?” I ask.

“You tell me, Brett,” she says, and she doesn’t look happy, so I decide to bite the bullet.

“I thought we were talking about us. About maybe taking a break.”

“A break?” she repeats with disgust. “We’re not Ross and fucking Rachel! We’re married. Say what you mean, Brett.”

“A separation?”

“Unbelievable,” she says through gritted teeth. She’s shaking her head, clearly shocked.

“I think we have a miscommunication here,” I say, trying to backpedal or at least soften the situation.

“No, we
had
one. You just cleared it right up.” Then she whips out that crazy stuffed owl she’s had since I’ve known her. She shakes it at me. “And to think…”

But she doesn’t finish her sentence.

“I’m sorry. I thought we were on the same page.”