The Lesbiana's Guide to Catholic School(89)

“No one made me do anything. I just wanted to get right with God. . . . I thought I could get better. Date girls from now on. And I could be good with Dad, too.”

“Better . . . as in straight?”

He doesn’t answer.

“What about me then? Am I going to hell, too? Is Jamal?”

“In lak’ech . . .” He shrugs. Meaning, we’re all going to hell. That’s a fucking shitty way to use that phrase.

“Well, I don’t believe that. There’s nothing wrong with us. There’s nothing to fix, besides your backward attitude.”

There’s a sting in his laugh. “Okay, so why are you still in the closet then?”

“Are you kidding me? I came out to Dad, to you, to Bo . . . it’s a process. I’m getting there. It’s not a one-and-done thing. It has nothing to do with shame. And if you’re ashamed of yourself, then are you ashamed of me, too? And Jamal? Is that how you feel?”

“I’m not ashamed of you. . . .” His voice is softer now. I don’t realize I’m crying until he reaches for my hand. He holds it gently and doesn’t say anything about the scabs. “Yami, I’m not ashamed of you, okay?” I hate that even now, with him in a freaking hospital, he still feels like he has to comfort me, instead of the other way around.

“Then how can you be ashamed of yourself?”

He looks down and doesn’t answer.

“You’re the one who said it. In lak’ech. I know you know what it means. ‘Tú eres mi otro yo.’ I love you, so I love myself. I love myself! And I know you love me, too.” I put my other hand on his so it’s sandwiched between both of mine. “So, you don’t get to say ‘in lak’ech’ to me and not mean it. You got to show yourself some love. If not for yourself, for me. Or Jamal. Or Mom.”

Cesar lets his head fall down so his forehead is on the back of my hand, and he whimpers. I want to leap over the table and hug him, but I don’t want to get kicked out. I know I can’t take all that shame away from him. But I can start by showing him how much I’m not ashamed. Not only am I not ashamed, I’m proud. I can’t make him love himself. The closest I can get is loving myself unapologetically right in front of him. Like Bo did in front of me. Maybe then he’ll get it. He doesn’t make any noise, but I feel my hand getting wet from his tears.

“I need to be able to see your hands, sweetheart,” one of the nurses says.

Cesar puts his hands flat on the table without picking up his head. He’s taking deep breaths, like he’s trying to calm himself down. I get why, but I hate that we can’t have our moment in peace right now. I glare at the nurse, even though I know it’s not her fault. Why can’t it be someone’s fault? We’re all just trying to keep him alive. Cesar wipes his eyes and nose.

“You want me to jump that nurse for you?” I say, because if Cesar isn’t going to break the tension with his usual jokes, I will. He chokes on his laugh.

“No. I want you to tell me how you came out to Bo.” He turns his head and takes a Taki from the bag. Things might not be back to normal anytime soon, but he’s eating his favorite food and gossiping about my love life, so I know we’re on the right track.

After our visit, Mom goes out for a long walk, and doesn’t come back for another hour or so. I know she’s just trying to avoid me. I want to keep away from her, too, but I told myself I would come out to her before Cesar got home. He said he’d be back tomorrow, so I should do it now.

“Siéntate, mija. I want to talk to you,” she says right when she walks in the door.

“Me too,” I say, trying not to let the lump in my throat downplay the fake confidence in my voice. I sit at the table and so does she. I start stroking my hair. She’s the one who usually strokes my hair when I’m anxious, but I obviously can’t ask her to do that right now.

We both speak at the same time.

“I’m sorry, mija—”

“I like girls—”

She closes her eyes. “What?”

I straighten up and speak with more confidence. “Mami, I’m lesbian.”

I think it’s the first time I ever used that word to describe myself, and I like how it feels.

“Okay.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. I expect some kind of lecture, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Are you, um . . . okay with that?”

“Mija, get me a glass of water, will you?”

A weird request, but I do it, then sit across from her. She drinks the whole glass before saying anything.

“Ay Dios mío, all of my children.”

I shift in my chair.

“How long have you known this?” she asks.

“I don’t know. A long time, I think.” Maybe it hasn’t been that long, but I don’t want to say it’s only been a couple of years and have her tell me it’s a phase. I guess I figured it out with Bianca. “Look, I already found an apartment for me and Cesar. If you want us out, just tell me now so I know if I need to—”

“Mija . . .” Mom puts her hands on the table toward me, palms up. The gesture makes my eyes spicy. I take her hands and she squeezes mine. “Please don’t leave. . . .” She doesn’t bother wiping the tears falling from hers.