A Woman Trapped in a Woman's Body (14 page)

“You went to the wrong airport!” he yelled.

“Jack, I will give you five dollars not to talk about this anymore today.” I said. If there's one thing Jack does respect, it's money, so he obliged.

 

 

The five bucks was also hush money for the “Lauren went to the wrong airport, Dad” news. David was on the set, shooting an independent movie, so I couldn't call him anyway. He was
acting
and I didn't want to tell him anything that would affect his performance. I imagined audience members at some future film festival commenting that his character “suddenly became so angry and resentful” in what was supposed to have been the tender love scene.

During his dinner break, David called to make sure everything had gone okay at the airport. I told him Jack's plane had been on time and traffic hadn't been that bad. Right before we hung up I decided to tell him the whole story.

“David—”

“I have to go—they need me now,” he said.

I pushed onward. “I went to the Long Beach airport instead of LAX but it's all okay now because—”

“What? Lauren, are you kidding me? Is Jack home—did you get him?”

“No, I just freaked out and went to a bar ...”

“Lauren, no! No!”

I'd already been telling myself, “No, no!” I didn't need to be told again. When I hung up I was crying.

Jack knocked on my bedroom door and I quickly straightened up. I tried to act like I was sniffling from something cool—like cocaine. Or allergies.

“Did Dad get mad at you?” he asked. I was shocked by how upset he looked on my behalf.

 

 

We spent that evening together. He was forced to—I was the provider of the pizza money. We had a very quiet dinner. I couldn't think of what to say. When I did open my mouth to ask Jack how his pizza was, a piece of ham flew out and landed on his arm. I actually said this sentence to myself:
What would an adult do?

“I'm sorry, Jack,” I said, reaching over to flick it off. But before I could he pulled his arm away.

“No, wait,” Jack said. “How much will you give me to eat it off my arm?”

He made an even ten for the day.

 

 

“So, exactly when did you realize you'd gone to the wrong airport?” David asked, as we got ready for bed that night.

Jack was at the door. “Goodnight, Dad,” he said. Then he added, “Goodnight, Lauren,” and when he addressed me he used my I'm-hugging-you-with-my-voice voice.

Then he turned around, grabbed his ankles, and farted in our room, shutting the door behind him to trap us with the smell.

It was an odd smell—one I didn't recognize at first. And then it hit me: I know this smell. It's the smell of family.

T
his Christmas I am joining my emotional, scruffy boyfriend, David, and his beautiful teenage son, Jack, for their holiday celebration at Big Gay Grandpa's house. I don't know what David and Jack's excuses are for sighing heavily and punching the couch on the day of the birth of our Lord, but I know mine. For me, it's yet another year I'm starting my life completely over. I'm like a foster kid who has been in and out of the system, except that instead of going from family to family, it's fiancé to fiancé.

I've stopped and started so many different Christmas traditions over the years that the only ritual I'm left with is asking, “So what are you guys doing this year? Can I come?” Like a bad animal, as soon as I lick the butter, I'm out. And once again, it seems, I'm up for adoption.

At age thirty-six I still want a home, and I'm ready to prove to David and Jack that I'm a great addition to the holidays. While I can't offer any special Christmas cookies or Famous Holiday Spinach Balls, I do have good cheer. In fact it's all I have, much like Tiny Tim. Except I'm bigger. Less tiny. Thicker, let's say. So I'm a thicker, huskier, more able-bodied version of Tiny Tim.

 

 

Jack is sitting on the couch looking sad. I want to boss him around and tell him to help his dad load the gifts, but seeing him look sad on Christmas scares me because I know he must be missing his mom. Hannah died six years ago and I can imagine how hard this makes the holidays for Jack—and throwing Dad's new girlfriend into the mix doesn't make it any easier.

“Jack, Christmas is tough,” I say in a hushed “I don't mean to bother you” voice. He jerks his head up and rolls his eyes at me and says, “Moist, moist, moist, moist,” because he knows I hate that word. Then he laughs and grabs a stack of twelve CDs to play during the three-minute car ride to Grandpa George's.

In the car, David and I try to talk over the music that is blasting out of the front speakers despite the fact that the only person who wants to hear it is seated in the back.
“THE WU-TANG CLAN AIN'T NOTHING TO FUCK WITH... THE WU-TANG CLAN AIN'T NOTHING TO FUCK WITH.”
Normally he would never let Jack play music this loud, but it's Christmas.

“I hope my dad doesn't try to manage everything,” David yells.

“If he wants to, let him,” I scream in reply. “That can be your Christmas gift to him.”

“NOTHING TO FUCK WITH,”
the rappers carol sweetly.

At a stoplight we pull up next to a car from which the classic “White Christmas” is emanating. David rolls all our windows up so we don't traumatize the family.

In an instant, Jack's head appears between our seats. “The guy who sings that ‘White Christmas' song beat up his kids,” he says, and proceeds to roll down his window so that Wu-Tang can take revenge on Bing.

 

 

We arrive at David's father's house with a car full of wrapped gifts and Wu-Tang still blasting. George is there, waving at us from his front door, wearing a black silk kimono and yelling as we unpack the car. “Merry Christmas!” he sings. “Isn't this weather just wonderful?! Isn't it just to die for? I just can't
believe how perfect it is. Make sure you notice the gorgeous poinsettias I set out.”

As the nervous newcomer I greet him first, shouting, “Hi George! How are you?”

“Well, I'm
fatty-gay
as always!” he yells back, giggling uproariously.

David cringes and says under his breath, “He's been using that joke forever. He thinks it's funny because it sounds like French for ‘fatigued.'”

I think it's a great joke. Luckily George repeats it one more time in case I didn't hear—
“Je suis fatty-gay!”
—and tightens his kimono around his big belly. He is the gayest grandpa I've ever seen and I love him. He not only loves the Royal Family but he knows them. Or rather, he's met them, but he acts like he knows them.

“Does Jack know his grandpa is gay?” I whisper to David as we make our way up the steps to his house.

“Grandpa's gay?” Jack says in mock surprise.

 

 

“Wait!” George scolds. “You passed right by the flowers. Go back and look at them.”

I do as I'm told and scurry back to see the poinsettias. “Gorgeous!” I say. “Just amazing!” But when I look up everyone has already gone into the house.

“I have to keep the door shut or my girls will get out,” George explains. He's referring to his dogs. “Hello, Sweet-heart. You're looking lovely.” He kisses me on the cheek,
with one hand held to the side in case anyone wants to kiss his ring.

“Those poinsettias are gorgeous, George!” I gush.

“They weren't cheap, let me tell you,” he says.

“Listen, I'm the only cheap thing that is going to be in this house!” I practically scream—just to show him how excited I am about having a campy Christmas. And to tell him that the best gift David could have gotten me is having a gay dad.

 

 

“Tell Lauren that she doesn't have to be gay just because Grandpa is,” I hear Jack say to David as they walk into the living room.

Meanwhile, back at the follies, George is saying, “Sweet-heart, if the gardener comes around you'll see the definition of cheap! He is truly N.O.K.D.!”

“Okay,” I bite. “What does N.O.K.D. stand for?”

He grabs my arm. “Not Our Kind, Dear!”

“I love it!” I yell, just like a drag queen. I'm clapping like I have fake nails on and flipping my wig around and pulling my penis back into my butt to make a vagina. I lean into him—so we can keep our sisterhood tight—“But you don't mean he's Mexican, do you?” I prepare to fling my head back and hoot, but George is silent. He does the polite thing and pretends I didn't say anything.

He continues leading me through his castle and I follow, complimenting whatever my eyes land on. “I love that blue vase. Would you look at how you stacked those magazines!
I love that, and I love that, and I really love that. Dammit, I love everything on
that
side of your face.” Soon George leaves me standing in the middle of the living room, alone with my “I love that” Tourette's syndrome, so he can give David instructions for the meal.

 

 

During the thirteen years that David and Hannah were married she always cooked with him. They prepared all the meals for all the special occasions, working side by side and feeding thousands. It was their special thing. But I'm not kidding when I say that if someone handed me a red pepper and asked me to wash it I'd have to ask, “Is there anything special I should know before I do?”

Realizing that I'm not going to see David all day since he'll be cooking like an indentured servant, I try to pull him aside for a minute. He asks me not to do so, explaining that he's busy. So I'm forced to follow him around like a nervous little geisha, asking him if he's doing okay and if there's anything I could do to help and whether he's mad at me. But the question I really want answered and finally ask is, “Are you guys going to have a moment to remember Hannah? Like a prayer/remembrance circle or anything?”

“I don't know, Lauren,” David says. “Maybe. We didn't make any big plans to. Why? Do you want us not to?”

“Yeah!” I say. “That's right! I'm a monster! If I see you guys join hands I'm gonna scream, ‘STOP! STOP REMEMBERING HER!' Geez! Come on!” All I wanted was some sort of
heads-up. I don't want to be getting high in the bathroom and next thing I know I'm being called to pass a candle.

Usually my insanity serves as a calming lullaby for David. When I start screaming and throwing books at my face he gets so relaxed he could curl up and nap. But right now he has to cook so instead he hugs me and says, “Have a glass of wine. Don't worry. Everyone wants you here. Okay? I'm trying to cook for twelve people. Go talk to my dad.” Then he pushes me out of the kitchen.

“Oh, that's nice,” I say. “Being pushed away from someone on Christmas. That's a nice holiday feeling. That brings back a lot of great adopted memories of adopted Christmases.”

 

 

In the living room, George is holding up a '60s family photo of a white plastic tree with nothing but big fluffy pink poofs all over it. “Gee, do you think they suspected anything?” he says and hoots with laughter. We continue the tour past the piano. “Look at this photo of David—isn't he gorgeous? I have friends who grab this picture and say, ‘Oh my god, he's gorgeous, who is he?' And I say, ‘That's my son. Isn't he gorgeous?' And they just can't believe it.”

“That you have a son, or that he's so gorgeous?” I ask.

“Both,” George answers.

I spot a picture of David's ex-girlfriend—the one he dated right before me—on the mantel. She is holding Jack on her lap. Their faces are touching. The only time Jack's and my face have touched was ... never. Suddenly I'm sure what George
means is that his son is gorgeous and his grandson is gorgeous and Hannah was gorgeous and I am a troll.

“Come here, Lauren. I have to show you something else.”

We pass by Jack, who has turned on the TV and turned himself off. We whiz right by David, who is in the kitchen doing something culinary—I think they call it “chopping.” I find it show-offy, so I ignore him.

When we arrive at the pantry, George throws the door open dramatically and says, “I'm worried that we're going to run out of paper towels. What do you think?” He gestures to a stack of about thirty rolls in the cupboard. I start to react, “Oh my—” and he pulls me over to the refrigerator. “Oh, David ...” he singsongs, still looking at me, “I'm worried that we're not going to have enough olives.” He grabs the refrigerator door handle, then pauses—“What do you think?”—and flings open the door to reveal a giant vat of olives taking up a whole shelf. “And I do hope,” he says, hurrying over to the dining room door, “that everyone won't mind having just a simple Christmas dinner.”

Once again he throws open a door, this time revealing a scene that looks like the roped-off section of a museum. Every setting has an ornate gold plate and bowl for every course. Even the salt has its own gold bowl. There are gold bowls to wash your fingers in. There might as well be little gold servant boys standing next to each chair to wipe our mouths.

My face hurts from maintaining an expression of awe and wonder for every big reveal, but I keep it up. “George, it's unbelievable!” I say, beaming like Miss Alabama. I turn toward the wall, take a few deep breaths to relax my facial muscles, and then I plaster the huge “Oh my god! I love it!” smile back on, whip my head around, and continue.

I thought we had reached the grand finale, but he grabs my arm. “Oh, Lauren, you have to see this.” I'm whisked to the study and directed to admire a picture of him and Prince Andrew together. “We just love Prince Andrew,” he says. I assume he means the royal “we” but it turns out he means himself and his whippets.