When I snuck out one night and took the family car? Marge did it years before.
When I had too many drinks at a high school party? Welcome to the club.
When I climbed the water tower in our neighborhood, a popular teenage hangout? That was already Marge’s favorite place.
When I was a moody teen who barely spoke to either my mom or dad? Marge taught them to expect that, too.
Marge, of course, never let me forget how much easier I had it but to be fair, it often led me to feel like an afterthought in the family, which wasn’t easy either. In our own ways, we each felt a bit slighted, but in our private struggles, we ended up leaning on each other more and more with every passing year.
When we talk about it nowadays – what she went through – she downplays how hard it was to come out to others, and it makes me admire her all the more. Being different is never easy, and being different in that way – in the South, in a Christian home – seemed to strengthen her resolve to appear invulnerable. As an adult, she lives in a world defined by numbers and spreadsheets, calculations. When she speaks with others, she tries to hide behind wit and sarcasm. She deflects intimacy with most people and while we’re close, I wonder if my sister sometimes found it necessary to hide her emotional side, even from me. I know if I asked her, she would deny it; she would tell me that if I wanted sensitivity, I should have asked God for a different sister, the kind of sister who carried a Kleenex at the ready on the off-chance a sad song began playing on the radio.
Lately, I’ve found myself wishing that I’d impressed upon her that I saw the real her, that I’ve always loved who she was. But as close as we are, our conversations seldom reach those depths. Like most people, I assume, we talk about the latest goings-on in our lives, hiding our fears like a turtle tucking its head back into its shell.
But I’ve also seen Marge at her lowest.
It had to do with a girl named Tracey, her roommate. Marge was a junior in college at UNC Charlotte, and while she didn’t hide her sexuality, she didn’t flaunt it either. Tracey knew from the very beginning but it never seemed an issue. Often together, they fell into a close and natural friendship the way college roommates often do. Tracey had a boyfriend back home and after the breakup Marge was there to pick up the pieces. Eventually, Tracey noticed that Marge was attracted to her and didn’t discourage the feeling; she even speculated that she might be bisexual but wasn’t exactly sure. Then, one night, it happened. Marge woke in the morning feeling like she’d discovered the part of her that had been missing; Tracey woke, even more confused, but willing to give the relationship a try. They were discreet at Tracey’s insistence, but that was fine by Marge, and over the next few months, Marge fell even more deeply in love. Tracey, on the other hand, began to pull away and, after returning home for spring break that year, told Marge that she and her boyfriend had reconciled and that she wasn’t sure she and Marge could remain friends. She told her that she would be moving into an apartment that her parents had rented, and that what she and Marge had shared was nothing but experimentation. It had meant nothing to her.
Marge called me just before midnight. She was drinking and babbling, telling me bits and pieces of the story and slurring that she wanted to die. I’d just gotten my driver’s license and somehow, I knew exactly where to find her. I raced to the water tower and spotted her car parked beneath it. I made the climb and found my sister sitting near the edge, her legs dangling. There was an open bottle of rum beside her, and it was immediately clear that she was beyond drunk and practically incoherent. When she saw me, she scooted closer to the edge.
Speaking quietly, I was able to convince her to let me come closer; when I finally reached her, I put my arm around her and inched her back from the ledge. I held her as she sobbed, remaining at the top of the water tower until it was nearly dawn. She begged me not to tell our parents and after I promised, I drove her back to her dorm room and put her in bed. When I got home, my parents were livid – I was sixteen and had been out all night. They grounded me for a month, and I lost driving privileges for another three months after that.
But I never told them where I’d been, or how devastated my sister had been that night, or what might have happened to her, had I not shown up.
It was enough to know that I’d been there for her, that I’d held her in my arms when she’d needed it the most, just the way I knew she would for me.
Needless to say, after dinner with my family, Vivian and my postponed date night didn’t happen. Vivian wasn’t in the best of moods by the time we got home. Neither was I.
Sunday morning began in a lazy fashion, one that allowed for a third cup of coffee after a five-mile run, my longest run in nearly ten years. London was watching a movie in the family room and I was reading the paper on our back patio when Vivian stepped outside.
“I think London and I need a Mommy and Me day,” Vivian announced.
“A what?”
“You know, girl stuff. We’ll get all dressed up and get a manicure and pedicure, maybe have her hair styled, things like that. Kind of a mini-celebration before her first day of school, where we’re not having to rush around like crazy like we did yesterday.”
“Is any place open on Sunday?”
“We’ll find something,” she said. “I could use a good mani-pedi, too.”
“Does London even know what a mani-pedi is?”
“Of course she does. And it’ll be good to have some alone time with her, you know? I’ve been working so much lately. And it’ll give you a break, too, to do whatever you want. Goof around, work, whatever.”