Spare Me (Pride in Pine Grove Novella)

Chapter One

Maeda

A circle of blue plastic chairs with stainless steel legs stood like sentinels bearing the weight of the silence that hung over the room.

It was one of reverence and respect; maybe of anxiety, as well.

For me, at least. It’s possible I was feeling a bit too melodramatic for a Thursday night support group meeting.

Little shrieks of joy and giggles trickled from down the hallway.

I could make out the little cackle of my daughter from the childcare room where a drag king was acting out story-time. Dolly loved those performances.

My stomach grumbled, and I was kicking myself for forgetting to pack food for me to eat during Dolly’s dance class. My schedule rotated entirely around Dolly: when her school started and ended, dance classes, nights with her dad.

That last part was a more recent development.

I shook off the nerves. I was a grown woman and it wasn’t even my first time here at the LGBTQ+ Center of Pine Grove. There was nothing to be nervous about. It’s just a support group for queer parents.

And yet, I would have felt more fortified if I had eaten something in the last twelve hours.

I made my way over to the refreshments table where a couple of other members from group were engaged in light chit chat.

“The pasta this weekend is going to be so good,” Tilly said to her wife, Danielle.

The small refreshments table was set with a few baked goods donated from Busy Bee Bakery and Tea’s unsold stock which would have otherwise been wasted, and coffee from Deja Brew, the local witchy coffee shop.

Honestly one of my favorite places to go and write.

Danielle noticed me and smiled, “Hey, Maeda,” she said. “Are you busy Saturday night?”

“Oh,” I’m focused on one of the mini honey cakes behind her, “I don’t know. Dolly is going to be at her dad’s this weekend.”

“So you’re coming,” Tilly blurted, that sweet Georgia accent slipping in. “I mean, you’ve been coming to group for a while now.”

“It’s only been two months,” I said. “Four meetings.”

“Yes, exactly,” Tilly bulled on, “that’s basically five which is a whole handful. It’s time to come out.”

“Wow, way to turn the phrase,” Danielle laughed. “But really, it’s super fun and casual.”

I played with the dry split ends of my long dirty blonde hair; I hadn’t gotten a hair cut in about a year and it rested at boob length, right next to Stevie Nicks on my Fleetwood Mac shirt that I had gotten as a birthday gift some years ago.

“Maybe.” If I were being honest, I should focus my energy on job applications over the weekend.

While I was very grateful that an old college professor was renting his townhouse to Dolly and I for a huge discount, my meager savings account continued to dwindle.

I needed reliable income; writing contests were not cutting it.

Danielle seemed to pick up on my lack of commitment, so she kindly placed a hand on my shoulder, “It’s only if you want to, and you don’t have to stay the whole time.”

“Alright everyone,” the group leader, a licensed psychologist named Gene, called everyone in to start the meeting.

In their warm and soothing voice. Once we were all seated, he continued.

“Welcome to Queer Parents Support Group. This is a safe space for queer individuals who are on a parenting journey. If you are here because you are straight and cisgendered with a queer identifying child, that group meets on Tuesdays. You are more than welcome to join us for this evening though. As always, we will begin by going around the circle. Introduce yourself and your partner if they’re with you, stating your names, pronouns, how you identify if you feel comfortable, and how many children you have.

” Gene gives us a moment to make sure we all are following along.

“I’ll go first. I’m Gene, they/them. I identify as agender, and I have two grown children ages 22 and 20.

” Gene passes it off to the person on their right, which is Tilly.

“Hi, I’m Tilly, and this is my wife Danielle. She/Her works for me. I identify as demisexual and pan.”

“I’m a lesbian,” Danielle chipped in, “Also she/her.”

“And we have a nephew that we adopted, he is 12,” Tilly finished.

The circle continued, including the return of Al and Ian, a couple who just adopted a newborn boy. This was their first meeting back since I’ve been attending.

When it’s my turn, I had to stop myself from biting the skin by the corner of my thumb nail. “Hello, I’m Maeda,” I said, out the long a for “MAY-duh”. “I’m a single mom… uh, she/her, bisexual. One kiddo, 5 years old.”

We continued introductions before opening the floor for open discussion.

A few people talked about societal gender expectations and how to ensure our kids feel supported as they are without pressuring them.

I thought about how Dolly was in dance class and how she wanted to explore “warrior classes” which is just jiu jitsu because she saw a match her dad had on TV once.

There wasn’t a place in Pine Grove that offered jiu jitsu, so we’d have to drive out to New Haven to take one class a week.

Maybe if I scheduled it during her nights with Tristan he would take her or pick her up from there?

Gas money had just been so precious lately.

We had even walked to the Center in lieu of driving.

Thankfully, Pine Grove is a walkable town.

I had started coming to group because I was a parent in need of support and I am a queer person, technically.

I should probably stop tacking on the technically part.

I’ve always been attracted to people across the gender spectrum.

The bar to entry to be a bisexual has never been complicated.

But there had long since a part of me that measured my sexuality against experiences, as if I needed to produce the Car Facts on my sexuality and only desires that were acted upon counted.

I was still embracing this part of myself.

Dolly’s existence gave me the strength to do so.

If I wanted her to be true to herself, I had to model that behavior, right?

But before I could do that, I needed to get a job.

Secure our finances and then everything else would be easier.

Tristan had asked me to come back to him, but that was not going to happen.

I’d finally gotten the nerve to leave, and I refused to be an accessory in my own marriage.

Somehow, the meeting flew by while I was stuck in my own thoughts. I rose and folded my chair with the rest of the group, and added my chair to the cart near the hallway. I took a moment to ground myself before collecting Dolly.

I tried to keep my best self turned on for her. There’s a certain amount of masking that comes with being a parent. At least, that’s how it has been for me.

The childcare room was a little kid’s idea of heaven with an indoor treehouse, bean bags and a small library.

There were a cluster of tables with small chairs, each featuring a unique activity.

One had coloring pages with inspirational quotes, one had board games - I saw Dolly playing with the pieces for Mouse Trap.

Her back was to me until Carter Fellows in full drag as King Kong raised their eyebrows and pointed over Dolly’s shoulder.

Dolly turned, her blonde ringlets bouncing as she did.

“Mama!” She smiled and ran to me. Honestly, it was a boost of serotonin I didn’t know I needed. I scooped her up and held her tight. “I missed you so much!” She had taken to saying this lately, even if I was just in the other room.

“I missed you too,” I said, looking into her deep brown eyes, the same shade as mine. “Let’s clean up so we can go eat dinner, okay?”

We started disassembling the game into the box and Dolly told me about the snack they ate during group.

“It was like pasgetti,” she said, mispronouncing spaghetti once again.

It always made me smile and I was already nostalgic about how one day she’d stop saying it in her Dolly way and never say it like that again.

“But it was big fat pasgetti, and it was white cheese.”

“Oh, nice,” I say. I was too tired to try and decode her meaning. I just allow her to share until we closed the Mouse Trap box and she put it back on the shelf with the other board games.

I waved goodbye to the King Kong, and took Dolly’s hand as we walked out of The Center.

It was a warm night, but cooler with sun set. “Are you hungry? Do you want dinner?” I asked.

“No,” she told me, “but I want a snack or a treat.”

We walked home, and I was hit with gratitude for this small town.

Pine Grove was gentle and soft. The kind of place I felt safe walking my daughter home in the evening.

There were some drawbacks to such a small town, sure.

Everyone knew everyone, and if you wanted something from a chain store you’d have to drive out of town or wait for snail mail.

But there were so many positives too; like, everyone knew everyone.

There was a certain pressure to that, but a comfort too.

It was a real community, something big cities had abandoned.

It was nice to be able to raise Dolly somewhere safe.

All I needed was some stability, and I felt like Pine Grove was the place to find it.