Chapter 20 #2
“It hasn’t been easy,” she said, not elaborating. “But I’m managing. Brooke and Claire are adjusting pretty quickly. And—oh, I haven’t told you yet—I went down to the Santa Monica LGBTQ Community Center yesterday. You know, that place where Arthur goes? I’m going to volunteer for them, too.”
“Oh, sunshine.” If words could smile, Sadie’s did. “You never do anything halfway, do you? I can’t wait to hear all the details.”
“When you come home to me,” Anne said in a rush of heat.
“When I come home to you.” It was soft with promise.
“Speaking of figuring things out.” Anne wished she had a phone cord to twirl around her finger to calm her nerves, like she’d done as a teenager. “Barnard. New York. Should we talk about it now? Or wait until tomorrow for that, too?”
Sadie didn’t hesitate. “Do you want to go? Not for me, I don’t mean that. If you took my preference out of the equation, what would you decide?”
It was impossible to remove Sadie from consideration completely, but Anne understood the difference. She wanted to be with Sadie, of course she did, but did she want to move to New York City?
A week ago, she might’ve given an enthusiastic yes.
Besides Sadie, there hadn’t been much for Anne in LA.
Her daughters were grown. She barely knew her grandchildren.
James had his own life. Genevieve could easily take over chairing Conserve Malibu’s board of directors; after a while, they wouldn’t miss Anne.
But now—
She’d reached out to her daughters with more of herself, and they’d reached back.
Her grandchildren didn’t have to be strangers; true, she hadn’t much liked being a mother of young children, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy a different kind of relationship with Brooke’s kids.
James and Arthur had welcomed her with open arms. And she could do so much more to help the community center thrive in the coming months and years.
Not just with flowers, but with fundraising initiatives, events, old industry connections she could dig up that would benefit Julie and her staff.
“I think, if it was just up to me, I’d want to stay here,” Anne said softly. “But I know the job is a huge opportunity, and those don’t come often in your field, or at our age. If you want to take it, I’d gladly support you. I’d go.”
“Why would you want to stay?”
How could she sum all of it up in a way Sadie would get? Eventually, Anne said, “When I talked to Claire on Wednesday, she told me what coming out felt like for her. She’d never shared anything like that with me before. Sadie, for the first time with her—it was easy.”
The slow, gentle exhalation in Anne’s ear let her know that Sadie understood.
“Do you want to take the job?”
“I still can’t decide. Yes, it’s a dream job, but then there’s the baby coming—and the kids, of course—and if I don’t organize next year’s Passover seder at Kol Emunah, Rachel will. Let me tell you, her dinner parties make you feel like you’re on the wrong antidepressant.”
“I think the synagogue would survive,” Anne said dryly.
“Well, I’ll do some freewriting with my Mont Blanc when I get home. There’s nothing like a good fountain pen with a perfect ink flow to help you have a decent chat with yourself. Entirely underrated form of self-care.”
God, she missed Sadie so fucking much. “I’m beginning to see the benefits of that myself.”
“Fountain pens? Those long fingers of yours were made to manage one.”
“No.” Anne wouldn’t think about fingers. “Self-care.”
Anne could almost hear Sadie’s smile through the phone. “So you’ve cut out drinking and you’re starting to expand your palate. What other parts of herself has my beloved been caretaking?”
Sadie hadn’t meant it to be suggestive, but Anne couldn’t help but think about how she’d spent last night and the night before and the night before that. How thoroughly she’d taken care of herself, thanks to her new pink implement. A tiny, strangled noise left her throat.
“What is it?” Then, very quietly, “Ah.”
Anne froze. “I know you didn’t mean—”
“I didn’t.”
Right. Okay. Anne would change the subject. If she could think of any other subject. Anything at all.
A long pause. Then, “Speaking of.”
When Anne found the ability to respond, it was somewhat uneven. “Sadie, if we talk about this, we’re going to head very quickly down a road you haven’t said you’re ready to travel.”
“No, no, I don’t mean that. Or, more accurately, I do mean that, but not, ah, salaciously.
There are…some things I need to tell you that I couldn’t put into my email.
About sex. I need to say them out loud. For myself.
And at this particular moment, I’m feeling brave, so there’s no time like the present. ”
Anne sat up a little straighter, feeling the weight behind Sadie’s insistence. “Please continue.”
“I told you,” Sadie said slowly, “back in Joshua Tree, that sex felt emotionally daunting for me.”
“You did.” Anne remembered, too, that Sadie hadn’t elaborated. “Is this about Fred?”
Sadie made an affirming sound. “During our marriage, we had a very active—well.” She paused. “I won’t be specific. What matters is that there was never a lull between us. In a sexual respect.”
“No lull,” Anne repeated, and did her best to ignore the jealousy curdling in her stomach. “All right.”
“Not even before he left me.”
Then Anne understood, and the curdle of jealousy was swept away by a rush of protective indignation. “So he was sleeping with you the whole time he thought you were too much for him? Before he told you how he felt?”
“I didn’t know,” Sadie croaked. “I gave myself to Fred, every bit of me, not just the physical parts but my total trust, the most intimate, vulnerable places in me, and for months, for years, he didn’t want who I gave him.
It made me never want to sleep with anyone again.
” Now her words were wobbling, too, not just her breath.
“Did you feel like that with James? Like he’d lied to you with his body? ”
“No.” Anne didn’t need to think about it. “I felt betrayed, yes. Furious. But that was because he made me look foolish. I never let myself trust James—or be vulnerable with him in the first place.”
Because I was a lesbian, she finished silently and marveled again at how this one truth had triggered an avalanche of understanding.
“I’m glad. I’d never wish that feeling on anyone, least of all you.”
Anne had a sudden flash of insight. “Is this related to you not wanting, ah, your turn? When we were in that motel room?”
“Yes.” Now Sadie’s voice was mostly steady.
“When you put your hands on my waist, it felt like euphoria and dread all scribbled together. Like your touch knew how to call out my deepest needs and my sharpest fears at the exact same time. I know you’re not Fred; I know.
But, Anne, I’ve watched you punish yourself for years. ”
“What?” Anne wasn’t following Sadie’s logic. “I don’t understand.”
“You look at your body with so much viciousness,” Sadie said softly.
“And even after Joshua Tree, I couldn’t fully understand how you used those same eyes to see me and my body with desire.
It didn’t make sense. How could you be attracted to me when you’ve spent your life doing everything possible not to look like me?
So I wondered—I wondered if there was a part of you, even a small part, that saw me the same way you see yourself.
And maybe that part didn’t want me.” She took a breath. “Like Fred didn’t want me.”
“Oh, Sadie.” Anne felt stunned. She’d never said or even thought one negative word about Sadie’s body—she adored Sadie’s hourglass shape, its gorgeous generosity, had tried for years not to let her gaze linger—but she hadn’t ever considered how her own self-flagellation might make Sadie feel by comparison.
“There’s nothing wrong with your body at all. It’s beautiful.”
“Of course it is.” Sadie said it matter-of-factly. “But I couldn’t be entirely sure you knew it, too. Do you remember that woman at Purple Poppy? Your former friend? I got rattled when she made those snide comments.”
“Yes. Brenda.”
“I don’t give a damn what a stranger thinks about me,” Sadie said firmly. “What upset me that day was that I wondered, just for a second, if deep down you agreed with her.”
There was shame you didn’t deserve to feel, and shame you did. This was the latter. “Never. How I think about how myself and how I think about you—it’s not the same, honey. Not at all. I promise. Please know that I’m so much harder on myself than I am on anyone else.”
“I do know that.” Sadie’s voice was gentle. “You know, my beloved, you’ve never done anything so terrible that you deserve your own cruelty.”
Sudden tears pricked at Anne’s eyes. “Just know that I’m very attracted to you,” she said a little shakily. “Very. Exactly the way you are.”
“That feels good to hear.” A little quiver in Sadie’s inhale.
Hear wasn’t the same thing as believe. With a lump in her throat, Anne thought back to her conversation with Brooke and the question her youngest daughter had blurted out once she’d accepted her mother’s truth.
Is this why you were always so sad? She’d never imagined that her children were impacted by what Anne believed had been her own private pain.
She’d never imagined that the cruelty she directed inward could hurt Sadie either.
“I’ll show you how sincere I am,” Anne said hoarsely, with every scrap of honesty she could muster.
“I’ll show you with my eyes and my hands and my mouth and my voice.
I’ll show you for the rest of my life, until I’ve erased every bit of your doubt.
I’ve spent sixty years lying to myself, Sadie.
Believe me when I say that I’m done avoiding the truth. With anyone. But especially with you.”
For a long moment, silence. Then Sadie’s soft, long exhale, as though she were letting out a breath she’d been holding the entire week.