was dead from leukemia, leaving behind David and their four-year-old son. She was healthy, vital, alive in the wedding album. In subsequent pictures, she was increasingly pale and sickly. Celia wrote:
Dear Oliver,
Your father loved your mother. To be honest, it’s one reason I thought your dad and I would have a great marriage. He talked about her like he really, truly loved her. Like she was his soulmate. Your father wouldn’t take marrying again lightly, or so I thought.
I’m sorry your father did not tell you much about your mother, but he told me some things. I’ll write down what I remember. Here’s a little something to get you started in case you don’t know this already.
Your parents met in class. Her handwriting was what drew him to her. They sat together, exchanged hellos, nothing special. Then class began, and your mother took notes. Her writing was elegant, like calligraphy. Like art. Your father was mesmerized. That night, they went to a bar for karaoke, and your mother’s singing voice captivated your father. (I can’t sing worth a damn.)
Now, about your father and his future, I am not challenging the living will. Your father wanted a year, and I’m giving that year. No more, no less. The paralysis issue troubles me, but I won’t presume to read your father’s mind. Your grandmother does have a point, however far-fetched. Oliver, your father could recover. Maybe not completely, but meaningfully. He—she—could have good years left. He has two beautiful children whom I know, I absolutely know, he would want to see grow and flourish. Sometimes, I think about how your father struggled for years. All that agony and torture. Now it’s apparently over. Just so sudden. If he gets a second chance, I think he will make the most of it.
Oliver, your father loved you so, so much. I wish I could convey how much. He wasn’t some villain. But of course you know that.
Do you want my wedding ring and my engagement ring? Sell them or something. Get some cash. I don’t want them. Don’t know what to do with them. Well, I know what I want to do with them. Flush them down the toilet. But that’s a lot of money going down the crapper. Maybe I will save them for Caleb if you don’t want them.
You’re going to ask if your father and I are done for sure, so here’s the answer. Yes, we are. We were over a good while before Caleb was born. Doesn’t mean I don’t love David. I always will in a way. He was my husband. I hope he wakes up and gets his second chance, but I’m not interested in being part of it. I’m not taking him back in any scenario. I’ll be there to help your father if he wants, but it won’t be as his wife. He hurt me too much.
You know what, Oliver. I can’t call your father ‘her.’ I just can’t. Not if he didn’t have the guts to come to me and tell me. Because otherwise, saying her, she or hers feels fraudulent.
Are we going to tell your grandparents that your father was transgender? Maybe that would only complicate things for them. And maybe someone should still idealize David.
But maybe they should know.
It rained when I left the rose at your mother’s grave. Fat, fast raindrops, but I had an umbrella. I sat and chatted a bit with her. Told her you and I were getting along better and that she has a damn fine son.
- Celia
*****
Two weeks later, Shirley settled on a rehabilitation facility and began preparations for David’s transfer. For Celia, the word Pinewood conjured scents of a Disney lovefest. Pine trees, clear, babbling brooks, fresh air, butterflies, dancing deer, Snow White shitting roses and rainbows. Lurking behind the Disneyfication was reality.
Pinewood was where patients went to drool and whittle away time. Pinewood was where relatives visited every day at first and then later, once a week, if the patient was lucky. Pinewood was as guilt-free a place as any to abandon people to their deaths. However, David would not need to worry about abandonment,
Dear Oliver,
Your father loved your mother. To be honest, it’s one reason I thought your dad and I would have a great marriage. He talked about her like he really, truly loved her. Like she was his soulmate. Your father wouldn’t take marrying again lightly, or so I thought.
I’m sorry your father did not tell you much about your mother, but he told me some things. I’ll write down what I remember. Here’s a little something to get you started in case you don’t know this already.
Your parents met in class. Her handwriting was what drew him to her. They sat together, exchanged hellos, nothing special. Then class began, and your mother took notes. Her writing was elegant, like calligraphy. Like art. Your father was mesmerized. That night, they went to a bar for karaoke, and your mother’s singing voice captivated your father. (I can’t sing worth a damn.)
Now, about your father and his future, I am not challenging the living will. Your father wanted a year, and I’m giving that year. No more, no less. The paralysis issue troubles me, but I won’t presume to read your father’s mind. Your grandmother does have a point, however far-fetched. Oliver, your father could recover. Maybe not completely, but meaningfully. He—she—could have good years left. He has two beautiful children whom I know, I absolutely know, he would want to see grow and flourish. Sometimes, I think about how your father struggled for years. All that agony and torture. Now it’s apparently over. Just so sudden. If he gets a second chance, I think he will make the most of it.
Oliver, your father loved you so, so much. I wish I could convey how much. He wasn’t some villain. But of course you know that.
Do you want my wedding ring and my engagement ring? Sell them or something. Get some cash. I don’t want them. Don’t know what to do with them. Well, I know what I want to do with them. Flush them down the toilet. But that’s a lot of money going down the crapper. Maybe I will save them for Caleb if you don’t want them.
You’re going to ask if your father and I are done for sure, so here’s the answer. Yes, we are. We were over a good while before Caleb was born. Doesn’t mean I don’t love David. I always will in a way. He was my husband. I hope he wakes up and gets his second chance, but I’m not interested in being part of it. I’m not taking him back in any scenario. I’ll be there to help your father if he wants, but it won’t be as his wife. He hurt me too much.
You know what, Oliver. I can’t call your father ‘her.’ I just can’t. Not if he didn’t have the guts to come to me and tell me. Because otherwise, saying her, she or hers feels fraudulent.
Are we going to tell your grandparents that your father was transgender? Maybe that would only complicate things for them. And maybe someone should still idealize David.
But maybe they should know.
It rained when I left the rose at your mother’s grave. Fat, fast raindrops, but I had an umbrella. I sat and chatted a bit with her. Told her you and I were getting along better and that she has a damn fine son.
- Celia
*****
Two weeks later, Shirley settled on a rehabilitation facility and began preparations for David’s transfer. For Celia, the word Pinewood conjured scents of a Disney lovefest. Pine trees, clear, babbling brooks, fresh air, butterflies, dancing deer, Snow White shitting roses and rainbows. Lurking behind the Disneyfication was reality.
Pinewood was where patients went to drool and whittle away time. Pinewood was where relatives visited every day at first and then later, once a week, if the patient was lucky. Pinewood was as guilt-free a place as any to abandon people to their deaths. However, David would not need to worry about abandonment,
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