My lover Darryl and I are still in bed when the call comes at 6:30 a.m.: James, Darryl's older brother, is dead in his sleep from unknown causes at age 42.
Though James lived just half an hour away from his and Darryl's mother, he had been visiting her the evening he died, and opted to spend the last night of his life in his childhood bedroom. Their mother found him the next morning when she went to wake James for work.
As Darryl and I make the hour-and-a-half drive to his mother's house, the trees and cars and buildings along the way seem to pass in slow motion. Still stunned and teary-eyed, Darryl shares out loud the familiar stories of his brother's antics, both from James' childhood and his often-troubled adulthood.
James was the "bad boy" of the family--the one with the hot temper and the sometimes violent streak; the one who pulled ceaseless pranks that were as infuriating as they were funny; a man who always spoke his mind, no matter how impolitic his thoughts or inopportune the moment; and a man with an insatiable appetite for the past, whether he was studying world history or tracking the roots of his Italian immigrant grandparents.
Like for so many of us and our relatives, the interpersonal dynamics of Darryl's family are complicated. Not surprisingly, the most confounding factor in Darryl's relationship with his family has often been his sexuality, and that naturally bleeds over into the relationship between Darryl and me.
But despite James' staunchly conservative political beliefs, our sexuality was never much of an issue for him. He was one of the first family members to treat his brother's relationship with me as normal. As our car lurches towards the surreal fact that he is gone, I silently thank James for this.
James' acceptance of mine and Darryl's love was not so easily shared by the rest of Darryl's family. For three out of the six years Darryl and I have been together, I was not much welcome into the family home. Somehow, though, my relationship with Darryl's family slowly but surely evolved from one of open animosity to surprising acceptance. There's always a place set for me at the table during family functions, and at Christmas, I have a stocking with my name on it hanging over the fireplace next to everyone else's.
Despite the progress, I can't help but feel selfishly nervous as we inch our way to Darryl's mother's house.
I feel guilty for even thinking it, but I can't help wondering: In the hard days that are just in front of us--with the crying and grieving and consoling, the wakes and the funeral and the burial, the parade of extended family members and friends and coworkers offering their condolences, in the heaviness that will come with going to James' apartment to find a final suit to dress him in, and later going back to clean out the belongings left behind of a life, with all the weight of unbearable grief that comes in mourning a life literally cut in half--what will my place in the family be?
In this most difficult of times, will there be a showdown on gay rights if I try to hold Darryl and comfort him publicly as he grieves? Darryl's mother has come to accept me, and even genuinely like me, I believe. To my amazement, this deeply religious woman, who goes to Mass every day of her life, has arrived at the point where she can talk to Darryl and me about gay life out loud. She even says the word now. But I know that in her heart of hearts, she still wishes her son was not gay and that I was his wife, not his lover.
Will his mother, so consumed as she is by appearances and what people think, force me to melt into anonymity at the wakes, in front of the aunts and uncles and cousins I've never met and do not know me, but who surely disapprove of my relationship with Darryl? At the funeral, will I have to sit in the back of the church, away from Darryl at his time of grief, unable to hold his hand and be there for him when he needs me most?
Will Darryl's sister, Dottie, the conservative one with two children, revert to her old ways, maybe even frowning at me hugging her teenage kids and telling them I love them, too?
In this most intensely private moment--when a son and brother has been torn from a family--will those who are hurting most see me as an outsider intruding on their grief?
We arrive at the house, and Dottie is standing in the driveway, smoking. Darryl jumps out of the car and they hold onto each other, both of them crying. I stand cautiously back, not wanting to interrupt. When they let go, Dottie looks at me. Her arms are open.
As we hug, she whispers in my ear, "Thank you for coming. I'm so glad you are here."
It's a similar scene inside the house with Darryl's mother. After Darryl has had a chance to cry with her, she reaches toward me for an embrace. Her eyes are wet as she says, her voice cracking, "Can you believe we lost him?"
It strikes me that she uses the pronoun, "we." And I know instantly that I have become a real part of this family.