Letters to Darcy: An LGBTQ+ Novella

December 25, 2014:

December 25, 2014:

My bare knuckles meet the solid, white door. With a knock that shatters the silence of the empty hall. A wreath, full and green, hangs on it, slightly twisted, askew. I correct it before knocking, again. Muffled laughter penetrates the door and seeps through the cracks like light in the dark. I knock a third time, louder. A light thumping crescendos as it draws nearer to the door. And as the footsteps subside, the sound of shifting gears, metal scraping metal, indicates the turning of the lock. The door swings open and in front of me, a lean, Caucasian woman, her auburn hair—weak and fried, as if having been beached three too many times—is tied into a loose bun atop her head. She is a small woman, the top of her head, cresting just beneath my breast. Thick, fleece leggings with a red and black tartan pattern adorn her legs. A dark green sweater, embroidered with a motif of rainbow Christmas lights and the phrase "Don we now, our GAY apparel" plasters her chest. In her arms, an infant, no older than a few months, clothed in a gold onesie with the word "Theyby" centering it.

At the sight of me, her eyes flutter with the recognition of an old friend. "Darcy, my darling! Come in. Come in." The woman shouts enthusiastically.

"Have we met?" I ask, skeptical.

"We have, now." She says, taking hold of my hand to usher me in. As she begins to pry my coat from my back, the sound of the laughter's a considerable deal more distinct, now. I recognize the sound of Kai's voice in the crowd.

"I'm Lillian, Kai's mother, she/her. And this is Harper, they/them," she says, motioning toward the baby as if the ironed-on letters strewn across their chest isn't a clear enough sign.

It's not easy to believe that this woman could be Kai's mother. Not only was she, no more than a decade older than Kai, but I'm fairly confident that he's Native American and this woman was certainly not that. Could be adoption.

As I peer around the corner, into the living room, my eyes readjust to the warm, yellowish glow of string lights. Kai sat on a large, green, velvet sofa. Pressed closely against him, a man, I presume to be his fiancé, Philip. The light brown shade of his skin closely resembles that of the creamy hot cocoa emitting steam from the pale blue mug cupped in his hands. To their left, sat on a small, wooden chair that looked like it had been pulled from a dining room set, a slight-framed Hispanic man with a thin layer of patchy stubble and natural, curly, reddish-brown hair seemed to be intensely focused on the words of a wiry, black, teenage girl, sat on the ground in front of, what seemed to be, a tall, wooden pedestal. Atop it, a small, green succulent, encircled by a ring of dollar store Christmas lights—the type that is only a meter long and requires three AAAs to even turn on. Surrounding the base of the pedestal, are numerous packages of varying shapes and sizes. No two are alike. Some are wrapped in colorful paper, some are set in gift bags. One has the words "Happy Birthday" printed across it. Another sat inside a large, brown, paper bag with a yellow, curlicue M printed across the front, the word "McDonald's" in white letters, beneath it. As I take in the sight, my mind registers this to be their Christmas tree.

"Okay, I can explain!" Kai says, laughing in my direction and motioning toward the pedestal.

"No, we've got to keep the mystique." Philip objects.

"Ignore him, he's had a little too much eggnog, if you know what I mean."

I do.

Suddenly, the soft, warm texture of human skin grasps my bare elbow as Lillian slides through the space between myself and the doorframe. She plopped herself down into a large, brown, leather accent chair. Harper's head bobbled, as she did. "Oh, come sit here, sweetheart," Lillian called shimmying as far to one side of the chair as possible.