In the Language of the Flowers

| 25 |

✾ Red Tulip ✾

I could hear her heels before I even saw her. She was practiced at walking in them. Of course, she would be. She had to keep up appearances. 

"Good morning, babies," she said, touching her children's blond heads with her carefully manicured hands. She finally looked at me. "Beau," she said. 

I looked to my left. My uncle sat there sipping his coffee. He looked like he wanted to say something but didn't. 

"Good morning," I said finally. 

"How are you today, young man?" she asked. 

Young man? "I'm fine," I said quietly. 

"If you were fine, you wouldn't be here. Would you?" she said. I heard: why are you still here? 

"I guess you're right," I said. I really needed to figure something else out. But what? I was basically helpless. The friends I'd made. The life I'd found. It all seemed so distant now. The moment I'd stepped into this house, it had all just sucked me back in. I wasn't even as good as a kid with training wheels. I didn't even have a bike to work with. 

"So," she said, sitting down, "how long will you be staying here?" 

"Anne," my uncle scolded. I was surprised he'd said anything. But then again, he'd convinced his wife to let me stay in their home. Unlike last time, she wasn't just doing it temporarily for show. Nobody was watching now.

She seemed put off by her husband's reprimand. "What? I'm just asking. It seemed like he'd found a nice place. I just don't understand why-" 

"I'll try to get out of your way as soon as I can," I said. "I've got to go back to school soon enough. Maybe I can get a room somehow." 

She looked content just with the knowledge that I wouldn't be staying permanently. That alone was enough for her. I stared at the kids in front of me. They looked the same age despite a two year difference. They also looked identical, like their mother was only capable of producing cherubs. I found it weird that they never seemed to say anything. Weren't kids supposed to be loud and rambunctious? 

But it wasn't just the quiet children. Being at this table made me feel uncomfortable in a way I hadn't felt in a long time. I was vividly aware of the way my aunt looked at me, at the entire length of me. She eyed me like I was a blatant criminal trespassing in her home. For a horrifying moment, I wondered if it was more than just my sexuality that she hated about me. I wondered if it was my skin, too. My mother's skin.

"Beau, you can stay here as long as you need to," he said. 

"Of course, you can," she said. "You're my sister's son, after all." She somehow managed to lace the entire sentence with passive aggression. When she looked at me, she was looking at the woman she'd envied and despised for years. She'd had plenty of time to perfect the art of subtle hatred.

"Yeah," I said, standing up. "If you'll excuse me. I'm going to get in contact with my school. See if I can't figure something out." I didn't want to say anything. I didn't want to deal with it.

"NYU, right? You must be quite smart," she said condescendingly. 

I fake-smiled. Maybe it was her uncomfortable mentioning of mom. Maybe it was the disrespectful looks she gave me. Maybe it was how eerily quiet the rest of her family was. I couldn't help it. "You know, I am quite smart...despite how gay I am. It's a miracle," I said. 

Her mouth dropped open. "I'm--I..." 

"Praise Jesus!" I proclaimed before leaving her saying something angrily about the lord's name in vain and her husband trying to explain why I was acting out. Whatever. I was only here out of desperation, and she'd kick me out anyway in the next few days. I didn't need to be liked.