it, that I might lose my voice and never be able to speak again. Or perhaps go blind, or turn into a pillar of salt. If I saw them, even for an instant, I would lose the coherency of self, such as I still possessed it.
Aunt Deedee, in particular, was extremely miffed at me for moving out. I could not explain myself. I could not tell her that it was Jason, because I did not know for sure that it had been Jason. What if I were wrong? Or worse, what if I told her and she didn’t believe me? I could not afford these realities. And so I told her that Ray Lampert had insisted, that they had a spare bedroom with an actual closet, that it “just made sense.” And she let it happen because it made her life easier too, but she was still insulted. There she had gone, treating me like her own child, taking care of me like one of her own, and what did I do? Move in with a friend who had a pool, like I wasn’t part of her family at all, like she wasn’t the closest thing I had ever had to a mother. She had actually said that part. “I’ve been like a mother to you, Michael, and I suppose I would have expected a little bit of gratitude.”
Did she think I had forgotten my own mother? My real mother? And even if she had been trying to be a mother to me, shouldn’t she have done a better job? Was teaching me how to apply eyeliner and telling me “no boys” really enough? I had paid for my own food and clothing since I was old enough to get a job. I was living in, literally, a closet. But I said, “I don’t mean to express a lack of gratitude. I am very grateful, Aunt Deedee, I really am. You know I love you.”
“I love you too,” she had gasped, and hugged me so tightly that I finally caught it, what was going on for her, what was at stake. She was upset because she knew she had failed me, and she could not, could not look at it. And I didn’t want to make her look at it either. She really had done her best. She really was trying very hard. It was not fun to be Aunt Deedee. In fact, it was terrible and bleak to be Aunt Deedee.
For whatever reason, in these bizarre, timeless weeks, Bunny decided she needed to teach me to drive. We were always together. She had stopped working for her father out of moral disgust more latently, and need to “take care of me” more patently, and there were only so many shows to binge-watch and only so many blueberry muffin mixes to bake (she loved blueberry muffin mix, she loved to eat the batter raw; I had to positively claw the bowl away from her to make sure any of them got baked). And so we went to the DMV and I got my permit, and then she would take me out driving. We drove only in parking lots, especially at first because her Jeep was a stick shift, and I was a slow learner. I would scream every time I stalled the car. This made Bunny laugh hysterically each time we lurched, and I would say, “Shut up, shut up, I can’t concentrate with you laughing like that!” and she would say, “How can you be so bad at something? I’ve never seen you be this bad at anything!”
The thing is, I was falling in love with Bunny again. She was so clumsy with artifice that she had no choice but to be absolutely and authentically herself, which gave me permission to be the same. And that had been part of it all along. That we were our truest selves when we were together.
That Christmas was a weirdly happy one. We didn’t get a tree or do any of that, but we did order in Chinese and have a movie marathon. I hadn’t gotten presents for Ray or Bunny, and I didn’t think there would be any gift exchange, but then on Christmas Eve, Ray suddenly pulled two wrapped boxes out of the closet.
“Wut,” Bunny said.
“You didn’t tell me we were doing presents!” I said.
“We’re not,” Ray said. “Weirdest thing. Found these up on the roof. Wrapped up just like this. I think they’re from Santa. He must