"You're kidding? Right?" my ex-husband Alan asked incredulously.
"Now, why would I kid about that?" I returned the question with annoyance.
Alan was temporarily speechless and I could hear him fumbling for the right words.
"I'm telling you because when you pick up Alana, Valerie might be there and I want you to be cordial," I stated firmly.
Explaining my current situation to my ex husband was proving to be difficult.
"Kate, I...ah...don't know what to say, except...congratulations," he stated with sincerity.
"Thank you, that means a lot to me Alan," I articulated with gratitude and ended the call.
With some trepidation, I reread the email that I had composed for Valerie. We hadn't seen each other for a few days and I wanted to express how I truly felt about her.
My Beautiful Valerie, I am counting the hours until I can see you again. I can't stop thinking about you. I want to hold you in my arms; kiss you and feel your body next to mine.
For the first time in my life, I'm deeply in love with someone and that someone is you. You're my best friend and my lover. Without you, I would be lost.
With love everlasting, Kate
I hit the send icon and sat back with a smile as an image of Valerie drifted through my mind.
To my amazement, I fell in love with a woman; a beautiful, sexy and fiery woman. As inexplicable as it seemed, my soul reassured me it was authentic. My mother, pillar of pretentious manners and icy emotional detachment, was aghast when I told her.
"Katherine, you were not brought up that way," my mother voiced ignorantly.
In spite of the fact that I asked her countless times, she refused to call me Kate.
"I see mother, so its nature not nurture; it's part of my genetics," I argued mockingly.
"I really don't care for your tone of voice and rudeness," My mother stated with anger and a hurt look.
"Do you think I get it from dad's side of the family or yours?" I asked with a bitter tongue.
My mother harrumphed angrily and left the room in a huff. When I told her about Valerie, I wasn't seeking her approval or advice. I just wanted her to know.
I couldn't help but recall how immensely irritated I got with my parents exaggerated airs. Miraculously, my sister, brother and I seemed to be well adjusted in spite of the sterile atmosphere of our childhood home.
I was the youngest and only blonde haired child in a family of dark brunettes. One evening at the dinner table, my brother made an off color comment concerning my parentage and was grounded for a month.
The Wonder Years:
"Deidre, take your sister upstairs and show her how to properly care for herself," my mother commanded like some rich dowager in a Victorian novel when my sister walked through the front door.
I was a month shy of my thirteenth birthday when my first period made its appearance. My panties and pajama bottoms were stained with blood. Normally, I would have gone directly to my sister and circumvented my mother but I couldn't find Deidre anywhere in the house.
"There, there, don't cry," my sister said trying to comfort me and put a sympathetic arm around my shoulders.
I was sniffling and fighting back tears because my mother's words were like a harsh reprimand. I considered my sister Deidre to be a godsend because she gave me the love and compassion that our parents seemed incapable of.
With patience and gentleness, Deidre showed me what to do. Later that day, I saw her sitting in the side yard reading a book. I snuck up from behind and put my arms around her in an embrace.
"Thank you Dee," I said with gratitude and kissed the back of her head.
My formative years through high school were spent under Deidre's protective wing. She was the only person in our house that cared for me and paid attention to me.
My mother and father were advocates of the Victorian proverb, "Children should be seen and not heard" only they went one step further, "Children should not be seen or heard."
Although my parent's pretended they were affluent when I was growing up, we were middle class at best. We had no servants waiting on us, no fancy cars in the driveway, no cotillions or coming out parties, no lavish vacations to faraway destinations.
Dinner was held in the dining room every night except Sunday and attendance was mandatory. It was the only time during the day that we shared any physical space with our parent's.
My father was silent most of time unless my mother engaged him in conversation which was rare. She made comments and commands that she didn't expect an answer for. There was no exchange of ideas or thought.
My mother sat with a regal bearing and imperious attitude at one end of the table while my father occupied the other. Her frosty exterior exuded a coldness that penetrated every square inch of the room.
We were expected to sit up straight with a linen napkin on our lap. Any joking or humorous interplay between my siblings and I was discouraged.
This may seem like a minor thing but instead of granulated sugar in the sugar bowl, it was filled with cubes and a pair of silver plated tongs on the side. Tea or coffee was served only in the good china and sometimes, I felt as though we time warped back to Edwardian England. My friends thought we were goofy. I attended public schools albeit in a district considered one of the top ten in Pennsylvania. My mother claimed I was getting a private school education without the expense. I was considered very bright and got excellent grades.
Each child was required to learn to play a musical instrument. Of course, we weren't allowed to choose and I was given the oboe. Whenever I hear or see the word, it conjures unpleasant memories of my teacher, Mr. Jankowski and his hideously bad breath. I had absolutely zero talent and it drove him crazy.
Except for my required appearance at dinner, I was at my friends' houses the rest of the time. Although I was very studious, I loved the numerous sleepovers and parties that kept me away from home. I was a casual drinker but avoided drugs at all cost.
Like most teenage girls, I was fascinated with the opposite sex. I had a Cate Blanchett type of body; slender and small breasted. My long dark blond hair had a natural wave that was easy to shape into different styles and I garnered a fair amount of interest from boys. Lack of dates was never a problem for me.
Although all my sexual experiences in high school revolved around boys, nothing transpired below my waist. There was the usual kissing and groping in parked cars or dark corners at a party.
By senior year, I was very adept at giving my boyfriend hand jobs. My skill level was such that sometimes he couldn't hold out for more than two or three minutes especially if I used some lotion as a lubricant. When I think back, I was rather proud of my talent at the time.
After graduation, I attended a very well known Pennsylvania public university of considerable size. My bookish nature prevented any outlandish partying but I did my fair share. While I had misgivings about joining a sorority, I pledged and was delighted I now had sixty new sisters.
Suddenly, I discovered that my social life was much busier. Meeting guys was simplified with all the parties and socials that the sorority sponsored. I must have been approachable because I got asked out at least once a week or more by a myriad of different men.
Although I dated regularly, I never met "the one", the one person that would sweep me off my feet. There were a couple of boyfriends that I liked a lot but love was not part of the equation.
The old adage that, "time passes quickly" is no joke. In the blink of an eye eight years had passed since college graduation and I was a divorced single mom awakened in the middle of the night by my daughter's croupy, labored breathing.
