The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 31

When I arrived home from the hospital, I hugged my mother like there was no tomorrow. Which, in my case, for a few hours anyway, there almost wasn't.

After my mum released me from her arms, I told her my news. It did not meet with the reaction I had hoped for.

"Whist will ye." Country idioms crept into her speech when she was confused. Angry. Upset. "It's those fecking drugs you've been taking."

"Mum, listen—"

"I won't listen. That fucking Christ-stuff almost killed you." It shocked me hearing my mother curse, the word sounding muscularly profane coming out of her mouth. "I can't cope with this. I'm at the end of my tether."

She glanced around as though searching for a magic switch to restore the scene to a version she preffered.

"How do you know you're gay?"

"How does a newborn know to breathe?"

"What kind of answer is that?"

"The only one I've got."

"I don't know... You kids, you get these vagaries in your head... Where did we go wrong?"

"Nobody went wrong. I'm not..."

"... You work hard, try to raise them proper..."

"I don't get it... you of all people... Mum... I don't get it..."

"... I don't..." The distance in her eyes. "... I don't understand..."

The questions rained down like a thunderstorm. None of my answers seemed to permeate. My mother was trapped in a state I was too familiar with; Denial. "After what you've been through, you're not thinking straight."

"I haven't been thinking straight for a long time." She did not appreciate the deliberate pun. Nor did it lighten the tension. On reflection, the situation didn't call for wit.

We got stuck in a circular argument. Mum tried to convince me I was mistaken; me trying to impress on her the facts. The insurmountable impasse exhausted both of us. What should have been a red-letter day had rapidly become a black one.

I shlepped upstairs to find my brother and thank him for saving my life. He responded with a self-conscious shrug. In typical Johnny fashion, he told me that if he ever caught me messing around with drugs, I would return to a hospital with no chemical assistance. As a direct result of his bare hands. Even as he made his declaration, his cheeks were shading red.

He seemed doubly embarrassed when he noticed me eyeing the beer can in his hand. "That goes for the drink, too. There's a time and place for drinking—It's called college. Or the dole, if you're not so fortunate." He stared awkwardly down at his trainers. Before I sprung an embrace that caught him unawares, almost knocking him over.

After close to three whole days without a wink of sleep, my dad was asleep in bed. I left him to catch up on some well-earned rest.

When I came back downstairs, the sound of my mum's sobs travelled into the hall.

I retreated into the sitting room for some alone time with my thoughts.

Furious. I couldn't reconcile with how my mother could forgive me for causing her so much grief, yet refused to accept me for who I was. The more I mulled it over, my annoyance and hurt mushroomed.

Dinner was unbearably tense. My mum stared stone-faced at her plate and didn't speak a word. My dad ate in silence, glancing across the table at both of us between forkfuls of spaghetti. Johnny, who was oblivious, or tipsy, kept cracking jokes that nobody laughed at. But, it provided a welcome interruption to the empty silences and the sounds of utensils scraping against the delft.