Regrets Pt. 3

I am alone tonight.  I decided to stay in Los Angeles so that Bette and I could share joint custody of Angelica.  It was the right thing to do.  Despite Helena’s financial squabbling with her mother, I have maintained my position at the studio.  I was able to buy a small condo in Santa Monica so that I could more easily accommodate Bette.  She decided to keep the house in West Hollywood now that her financial concerns have been eased by her new position at a local art college.  The condo will be a stepping stone to a more permanent home as soon as Bette and I fall into a structured routine of sharing our daughter and working out the logistics of childcare and eventually schooling.

Earlier this evening, I dropped her off on the way home from work.  Bette always makes a point of being home a little early on the evenings that she takes Angelica.  She loves their time together and arranges these little “dates” that they share every Wednesday night.  Funny, Bette rarely placed work as a second priority when we were together.  I am sometimes jealous of Angelica’s place in her life; that Bette always puts her first.  We rarely make eye contact and seldom speak of topics that don’t regard Angelica.  “Enjoy your evening with Henry.” she says as she retreats into the front door holding our daughter.

I glance at the telephone on the dresser across the room.  It is one of the few pieces of furniture that I have purchased.  The message light is blinking, but I have no desire to hear from anybody.  I have avoided Henry since we returned from Canada.  I was never attracted to him, but to the possibility of a less complicated existence in a heterosexual relationship.  It wasn’t so much that I was going back to men, as I was turning my back on the lesbian relationship that I had sacrificed so much for.  I thought that I had entered into my alternative lifestyle with eyes wide open.  I thought I was ready to deal with the extra pressures and challenges that a same sex relationship would present.  But, I never anticipated that she would enter into an affair.  I overestimated myself and my abilities to manage a child of biracial parents.  I was no longer just Bette Porter’s partner, I was Angelica’s mother and this identity seemed to cast a large shadow over my previous one.  The dynamics of our relationship changed and I became bitter that Bette was not meeting me half-way by providing for us financially.  I also felt, for the first time, the full gravity of what our daughter would endure as a child of two mothers.  I couldn’t assume that she would always exist in the safe refuge of our community.  She would venture away from Los Angeles at some point in her life, perhaps to a less supportive and more judgmental locale.   I am overwhelmed by my love for her and the knowledge that should something happen to her, that my life would be destroyed.  I could never have imagined what a mother’s love for her child would really feel like.  It can only be understood through the actual experience.  I wish that I could share these feelings with Bette.  Does she have these same maternal instincts, even though she is not Angelica’s birth mother?  I know that she does, but it would be nice to actually share how we feel with one another.

I decide to turn in for the night with a glass of cabernet franc from a vineyard that Bette and I once visited.  This time of night has become my bewitching hour.  I wonder what Bette is doing as I am sure that she has put Angelica down for the night.  Is she reading a book or tending to her professional responsibilities?  Is there anyone new in her life?  I have heard rumors about a local artist affiliated with the college, but know that Bette would be weary about mixing work and pleasure.  I change into a pair of yoga pants and a light weight t-shirt.  I can almost smell the salt air as I open the window in my bedroom.  I love the beach this time of year; summer in Santa Monica.  Bette loves it, too.