By Francesca Garau
The nurse’s station phone is ringing. The unit is quiet this morning. Most of the residents are sitting in the lounge area, sipping tea and listening to Ella Fitzgerald’s Christmas songs. I pick up the phone while I am smiling at Jane, a 98-year-old lady pacing the corridor with her Zimmer frame. The call is coming from the care home reception desk.
“Just to let you know, the ambulance people are here to pick up Mary for her appointment,” an Eastern-European-accented voice informs me.
“Thank you, Malina.”
A few minutes later, a short woman with a buzz cut and glasses walks onto the floor. I guide her to room 40, where Mary is sitting in her wheelchair, wearing a hat and a coat, ready for her cardiology appointment.
I smile at her. “So, my colleague is escorting you today. I’ll see you in a few hours. Okay, Mary?”
Mary nods, her eyes tired after a restless night, and my colleague pushes her wheelchair towards the lift. The ambulance woman stays behind to collect the list of medications from the nurse in charge, then she goes towards the door.
“Are you OK with the code there?” I ask.
She smiles at me. “Actually, I am not, I’m trapped, I’m afraid. Not that I’m complaining, being trapped in a place where the girls are pretty…”
Now she is smirking at me.
For a few seconds, I don’t know what to say, and I feel myself blushing like I’m some teenager on her first crush.
“So what is it?”
I wake up from my stupor. “Pardon?”
“The code? What is it? Oh, three six seven one!”
The door opens.
“Well, thank you…” she says, winking and checking my badge, “Claudia.”
I stand there for a few seconds more until she disappears in the lift.
During my break, I check my phone. “I can’t wait to see you at the airport tomorrow!”, my mum had texted me a few minutes ago.
“Me too, Mum. My flight is arriving at 6:30.”
My suitcase is almost ready, and today is my last shift before my annual leave. This year, I took Christmas off to spend it with my mum. I try to do this every other year, but working as a health care assistant means that you are expected to work on bank holidays, so it is not always possible to get time off for Christmas.
That night in bed, I thought again about the ambulance woman. Why did I blush? She was just joking, wasn’t she? Was she flirting with me? No, impossible. Anyway, I’m not into girls like that. Am I?
My mother is waiting at the airport. She hugs and kisses me on both cheeks as soon as she sees me. We spend the hour-long drive to our town catching up and listening to the car radio. Traffic is not too bad, but it’s starting to rain. When we get home, the kitchen is warm, and there are a few covered pots on the stove. Mum has cooked like it’s already Christmas Day, and we enjoy food together, planning for the week ahead.
That night, I lie awake in my childhood bedroom, band posters still on the walls. I’m still thinking about the ambulance woman. I can’t even remember her face, but the feelings her words gave me are still there. I cannot be a lesbian, I say to myself, I’ve always dated guys: Marco, Christian, Alex, David… I even introduced David to my mum last year! Well, if I had known how it was going to end, I wouldn’t have bothered. With my eyes closed, I drift back to high school: There was a girl I used to admire from afar, I loved her style…and that uni friend… I was so jealous of her boyfriend…
I open my eyes, get out of bed, put the light on, and start looking for my old diaries. I’m sure they are under the bed somewhere. I retrieve a large blue box and open it: Inside, there are ten or eleven diaries. I start reading them until I find her name. One entry is just this: “This morning I saw Jessica at the school bus stop. Her hair is so cool. She looks very pretty.” I continue to read, and her name keeps popping up on the pages. After a few hours, I decided to go back to sleep. While falling asleep, my last conscious thought is: Can I have feelings for boys and girls in the same way?
The following morning, my mum is having tea at the kitchen table. She smiles at me but notices that I look quite tired.
“Everything okay, honey?”
I nod, putting the kettle on.
Mum sips on her tea. “You know who I saw the other day at the grocery store?”
She does not wait for me to reply. “Christian! You were so cute together!”
I sigh, knowing where this conversation is going.
“Mum, please. We were 18, and we broke up because we went to different universities. It wasn’t really a mature relationship, was it? Besides, I’m figuring out stuff at the moment, and I don’t want to date any guy, especially not an ex from high school!”
“Figuring out stuff? Are you NB?”
I give her a surprised look. “How do you know about being nonbinary?”
My mum shrugs, “Oh, Ludovica identifies as nonbinary.”
“Who?”
“Carla’s child. They’re helping me at the salon on Saturdays.”
Carla is one of our neighbors. I vaguely remember her having a little kid with curly hair and freckles.
“I see… well, I’m starting to think that I… last night, I…” I hesitate.
Am I… bi? Even if I’m not dating anyone? Does it count? Do relationships define your identity?
Mum puts down her mug.
“Honey, it’s okay if you’re not ready. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”
I am quiet for a while, then I say, “Thank you.” My mum smiles and starts sipping her tea again.
Finally, my tea is ready, and we sit together in a comfortable silence. Because it is true: I don’t have to tell anyone anything if I’m not ready. I don’t have to date anyone if I’m not ready.
I’m not sure if I am bi, but I’m sure about the fact that, even if I were, relationships don’t define me or my sexuality—I do. I sip my tea, finally at peace.
Francesca Garau is Italian, currently living in England. Writing has always been one of her biggest passions.