The Holy Trinity

I was nine. 

"Your body belongs to God," I heard my father tell me while I stood there, tears streaming down my face because I had to wear my stupid church suit again. It was itchy and too big in some places while pinching me in others. Even a nine-year-old has days where sitting in a room for an hour feels impossible. Just existing, felt like a penance for something. If my body belonged to God, what about me belonged to me?

"God wants you to wear your church suit, okay? You must look your best," My mother said next, as she was straightening me out. Her voice was much softer than my father's had been. She had a way of finding his messes and cleaning them effortlessly. Maybe that's why he loved her...

"Doesn't God love people who don't have church suits?" I had asked, with tear-stained cheeks and plugged nostrils, sniffling as she fastened the last button. I knew I had said something that struck a chord because my mother looked up at me with those eyes. She was always done up perfectly, her red hair in pin curls, her makeup just enough. That day she was in her orange Sunday dress; she looked like a sherbet dream. 

"Of course, darling, but..." It was one of those moments where I realized my parents were making it all up as they went along, too. The way she paused, the way she searched for the words as she was combing her slender fingers through my hair. She even smiled; this disarmed sort of smile that told me I'd said something smart. She had smiled that same way when I got an A+ on my science quiz a couple of weeks prior. 

Before she could finish her thought my father was calling for me to join him in the car. He always went out and got it warm for us on those spring Sundays when there was frost on the grass in the early hours. My mother just brushed her fingers over my cheek and sent me off. I can still smell her vanilla perfume, taste her hairspray in the back of my throat. 

---

My mother had left me ten voicemails in forty-eight hours when my father died. I had watched the phone ring every single time, wishing I had the courage that it would have taken to pick it up and hear her voice. But I didn’t. 

It buzzes over and over again as Eleanor is kissing my neck, and Sam has his hand on my thigh. I’m lying between them on our bed, in only a pair of boxer shorts Sam had bought me last Christmas. I try to focus on the feeling of Eleanor’s mouth on my skin, her steady breath, her attentive movements. I try to focus on Sam’s calloused fingers on my thigh, his thumb sliding under the hem of my boxers as he leans in to kiss me. But then he stops.

“Your phone,” he whispers, like he was just realizing it was buzzing on our bedside table. I breathe in the breath of his words and try to ignore it, reaching a hand up to tangle in his blonde curls. I mumble something about ignoring it into his mouth as I kiss him, but I can tell both of them feel that I’m off. One partner could be disarmed into believing you were fine, but two were harder to fight off, especially when they knew me as well as these two did.

“Isaac…” Eleanor coos, her fingers brushing my cheek as Sam breaks away from me, immediately softening the blow of the rejection. They looked at me with four concerned, soft eyes. I sighed, hearing my phone finally stop buzzing as I leaned my head back onto the pillows. They knew my mother had been calling me incessantly, there was no way they couldn’t have noticed. Every time my phone rang recently, I looked sick. 

“My dad died last week.”

A silence falls over the room as we all lay there in bed, a mess of bare limbs and wandering hands fallen still. I stare at the ceiling as I feel Eleanor and Sam look at each other, almost like they were deciding who was going to speak first. But I knew Eleanor would, she always did in situations like this. Eleanor was sure and soft, and made up for the fumbling of emotions that Sam and I were often guilty of.

“I’m sorry, love,” she whispers as her hand comes to life again, sliding across my chest until she was lying with her arm around me and her head on my chest, brown hair pooling against my skin. Sam leaned in and kissed my temple, his own attempt at comfort without words. I sucked in a breath and let it out a moment later, my eyes fluttering closed as I did. They had a way of relaxing me. In the presence of their love, I felt like I had permission to be the terrible son who was ignoring his grieving mother’s calls. They saw the pieces of me that were green and misshapen and horrid and said we love you, anyway. Two people, who had proven to me that God loved me without a church suit. It had taken me over a decade to find a real answer to that question. Imagine my surprise when I found it in the aisles of a craft store (Eleanor), and after that in some autobody shop after Eleanor and I had blown a tire (Sam). 

Our first night together, all three of us, had been messy and clunky and full of laughter. Intimacy had never felt so… intimate. We were together, showing one another that we were wholly imperfect, that we weren’t smooth or clean or knowing. Our only goal had been closeness, and we’d found it that night. A closeness worthy of worship. A religion all its own. 

“She wants me to go to the funeral but I…” 

My voice breaks and my chest heaves, and the tears start coming before I can stop them. This time, Sam speaks, because he hates to see us upset. Eleanor and I would cry, and it was like I could see his heart constricting in his chest. It wasn’t that he didn’t want us to be emotional, it was just that he wanted to fix it for us. Maybe that was the mechanic in him. 

“Hey. Everything’s okay,” he says quietly, as he shifts in the bed to sit up. Eleanor follows his lead, and Sam immediately pulls me up into a hug. I bury my tear-streaked face into his warm, bare shoulder. Eleanor’s arms snake around my waist from behind, and the protection of their collective embrace is something I hope I never forget. The only problem was nothing was okay. 

My father was dead, my mother wanted me there with her, and I could feel the way my body repulsed at the mere thought of going back home. How could I return to a place where I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a completely different person; a stranger? How could I return to a place where all I had ever been was an altar boy, a joy to have in class, and inevitably the kid who kissed his best friend at prom and was ostracized until it drove him out of town? There was no handbook for this kind of thing. All I could picture was my father lying still in a casket, hands folded over his own perfect church suit. His kind eyes would be closed, his once-there smile pressed into a peaceful expression. Could I stare down at him without wondering if that’s who I’d be eventually? Could I see my mother and not scream at her about how she’d abandoned her only son by letting the whole town degrade him for years?

How do you return to the arms of people who didn’t abuse you, but just failed you… after years of being away? After years of being away, and being held by arms that would protect you no matter the case; how do you contend with that?

“We’ll go with you, if that’s what you need,” Eleanor said softly against my shoulder blade while they were both holding me, like a bird with a broken wing. Less than twenty-four hours later we were catching our flight.

---

I hadn’t mentioned to my mother during our brief conversation on the phone that I was bringing anyone with me to the funeral. How do you tell your mother that you’re dating a woman and a man? How do you tell your mother you’ve been living with them for a while now, that you love each other, that it works just like a regular couple would? How do you tell this to your mother a week after her husband dies? I couldn’t handle the questions, so I just decided to make it a surprise. 

As soon as Sam pulled our rental car up to the church, I felt every muscle in my body tense. I hadn’t stepped foot in a church since I was a senior in high school, being sent there as a punishment for kissing my childhood friend, because I’d done something wrong. And now I was back here again, with the two people I loved more than anything in this world. Half of me wanted to turn the car around and call the whole thing off, half of me wanted to keep them from walking in there.

Suddenly I felt like we would walk inside and there would be photos of me plastered everywhere inside, streaked with blood, chastising me for my decisions. A photo of me stealing a Ring Pop in fifth grade, a photo of me masturbating in eighth grade, a photo of me holding hands with a girl named Sadie after youth group, a photo of me cheating on a chemistry exam, a photo of me kissing Ryan at prom, a photo of me driving to the airport one night and leaving my family behind with no explanation. Blood everywhere, sins everywhere. I felt surrounded. Those eyes, those eyes I hadn’t felt for years; they’d spotted me again. 

I don’t remember getting out of the car and walking inside, but Eleanor held my hand the whole way, wearing this modest black dress she’d bought at the Kmart in town the night before. I had on the funeral suit my father had bought for me years before because, as he’d said, every man needs a funeral suit. A funeral suit and a church suit, a man’s necessities. It was a little tight on me now.

Sam had on a pair of black slacks and a dark gray sweater vest. He always looked so handsome; he didn’t even have to try. He caught my eye as we were walking through the big wooden doors of the chapel, and it felt so wrong. It felt so wrong to be walking into this space with them, with my eyes on Sam and my hand on Eleanor. I felt naked, like anyone could look at us and see that we were an abomination. I hated that I was having these thoughts about them, that this experiencing was tainting my mind again. I was regressing before my own eyes. 

Then I saw my mother. God, she was as beautiful as ever. I hadn’t seen her in so long, I felt like I’d forgotten what she looked like. My legs immediately carried me to her, like I was a little boy again coming off the bus in the afternoon. 

“Isaac,” she smiled, her voice teetering on tears as her opened her arms wide for me. I answered her embrace without question, wrapping myself around her. I was momentarily surprised that I was now big enough to truly envelop her small frame, a new feeling I had never experienced before. After our hug and soft greeting, I could already see my mother’s eyes wandering to Eleanor. She had that hope in her eyes. She thought Eleanor was my girlfriend, and she was right, but I didn’t have the stomach for the second half of that conversation yet. So, I looked up into her teary eyes and then over her shoulder at the open casket. 

“Should we go see dad?” The words came out strangled. I hadn’t even realized I was about to cry. Eleanor and Sam stayed back a bit as mom and I walked down the middle aisle of the church and over to my dad. I was surprised that he looked exactly how I had pictured he would. Down to his coffee-colored tweed suit, and the way his hands were neatly folded. I’d never seen the man look peaceful like that. My childhood had been full of him being the workaholic, the disciplinary. Lying there like that, I felt like for the first time I saw him as just a man. 

I was sobbing into my hands like a child before I knew it, and my mother had her arms around me again, crying into my shoulder with a similar, broken posture. The moment felt both long and short, as other people started to filter in through the doors of the church and fill up the pews. I was surprised when my mother had me sit at the front with her and a bunch of extended family members I couldn’t recognize, as she was pulling already stained tissues from her purse, dabbing at her eyes. I could tell everyone else knew who I was, was staring at me. And then Eleanor and Sam came over and I once again felt myself sever. The part of me my mother knew, and the me who I was to them. I’d been in pieces for as long as I could remember, but there, that day, I felt like everyone could see the holes in me. 

“Are you going to introduce me to your friends?” My mother asks softly as she looks at the two, her eyes roaming over Eleanor’s brown hair and small frame, and then up over Sam’s tousled curls and broad shoulders. For a moment I just sat there, debating what was supposed to be done in a situation like this. Eleanor and Sam had already made it clear to me that they didn’t care how I introduced them to my mother, they were there to support me and that was all. And then the words came tumbling out as I stood up and was beside them, my hand finding its way onto Sam’s shoulder, a casually intimate gesture.

“Mom, this is Eleanor and Sam… we’re all… a couple.”

She stared at us for a moment, blinking, like the words didn’t quite go together. They didn’t, not for her. I couldn’t help but shift nervously as I waited for some kind of reply. The other two stepped in to fill the soft silence while we stood there at the front pew. 

“It’s lovely to meet you,” says Eleanor’s soft voice, with a prize-winning, wistful smile. Sam’s green eyes land on me first, and the pride in them makes my chest warm, before he looks back at my mother and outstretches a hand, saying, “We’re so sorry for your loss.”

My mother takes Sam’s hand and squeezes it gently, and then nods. Seeing Sam and my mother touch feels surreal. This is a reality I never thought possible. My childhood was suddenly mingling with my life now, and I felt… 

“Thank you,” she says, and her eyes are glossing with tears again, like I’d seen them do so many times. But then she looks at me, and she gives me that look. That look. 

I’m suddenly in the kitchen again, in my dirty adidas sneakers, a size too big, and she’s hanging my science quiz on the fridge. She looks at me and promises we’ll go out for ice cream later. My father is making dinner at the stove with a cigarette hanging from his lips, as my mother turns and tells him again that he shouldn’t be smoking that in the house. He’s making spaghetti, because it’s my favorite. Then he turns his head and winks at me, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. And I’m happy, that little vignette with them. A place I’ll never be again. 

“Thank you for taking care of my Isaac,” my mother says, and I’m back at my father’s funeral, standing there with the three people I love most in this world. The fourth is dead. 

Tears are streaming down my face as my mother moves over on the pew and makes room for Eleanor and Sam to sit on either side of me, holding both of my hands in their own. I catch her multiple times throughout the service looking at us and smiling, looking at us with tears in her eyes and smiling. I find myself missing that moment before church all of those Sundays ago, wishing my father would stand up from that casket and call me out to the car one last time. 

I’d drive, and I’d show him and my mother my apartment in New York. The leaky faucet, the rickety balcony, our orange cat named Peanut whose favorite treat is marshmallow fluff. I’d tell them how I have a wonderful job as an editor, that every morning I wake up surrounded by limbs and warmth because Eleanor and Sam are always there. Always. I’d show them the crucifix I have hanging over our bedroom door, that I’d stolen from the basement when I’d left all those years ago. Because our bodies did belong to God. They do. I understand it now, Dad. This. All of this. It’s undeniably holy, isn’t it? This life, these moments, these people… I was always meant to worship them.