[Content Warning] Home Early (Short Story)

I undertake these writings – and the sharing of them – for the sake of my self expression. I am under no particular illusions as to their literary merit, and ask only that any readers do not have any undue expectations. If you consider me wrong, then publish me – with full credit, of course :) Please also note that I check only occasionally for comments, so if you make any, please be patient. Kayleen White Home Early It was so .. stupid: she felt like an absolute idiot to be this upset over a cup of coffee. She’d struggled through half a day after seeing it, but then she couldn’t feign working any more, and had taken advantage of having a cough to go home. Her boss had one of the glass fronted cubicles that passed for an office in the cube farm – and he was one of the few people who could pass for a half decent human being in that design room desert of desiccated hearts and souls. She’d knocked lightly on his door and paused. Moments later, he paused working at his lap top, and turned to her, which was her queue to enter. She slumped onto one of the chairs – that wasn’t hard to fake, it was what she felt like doing anyway, and coughed lightly. He said nothing, but she could see he was paying attention, thinking … “Just wanted to see you about a couple of things.” She quickly brought him up to speed on one of their projects, and what she had done to put out this morning’s bushfire – engineering was seeming to be more and more like crisis management in these days of competition. “And the second?” he prompted. “I haven’t been feeling too crash hot lately” which was quite true – she’d even had a project manager she was working for comment that she sounded like she should be home in bed, “and I was thinking I might take the rest of the day off and go home to bed.” “OK. Can I call you if I need you on this submission?” This was sounding almost too easy. “Sure – on my mobile. Let it ring for a bit so I can hear it if I’m asleep.” And she was gone – still feeling almost in tears, probably looking unwell, and hopefully her workmates were just feeling relieved that their noisy, coughing colleague was finally getting out of their air conditioning. Out to the bland foyer, down the lift – she’d got the one that still had the moving curtains hanging. Appropriate, she thought; they were heavy and grungy, like her mood. She was pleased she didn’t run into anyone as she left, and the car was only a few hundred metres up the road – although that felt like a few miles today. Oh no – as she was about to go into the car park, there was the project manager, obviously coming back from some important meeting, parking perilously and ignoring the occasional car to leap out and quickly ask about a few features of her design for him. A quick conversation, and she ended with “and now I’m going home to bed.” He nodded and gave one of his half smiles, probably thinking she was taking note of his “advice” to do just that. Ordinarily, she would have hated his arrogant presumption with a passion; today, it helped to mask her real motives, so she was pleased – no, just relieved. And now she was at her car, glad of the mind numbing routine that let her get ready to drive home with so little thought. She was doubly glad that the time of day meant there would be little traffic. She’d been depressed many years ago to the point of suicide, in her 20s when she was trying to decide whether she could make herself be straight, or whether she should accept being a lesbian. Back then she’d lined up a nice big tree on one of her trips to a site, but she’d changed her mind almost at the last second, and slewed to a stop a few feet past the tree, panting, shivering and shaking – and thinking of the possibilities of life, and that she didn’t want to deny the chance of experiencing those – not then, not just yet. That was almost three decades ago now, three decades of pain and pleasure that she’d been alive for. Today, she felt low, but she wasn’t anywhere near that low, and didn’t want to risk having an accident. But she had a call to make first. Her girlfriend, Grace, had rung earlier that day from home. Grace was a tough, hard-nosed business woman. She’d finished a deal she’d been negotiating much earlier than expected, so had taken the rest of the day off. So Erin had feigned a lightness she didn’t feel, and chatted about how her lucky girlfriend could use the unexpectedly gifted time. “Hi love.” “Yeah, babe. Didn’t expect to hear from you just yet.” “I’m coming home.” “What for?” “I’m not feeling too crash hot, so I’ve decided to take some sick leave and catch up on some sleep.” “Yes, well, who keeps taking things on all the time? I’ve told you about doing too much.” “I’ll be home in an hour or so – I may stop to have a power nap along the way.” Not to mention stopping to howl her eyes and heart out. “Alright, babe. Be careful.” Sounds of concern were coming through now. “I will. Love ya.” “Love ya.” And they did - there was no doubt of that. Now the next hour of her life was hers. Hers alone, to do with as she pleased – but she had damn well better be pleased to get her emotions back on track, and get her “game face” ready for when she got home. She’d had to do this once before, as well – one other time she’d fallen in love with another woman, and been torn apart by a heart that wanted to love two women. Two, not one like the romantic ideal. As the song had said Torn between two lovers, feeling like a fool. But today, as she checked for traffic before leaving the narrow laneway for a main road, a road that she usually saw choked with traffic, she was more informed. She had heard that magic little word: polyamory. It had been at a conference – not a work one, a conference about lesbian and gay spirituality, in another city, another state. Erin had always found herself in relationships with partners with children, so she’d gone along to a workshop on spirituality in lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and intersexed (the alphabet community, as a friend of hers said) families. The workshop had talked about the sort of topics she had expected, such as parents-in-law who wanted their grandchildren raised in the grand-parents’ own form of religious bigotry, ostensibly out of fear for the kids’ souls, or who still hadn’t come to terms with who their own children were and were having religious fits of hysteria at the possibility of their children – in the parents eyes – compounding their “sins”. Bu then the conversation, which had slowed early, moved into other areas, such as financial support, and what happened government allowances for children when lesbian or gay couples split. The facilitator, a widely respected researcher, author and university professor, had commented “It’s important that money given for the sake of looking after children actually get through to whoever is looking after them – whether that is the biological parent or not.” Another woman spoke. “Yes, but that could be someone who isn’t in the relationship. I know a household in the 70s which had an almost tribal way of functioning, and everyone helped to raise the child. Who should the money go to then?” “Whoever is looking after the child. It doesn’t matter what their relationship to the parents is, or whether they are part of a polyamorous or … some other, non-traditional family: whoever is doing the job of feeding and clothing and being there for the child when they need a hug is who should be getting helped to do that job.” The conversation had flowed on then, drifting into technical governmental issues about how to identify such primary care givers and what policies and laws needed to be changed, but this was all off topic and so they came to no firm plans to do anything. That would be for another conference, another place and time. As the group, mostly women, left, Erin saw a chance and approached the wise woman who had been facilitating. “Hi” “Hi, Erin” “I was wondering if I could ask a question?” “Sure.” “It’s not about spirituality …” “That’s OK.” “You mentioned a word I didn’t quite understand.” The facilitator smiled her encouragement. “Polyamorous? What’s that – I almost have half a feeling for what it could be, but just wanted to make sure.” That was true – the word did suggest it’s meaning rather well. “Polyamory means loving more than one person, so it covers relationships with more than two partners. … Do you relate to that?” “Yes. I was in what I called a ménage a trois a few years ago” - which was sort of true. “Polyamory can cover three, four or more partners.” They had talked some more about this, then, aware that time was moving on to their next engagements, Erin had said “Thanks”, they’d smiled, and Erin had floated out of the room, having one of those sublime moments of homecoming and recognition when every fibre of her being screamed: THIS IS ME!!! But this me was also married – well, they had had a commitment ceremony, but as far as they were concerned it was a marriage – to tough Grace. If ever there was a name and owner to epitomise contrast, it was her Grace. Brutal when doing business, but somehow blessed with a name that bespoke elegance and sophistication. But she was also blessed with a warm heart and generosity that was as broad as it was simple – and simple only because it lacked airs and graces, it was honest, not simple as in unaware or ignorant or stupid. In her world, Grace lacked nothing for having left high school as early as she legally could, whereas Erin had tertiary qualifications and - according to Grace - wouldn’t say “hi” without in-depth consideration of several planning reports. So they’d had their commitment ceremony after living together for almost a year, with their own vows pledging love and support (but not obedience or fidelity), through good times and bad. And they’d had those times both good and bad. When she’d met Maribeth had been one of the bad times. Maribeth was the other woman she had fallen in love with. It had taken some courage to be open to Grace about how she felt. Grace had once before been married – in the straight sense, which had led to her daughter, but had kicked her husband out when she found him with another woman. Erin had heard the disparagement when Grace and her daughter spoke of anyone who was unfaithful, so, although she hadn’t been unfaithful, she was worried that she would be tarred with the same brush. But that night she’d told Grace she felt strongly for Maribeth, fearful of Grace’s reaction, she had been relieved when Grace had simply said, “Well, if you love her, tell her and see what happens.” “I thought you’d be a bit angrier about that.” “Why? No point getting upset or carrying on about it – that won’t change anything. If you’ve fallen in love with – are you in love with her?” It was a loaded question that – loaded with decades of different backgrounds, loaded with different assumptions – and loaded with the word that she hadn’t come across then: polyamory. For although she had fallen in love with Maribeth, she was still in love with Grace. She knew that she wouldn’t be believed if she tried to explain that, so she’d opted for the easy way out: “I don’t know.” “Well, think about it, and then decide what you’re doing.” Now, reliving those words as she drove towards the short cut that took her off the main roads to the quiet beach way home, she marvelled that, relived in her brain like that they could so easily sound abrupt – but they hadn’t: her Grace had been showing her better self that day, and the tone of her voice had made all the difference, leaving her humbled by her gruff wife’s good nature. She didn’t feel like she had anything special to match that in her character. No, leave that. She was negotiating some tricky inner city streets now, better pay attention to these and city traffic; she could give herself the luxury of indulging as she drove along the bay, around those windy, view blest capes and sleepy little bays. Three more songs on the radio … about ten or twelve minutes with the ads, and she was leaving the city’s hills – those lines of lifting and swaying earth hidden under bitumen footpaths and dingy buildings for the fresher suburban streets. These streets, an interlude along the way before reaching the open beach road, were like tunnels under overhanging tree branches - with fantastic islands of autumn leaves on the corners. Some seemed to be half a metre or more in height, and she marvelled that they could exist at all. Her engineering instincts led her to speculate on how they came to be (she thought wind and the effect of traffic, remote though that would be, more likely than direct, deliberate human effort), but that idled away little time before her reason for being there came back to haunt her, and flood away the safe, snug feeling she always felt there. Isobel. She’d heard Isobel’s unrestrained, melodious laugh a few times in distant cubicles in the zoo that was her company’s office. Then they met at a company Friday drinks, after work. “Hi, I’m Erin” she’d introduced herself to the tall stranger who looked like a Greek goddess. “Hi, I’m Isobel. And what do you do around here?” “Mostly mid level management – I used to do some real work, though. Still get to do a bit from time to time. How ‘bout yourself?” “I’m doing some project management.” “Uh huh. … Where were you working before you came here?” “New Zealand.” “New Zealand? My grandmother came from there. What part?” “The windy city.” “Wellington.” “Yes.” And the conversation had flowed, effortlessly, leading – amongst others - to the discovery that they were both passionate about sailing, and that Isobel was looking for the chance to go sailing here. And with that, they had arranged for Erin to check if Isobel could come when she and some friends went sailing next. She had just reached the bay now, and glanced out, as much out of habit as where her reflections were, to see who was sailing, and what the weather was like out on the water. It was a beautiful day – blue, brisk breeze. It would have been lovely to go sailing, although no-one was out – probably because they were at work. It almost seemed unfair – the way she was feeling, it should be grey and miserable, and either blowing a gale or – and this could be worse – utterly still. It had been still the day they went sailing – but it had been such a summery day they had been able to forgive the wind gods their dereliction. Erin had arranged the day to show a friend a few techniques for skippering, but almost all they did was paddle round searching for wind while cracking jokes – and yarning: the good old Aussie version of sharing. Afterwards, Erin had debated going for a swim, but the water hadn’t warmed enough yet – it was too early in spring. But after they’d got her friend’s dinghy safely onto the trailer, Erin and Isobel had stood in the car park, leaning against their cars. “So … what are you doing for the rest of the day?” Isobel asked. Erin knew she should say going home and spending the day with Grace and her family, particularly Grace’s grandchildren, who saw Erin as Nanny just as much as Grace. “Oh, nothing in particular. How ‘bout you?” “I’m not sure. What is there to do round here?” “Um … sail?” “Need wind for that.” “True” “And a boat!” “True too.” After a pause, Isobel asked “Want some peanuts? They’re a bit unusual.” “What’s unusual about them?” “They’ve been cooked with curry.” “Sounds interesting – and I like anything hot and spicy.” Erin kicked herself mentally, but gratefully took a handful of the strangely coloured nuts. “Hmm. They’re not bad – where did you get them?” “From a country fair.” “Whereabouts?” “Near my parent’s farm.” And that led into one of those special “D&M”s, a conversation that went beyond sharing to intimacy and closeness. Isobel had grown up in the country, and while Erin was a city girl now, she had spent many formative years in a small country town, and related well to many country folk. As they talked, Erin took note of Isobel’s inviting body language, and her apparent desire to spend more time together, and regretted not being available. Eventually, she had headed home, later than planned. Over the next few days, Erin had found herself being praised by Isobel, and had started to make a point of wandering over to say “hi” and have a quick chat while getting her morning coffee. Occasionally, they’d talked about work issues, but most times, it was personal. They had shared travel tales, and family reflections, and one day - after a farewell lunch for a colleague - Isobel had told her of the time she first dated another woman. It had also been very nice to occasionally be able to share sailing with someone close. Poor Grace was the sort of person to get seasick at the sight of too much water, although she didn’t begrudge Erin going sailing. She knew Isobel was sociable, and popular, and had often heard Isobel’s delightful laugh floating out of conversations with other people. It didn’t matter: she didn’t begrudge Isobel her building friendships; she was too pleased to have Isobel in her world to waste time and energy being mean-spirited. Besides, she amazed herself with her non-possessiveness, at times. Before she had met Grace, she had wound up sharing a lover with another – not at the same time: she felt no curiosity about threesomes, but when that ex had wound up in the situation Erin was in now and was so distressed about who to choose, Erin had spontaneously said “don’t choose”. Maybe that was selfless love – but she didn’t like granting herself that merit. When she had talked to Grace about that time, the time of the ménage a trois she had mentioned to the wise woman at the conference, Grace had said Erin was being practical. At the time of that conversation, Erin had recently found the word polyamory, and in the blinding exuberance of discovery, had naively assumed Grace would share this joy – or at least understand her. Maribeth was long gone when they had that talk, so Erin had hoped Grace wouldn’t feel threatened. But no, Grace has simply commented that she would be faithful, and Erin had spent several days stewing about whether Grace was being possessive or jealous, before realising that Grace quite genuinely saw monogamous fidelity as a good thing, and truly had no desire to share her heart with any other lovers. It had been a remarkably enlightened discussion - Grace hadn’t been to university or even gone as far as she could at high school, but she was sharp. She had pointed out “You didn’t say you’d be faithful when you married me. You could have an affair without breaking your vow.” “No, the actual words weren’t there, but the intent was. Besides, as you say, I’m no good at lying even if I did want to.” That was true: Erin had a fierce commitment to honouring her word, even if it meant she was the worse off for it - perhaps even especially if she worse off, and she pitied those who couldn’t stick to a simple promise, let alone the formality of giving one’s word. Damn. They were two lesbians in a relationship who had a clash of orientations: mono vs poly, in the sort of struggle that she had seen in other relationships where one partner realised they had a different sexuality. Humph - there weren’t supposed to be other identify struggles after you’d sported out your sexuality. But no, she knew that wasn’t true - to an extent that she couldn’t even joke about it to her thoughts. She’d seen too many people with cultural or other identity struggles, and sexuality was just one more. She was driving past a beach side café now, and her thoughts turned to more recent events. It had made sense to her that Isobel would go for coffee with her friends, and when one of Isobel’s close friends left, Erin had offered to take her place. The offer had seemed to be well received - and it probably was. It was probably not much different to any of the other offers she had made to Isobel. And some of those - especially the tacit invitation to a sporting match that she hadn’t been able to keep (an experience almost literally screamingly frustrating) - worried her with the guilt of those deeds that sit on the fence and flick their gaze between the side saying “affair”, and the other saying “faithful”. She was smitten enough to relish the prospect of an affair, but her lifelong commitment to being ethical led to a sigh and frantically renewed efforts to think of a way to get Grace to agree to polyamory - she didn’t want a hidden affair: Isobel infinitely deserved better than that, and besides, Erin couldn’t lie anywhere near well enough to carry that off. Even Grace had commented on her inability to lie a few times: “You’d never make a politician, love, you can’t lie.” A motorbike was passing now, swooping through the curves – a noisy streak of exhilaration and joy. She sighed – she didn’t feel any joy or exhilaration, and she’d tried once to use a bike to explain how she was feeling. “Love, you could think of it as if my heart’s a motorbike, and you and Maribeth are the two wheels. Without one, the bike wouldn’t work.” “Unless you did a wheelie everywhere.” Erin had smiled – Grace did have a wonderful dry sense of humour. “True, my love” she replied, “but you can’t keep doing a wheelie for forever, and when you come down, you’re gonna be in trouble.” “Considering I’d never get on one of those things I’d never start wheelstanding, let alone stop. You’re the adrenalin junkie, Erin my love.” That conversation had come after Grace had calmly asked Erin to sort out her feelings about Maribeth, Maribeth had gone, and – too late - she’d worked up the courage to finally say she thought she loved both of them. The words had been more prophetic than she realised. A few months later, Grace had commented about Erin’s mood – not odd, but withdrawn. “I’m sorry love”, she’d replied “but it’s the best I can do right now.” “Why? What’s up? Have I done something to upset you?” She sighed, and tried to explain it as best she could. “No, you’ve been fine love – it’s me. I’m trying to get over Maribeth, but the only way I can do that is to shut everything down for a while.” “What do you mean?” “I just … try to stop all my feelings until I think I’ve got over Maribeth enough for it to be safe to stop suppressing my feelings.” “But how can you do that?” “I don’t know. I just … do.” “Are you saying you don’t love me anymore.” “NO!” Erin paused, surprised by her own vehemence, and tried again. “I really do love the two of you. I’m … suppressing, I guess is the word … both loves because I don’t know how to suppress my love for one and not the other.” “But you can only love one person.” She knew Grace meant only love one person at a time, but all she could cast across the chasm of incomprehension was “No love, some people can love more than one person.” It hadn’t been a fulfilling or satisfying conversation for either of them, and in the weeks and months to come she had tried to heal her heart’s scars, and then to rebuild their battered relationship, to regain the intimacy and closeness that had been. They hadn’t even made love over that time, and she’d been aching too much to explain her pain of breaking up with Maribeth, and how that pain had overwhelmed her libido. And now she was looking at going through all that again. The bay she was driving past now had car parking - and so did a few others coming up. She was going to have to stop soon, and do whatever she had to in order to “get her game face on” before getting back home. At least there were a few clouds coming across the formerly perfectly clear sky - and she felt better at the childish thought that her misery could have rubbed off on the world and made them. This is what is supposed to happen to middle aged men, not middle aged dykes! She sighed at the acknowledgement of being middle aged. Do people in these situations always stay with their current partners? Why - the comfortableness of habit, the financial complications that couples wound up with, the kids? Grace’s was adult, but was close to Erin, as were the grandkids. Maybe Isobel was better off with someone who was younger and more enthusiastic about the prospect of their own kids? When she had been single, Erin had passed up opportunities for relationships for exactly that sort of reason - and any age difference of more than ten years unsettled her. What would happen to Isobel? She hoped she would stay – partly for her own desires, partly so she wouldn’t feel guilty at having driven someone out through almost having an office affair. Almost. They hadn’t slept together, held each other, or kissed - or even held hands. There was nothing but this confusion of thoughts, desires and feeling – a maelstrom of rawness. Did middle aged men go through this much torment before having a fling with someone younger? Probably not, she thought - wasn’t an affair about excitement rather than love? Overlooking her own ethics for a moment, if they had had an affair, would that have truly been satisfactory for Isobel? Ruefully, Erin reflected that even if it had genuinely been satisfactory from Isobel’s point of view, Erin wouldn’t have been happy treating someone in such a cavalier way. She wondered if any of those people seeking the excitement of an affair would have shared a lover or partner as she had done, out of the concern for the other’s wellbeing that good love leads to. Again she thought: probably not. She had no reason to think Isobel was polyamorous, so any involvement was fraught with potential problems on all parts. It was ironic: one of the concerns she had explored when trying to decide whether she was polyamorous or not was whether she really was just addicted to NRE: “New Relationship Energy”, that wonderful, exciting, uplifting high that comes in the honeymoon period of a new relationship, and that tests couples – including her and Grace – when it passes and they have to settle into that lower libido lifestyle when they integrate the relationship into all those ongoing things each person wants in their life, whether that be kids, being an active member of the library club, or living together into old age. Well, she wasn’t getting any of that NRE out of any of this experience. Maybe that was an argument for serial monogamy, having partners one after the other, so you could luxuriate in the full blown heady pleasure of lots of NRE? No, she sighed. That wouldn’t be true to what was going on: she didn’t want Isobel after Grace: she wanted both in her life, together, now. Here was her favourite car park - just a quiet little bay, where few other people seemed to go. Time to stop and let her mind meander through its confusion. She’d resented Grace’s bewilderment that she was distant, while she was healing, and wished that Grace could at least understand how devastating this was for her, but that was the way it was. Was that lack of understanding due to Grace’s tough attitudes? Maybe not - others also were bewildered by contact with polyamory, and unable to disentangle the strands of social conditioning, insecurity, and possessiveness on the one hand, and honesty and openness on the other. At least Grace had not been openly possessive or jealous - that would have driven them apart. She was a remarkable woman, Grace, and Erin thought over all that Grace had overcome or coped with, and wandered if she, Erin, really was as non-possessive as she liked to think she was. Would she have been as OK as she would like herself to have been if Grace had also been involved with someone else? Maybe it was better just to wish that she had known about polyamory earlier - along with all the other things in life, like lesbianism, that seemed to be hidden when she was growing up. Maybe she should also be admitting that this last love was genuine. She was giving herself hell, but what if Isobel’s feelings had been real? If so, she - Erin - was about to cause a great deal of pain to Isobel, who she loved. She was damned if she did, and damned if she didn’t. Stay monogamous with Grace and hurt Isobel, start a relationship with Isobel and hurt Grace and the grandkids- and both options involved pain for her - hag-old Erin. Why was Isobel interested in her - what did Erin have that she could realistically offer? And to offer it, Erin would have to hurt someone else she loved dearly. And now the tears came - she wasn’t driving, she wasn’t being responsible for anyone or anything else, there was no-one else round, she could give her pain the ease of tears. She didn’t cry for long. She couldn’t afford that luxury - at least being unwell would cover any red eyes or blotchy skin. As she left that bay and drove on, half on autopilot, she explored the notion that Isobel was genuine. Yes, the interest had definitely been there - but could they work out? Now, she was no longer sure, and the implications of that scared her. Who would leave? Hopefully neither. Could they make that work, without any spite or tension? THE moment itself had been fairly simple. A couple of days after offering to replace the friend who had departed on coffee hunting forays, she had gone to the café on the ground floor to buy a belated breakfast, and Isobel had been there buying a coffee. No invite to come and talk or share some time while buying a coffee … she was there buying a coffee and chatting happily to another engineer of her age. It was as if life had morphed into one of the stars of Jurassic Park … reached out and steadied her carefully, and then slowly and dispassionately ripped out her heart and soul, drinking every drop of pain. She didn’t think moments of enlightenment were supposed to be this painful - but enlightened she was, both by the fact that she hadn’t been invited, and by the easy company that Isobel and her young friend shared, which came with another ripping strike from the taloned beast of enlightenment that was awareness of just how much older she was. What an idiot she was - she was from a different generation to Isobel. No matter how well they had connected, this was a stupid situation to get involved in. Of course Isobel would be interested in people her own age – Erin was no spring chicken now. She was near enough to middle aged, and infatuated with someone almost young enough to be her daughter. What an idiot. What a pathetic, middle aged idiot. Wasn’t it middle aged men who made fools of themselves by chasing younger women? Well, she felt as foolish and stupid – and hurt. Unfortunately, her embarrassment and pain wasn’t instantly lethal, nor did it come with the compensation of invisibility. Isobel had looked a little uncomfortable (perhaps a sense of having been sprung?), so she had jumped mercilessly on her own pain, beating it down into a place to lie hidden until she could face it, made some light conversation and waited till Isobel and her friend left the shop first. The lift back to her floor was her first practise that day at “getting her game face” on, but she’d needed more time than that. Well, the drive home was almost over now. She still couldn’t pick any sign that Isobel hadn’t been genuine, but she could see the mismatch of the phases of life she and Isobel were in, and knew that Grace was the “logical”, the “sensible” choice. Damn. Her idea of a logical, sensible choice was to admit the truth that her heart held more than one person in it. Well, there was the driveway, their slightly unkempt garden and the unusually English looking house. Despite her pain, it would be good to see Grace, and she knew Grace would look after her, thinking this was just another stress related illness. Well, time to get on with the rest of her life, and to hope that she - and Isobel - would heal. What if this happened again in the future? She’d have to think about that – but not now, that would have to wait till tomorrow. © Kayleen White, 2007