Being Emily (Anniversary Edition)

by Rachel Gold

  He’d started to grin, and I smiled back. “I think maybe we should only turn people into girls who want to be girls,” I warned. “Otherwise it’s not fair.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Is Mom going to be mad at you for a long time?”

  “Probably,” I told him.

  “Can I have your car?”

  “You can’t drive for seven more years,” I pointed out. “What would you do with it? Sit in the driveway?”

  “It’s cool.”

  “I still like cars,” I told him.

  “You’re going to be a girl who likes cars?”

  “Such creatures do exist.”

  “But you’re my brother right now, right?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Want to play superheroes until Mom’s not mad at you?”

  I pretended to think about it. “Can I be the girls?” I asked.

  “Yeah!” he said with emphasis. “I don’t want ’em.” He pushed the female action figures to side of the bed where I sat.

  “And I get Warlock,” I insisted, snaring that figure and pulling him over. Warlock was an alien robot. Since I felt like an alien right now and might have to be a robot for the near future, that seemed like the smart pick.

  His favorite game these days was to compose teams of superheroes and explain how they pounded the crap out of each other. I picked my four favorite girl heroes and lined them up with Warlock. He picked an amalgam of men and aliens. We whaled on each other until Mom called us down for a very silent dinner.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A large vacuum invaded our house, which is to say: life sucked. Mom rescinded all my communication and travel privileges. She cancelled my appointments with Dr. Mendel and set one up with Dr. Webber. I refused to go. I put up with her other bullshit—I didn’t want to find out if Claire’s mom would honestly take me in if Mom threw me out—but there were a couple boundaries I was holding firm, and that was one.

  We were at a standoff. I spent a lot of time working on cars with Dad who never brought up anything from the visit to Dr. Mendel. I also played with Mikey a lot. My girls and robot team even beat his men and aliens team a few times. I knew I should’ve drafted more aliens.

  With permission, I managed one trip over to Claire’s in late June, when she said she needed my old geometry book, and I told her what had happened. I stashed the duffel bag at her house. When I got home it was clear why Mom allowed me to visit Claire. She’d been through my room and taken my copies of Kate Bornstein’s Gender Outlaw, Jenny Boylan’s She’s Not There, Leslie Feinberg’s Transgender Warriors and Julia Serano’s Whipping Girl. Pretty sure she hadn’t taken them to read. She also took some of my X-Men comics, which puzzled me, and the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated, which was actually Dad’s but I had lifted it to imagine myself as those models.

  My senior year of high school started in two months and then she wouldn’t have so much control over my activities. I would wait her out. After I talked to Dad about it, we set my computer up in the garage so I could keep selling his car bits on eBay. I had a roof over my head and food, and I was making decent money with the eBay work, so I could wait a few months to have my girl-time back. Half the time Dad didn’t pay any attention to what I was doing on the computer because he was under a car or deep in its engine. I’d open another browser window under the eBay window and post on GenderPeace. It was amazing to see so many people from all over the world offer support for my situation.

  “Remember, it’s a process,” one post said. “It took me a while to realize that my parents had to go through all this mourning for the loss of their son. My mom was crying almost every day and I thought it was because she was so ashamed of me. But really she was trying to let go of her old idea of me. Then for a while I felt like I was the one who killed her son and that was awful. But now we can talk about it, and she asked if I would come home for a visit sometime this year. Hang in there and give them time!”

  “I’m sorry she cut off your good therapist,” another said. “Keep coming back here, you need all the support you can get right now. You can do this.”

  The only funny part of the whole dismal time was a surprise visit from Claire. She brought me some of her science fiction novels and an English textbook that I didn’t need since it was summer. While we were sitting in the kitchen talking, because Mom said I couldn’t have anyone in my room, Mom came in.

  “Did he tell you why he’s grounded?” she asked Claire.

  She shrugged. “School stuff.” She was lying. I had told her everything and she thought it was awful, but she’d had two years of drama club and sensed an opportunity.

  “He thinks he wants to be a girl,” Mom said. “Isn’t that disgusting?”

  Claire’s eyes got huge. “Oh my God!” she said. She turned to me. “How could you! You said that was only a phase. Chris! I’m so embarrassed!” She stood up and ran out of the house.

  “Claire!” I yelled, quite dramatically. I grabbed my car keys off the counter and glared at Mom. “Thanks. Thanks a lot!”

  Claire stood by the passenger side of the car, face in her hands, shoulders shaking, pretending to cry. As I got closer, I heard her muffled laughter. I bundled her into the passenger seat. Her mom had dropped her off and was going to come get her in an hour, but I got into the driver’s seat and peeled off. Mom could reground me later when I got home.

  A couple blocks away I had to stop because I was laughing too hard to see straight. “That was priceless,” I told her.

  “I hope it wasn’t too mean,” Claire said. “But I couldn’t stand her crap. Maybe she’ll feel bad for once. How long do you think it’s going to take for you to comfort me?”

  “Few hours?” I suggested.

  “Good, I’ll call Mom and tell her not to pick me up. We can catch a movie. I’ve got liner and eye shadow in my pocket if you promise to wear shades.”

  “You’re making me feel like a junkie,” I said.

  “You don’t want it?” she teased.

  I smiled. “You’re wicked.”

  “Just what you need. Come on, let’s go see something mind-numbing while I plot my next performance.”

  I had one thing I wanted to bring up with her, and I didn’t know how to say it. “Claire, would you talk to Natalie and see if there’s a way you can order hormones for me? Natalie knows the right stuff, and I’ll pay you back for all of it.”

  I could feel her looking at me, though my eyes were on the road ahead. “That’s not legal is it?” she asked.

  “No,” I admitted. “But my parents aren’t going to take me to a doctor and…I need them.”

  She took a deep breath. “Emily, it’s not going to hurt you to wait a few more months…” She sounded like she was going to say more, but I’d pulled over a few blocks from the theater.

  I put my head forward on the steering wheel and sobbed. All the tension of the past weeks at home and the awful things Mom had said, plus the hopelessness of running out of the one thing that was making a positive difference, it all came out of me in deep, dry sobbing, my fingers wrapped white-knuckled around the wheel.

  Claire rubbed my back with her palm. “It’s going to be okay, it’s just a matter of time.”

  “I don’t have time,” I managed. “Seventeen years and every day is torture. I can feel this stupid testosterone masculinizing me. It’s making me all rough and hairy. And now it’s worse because Mom and Dad know and they’re awful. And I’m so close. I want to be normal…a normal woman.”

  She rested her cheek on my shoulder. “Honey, I’m not sure you should ever want to be normal. I’ll talk to Natalie, but I can’t promise anything. I’m not into illegal and no matter how crazy things are, you shouldn’t be either.”

  I dug into my pocket for a tissue and blew my nose. “Thanks. I’m sorry.”

  “I worry about you,” she said. “Maybe you should call the good doctor.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  * * *

 
I tried being a good kid for three weeks, but Mom showed no signs of relenting. She glared at me a lot. In her softer moments, she’d compliment me on what I was wearing and say how broad it made my shoulders look, or how tall I was getting. I started avoiding her. For a few days here and there, I could lose myself in the work on the Bronco with Dad.

  I had two lawn-mowing jobs in the neighborhood, but that didn’t take up enough time or make enough money. Pretty sure mom wouldn’t go for me applying as a cashier at the crafts boutique, and honestly I wasn’t that into crafts. Dad talked about getting me some cleanup work at the local auto shop.

  I put up a flier at our church for babysitting. Having my own car helped with that and Mom lifted my grounding enough so I could work. But in week three Mom got pissed at me all over again because one of the families told her how great it was that I’d play dolls with their girls.

  I stayed away from the house as much as I could. I also started staying up later and later at night. In the quiet, dark hours, I could feel like myself again. Even if I didn’t have my computer, I could dream about going out as a woman. For hours at night I would lie awake in bed and go through every detail of the trip to the mall with Natalie and her mom, and the few shopping trips I’d had with Natalie in May, and then I’d build out from there, imagining myself with an apartment in Minneapolis and a job, and everyone would call me “ma’am” or “miss.” I could wear my hair long, and my skin would feel soft, even softer than it had on Natalie’s borrowed hormones.

  I wrote a few stories in the back of my chemistry notebook about a girl named Emily. Mom didn’t know my name, though I was sure she’d be furious if she found them. I didn’t care so much anymore.

  Staying up late meant that I could sleep in later. Even after I woke up in the mornings, I didn’t get out of bed until I was forced to either by having to pee, or someone knocking on my bedroom door. Most days I could stay in bed until nearly noon, and then I only had to navigate the hours between noon and ten, when Mom went to bed.

  I thought I was holding myself together pretty well, existing day to day, waiting for the next and the next so that I could get back to school and eventually escape this house completely. Until the dinner.

  The dinner was out at a fancy restaurant in the neighboring town. The financial planning firm Mom worked for hosted it as a summer bonus because the business was doing well. Only the older kids from employee families were invited, so Mikey got to luck out of it and spend the night at a friend’s house.

  Mom insisted that we dress up for it and make a good impression. “That means a jacket and a tie,” she told me.

  I wore them. I didn’t much care one way or the other. The body in the jacket didn’t feel like mine anyway. In the restaurant, we sat at a table with one of Mom’s bosses and his family, a wife and three girls.

  Mom introduced me as, “Chris, our oldest son,” which seemed excessive, but I let it go. She didn’t.

  “We’re very proud of Chris,” she slipped in later. “He got a letter in swimming this year. He likes distance swimming best; can you imagine that? Swimming a mile?”

  “Really?” the oldest girl asked. She was about my age and pretty in that I-would-kill-to-have-her-brow-line style. Too blond for me to be attracted to her, but slender in a way that made me envy her waist.

  “Yeah,” I said, sounding like a Neanderthal.

  “You two are about the same age,” Mom said, pointing out the obvious. “Why don’t you come over here so you can talk to each other.” She actually got up and switched places with the blond girl.

  I didn’t know what on earth she thought she was doing, and if it hadn’t been a dinner for her work, I’d have stood up and left. Also I didn’t want to offend this girl who was clearly caught in the crossfire of our feud. I kept my hands in my lap because they’d started to shake with the effort of sitting still.

  Betsy was the girl’s name, and she had that same nervous habit of talking that Claire had. We made it through the entrée with her telling me all about her school activities and her sisters, without my having to give more than one-word answers.

  When she started winding down, I asked, “Where’d you get that sweater?”

  “Banana Republic,” she said. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s great. I have a pair of pants from them, very soft,” I told her.

  “They have great stuff, don’t they? I saw this white quilted jacket I wanted, but how would you ever keep something like that clean?”

  I laughed a little with her. It felt good to laugh, and to have some girl talk.

  “Your eye shadow looks really good,” I said. “Is it MAC?”

  “No, it’s actually Mary Kay. Mom’s a director, so I get all these free samples from her. You like it? I thought it was too blue.”

  “It brings out the light colors in your eyes, it looks good,” I said. “Do you like Mary Kay products?”

  “Well, I like the soaps and lotions best,” she said. “They make my skin so soft. Feel this.” She held out the back of her hand and I touched it. It was as soft as feathers, but without feeling fragile.

  “That’s amazing, I wish my skin felt like that.”

  She giggled. “I could do your hands sometime.”

  From across the table, Mom interjected, “Don’t you two look cute together.”

  I glared at her. She made it sound like we were dating, but she knew I had a girlfriend. I realized Mom didn’t like Claire even more than she let on. She’d rather have me with this blond Mary Kay girl than with my goth-haired, kohl-eye-linered best friend in the world.

  My glare didn’t stop Mom. She went on. “Did Chris tell you about how he restores cars with his father? He’s very good with his hands, but he also gets good grades. Well rounded.”

  “No, Mom,” I said. “We were talking about makeup.”

  Mom’s mouth shut in a chiseled line. Luckily the youngest sister chimed in about how she wanted to wear makeup and no one noticed the deadly looks passing between Mom and me. She didn’t let me forget that remark, though. As soon as we were in the car, she started in about it.

  “Chris, I can’t believe you said that at dinner. Talking about makeup, honestly. I want to be able to take my family out to a simple dinner with my office and not be mortified by my own child. Can’t you give it up for one night? Do you have to be a freak all the time? I don’t know why you want to stand out so much. Your dad and I have given you everything we had, and you persist in this…perversion of nature.”

  “Sharon,” Dad said in his warning tone.

  “Don’t try to calm me down. Chris is a man, and the sooner he accepts that, the better. I don’t know where he came up with this crazy idea, but I have raised him as a boy and he will never be anything other than a man.” She raised her voice and glared over her shoulder. “Do you hear that? You’re a man, no matter what anyone tells you. Just look at yourself. That’s all you’ll ever be.”

  I wobbled on the razor edge of sanity. Dad pulled into the driveway and I opened the car door before he’d stopped. I had my keys in my hand and ran to the front door before anyone could follow me. I dashed through the doorway and up the stairs to my bedroom where I bolted the door behind me. Then, for good measure, I pushed my desk all the way across my room and shoved it in front of the door, panting with the effort and my rage.

  I tore off my jacket, tie and shirt and searched for a way to destroy them. In my top desk drawer was a pair of scissors and a hunting knife Dad had given me last year. First I thought I should just cut off the parts of me that had Mom so convinced I was a man. I stood over the desk, bracing myself on my left hand while the knife quivered in my right. I couldn’t. Even though I hated that part of myself, I couldn’t attack my own body that way.

  Instead I sat down on the edge of my bed in my slacks and cut the arms off my jacket. As soon as the scissors bit through the cloth, I felt a clear determination rising inside of my outrage. I took each arm and cut it into strips, then I cut off the collar
and used the knife to rip the jacket to rags. I took apart the shirt the same way, and then snipped perpendicularly across the tie, so that it lay on the floor in one-inch wide pieces.

  I stood up and stepped out of my pants, which came under the blade next. I was naked except for my briefs and those weren’t coming off because I refused to confront what was underneath them. I opened my closet door and looked into the comforting darkness.

  Dad knocked on my door. “Open up,” he said.

  “No,” I told him.

  “Don’t make me break in there, you won’t like it.”

  “The desk is in front of the door, I’d like to see you try,” I shot back at him.

  He raised his voice. “Chris, open the door.”

  “No,” I said, and then more loudly, “No!” I was screaming now as loud as I could, defying all the bullshit they’d put me through, “No! No! No!”

  Leaning over the desk, I punched the door. I heard Dad step back from the other side, but it barely registered over my own shouting and hitting the door again with my fist.

  I screamed, “No!” and hit the door again, harder, over and over again.

  I saw blood on the door and heard my voice go hoarse from screaming, but I couldn’t stop. The fury drove through me into the wood as I hit it. Only when my knuckle scraped the edge of the deadbolt and tore off a half-inch of skin did the pain slice through my rage.

  I grabbed my right hand with my left and staggered into my closet to curl up in the clothes I’d dragged off their hangers. I was crying so hard I thought I was going to puke.

  A booming impact hit the door so hard from the other side that the wood around the hinges groaned. Then twice more until wood splintered and the lock tore loose. I heard the scrape of the desk being pushed back and then Dad was kneeling down in the doorway to the closet. He grabbed my bloody hands and turned them palm up. He was afraid I’d slit my wrists.

  “Didn’t…cut…myself,” I managed through my heaving breath. “Knuckles.”

  “Ah Chris,” he said and closed his hand over the back of my neck. He gave me a tiny shake. “Jesus.”