Everything Grows

by Aimee Herman

  “I watched that movie, Rocky Horror Picture Show and the guy from Clue called himself . . . herself? . . . a transvestite,” I said. “I remember because I asked my sister what that meant and she just kind of laughed. But he dressed like a woman. Like you. I mean—”

  “Yeah, like that, only my taste in clothing is a bit more . . . demure. And this doesn’t stop when the credits roll,” Reigh signaled to her outfit. “My gender is not just an article of clothing. It’s in me. Sometimes the people around us are wrong. And it takes some time to make our own realizations.”

  I took the deepest breath of my life. I wanted to say so many things, and they all ran into each other like a mosh pit of sounds. I felt the weight of what she said stick to my chest and I just left it there.

  “Thanks . . . for this, Reigh.” I pointed to the empty wrapper of the granola bar.

  “Of course. You looked like a lost puppy in there. You live around here?”

  “My entire life!” I exhaled.

  “Well, I was in Denver for a bit. Eleven years actually. Then went to Portland for a few years to stay with a friend. Could write an entire novel about that rollercoaster ride. Spent a spring in Vancouver. Gorgeous. Ever been to Canada?”

  I shook my head.

  “Worth checking out. Let’s see . . . a few weeks in Montana. Realized I’m not much for camping. Two years in a small town in Minnesota. Then Chicago. Really liked Indiana. Stayed with some lesbians in South Carolina at an artist’s haven. Found my soul there,” Reigh paused and I watched the slow-motion stretch of her lips form into a smile. “And now I’m making my way to New York.”

  “Wow. You’re a walking postcard,” I said.

  This made Reigh burst out in laughter. Each time she laughed, her eyes squinted and I could almost count all of her teeth.

  “Where does your mom live? Is she cool that you’re—”

  “Freehold. No, she’s not cool. In fact, she hasn’t seen me like this yet.” Reigh took her hand and motioned toward her entire body. She slowed down at her breasts. “These are just a few years old now, but it’s been about six since I last saw her.”

  There was something about Reigh that made me feel like I had known her for years. It’s almost like she was planted in that WaWa, waiting for me to arrive with hunger and deep thoughts, in search of some sort of sign. A sign in the form of a tall transsexual with beautiful skin and cherry red lips and hair like a bleached forest. She was far more of a woman than I think I could ever be.

  “Reigh . . .” I knew what I wanted to say, but I was feeling so nervous to speak it out loud. “When did you know?”

  “Oh, Eleanor, if I could remember as far back as the womb, I might say then. But the truth is I knew quite early on. I was an only child, so I didn’t have any siblings to play with or a sister to steal clothes from. You have any siblings?”

  “One. Greta. She’s in college.”

  “College,” Reigh repeated. “I tried that out. Maybe I’m just too restless to stay in one place for too long. Those desks always felt . . . constricting. Anyway, I always loved to dress up. I had a trunk my dad built out of wood scraps and my mom would keep her old clothes in there. I loved making forts and little caves as a kid. I guess I was building something to come out of,” Reigh giggled. “She probably thought I’d rip up the fabric and use it as some sort of tarp. But instead, I’d wear them. I have this crisp memory of being four or five years old, taking my mom’s lipstick, and painting my nails with it.”

  “Your nails?” I laughed.

  “My mother is . . . how can I describe her?” Reigh puffed up her chest with a deep inhale. “A classically-trained narcissist.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My mother will walk into a room and think that all the walls have been placed there for her to lean on. She was very private about her beauty routine, so when I’d wake up each morning, she already had all her paint on. Lipstick. Rouge. Eye shadow and mascara. A regular Joan Crawford without the wire hangers and talent. Her nails were always coated in smooth strokes. Her hair . . . perfectly curled from giant rollers she’d sleep in every night. God only knows how uncomfortable that must have been. And a chin strap! She refused to get a jowl, she’d say. She thought she could train her skin to remain intact.

  “I never knew how all this color got on her skin, so when I was able to storm her vanity full of perfumes and every kind of make-up imaginable, I just covered myself. Put blush all over my arms. Lipstick on my nails. Eye shadow on my lips. I was quite a sight!”

  Reigh’s eyes squinted as she burst out in laughter. I began to lose it as well, as I pictured her covered in mismatched make-up.

  “Did you like the way you looked?” I asked.

  “You know what? I can remember how I felt, even then. Something just felt right.”

  James, I felt myself locating every cell of my skin. Really, I could feel my cells. In that moment, talking to Reigh, every sensation and swallow and itch were magnified. It’s like parts of me were awakening in this weird and wonderful way. It was all so strange.

  “How long will you stay here?” I blurted.

  “Well, I’ve been here two days and I haven’t gotten very far. I keep thinking I’ll wake up with the right words to say to her when I finally see her. All that ever comes to mind is . . . I’m not dead, Mom.”

  “Does she think you are?”

  “Ha, wouldn’t be surprised. But part of me is. The me she birthed isn’t the me now, but this me is much better. Far more improved, I’d say. I was . . . I was dead before I ever even knew I was.”

  “What do you . . .”

  “I didn’t even know that there were bits of me that had yet to be birthed, I guess. It’s complicated and yet, not really. The thing is, Eleanor . . .” Reigh moved in closer. I could smell the peanut butter on her breath and it was a comforting aroma, perhaps because it matched mine.

  “I was always living outside of myself. It took a while to finally be the me that I longingly saw in others. Jeez, I must be talking your ear off, honey.”

  “No, no, not at all,” I said. “I had a . . . difficult day, so I just hopped on my bike and came here and found you and this is all so strange, but also pretty wonderful and—”

  “What made your day difficult?”

  “I . . . I’m kind of embarrassed to say.”

  “No worries. I won’t pry,” she said.

  “I got my period at the mall with my mother while trying on clothes, which I hate doing to begin with.”

  Reigh laughed, then looked at me. “Sorry.”

  “It was my first time,” I added.

  “Going to the mall?”

  “Getting my period.”

  “Oh!”

  “And I’m not one of those people who is all excited about getting it. Shirley—my mom—took me bra shopping afterward. It was a nightmare. I don’t want this. But I don’t know how to make it go away. And . . .” I paused, trying to decide what to say, knowing what I wanted to say, knowing Reigh wouldn’t run or make fun of me or make me feel any sort of bad. “I just came out actually. As a lesbian, I mean. But . . . I don’t know, sometimes I think there’s more that wants out. I just don’t know . . . how to . . . say it.”

  “Fifteen, aye? You are quite perceptive. Mighty, I’d even say. Listen, the words come when they’re ready.”

  “I know, but right now it feels unbearable.”

  James, being next to Reigh felt like reading a thousand books at once. Gaining new vocabulary and insight, it was amazing. We talked for a little while more and then I realized how much time had passed. We said goodbye, but not before exchanging phone numbers. Reigh said that it’s important to collect good people, especially ones that are a part of the letters. I didn’t understand what she meant until she explained that she was the T and Flor (I told her all about her) was my L and all I needed was a G and a B. Maybe you could have been my G, my gay friend. My friend.

  Monday, November 29

  Dear James,


  Gret and I spent the weekend at my Dad’s and then she headed back to Massachusetts for school. I couldn’t stop thinking about Reigh all weekend.

  On Saturday night, Gret and Dad went to the China Bowl to pick up dinner, while I waited at Dad’s house and snooped around a bit. When Dad got his apartment, it was so strange in the beginning, seeing just his things around. Growing up, all our stuff was entigraded integrated. I walked into his bedroom, which was pretty bland. Tan comforter. Nothing on the walls. A photo of Gret and I on his dresser.

  He had one closet in his room. It was small but neatly organized. Everything was hung, even his ties. I took one—green with tiny yellow dots—and put it around my neck. I used to sit on the bathroom counter beside the sink and watch him put on a tie before work. At that time, I was in love with origami and I loved folding anything that would turn into something else. I remember asking him to show me, and he did. But with any learned task, if you don’t practice you forget. So, I forgot.

  I twisted the tie around my neck, trying to remember what goes over and under and how does it loop? I walked toward the mirror and took a look. It was messy and definitely not twisted correctly, but I liked the way it looked on me.

  Dinner was our usual favorites: chicken with broccoli, shrimp with lobster sauce, vegetable lo mein, steamed dumplings. Different textures and smells and everything was so delicious, it was difficult to stop even when I was so full.

  “This is way better than turkey,” I said.

  Dad smiled and Gret laughed. “Well, you’ll still be eating it all week,” Gret teased.

  After dinner, Gret sat on the couch watching TV, while Dad and I played Uno at the kitchen table. I told him that I tried on one of his ties while they were getting the food.

  “Yeah? Do you remember me teaching you how to tie it?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you want one to take back home with you?”

  Thursday, December 2

  Dear James,

  I’m only writing less because some days I come home and just want my thoughts to stay inside me. Like they are pieces of fruit that still need ripening. Tonight is group and earlier today in English, Aggie and I kept passing notes about Reigh. She kept saying that it all sounded like a movie.

  AGGIE: Has she called you yet?

  ME: Nope, and I feel too shy to call her. But I definitely want to see her again.

  AGGIE: You think your mom will be OK with that?

  ME: Sure, why not?

  AGGIE: Didn’t you say she was old? I mean, an adult?

  ME: Yeah, but she’s not creepy or anything like that. She’s

  James, I haven’t told Aggie that Reigh is a transsexual. It feels weird to say it. I kind of just want Reigh to exist as just a person. Not be defined by anything else but who she is, not what she is.

  Thursday, December 2

  Dear James,

  In English class, Ms. Raimondo had us write haikus. It’s hard to write much in just three lines with only seventeen syllables. Aggie said that is the best part: restraint. So I thought my letter to you could be a collection of haikus:

  In group therapy,

  Peter reminds us living’s

  a constant action

  But Maeve kept saying

  how easier it is to

  do nothing but sleep

  She is having a

  difficult time moving on

  stuck in a pothole.

  Reigh called! We talked for

  two hours! She wants to take

  me to an open mic

  (went one syllable over, see how hard it is!)

  Okay, my fingers hurt from counting syllables. It was awesome to hear Reigh’s voice. I thought I’d be shy on the phone or we wouldn’t have anything to talk about, but the only reason we got off the phone was because it was a school night and Shirley said it was getting late. Things we talked about: Reigh’s beloved (her words) cat, which she had to put down right before she came to New Jersey. His name was Kathy Acker, who Reigh told me was her favorite writer. We also talked about our favorite foods (me: potatoes of all kinds and Reigh: sushi). And music and school assignments and her mother and my mother and tomorrow night, I get to see her again!

  Of course, Shirley asked who I was talking to for so long.

  “Just this person I recently met,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask more about it.

  But Shirley wanted to know everything, so I told her because I’m trying to not keep things from her, even though secretly I always worry that I will say something to upset her and cause her to try and kill herself again.

  Shirley insisted that she meet Reigh first before we go out, which I felt was fair. I really wanted Reigh to meet Flor too.

  So, Reigh is coming over for dinner tomorrow night and then we are going to an open mic!

  Friday, December 3

  Dear James,

  I am so tired, but I don’t want to forget anything about this day, so I am going to do my best to get all of it out before I fall asleep.

  Reigh came over and she looked beautiful. Shirley was very welcoming, although I could tell she was a bit leary leery about it all. Reigh had her hair up and it looked like a waterfall of curls. During dinner, she talked about places she’s lived, the band she used to play bass in (The Scraped Knees), and her nervousness to see her mom after all these years. I mainly just listened, amazed at how free and open Reigh is. I guess that’s what happens when you become an adult.

  “Before I became my true self,” Reigh said, “I lived in books and music. I’d put Diana Ross on the turntable, close my eyes and imagine myself as one of the Supremes. My mother used to wear wigs because she was very self-conscious of her thinning hair, so I’d put them on when she was out. When I started existing on the outside how I felt on the inside, I became Diana Ross. I was no longer the back-up singer, if that makes any sense. I guess . . . I started to feel like the star of my life, rather than the overshadowed version of what was being prescribed to me.”

  And that’s all she had to say, James. I watched as Flor and then eventually Shirley started to understand. We laughed so much our food got cold. And then, Reigh drove us to Freehold for the open mic.

  As we were getting out of Reigh’s car, Reigh said, “I haven’t even asked if you were planning on reading anything. It is an open mic after all. I’ve got my bass in the trunk. I could play alongside you, if you were interested. What do you think, Eler?”

  “Huh?” My thoughts had traveled me away and I was awoken by Reigh’s last word.

  “Is it cool if I call you that? Eleanor’s a great name, it’s just that it’s a bit . . .” Reigh turned her mouth into a curious smirk. “ . . . limiting, don’t you think?”

  “Eler,” I repeated. “I like that. Yeah, cool. Sure. You can call me that.”

  I felt so cool being in the café with Reigh because she is so beautiful and I’m just plain, plain, plain.

  “Here alright?” Reigh motioned at a small circular table off to the side, but not far from the stage.

  “Yeah, sure. You gonna get something?”

  “I never oppose caffeine. Do you drink coffee? I can’t remember how old I was my first time. That first time,” she chuckled.

  Reigh steals my breath each time she smiles. She’s like a giant spotlight in a dark room, shining her light everywhere she walks. I want that to be contagious.

  “It’s okay. Shirley used to let me take sips of hers. Now she’s cool if I drink a cup of my own. But I’ll have a root beer or ginger ale.”

  “Got it. I’ll go grab us something. You hold down the fort.”

  I hung my backpack on the back of the chair, took my coat off and breathed in the room and all its inhabitants. I grabbed my notebook from my bag and leafed through my letters to you. Could I possibly read one out loud?

  When Reigh sat down, I asked her how long she’s been playing bass.

  “I feel like I came out of my mother playing it,” she laughed. “But I played profes
sionally for many years. Went on tour and everything. The bright lights. Backrooms. Screaming audiences with wild hair, rocking out. Gosh, that feels like a lifetime ago. During much of my twenties and a little in my thirties.”

  “What kind of music did you play?”

  “Let’s see, we called it tie-dye rock back then. Electrophonic, metallic, throw-back.”

  I laughed. “I have no idea what any of that means, but it sounds really cool. Did you record any albums?”

  “Oh sure! I’ll send you off with a few tapes before we part tonight. I’ve got a bunch in my trunk.”

  “I’d love that!”

  Reigh took a bite of the almond croissant she bought for us to share. I watched a few flakes of the buttery dough stick to her faded red lips.

  “Umm . . .” I motioned at her mouth. “You’ve got some . . .”

  She lifted her fingers toward her lips, gracefully swatting, but the crumbs were persistent.

  “It’s . . . it’s still there.”

  Reigh gently grabbed my hand. “Can you?”

  I hesitantly rubbed at her bottom lip, which was soft and sticky. I removed the pastry and could feel something happen inside my body. Between my legs. It’s kind of how I feel when I’m around Aggie.

  “I think your face just about matches my lips. Or at least what my lips looked like at the start of this day. Did I embarrass you?”

  “Perhaps just a little. You’re really beautiful.” James, I couldn’t believe I had said that!

  “Why thank you, Eler. And you are quite handsome.”

  Handsome? I’d never been called this. Pretty. Cute. Dad has called me beautiful, but parents don’t count. Handsome. Eler. Handsome Eler.

  “Uh, speaking of blush-worthy humans,” Reigh said. “One just walked in and seems to have noticed you.”

  I clumsily turned around.

  “Who?”

  “Who?! Obviously that one in the purple crushed velvet sweater. Tight black pants. Looks like a female Prince. What am I saying? Prince looks like a female Prince.” Reigh chuckled and her eyes pressed together.