Winter Flower

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  “No … I’m not. I don’t think he could say anything about being in danger, so he said that instead. Because he must have known how I would react. I followed his phone to them. These fuckers had taken him in the woods—I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t gotten there with the cops.”

  Erin’s response was abrupt. “I’m coming back there.”

  It felt like being punched in the stomach. “No … no, you’re not. This is the best chance we’ve had to find Brenna since she disappeared, Erin. You need to stay right where you are.”

  She struggled to speak but finally said in a choked voice, “But Sam needs me.”

  The emotions that ran through me were so incredibly complicated. I closed my eyes and stood stock-still. Of course Sam needed his mother. But he also needed me. That had been our pattern—I went off to work, and she took care of everything with the kids. But she couldn’t be everywhere, and I had the feeling that right now what Sam needed more than anything else was for me to be right there with him through this.

  My voice cracked again as I responded to her. “I know, Erin. Brenna needs you too. I’ve got Sam, and I promise you, I’d die before losing another one of our kids. I’ll take care of Sam.”

  Shit. I was on the verge of crying. What was wrong with me? She didn’t answer, and the silence stretched for a long time. Finally I said, “Erin, I need you to trust me with this.”

  When she finally replied, it was in a high-pitched voice, near tears. “It’s hard to trust you.”

  I closed my eyes and covered my face, because now tears really were running down my face. I whispered, “I know. I’m sorry.”

  She responded in a quiet voice, “Me too. You’re sure Sam will be okay?”

  I exhaled a long breath. “The EMTs said it didn’t look like he would suffer any permanent injury. I promise I’ll look out for him. You focus on Brenna. How is that going?”

  “It’s really hard, Cole. I’ve been putting up flyers everywhere … I have to get more printed. But I found at least two people who say they’ve seen her in the last month. One was a prostitute. The other was the late shift waitress at a twenty-four-hour diner here. I’m working with a detective with the Portland police, she gets it. She really gets it. And Stan Wilcox flew out. He’s trying to see if they can get a match for the tattoos Brenna had in her picture.”

  I swallowed. “So there’s hope.”

  “Yeah,” she replied in a breathy voice. “There’s hope.”

  I scanned the waiting room but still no one had called for me. I didn’t want to get off the phone. This phone call, as tenuous as it was, seemed like the closest connection Erin and I had made in a long time.

  “How’s work?” she asked.

  I sighed. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “Is everything okay?” she asked in a concerned voice.

  I collapsed into one of the waiting room chairs. “No. It’s a disaster.” I told Erin the story, starting with the night before last, when Dakota had walked into the back room crying and ending with Brian telling me to wait at the restaurant to meet with him and David.

  “That’s when I got the call from Hayley. I don’t even know if I have a job right now.”

  In a hesitant tone, she asked, “What did Jeremiah say about all of this?”

  “He said not to worry … that he was going to talk to the CEO about it and that I had done the right thing. I just don’t know what happens next. I’m afraid to lose my job, Erin. I don’t know what we would do if that happened.”

  She was silent for a long time. I felt like I was dangling on a rope twisting in the wind. Saying that made me feel naked, exposed in a way that seemed wrong and uncomfortable.

  “Try not to worry about it. You did the right thing.”

  I wondered what it cost her to say that.

  The tone of a second call coming in interrupted us. I glanced at my phone … it was Jeremiah. “I gotta go, Erin. Jeremiah’s calling.”

  “Okay. Cole … thanks for telling me how you felt about the work thing. And for watching out for Sam.”

  I responded, “I love you.”

  She disconnected. As I switched to answer Jeremiah’s call, I tried to remember the last time she had said those three words to me.

  All I could do was keep trying.

  “Cole? Where are you? Your cook said some crazy shit about something happening to Sam?”

  “I’m at the emergency room at the Regional Medical Center. Jeremiah … some guys from Sam’s school grabbed him and took him out to the woods. They were kicking the shit out of him when I got there. He’s hurt pretty bad.”

  Jeremiah said in a low tone, “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Then he disconnected.

  I sank into my chair and stared. I didn’t feel anything like the confidence that I had expressed to Erin about Sam’s prognosis. It was true that the EMTs had reassured me. But the anxiety I felt right now, not knowing what was happening inside the emergency room, was threatening to overwhelm me.

  There was nothing I could do … just wait. In the meantime, I puzzled over some of the details. Why had Sam been dressed in Erin’s clothes? There was something strange there. Was it some kind of prank? Had the two boys, Cody and the other one, broken into the house or somehow forced Sam to dress that way before they left? That made no sense at all, nor did it jibe with the fact that Sam was clearly wearing makeup.

  I felt like there was something else I was missing here, some piece of the puzzle that, when it appeared, would make everything else fall into place. But I didn’t know what it was.

  My phone rang, an unfamiliar 256 area code phone number. I answered quickly.

  “Mr. Roberts? This is Patricia Mullins. I’m Sam’s counselor, we met yesterday? I was calling because I received an urgent phone call from Sam’s friend Hayley … I wanted to find out how Sam was.”

  I closed my eyes and let out a long breath. “I don’t have Hayley’s number or I would have called her by now. You can let her know that she probably saved Sam’s life.”

  At the other end of the line she gasped. “Can you tell me what happened?” In a few brief sentences I outlined what little I knew.

  I was surprised by her response. “Mr. Roberts, I care about Sam a great deal. Would I be intruding if I came down there and waited with you?”

  I don’t know why this request suddenly caused me to get all choked up. But it did.

  “Of course not,” I said. “Please come. Sam’s spoken very highly of you.”

  At that moment, Jeremiah walked through the revolving door. I said, “I’ve got to go now, but at least for the moment we’re in the waiting area outside the emergency room. I’ll let you know if anything changes. Is this your cell phone?”

  “That’s right. I’ll be there shortly.”

  As Jeremiah approached, I stood up. Without a word, he walked up to me and wrapped his arms around me in a bear hug. “Jesus, Cole. I’m so sorry this happened.” He let go and stepped back, putting one hand on each shoulder. “How is he doing? How are you doing?”

  I shook my head. “I haven’t heard anything in the last little while. And, I’m hanging in there. Just worried about Sam.”

  Jeremiah nodded and leaned back. He closed his eyes and seemed to be mouthing something. After a minute he opened them and he said, “I don’t want you to worry in the slightest about work, okay? I’ve got you covered there. Right now I want you to worry about Sam and nothing else.”

  I froze at that moment. A woman in a blue uniform opened the locked door to the emergency room. “Mr. Roberts?”

  I was on my feet headed toward the door instantly, Jeremiah trailing right behind me. When I reached the door, the woman said, “Dr. Sims will see you now. Just family.”

  I put a hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder. “He is family.”

  Without further comment, she led us beyond the door into a bustling ward. I looked around, but I didn’t see Sam anywhere. A young-looking doctor approached, in his ear
ly thirties with slightly longish black hair and a dark five o’clock shadow.

  “I’m Mark Sims,” he said.

  “How is Sam?”

  With a concerned look on his face, Dr. Sims said, “Sam’s going to be just fine. I’d like permission to do a CT scan just to be on the safe side, because I’m concerned about a possible concussion. It looks like she had a fairly serious blow to the head. I don’t expect the cut to scar at all. It was a very sharp knife, so it was a clean cut and it should heal up nicely. Two cracked ribs. That’s the worst of it, the rest are minor cuts and contusions and look a lot worse than they actually are. I’d say she’s very lucky. But I do have some questions for you, sir.”

  My eyebrows pressed together in irritation at the repeated use of the pronoun she. Surely the doctor knew the gender of his patient. I looked at Jeremiah, who seemed just as puzzled as I was, then back at the doctor. “What questions?”

  “Are you aware Sam has been taking puberty-blocking hormones? At least until recently?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The doctor frowned. “To be honest, at first we thought she was twelve. Because of Sam’s size and build, it’s obvious she hasn’t gone through puberty—”

  In a much sharper tone than I intended, I said, “Why do you keep calling my son she?”

  Doctor Sims frowned and said, “It’s like that, is it?”

  “What?” I cried. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  He stared at me with a skeptical expression on his face for a surprisingly long time. Then he said, “You really don’t, do you? Here … have a seat in here, so we can talk for a few minutes.” He gestured toward an empty exam room.

  I stepped into the room he indicated and sat on the hard metal and plastic chair. The doctor took a seat on a rolling stool across from me. Jeremiah stayed in the doorway.

  The doctor sighed. “Mr. Roberts, first you should know that it took me a long time to convince Sam to let me discuss this with you. She’s terrified you’re going to kick her out or worse. Are you familiar with the term gender dysphoria?”

  I shrugged. “No.”

  He nodded. “It’s the medical term for when a person’s interior sense of their own gender is in conflict with the gender they are assigned at birth.”

  I was starting to get a sharp headache. “Like … transvestites?”

  “No, not at all. We’re not talking about a sexual kink or something, where people occasionally like to cross-dress. What we’re talking about is a deep-seated sense of identity. People with gender dysphoria frequently have a terrible sense of distress about their gender. Inside they think and believe and act as if they are one gender, but it’s not the gender consistent with their genitalia at birth.”

  I rubbed my forehead, struggling with a tempest of emotion—shock and grief and anger, and on some level, a complete lack of surprise.

  “And you’re saying that Sam is … is…”

  “Transgender.” The doctor rubbed his hand on his chin, making a slight scratching sound. “I’ll be perfectly honest with you, Mr. Roberts. I wouldn’t typically tell a parent about this. But there are two factors which drove me to do so. The first is that, based on the things Sam was saying in the exam room, I believe that she may be suicidal. She’s in shock but clearly believes that you’re going to reject her after seeing her dressed as a female. The second reason is that it’s plainly obvious that Sam has been taking puberty-blocking hormones. She refused to tell me where she got them, which means she probably bought them on the Internet. That’s extremely dangerous.”

  I shook my head. “What are puberty-blocking hormones?”

  He responded, “There are pretty specific guidelines from the American Medical Association on how to treat adolescents with gender dysphoria. One option for children Sam’s age are puberty blockers, because they are fully reversible, unlike the types of hormone therapies and surgical interventions if someone was to actually transition after the age of eighteen.”

  I felt myself involuntarily recoil. Medical procedures … transition … the doctor was talking about a sex change. For my son. I had to struggle not to get up and march out. Instead, I kept a tight grip on the arms of the chair I sat in as he continued.

  “What puberty blockers do, is they buy some time for the patient to make a decision. With women who transition, it’s not as difficult for them to pass, because hormone treatments and breast reduction are generally enough, and there are increasingly effective surgical options for a complete transition. It’s much more difficult for men who’ve fully gone through puberty to pass. Sometimes doctors will prescribe puberty-blocking hormones in order to give the child time to determine if this is truly what they want, before permanent physical changes happen.”

  “And you’re saying Sam probably got them off the Internet?” For some reason I wanted to cry.

  The doctor nodded. I leaned back in the chair and rubbed my hands on my face, closing my eyes for just a second and trying to get a grip on myself. I couldn’t get this wrong. I’d already lost one child.

  I felt Jeremiah’s hand on my shoulder. That contact gave me strength I needed. I dropped my hands and said, “So … what’s next?”

  Dr. Sims took a deep breath and said, “That’s largely up to you. But I can lay out some of the options, as well as potential consequences of some of those options.

  I nodded. “Please do. I’m lost.”

  He had a grave expression on his face. “First, I want to make it clear that something like a third of transgender children end up either kicked out of their homes, or they run away after being rejected or mistreated by their families. The statistics are horrible. The kids who experience that have an extremely high suicide rate, as well as an extremely high mortality rate from homicide. If you reject Sam based on this, you will be sending her down that path.”

  I flinched. “Go on,” I said, my voice breaking up.

  “Sam may or may not want to live as a female now. She says that she does—she says she’s unwilling to ever present as a boy again. That she’ll run away if you make her. We don’t exactly live in the most progressive part of the country, Mr. Roberts. Sam is going to need a lot of strength and courage to go through with this, and the odds of success are extremely low without some support.”

  I felt my hands squeeze around the arms of the chair, and I completely lost control of my voice as I said, “How long has he been keeping this a secret?”

  Sims frowned and said, “She says she’s known her whole life. And that the only person who knew was your daughter Brenna.”

  I gasped. Sam had been keeping this huge secret for years. And had lost anyone to confide in at all when Brenna disappeared. I wanted to go find him right now and just hold him forever. In a hoarse voice I said, “Brenna’s been missing for more than two years. Sam must have felt so alone.”

  I blinked my eyes as my voice cracked, trying to hold back the emotion threatening to pour out. I put my face in my hands and felt my whole body shudder.

  Then I felt Jeremiah’s arm on my shoulder. In a voice as emotional as mine, he said, “Sam is going to be just fine. We’ll take care of him, okay? All of us. We won’t leave him alone.”

  With that, I fell apart. I wept like I haven’t since Brenna disappeared. The doctor said, “I’ll give you a few minutes.”

  Then he stepped away.

  It took me almost ten minutes to pull myself together. “I’m sorry, man.”

  Jeremiah looked at me and just said, “Don’t be sorry. Seems to me those tears were a long time coming.”

  My phone buzzed and I reflexively took it out of my pocket and looked at it.

  It was Mrs. Mullins, Sam’s counselor. I wondered how much she knew about this, if anything. I thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “Sam’s counselor from his high school is here. I want to bring her back here and talk with her about this. Sam needs all the help he can get.

  “I’ll go talk with her,” he said. “
You go see Sam.”

  I stood and put my hand on my friend’s shoulder. I said, “I won’t ever forget what you’ve done for my family.”

  Jeremiah grinned. “We are family.”

  Doctor Sims had returned and was standing in the doorway.

  I turned to the doctor. “Can I see Sam?”

  The doctor looked as if he wanted to say something else. He studied me for a minute, as if trying to determine what kind of a man I was. The look made me self-conscious, uncomfortable, and fully aware of the fact that in this area, in my past, I had never measured up.

  I was going to do the best I could now. “Please,” I said.

  “This way.”

  Anxiety ripped through me as I followed the doctor across the crowded emergency room. My kids had been hurt enough. Too much. I felt raw and damaged. But wasn’t that what my whole family was like? Damaged? For the thousandth time that week, I wished that I could pack Sam in the car and drive west.

  The doctor opened the door and poked his head in. “Sam? Your father’s here to see you.”

  I closed my eyes for just a second and took a deep breath into my lungs. I could do this.

  The doctor stepped out of the doorway and motioned for me to enter.

  I stepped into the room. Sam was half sitting up in a hospital bed. A large bandage covered the cheek that had been cut, but nothing could disguise the swollen eye socket and the black and blue bruises disfiguring the right side of Sam’s face. But the hardest part was Sam’s eyes. He was afraid. No … he was terrified. He was terrified of me, and the possibility that I would reject him, that I would reject who he was. He was afraid of being rejected and alone.

  Images flashed through my mind. Sam as a toddler, stumbling along behind his older sister, giggling and waving his fat little hands in the air. Sam falling asleep in my lap the day he was stung by a bee in our backyard. Three-year-old Sam shrieking with delight as I tossed him in the air.

  But other sights went through my mind, harsher ones. I remembered sitting at the table talking about the news with Erin, when a felon had sued the state to pay for a gender reassignment surgery. I’d been caustic in my arguments, hostile. Why in the hell should the taxpayers pick up the bill for sexually confused freaks? They should be in therapy, not getting surgery.