by Sara Shepard
Weird that Ronnie had crossed paths with Jerry Haines, though. Jerry Haines was the reason Andrea chose Raisin Beach over another Southern California town. He had been her family’s lawyer back in New York for a while, though he’d moved out here about ten years before for the better weather. Or perhaps because he was tired of Andrea’s father, Robert Vandermeer, one of the biggest sonuvabitches to walk the earth.
After the trouble with Roger, after Andrea’s family said it was probably best for Andrea to leave for a while, Jerry called her directly. “Come to Raisin Beach,” he’d said. “Bring the kid. Susan and I would love to see you—and Flora’s still here.” Flora was his daughter; she was a few years older than Andrea, and they’d never really interacted, but she had a child around Arthur’s age. “And hey, maybe I can even give you a little legal advice, for old time’s sake,” Jerry had added meaningfully.
Of course, there was a lot Jerry hadn’t planned for. She could still see the surprise on Jerry’s face when she showed up not as the young man he’d known but as Andrea. But Jerry had rolled with it. He’d helped her legally change her name and made sure all the paperwork was in order. His wife, Susan, doted on Arthur. Flora, the daughter, ended up moving her family up the coast shortly after the economy tanked, so Andrea never really got to know her or her daughter, but it was nice to have Jerry and Susan around.
Still, it worried her slightly that a Silver Swans mom also knew Jerry. Then again, he was good at keeping secrets.
She rounded out of the bedroom, past the big kitchen with the large, splashy chandelier, past the small office where she worked on her blog, and past the full wall of windows that looked out to a view of the cliffs and the ocean. The sky was gray this morning, and the ocean was a subdued navy, but they had a good chance of spotting dolphins at this time of day.
The TV was on in the living room. A 1990s children’s program played; superhero characters in brightly colored unitards zoomed through the air. Arthur stood in front of the screen, waving his skinny arms in ninja poses. Andrea smiled groggily. It was incredible how energetic he could be at such an early hour.
There was a flash at the window, and she looked up as the Blue Iguana Landscaping truck pulled to the curb. “Arthur,” she murmured. “Reginald’s here!”
Arthur brightened. He ran to the window, watching as Reginald Tucker, the landscaper, unpacked his leaf blower and tricked-out mower. “Can I tell him about my new friends at school?” he exclaimed. “Johnny and King?”
“You can say hi,” Andrea permitted. “Ask him if he wants some coffee.”
Arthur whooped and threw open the door. Reginald—never Reggie, he’d made that clear when they met—set down his rake and beamed. Arthur was filling him in on his new adventures. He’d glommed to the landscaper the moment they met. “King?” she could hear Reginald say. “Whoa, you have a friend named King?”
Andrea had had the same reaction. Who named their kid King?
Then her phone rang, and she turned. Mom, read the screen. Andrea ran her tongue over her teeth, then checked the clock. No polite East Coaster would ever call the West Coast at 6:30 a.m. Pacific Time, but her mother seemed to have an uncanny knack of knowing Andrea’s circadian rhythms. She took a deep breath before answering.
“Hi,” she said, tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder. “Everything okay?”
“Oh. Hello.” Cynthia Vandermeer, tight and sour. This was a knee-jerk response to the way Andrea’s voice had modulated into something more feminine now that she was living as a woman. I don’t like your new lady voice, Cynthia had said once. You sound like a cartoon character.
“What’s that awful sound in the background?” Cynthia asked. “Are you in a pool hall?”
Like her silver-spoon mother had ever been to a pool hall. Andrea gazed across the room. The Power Rangers were in a heated battle. “It’s just a kid’s show. We’re at home.”
“Why are you awake at such an ungodly hour? Don’t tell me you’ve found a job.”
“Well, I have a job, thanks.” Andrea fiddled with a loose thread on a tea towel hanging over the oven handle. Ten seconds in, and Cynthia had already managed to get in so many digs. “I’m trying to get Arthur on a schedule. He officially starts school tomorrow, and they start early.”
“Oh. Right. How’s that going?”
“Good! I mean, we only had a getting-to-know-you day so far, but he really liked it.”
“And you aren’t attracting any attention?”
Andrea stared out at the horizon for a moment’s peace. When she was young, she occasionally caught Cynthia watching her, one eyebrow raised, an unasked question on her lips . . . but she’d never ask it. Then again, Andrea’s family wasn’t an introspective bunch. Were any wealthy, WASPy families? Of course, Andrea’s family was wealthier and WASPier than most—her father was a New York real estate scion, in the leagues with Robert Durst or a man he postured to know better than he actually did, Donald Trump. Andrea had grown up with anything a boy could want: lessons of all kinds, camps of one’s dreams, vacation homes, ski trips, a rotating cast of nannies. Her older brother, Max, soaked it up—even now, in the tabloids, he’d developed the reputation as a sort of a rich-boy James Bond, always heli-skiing and flying prop planes and dating supermodels.
But Andrea had always felt so bumbling in her boyness, like it was a pair of pajamas that just didn’t fit. When she was eight years old, Andrea tried to tell Cynthia about a dream she’d had the night before. (She’d known by then that this would never be something she could tell her father, who made jokes about people who were different—jokes that everyone in his company laughed along to because they were all afraid of him. He was the kind of man who smacked his boys if he caught them crying, and who called them sissies when they wouldn’t step on a bug, and who spoke to Andrea in a girl’s voice for an hour one afternoon at their home in East Hampton because Andrea had been too afraid to go in the ocean. “These boys need toughening up,” he said to Cynthia more than once, in a voice that made her cower. “You baby them, especially Eric.”)
Anyway, Andrea was sitting with her mother in the back of a Town Car, whizzing through the city. “In my dream,” Andrea said, “I woke up, and I got out of bed, and I’d become a princess.” Then she looked cautiously at her mother. “It was great.”
Cynthia, who perhaps hadn’t been paying full attention, snapped up at this last part. “Pardon, Eric?” The look of disgust on her face said it all. “A princess?”
The door inside Andrea slammed closed. “Kidding,” she said. “Just seeing if you were listening.”
A few years later, she confided in one of the many nannies who passed through the house that she felt “girlish,” and the nanny misinterpreted this as Andrea telling her she might be gay. At least she was enlightened and brought her books about homosexuality and offered to read them; she introduced her to her gay best friend from high school—See, look! It’s okay! Andrea didn’t have the heart to tell her that she was so wrong. The nanny never repeated Andrea’s confession to Cynthia. Sometimes, Andrea wished she had—if only so that someone else could break the ice and it wouldn’t be left to her.
But the task had been left to Andrea, in the end. She’d broken the news to Cynthia—and only Cynthia, not her brother, and, God forbid, not her father—after she’d divorced Christine, after everything happened with Roger, after her family had banished her to California because of Roger, and after she’d already gotten Arthur used to the idea and started herself on the hormones. It had been horribly messy—Cynthia even threatened to take Arthur from her, because how could Andrea possibly be mentally stable enough to raise a child?
They didn’t talk for three months. And then, out of the blue, Cynthia had called again. She missed Arthur, she said. She couldn’t stand not having the little boy in her life. Which—of course Andrea was grateful that her son mattered. But then Cynthia had added that sh
e was terrified Andrea would out herself and it would get out to the press. Like Andrea wanted that either? She liked living a private life without the tabloid interviews or the photographers or the stupid society events she’d always hated. Nor did she want the whole Roger thing rehashed and reevaluated. So she’d made a deal with her mother not to tell anyone she was a Vandermeer. If she did, no more house. No more supporting Arthur. The end.
“I’m not attracting attention,” she said, trying not to sound petulant. She reached for a box of coffee pods from the cupboard. “Not any more than anyone else would be in my situation.” The school director’s announcement about the documentary film popped into her mind, but she pushed it away. What were the chances it was even going to happen? And anyway, hopefully she could just opt out of having her or Arthur on camera.
Cynthia muttered something under her breath Andrea couldn’t hear, then said, “Anyway, can I at least talk to my little star for a minute? I miss him so much.”
Out the window, Reginald kicked on the leaf blower, sending a spurt of air Arthur’s way. The little boy giggled and covered his eyes. “He’s playing outside,” she decided. “I’ll send some pictures, okay?”
Cynthia groaned. “I feel like I haven’t spoken to him in weeks! How do I know he’s okay?”
Just because I’m a woman now doesn’t mean I’m suddenly a terrible parent, Andrea wanted to snap.
After Andrea hung up, she sat on a kitchen barstool and stared blankly at the junk mail on the counter. Her heart hurt. There was so much condemnation in Cynthia’s voice. She worried, too, that maybe separating Arthur from the family, making him live through all her changes, was the wrong choice. A split second later, though, she knew it was the only option. What was she supposed to do, stay trapped in her old self, miserable? Live as a trans woman in the city where her father also lived and risk enduring his wrath? For all she knew, he’d take out his fury and disgust on Arthur, too.
“I heard there was coffee?”
Andrea whirled around. Reginald was striding toward the kitchen. “Oh.” She slid off the stool and tried to assemble a smile. “Yeah. Of course.”
She hurried to the coffeemaker. Her cheeks felt hot, like she’d said her thoughts out loud. Reginald came in for coffee most times he serviced their lawn. She’d come to know that he had graduated from UC Santa Barbara with a degree in Russian literature but had no idea what to do with that. His real passion was plants, and hey! At least he was able to work. Andrea, in turn, spoke of how, despite a fancy education, she did “this and that” on the Internet. You must be doing pretty well with that, Reginald had commented, appraising her comfortable home. Andrea hadn’t had an answer for how she afforded her house. Getting into the details of her family tree was far too complicated and fraught—should she be taking their money, considering what sort of man her father was?
It was nice to have someone to talk to. That was something Andrea lacked in this new community. When she’d moved here, desperate for some sort of connection, Andrea had started a blog about her journey transitioning. She never included pictures of herself, but she documented the hormones she took, the doctor visits, the changes to her body and mind . . . and the fear. Through research, she’d figured out how to make the blog pop up on Google algorithms; it began receiving attention from others going through the same situation. So she started a message board. Then some companies wanted to advertise. She offered counseling services—stating specifically that she was not licensed, more like a gender-transitioning Sherpa to help someone from one cliff to the next. It was nice to have a community to talk with, even if they didn’t know who she really was. They were good sounding boards.
But there was a difference between dashing off an email and speaking to a real-life person. Hence Reginald. Funny thing, though, about Reginald: she suspected he was flirting with her, which made her feel . . . good? And if that wasn’t a remarkable experience in itself, not once had he broached the topic that she was trans. Surely he knew, right?
Arthur was running circles in the living room. Andrea caught his arm. “Rein it in there! Where’s your slow down button?”
“No slowing down!” Arthur giggled. “Can I have two waffles today? Three?”
“Three waffles?” She was amused. “You’re quite the growing boy!”
She leaned down and wrapped him in her arms, nuzzling his freshly buzzed head with her chin. Reginald looked on with a pleasant smile. Everything felt so . . . good, suddenly. She felt lighter than she had in years. Which was why, when she unzipped her son’s schoolbag and saw the folded-up piece of paper at the bottom, it hurt that much worse. She pulled the paper from the messenger-style pack, thinking at first it was something Arthur had drawn. But then she knew it couldn’t be.
“Everything okay?” Reginald asked, cocking his head.
Andrea hurriedly refolded the note and stuffed it into her back pocket. “Yep. Totally.”
But the drawing flashed in her mind, off and on, off and on, a neon sign. It was of a stick figure woman—tall, with long blond hair and two big blue dots for eyes, big feet and broad shoulders. It looked—well, it looked like Andrea.
But there was a big black X through the middle of the figure, too. And a word, in big block letters: NO.
Five
Lauren stood at the counter at Sarina Spa & Ranch, a sprawling resort on the ocean cliffs—there was no ranch in sight. Rumor had it that a fair number of celebrities visited this place for quick detoxes.
Graham had his hand cupped protectively over her forearm, then looked at the receptionist. “Thank you for taking her. I know you guys are usually really booked.”
The receptionist beamed. “Anything for Gracie Lord! We just love her!”
Lauren offered a clenched-teeth smile. Apparently, just by dropping Gracie’s name, she was able to bypass the line and receive a 120-minute deep-tissue massage. Because, you know, that was what all women get after almost wrecking the car on the freeway.
Last night, after work, Graham had walked through the bedroom door. Lauren had been in there, sulkily leaving Clarissa the nanny to deal with the baby by herself. She’d sat up, confused. “You’re home early.”
“Gracie said it was okay. Actually, here.” He held the phone outstretched. “She wants to talk to you.”
Lauren was racked with guilt, rehearsing all the ways she needed to apologize to her husband for being so irrational again. She was also spinning with paranoia because of the note in Matthew’s backpack. It was almost comical, like something out of a ghost story: You are not wanted here. What could someone have against her? The night in the kitchen crossed her mind—their screaming, the blankness, the police showing up.
No. No one knew. That was impossible.
“Um, hello?” she’d said into the receiver. “. . . Gracie?”
“Hey, Mama,” Gracie cooed in a low, sympathetic voice. “How’s it going?”
Gracie Lord was ten years older than Lauren, with an angular face and dark hair and a dry, masculine, unapologetic self-confidence. She reminded Lauren of Joan Jett. She’d probably been a cool girl in high school. And she had no filter: the first time Lauren met her, Gracie looped an arm around Lauren and asked her intimate questions about Matthew’s birth story. But before Lauren could answer, Gracie started in on the birth story of her own child—she was a single mother by choice—which included a third-degree tear that forced her to sit on a hemorrhoid pillow for months. Only cool girls in high school could talk about hemorrhoid pillows without shame.
Lauren also noticed how Graham looked at Gracie—his admiration was palpable. She didn’t want to think there was something going on between them . . . but, well, that was where her head went, like it or not.
“I’m okay,” Lauren had answered on the phone.
The truth? She was beat. From crying. From being angry and worried and freaked. Matthew had been fussy and grumbly, and
nothing had soothed him: not a bath, not songs, not food, not drink, not baby massage, not colic drops, not even Clarissa vigorously swinging him back and forth, her arms nearly buckling. Lauren hadn’t even had the heart to step in and tell Clarissa not to swing him.
“Listen,” Gracie went on, “I can only imagine what you’re going through—the new mother thing is a bitch. And now daycare! What a scary transition. So I booked you at Sarina Ranch tomorrow morning. My favorite masseuse is going to treat you right.”
“You don’t have to do that.” She wasn’t used to being babied after behaving badly—Lauren’s mother had been more of the tough-love type, following through with the threats she issued when her kids were in the middle of tantrums. One time, she’d even canceled Lauren’s sister’s birthday party because Mel had mouthed off one too many times. She was the definition of someone who followed through.
And as Lauren looked around the ranch, she guessed the massage was going to cost a fortune. Did Gracie pamper other writers’ wives? Was there a deeper implication here, maybe even guilt? Once again, the thought that Graham might be too cozy with Gracie crept into Lauren’s mind. He’d seemed a little cagier in the past few weeks, like he was keeping something from her. And Gracie’s relationship status was a constant question mark. At a party, Lauren had heard her referencing a past male partner, and a gossip site once paired her with a semi-famous actor. Would she really sleep with a lower-level writer on her team? That seemed kind of . . . tacky.
Now, all checked in, Graham turned to a shelf of products, grabbed a box of bath bombs, and placed them on the counter. “Put these on my card,” he told the receptionist.
“Don’t buy me things.” It felt even worse when he was so nice after her episodes.
“Oh, stop.”
Graham dropped a kiss on Lauren’s cheek. He was always forgiving, but what he said yesterday in the car stuck with her. She knew how she could get—her explosive anger, post-baby, wasn’t limited to just him. It reared its head with customer service reps, the UPS man, and even Matthew’s pediatrician.
