Golden Boy: A Novel

by Abigail Tarttelin

  ‘So we just let him make these mistakes, deal with the scrutiny of a public political campaign? We made his bed, now he has to lie in it?’

  ‘This isn’t our fault. These things happen.’

  ‘They don’t just happen.’

  ‘This isn’t your fault.’

  I sat miserably, holding my cup in my hand, feeling the warmth leave it.

  ‘He’s too young to make his own choices. He’s shown that today. We have to protect him better.’

  ‘We can’t protect him from everything. The campaign might not even—’

  ‘Fuck your campaign,’ I hissed. ‘Stop talking about your campaign. I don’t want to hear about it. I told you this was a bad idea. I told you.’

  I started to sob, thinking about Max when he was born, so tiny and innocent of everything. Now he goes out into the world alone and I’m powerless. He doesn’t know what it’s like, how much the choices you make count, how much things will change if people know, if people find out.

  What have I done? I thought. What has Max done?

  I locked myself in the living room, unable to look at Steve, his calm strength transformed into a blasé attitude that made me want to lash out at him.

  A few hours later Steve, Max and I slipped out. Max was sitting in the corner of his bed when I went to get him. He was ready. He had changed into his green jumper, jeans, trainers and a green coat.

  ‘Are we going?’ he said, as if he was asking what I was cooking for dinner.

  ‘Yes, we’re going,’ I said sternly, and he followed me out.

  On the way to the clinic, we dropped Daniel at Leah and Edward’s house.

  ‘Karen!’ Steve warns, in the car. ‘Stay at thirty, love.’

  I nod absent-mindedly. I glance again at Max in the mirror.

  ‘Max, don’t chew the sleeves off that jumper.’

  He looks back at my reflection angrily, takes his sleeve away from his mouth and slumps further down in the seat.

  We pull in to the clinic car park and I turn the engine off.

  We sit in silence for a minute.

  ‘This cannot be happening,’ I whisper.

  Steve looks over at me, and I look back at him. For a moment, we both forget Max is in the car. ‘He’s only sixteen,’ I whisper, tearing up. Steve reaches out and takes my hand. ‘Who has he been sleeping with?’

  ‘Karen . . .’ Steve says admonishingly. I remember Max, and I know Steve is right. It’s not something we need to know. We shouldn’t push him. But then I think: no. This is my life too. This is our life, as a family, and Max has done something that has shaken us, shaken me to the core. We deserve to know how this happened to us, to our team. I turn to Max tearfully.

  ‘Who have you been sleeping with?’

  He rolls his eyes and looks out the window, biting his sleeve again.

  ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

  He puts his hands over his eyes and doesn’t reply.

  ‘Why won’t you tell us?’

  ‘No reason, it’s fine, let’s just get it over with,’ Max says quietly. ‘No, I don’t have a boyfriend.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No! Can you stop firing off questions?’ Max shouts.

  ‘Don’t shout at your mother, Max,’ Steve says. ‘Accidents happen, but you don’t get away with being irresponsible and then yelling at your mother when she is upset. We are understandably upset, as much for you as with you, and she’s dealing with it as best as she can.’

  I shake my head, turn to my side of the car and lean against the window.

  ‘So let’s just stay calm, and see Dr Verma,’ Steve is saying.

  In the wing mirror, Max’s eyes open and look at me. We stare at each other, as if we don’t know each other. As if we are strangers. His bottom lip juts out like he’s going to cry. I shake my head and I let a tear slip down my cheek.

  ‘I’m so disappointed in you.’

  Archie

  It’s been three months since I last saw Max Walker, so when I arrive in reception, I am already concerned. There is a lot of pointing and mouthing from the receptionist, before two heads rise to observe me from the waiting room. A third head, between the two raised, is still lowered, Max’s blond hair hanging long in the front. I raise a hand in response and wait at the counter for the file.

  Stephen Walker seems even more stolid and broad-shouldered than he looks on television. I remember when I first saw him on the BBC, talking about a case concerning media and privacy, where he had been the prosecutor. On television, he seemed very much like one might expect a barrister to look – a little self-righteous, and without much personality. Unexpectedly, in real life he has a likeable, attractive face, with a concerned but warm expression. He takes up much more room than Max, his legs longer, his body fit but larger. His coat is thick and expensive-looking, the coat of someone who is aware of his appearance on a daily basis. His hands are large. His hair is already grey, but handsomely so. His eyes seem grey too. In fact, it is hard to see any resemblance to Max, save that permanently affable half-smile, something warm in his eyes. They do both have charisma.

  Stephen puts a protective hand on Max’s neck to awaken him to my arrival. It’s strange to see a different persona in a public person. This is Stephen Walker, the father.

  Presuming Stephen called because Max wants to know more about his condition, I drove quickly back to my house to fetch all my research on intersexuality.

  I gesture to my handbag, although the Walkers will not understand why, and they rise together.

  Stephen is almost a head taller than Max, but when Karen Walker stands, I notice she is tall too, the same height as her son. Max lifts himself off the chair slowly, then touches his stomach gently.

  I watch through the glass as Stephen strides towards the door of the waiting room, opening it for his family. He takes my hand and shakes it.

  ‘Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,’ he says quietly, with a grateful and somewhat relieved smile.

  ‘Of course, Mr Walker.’

  ‘Call me Steve,’ he says.

  I nod, indicating the badge on my chest. ‘Archie. Follow me.’

  When we enter my office, Karen and Steve sit on the plastic chairs, moving them to be either side of Max, who perches on the bed where I cleaned him up almost three months ago.

  The resemblance is much stronger between mother and son. Karen Walker crosses her legs at the ankles, her back straight, hair smoothed, make-up impeccable, cream shirt pressed, a dark green skirt revealing long, lean legs that look toned from possibly track or yoga. She wears low, elegant heels. Her hair is a tasteful, dark honey-blonde. Her nails are neat and painted nude, and her earrings are small diamond studs. The resemblance to Max begins with her long, lean legs, and continues up to her face. Her eyes are green, exactly the same as Max’s, but they are surrounded by neat eyeliner, mascara, and a wisp of light brown eyeshadow. The lower half of her face is heart-shaped, like Max’s, with a defined jaw and full lips. When she flicks her hair slowly off her face and settles it over her ears, she looks exactly like Max did in September. She casts a look down at herself as we sit, smoothing her shirt, skirt, crossing her feet, the ankles slim and coated in sheer tights. Her face is still, giving nothing away.

  ‘We’re so sorry to drag you away from your usual patients,’ Karen says, in a smooth but firm voice.

  ‘It’s OK. We actually have a drop-in session on Saturday afternoons, for post-natal mothers and babies.’

  A flash of something close to anger tears across Karen’s face and then disappears. ‘Oh,’ she says politely.

  Max rubs his nose, not listening.

  ‘So . . .’ Steve begins. ‘We wanted to see you because we know Max came to see you a few months ago.’

  I look over at Max, surprised. He is staring blankly at the floor.

  ‘We are concerned, firstly, that this doesn’t become . . . public knowledge.’

  ‘Public?’ I ask, confused.

  S
teve and Karen share a look and Steve sighs, minutely. Karen gives him a quick nod. Neither give anything away. I am starting to realise this is not about Max’s condition, but I cannot think what else it could be.

  ‘We’re just worried for Max that this doesn’t get out,’ Steve says.

  ‘This is about the campaign?’ I ask, confused.

  Steve clears his throat. ‘Not exactly. Max is in trouble. The contraception you gave him didn’t work. Not –’ he says on my look, holding up a hand. ‘– that I’m saying there was anything wrong with the pill. Max just thinks he might have been sick and the pill may not have been digested first.’

  I nod, understanding.

  ‘We are here because we want to deal with this situation quickly and privately, and to find out what Max’s options are,’ Steve adds, patting Max on the knee.

  Karen leans in and adds, ‘I want to know how this could have happened, with Max’s condition.’

  I frown. ‘I’m sorry, to clarify – Max is pregnant?’

  ‘Yes.’ Steve nods.

  We all watch Max for a moment. He looks exhausted and uncomfortable, fidgeting slowly and dreamily, his eyes wandering around the room.

  ‘How could this happen?’ asks Karen.

  I lean forward. ‘Being intersex doesn’t mean you’re infertile. In fact, intersex people are more likely to become infertile if they have surgery to “correct” their genitals. Surgery is a lot more common now than it was in the past, so you’re likely to hear of a lot fewer people with Max’s condition being able to bear children.’

  ‘We should have had the procedure,’ Karen says immediately, addressing her lap with a little note of self-admonishment.

  ‘Well,’ I say. ‘Not necessarily.’

  I look over at Max, but he doesn’t appear to be listening as Karen asks me how long it will take to schedule an abortion.

  ‘About two weeks,’ I reply, my eyes still on Max. ‘No one should have to wait over three.’

  ‘It could be three?’

  ‘It . . .’ I focus on Karen and Steve. ‘It might be, but with Max, the doctors will probably decide to do it sooner rather than later.’

  Karen nods. ‘Good.’

  Max rubs his eyes. His dad looks at him expectantly but he shrugs, his lips firmly closed. It is as if he has shut down the part of himself that cares to speak.

  ‘Do you think it would be better to go through his specialists in London?’ Karen asks. ‘Will the doctors who do the abortion be specialists?’

  ‘In general, doctors in the UK don’t have much training in working with intersex people, but doctors who perform abortions will have lots of experience dealing with varied anatomical configurations. Having been over Max’s files and researched his condition, I think they should be able to cope. If, however, it would make you feel more comfortable—’

  ‘We’re not working with the specialists anymore,’ Steve interrupts.

  Karen and Steve share a look over Max’s head. He notices and glances at both of them questioningly.

  ‘Well . . .’ Karen murmurs, glancing at Steve. I detect a small frown on Steve’s face.

  ‘Approaches have changed a lot since Max was born, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ I add. ‘Corrective surgery is no longer advocated in all cases. They won’t push anything more than an abortion.’

  I notice the corners of Max’s mouth twitch. He chews on his fingernail nervously.

  Steve shakes his head. ‘Thank you, but no. We don’t want specialists. We didn’t like the way they worked with Max. Their ideology was different to ours.’

  Max finally raises his head in surprise. ‘How?’

  ‘We’ll talk about it at home, honey,’ Karen says.

  Max flashes a quick look at me before focusing on picking his nails again.

  ‘OK. So I’ll contact both the clinics in Oxford and see which one can take Max.’

  ‘Why can’t I have it here?’ Max asks quietly.

  Karen shakes her head.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ I reply, looking directly at Max, ‘we don’t have the resources to do this safely in Hemingway, so it would be at either John Radcliffe or The Manor Hospital in Oxford.’

  ‘Is there a possibility of having one operation to perform both an abortion and a hysterectomy?’ Karen asks.

  ‘That’s not usually done together,’ I say, as Steve says, ‘We haven’t talked about that.’

  ‘We probably should have a long time ago,’ Karen replies quietly.

  ‘It’s not necessary right now.’

  ‘Right now? It’s relevant.’

  Steve makes a small humming sound, a warning note, with his mouth.

  ‘So he can have a normal life,’ mutters Karen.

  ‘Whether or not you want to consider a hysterectomy, you should probably discuss this with Max in detail at home.’ I attempt to catch Max’s eye, to no avail. ‘Do some research on the net, read some books.’

  Karen shakes her head.

  ‘Max,’ I say. He finally looks me in the eye. ‘You should know that there is, within the medical community and society as a whole, a lack of understanding for issues of gender and sexuality, and in a case like yours, doctors might be too willing to force surgeries rather than help you decide on a gender without surgery. You need to be prepared.’

  ‘Why does he have to decide on a gender?’ Steve offers.

  ‘Or not decide, whichever,’ I agree, with a small smile.

  Max seems to have zoned out again.

  ‘That seems like good advice, Max,’ Steve says, turning to him. ‘Should we talk about this when we’re home?’

  Max nods weakly.

  ‘When are we going to have time to talk about this?’ Karen says, almost to herself, before turning to me. ‘As you said, the doctors will probably be much better about that now, in any case, and they won’t want to study him like an ape, hopefully,’ she adds.

  ‘Mum,’ Max whines softly.

  I purse my lips but press on. ‘Policy has changed a lot since the nineties. I’ve been doing some research. It’s hard to find information that relates to intersexuality. It usually gets buried in information about transsexuals. I’ve been looking for support groups in the area as well, but I’m only finding groups that cater to LGBT young people.’

  Max clears his throat. ‘LGBT?’

  ‘Lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender,’ I reply.

  ‘Yeah, I know, just . . .’ Max looks at his feet. ‘That’s not me.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. He looks up at me and smiles slightly, for the first time. It’s good to see.

  ‘Do you want to see a psychiatrist?’ Karen asks Max.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To discuss things like sexuality, if you’re confused.’

  I bite my lip and look down at my files. One quick glance at Max’s blank expression tells me he hasn’t had the courage to tell them the sex wasn’t consensual.

  ‘I’m not confused,’ murmurs Max.

  ‘I always thought you liked girls but—’

  Max cuts Karen off. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘You could see one on the NHS.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Karen,’ says Steve. ‘He doesn’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Fine.’ Karen nods calmly, smiling at me as if to say, ‘Nothing wrong here’.

  ‘So,’ she says. ‘We’ll have the surgery in Oxford and we’ll think about a hysterectomy.’

  Steve nods. ‘Yes, alright Max?’

  Max bites his lip. ‘OK.’

  Max

  There is a pause while Archie Verma types something into her computer and the whoosh of an email crackles through the nineties-looking speakers.

  ‘So they’ll get back to me about dates,’ she says casually, like it’s no big deal. I am so grateful to her right now. She’s totally nonchalant about it. So calm. I feel like yelling at her, ‘Take me home! Take me with you!’

  Beside me I can feel Mum and Dad, starched like
shirts, upright; Mum angry but deadly calm, Dad busily dealing with it, getting it done, shuffling the problem like paperwork. They argue it like a case, back and forth. It’s so embarrassing.

  I feel myself getting redder as I think about the hospital and everybody looking at me, reenacting this scene again, more questions, more explanations, the group of people knowing getting wider, getting easier to leak out, to end up on a blog somewhere like the last MP’s kid with the Nazi outfit. Max Walker, cute teen son of the eminent Stephen Walker, a knocked-up he-she. Lock up your sons and daughters, Oxfordshire, this kid is freaky, indiscriminate and, apparently, virile.

  I watch Archie typing and wish she could do the abortion. I wish we could just keep it between us. She’s the only one that knows how it happened.

  ‘I always wanted to ask this, but if Max did have a child, would it be likely to inherit his intersex condition?’ my dad asks, out of the blue.

  ‘What?’ Mum and I say simultaneously.

  ‘Just . . .’ He looks at us both, as if he forgot for a second that we were here. ‘Wondered.’

  It’s like this is interesting for him. I’d forgotten how shitty it was to be in a doctor’s office with people talking about me. Everybody finds it so interesting. I look over at my dad, wondering if genetic engineering had been available then, would they have changed me. Or maybe if they’d found out before I was born, they would have got rid of me. I want to say to him, ‘If you’d known I was like this, Dad, would you have had me?’

  But this is just one in a long list of things during the appointment and in fact, now I think about it, over the years, that I don’t say out loud. Because it would rock the boat of our perfect life.

  ‘What does that matter?’ Mum hisses. ‘It’s being aborted.’

  It. A sexless, blank thing that is neither he nor she. I guess me and my child have that in common. Wow. My child. Shit.

  ‘How likely is it that this would happen again?’ Mum says to Archie.

  ‘Why?’ asks Dad.