Golden Boy: A Novel

by Abigail Tarttelin

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid he’s on the other line at the minute—’

  ‘Could you just tell him who’s calling?’ I say, a little impatiently. ‘It’s urgent.’

  ‘I’m not sure—’

  ‘Debbie, it’s about his child, so please put Steve on the phone.’

  ‘Oh! I’m sorry, yes, I’ll just get Stephen.’

  I hear her shoes tapping on the floor and then a brief, quiet exchange.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ Steve says immediately.

  ‘It’s . . .’ I falter. ‘I know I shouldn’t meddle. But I couldn’t help calling.’

  ‘It’s fine. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I just wanted to check . . . I don’t suppose you would know why a private medical centre called Flint, Stamford and Associates on Harley Street would have requested Max’s files this morning, do you?’

  I hear a sharp intake of breath down the line. ‘No,’ Steve says. ‘No, I don’t.’

  Max

  ‘If you want the operations here, that can be arranged. We would remove the foetus, the uterus, the vaginal passage and the ovum. Obviously the ovotestis has already been removed. Of course, it would have been better to have this gender assignment surgery before school age, as was recommended to you, because adult hermaphrodites are very often confused as to their gender, with a high risk of depression and suicide.’

  ‘Woh,’ I mutter, but Dr Flint does not look at me.

  Mum nods at him.

  As cold and uninviting as Dr Flint’s office is, his monotonous manner of speaking is way worse. I try to listen to him talk about how fucked up my life is.

  ‘Of course,’ he says, as if what he’s about to say is so obvious we must be retarded for not knowing, ‘it is a wonder Max can bear children at all. Very unfortunate that you have found out like this.’ He scratches his dirty white moustache, then literally points to my stomach with his index finger, like, ‘Counsellor: Exhibit A’.

  He does this without looking over at me. Dr Flint addresses everything to Mum. He’s a pale old man with a gravelly voice, pinched lips and black heads in his skin. He picks at his lips and scratches his face on and off the whole time he’s talking to us, only glancing at his notes while continuing his tirade against the lack of surgery on my crotch.

  ‘Now, I would have had you assigned as female before the age of four, and had a clitoroplasty and vaginoplasty carried out. My reading of the situation is that when Max was born, there was a degree of masculinisation of the genitalia – a phallus – which led to a nonconsensus between yourself, your husband and the doctors on how to proceed. However, my view is that even if Max was not assigned a specific gender at that stage, the vagina should have been closed up and menstruation later medically prevented. As I said to you during your child’s many visits with us, I do wish that I had been around at birth and not brought in at the infant stage. This tragedy could have been avoided.’ He waves in the general direction of my stomach, not having looked at my face since I came in, when he eyed me once and muttered, ‘High cheekbones.’

  ‘Max has always acted like a boy,’ Mum says quietly.

  The doctor hums between his teeth and concludes, ‘Probably more nurture than nature.’

  ‘Um,’ I say, looking at my mum.

  ‘Shh,’ she says, listening earnestly.

  He continues, gesturing again in my direction, this time with a pen, while addressing his speech to Mum: ‘I would really say this type, presenting with working female sex organs, must be reared up as girls, because they have fertility potential, and that is what we try to preserve as much as we can, although really there are very few true hermaphrodites with any level of fertility. Perhaps this is why the doctors thought that doing nothing was acceptable. But obviously it wasn’t right.’

  ‘But Dr Verma said that hermaphrodites are infertile mostly because they have surgery,’ Mum says quietly.

  ‘General practitioners are very ignorant about the treatment of hermaphrodites.’

  When did you train, dude? I think. The sixties?

  ‘You should have been warned that because of the feminine looks combined with the course of hormones, the intersex child,’ again, he gestures to me, ‘would have an androgynous air, which is very attractive to young people, particularly teenagers, because it is less threatening than fully-developed men and women, and therefore he or she may well be more sexually active in this middle period of adolescence. Hopefully this will tail off towards the end of adolescence when his or her peers start to develop tastes more towards the ends of the spectrum of masculine and feminine. However, it is a much safer decision to opt for gender reassignment surgery now, as soon as possible.’

  ‘Mm,’ Mum says.

  I start to feel pretty crap, thinking about the tailing off of people finding me attractive.

  ‘Mum,’ I whisper, nudging her. She takes my hand but doesn’t look at me.

  ‘If it had been done earlier, then Max would have been female and this would be a simple case of teenage pregnancy.’

  This is the only thing Dr Flint has to say that resonates with me. If I was a girl, this wouldn’t be an issue. I’m just not normal. I’m natural. I’ve not had any operations. This pregnancy is natural. But not ‘normal’. So it has to be terminated. It’s a weird thought.

  ‘I’d recommend a strong course of hormones,’ Dr Flint is saying to Mum. ‘Maybe two or three courses, to make sure his chest doesn’t feminise, etc.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it have done that by now?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Perhaps, perhaps not,’ Dr Flint says, and finally turns to me. ‘Do you ever talk to someone in your head?’

  ‘Yeah, sometimes,’ I mumble.

  ‘That’s a sign of gender dysfunction. You are confused. Gender dysfunction has been known to lead to schizophrenia.’

  ‘But . . .’ I say. ‘Doesn’t everyone talk to themselves in their head?’

  ‘Or,’ continues Dr Flint, ignoring me again, ‘it could be that you absorbed your twin in the womb, giving you both your own female genitalia and his male genitalia and you are talking to your dead twin, who you still remember.’

  I stare at him, aghast.

  Dr Flint’s mouth turns up at the corners and I realise he is smiling at me. ‘You’ll never get a girlfriend like that, will you, sonny? We’ll get that thing sewn up.’

  I can feel my face crumbling and try to hold it still.

  The room is silent for a moment.

  Then a voice comes from the doorway. ‘This is such bullshit.’

  I look around, shocked, at Dad.

  Karen

  We walk down the corridor of Dr Flint’s practice in silence, looking at each other behind Max’s head, as he walks slightly in front of us. Steve has dressed in a rush, wearing his old jeans and a thick brown jumper, a scarf, and thin raincoat slung around his shoulders. He strides formidably down the corridor. Despite his height, our strides are the same length. I have longer legs.

  ‘How did you know we were here, Dad?’ Max asks lightly, swinging around and walking backwards. His hair falls over one eye. He looks pretty and girlish. I think about what Dr Flint said.

  Steve smiles at him, tightly. ‘Dr Verma called me to tell me your files had been requested by Dr Flint’s office. She thought I might like to know.’

  I frown.

  ‘Oh,’ says Max softly, turning back. ‘I like Archie.’

  ‘Me too,’ says Steve, as we walk into the lift. ‘So, Max, what did you think of Dr Flint?’

  Max shrugs. ‘I don’t know. What did you think, Mum?’

  ‘It was interesting,’ I say, pressing the button for the ground floor, glaring at Steve. The lift jolts as it begins its descent.

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  ‘I never liked that old trout,’ says Steve, putting an arm around Max. He looks at me. ‘I don’t know what Mum was thinking, coming here.’

  ‘Well, this was why you weren’t invited,’ I mutter.

  ‘Yes, I noticed that,’ Steve sa
ys quietly.

  When the lift doors reopen, Max bolts out like he can’t wait to leave. I follow him, but Steve grabs my wrist.

  ‘Karen,’ he begins.

  ‘Don’t,’ I say, whipping around. ‘I just wanted a second opinion. Archie Verma doesn’t know anything about intersex people, and I don’t like her attitude. What is she doing calling you at home to let you know what I’m doing with my own son? Does she think she’s telling on me? Bad Karen, who doesn’t want Max to have to live through this charade, who’d rather he be normal and happy. Max shouldn’t have to deal with this.’

  ‘Shh,’ he murmurs, as we walk slowly after Max, out of earshot. ‘Firstly, Karen, if you wanted a second opinion, you could have told me, and I would have come, no questions asked. Secondly, Max chose Archie. He likes her.’

  ‘Stop touching my arm,’ I hiss. ‘I don’t want to talk to you right now, racing after me like you don’t trust me, talking to Max like that about me. Steve, the hero, swooping in to rescue Max from the wicked witch.’

  ‘You took off without telling me!’ Steve counters. ‘We had an agreement about these doctors. They want to cut him up and look at what’s inside!’

  ‘I think your personal feelings are getting in the way of what’s best for Max. If we get this over with now, it may never be an issue again!’

  ‘Karen!’ Steve cries in exasperation. ‘You can’t control everything! He’s always going to be intersex and have to deal with those issues. Just because some knife-happy surgeons get their hands on his genitals, doesn’t mean everything goes away.’

  ‘Urgh! Don’t say that.’

  ‘I just feel like it’s ten years ago and you’re trying to control everything again, and we both know how well that turned out.’

  ‘Don’t!’ I whip around and stop him. ‘Don’t you dare bring that up. That was a long time ago. I’m not going to leave again. Just stop.’

  ‘I’m just saying,’ Steve growls, ‘that you can’t control who he is with a scalpel, and you bloody better not take him to that crank’s office again without first informing me where you are taking our child.’

  I turn away from him and we walk in silence, approaching Max, who is waiting at the door to the street. We catch each other’s eye. Steve opens his mouth, closes it, and looks away from me. ‘We need to talk.’

  I shake my head, but I answer in the affirmative. ‘Yes.’

  We reach Max at the door.

  ‘Everything OK?’ he asks in a small voice.

  ‘Of course, honey,’ I say, smiling at him. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  Max

  After the consultation with Dr Flint, Mum says we’re going for lunch. Dad seems to not want to, but he comes anyway. They even let me have some wine with them, and then we head for Regent Street to do some Christmas shopping.

  The conversation petered out over lunch, and then my parents started arguing about some case Mum’s working on. It felt like they weren’t arguing about that really, though, but about me. I zone out, thinking about operations and scars and stuff. It occurs to me that I don’t really know much about Mum’s work. It’s Dad’s stuff we all go to and know about. All I really know about Mum is that she loves Daniel and me. And now maybe not me, sometimes.

  No, that’s probably not true, I think. You couldn’t hate your own child.

  I start to think about my child. Would I hate it because it was Hunter’s? Would I hate it if it came out dark-haired and Hunter-looking?

  I chew my fingernails as we walk in a line of three towards Oxford Circus.

  ‘So . . .’ I say, in a pause between them talking. ‘We’re not going to do it with Dr Flint in London?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Mum says, just as Dad is saying, ‘No. We’ll just do it at Oxford, where everyone is sane.’

  They look at each other, then at the ground. They both look really tired.

  ‘What do you want to do Max?’ Dad asks.

  I shrug.

  ‘He doesn’t—’ says Mum, as Dad says, ‘Come on, Max.’

  I fold my arms and I say, ‘Well, the appointments are already set up in Oxford . . .’

  ‘Do you want to have it there?’ Dad asks.

  ‘OK,’ I say, really quietly.

  ‘Max, don’t cry, it’s OK,’ says Dad, and pulls me under his arm.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say.

  We walk on for a bit and Mum says, sort of to herself, ‘I wonder if all parents freak out so much when their kids grow up.’

  ‘You’re admitting you’re freaking out?’ Dad asks.

  ‘You’re admitting I’m growing up?’ I say, and Dad laughs.

  Mum looks over at him, ignoring me. ‘No one gives you a rulebook to tell you how to deal with it all. Terrible twos, the first school fight, puberty, angry teenagers.’ She looks off across the street, evidently thinking of Daniel. ‘And angry ten-year-olds.’

  ‘We’re a handful, I guess.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘It would have been better if I was normal.’

  ‘Oh, Max,’ Mum says. She hesitates.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  She shakes her head. ‘Only for you. I wanted you to have an easy life.’ She leans in and whispers, ‘If it were just for me, I wouldn’t change a thing about you.’

  Which is nice but confusing at the same time. I smile anyway.

  We walk on and reach Hamleys, where a girl is dressed as Cinderella, stood on a platform, blowing bubbles at the kids. The crowd around her slows us down. It’s a sea of faces at knee-height, and suddenly I start to see them all individually.

  There is a tiny Chinese girl standing shakily in shiny, buckled shoes and a purple dungaree dress, watching Cinders with uncertain eyes. She reaches out a hand to point at the princess and looks back to her parents. Her mum smiles and nods, and her dad takes a photo.

  Next to her there are two black children, a boy and a girl, with little knitted jumpers and grey hats. They are all wrapped up in scarves and coats, with just their white teeth, big brown eyes and teeny little noses visible. They smile in delight at each other.

  In front of Mum and I are three blond kids. One is almost Daniel’s height, one is about five and one is around three.

  I look at the Swedish-looking kids, the black kids, the Chinese girl. It’s like a fucking Gap ad, I think. My face feels warm. Maybe it’s the wine.

  There are loads more kids, an entire unbroken ring around Cinderella. A woman holds a baby up to watch her blow the bubbles. The baby kicks its feet and gurgles happily. It looks back at its mum questioningly, then at Cinderella, as if to say, ‘Do you see her too, Mum?’

  The baby looks young, and yet its face is so intelligent. It’s like a full-grown person, trapped in a tiny body it can’t control, looking out at a new world where it hasn’t been before. The personality is all there. It frowns, follows a bubble as it grows from her wand, then laughs, and turns back to its mum, to check she’s laughing. It could be only six months old or so.

  There’s a pregnant woman too, the mother of the black brother and sister, I think.

  Suddenly I realise I have my hand on my stomach. I snatch it away, but then I wonder – did I feel a bump? I slide my hand under my jumper self-consciously, watching Mum and Dad to make sure they don’t see. It’s been almost three months since Hunter came into my room, but under my rib cage there is a slight rise to my stomach that wasn’t there before. My cheeks grow hot as I spread my fingers over it. I look down at my jumper. I look up at the pregnant woman. I look across at the baby.

  I think about how the potential for an entire life, the dream of it, is inside me right now, and that terminating it not only gets rid of a problem, it gets rid of that potential. I think about what Dr Flint said, how if I was a girl, this would be just a teenage pregnancy, just something I had wanted, maybe, but a bit earlier than expected. I feel suddenly sick.

  ‘Mum,’ I murmur, so Dad can’t hear. ‘That baby might only be a year older than mine.’

  She turns to me, gives me
a look, and guides me away from the crowd. Dad walks behind us. I take my hand out from under my jumper and watch the tiny Chinese girl clap her hands as we pass her. We continue up Regent Street, past another young girl, in Wellingtons and a blue coat.

  ‘Max, it will make the termination more difficult if you think about it as a baby,’ she murmurs, takes my arm. ‘I never told you this, but we had an abortion when I was younger.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say softly.

  ‘It wasn’t a big deal, really Max,’ she says. ‘I was twenty, your dad and I were still studying. But the ultrasound technician and the doctors kept saying “baby” and I just . . . It made me uncomfortable. So . . . call it the foetus or something. Do you understand why?’

  I nod. ‘Did you ever think about not having it?’

  ‘The abortion?’ She shakes her head, then changes her mind. ‘Well, a part of me did romanticise about it for a few minutes. But I’ve always believed that you should have children when you can make a good life for them, shouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I didn’t think I would ever be, like, pregnant, so I didn’t ever think about if I had to have one.’

  Mum nods and we walk on. A minute later, she asks, ‘Is that girl you brought to Daniel’s birthday party your girlfriend?’

  ‘Um, sort of.’

  ‘I really liked her. She was lovely.’ She turns to me. ‘But Max, it’s a bit wrong to be hanging out with someone when you’re . . . like this.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Just wait until you’ve had the operation.’

  ‘I’ll still be intersex afterwards.’

  ‘Not after gender reassignment surgery.’

  ‘Well . . . I’ll still be intersex inside.’

  She frowns. ‘But what does that matter if you look and feel like a boy?’

  ‘Um,’ I mumble.

  ‘You’ve always felt like a boy, haven’t you?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Haven’t you?’

  I look over at Mum. She looks worried. ‘Yeah, I guess,’ I say to calm her.