Happy Families

by Tanita S. Davis

  “Stanford,” Dad flashes back, his expression frustrated. “I’ve got the five-year plan on your wall practically memorized, just like everybody else in the family. Come on, Justin. It was a harmless, getting-to-know-you question. Would you just give this a chance?”

  An elastic moment of silence stretches taut, and I tense, preparing for the inevitable, stinging snap as it breaks. My mouth dry, I stop fiddling with my cereal and pull my sleeves over my hands, waiting.

  “Justin”—Dr. Hoenig’s voice is kind but intent—“is there any reason you’re not comfortable with talking about your future?”

  I roll my eyes silently. Oh, man, here we go. Next she’s going to ask him how he feels about his future.

  “What about you, Ysabel? How do you feel about talking about your dreams and your future right now?”

  At the word feel, a laugh slips out before I can control it. Dr. Hoenig just smiles at me calmly, but Dad’s embarrassed expression piques my temper. What have I done that’s so embarrassing? Irritated, I pick up another bit of cereal and scrutinize it before popping it into my mouth. I speak with my mouth full.

  “Justin took down his five-year plan about six months ago, Dad. Just so you know.”

  Dad shoots a glance at me, then turns to face Justin. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and sighs deeply. “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.” There’s a pause. “So, you’ve changed your mind? About everything, Buddy?”

  Justin shrugs, but his shoulders are so tight, it’s more of a twitch. Dad hasn’t really called him Buddy since he was ten. I wonder how Justin feels about that.

  “It’s kind of hard to be certain of your plans when so much else in your life has changed, isn’t it?” Dr. Hoenig observes quietly.

  Suddenly, it’s not funny anymore. Justin exhales and looks up at Dr. Hoenig, misery in his expression.

  “Yeah. It is.”

  We don’t say much more that is important after that. Dr. Hoenig gives us this little sheet that says Rights of Transgender Individuals across the top. I scan it, and it’s basically just human rights, so there are no surprises. Everyone has the right to feel good about themselves, wear what they want, and be loved, blah, blah, blah. That’s obvious, and I get it, but then Dr. Hoenig says that she wants Justin and me to make up a list of our own rights … and talk about them with Dad.

  Justin and I exchange a look, and I’m pretty sure he’s as disgusted as I am. This definitely has the feel of a bogus make-work homework assignment. At least she didn’t say we have to turn it back in to her or anything.

  Dr. Hoenig is saying something else to Dad—probably giving him a bogus assignment, too—and I tune out for a minute, thinking. If it were me just doing this little Rights of Ysabel list for myself, I’d put down as number one that I have the right to expect my dad to be the same person I grew up with.

  But according to the Transgender Person list … I don’t have that right at all.

  I shake my head, irritated. Does Dr. Hoenig seriously think we have any rights? Not only are we stuck doing whatever Dad wants us to do—not only because we’re underage, but we’re on his end of the state and we don’t know anyone in this area—we can’t force him to do anything. We can’t make him stay Dad or make him go back to being the way he was. We can’t make him give us back the world the way it was, and there is nothing on earth that can return me to the day before we found out that Dad was a transgender person. Nothing.

  I close my eyes, breathing deeply to force the lid back on the volcano that opens up in me at these kinds of thoughts. We just need to be finished with this lady and do something else—anything else.

  “What would you like to get out of your visit this week?” Dr. Hoenig is watching me closely, and I look away. “Justin? Chris? This is a question for all of you.”

  Dr. Hoenig waits as Dad answers, in detail of course. I really can’t think of anything more than the usual spring break stuff—time to sleep in, time to try out some new glass techniques. Justin doesn’t say much, either, but somehow this seems to make everyone worry. Dad and Dr. Hoenig spend the rest of our session trying to convince Justin to have some kind of goal for this week.

  As if it matters.

  Do any of them—Mom, Dad, or Dr. Hoenig—think Justin and I have failed to notice how little control we have over any of this? No matter how many imaginary goals we might have, the thing is, it’s all decided. By her actions and his response, Mom and Dad have essentially figured out between the two of them how the rest of our lives will go, at least until we leave home.

  So, what’s the point?

  “I think we’ve made a good start today,” Dr. Hoenig says, looking up at Dad as we stand on the landing in front of her back door. “Take care, Nicholas family.”

  “We’ll see you tomorrow,” Dad says, and my jaw drops.

  “We’re not doing this every day, are we?” I ask. Dad and Dr. Hoenig just smile, Dr. Hoenig with sympathy, and then we’re out the door and down the stairs.

  Justin manages to be out in front, jogging down the stairs while Dad holds me to a more leisurely pace.

  “This hasn’t been that bad, has it, Belly?” Dad asks over his shoulder.

  “Don’t call me that.” I clutch my bowl and glare at him.

  “Sorry,” Dad says, raising his hands defensively. “Habit, Ysabel.”

  I give him a disgusted look and push past him down the stairs.

  My father takes his sweet time getting to the car, twirling his keys around his finger. Justin and I are waiting impatiently for him as he uses the remote, which unlocks the doors with a subdued click.

  “Well, gang, it’s a little bit early for lunch”—Dad raises his voice as he climbs into the front seat—“but I thought we could take in a matinee or something. Unless anyone else has a suggestion?”

  “Seriously?” I glance at Justin. Dad’s never taken us to a matinee; he’s more of a DVD-at-home type of guy, mainly because he’s too cheap to spring for theater popcorn, and he talks to the characters on-screen, as if they can hear him.

  “There’s nothing good out.” Justin shrugs and puts on his seat belt.

  “That doesn’t matter,” I widen my eyes in a pointed stare at my brother, simply eager not to return to Dad’s silent, sterile apartment. “Do we get popcorn?”

  My father chuckles. “Yes, Ysabel, you can have your popcorn, but save some room; we’re going to a Mexican grill for lunch, because God knows, the two of you need to eat some vegetables after last night.” He puts the key in the ignition. “Or there’s The Raven, a little independent theater that sometimes shows double features of old monster flicks. Shall we see if they’re open?”

  “Why do you want to go to the movies?” Justin asks, crossing his arms.

  My father leans back against the driver’s seat and sighs. “Honestly, Justin? Because right now, sitting in a dark room is about all I’m good for.”

  My brother shrugs and looks out the window.

  “Hey”—Dad leans around the driver’s seat again—“that was a joke, Buddy. This movie thing is just one option. If you’d rather we went somewhere and talked, we can do that.”

  I make an exasperated noise. “You can drop me off at the movies if you do,” I warn him. “I’m through talking.” I turn and glare at my brother.

  Justin looks at me, anger and guilt and apology in his expression. “I’m sorry, but a movie just seems like a waste of time,” he says tightly. He turns to Dad. “I mean, isn’t there supposed to be some point to this? What are we supposed to be doing here? What is seeing a therapist supposed to accomplish? Is that why you aren’t wearing a dress?”

  I suck in a quiet breath, not sure if I’m scared or glad Justin doesn’t believe in subtle.

  Dad smiles a little. “No, Justin, I’m sorry to disappoint you; it’s not about Dr. Hoenig. I’m not wearing a dress because I don’t want to right now.”

  Justin makes a disbelieving noise, and my father rubs his face and sighs.

&nb
sp; “Okay, Justin. Look—first, this is your vacation—I haven’t forgotten that. I want us to have some fun. Second, we’re meeting with Dr. Hoenig in the hopes that she’ll make it easier for all of us to say the things to each other that we need to say. Finally—I repeat—I am not wearing a dress because I don’t want to at the moment. This week is about you and Ysabel. I care more about your comfort than my wardrobe. Are we clear?”

  Justin looks away again, bouncing his knee. “Fine.”

  “So, can I get my popcorn, or can you give it a rest yet?” I ask, somehow angry that Justin has managed to be up front with Dad without sounding like a jerk and I have not.

  Justin gives me an odd look. “What’s your problem?”

  “Low blood sugar, probably.” Dad puts the car in gear and pulls out of the parking slot. “Let’s just get an early lunch. None of us ate enough for breakfast, and The Cantina has some great fajitas.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my blood sugar,” I sputter. “And I’m a vegetarian, hello. I don’t want fajitas.”

  “They have asparagus and mushroom fajitas, too,” Dad says mildly. “We’ll have a good lunch and talk some more. Justin’s right—we don’t have a lot of time.”

  Justin’s right, I mimic savagely to myself. Of course he is. I cross my arms and slide down in the seat, feeling baffled and frustrated. I don’t mind getting fajitas—the idea of some real food after gorging on junk food last night is a good one—but it seems like somehow Justin has managed to come off as seriously concerned about Dad and our family issues, and I’ve come off as … the snarky girl with the low blood sugar who’s shallow and all about popcorn.

  I glance at Justin’s profile as he stares out the window and make up my mind. He’s not the only one who can ask direct questions. If Dad wants to have a talk, we’ll talk.

  Happy Meal

  Justin

  JustC: GAH! sick. of. talking.

  Styx: hear that.

  C4Buzz: Silence is golden but duct tape is silver.

  JustC: lol

  I expect fake cacti and piñatas at a Mexican grill, neither of which The Cantina has. This place is white tablecloths and valet parking nice—far too nice for just a middle-of-the-day lunch with Dad. Even Ysabel’s looking around with interest, checking out the painted floor tiles, pottery, and lantern-looking metal light fixtures, probably so she can steal the designs and make them for her next art project.

  The waitress leaves each of us a leather folder containing the menu and points out the specials with a smile. Dad nods to her and absorbs himself in choosing a meal.

  Guitar music underscores the quiet conversation around us. Everything is so classy and understated, from the lighting to the menu to the chime of forks on plates, that all the mature-sounding conversation I’d planned gets stuck in my throat. When Ysabel sits forward and breaks the silence, I’m relieved.

  “Did you bring us someplace this fancy so we won’t actually say anything?”

  I want to laugh at my father’s startled expression.

  “Will it work?” His voice is dry.

  “No.” Ysabel leans back in her seat. “I just wondered.”

  “You have to admit, this place is pretty classy,” I point out. “I thought we were just going to a taqueria or something.”

  Dad shrugs. “I thought this conversation deserved a good setting.”

  I wish the setting would actually make a difference to what he has to say.

  Dad orders a salsa de aguacate for all of us, which comes with our iced tea and baskets of tortilla chips. The restaurant is filling quickly, and the noise level is rising, which gives me courage. But before I can open my mouth, Ysabel takes a deep breath and turns to Dad.

  “Okay.” She clears her throat. “I’ve been looking on the Internet, and I have some questions.”

  I blink and sit back. Go, Ys.

  “All right.” Dad looks at Ysabel seriously. “Do you understand that I might not be able to answer everything?”

  “Why not?” I challenge him.

  Dad looks at me. “Because … some things don’t have answers. Because some things I don’t know. Because everyone is different, and I can only answer for me. Because … I’m still your dad, and as a parent, I don’t have to tell my children things they don’t need to know. Just … because.” He shrugs a little helplessly. “I don’t mean to disappoint you. You have the right to ask me any question and I reserve the right to hear the question and not answer.”

  “You sound like a lawyer,” Ysabel accuses, and I agree with a dissatisfied grunt.

  “Well, my father-in-law is one of the best.” Dad smiles briefly. “Let’s hear it.”

  Ysabel fiddles with her sleeves, not meeting Dad’s eyes. “When was the first time you wanted to dress in … to wear …” Ysabel trails off, clears her throat, and tries again. “When did you first want to dress up?”

  There’s a heartbeat of stillness. Dad moves his water glass, then fiddles absently with his napkin. “My whole life,” he says finally.

  My mouth opens before I can stop the words. “Your whole life?” I blurt. “You knew you were like this?”

  Dad looks down at his glass of water and deliberately reaches for it, making a ceremony out of grasping the straight cylinder, touching it to his lips, and setting it back on the table. “When I was four,” he says carefully, using his long fingers to line up the napkin with the edge of the table, “I was in a cousin’s wedding. I was the Bible boy. I remember being so jealous that my cousin Lily got to wear a dress with little white beads and lace, and a tiara with sequins. She got to be the flower girl, and all I got was a black suit. No tiara.” He looks up and smiles crookedly. “That used to be one of my great-aunt Wilma’s favorite stories about me, about how I fell on the floor at the rehearsal dinner in a screaming fit, because Lily wouldn’t let me wear her tiara. My folks were still alive, back then.”

  Dad doesn’t talk much about his parents or the great-aunt who raised him after their deaths in a car crash when he was eight, so it’s hard to break the silence that follows.

  Ysabel’s voice, when it comes, is tentative. “So, you knew when you were four you wanted a tiara, but when did you start really dressing up?”

  “In college.” Dad chews his bottom lip and doesn’t elaborate. I get the feeling there’s more he could say and wonder if I asked, if this is one of the questions he would refuse to answer.

  I pile chips onto my appetizer plate, aware of a nervous energy that I need to burn, even though I’m not sure I have much of an appetite left. I’ve already had enough of this conversation, but we can’t stop when we’ve just gotten started, and there’s something I have to ask. I busy myself ladling salsa on my chips.

  “So, you’re not gay.” It’s a statement, but somehow my voice still sounds uncertain.

  Dad watches me patiently. “No.”

  “And you’re not going to … be gay. I mean, you’re not going to”—my gesture is vague, my eyes stray to a spot above his head—“have a surgery.”

  Dad shakes his head and fidgets with his glass again. “Surgery wouldn’t make me gay. Wearing women’s clothes doesn’t make me gay. I’m not sexually interested in men.” He looks up steadily. “Either way, surgery’s not an option for me.”

  “Why?” Ysabel blurts, and Dad grimaces and rubs his forehead.

  “It’s not something I need,” he says awkwardly. He shifts back in his seat, the fake leather squeaking a little under his worn jeans, and unbuttons his cuffs to roll up his sleeves. “Ys, I’m not sure I can explain that one to you, any more than I can explain the reasons behind wanting to wear women’s clothes.” Dad lowers his voice, flicking a quick glance around the room. I can’t help but follow suit, staring at the profiles of the people at the tables around us. They’re having business conversations or laughing and smiling with friends. Only we look tense.

  Dad’s shoulders hunch as he scoots his chair forward. He clears his throat and reaches for the basket of chips c
losest to him. I can see the shine of sweat along his hairline. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” Ysabel says, taking control of the conversation again. “Did you know anyone else like you? I mean, in your family?”

  “It’s not genetic,” my father says, his gaze flicking to meet mine. I flinch and feel my face get hot. “Being transgender is not something you can inherit or catch.”

  “I know that,” I mutter, feeling both insulted and relieved.

  “To answer the question,” Dad says, turning to my sister with a slight smile, “no. I never met another adult male in my family who dressed in any nontraditional way. I didn’t meet any males who dressed nontraditionally, period, until I was in college. A bunch of us went to the city to hear a comedian. He was a female impersonator, and there were a lot of transsexual people in the club. It was … quite an experience.”

  I move my shoulders uncomfortably, weirded out by the thoughtful tone in my father’s voice. I decide I don’t want to know what “quite an experience” means.

  “So, how’d you learn to wear makeup?” Ysabel asks. Mouth open, I turn my head and stare at her. How is she coming up with this stuff? She must have been thinking of all these questions for days, while all I’ve been doing is trying not to think.

  “Kind of trial and error,” Dad admits, and shrugs, fingering the edge of his water glass. “I visited a lot of how-to sites on the Internet. I bought a lot of makeup by mail order.” He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “It’s a work in progress.”

  “Did you wear Mom’s makeup?” I hear the accusation in my voice.

  Dad shakes his head immediately. “No. That’s hers. I have my own.”

  I shift my weight, feeling sweat prickling in my armpits. I wish he wouldn’t say crap like that. Every time I start to feel like we’re just here, being with Dad, in a restaurant, he keeps reminding me that this whole conversation is crazy, and that he’s … changed.

  Ysabel clears her throat. “All right. Moving on,” she continues doggedly, smoothing her hair behind her ears. “Is Christine a different person, or is she … you.” Ysabel looks up.