Happy Families

by Tanita S. Davis

  It’s only a whisper of air over my skin, but all of my muscles tense. Dry-mouthed, I push to my feet as the garage door clicks shut. I meet my father’s sharp gaze as he walks down the stairs from the entryway, watch the understanding bloom on his face as he looks from the screwdriver in my hands to the evidence of the open door behind me. And then his eyes narrow in an expression of pure fury.

  “Get. Out.”

  Moving through the doorway as far from his visibly shaking body as I can, I drop the screwdriver and run.

  The Hardest Word

  Justin

  Stretching, I yawn and squint at the small screen on my phone.

  There are currently 3 Guests and 5 Users online at Kids of Trans Forum Chat.

  Online Users:

  C4Buzz

  Viking

  Amberheart

  Styx

  Leary

  JustC

  C4Buzz: Are people just lurking, cuz no one is saying anything?

  JustC: Yeah … it says Styx is on, but s/he hasn’t posted anything … huh.

  Viking: So, what’s going on with you?

  JustC: Still here in boo-cannon. Sick of it.

  C4Buzz: That’s your dad’s, right? not going good?

  Viking: Buchannan? Rlly? Live near there.

  JustC: It’s okay … just … a little real, u kno? Was easier at home.

  C4Buzz: Yeah. Easier to keep your head straight.

  Viking: JustC, g2g. Message me norseman@animail.net if u want to get togethr. Bye

  A quick knock. Before I can say anything, the door opens and Ysabel hurtles in. Her eyes are wide, and she’s blinking hard. She closes the door silently and slides to the floor behind it.

  “What happened?” I ask, halfway sitting up.

  “Nothing,” Ysabel says, and draws her knees to her chest. She’s shaking.

  “Don’t give me that. Ys?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Okay, then. I wait, but she won’t look at me. After a moment, I lie back and look at my phone screen again.

  Amberheart: Ezr when u don’t have 2 c.

  C4Buzz: Hey Amberheart. Bad day?

  Amberheart: No. Talkng 2 JustC.

  JustC: ???

  Amberheart: Ez 2 freak when u c the clothes.

  JustC: Didn’t see clothes.

  Amberheart: Huh.

  JustC: No x-dress. Just trying 2 deal—

  “Justin?” Dad calls, and knocks. Ysabel scoots into the corner behind the door.

  JustC: g2g. Bye.

  I tuck my phone out of sight and sit up. “Yeah?”

  My father opens the door and steps in, holding up the cordless phone. “Mom wants to say hello. And then give the phone to your sister.”

  I take the phone, shooting a glance at Ysabel, who is sitting hunched in on herself, her head down. Dad backs out of the room and closes the door behind him without even looking in her direction. Frowning, I put the phone to my ear.

  “Mom?”

  “Hey, Justin.” My mother’s voice is warm. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s okay, I guess.”

  “Are you sleeping all right? Did you remember your mouth guard?”

  I roll my eyes, glad she can’t see me. “Yeah, I’m sleeping okay so far. You cooking anything interesting?”

  Mom makes a so-so noise. “Just a company brunch, nothing too interesting.”

  “Oh.” Silence hums along the phone lines.

  “Well, I guess you guys are going rafting tomorrow, huh?” my mother continues brightly.

  “We’re what?”

  “Oops. I hope that wasn’t supposed to be a surprise.”

  “What does Dad know about rafting?”

  Mom laughs. “Probably more than you do,” she says. “You’re going with a group, though.”

  “Oh.” Belatedly I remember that Dad said he wanted to introduce us to other transgender people and their families. “I guess it’s better meeting them outside than sitting through one more therapy thing. Although Dr. Hoenig is all right,” I add quickly.

  “That’s good. I’m glad you like her.”

  There’s another pause as I try and figure out what Mom called to hear. She knows I’m okay. She knows I’m getting along with Dad all right. I shrug, at a loss. “So, did you want something else, or do you want to talk to Ys?”

  “I see your phone manners haven’t improved.” Mom gives a long-suffering sigh. “If you can tear yourself away, I’d like you to call me tomorrow when you’re home from rafting, all right? I love you. Now let me talk to Ysabel.”

  “Love you, bye,” I reply, and hand over the phone.

  I flop back on the bed as Ysabel says hello and consider another nap. It’s quiet in the room for a long, long time. I’ve almost forgotten Ysabel’s on the phone when she suddenly begins her one-sided conversation.

  “I know. I know. I know. Mom, I’m sorry. I know. I just … I didn’t mean—”

  I roll up on my elbow, frowning. Ysabel might have been caught eavesdropping again. Last time, Mom lectured her for days about it, and she lost her privileges to take some class or other at The Crucible, which to her was a big, big deal. Grandmama still lectures her about it, too, which is worse than any punishment.

  “No. I know. I know I do. No, Mom, I can’t. Well, yeah, but I can’t—” Ysabel listens some more and swipes her sleeve across her nose. She’s crying. Seriously worried, I sit up.

  “I know, Mom. I’m sorry,” she repeats, her voice wobbly. “I love you, too. Bye.”

  Ysabel tosses the phone to me and drops her forehead to her knees.

  “Are you going to tell me, or am I supposed to pretend you’re not crying?”

  Ysabel glares at me, her eyes slightly watery and red. “I broke into Dad’s room, okay? And he caught me.”

  I blink. “Okay, wait—what?”

  “It was locked.” Ysabel swallows hard. “I found a screwdriver.”

  “Oh, crap. Did you—” I stop the words. I shouldn’t ask her what she saw.

  Ysabel rubs her face. “I don’t even know what I was looking for. I just wanted to know why he’d locked the door.”

  I nod. “I can see that.”

  “Well, you’re the only one,” Ysabel sighs. “I either have to talk about it with Dad and ‘make a meaningful restitution’ ”—she makes air quotes—“or withdraw from the Phoenix Fire Festival.”

  My mouth drops. Everyone who knows my sister knows how much the Fire Festival and The Crucible mean to her. “Wow. If Mom’s threatened the Fire Festival, you know she’s deadly serious. You’d better apologize fast.”

  Ysabel turns miserable eyes on me. “I can’t. What am I supposed to say? ‘I’m sorry about the breaking and entering; I didn’t mean anything by it’?”

  I wince. “Well, ‘I’m sorry’ seems a pretty obvious place to start.”

  “He already knows I’m sorry,” she mutters.

  “Yeah, well, you get extra points on the restitution scale if you say it out loud,” I remind her. “Trust me, I know what to do, since usually I’m the one who argues with him and pisses him off. Just say you’re sorry and agree with whatever he says, or you’ll be there forever.”

  Ysabel hunches over again. “He won’t accept my apology. This isn’t like snooping for Christmas presents when we were little, Justin. You should have seen him. He was so far beyond pissed. He could barely talk.”

  I rub my arms, imagining. “I guess you can always do the Festival next year, right?”

  “No!” Ysabel slaps her palms against the floor, glaring at me. “The Crucible is all I have left. I’m sorry I was stupid and broke into Dad’s room, but it’s not fair to take away my show. It’s got nothing to do with Dad!”

  “Shooting the messenger,” I warn her, leaning back from her intensity. “I’m not the one you’re mad at, Ys.”

  “None of you understand,” Ysabel rages, struggling to her feet. “Nobody made you give up debate, Justin. You walked away.
The Crucible is the only place I fit, and they’re not taking it from me!”

  Ysabel storms out of my room and slams the door. A second later, I hear another slam from across the hall.

  I exhale a long breath and get up. Ysabel has completely blown all thoughts of a nap out of me, and remembering Dad’s comment before lunch about her blood sugar, I decide to get something to eat.

  Scooping up the phone, I wander upstairs and chuck it on the kitchen counter. Dad’s door is closed, and there’s no sign of life from either him or Ysabel. I shrug and bring my takeout tray and plastic fork into the living room. I watch TV while I demolish my four tacos and wonder how mad Ys will be if I eat her little side of beans and rice.

  Not too mad, I decide, and polish them off.

  Unexpectedly, Dad’s door opens as I’m throwing away my foam tray and rinsing my plastic fork. He wanders into the kitchen in a familiar pair of gray sweats and a ratty Chi Epsilon T-shirt.

  “Hey, Buddy.” He takes Ysabel’s takeout tray and tucks it in the microwave.

  “Hey, Dad,” I reply cautiously. He looks more tired than angry.

  “I’ve got ice cream, if you want any.” Dad pulls a plastic bag out of the freezer.

  I ignore the small pints of fudge brownie, chocolate chunk, and caramel ripple in favor of the larger container of vanilla bean. “Did you get root beer?”

  Dad smirks and opens the refrigerator to pull out a liter of my favorite. “Of course. I still know how to do that much.”

  “Just checking,” I say.

  The microwave beeps. Dad gingerly removes Ysabel’s takeout tray and puts it on the counter. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, opening the cabinet and pulling out two tall glasses. “You go ahead and take your sister her dinner, and I’ll make us floats. All right?”

  I grab a pile of napkins from the counter and the bag with Ysabel’s tortillas and the rest of her sides. “Sounds good,” I say.

  I kick Ysabel’s door, and she opens it right away, a wary expression on her face. She rarely stays mad for too long, and she brightens immediately at the sight of her food.

  “Thanks, I’m starving,” she says, and pulls me into the room. She sits on her bed and breathes in the steam from her fajitas. “Is Dad up there? Does he look mad?”

  “You could just come up and see for yourself. He’s making root beer floats.”

  “I can’t.” Ysabel shakes her head decisively. “There’s no point. I don’t know what to say yet, and it’d just be … weird.”

  “Well, don’t leave it too long,” I warn her. “It’s better if you get it out of the way before you go to bed … you know.”

  “I know.” Ysabel looks uncomfortable. Mom and Dad always say that family shouldn’t go to bed angry with each other. Until this thing with Dad, none of us ever did.

  “Well.” I tap out a rhythm on the doorframe, not sure what else to say. “That float’s calling my name. I ate your beans and rice, but if you want something else, I’ll make you a—”

  Ysabel smiles wanly. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not that hungry.”

  Upstairs, Dad has put my float on a coaster in front of the couch. I stretch out and enjoy it. We watch some old police show with random car chases and explosions. I spoon up my float, not really caring that I missed the first ten minutes of the show and am not sure what’s going on. It’s not one of those shows where the plot really matters anyway.

  When it’s over, Dad stands and stretches. “Here, Buddy,” he says, and tosses me the remote. He grabs his glass and pads into the kitchen, yawning. I channel surf while I listen to him open the fridge. The hiss of the soda opening makes me smile. Dad really is a glutton for root beer floats.

  Instead of coming back to his chair in front of the TV, Dad leaves the kitchen and heads downstairs. Inside, something I didn’t even know was tensed up relaxes. I hear the muffled sound of knocking, and a moment later, my father reappears. He looks at me and raises his eyebrows.

  “Ready for a refill?”

  “I’ve got it,” I tell him, and he nods and flops back in his chair.

  I’m rinsing my glass when I see Ysabel standing nervously at the top of the stair, holding her untouched float with both hands. Setting the glass down on the dining room table, she stands rigidly in the middle of the room. Dad mutes the television.

  “I’m sorry, and I know I need to offer you meaningful restitution,” Ysabel recites quickly, “but I don’t really know what that’s supposed to mean.”

  “Ysabel,” Dad interrupts. “Do you know I love you?”

  My sister looks away. “Dad, I’m not really up to a psychology exercise.”

  Dad shakes his head. “Well, that’s a relief, since that’s not what I’m doing.”

  “Then why are you asking me?” Ysabel’s voice is troubled.

  “Because I need to be sure that you know that I do,” my father replies.

  Ysabel clasps her hands together in front of her, twisting her fingers. “I didn’t see anything,” she says quietly. “I swear I didn’t.”

  Dad winces and looks away. There’s a moment of silence. “Thank you for that,” he says finally. “It doesn’t matter, though. I shouldn’t have locked the door.”

  “It’s your house.”

  Dad looks at Ysabel and smiles. “True. Do you know I love you now?”

  Ysabel shrugs warily. “All right, yes. I know you love me.”

  “Good,” Dad says, and unmutes the TV.

  Confused, Ysabel stands staring at him a moment, then gives me a bewildered look. I shrug and put away the root beer.

  I don’t know if that means he’s not mad anymore or what. I don’t get Dad these days, either.

  Revelations

  Ysabel

  Justin yawns and slides into the backseat next to me. “You ready for this?”

  “I guess,” I shrug. This morning there’s a thin fog obscuring the blue of the sky, and I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt over my hands. “I’m not sure it matters if I’m not. You?”

  “I’m ready,” Justin says as Dad backs us out of the driveway, “but Dad’s never been rafting.”

  “We’ll be with a group and have a guide, oh ye of little faith.” My father grins. “Give me a little credit here.”

  I’m still shaking my head at the whole concept when we get to Dr. Hoenig’s office. Rafting. What are we thinking? The whole man-versus-wilderness thing is just not a Nicholas family tradition. Dad said Great-aunt Wilma never let him join the Boy Scouts, because apparently she didn’t want him to learn to set fires, so Dad never learned to be the hunting/camping kind. The only time Mom likes to be out in nature is in a park with food and a blanket, so we just don’t do much in terms of roughing it.

  “It’ll be fun,” Dad insists as he maneuvers into a parking space. “I’m making up for not taking you camping when you were little.”

  “You did,” Justin says.

  Dad shakes his head as he turns off the ignition. “Well, I don’t remember that.”

  “He’s blocked it from his mind,” I announce, stooping to tie my shoe, then jogging to catch up. “Don’t you remember that father-son thing at church?”

  “That wasn’t camping,” Dad argues as we walk into the office. “We were in a cabin.”

  “There was wildlife, though,” Justin says, then winces. “Monster mosquitoes.”

  “And spiders in the shower,” Dad says, grinning. “I could barely get you to bathe that weekend.”

  “Dad, I was eleven,” Justin reminds him. “It was about the shower, not the spider.”

  “Good morning, Nicholas family.” Dr. Hoenig’s eyes crinkle with her smile. She motions us into the office, closing the door behind us. “Is it safe to say you’re a much happier group this morning than you were yesterday?”

  “He’s decided to drown us,” I tell her, and flop into the armchair closest to the door. “We’re going rafting.”

  “Ah, the TransParent trip up to Whalin Glen.” The gray-haired woman mak
es a regretful face. “I wish I could go, but there just aren’t enough hours in the day. Shall we get started? Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “We’re fine,” Dad assures her, taking his customary seat on the end of the couch.

  Maybe he’s fine. But I’m feeling stupid. How could I have forgotten about the other transgender people Dad wanted us to meet?

  Dr. Hoenig says she wants to “check in” with each of us and starts by asking Justin how he’s doing. I stay tuned out, my mood dark, as I worry pointlessly over the raft trip. There are a thousand ways to make a fool of yourself in front of strangers, and I just know I’m going to suck at rafting. What if we’re the only normal people there?

  “You’ve gotten pretty quiet, Ysabel. How are you feeling about things this morning?”

  “Fine.” I smile nervously, hoping she didn’t notice I was paying zero attention to her just now. “I’m not really awake.”

  Dr. Hoenig chuckles. “Have you had a chance to start working on your list of rights?”

  “Uh, no,” I admit, tucking my foot under my other leg. “I forgot all about that.”

  She nods, then turns to my brother. “What about you, Justin? Any thoughts yet?”

  “I’m done. First on my list is ‘The right to know what’s going on,’ ” Justin says.

  I glare. When did he have time to work on a list? “Did you just come up with that?”

  “No, I did not just come up with this,” Justin says, offended. “I thought of it yesterday when I woke up.”

  Oh. About the time I was snooping, trying to find out what was going on.

  Dad shifts on the couch. “ ‘What’s going on’ seems pretty broad. Could you be more specific?”

  “That’s a good point,” Dr. Hoenig says, and leans back in her seat. “The best thing you can do with these lists of rights is make them detailed and clear. So, Justin, you want to know what’s going on. With whom?”

  “Okay.” Justin sits forward intently. “I have the right to know what’s going on in terms of plans that affect my life, my routine, and my, uh, well-being.” Justin nods to himself. “I think that covers it.”