A Proper Young Lady

by Lianne Simon

  “Slob?” Melanie punches my shoulder with her middle knuckle. Hard.

  “Hey! That hurts.”

  “Then don’t call me names.”

  “Ow. Okay.” I rub at my arm. No doubt it will bruise. I check my face one last time, grab my purse, and head outside.

  For several blocks our path leads us beneath flowering trees and sunny skies. We cross San Amaro Drive and stroll across campus. After we turn on Granada Boulevard, Melanie stops in front of a pale yellow house. “I think this is where she lives. Mom used to bring my sister here for the meetings, and I tagged along sometimes.”

  Old memories take on a more familiar shape. Melanie’s sister has a condition similar to my own—a more complete form of androgen insensitivity that doesn’t require surgery.

  We walk up the drive and ring the bell.

  Nothing. Twice. No answer.

  “She’s not home.” I tug on Melanie’s sleeve, but she folds stubborn arms across her chest and plants herself on a bench next to the door. “We can afford a couple more minutes.”

  An hour later, a car pulls into the driveway. I fidget while the doctor parks her old Toyota and walks up the brick path toward us. “Why, Danièle! You look fabulous. And Melanie. How are you both?” She opens the front door and waves us inside. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

  After she brings us sodas and shortbread cookies, Dr. Pierson sits in a high-back chair across from me. “Last I heard, your family moved north. To Virginia. Am I right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh, don’t ma’am me. You’re all grown up now. What brings my favorite patient back here anyway?”

  “I’m getting married.”

  “Well, congratulations! I don’t suppose you dropped by just to tell me that, though.”

  “I was hoping you’d supervise my surgery.”

  “Would you prefer to discuss this in private?”

  I shoot a glance at Melanie. “She’s my support group now.”

  “Very well. What exactly were you planning to have done?”

  “I want to be normal between my legs.”

  Melanie makes a soft snorting noise. The doctor closes her eyes a moment and breathes out a muffled sigh. “I never suspected you of being unhappy with your body.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then why cut up healthy tissue?”

  “Most guys want to have intercourse.”

  “Granted. You may be able to do that without vaginal surgery, though. Why the rest?”

  Because I’m a coward. Half woman and half little boy. Pseudo-hermaphrodite—like I’m not even real. “I don’t want my husband reminded of what I am every time he sees me naked.”

  “You realize surgery may damage your ability to enjoy sex?”

  But everyone else will be happy. “I thought the procedures had improved.”

  “They have. But the surgeon will cut off most of your clitoris. Do you think the remainder will be as sensitive as what’s there now?”

  “No.” But the world requires it of me to be considered normal.

  Beyond the picture window lies blue sky and bright sunshine. Across the street, two children frolic under a sprinkler while a young woman watches. Is a family of my own too much to ask?

  A deep groan works its way up out of my soul. If I don’t have surgery, Ethan might not marry me. My parents would try to hide their feelings, but they’d be heartbroken. My psychologists all but said that a real woman gets married and raises a family. Our culture provides no place for hermaphrodites—other than as medical oddities or circus freaks.

  Dr. Pierson takes a long sip from her glass before continuing. “Have you and your boyfriend tried to have sexual relations?”

  “I’m not—” Am I so afraid of Ethan seeing my body the way it is? “No. We haven’t.”

  “Have you experimented with anyone else?”

  The blood drains from my face. What might my parents have told her?

  Dr. Pierson gets up and walks to the kitchen. She returns with a can of ginger ale and a glass of ice. “I don’t care about your sexual preferences or your gender. What concerns me is whether or not you’re making a well-informed and rational decision. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now, then. Have you had sexual contact with anyone?”

  Heat blossoms across my face. Why didn’t I come alone? “Yes. When I was young.”

  “Did your clitoris play a part in that?”

  At the edge of my vision, Melanie gapes at me, her green eyes wide. Mine blink—a slow-motion rejection of reality. “Yes.” My shoulders slump, all my energy gone.

  “Enough for now.” Dr. Pierson’s eyes gleam calm satisfaction.

  “Does that mean you’ll help?”

  “You’re certain you wish to proceed?”

  “I have to do this.”

  “Very well. I’ll line up a team. We’ll perform your surgery at the clinic.” She pulls a smart phone from her purse and hits a few buttons. “There’s an opening July 1st. We can always cancel if need be, but I’d like to get you on my calendar.”

  Nearly a month away. Time to prepare.

  Shouldn’t I be excited? They always promised that surgery would make me like other girls. Yet none of the intersex adults I’ve met are glad to have had their genitals modified—mutilated, some say. Not one.

  Dr. Pierson gathers the empty glasses and carries them to the kitchen. When she returns, she hugs us both goodbye. “Come to the clinic Wednesday at one. We’ll discuss this further. I want to make sure you’re ready.”

  Hysterical laughter bounces around inside my skull. I may cut off a bit of flesh that once gave me pleasure. For Ethan. For my parents. But I’ll never be ready.

  Melanie

  Dark clouds roll across the faded blue sky, threatening an afternoon shower. Palms trees dance a slow ballet in the wind. I grab Dani’s hand and rush down the driveway. The girl doesn’t even notice when we take a different route home.

  At Stanford Drive I pause long enough to get her attention. “You’re not the one who’s crazy, you know. It’s all these freaking people who think every girl has to look the same between her legs.”

  When Dani’s eyes rest on mine, I flinch at the despair flowing from them. “No one’s forcing me to do this, Melanie.”

  I grab the girl’s arms, shake her hard, and try not to scream. “What do you think all the psychologists are for? To help you decide between male and female—so you’ll remove your breasts or cut down your clitoris.” Heart thumping, face hot, I bite my lip to keep from swearing. “Didn’t any of those creeps ever tell you it’s okay to be intersex?”

  Dani runs her fingertips down the side of my face, like she’s calming some hysterical little kid. Her eyes grow tender. “I want to be normal. All right? If that takes surgery, well then...” Pain grows in her eyes till she turns her head away.

  There’s gotta be a way to reach you. “Has Dr. Pierson ever gone back on her word?”

  “No. Why?”

  “She promised to arrange your surgery. Isn’t there anything you’d like to do now that the gender police aren’t watching?”

  Her lips slow-morph into a smile. “Will you teach me to ride a motorbike?”

  I flash her a teasing grin. “Isn’t mine off-limits?”

  Some of the old Dani—the high-spirited tomboy I so loved—shines past the barrettes and makeup. “How much does a dirt bike cost?”

  Motocross or not, she’d still have to drive it on the road. “Honda makes a street-legal 250. With a helmet and all—about four grand new.”

  She purses her lips and appears to reconsider. “That’s a lot for something I’d only use for six weeks—ten at the most.”

  “Wouldn’t you keep it?”

  Her face turns sullen. “Mum says a proper young lady doesn’t ride motorbikes.”

  Guess I’m not one then, huh? How many other things is Dani giving up in the name of being a woman?

  We walk on in
silence. When she turns to me again, the tender concern in her eyes surprises me. “Are you who you want to be?”

  Me? My gut sends a quiet snicker up my throat. Hardly. The stupid bike keeps my hands rough and my nails chipped. All the money I get I spend on parts. Would I rather be a princess like Danièle? Well, yeah. Who wouldn’t?

  After the Welles family moved away, rumors about the two of us spread. Without Dani’s friendship and encouragement, I went from wearing flowers in my hair to swearing and having fistfights with the bullies. All the taunts of the past five years sweep over me in an emotional tsunami. I try to hide my tears, but Dani pulls me close and holds me. “It’s all right. Be whoever you want. You’re still my friend.”

  I push away and start walking again—as much to flee the memories as to get home. When Dani catches up, she grabs my hand and pulls me to a stop. “Let’s find a used motorbike. All right?”

  “Okay. Yeah. Tommy will know where to get the best deal.” A smile creeps back across my lips. Even if the girl isn’t serious, she distracted me long enough for the emotions to fade. Okay, so she might still be my friend.

  “Tommy?”

  “Yeah. Some guy I met at a motocross event Dad took me to last year.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Nah. Just somebody I hang out with.”

  As we cross San Amaro Drive, a car pulls out of my driveway. The house is still too far away to do more than guess what they wanted. I pick up the pace a little.

  “What’s up?” With her longer stride, Dani has no trouble keeping up.

  “Dunno. A delivery maybe.”

  We’re still a block from my home when I recognize something in our front yard—one of those fancy real estate signs on a wooden post. Selling the house can only mean one thing—Dad’s not coming home. “No!” A wave of adrenaline pushes me into a sprint that leaves my lungs burning and my heart pounding. “I told you not to go.”

  “Melanie!” Dani catches up a breath later and grabs my arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “Yeah. For Sale. Stupid leaflets and all.” I throw myself against the post, but it won’t budge, so I beat at the sign with my hands till Dani grabs my shoulders and yanks me backwards.

  “Stop it!” She seizes me in a tight embrace before I can take a swing at her.

  “He has to come home.” My anger shatters. I press my eyelids closed to hold back the torrent of grief. Adrenaline fades and leaves my body trembling. After my diaphragm spasms end and my heart settles down, Dani releases me.

  The girl studies my face, the way she used to when we were little, like she can read my thoughts there. Dani appears about to lecture me, but only shakes her head. “You’re bleeding.”

  Inside, I scrub my hands while Dani rifles through the drawers in the master bathroom. She returns with antibiotic ointment and some bandages.

  The girl lays a towel across my hands and places a small bag of ice on top of each one. A mother’s concern shines from her eyes. “I don’t recall you having a hissy fit before.”

  It’s called puberty. Mood swings have tormented me for so long I’ve almost gotten used to the roller coaster ride. “It’s my stupid hormone medication. Tommy calls them my bitch pills. If I’m not yelling at him, I’m crying.”

  I try to brush my runny nose against my sleeve. Dani gives me a look like I’m some disgusting little kid, grabs a paper towel from the kitchen counter, and wipes my nose and upper lip clean. I scowl at her, but tamp down my anger. “Thanks.”

  “Perhaps you should stop taking them.”

  If you were female, you’d understand.

  Pain flashes hot across Dani’s face, like she might have read my thoughts for real this time. At least I didn’t share them out loud.

  “My periods were wicked bad—cramps, bleeding, nausea. The PMS alone drove me nuts. Tommy says I was worse before I went on the pill.”

  Eyes full of concern scan my face again. She takes a quick peek at my knuckles. “I assume you’ll want help fixing dinner.”

  Both of my hands throb. “Well, yeah.” Mom is gonna kill me.

  Chapter 3

  Danièle

  After rinsing the blood stains from my blouse, I put on a new top, brush my hair, and check my makeup. Exhausted from the day’s ordeal, I collapse on Melanie’s bed. What became of the cheery—and often cheeky—ginger-haired pixie I knew?

  My phone chirps. Why do I get a message every time I have something important to think through?

  << Ethan—call me

  He answers right away. “Hey, babe. You all settled in?”

  “I am. How’s the internship going?”

  “Boring. I practically have my PhD, but they treat me like a high school freshman.”

  Ethan’s voice holds restrained anger. He’s never been the most humble man. My fiancé expects to lead. He rarely asks for anyone’s advice. Even mine. I roll my eyes at the phone. “I’m sure you’ll win them over, love.”

  “That may take some doing. How are things on your end?”

  Let’s not talk about my surgeries. “Melanie and I have been renewing our friendship. She went with me to my first doctor’s visit.”

  Silence follows a soft grunt of acknowledgment. “You can’t have children.”

  My stomach tightens. “That’s true. I don’t have a uterus. We’ll need to adopt.”

  “Can’t we use my sperm and your eggs and have someone else carry our child?”

  I explained all of this months ago. I don’t have any ovaries either. “My—” The pediatric endocrinologist called them twisted ovaries. Testes would have been more accurate, even though they gave me a feminine puberty and don’t produce sperm. “We’d need to get donor eggs as well. Is it that important? Surrogacy would be twice as expensive as adoption.”

  “Worth the cost to be certain what we’d get. And when.”

  Why are we talking about a family now? I have a year of college left to finish before becoming a mother. “Why the sudden interest in children?”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about Dad lately. He died when I was eight. I swore I’d marry young, have kids, and spend as many years with them—and my wife—as I could.”

  “And you want our children to be from your own sperm.”

  “Yeah, babe. You understand that, don’t you?”

  At times, my infertility cuts deep. “Yes, love. I do.”

  “The company also considers kids a huge plus—an indication of stability and maturity. They look for that when considering executive placement.”

  You’ve got a year left in graduate school, and you’re already planning on a vice presidency? “Where will we get the money?”

  “Don’t worry about the finances. Okay, babe? I’ll handle that. You work out the details.”

  “I guess I’ll look into surrogacy then.”

  “Thanks. You’re the best. This means a lot to me.”

  We say our goodbyes, but I stare at the phone long after he hangs up.

  Melanie pokes her head into the room. “You gonna help with supper, or what?”

  Her hands are bruised and lacerated, but most of the swelling has gone away. “Do they hurt much?”

  “Nah. Let’s use yours, though. Okay?”

  The teachers at Knox Preparatory School instructed me on home economics theory. Mum taught me how to orchestrate a banquet. I’ve never cooked an actual meal, though.

  Some of the old Melanie finds her way out as she directs my spaghetti sauce preparation. A fine line separates good-natured teasing from making fun of me, but her contagious laughter never hurts my feelings.

  I’ve just put on water for the pasta when Mrs. Fairbairn walks in the door. She rushes to embrace me. “Danièle! Welcome back to Florida. Sorry I missed you yesterday.”

  Only five years have elapsed, but the woman in front of me has aged at least a decade. Dark circles under her eyes speak of a lack of sleep. Or ill health. Perhaps both.

  My chest constricts as I remember a time—years ago—when Me
lanie lived with us for several months. Doctors treated Mrs. Fairbairn for an aggressive form of breast cancer. As her mother’s health deteriorated, Melanie became increasingly distraught. At one point she wouldn’t talk to anyone but me.

  When I glance at Melanie, her mother rests a gentle hand on my arm and whispers, “Please don’t upset her.”

  I meet the concern in her eyes and dip my head. Her daughter has enough issues.

  Melanie hands me a box of angel hair pasta. I dump it into the boiling water and start a timer. She snickers when I get out china plates instead of plastic, and again when I explain why setting spoons on the table is proper, even if no one uses them.

  Mrs. Fairbairn takes three bites of spaghetti before dropping her fork and rushing around the table. “What happened?” She removes her daughter’s bandages and examines her hands.

  “I’m okay, Mom. I ran into that stupid sign. Why are we selling the house, anyhow?”

  “I’m sorry, honey. They were supposed to wait until I’d spoken with you.” Mrs. Fairbairn returns to her seat and pokes at her spaghetti. “I’m sending you to a private school in September, and we have to pay the expenses somehow. I’ll stay with Beatrice and Fred.”

  “But Dad...”

  “Honey, you know your father’s not coming home.”

  Melanie drops her glass and bounces up out of her chair. “Liar! He is so.” Her eyes blaze, and her whole body trembles for a moment before she bolts for the door.

  I set down my fork and stare at Mrs. Fairbairn.

  What should I do?

  Melanie

  Dad promised to retire from the military after one final tour in Afghanistan. Six months later, some guy comes to the door and tells us my father died a hero.

  Who cares about them or their crummy war, anyhow? Weren’t two tours enough? I begged him not to go.

  Dad said he loved us, but he had a duty to perform.

  Now we’re all alone.

  I climb on his motorcycle and slump against the garage wall. What will I do without his hugs and his stories and his motorcycle rides?

  The icy numbness wears off, and my hands wake up again. My throbbing right thumb remains swollen, like I mighta sprained the thing. I flash a scowl at the real-estate sign and show it that my middle finger still functions perfectly.