A Proper Young Lady

by Lianne Simon

  “Thanks for teaching me.” In his own way, Tommy’s been an effective instructor.

  The breeze shifts direction. Raindrops pelt the windscreen. For a while the air cools, and the sun hides behind grey clouds. I take a deep breath of the tropical fragrances and smile sweet contentment.

  Tommy says he has an important errand, so he drops us off in front of the Fairbairn home, tips his hat, and screeches on down the road. With Melanie’s helmet in one hand, I follow her inside.

  Moments later, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and survey the damage. Small bruises dot the insides of my knees and ankles, where they bumped against the motorbike’s frame. A larger bruise along my thigh came from grazing a stump. No need to mention that to anyone.

  A single hour on a motorbike, and weird muscles in my hands and legs cramp. Even some in my shoulders.

  A layer of fine dust clings to me. Grime streaks my chin. Dirt crusts near my hairline and around my nostrils. An uninvited snicker bursts from my gut. Not the most feminine I’ve ever looked. Mum would not approve. Young ladies simply do not wrestle with pigs—or ride motorbikes.

  After a quick shower, I wipe Melanie’s jacket clean and hand it back to her. “Thanks. Freedom was grand while it lasted.”

  “We can go again whenever you’d like.”

  “I’m sorry, but tomorrow I apologize to Dr. Pierson. Perhaps she’ll change her mind about the surrogacy once I’ve recovered from—”

  The phone rings—what else? I collapse on the bed, grab my cell, and thumb connect. “Are you there?”

  “Hi, Danièle. Dr. Pierson. Do you have a moment?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’d like to speak with you. In person. Are you free this afternoon?”

  “Yes. Should I come to your house?”

  “Please. Alone, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll leave right away.”

  Melanie looks up from pulling on her jeans. “Where’re you goin’?”

  “Dr. Pierson’s.”

  “I’ll tag along.” She grabs a T-shirt from her dresser and slips it over her head.

  “She wants me to come alone.”

  “Well, yeah. The bad guys always say that.”

  For a moment, I think she’s serious. “Look, if I’m not back in two hours, send in the cavalry.”

  “Deal.”

  Melancholy, uncertainty, and hope follow me to the doctor’s house. Has she changed her mind about surrogacy?

  Dr. Pierson answers the door right away. “Thank you for coming.”

  The smell of tea caresses my nose as I enter the house. I slide into one of the doctor’s high-back chairs and force myself to relax.

  She disappears into the kitchen and returns with a tray. “I believe Darjeeling’s your favorite?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” How did you know?

  Iced tea—a sip proves it Southern hospitality sweet.

  The doctor’s eyes grow serious. “The most important thing a physician can do for any patient is help them make informed and rational decisions regarding treatment. I’ve failed you and would like to ask your forgiveness.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Rather than inform you of your surrogacy options, I dismissed your request out of hand. I’m sorry.”

  “Does that mean you’ll help us?”

  “Once you understand your choices, I’ll leave the final decision to you.”

  “Thank you. Please accept my apology for being rude.”

  “All right.” Dr. Pierson swirls the tea in her glass and takes a long drink. “Knowing what to share with a patient—and when—can be difficult. I detest keeping secrets, and—well—now that you’re old enough, I want to point out something from your Virginia medical records.”

  What are you talking about?

  “The histology report on your gonadal biopsies—back when they thought you might have cancer—indicated the presence of spermatogonia. Sperm precursors. We should be able to harvest some from your testes and use them to fertilize Melanie’s eggs.”

  For several heartbeats my mind refuses to process anything at all. Sperm? Me?

  Testes in a woman—that’s the nature of intersex—a mixture of the sexes.

  If I were male, Melanie and I would get married.

  Why didn’t I know this five years ago? Would it have made any difference? I still wouldn’t have given up my breasts.

  I’m surprised they didn’t remove my testes when they found out.

  “I wouldn’t make a very masculine man.”

  Dr. Pierson fills my glass again. “I’m not suggesting you try. You assured me that you’re content with your body and your gender. I see no reason to change either.”

  Melanie can have my baby. My baby.

  “But me father a child? That’s asking a bit much of Ethan.”

  “Perhaps. Will you try to keep this a secret from him, then?”

  Ethan already understands I’m intersex. At least in his head. If I hide my fertility from him, and he finds out—what then? Relationships can’t be based on lies.

  “No.” My fiancé has a right to know.

  “If he’s upset with your fertility, will you give up your testes to marry him?”

  “No. I don’t think so.” Losing them would mean taking estrogen or testosterone for the rest of my life. Too many women with my condition have osteoporosis, weight gain, depression, or other issues after castration. He’ll understand.

  “And the clitoral reduction?”

  My little post he’d see every day. “For now, let’s plan on that. Can I let you know for certain sometime before surgery?”

  “Yes. The day you sign your releases. The more time you take to consider your options, the better.”

  Dr. Pierson reaches into her desk drawer and retrieves a pamphlet. “The ethics of assisted reproduction are complex. And contested. This brochure summarizes some of the more popular arguments.”

  “Thanks. I’ll go over this with Melanie.” I slip the paper into my purse.

  “Some clinics will do selective reduction of fetuses after implantation. We don’t.”

  “That’s fine.” I pull Randy’s card from my wallet and hand it to Dr. Pierson. “My uncle’s an attorney. Would you call him with any requirements you have for the surrogacy? And tell him what we should do to protect Melanie?”

  “Certainly. Will you be the sperm donor?”

  To have a child of my own—something I’ve longed for most of my life—how can I throw that away? Ethan accepts my being intersex—that I have XY chromosomes, and testes in my abdomen rather than ovaries and uterus. Ethan might even accept that I’m fertile as a male. In theory. But like my clitoris, my child would be a daily reminder of how different I am. Caution reasserts control. “No. Assume Ethan will be the father.” No sense in shoving it in his face.

  “Once you’ve both signed the contract, have Melanie call for an appointment. I’ll see you next week.”

  As I walk back across campus, my mind fails to make sense of my life. In the past month, I’ve returned from a year of college in England, accepted a marriage proposal, and arranged the surgery I always dreaded. Now the idea of Melanie having my baby spreads like wildflowers across a meadow in the spring.

  Intersex didn’t make my need to bear children any less urgent than any other woman’s. Heedless of my infertility, I dreamed of being pregnant with Ethan’s baby. Years ago, my imagination carried me off to another world, where I was Melanie’s husband. Closer now, but still a hopeless fantasy.

  I find Melanie waiting for me on the front step of her house. “Well?”

  “She’s agreed to help us.”

  Melanie lets out a screech and flings her arms around my neck. Mischief shines from her eyes. “How soon do we—you know—to get me pregnant?”

  Rational thought flees, like I’m a schoolboy asking a pretty girl for a date. My cheeks burst into flames. Brilliant. Just brilliant. More than anything, my heart wants to a
sk her to have my baby. Not Ethan’s. Mine. Right now. Here on the doorstep. No other girl has ever done that to me.

  Mischief remains, but wonder and tenderness widen Melanie’s eyes.

  I close mine for a deep breath and gather the scattered bits of my reason. “My uncle has to draw up a contract for us. Then you can make an appointment to start IVF.”

  She smiles at my discomfort. “I imagine sometimes that things were different. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

  “We can’t live in dreams.” I ease away from her and retreat into the house. How am I going to hold my sanity together long enough to marry Ethan?

  Chapter 7

  Melanie

  A series of chirps drags me out of a pleasant dream. I fumble through the stuff on my shelf for my phone.

  << Tommy—u up? repeated a dozen times.

  I am now. I thumb my response and toss the phone back on the shelf. What does he want at four-thirty in the morning?

  The phone chirps again.

  << Tommy—at the door.

  A quick peek through the blinds tells me nothing. I jerk on a robe and meander out into the kitchen to put on coffee. Way too early.

  A soft knock brings me back from sleep. Tommy’s face smiles at me through the sidelight window. I yank the door open. “What’s up?”

  His eyes track the coffee aroma to its source. I wave him inside and pour him a cup. Cream. No sugar. He gulps down the hot brew. “Thanks. Boss wants me to haul some junk to Orlando. Can I leave the bike here and pick it up tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  He empties his cup and strides out the door. After he unloads the motorcycle, he walks back into the house and hands me the keys. “Just don’t leave the tank empty. Okay?”

  “Yeah. Sweet.” I pull the door closed, pour myself a cup, and plop down into a chair to contemplate life.

  Around seven, Dani yawns her way into the kitchen. “You’re up early,” she says.

  I dangle the keys in front of the girl’s face. “Tommy left his motorcycle here for the day. You wanna go riding?”

  The struggle on her face almost brings me to laughter.

  A proper young lady doesn’t ride a motorbike. Yeah, right. Enough of the old Dani—the human one—survives to win that battle.

  She fidgets through breakfast, impatient to be out, and puts up with wearing my dad’s leathers again.

  When she’s ready, I show her how to start the bike. “This is the gas cutoff. Fork lock. Ignition. Kill switch.” I roll the motorcycle out to the street. “Stay on Baracoa, okay? That stop sign’s Alhambra Circle. The next one’s San Amaro Drive. It’s busy, so turn around before you get there. Come back here and start over again. Okay?”

  “All right.” Dani glows, like I’m her mom and just gave her permission to ride her bicycle down the street.

  “And chill, okay? Getting killed on a stupid motorcycle wouldn’t be very ladylike.”

  She nods, turns her pretty little head both ways, and tears off down the street. I snag a lawn chair from the back yard, shake the dirt and spiders and stuff off, and set it up under the tree closest to the road. No way am I gonna let her ride without somebody watching.

  An hour later, the engine sputters and goes quiet somewhere down near San Amaro. Out of gas? Yeah. Guess so. Tommy wouldn’t have checked the tank before loaning out his bike. I jog down the street and meet Dani heading back. “Loan me the helmet, and I’ll go fill the tank.”

  I straddle the seat, switch to reserve, and start the bike again. “Should be back in fifteen minutes.” Tommy always goes to the same station. He never has any issues with water or dirt in the gasoline there. No way am I gonna risk making the boy mad just to save a few pennies. How much does two and a half gallons cost anyhow?

  Puffy white clouds drift across the blue sky, like a lazy flock of sheep. The forecast calls for more of the same all day, with a quick shower here and there. Nice beach day for two fair-skinned girls. Anyhow, I’m not gonna camp out in a stupid lawn chair all day while she rides the motorcycle back and forth.

  When I coast up the driveway, Dani opens the front door and waits for me to park the bike. “What’s the plan?” she says.

  “You got a swimsuit?”

  She cranes her neck, like the answer’s written across the sky or something. “Yes. And sunscreen.”

  “Great. Suit up. We’ll grab lunch somewhere and head to the beach. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Two towels, extra sunscreen, bottled water—I stick that and Dani’s handbag into my backpack and hand the bundle to Dani.

  Our first pass around the block is to see what kind of passenger the girl makes and find out how Tommy’s motorcycle handles the extra weight. Dunno what I expected, but his bike’s pretty lame. We aren’t gonna be drag racing anybody. Dani, however, musta been born on a motorcycle—her balance is perfect.

  We stop at a little seafood joint along the way—the only place I know that serves conch fritters. Our helmets draw a few odd looks, but the fried shrimp and other stuff taste yummy.

  On the way out of the restaurant, Dani gives me puppy eyes. Let me drive, they plead.

  “On the way back, okay? Let’s see what traffic’s like.”

  Even without a passenger, taking a dirt bike on South Dixie Highway would be nuts. No way we’re going to Miami Beach or Crandon Park. Matheson Hammock, then.

  We spend the next half hour exploring the two lane drives leading south and east toward the park. Shade trees stand guard over most of the neighborhood streets. Outstretched limbs join above the pavement.

  I park the bike, and we find a spot on the white sandy beach surrounding the atoll pool. There, I strip off my T-shirt and jeans and slather another coat of sunscreen across my freckled skin. “You gonna go swimming?”

  “Wading.” She gathers her hair up under the old floppy hat I loaned her.

  “If you meet a crocodile, don’t harass him. They’re protected.”

  She grins like she thinks I’m kidding. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The girl sports a two-piece navy blue swimsuit—a cute halter top with a miniskirt bottom. Even with her hair all tucked up under her hat, her demeanor suggests a model waiting for her photographer to arrive. Dani’s boyish figure has given way to feminine curves. Why does that bother me? Isn’t that supposed to happen to girls—even some intersex ones?

  Well, yeah. Her body converts a little of her testosterone to estrogen. And the girl’s got plenty of testosterone.

  I roll over and let my back absorb some rays. Warm grows too hot fast. I get up and shield my eyes. Not a cloud in the blue sky. Beads of sweat leave tiny salt trails across my skin.

  When Dani returns, I wade out into the cool water. Bright reflections off the surface whisper their warning—a reminder of how little exposure will burn me. I wander back to shore and don my T-shirt and jeans again. Enough sun for one day.

  “Are we leaving?” Dani brightens at the prospect. Her face expresses no regret as she dresses and packs away our towels. She grins when she hands me the backpack.

  Yeah. Your turn. “Mind if we drive past the Biltmore Hotel?”

  “Not at all. Why?”

  “Mom and I always dreamed of staying there. I don’t think we ever will now.”

  Out of the park, we turn north on Old Cutler Road. Heavy traffic, no passing—not the greatest place for small motorcycles. I signal Dani to take the first left. Hammock Lakes Drive cuts through to Southwest 52nd Avenue. Much safer—the few impatient drivers we encounter zip right on by us.

  After a few miles, we turn left on South Alhambra Circle. The speed limit drops to twenty-five, but it isn’t like we’re in any hurry. A lazy drive takes us to Ponce De Leon Boulevard. I wave as we zip past Dr. Pierson’s house on our way up Granada. By that time, Dani has demonstrated her ability to handle traffic. The girl drives better than I do.

  The tower on the Biltmore rises in the distance as we turn on Anastasia Avenue. I motion for Dani to turn
on Columbus Boulevard and park on the grass beside the street.

  The girl pulls off her helmet and sets it on the tank in front of her. “Shall we take a tour?”

  “No.” I slide off the bike and stroll closer to Anastasia. “What a wondrous sight. A palace hidden away in Coral Gables.”

  “Why not go inside?”

  “Not all covered in sand and sweat.”

  “We can come back.”

  “Maybe someday.” I force my gaze away and leave the dream behind. Time to go home.

  We head back down Granada. Traffic picks up as we approach the light at Blue Road.

  A few blocks further on, the presence of danger sends a cold tremor down my sweating back. I twist my neck around like an owl searching for prey. Nothing at all behind us. Trees line both sides of the street. No threat anywhere. Except the car approaching on Granada. Half a block away. Yeah. Gotcha, Miami-Dade. I peek around Dani to check her speed.

  Oblivious to the cop, Dani rolls the stop sign. Doesn’t everybody? The cruiser passes through the intersection before flashing his blue lights.

  My arms spasm and I scream at Dani, “Park!” The police might leave us alone if they think we’re students.

  As soon as the motorcycle stops, I slide off the back, put down the kickstand, and pull Dani from the bike. The girl yanks off her helmet. “What are you—”

  “Cops!” I hang my helmet on one of the rearview mirrors and climb on the motorcycle again.

  The officer pulls up close to us and gets out. “License and registration, please.”

  I step between Dani and the woman to hand her my license and a copy of Tommy’s registration. “Here you go, ma’am.”

  Confusion flashes across the officer’s brown eyes, but she takes my papers. Then the woman gestures at Dani and waits while the girl scrounges through her handbag.

  “This is all I have,” she says, and hands the officer a US passport.

  “No license?”

  “No, ma’am. Not yet.”

  The officer grunts exasperation and aims a finger at me. “In the passenger side.” Her eyes track me as I walk around the vehicle and open the door. She speaks with Dani for a few minutes and hands the girl something before joining me in the car. “Do you know how many kids your age I’ve scraped off the pavement?”