by Lianne Simon
Fred welcomes me with a hug. “Sorry things didn’t work out. You’re welcome to stay with us as long as you need to.”
After I unpack my things, I grab a towel from the linen closet and head for the guest bath. A torrent of steam and soap lather and water washes away the grime, but leaves me more weary than I’ve been in months.
Dani got their seamstress to do a maternity makeover on my favorite pair of jeans. I slip them on, along with an oversized sweatshirt, and sneak into the living room to watch the guys build their fort out of chairs, blankets, and cushions from the couch.
My sister pokes her head into the room. “Mom would like to see you.”
“Okay?” Why didn’t she pick me up?
Beatrice swallows. Her eyes flick away for an instant.
Oh, God. No! I struggle to my feet, sway, and follow her to Mom’s room.
I saw that nightmare image of my mother once before. She clung to life for months while cancer and chemotherapy battled for her body. But I had Dani to comfort me then. You’re not gonna make it this time, and neither will I.
From her bed, my mother stretches a bony hand toward me. “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t want you to see me this way.”
Mom seems translucent—like some ghost who can’t fully materialize. Her skin is pale, a little off color, and thin as paper. My mother’s beautiful ginger hair is gone. She doesn’t even have eyebrows or eyelashes. She’s halfway morphed into some alien. Yet serenity hides behind the pain in her eyes.
This is why you sold the house and sent me away. Why you encouraged me to get pregnant. My legs quiver. “You’re beautiful, Mom. Not even chemo can take that from you.”
Darkness floods in. I sink to my knees and rest my head against her shoulder.
Breathe.
“Please don’t leave me, Mom.”
The terminal reality of her cancer permeates everything. My mother’s weary eyes. Her rasping breath. The acrid stench of chemicals seeping from her pores. Death hovers over her, like some angel with dark wings ready to snatch her away—away from me.
“Dad can’t need you as bad as I do, Mom.”
“You’ll have your babies, honey,” she says. Her fingers press against mine, faint as the touch of a butterfly’s wing. “Hold my hand against my grandchildren, will you?”
I slip my jeans down past my baby bump and press Mom’s hand against my bare abdomen.
The ghost of a smile touches my mother’s eyes and lips. “May the good Lord bless you all the days of your lives.”
A muscle twitches. Or one of the babies moves. Does it matter? Too weak for Mom to feel. Mom’s fingers press a breath harder. “The babies aren’t Ethan’s?”
“No.”
“She really did it, then.” Her hand relaxes, and her eyes close. I kiss her forehead and turn to go.
Did what?
Beatrice dims the lights. “I’m sorry. She has so little energy these days.”
Nausea ambushes me outside the bedroom door. I run to the bathroom, kneel in front of the bowl, and heave till my gut cramps and my head threatens to explode.
Breathe.
Why?
A cramp twists my abdomen. I lean back against the door frame, press my eyelids closed, and will my muscles to relax.
“You okay?” Beatrice stands above me.
Another muscle twitches. I hold my breath against the pain.
Breathe.
“My stomach’s kinda messed up. You got crackers or something?”
She brings me a couple of slices of toast, some graham crackers, and a glass of water.
Thirty minutes later, I push myself upright, stumble back to the boys’ room, and collapse on Joey’s bed. Echoes of soft muscle contractions ripple through the gloom. I bury my face in a pillow and breathe through my mouth till the spasms fade.
Chapter 18
Danièle
Despair chases me through the manor. I flee to Mum’s garden—the one place no one will bother me. Not at night, anyway. The cold silence envelopes me while I wait for my eyes to adjust.
The wind picks up as I walk the stone pathway around the pond to the grove. In the west lies darkness. Far above, the first clouds of a storm front struggle against the bright glow of a full moon.
Beams of soft light dance along the garden pathways, a slow waltz of shifting grey and blue shadows. Only the great trees remain forever black, their silhouette arms swaying in time to the quiet beat of the cold wind.
On the far side of the garden, beneath the ancient walnut tree, my bench awaits. The bare branches of a weeping willow—once my childhood friend—urge me away, but I duck beneath their grasping arms and push on through dormant maiden grass to take a seat.
The moon—obscured now and then by storm-driven clouds—hangs above the garden and casts a dim reflection across the water. In the distance, Victoria Springs Manor sleeps in quiet contentment.
My heart yearns for Melanie. For her gentle touch. Her winsome smile.
The rain begins as an occasional splash in the pond and builds to a steady rustle in the treetops. The music it makes brings me a measure of peace.
Drops filter through the branches and plop on my skirt. Run down my leg. Patter against my cheek. I lean my head against the trunk and let my mind drift.
By the time I open my eyes again, the clouds have dispersed, leaving behind a sprinkling of diamonds across the heavens. God promised Abraham his descendants would outnumber the stars. Two children would have been sufficient for me, but even they have fallen from the sky.
“Danièle?” My mother’s voice drifts across the darkness.
A deep sigh shudders out before I answer. “I’m out here, Mum.”
When we first moved to Virginia, the limbs of the old walnut were my place of refuge from an often cruel world. Proper young ladies don’t climb trees, though, so I sit on the bench below. Only my mother would think to look out here for me now.
“I’d like a word with you before you retire.”
“All right, Mum. I’ll join you in a moment.” One more glance at the stars, and I head back to the house.
We often gather in the kitchen for snacks and informal conversation. Only silence greets me there.
More serious mother-daughter chats concerning etiquette, fashion, and romance we hold in Mum’s inner sanctum—her sitting room. With patience and a pleasant smile, Mum taught Miss Danièle Aileana Welles poise and manners there. Acid bubbles in my stomach when I find it dark and lonely.
After a wistful glance at the place associated with so many fond memories, I head downstairs again.
Before I convinced Mum I wanted to be a refined young woman, we met in the den. The massive stone fireplace, the animal trophies, the antique sporting equipment—the room at one time fascinated me. Finding Mum waiting there strikes like a willow branch across my back side.
She glances up at me and looks away. “You know your condition was inherited.”
“Yes, Mum.” I sit in the high-back chair across from her and pull my legs up under me.
A distant pain flows from her eyes. “I had an older sister once—Veronica.”
I never considered the familial aspect of my condition. Mum’s an only child—or so I thought. My heart throbs in my throat as I wait for her to continue.
“The doctors performed surgery on her when she was an infant. Making her genitals more feminine was supposed to fix everything. She was never to know, and they said that if her family never doubted her gender, she wouldn’t either.”
Surgery, secrecy, and shame—the pillars of intersex treatment since the early 1950s—and a miserable failure. You can’t hide that sort of thing from a child.
Mum’s eyes bore deep into my soul. “She never quite fit in as a girl. Veronica was your age when she took her life.” Something I’ve never seen in Mum’s eyes appears then—fear.
You’re terrified I’ll do the same. “That’s why you wouldn’t let them operate on me.”
“And why we neve
r pressure you about your gender.”
True—they always said the choice between blue and pink belonged to me. But their joy grew at my success as a young lady and withered the few times I mentioned being a boy. Only Melanie ever liked the idea of my being Daniel.
“Veronica fell in love toward the end—a rather scandalous affair, at least in the eyes of our parents.”
“So you moved back to England.”
“Yes.” Mum studies my face for a moment before continuing. “You know how proud we are of you, Danièle, but if you ever decide to be our son instead of our daughter, your father and I will support you. Even now.”
What if I just want to be me? “Thanks, Mum. I’m well content with my gender.” I rise and kiss her on the cheek. “I’d better pack for school.” And call Melanie.
“Don’t worry about Miss Fairbairn, sweetheart. Randolph will see to her expenses until someone adopts the babies.”
“They’re my children, Mum, and I don’t intend to abandon them. Or her.” I leave before she can object and rush outside into the moonlight. To my safe haven under the ancient oak.
I hope for some word from Melanie—a text or an email. I click on her number, but my call goes directly to voice-mail.
I wait. And dial again. Until the battery fades, and I’m left alone in darkness.
Melanie
A wayward raindrop splashes against my nose. Gloomy clouds threaten more. My heart longs for the warmth of Florida sunshine. For a motorcycle ride with Dad. Or a walk on the beach with Mom. And for Daniel. Yeah. Especially for him.
He’s not coming back. Not him. Not Dad. And whatever Beatrice says, Mom’s dying.
The phone vibrates in my coat pocket. Why even carry the stupid thing? If Dani calls, I’m not gonna answer. But it might be my sister. I pull out my cell and check the number. Nope. Not her. A Virginia area code. Not Dani. Not Mrs. Welles. Cooper, maybe. Kinda miss him. But he’d only wanna talk about Dani. I shove the phone back into my pocket.
A dozen people stand in line at the coffee shop, so I plop down into a chair and wait.
One of the babies kicks. I spread my fingers over her. “I love you, even if nobody else does.”
A young girl wanders over to me and presses her hand against my belly. “You have a baby in your tummy?”
“Two.” I move her hand a little more to one side. “The boy’s right here.”
“What’s his name?”
I have no idea. “Patrick.” Yeah. After Dad. And the girl after Gramms. What’s Mom gonna think about that? I shift the kid’s hand to my other side. “Ellie’s over here.”
Some lady finally realizes her daughter’s loose. “Janet! Leave the woman alone.”
The kid’s lips twitch. She delays a moment before speeding away.
The line fizzles out, so I buy a coffee and a hot cocoa and start back to my sister’s place. To watch my mother die. Another call comes in, but I don’t bother to see who it is.
Danièle
Thick darkness gives way to the dull red glow of morning as we cross I-295 coming into Richmond. Traffic is light—more so than usual. Not much longer, and we’ll be at the university.
Cooper remains quiet for most of the drive, apparently unwilling to risk another argument. Just as well—my heart aches to be away from everyone—everyone but Melanie.
He pulls as close to the dorm as campus security will allow before retrieving my suitcase.
I give him a goodbye hug, then pull the keys out of my purse. “I’m sorry. What I said was out of line.”
“Forget it.” He nods acceptance and turns to leave.
I ease the door open, but the hinges squeal and wake my roommate. Grace sits up and rubs at her eyes. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
Not lately. “It’s seven. When’s your first class?”
“Not until ten. How’d your weekend go?”
I lift my suitcase onto the bed and start unpacking. “Can I trust you?”
The intensity of her laugh startles me. “Of course not. But you already do.”
Grace has never revealed anything I said in confidence. Her eyes proclaim the truth of that. And a touch of surprise at her own innocence.
“Melanie’s gone. While I was sick in bed, Ethan sent her away. I didn’t find out until it was already too late.”
“Have you spoken with her?”
“She doesn’t answer my calls.”
“She’s that pissed at you?”
“No. She retreats when she’s hurt.”
“I’m sorry. And Ethan sounded like such a nice guy. What happened?”
“He realized the babies aren’t his.”
Grace snorts. “Sorry.” She holds up an index finger, hops out of bed, and punches the start button on our coffeemaker. “I can see this is gonna get complicated. Let me shower and dress before we continue. Okay?”
“Sure.” I pull out my cell and check for messages before calling Melanie’s number again.
No answer.
My first class isn’t until mid-afternoon. Nothing to do but sit around and go crazy worrying about her.
You wouldn’t abort our kids, would you? No. But you might give up on life and take them with you. A long sip of coffee calms my nerves not a bit. I don’t want to lose you.
“So who’s the father?” Grace asks.
“I am. The lab harvested spermatogonia—sperm precursors—from my gonadal biopsies.”
“Sweet. Were you gonna keep that a secret?”
“The time never seemed right.”
“Tell me about it. So what now?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
Chapter 19
Melanie
A mist settles across Steve Reynolds Boulevard. Yellow auras dance around fuzzy headlights. Nobody slows down. Not one car in the blind madness of dusk. Not in the cold rain. Not for a pregnant girl with her hands full. Not in Atlanta.
I snicker when the phone in my pocket rings. Probably Dani again.
Water pools between the sidewalk and the street. I step through the ankle-deep chill, then hurry across the road between two cars. By the time I get home, every bone in my body trembles from the cold.
Beatrice pulls the door open for me. “You’re gonna lose the babies if you don’t take care of yourself.” Her eyes scream at me, but she speaks in a soft whisper and drapes a towel around my shoulders. Fred looks on with concern.
I set her mocha on the counter, drop my wet hoodie on the floor, and wander back to Mom’s room.
The pain has fled my mother’s face, leaving behind a pale contentment. And utter silence. I wrap my hands around my hot chocolate, and slump in the chair beside her.
Breathe, Mom. Please. I don’t wanna be alone.
“Is that cocoa?” The faintest whisper tickles my ears. Mom turns her head and grimaces her death-smile at me.
“Yeah.” I get some pillows and help her sit upright enough to take a sip. By now there’s no chance of her getting burned. So I perch beside her on the bed and hold the cup to her lips.
My sister pokes her head into the room. “Melanie, she shouldn’t have—never mind. You up for some soup, Mom?”
The barest nod sends Beatrice scurrying out of the room. She returns a few minutes later with a cup of thick broth, barely warm.
Mom swallows a few mouthfuls, smiles at me again, and closes her eyes.
Chills hit me then, like I’m still outside in the cold rain. Alone. “I need somebody to hold me, Mom.”
My mother’s eyes flutter open. Her lips tremble quiet understanding. She presses my hand once, the feather-light touch of a mother’s love.
You weren’t supposed to hear that.
I make my way to the bathroom, shed my clothes, and climb into the shower. After who knows how long, the hot water runs cold, so I dry off, put on my sweats, and climb into bed.
Beatrice turns on the lights before I get to sleep. “You need to eat something.”
What for? But I follow her into the kitchen and war
m my stomach with the stew and garlic rolls she sets in front of me. Fred and the little guys stare like I might fall over dead. I squeeze out a half-smile for them. Maybe I won’t puke tonight.
Does it matter? Well, yeah. If I wanna keep the babies.
Danièle
Restless yearning for Melanie and our children haunts my first night back at school. The next day, concern for their welfare displaces rational thought of anything else.
Winter sun pushes through the blinds and dances across my pillow. I roll over, close my eyes, and chase in vain an elusive moment of sleep.
The aroma of fresh coffee drags me out of my stupor. Grace must have started the coffee maker on her way out the door. I pour myself a cup, pull out my phone, and stab at Randy’s number.
“Yes?” His voice cracks, like he might have been awake all night.
“I need some confidential advice.”
“Marry the girl.”
I spray scalding-hot liquid across the floor. Most unladylike.
My uncle never jokes. Ever. I wander over to the refrigerator, temper my coffee with a spot of milk, and find a washcloth to wipe up the mess. “Somehow I don’t think Mum would approve.”
“You’re a big girl now, Danièle.”
“Actually, I was calling regarding my children and the trust.” Back on the bed again, I take a pleasant sip to calm my nerves.
“Is the engagement off?”
“Let’s just say I want contingency plans.”
“All right. If you’re not going to marry Ethan, you need to terminate the surrogacy agreement and let Melanie put the babies up for adoption.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Having a child while single disqualifies you from further participation in the trust. Sorry, but your great-grandfather was a stickler for such things. Once married, you and Ethan are free to adopt, but only natural offspring become heirs.”
“The trust doesn’t recognize surrogacy?”
“Only when the progeny’s related to both husband and wife. Sorry, but the old man didn’t foresee having an intersex great-grandchild.”
“What if I were the biological father?”
Nothing disturbs the silence but the beating of my heart. I sip the cold remains of my coffee and wait.
