by Kira Harp
****
Sam sat in the back of his parents' car, his head buzzing with thoughts and feelings so complex he couldn't untangle them. Up front, his mom and dad talked in low, tired voices. They were mostly happy though. Sam could hear it in the tone of his mother's comments about how the cake was wonderful and the chicken was a little dry and you'd think Cousin Lucille would buy a new dress someday, although maybe they'd just end up burying her in that same hideous pink one. His dad just murmured agreement, and added a wistful comment about how grown up Linda looked. To which his mother replied, “At least we still have one girl at home,” with a glance at Sam in the rearview.
Sam let that comment slide through him without touching him. He was wearing a dress. What else could he expect? And the sweet, nostalgic tone of his mother's voice was nice, after how stressed she'd been these last couple of weeks.
At home, Sam followed his mother into the kitchen. It was really late, but sure enough she filled the kettle and started it. Mom's day always ended with a cup of jasmine tea. Sam got down her favorite mug and then one for himself. He put a peppermint tea bag in his own, the jasmine in hers. She gave him a tired smile. “Thanks, hon.”
Dad said, “I'm just going to walk in the garden for a bit.” He stepped out the back door, letting it swing gently shut behind him.
Mom looked fondly after him. “He's going to cry a few tears, you know. He's such a softie. No matter how happy Linda is, it's still him losing one of his girls.”
“She's not going to the moon.”
“No, but she's someone else's more than his now. That's a bit of a wrench. Happy and sad. You'll understand when you have children of your own.”
“I don't think I want kids,” Sam said quietly. In the best case scenario, his ovaries would be gone and not missed, and adoption seemed so far out of reach it might have been walking on the moon. “I'm not cut out to be a parent.”
“Well, you have a lot of years to think about it. How recently was Linda saying no one man was worth the heartache of getting serious? Life changes.”
“Yeah, it does.”
Sam watched his mother fill the cups with hot water, the steam rising in curls of herbal scent, familiar from a thousand evenings. He took his cup, holding it between his hands. His fingers felt chilled, even though the night was warm. As Mom stirred her teabag around, waiting for it to steep, he gathered his courage. Mom was calm and sentimental and happy. If not now, when?
Even so, he started off with a careful feeler. “Are you glad to have all that planning over? It seems like the mother of the bride is the one who does most of the work.”
“Well, in a way. But I did it with Linda. That's where the difference is. Men just aren't as interested in wedding stuff as women are, so the mother of the groom doesn't have the same reason to be involved.”
“I don't know,” Sam said slowly, his mind racing around trying to find a way to steer the conversation without being obvious. “I saw a show about two gay men getting married, and they seemed to be into all the details.”
“Well, that doesn't count, does it?” Mom wrinkled her nose. “That hardly applies in our family. I don't even know any gays.”
Sam snorted. “I don't know how you can say that. There were at least two gay men at that reception.” He hesitated. “Or three.” Including him, and he felt like even in this oblique way he needed to include himself.
Mom stared at him. “What... who are you talking about?”
“You don't know?” He hesitated. One of the groomsmen had hardly been subtle about it. Had the signs really slid past Mom? “I'm not going to out anybody, but trust me, you know LGBT people.”
“Well, I'm just as glad if they keep themselves to themselves. And I don't want you hanging around people like that. Anyway, the wedding was lovely and nothing spoiled it. Here, is your tea steeped? Give me your mug and I'll toss the teabag out for you.”
Sam handed over his cup and watched uncertainly as his mother pulled out the bags from both his and hers, carefully placing them into the trash where the heat wouldn't melt the plastic bag. She was fussing a bit, wiping the rims with a paper towel. Why wasn't she looking at him? Had he gone too near the bone already? Did she suspect something?
But she gave him his mug back with a fond look. “Now drink that and we should all go to bed. Thank heavens tomorrow is Sunday. We can sleep in.”
Sam sipped the mint tea, hoping it would settle his jittery stomach. He still couldn't decide whether this was an opportune moment, or a really stupid idea hatched out of stress, emotions and sleep deprivation. Speak up/stay quiet, come out/keep that comfortable closet? Except the closet was so far from comfortable that the last bit was ludicrous.
Which answered that question. “Mom, can I ask you something?'
“Sure, sweetie.”
At the last moment, he chickened out again. At least, most of the way. “Did you ever wish you had a son? Instead of just girls?”
“Oh, no. Never. I've loved having girls.”
“A son would... carry on the family name.” What a dumb thing to say. But Linda had taken her new husband's name. Maybe it would be a bribe?
“I suppose. Your dad might like that. But really, I just want some grandchildren. The name doesn't matter.”
Damn, not a good direction to go. “I really wish I was a boy.” He closed his eyes. Finally, he'd gotten that much out.
Mom said, “I guess most women do, now and then.”
That sounded casual, but with his eyes closed, Sam could hear the tension in her voice that told him Mom also knew this was more than a simple bitchfest about the downsides to being a girl.
“Not now and then. All the time. Constantly.”
“Oh, Sarah, you don't mean that.”
His eyes flew open. “The hell I don't!”
“Sarah! Language!”
“Sorry, Mom. But you don't know. You don't understand... I hate this. I hate being me. I've never liked being a girl. Remember? Remember when I was a kid, you ironed on transfers of trucks and trains on my purple T-shirts, because I loved purple but I needed them to have guy stuff on them?” It was a favorite memory, something Mom had done that made him feel warm inside, looking back.
But she stared at him with wide eyes. “You liked cars. Some girls do. That wasn't about being a boy. That was about just liking trucks.”
“No, Mom, it wasn't. Remember how you had to tell me my Christmas dress was a shirt when I was two, and let me wear pants under it, to get me into it at all?” Mom had told that story a dozen times, with a little laugh at Sam's stubbornness.
“I don't want to hear this.”
“I'm sorry. But...” He was drowning, grabbing out for a lifeline. “I'm still me, in most ways. But not the girl parts. They've never felt right. Not once. Inside, I'm a boy, not a girl.”
“I don't get it. You've had crushes on boys. I know you did. You like boys to notice you. You've never once said a girl was cute, or talked about actresses on TV.”
“I don't like girls. I do like boys. But I'm not a girl, I'm a gay guy. I like boys that way, two guys together.” Sam's breath came short and tight, rasping through his throat, burning it like acid. He blinked hard, and waited.
Mom shook her head slowly, back and forth. “No. Oh, no. You don't. No. That's just... sick. That's wrong.”
“Mom, it's not sick. It's one person in twenty. Maybe one in ten, who likes something other than straight boy-girl stuff.”
“No.”
“We have gay friends. Gay relatives. You may not know, may not see...”
“No! I don't care what kind of freaks are out there.” Mom grabbed his chin in surprisingly rough fingers, although Sam felt them trembling slightly. “Sarah Marie Johnson, stop this, right now! Do you hear me? Just stop!”
For a moment they stared into each other's eyes. Sam saw through a blur, but he thought his mother's eyes were damp too. He jerked his head, breaking her grip and stepped back. “I can stop talking about i
t. But I'll never stop thinking about it. And my name is Sam.”
“You're tired. Confused.” Mom gripped the edge of the counter behind her, knuckles white and straining. “We'll find help. Someone you can talk to. Really, Sarah, it will be all right. I'll ask Father Anderson about it. I'm sure he knows someone, a therapist. You'll see, it will be all right.”
“It will never be all right.” Even Sam could hear the defeat in his voice. Because really, how could this end well? Even if his parents were the most accepting in the world, even if they said they were behind him, there was still this damned prison of a body. Although if they would just let him try to transition, go for the hormones, start changing himself, maybe he could somehow live with this.
“Sure it will, honey.” The tremble was in Mom's voice now. “You're a lovely girl, so pretty, so talented. Everyone loves you and the boys all look at you, and it can be perfect. You need to talk to someone, we'll figure it out.”
“What if the therapist says I really am transgendered? What if they say I should be allowed to become a boy?” He bit back the gay boy part of that, because as essential as it felt, that would clearly be too much. Maybe just the trans part could be accepted. It wasn't like he'd be dating anyone, anytime soon.
“Honey, they're not going to say that. That's crazy.”
“It's not. I'm not the only trans person in the world.”
“Oh, sweetie. You're confused. I know the teen years are hard but you'll get through and have a lovely adult life as a wife and mother one day. Believe me. Believe and trust in God. Have you prayed about this?”
“I used to. I stopped.” Because the God he'd grown up with didn't seem to have a place in his heaven for the gay trans boys. Maybe that version was wrong, and God really was unconditional love, like some people said. Sam hoped it was wrong. But prayer had become ashes in his mouth, a long time ago.
“Don't give up on God, Sarah. He'll help you find a way. You need to talk to Father Anderson and reaffirm your faith. And we'll pray for you and get you help.”
“Real help, like someone who knows LGBT issues?”
“Whoever Father Anderson recommends. Someone who can make you feel like the beautiful girl you truly are. Really, look at you. You're a girl. You have...” Her hands made a cupping motion. “Um, a bustline, a lovely figure.”
“I hate it! I hate them.” Sam fisted the front of his dress. “I want to cut the damned things off.”
And that was clearly too much truth. His mother's eyes went huge, and then narrowed sharply. “Sarah, we are not talking about this any more. I hear your father coming. I forbid you to mention this. Don't you dare spoil today for him too! You hear me?”
Dad pulled open the back door. “Hear what?”
“Sarah's tired, and I'm just sending her to bed. Right now, honey.” There was steel in her tone.
Sam gave up. How could he fight this? “Okay.”
“We'll talk again. Another time. We'll figure out how to make you happy, okay?”
“Sure, Mom.”
Dad glanced back and forth between them, then came and gave Sam a hug. “Why so somber? This is a good thing, a good change.”
It took Sam an instant to realize Dad meant Linda and the wedding. He hugged back, clinging to the masculine bulk and warmth of his father. “I know. It's fine.”
He could tell Dad was looking at Mom over his shoulder. “It's not like we're losing a daughter, we're gaining a son.”
Sam buried a sob against the collar of Dad's jacket, and managed to pull back and turn away. “I'm going to bed. G'night.”
“Good night, honey,” Mom called after him. “Sleep well.”
Sleep well. Right.
His room was sanctuary and prison. He pulled the door shut and locked it, looking around. This was a guy's room, wasn't it? How could his mother not see that? There were solid dark colors in the curtain and bedspread he'd sewn for himself. Very nice and masculine. Was it the sewing that had branded him as a girl? Did the sports posters of half-naked guys confuse things? Couldn't a gay guy have those, and the fake-tiffany glass shade on the desk lamp?
He wandered the room, touching his things. He was a guy. He'd known it forever. Maybe not the most butch guy in the world. He hated boxing, and didn't care about guns and violent movies one way or the other. He'd tried not to worry about his choices, tried to tell himself that he fit into the range of gay boys perfectly well. But did he?
Sam closed his eyes. Was there just a moment when he'd seen Linda's joy, when she'd kissed her new husband and tossed that bouquet, and Sam had almost reached for it, reached for what Linda had? Was there still some part of him that liked the girly stuff? He hated that he questioned everything these days. Every time some woman reading gay romance said everyone thought she was a gay guy in a female body, Sam winced inside. Was that him? Just playing with the idea, deluded, because he liked the idea of gay guys together? Did every woman wish sometimes that she had a cock and could have fast, hard, guy sex?
He tugged at the neckline of the dress he still wore, suddenly angry at himself and everyone and everything. He pulled harder and the dress gave a little. Somewhere in the back, a seam popped and it loosened enough to shove it halfway down. He fought the filmy, clinging fabric, ripping and tearing, trying to wreak destruction on it. For all its gossamer appearance, it was tougher than it looked, and he only managed to open a row of stitches, and loosen the skirt at the waist. Panting, his face damp with tears, he grabbed the scissors off the desk and snipped at it. His cuts were wild and blind, uncaring about underwear or flesh or anything but destroying that dress.
Finally it dropped in remnants around his ankles and he kicked it to the corner. He stood looking down. There were thin lines of red on his stomach and thigh from the scissors and one tiny triangular nick in his bra. Below that nick a spot of blood showed under the edge of the white fabric. It trickled lower, over the flat plane of his abdomen, where a six-pack would not form no matter how many sit-ups he did. Above it, his breasts bulged like obscene pillows, mocking him with their roundness. He heard his mother's voice, saw her gesture; you have a lovely figure...
Ignoring the blood, he grabbed his girl tits in hard fingers, squeezing, bruising. He wanted them gone! No, he wasn't some woman, thinking two guys were hot, and then turning around and having a shower and dressing to show her cleavage and going off to her day. This was him. Trapped in flesh he would pay a fortune to have eliminated. Wrong body. Wrong voice. Every minute of every day, startling himself with the outside body that didn't match who he was. Pretending he was cross-dressing, pretending these monstrosities weren't part of his flesh. Being a drag queen, so he could feel like a guy underneath it.
His grip began to hurt, began to burn, and he both welcomed the pain and hated it. He shouldn't feel pain there. They weren't him. He unclamped his fingers. The marks of his hands were impressed into the flesh, red and deep, clearly beginning to bruise.
He laughed, an odd sound that reached his ears as half a sob. It looked like someone had tried to rape him or something. It occurred to him that he couldn't kill himself now. Probably not for a week or two. The cops would look at his dead body and assume there was abuse, and interrogate his family, his friends. Bad enough that he would hurt them with his death, a pain he'd not managed to be cruel enough to hand out yet. But this would be worse.
He yanked off his bra and grabbed his binder, pulling it on and fastening the velcro tightly. He didn't usually sleep with it, because it was harder to breathe. But tonight it was a comfort, like a hug, and it hid his tits and might even compress them enough to reduce the bruising. A win all the way around. He quickly pulled on a T-shirt and boxers and climbed into bed.
His teeth felt sticky, and his breath would be gross in the morning, but he couldn't face the mirror over the sink tonight. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his breathing. He'd looked up a lot of stress relief and meditation stuff on the Net. He tried counting breaths.
Count your blessin
gs.
His mother's favorite remedy for sadness floated into his mind. He'd done that with her as a child, kneeling beside his bed. Thank you, God, for the new baseball glove and for jelly donuts and even if we didn't win the game and I grounded out and it really, really sucked, thank you for having Bobby tell me I was a good player anyway.Even if he did say “for a girl.”
Prayer. He'd moved on from the prayers of his childhood, with his mother by his side to love and guide him, and sometimes laugh when he was totally serious. She'd never heard the truth of the prayers underneath, the ones that even then he'd known better than to utter aloud. God, I'd like to wake up as a boy tomorrow.
And then at eight and ten and twelve. God, please change me. Somehow. If you can't change the outside, change the inside. Make me like girl stuff best. Make me feel thrilled when people call me pretty, cute, beautiful. Make me glad to follow the girls to the peach-tiled middle school bathroom, and not wonder what was in the grey one behind the boy symbol. Make me happy with what I have. Stop this feeling.
Unanswered prayers. Father Anderson had preached a sermon once about how “No” was also an answer. Either God wasn't listening to Sam's prayers, or the answer was a firm “Negatory, you freak.” Sam had quit asking. Years ago.
He lay stiffly, hearing the little ticks and rustles of the house around him. A run of water somewhere, brief and low. Not a shower. Someone dutifully brushing their own teeth. The click of a door down the hall.
When do you stop? When do you say, “I can't see an ending that is worth the fight?” Sam didn't want to be dead. He loved life itself, loved words and colors, the painted golds and pinks of a sunset sky, the sound of Paolo Nutini singing about streets with too many names. Sun shining and children smiling. Which made it even harder to be pulled away from the good things over and over and over by the unwanted, soul-killing awareness of the shape he wore. He was so tired.
There were real, concrete things he could do. He'd missed the window for puberty blockers, even if his parents somehow suddenly jumped on the rainbow bus with him. The wide hips and female voice were his forever. But he knew there were hormones that could help him chisel muscle out of the soft roundness of his arms and legs. There were ways to be more hairy, less squishy. Top surgery that would leave big scars but free him from the tyranny of bouncing flesh or the breath-restricting binder.
And yet. And yet. The M2F guys were luckier. They could cut and trim and implant and become almost indistinguishable from the real thing. He'd seen a couple of posts where trans-women hadn't even told their boyfriends what gender they'd started with. Not to downplay the hormone side effects and Adam's apple shaving and deep voices, but they could pass naked.
He never would. All those pictures of naked guys he secretly surfed, with dicks erect and rampant, or soft and nestled down along a hairy thigh. His dick, if he got one, would hardly reach his thigh. Cutting away is always easier than creating. He would never be a real boy.
So when do you stop trying?
He took a harsh breath, and his chest throbbed painfully, bruised and sore. Not tonight, obviously.
Sam had a vision of the cops searching his dad's things for evidence of child abuse and shuddered. Or maybe they would ask Amelia, and she might point them at Clint. She was hanging about with this older photographer guy in the dark. God, no.
Remembering Clint was good, though. There was actually someone out there who didn't think Sam was a freak. He slid out of bed and went to the dumb purse he'd been carrying, to get out Clint's card. His room was too dim to see the writing on it, but he remembered the invitation. Call me, and I'll find someone for you to talk to. Maybe he would. Not at two in the morning, no matter how his stomach churned and his heart felt like lead in his chest. This wasn't the ragged edge. Yet.
Maybe sometime when he was mostly okay, just a call to say, “Can you suggest someone?” If his parents were up for him getting therapy, maybe he could ditch their first Church-approved choice and find someone who could actually help. It was a plan. He got back into bed, the card clutched in his hand even when he'd meant to set it down safely.
Look for help, and count your blessings. He could try.
Thank you, God, for giving Evan to Linda, and for the taste of wedding cake, and Dad's face when he danced the father-daughter dance. Thank you for dark nights and music, for cool breezes and fireworks, and the kindness of strangers.
As long as he didn't ask for anything, he could pretend God still listened. He finally fell asleep, with a scrap of cardboard clutched in his hand.
