The Condition

by Jennifer Haigh

  Her parents argued.

  After each argument her father dragged her to another doctor—an endocrinologist, a pediatric cardiologist. Blood was taken, an ultrasound image of her kidneys; X rays to see the bones of her hand. The shots would make her grow several inches if she was lucky. Of course, being Gwen, she wasn’t lucky. A year later, she’d grown less than an inch.

  Gwen had Turner’s.

  Her parents argued.

  Her father left.

  LONG AFTER he’d moved out of the house, Frank continued to explain things. He was endlessly interested in Turner’s; it was as if they’d discovered a new hobby together, like stamp collecting or golf. Yet he never told her anything she truly needed to know.

  She remembered a Saturday evening in the dead of winter, the radiators hissing. They were eating take-out pizza on the floor of his apartment in Cambridge. Frank explained. Gwen listened.

  Q. Daddy, why did I get Turner’s?

  A. You didn’t get it. You’ve always had it. Your second X chromosome was damaged in utero, perhaps since conception. (Then, seeing her frown) Since before you were born.

  Q. So it runs in our family?

  A. No, because Turner females are nulliparous. (seeing her frown) That is to say, they do not have children, and so do not pass on their damaged genetic material. Once a family produces one Turner, that line is in effect extinguished. If one of your brothers were to have a daughter, she’d be no more likely to have a damaged chromosome than any other girl.

  Her questions were always simple, his answers always complicated. The more he talked, the less she understood.

  SHE CHOSE Sacred Heart for high school instead of Pearse. She did this partly to please her mother and partly to spare herself. More and more, school was a torment. An evil new nickname, Bitsy, followed her through the halls. At Pearse there would be no escape from such misery: in the evenings, on weekends, you were always at school.

  The hormones came next, with more promises. Her shape would change—“modestly,” the doctor was quick to caution. She would have periods—not real ones, he added hastily; but for a few days each month she would bleed. How is that different from a real one? Gwen wondered. But by then she’d learned not to ask.

  When she remembered that time, Gwen thought mainly of her mother. After Frank left, she and Paulette were inseparable. Her mother took her to the theater and the ballet, on picnics and nature walks, to concerts at Tanglewood and exhibits at the MFA. He would never do this with me, her mother often said. Of course Gwen understood who “he” was.

  Her mother needed her. When Frank appeared on Fridays to take Gwen and Scotty for the weekend, Gwen claimed headaches and stomachaches. Her mother allowed this, even encouraged it. With Billy away at Pearse, Paulette was lonely. She wanted Gwen all to herself.

  And Gwen wanted to make her happy. She allowed herself to be taken shopping, a chore she despised: the humiliation of department-store changing rooms, the perplexed saleswomen who eyed her up and down and asked what size she usually wore. When her mother suggested—with embarrassing optimism—that they buy Gwen a training bra, she did not resist. She monitored her chest daily, waiting for the hormones to kick in. No kicking had occurred. Still, a little training couldn’t hurt.

  Most shockingly (to her adult self, the person she would later become) she acceded to an urgent demand of her mother’s. It was important—essential—that Gwen attend her winter formal.

  She’d listened incredulously to this request. It was as if her mother had asked her to break into flight.

  “Um, okay,” said little Gwen, tentatively flapping her wings.

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” said the mother bird. “I have it all figured out. You leave everything to me.”

  Paulette’s old friend Tricia James, it developed, had a son Gwen’s age. Patrick James was a senior at the Friends School in Philadelphia and had recently applied to Harvard; he was in the process, now, of scheduling his college visits. After the glowing letter of recommendation he’d received from Frank McKotch, Patrick owed the family a favor. He could schedule his Harvard interview for the week of the formal, and enjoy a fun evening with Gwen.

  The preparations began two months in advance. After a long fruitless day of shopping, Paulette gave up and took Gwen to a dressmaker. Together they looked at fabric samples, silk and satin and tulle. No purple, which her mother insisted was vulgar. Gwen meekly agreed. She stood in her underwear as measurements were taken. In a few weeks a dress appeared. The style was simple—a deep neckline and fitted bodice, cut to accommodate the padded bra Paulette had bought her. The narrow skirt, floor length, would hide Gwen’s shiny black Mary Janes, the only dress shoes available in her size.

  She hadn’t seen Patrick James in years and wouldn’t have recognized him anywhere but her own living room, where he appeared that afternoon, two hours before the dance. Her father had driven him over from Harvard. Gwen, her mother had whispered, knocking at her bedroom door. Come down and say hello.

  Patrick was sitting on the divan when Gwen came downstairs. His face was round and ruddy, his teeth straightened by years of orthodontia. He had curly blond hair of the sort found on baby dolls. He wasn’t good looking, exactly, but he bore a passing resemblance to boys who were. Gwen smiled tentatively. The girls at the dance—Martha Hixbridge and the others who ignored her at school—would have to be impressed.

  Paulette came into the room with a plate of scones. “Gwen, darling, you remember Patrick.”

  “Hey,” Patrick said. Then, seeing an adult was present, he stood.

  Gwen gulped in a way that may have been audible. He was tall. Not tall like her six-foot brother and father, which would have been bad enough. Patrick—a star forward, she later discovered, on the Friends School basketball team—stood six feet five inches tall. Her eyes were level with his sternum.

  “Patrick was telling me about his day at Harvard,” said Paulette. “He had a marvelous interview.”

  “Great.” Gwen could feel her mother’s gaze. “What are you going to study?” she asked dutifully.

  “Pre-law,” said Patrick. “I guess.”

  Paulette patted Gwen’s shoulder. “Sit down, dear. Have a scone.”

  Gwen sat, sorry to see her go. Paulette’s too-bright smile was unnerving, but at least she had spoken. Alone, Gwen and Patrick sat in silence.

  “You’re a junior?” he said finally. “I thought we were the same age.”

  I got left back a year, she could have said. They flunked me for being short.

  “My birthday is in September,” she said instead—the explanation her mother always gave. “I missed the cutoff date.” She had known Patrick two minutes and already she was lying. This seemed a bad sign.

  Her mother returned, then, and shooed her upstairs. “No sense waiting until the last minute. I’ll come up later to help with your hair.”

  Gwen showered and dressed. She’d grumbled about the tedious fittings, the time and money spent on something she’d wear just a few hours; yet in spite of all this she loved the dress. It was the first garment in years that had fit her correctly, with shoulder seams that actually aligned with her shoulders. The fabric was grayish-blue, to match her eyes. Not the pastel blue of children’s clothing, but a subtle shade, sophisticated and adult. This is nice, she thought. I look nice.

  There was a discreet knock at the door, Paulette loaded down with a case of electric rollers, a makeup kit, the brushes and combs and hairspray Gwen had agreed to have used upon her. She had refused to spend the afternoon in a salon.

  “Darling, look at you!” Paulette dropped everything on the bed and pulled Gwen into her arms. “You look beautiful.”

  Gwen squirmed, not unhappily. Usually when her mother said such things, she couldn’t decide whether to be irritated or depressed. This time the words touched her. In the new dress she could almost believe.

  In this hopeful state she submitted to the hot curlers, the paints and powders applied to her face.
The results were good, if disorienting. She looked like a different person. Which, she supposed, was the whole point.

  Her mother beamed, eyes filling. “This is for you,” she said, handing Gwen a small box. “Your father gave me these as an engagement present.”

  Inside was a strand of pearls.

  “I don’t wear them anymore,” Paulette added, showing unusual restraint.

  THE DANCE was held downtown, at a hotel in Copley Square. “Your mother tells me you’re an excellent driver,” said Paulette, handing Patrick her car keys, oblivious to his glassy stare, his gaping grin. Gwen had found him in Scotty’s room, in a white shirt and tuxedo pants; the two boys sitting cross-legged on the floor passing an immense water pipe. Hang on, he’d told Gwen, taking the pipe from Scott. I need one more hit.

  In the car Patrick was suddenly talkative. “Your brother’s cool,” he said. “That was killer weed.”

  Gwen smiled, recalling the way Scotty had looked at her in her dress, his eyes wide and serious. You look awesome, he’d whispered as she and Patrick were leaving. From a stoned fourteen-year-old it was the highest praise.

  They surrendered the car to a parking attendant and went into the hotel. In keeping with the dance’s theme—A Night in Paradise—the Minuteman Ballroom reeked of lilies. The decorating committee had been working all day, stringing lights and filling fountains, decking the perimeter with potted palms. Gwen and Patrick walked through an archway laden with flowers. They were photographed beneath a bamboo pergola, also laden with flowers. A blonde freshman ushered them to their seats, at a round table at the back of the room. The popular girls had chosen their tables weeks ago, and packed them with their closest friends. Because Gwen hadn’t turned in the seat-assignment form, she and Patrick had been placed at this table of strangers. Behind them, on a makeshift stage, the band was setting up.

  Dinner was served, a rubbery breast of chicken. Patrick swallowed his in three bites, then entertained himself by laughing uproariously with the boy next to him, trading lines from a Richard Pryor standup routine. He seemed to have forgotten she was there.

  After dinner the lights dimmed; the band played at a volume that made conversation impossible. Gwen was grateful for the noise. At each slow song, she watched the couples take the floor. She glanced furtively at Patrick. Of course, they would look cartoonish dancing together. The moment he stood in her mother’s parlor, this had been her first thought.

  At that moment Patrick rose.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said.

  For nearly an hour she sat alone, watching the couples on the floor. Finally Patrick returned, his bow tie undone. He looked disheveled and slightly drunk.

  “Where did you go?”

  “There’s a party upstairs. Somebody got a room. Come on.” He offered his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Gwen hesitated a moment, then took his hand. Except for the shoves and slaps and head knuckling of her brothers, this was the first time a boy had touched her. She imagined her classmates watching her leave, Gwen McKotch hand in hand with an almost-handsome boy.

  They bypassed the crowded elevator and headed for the stairs. Patrick took the steps two at a time. Gwen scrambled to keep up.

  “Who’s having the party?” she asked, her voice echoing in the stairwell.

  “Who cares? They have a keg.”

  Gwen stopped at the landing. The reality of her predicament struck her. She was about to walk into a roomful of the classmates whose teasing haunted her nightmares. She had walked out of Winter Formals without dancing even once.

  “What’s the matter?” said Patrick. He stood two steps above her. Her eyes were now level with his belt.

  “Let’s go back to the dance.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Patrick looked pained. “You want to sit there all night listening to that shitty band?”

  Gwen felt her cheeks warm. “We could dance.”

  “You want to dance?” Patrick grinned. “Sure.”

  He reached out and pulled her close.

  It was terrible. Her face was squashed against his belly, his shirt buttons pressed into her cheek. He swayed slightly—whether from drunkenness or a lame attempt at dancing, Gwen couldn’t tell. His hot hands rested on her shoulders. They were, she noticed, bigger than her feet.

  “Nice,” he breathed.

  Gwen squirmed. His hands were moist and very heavy. They seemed to be pressing her shoulders downward.

  “Lower,” he said.

  She wriggled away from him. “What are you doing?”

  “While you’re down there, you could do me a favor.”

  She shoved him with all her strength. He lost his balance and stumbled backward, catching himself on the railing. Her face had left a makeup stain on his shirt front.

  “What the fuck?” he said.

  “Get me out of here,” said Gwen. “I want to go home.”

  IN HER SENIOR YEAR, at her mother’s insistence, she applied to Wellesley. Her grades were good, except for math, but her test scores were mediocre; in Gwen’s view it was a waste of a stamp. She was lucky even to be wait-listed; but when this happened Paulette was bullshit. Wellesley had to take her: Gwen’s aunt Martine, her grandmother, and several great-aunts were all graduates. (That Paulette hadn’t graduated—that she’d dropped out of school to get married—was yet another mistake she blamed on Frank.)

  When Wellesley finally said yes, her mother was thrilled. Her father was less than ecstatic. “Why stick so close to home?” he demanded. “Why not strike out on your own?”

  He often asked such questions. Gwen was usually stumped for a response, though in this case she had one: she hadn’t applied anywhere else, something her father might have noticed if he didn’t spend every spare moment with his new girlfriend. Last fall, just as college applications came due, he’d introduced Gwen and Scott to Traci, who worked in the registrar’s office at Harvard. She was in her thirties but acted younger—she used teenage slang and teased Frank about his age, trying, Gwen supposed, to ingratiate herself with his kids. Gwen knew better than to mention Traci to her mother, but Scott couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Of course Paulette had gone completely mental, banning Frank from Thanksgiving and Christmas, a ruling that would stand for several years. She made such a stink about their weekend visits that Gwen found herself making excuses not to see him. It wasn’t worth upsetting her mother.

  She was nineteen the fall she started at Wellesley. The campus was fifteen miles from Concord, so close that Gwen rarely slept in her dorm room. Her bed at home was far more comfortable, and her mother was happy to drive her to class, as she’d done for four years to Sacred Heart. Frank had offered repeatedly to teach Gwen to drive, but always she demurred. Her mother hadn’t forbidden it, exactly, but the prospect made Paulette nervous: driving was dangerous to begin with, and Gwen’s difficulties (the word Paulette used) made it even more so.

  So each morning she dropped Gwen on campus, and after Gwen’s last class the old Volvo would reappear. For a time Gwen had insisted on meeting her mother a block away from campus. Later she felt differently. Halfway through her freshman year, as she was leaving Physical Anthropology, she’d fallen into conversation with a classmate, a thing that rarely happened. The girl, Cynthia Denny, was from Tennessee horse country, which explained it. Gwen had noticed a difference—an ease, an indiscriminate chattiness—in girls from the South.

  They talked about the day’s class, a guest lecture by a scholar visiting for the semester. The professor, Andreas Swingard, had recently published an oral history of a little-known tribe of Amazonian Indians.

  “You’re ruining the curve,” Cynthia complained. “You know just as much as he does.”

  “I read his book. It’s interesting stuff.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” Cynthia said, with a sly smile that seemed nearly flirtatious. “How old are you?”

  Gwen understood, then, that there was a point to the conversation. That Cynthia wasn’t si
mply being friendly.

  “Nineteen,” she said warily.

  “I know it’s none of my business,” Cynthia stammered. “We just thought you were younger. You know, some kind of prodigy. I saw your mom drop you off the other day.” Again the smile. “No offense, I hope.”

  At the time Gwen had been horrified. Her classmates—the mysterious we—had taken her for a child. But the more she thought about it, the more she liked this vision of herself, which, if not exactly flattering, was preferable to the truth: it was better to be a genius than a mutant. After that she let her mother drop her off at the Hazard Quad, where all of Wellesley could see.

  (Years later, looking back at this time, Gwen barely recognizes herself: how terrified, how passive, how crippled by shame.)

  It was her grandmother, ultimately, who made her understand the gravity of her situation. Early in Gwen’s sophomore year, Mamie suffered a debilitating stroke that left her right side paralyzed, her speech confused. Gwen and Paulette made frequent trips to Florida to visit. They took turns sitting with Mamie on the sunny lanai, overlooking a garden of fig and mango trees, bougainvillea and azaleas in constant bloom.

  On one of these afternoons, alert and surprisingly lucid, Mamie had grasped Gwen’s hand. Dear heart, have you ever considered it? There is such a shortage of vocations. Everything happens for a reason, my love. God has a plan for each of us.

  It took Gwen a moment to make sense of this. Mamie had always been religious; she took Communion daily and had sent Paulette and Martine to Sacred Heart, scandalizing the Protestant Drews. Now she hoped—had hoped for years, she said—that Gwen would consider the convent. It may be the best life, dear, for a girl like you.