Winter Flower

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  “I thought I told you to stay away from Scott’s if I wasn’t there with you.” His tone was cold.

  My reaction was instantaneous and instinctive. “Chase, you don’t own me. You don’t get to tell me what I do with my time.” Asshole.

  “I thought I explained—I’m not trying to control you, Brenna. I’m just worried. Something about Rick freaks me out.”

  Something about Rick freaks me out, too. But that doesn’t mean you get to dictate where I go.

  “Chase, it’s not like I was alone with him. Scott was there, and his parents, and Rick’s girlfriend.”

  In a patient tone, Chase said, “Scott told me that you urgently asked for a ride when he had to go.” I closed my eyes. It figured Scott had called.

  “Well … I forgot I had to write a paper.”

  Chase actually chuckled. “Really? That sucks, because I got off work early and I was hoping to come get you and take you out.”

  “Really?” I felt myself grinning and relieved.

  “Yeah. I miss you, you know. With this job we don’t get to see each other that much.”

  A momentary flash of guilt reminded me that I had been thinking exactly that when I spent so much time chatting with Rick on Facebook. But it wasn’t like I had cheated on him. I didn’t even want to be around Rick. “I’d really like that.”

  “Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

  By the time I got home from dinner with Chase, my scare at Scott’s house had faded to nothing much in my mind. Fear brought on by little more than my own imagination.

  When I walked into the house, I was greeted by the sound of shouting. I sighed and wandered toward the kitchen. Mom and Dad’s room was far away from the front door … if I could hear them yelling, this was a hell of a fight. I made out Dad shouting, “I don’t know what you want me to do. I’ve apologized. I’ve gone to therapy with you. I’ve done everything you asked, and it’s not enough!”

  A stab of anger ran through me. I knew about the affair, not that they had told me, but it was hard to miss when people screamed things at each other. I didn’t know any details, just that it was some woman from work.

  But I did know that it had been a long time, and Mom still hadn’t let it go, or forgiven him, or even given him a chance to make it up to her. It would be one thing if he lied about it. But from what I could tell, he admitted the truth, and apologized, and did everything he could. And Mom? Sometimes I could see why Dad might have gotten so distant from her. She was always sniping at him, making little comments or complaining. You could see the tension between them most of the time. Did that justify him cheating? No. But I could see how it happened. A moment of weakness while he was traveling. But the thing was, I had heard him practically begging her to forgive him. They went to therapy all the time, and it seemed like he was doing everything he could to make up for it. And she just wouldn’t give him an inch.

  Sam disagreed with me. Every time we talked about it, she took Mom’s side. I couldn’t figure out why. But she blamed Dad for everything.

  I wanted to ignore them. I wanted to not hear the fighting anymore. I was tired of it.

  But I couldn’t stop listening. It was like watching a disaster happen, like that tsunami the year before, where I kept watching the videos on YouTube of the waves coming in and lifting up cars and washing buildings and people away to the ocean. I figured eventually Mom and Dad were going to get a divorce. But unlike a sudden disaster, that particular flood rose only an inch at a time, so slowly that we almost didn’t notice it was happening, until suddenly you find out you are treading water and can’t breathe and you’re being washed out to sea.

  I shuffled around in the kitchen, making myself a snack—Graham crackers with peanut butter and toasted marshmallows—and in the process, I slammed all of the doors and the oven and generally made as much noise as possible.

  Where was Sam? She always made herself scarce whenever Mom and Dad were fighting. Was it any wonder? I’m guessing that she couldn’t hear me because she’d have music turned up, headphones on, to shut out the sounds of the fighting.

  Now it was Mom. It was harder to make out what she was saying. Except for one shout: “How am I supposed to trust you ever again?”

  I wanted the fighting to end.

  Thirteen: Two Years Ago

  Brenna

  The next weekend, Chase picked me up on Saturday morning. We had made plans to spend the day together, and I had also asked him to take me to the post office to pick up Sam’s packages. It was the perfect September morning: clear sky, not too hot, and a beautiful breeze.

  Chase walked into the post office with me. I fished out the key to the post office box and unlocked it. I had rented the box a year earlier, after Sam had begged me for weeks. I could never say no to Sam, especially about something this important.

  Don’t you know these drugs are dangerous? I had asked.

  Yes! But what happens when I start growing in my shoulders and grow an Adam’s apple and get a man’s face and my voice lowers? Don’t you understand that once that happens, there’s no going back? Brenna, please, I’m begging you. I’m so afraid of what’s happening to me.

  In the end I had relented. But it had turned out to be even more complicated than Sam had imagined. Ordering black-market hormone blockers from Mexico had required significant effort, not the least of which was the post office box. But we’d gotten them, a six-month supply, and had ordered twice more since then. It had become routine, and it was clear the drugs were working. Sam was fourteen years old but looked closer to twelve. She stood out when lined up with the other ninth grade boys, all of whom were going through various stages of puberty.

  A postal worker had placed a yellow slip in the box, informing me that an object too big for the box needed to be picked up at the counter. We waited in line. While waiting, Chase asked, “What are we picking up anyway?”

  I didn’t need to look around to know that this was not the place to discuss it. We were surrounded by people in line. My heart was thumping with anxiety. “I’ll tell you later.”

  Chase looked annoyed. But he didn’t make an issue of it.

  The postal worker handed over the package with no questions asked. As I turned away I felt the anxiety drain out of me, and I realized I’d been holding my breath. I was always afraid that when I showed up to pick them up, DEA agents would appear out of nowhere and arrest me. But for the third shipment in a row, the drugs had passed through customs without being inspected.

  Back in the car, Chase said, “You gonna tell me what this is about?”

  I nodded. He put the car in reverse and pulled out of the parking lot.

  “You have to promise to keep what I tell you an absolute secret. It’s a matter of life and death. Literally.”

  Chase’s eyebrows seemed to scrunch together. “That’s dramatic. Of course, Brenna. You know you can trust me. I’m a little upset you felt like you had to ask.”

  “This isn’t my secret, it’s Sam’s.”

  “Okay…”

  I swallowed. I had to tell him. “Sam is a girl.”

  Chase glanced away from the road, giving me a quizzical look. “Your brother, Sam?”

  I shook my head. “No. My sister. Sam was born a boy, but she is my sister. She wants to get a sex change as soon as she turns eighteen.”

  “Whoa. Are you serious?” He looked over at me, eyes wide. Then he nodded. “You are. You think he’s serious about it? That’s crazy.”

  “Not really. It’s not common, but it happens. And I’ll do whatever I have to take care of her. If that means helping her with this, then that’s what it means.”

  Chase shrugged, looking confused. “You gotta admit it’s a little whack.”

  “You don’t get to decide that.”

  He shrugged then shook his head. “Okay … he’s your brother … er … sister. Anyway, what’s in the box?”

  “Blockers … hormone blockers … they’re drugs to delay puberty.”

&
nbsp; Chase exploded into words. “Are you fucking kidding me? Drugs? Your parents sure as shit don’t know about this, or you wouldn’t be the one picking them up! What, did you order them from Mexico or something?”

  “Yeah. I did.”

  Chase looked pale. “Do you know how much trouble you could get in? Not to mention, the drugs might be laced with heroin or sawdust or motor oil or something. That is insanely dangerous. It’s … it’s irresponsible!”

  I flinched at his shouts. I hated when people shouted at me. In response, I felt a rush of defensive anger, and I shouted right back at him. “Yes, I know how dangerous it is! You know how many transgender kids commit suicide if they don’t get treatment? Do you know that if she goes through puberty the changes are irreversible? That the later she gets treatment, the more male she will look?”

  “So he should go to a doctor. You don’t do something serious like this on your own. That’s nuts! You could kill him! And what if he changes his mind, when you started a sex change all on your own? What then? Is what you’re doing even reversible?”

  I sigh. “Chase, these don’t start a sex change. All they do is buy her some time to be sure.”

  “Stop saying she. Sam’s not a she yet.”

  “Stop being an asshole!”

  Chase looked shocked. I crossed my arms over my chest and looked out the window. He drove, and we spent the next several minutes in silence.

  It seemed like lately all we did was fight. Is this what happened when you loved people? That’s all Mom and Dad did. They fought and yelled and raged and cried. If that’s what I had to look forward to, maybe I should just go live in a convent or become a crazy cat lady.

  Who was I kidding? Cats were nasty creatures, and I loved Chase. I felt my eyes water and I blinked them angrily, unwilling to let him see them. I sniffed and wiped furiously at my eyes.

  “I’m sorry.” His words were quiet and calm. “I still think you’re nuts, but I didn’t mean to shout at you.”

  I didn’t answer right away. Because I wanted to punch him in the nose. I hated when I cried. I hated when we fought. I hated shouting and yelling and conflict.

  “Can you forgive me?”

  I turned toward him. His eyes were on the road, as he turned onto the Dulles Toll Road. “Of course I forgive you. Just … can you understand why I have to help Sam?”

  He shrugged, and said, “Understand … not really. But yeah, I can accept it. It’s between you and him—her. Just … be careful. You’re getting into some really serious shit. I don’t know what would happen if you got caught having that stuff shipped into the country illegally.”

  “I will,” I said. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

  Brenna

  When I got home that night, I waved at Mom and Dad, who were sitting mindlessly numbing out in front of the television, and headed upstairs to Sam’s room.

  I knocked on the door then tried to open it. Locked. It didn’t matter: she opened it seconds later.

  “Hey! Did you get it?”

  “Yeah,” I said. I slipped into her room and closed the door, rummaged through my bag, and took out the package. Her eyes were bright as I handed it over, and she sat down on the edge of her bed and began to tear open the wrapping.

  I studied Sam for several seconds as she tore open the packaging. Chase had raised fresh doubts about whether or not I should be helping Sam with this particular problem. But there was no denying the happiness I saw. Nor was there any denying that it had prevented her body from undergoing the kind of rapid changes the other eighth and ninth grade boys had been going through around her.

  Sam wore a plain white T-shirt and athletic shorts. Her legs were smoothly shaven, which might have been a clue to our parents that something was up, if they had bothered to pay any attention. But they were too wrapped up in their own problems to notice us. As she began to lay out the bottles one by one, checking the labels, I noticed that she wore mascara and the faintest eye liner.

  I guess she could get away with it. Some of the guys who hung out at Scott’s occasionally wore it. Guy-liner. The same guys who wore black and pretended to be cynical and oh-so-above-it-all, but who took a hundred selfies a day and posted them online. I didn’t have much patience for those guys, to be honest.

  Sam opened the bottles and checked them.

  “Looks okay?” I asked.

  Sam nodded. “Same pills as last time.” She slipped off the bed and walked to the closet then rummaged around in there. A few moments later she came out, without the pills. Sam walked over and put her arms around me.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Just be careful. If you feel weird or anything, say something. Right away, okay? I worry about you.”

  “I will.”

  Was I making a mistake? What if Chase was right? Or what if the drugs were bad, or like, laced with something? I was so worried about her. There was no winning in this situation. Sam had a tough life ahead of her. I was hyperaware of news about transgender issues because of Sam, and the news was almost never good. Dad listened to Fox News all the time, and for days they’d been all up in arms about some judge ruling that a prisoner had the right to a sex change at the state’s expense. I didn’t know the legal issues. What I did know was the hate that just dripped from their mouths whenever they talked about it. Mom and Dad had argued about it. Not like a real argument, but a political argument.

  Dad had said, They don’t have a physical illness. It’s a delusion, and they need to see a psychiatrist, not a surgeon. I don’t see any reason taxpayers should pay for surgery for some pervert who wants to change their sex.

  Sam had been sitting at the table when Dad said that, and she flinched when he said the word pervert.

  I love Dad, but I wish he knew how much he was hurting her. Someday Sam would run away or get hurt or hurt herself because of how alone she felt.

  “Listen,” I said. “I love you, you know that?”

  Sam smiled. “I love you too.”

  We hugged again, then I said, “Good night.”

  “You too.”

  I unlocked the door and headed down the hall to my own room. Minutes later a message popped up on my phone.

  It was Rick.

  Rick: Hey, what ya’ doing?

  Brenna: Hanging out. Just got home.

  Rick: Out with Chase?

  Brenna: Yeah.

  Rick: Want to get together with me and Nialla?

  I stared at the screen, my heart suddenly racing. He couldn’t be all that bad, after all, Nialla hung out with him constantly.

  No. Chase would be upset. And … just no. I didn’t even want to. I didn’t know why I wanted to.

  There was something just a little thrilling about the pursuit.

  Brenna: I can’t tonight.

  Rick: Maybe we’ll get a chance some other time. Take it easy.

  My stomach hurt.

  I let out a slow, slow breath, then put down the phone.

  Fourteen: Two Years Ago

  Brenna

  “Are you and Mom getting a divorce?”

  I hadn’t planned on asking Dad that question. We were sitting side by side in his car on our way to the Department of Motor Vehicles, where, with any luck, I would be getting my driver’s license in a few hours. I didn’t know why I asked … I guess because I knew that absolutely nothing could burst my bubble that day. I was sixteen years old, I was in love, I was getting my driver’s license. I didn’t have a thing in the world to be upset about.

  Despite that assurance, or maybe because of it, I blurted out the question.

  Dad visibly took a deep breath when I asked the question. His hands moved restlessly, as if he wished he were driving. “What makes you ask?”

  I stared at him in sort of a slow-motion disbelief. Did he really even ask that? Did they think we were oblivious?

  Maybe he did.

  “Uh … because you guys fight all the time? Because you’re never home? Because half the time when I get u
p for school, one of you is asleep on the couch?”

  His face crinkled with a look of fierce concentration, as if he were screwing up his courage. “Brenna, in the last couple of years I made some horrible mistakes. Some really, really bad decisions.”

  Like having an affair?

  “We’re not out of the woods yet. I’m not going to lie to you. But your mom and I are in therapy. We’re trying. So … no, I don’t think we are getting a divorce.”

  Not a definitive no. But I wouldn’t have believed that anyway. This was better because it had some hope.

  “Things have actually been better between us. I know you might not believe that, but it’s true. It really is.”

  Unexpectedly, my eyes watered. I took my right hand off the wheel and with my palm, I quickly tried to rub away any hint of tears. “Thanks for not trying to bullshit me.”

  He tactfully didn’t point out the obvious, that I was starting to cry. Instead, he said, “Up to the right … do you see it?”

  I nodded. The entrance to the DMV was only a block away. I switched on my right-turn signal.

  “You’re old enough to hear the truth from me. And … whatever happens with your mom and me, you’ve got to know that we both love you. No matter what.” As he said the words he rested his left hand on my shoulder. I glanced over at him, but he ordered, “Eyes on the road.”

  When he said, You’re old enough to hear the truth from me, it made me feel warm inside. It had been a long time since I wanted to be around my mom and dad, but that comment made me want to be with them. Crazy. Ever since that disastrous sit-down when Mom interrogated Chase, I’d been daydreaming about convincing him to run off with me. The more we fought about things like whether or not I was following the rules at home, the more I wanted to do it.

  I tried to imagine what it would be like. Running away with him, then writing home from Mexico or Belize or someplace where they couldn’t find me. We could do it. We could be happy.

  The voice in the back of my head, the one I wanted to tell to shut up, asked, What about Sam?