For Christ’s sake, comments like that must have been like knives to Sam. How could I have been so hideously blind?
“Sam…” I didn’t know what to say.
Sam tried to put on a defensive face, jutting his chin out just a little bit. “Do you hate me now?”
I jerked my head in negation. “Of course not. Sam … you’re my son—my child,” I corrected myself. “I know you were afraid of how I would react. And I’m sorry that I made you feel like you had to hide this from me.”
As I talked, Sam began to sob. I walked over and crouched beside the hospital bed, taking Sam’s right hand between both of mine. My voice dropped, and I struggled to get the next words out. “I’m so sorry, Sam. But I promise you, there’s nothing you could do to make me stop loving you.”
Sam’s face seemed to contort as he cried. I stood and leaned over the bed, carefully hugging him. He couldn’t speak anymore, he was crying so hard.
I just whispered, “I’ll always love you, no matter what. Always.”
It was incredibly awkward standing and bending over the side of the bed, so I climbed up in it and let him cry on my shoulder. I kept my arms around him, and stroked his hair, and told myself that there was no way I was going to lose this child. I couldn’t change the past, but everything I did, now and in five minutes and forevermore, would make up the future. And it was going to be a future where my kid didn’t have to be afraid to talk to me.
Twenty-Seven
Cole
Twenty minutes later, the doctor poked his head in the door, a quizzical look on his face. I raised a finger to my lips, and whispered, “Sam’s asleep.”
Very carefully, I extricated myself. The left side of my shirt was wet with Sam’s tears and some of my own. He stirred just a little bit, but I tucked him in and he fell into a deeper sleep. I stood there for just a second, watching the rise and fall of his breath. Then I turned back to the doctor. We stepped out of the room.
Jeremiah and Mrs. Mullins were in the hallway.
Jeremiah immediately said, “Seems like Sam just told Mrs. Mullins this morning.”
My eyes darted to her. She nodded. “I have to say, Mr. Roberts … Sam was deeply afraid that you were going to reject her.”
I took a deep breath. “You can call me Cole, please. And five years ago, or maybe even a year ago, I might have. I don’t know. But it seems to me that Sam is hurting more than any kid deserves to bear, and I can’t add to that.” I turned to the doctor and raised an eyebrow. “In the meantime, we got sidetracked into that discussion, but you didn’t say very much about Sam’s physical prognosis.”
The doctor smiled. “Sorry, I was still doing mental triage—we take care of the most serious injuries first. Physically, Sam is going to be fine. I don’t think she is going to have much of a scar from the cut on her face, and while the bruising looks awful, there’s no swelling inside her skull or other signs of concussion. She’ll have to keep her chest bound for possibly a few weeks, there’s two cracked ribs. But with some painkillers, I’m comfortable releasing her tonight.”
Thank God. I exhaled, not even realizing that I had been holding my breath. I staggered, and Jeremiah took my arm.
“Hold on there, buddy,” Jeremiah said.
“I’ve got other patients I’ve got to get to,” the doctor said. “We’ll check back in with you when Sam is ready to be released.”
I looked at Jeremiah and Mrs. Mullins and realized that it was really only just beginning. I didn’t know whether this was a permanent condition or a phase or what, but I had to be prepared to support Sam regardless. I was going to need to learn about the subject. But there were other complications. When would Sam go back to school? And, based on what the doctor said, would Sam want to go back dressing as a girl? I couldn’t imagine what that would be like for … her? The doctor seemed to use female pronouns. Was that the right thing to do? I didn’t even know that much. I asked the two of them to come with me to the hospital cafeteria to talk about this.
Once we were settled in at a table, I said, “Mrs. Mullins—”
“Pat. You can call me Pat.”
I took a deep breath—stalling for time I think—then said, “Look … I know next to nothing about gender, uh, problems. I’ll learn. I’ll learn whatever I need to help Sam. But right at this moment, I’m at a loss.”
Pat said, “You should understand that it was only this morning that Sam told me. Although it makes complete sense in retrospect.”
“How so?”
“Well, I met Sam on the first day of school. He … well, she … was hiding in a stairwell because she skipped gym. I took her back to my office and was prepared to call the assistant principal, but we ended up talking. Sam wouldn’t say why she didn’t want to go to gym; it was very clear that she was terrified. That’s when I learned about her sister. So I made arrangements for Sam to take gym one-on-one with me.”
I tried to imagine the scene. I’d never known Sam to skip a class.
“Can you imagine being a girl and being forced to use the boys locker room in high school?” Pat said the words in a slow, sad voice. My mind latched onto one phrase. Being a girl. Not feeling like a girl. Being a girl.
I had never really believed that people who were transgender should be taken seriously. They weren’t women, they were men dressed up as women. But now, I was faced with dealing with this on a personal level, with someone I cared about, with someone I loved, it forced me to rethink everything. I had always thought of people who were transgender or whatever as mentally ill. They “felt” like they were a different gender. I even remembered that obnoxious debate in college about it, when I said, I feel like a hippopotamus, but that doesn’t make it so.
“That raises an important question. What happens when Sam goes back to school? If he follows through with publicly identifying himself.”
Him. Her. Even something so simple as pronouns became complicated.
She said, “I’m not going to try to lie to you, Cole. The other kids will make life very difficult for Sam if she chooses that.”
“I figured as much.” I let out a deep sigh. “What I really wish I could do is just pack Sam up in the van and drive to Oregon. Let him … her … spend some time figuring things out while we help Erin look for Brenna.”
Pat nodded. “If it’s an option, it would be worth doing. That would also give some time for this afternoon’s events to die down a little. Taking a semester to heal might not be a bad thing.”
I shook my head. “I was just thinking out loud. That’s not an option.”
“Hold on a second. Why isn’t it an option?” Jeremiah asked.
“Well, the job. You know how difficult it was for me to find work. Not to mention I’m on probation. And while you and Ayanna have been insanely generous, I can’t ask for more. I can’t.”
Jeremiah shook his head. “I’ll talk to Jimmy Junior. We’ll get you a leave of absence. You’ll have to go back on deck when you come back, and wait for a new restaurant, but that might not be a bad idea anyway, given the business with the mayor here. We could potentially move you to the Atlanta area. That way you could get Sam enrolled in a school where he’d be a little more accepted.”
I stared at Jeremiah, stunned. “Do you really think that’s doable?”
Jeremiah grinned. “I do.”
I grimaced. “Where does that leave Dakota?”
“She the waitress they were messing with?”
I nodded yes.
Jeremiah said, “I’ll make sure that she is taken care of. I’ll happily make an appointment with the mayor myself.” He finished that sentence with a grin.
I flashed to the things I would have to do. We’d have to triage our things and figure out what we should bring with us, and I’d have to go see my probation officer to get permission to leave the state. Would she even authorize it? When I thought about it, all I could feel was hope. I didn’t know if we’d find Brenna or not, but we’d damn sure try. I nodded.
“If it is doable, then I want to do it.”
Jeremiah replied, “I’ll make the call.”
Cole
An hour later I was back in the exam room with Dr. Sims and with Sam.
“I’m giving you prescriptions for painkillers. One is for high-dosage ibuprofen. Unless it gets really bad, stick with that. But if it gets bad, I’m also giving you two days’ worth of OxyContin. Just a reminder that OxyContin is highly addictive. You’ll want to limit your usage and only take it if it’s really bad. Okay?”
Sam nodded, and I said, “Okay.”
The doctor gave Sam a stern look. “I want to be clear that buying mail order drugs from another country is a highly dangerous activity. Taking the puberty blockers without a doctor’s prescription … not smart. And you’re a pretty smart kid.”
Sam nodded then opened his mouth as if to try to explain. The doctor cut him off. “I understand that you felt desperate, but I want you to exercise more caution in the future. I’m giving you a prescription for a sixty-day supply. Not renewable … you’ll need to follow up with an endocrinologist at a minimum. I’d also recommend seeing a psychiatric specialist who has worked with gender issues.”
Sam shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with me, I don’t need—”
The doctor held a hand up, palm toward Sam. “I know that. But I also know you’ve been through a great deal of trauma, and you’re talking about taking on an incredibly stressful transition in your life. It’s to help you cope. If the insurance is a problem, there’s a sliding-scale clinic in Anniston that you can go to. Besides, if you’re really determined to transition completely, almost no doctor in the country will approve it unless you have two years of therapy first.”
I didn’t know how I felt about the doctor giving a prescription for hormones. I hadn’t asked for them, and I wasn’t sure they were necessary. On the other hand, if I didn’t fill that prescription, would Sam somehow order more? I decided to table it for now until I could learn a little more.
With that, we were finished. It was almost eight p.m. now and Sam was obviously exhausted. When we walked out into the waiting area, Pat stood and walked to Sam and wrapped him in a gentle hug. Jeremiah looked at me and said, “You’ve been approved for two months’ leave. Paid.”
Two months? That was far longer than I had expected. I almost physically staggered. Sam stepped back from his counselor and said, “Two months’ leave? What’s going on?”
I said to Sam, “We’re going to go to Portland. To look for your sister.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
I nodded.
Sam leaned against me. Then, in the barest of whispers, he said, “Thank you. Thank you.”
I thought I had run out of tears, but at that moment, I felt more welling up.
On the way home, Sam asked me, “Before we leave tomorrow, can I go see Hayley for a little while? She texted me. She’s in an emergency group home and won’t be going to school tomorrow.”
“Of course. It’ll take some time to get things packed. I still have to get permission from my parole officer, and I don’t know how hard that’s going to be. Or even if it will be possible.”
Sam said, “I understand. And Dad?”
“Yeah?” I scanned the road ahead of us.
“I know we don’t have much money. I’d be willing to go to Goodwill or wherever … but can I get some clothes?”
Sam was right. We didn’t have much money. It was hard for me to classify the money that Jeremiah had deposited into our account as ours. But this was a test, in a way, and one I was determined to pass.
“Yeah, of course. We can’t spend a lot, but we’ll go and you can pick some things out.”
That night, after Sam went to bed, I stayed up late. I spent the night reading about gender identity, about how it manifested, and how people dealt with it. Much of what I read was not encouraging. People who were transgender who didn’t “pass” often faced a tremendous number of walls, hostility, and discrimination.
Now that I was looking for it, I found far too much information. People who had been murdered or beaten because of who they were. Housing discrimination, and job discrimination, both of which were perfectly legal because gender identity wasn’t a protected status under civil rights laws. Bathrooms were an issue, especially in public places like schools, universities, and employers.
In that context, the hormone-based puberty blockers made a lot more sense. My own preconceptions and prejudices against transgender women were based on the worst kinds of stereotypes. I think the first time I had ever encountered anything of the sort was watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show as a teenager, and I felt ashamed that I had judged an entire class of people based off of that.
With that, I made the decision to support Sam with the hormone blockers. Erin might fight me on it … I didn’t know. But if that’s what Sam truly needed, then I was going to do everything I could to make sure he … no, she … got it.
My confusion about pronouns turned out to be not that uncommon either. Thanks to Google, I learned that it was often a controversial topic among transgender activists. But the bottom line seemed to be that the appropriate pronoun was whatever gender the subject identified as. So I steeled myself to remember that Sam was a girl, and that she needed me to recognize that.
I felt an odd sort of grief. I would do whatever I had to do to take care of Sam. Even if that meant that Sam became a daughter instead of a son. But I would miss having a son.
It was after eleven before I called Erin back. I had texted her throughout the afternoon from the hospital, most recently with the update that Sam was definitely going to be released. But I hadn’t felt equipped to talk about the rest of it. Now, armed with some knowledge, I felt like I could.
I didn’t know how to have this conversation. So I walked outside then sat on the rocker on the front porch. A chilly breeze blew over me, the coldest I had felt this year. Maybe summer was finally going to release its hold.
Erin answered on the third ring.
“How is Sam?”
I took a deep breath. This was going to be difficult. “Sam will be okay. No concussion, just lots and lots of bruising and two cracked ribs. But … there are some things we need to discuss.”
Her voice went tense and high-pitched. “What is it?”
I tried to breathe in, the words caught in my throat. I didn’t know why I had so much anxiety about this.
“Cole … what is it?”
“Erin … Sam is transgender.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
I sighed. “It means that … her internal sense of self, her perception of self, is female.”
Her response was caustic. “I know what the word means. But Sam isn’t transgender. What gave you that idea?”
I tried to be as gentle as possible in both my tone and words. Erin had always been highly liberal compared to my own conservative politics. But sometimes things were different when it was your own kid involved. “We talked about it for a long time, Erin. Sam’s kept a secret, but she’s felt that way for a very long time.”
She sounded like she was going to break into tears. “And you just … accepted it without question? You start calling Sam she? How much do you know about this stuff anyway? You’ve always been the one who said that people with gender identity issues were freaks.”
I flinched. Because no matter how harsh it sounded, she was right. I had always been that person. I sighed. “Erin, I know I’ve been incredibly judgmental in the past. This is our kid we’re talking about.”
Her rejoinder was harsh. “This is our son we’re talking about.”
The pain in her voice made my heart ache. “I know, love. I know.”
We were silent for what seemed like a long time. Then she said, “Can I talk with him?”
In as gentle a tone as I could muster, I said, “Sam went right to sleep when we came in. It’s been a really traumatic day. We’ll call first thing in
the morning.”
“I feel like I should come home. And be there for Sam.”
“No … it’s too early to give up. Plus, things here have changed dramatically.”
Hard to believe that in the midst of the news about Sam, that I had left out such important things. There was too much going on. “Jeremiah was at the hospital with me. He talked with the CEO and got me approved for two months of paid leave. He’s going to try to find a restaurant in Atlanta for me to take over so Sam isn’t stuck going to school here anymore.”
“What about school?” Erin asked in a sharp tone.
“I was planning on withdrawing her from school in the morning,” I said. “We’ll let her have a couple of months to adjust and figure out what’s next.”
She sighed. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Erin, it’s essential. Sam really needs some time. I’m going to talk to my probation officer in the morning and get clearance to travel. Then we’re going to pack up and head to Portland.”
She sniffed, and I could tell that on the other end of the line she was silently crying. In an unsteady voice she asked, “Tell me about your talk with Sam. Tell me everything.”
So I told Erin the story. Starting with finding Sam in Erin’s clothes, and the initial tense discussion with the doctor.
“And then the doctor started talking about how many kids like Sam get kicked out of their homes, or run away, or end up committing suicide or murdered.”
I had to struggle to keep my voice under control as I continued talking. “Erin, I knew right then that no matter what happens we have to let Sam know that we love him, that we accept him or her for who she is. I’m not going to lose another child, Erin.”
At the other end of the line, almost three thousand miles away, Erin sobbed. For what felt like the hundredth time that day, I felt tears going down my face too. What was happening to me?
In a choked whisper, she said, “Do you ever wish we could go back? To when they were our babies? To when … when we loved each other?”
Winter Flower Page 36