If You Could See What I See

by Cathy Lamb

  I was up all night. I cried until I was weak. I could hardly breathe. The next morning I stepped on the scale: 115 pounds. I was a bony, angular, pale, wretched woman. Grief brought me to my knees on my bathroom floor.

  I missed Josephine, sweet, tiny Josephine.

  Somewhere, in the midst of that churning cauldron of emotions, I recognized that I was dying. I could not live with Aaron one day longer. I would get a divorce. I was a failure. I had chosen poorly, my fault, but I had one breath left for survival, and I packed up and left.

  What did Aaron do?

  He tried to kill himself again.

  If Aaron had bipolar depression, and no other personality disorder, and had told me before the wedding, and if he was a kind and giving person otherwise, if he went to counseling and took his meds and actively tried to stay well, to be a husband, would I have stayed with him?

  Yes.

  It was his razor-sharp meanness and manipulations that made me walk out that door.

  People think that if you want a man who is reliable you sound boring, as if you’re looking for a dull, dim-witted man who wears button-up shirts, has a thicker sort of glasses, a short haircut, and looks like half the other men in America. They think of someone who is not exciting, spontaneous, or romantic and passionate in bed. You can count on him to be there and he is dull. Like wood.

  I find reliability unbelievably sexy.

  I find reliability to be a pillar in a relationship. No pillar, no relationship.

  If you cannot rely on your partner to do what he says he’s going to do, if you cannot rely on him to make basic, honest decisions, if you cannot rely on him to do what’s best for you two, as a couple, as a family, you can’t have trust. You can’t trust that person to hold up his side of the bargain of your marriage. You can’t trust him to put you at the top of his list, to treasure you and your feelings, to value how you will react to and interpret his actions.

  If you can’t trust, you can’t truly love. You are giving your heart away to someone whom you can’t rely on to treat it kindly, with respect and love.

  I could not rely on Aaron to be a stable, sane person.

  I could not rely on him as a man.

  I could not rely on my own husband to want to live.

  Which is one reason that Blake is hard for me to resist.

  I could rely on Blake.

  That is so dangerous to my heart.

  20

  My name is Lacey O’Rourke Rockaford. So, what do I want to tell you about myself? I’m the daughter of the unknown Sperm Donor Number One and our mother, Brianna O’Rourke, who is a famous sex therapist. I am the sister of you, Meggie, and Tory O’Rourke and the granddaughter of Regan O’Rourke and The Irishman.

  I have three kids and I’m pregnant with a fourth. Four kids. That’s what I’m going to have. I’m a working mother. That means I always feel like I’m operating with half a brain, and that half is an overheated, overwhelmed mess.

  What do I want to tell you about my favorite bra? My favorite bra was the one with all the hippie flowers on it that you, Tory, and I all had. Remember? You designed it when you were twelve. We had the matching underwear, too. That was when we used to braid our hair in twenty different braids. We were hippie sisters together. We were young and you laughed a lot.

  So, on to you, Meggie. I want you to braid your hair all hippie like again. I want you to wrap it in a bandanna. I want you to wear red. I want you to wear yellow. I want you to wear the purple tights you used to wear and the purple leather cowboy boots and the slinky blouses that said you were confident being a woman. I want to see all the flashy jewelry again, the bangles and hoops.

  I want to see you in your leather jacket in a convertible, your feet sticking out the window. I want to see you running through the ocean waves, maybe we can skinny dip like we’ve done so many times, and I want to see you skiing supersonic fast, like you used to. I want to hear you laugh. That’s what I want most. I want to hear you laugh again.

  Sorry for crying. Baby, I know you had a terrible thing happen to you, and I missed you so much when you were gone, but you have to climb out of that pit you’re in. It’s so hard to see you in it. You’re my best friend, Meggie. I want you back.

  I know you’re only wearing white and beige bras—I can see the straps—but you should wear lacy violet like you used to, or that scarlet bra with the stringy straps, or the cheetah bras you designed with white lace.... Now it’s only white and beige. No more white and beige, Meggie. Please.

  I turned the camera off. “That wasn’t what I wanted.”

  “It’s what I want though, Meggie.” Lacey stood up, brushed her tears off, and hugged me, her stomach pressing into mine, my beloved niece or nephew taking a nap inside.

  21

  I put my hand on the maple tree inside my tree house that night. I love trees. I love maple trees in particular because their leaves tell their story. Green, yellow, gold, orange, brown, a blend and a mix, then all the leaves drop, the branches become bare, frozen, snowy, then back to buds and green again. The leaves were gone now, winter busting on in.

  I grabbed a jacket and one of my mother’s hats and sat in a purple Adirondack chair with a wriggling Pop Pop on my lap. The maple tree that grew through the floor of my deck swayed above me, the branches continuing their whispered conversations.

  I thought of my mother, my grandma, and The Irishman, who always made me feel so loved.

  I thought of Sperm Donor One and Sperm Donor Two.

  They didn’t even know they had daughters.

  There was the blood tie between us, but there was nothing else.

  There was a gap where fathers and daughters should have stood together.

  I picked a leaf off the deck. It was yellow with brown spots.

  Did our fathers love trees, too?

  What would Blake be like as a father?

  There were a multitude of mind-numbing problems coming up with the planning of our Fashion Story. I had, however, found a location, and it was a miracle location: the building across the street. I contacted the owner, Oscar, who was about eighty and had been friends with Grandma for decades. “Go ahead and use it, sweetheart. No charge. Can’t hurt it, that’s for sure. I’ll do it for your grandma and for all the pretty lingerie she gave my wife over the years. We sure enjoyed that lingerie. Now I have only the memory of my angel, Mabel. You tell your grandma I said greetings and good wishes.”

  The building had been a shoe factory, but there was nothing in there now except a cement floor, open wood rafters, and concrete walls. It wasn’t that big, which was good, as then it wouldn’t feel cavernous. We would decorate and transform it with soft lighting, fabric, art, candles, and a focus on the runway and the people on it.

  I had other worries, though.

  I was worried we wouldn’t get enough people there.

  I was worried about publicity. Currently I had only one reporter coming from a small newspaper. I needed more, as I needed the TV stations for free advertising.

  I was worried about the runway and stage that Eric would build. I was worried about lighting, and finding an arc of something cool and catchy over the door to greet people as they walked in, something that would make a statement about our company. I was worried about the decor inside—what to hang from the ceiling, what to put on the walls. I had to get our company symbol, the strawberry, in there somehow, too. I had organizational worries and gargantuan program worries.

  As Tory, Lacey, and I worked more and more on The Fashion Story, our time was crunched. I was working, often, until midnight. Tory and Lacey were, too. Grandma had stepped back in, at my request, and was doing some of my work running the company. My most pressing worry was our model issues. In fact, our models didn’t even know they would be modeling. There was a chance they would fully rebel against being models.

  There were a hundred other details.

  We were trying something highly risky.

  We would either be laughed off the r
unway or be considered brilliant.

  I knew it would work. I knew it.

  It had to.

  From Boy to Girl By Hayden Rockaford

  I know this is going to shock everybody, but I am going to start dressing like a girl from now on.

  No, this is not a joke, and no, I’m not a freak.

  In my head, I’m a girl. When I was little I played with dolls and Barbies all the time. I used to insist on wearing dresses. Some of you probably remember me wearing dresses and bows in my hair in kindergarten. I know some of you thought I was a girl and were surprised in first grade to find out I was a boy.

  I have all the—for lack of a better word that can go in a high school newspaper—plumbing of a boy, but I feel like a girl. I always have.

  Everything about me is girl-like. I like decorating, I like designing bras and lingerie for my family’s company, and I like cooking and baking. I like makeup. I like being in school plays. I like dresses. I’m a girly girl, that’s the only way I can explain it. I hate football. I hate getting all dirty. I like talking to girls about the things girls talk about.

  I know I was supposed to be born a girl but something got messed up. I think that somehow, when my mom was pregnant with me, something went wrong. It’s not like I’m wrong, or I’m a mistake, and it’s not her fault, not my fault, but something didn’t connect in there right.

  For me, what happened is the right plumbing didn’t grow in. The plumbing was switched.

  That’s it. I’m in the wrong body.

  So, I’m still Hayden, but I’m going to be who I really am, a girl, because I hate hiding. I hate having this secret. I hate trying to pretend I’m a boy, which a lot of you probably don’t think I dressed like, or acted like, anyhow.

  I’m glad I’ve told the truth. I don’t think this is going to be easy, but lying about who you are isn’t easy, either, and I don’t want to do it anymore. It’s too tiring and, to be even more honest, depressing.

  I hope you will respect my decision, and for the people who are friends with me, I hope you’ll still be friends with me. I know people are going to get all weird about the bathrooms, so I’m going to use the boys’ bathroom still, but it’s not like it’s a huge deal.

  I hope I don’t get beat up much.

  Hayden wore eyeliner, blush, and lipstick to school on Wednesday. He wore a jean skirt and a pink shirt and black knee-high boots. He did his nails. As he told me, “Might as well go in one hundred per cent girl. You know, like diving in a lake, instead of going in toe by toe. Plus, I’m doing this in the middle of the week, so there’s not many days before the weekend if I cause a riot or a demonstration or something.”

  Lacey lay on the couch in her office all day, stressed to the gills about how the other kids would react. She kept patting the baby and saying, “HaydenwillbefineHaydenwillbefine.”

  I had a hard time concentrating. I pictured Hayden, sensitive Hayden, being annihilated by teasing and harassment.

  Tory said, “I’m worried about Hayden. He’s a Virgo, so he has strength and courage. Today’s horoscope for him says, ‘Be aware of new vacation plans and say yes when you want to say no. A lover is returning to your life.’ ”

  “I don’t think he has a returning lover. Hopefully there’s a vacation. I don’t know what to think about the yes and the no,” I said.

  “I feel sick,” Tory whispered. She lay down on my floor.

  “Me too.” I lay down beside her.

  “I was so worried about Hayden, I didn’t even drive by my house last night to spy on Scotty.”

  “Now that’s something.” We held hands.

  “We’re going skydiving tomorrow.”

  “Let me think about that. No,” I said to Grandma. “An absolute no. Tomorrow’s Saturday, and I will be here, working as your slave.”

  Tory said, “I am not jumping out of a plane. I sit first class. I drink champagne. I’m served by the flight attendants. I watch movies. There is no reason to leave a plane, and I won’t do it.”

  Lacey smirked and patted her stomach. “Grandma, you are so smart. That’s a great idea. I’ll enjoy watching you three.”

  We were in the conference room, and the four of us had had another conversation about The Fashion Story (scary, unpredictable result), our sales numbers (scary, unpredictable future result), our employees (not scary; I had fired the gossipy lady), and our catalog (boring in the past. We were making it quirkier, more colorful, and artistic for the next go-round. We would use photos and videos from The Fashion Story for both the catalogue and the website.).

  “We are going skydiving. I’ve made the appointments already.” Grandma was wearing a light green dress and matching green heels, her hair up and twisted perfectly. Baubles: emeralds. She reached back and “patted the fairies,” squeezing the muscles in her back.

  “I don’t think I want to leap from a plane, Grandma,” I said. “But gee, thanks so much for the invite.”

  “Rebel granddaughters, difficult granddaughters, I didn’t ask if you wanted to jump. I told you that we’re jumping. Obviously there was some confusion.” She stood up, ignoring our other arguments about how falling through the air had no appeal, how it might mess up our hormones and estrogen and, in Tory’s case, her “horoscopic spirituality.” We told her we would be happy to push her out of a plane, but not us.

  “Chickens,” Lacey squawked.

  “Stop arguing. Stop being frightened old women. I’m finding you irritating and spineless.” Grandma took a second to stare at the photo of the strawberry field on the wall, then spun on her heel and tapped on out. Tap, tap, tap.

  Tory clutched her stomach. “Does she want all my hair to fall out in fear? Does she want my vagina to freeze up forever? Can vaginas freeze up in fear? Doesn’t matter. Scotty doesn’t want it. I hate him. I called him the other night and left a message on his cell and told him he was like a tick. A bad, blood-sucking tick.”

  “I’m not going to do it,” I said. “We’ll push her out and watch her go. I am landing with that plane. No jumping for me.”

  “You have to do it,” Lacey said, flapping her arms. “Just flap your arms on the way down. Like chickens.”

  The drive was long and frightening because I knew where we were headed. Lacey drove Grandma’s flashy red Porsche. Grandma insisted that we all wear silk scarves, which she brought us, and those bug-eye glasses, which we put on.

  “Girls, we’re ready for speed,” she told us. “Before I die I want to go fast, super fast. Step on it, Lacey.”

  Lacey does not “step on it.” In fact, Lacey drives slowly, like a ninety-year-old man who can’t see, so Grandma’s request was actually quite funny.

  “I’m sure we’ll get there by next Tuesday,” Grandma shouted over the noise of her Porsche.

  “If we go any slower, I’m going to get out and walk,” Tory said, clutching her scarf.

  “Slow down, Lacey,” I said, adjusting my bug glasses. “If it’s dark by the time we get there, we won’t have to jump.”

  Eventually we arrived at a skydiving place for otherwise sane people who believe, for one insane moment in their lives, that it’s a splendid idea to hip-hop out of a perfectly good plane. I saw people dropping down through the sky in parachutes, a few screaming, probably with unbridled fear. I put my hands over my ears and tried to shut them out.

  Lacey cackled, “Have fun, ladies!” She grabbed a lawn chair, a magazine on business and economics, and sat under a tree. She looked disgustingly happy.

  After a jumping lesson, and the signing of a zillion-page legal contract that basically said if we were hurt; lost an arm, leg, intestine, brain, or liver; or died, we wouldn’t sue, we were boarding a tiny plane and going up, up, up into the wild blue yonder. I was strapped in front of my skydiving instructor, Jim Jim, a tall man with a wide smile who used to be in the army. I said to myself, “Don’t vomit.”

  Tory was a puce color. She was blowing air into her cupped hands and chanting, “Be a strong Pisces, be
a strong Pisces.”

  Grandma was laughing, those iridescent green eyes shining. “Should have done this years ago! Years ago! Look how handsome my partner is!” She pointed at the huge African American man she was strapped to named Edward. “I’m coming back for him again.” Edward laughed and high-fived our grandma.

  The plane made a ton of noise, and I closed my eyes.

  I knew I was going to die. I knew I was going to die. I knew I was going to die.

  “You ready?” Jim Jim said. He had a lot of teeth. Someone had broken his nose.

  “No, no. No, I’m not. I changed my mind.”

  “Too late! We’re jumping.”

  “Like hell I am.”

  He laughed.

  He had to pry my fingers off the seat. He had to push me forward through the perfectly good plane. When we got to the open doorway, I clung to the door.

  My efforts did nothing. He was muscly and ex-army. He peeled my fingers away, one at a time.

  Soon I was flying through the air at a zillion miles per hour.

  We spun. We zoomed. We zipped. Someone trained a video camera on me as we fell. Later I saw that my mouth was open wide enough to catch vultures. I screamed. My cheeks flapped.

  Long, frightening, and then unbelievably thrilling minutes later, I was lying on the ground, panting, watching Tory come down.

  She had not stopped screaming, swearing, and chanting, “Be a strong Pisces!” She sounded like a banshee being poked by a spear. Her instructor was laughing.

  Next was Grandma. Impossibly, she and Edward landed gracefully. She did not even crash to the ground.

  “I did it!” Grandma shouted, arms high in the air, Edward’s arm around her waist. “I did it! Now I’m a skydiver!”

  We went straight to a bar in Portland called Fish and Beer.

  “Girls, we have to talk about that road trip,” Grandma said as we hopped up onto stools. “We’ll bring Lacey’s baby daughter with us. We’re going to have a ladies week. We four and your mother.”