Tilda's Promise

by Jean P. Moore

  “It sounds to me that you’re not so okay with it, that maybe you just really want her to be your Tilly again. Look, it’s understandable. This is pretty heavy stuff. In our day, we just went with the gender we were born with. There were no options. Kids today have choices we never dreamed of. Thank God her parents are behind her on this. And you should be happy about that. You played a big part in making that happen. Before you went after her, she was alone. How scary for her, no?”

  “Yes. Everything you’re saying is right. And yes, I am worried about what comes next. Very.”

  Chapter Eleven

  THE UNCHARTED WORLD

  On a Saturday morning in January, Harper poked out from under the covers and flipped over onto her back. She immediately ran her hands over her breasts, as she did most mornings. They hadn’t changed since the day before, still small, but she was not flat, and her nipples were a little sore—maybe a little more than they had been lately. Then she ran her hands over her stomach. There was a new feeling there, too, low in her belly, a little like the time she had eaten too many soft, chewy caramels. She had a stomachache, then that didn’t get better until she finally went to the bathroom. But there was something stranger yet. Behind the pain was a feeling like the butterflies she got in her stomach when something scared her. She didn’t know what was happening, but she would ask her mom, just it case it was something having to do with getting her period. She knew it had to be coming soon. She had been lucky so far.

  She would definitely ask her mom about it, and Dr. Miriam, too. Harper liked Dr. Miriam and found her easy to talk to. She was older than her mom. She had gray in her curly hair and wore her wire glasses low on her nose. She wore long skirts and big boots, not very stylish, but she seemed to really understand, like the time Harper told her she didn’t want to be Tilly anymore:

  “I know you want to be Harper, so tell me also how it feels when you think of your friends calling you Harper?” she’d asked.

  “Well, it feels good to think about that,” Harper had said. “I mean, a lot of kids at school already know, like my friend, Andrea, and another friend who even says she understands how I feel, like she wants to be someone else sometimes, too. It’s nice to know I’m not that weird or something.”

  Dr. Miriam had made some notes in her book and asked, “So all your friends are okay with it, with you being Harper?”

  “Well, yeah, and my teachers, too. Most of them call me Harper. I mean, if they’re not okay with it, nobody’s saying anything. Right after the holiday break, Mom wrote a note, and all my teachers were asked to go along with the name change. The way Mom put it was that they were being asked to ‘respect my decision.’ I guess it’s no big deal, really.”

  “Okay, now can you tell me a little more about why you like being known as Harper—by everyone, right, not just your friends at school?”

  Harper thought she had already said a lot, but if Dr. Miriam wanted more, she would think about it, and when she did, she knew the answer.

  “Yes, by everybody, my friends, teachers, my family, of course. Because if people call me Harper, then it’s me, like they really know I’m me.”

  Dr. Miriam had nodded, and they’d talked about something else.

  Another time Dr. Miriam had asked that Harper close her eyes and think about herself as Harper. “Who do you see?” she asked.

  “I see me.”

  “Do you look different?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay, now with your eyes still closed, imagine you are Harper, say, a few years from now, a little more in the future. Do you still look the same?”

  Harper had paused, trying to imagine herself then, but she couldn’t really see that far. “Not clearly,” she had answered. “I guess I don’t really know.”

  After the lunch date with Bev, Tilda kept coming back to their conversation about Tilly—and about where her therapy may be headed. She felt like she used to follow the first rule of grandparenting—“Stay out of it”—but lately she was falling far from the mark on that one. That may have been the rule she and Harold followed, but things had certainly changed. And she couldn’t help but congratulate herself. Tilly was, after all, safe and sound at home, thanks to her grandmother’s meddling. Rather than letting her doubts continue to grow while maintaining her silence, Tilda decided to call Laura, which she did on a Monday morning when Tilly would be at school and Mark would be at work. She sat down at her desk, straightened out a few papers, and made the call.

  After a brief conversation on the weather (it was cold) and the state of world affairs (worse than ever), Tilda brought up Tilly.

  “I don’t know if you can tell me more about what’s going on, if there’s some policy of keeping the information among the three of you, but I’d like to know about Tilly’s—Harper’s—therapy. You told me that she may be transgender and that you may be considering puberty blockers. But that’s all I know. Can we talk about it?”

  “Sure, it’s okay. But don’t jump to conclusions. We don’t know anything yet, and I don’t want you to worry about her. I’m sure Harper is okay with talking about what’s going on, too. She’s been very open. After all, you’re the one she went to first. You need to talk to her yourself, Mom.”

  “I will, but things are moving pretty quickly, and I’m concerned about the blockers. Is it safe, you know, to put off the natural course of things?”

  “We’re still discussing it, but you don’t have to worry about safety, and nothing is moving so quickly. Dr. Bernstein is very thorough and is doing a full medical workup. Harper’s on the late side, not getting her period yet—as you know—and Dr. Bernstein wants to be sure everything’s okay. But I don’t think she’s absolutely sure yet, about Harper being transgender, I mean. And until she’s absolutely sure, there won’t be any blockers.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Tilda, rising from her chair to look out the window, her free hand rubbing the small of her back where the tension usually began to build. It looked like it might snow. “If she isn’t transgender, what is it, then? And can’t we just call her Tilly, just between the two of us?”

  Tilda heard Laura sigh into the phone. “Mom, this isn’t easy for me, either, you know. I’m trying to get used to the idea. It matters to her that I, that we—Mark and you—get it right.”

  Tilda let her free hand drop to her side. “I’m sorry, Laura. Of course this is hard for you. I don’t want you to have to worry about me, either. You have enough on your mind. Do you still want to talk about it?”

  “Yes, yes, it’s okay. You have a right to be concerned about your granddaughter. You can ask me anything.”

  “Okay, then. So—is she transgender or not?”

  Laura sighed into the phone. “Mom, I just told you, we don’t know yet. That’s what her therapy is all about. It’s a huge step, and you have to be sure you’re dealing with a transgender child—that it isn’t something else. It’s a process, and it takes time.”

  “But what happens then, after she has her period, when she’s fully into puberty?”

  Tilda knew she was wearing on Laura’s patience, but she pressed on.

  “Well, at that point, if her doctor was absolutely certain, Tilly would begin to get testosterone.”

  Tilda noted, thankfully, that Laura was allowing the lapse back to Tilly. But testosterone. That sounded so drastic—and so final. “But what about her dancing? She’s an elegant, feminine dancer. Doesn’t that mean something? She’s never been overly girlish, but she’s not exactly a tomboy, either.”

  “I know. Don’t you think I’ve been over these same questions a million times? But I guess I’ve come to understand, to put it simply, that there are no right answers. We think in such stereotypes, even now, when we’re supposed to be beyond ‘gender roles.’ Isn’t that what your generation taught us?”

  Tilda wondered if all that bra-burning years ago had led to this, to her granddaughter struggling to be not a liberated woman, but maybe a liberated man.
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  “So,” said Laura, “a transgender male—that’s someone who was born a girl but who identifies as a male—can still be a dancer and still be interested in fashion.”

  Tilda noted her daughter’s clinical tone. So like her—to grab on to any issue and deal with it, especially when the “issue” was her daughter’s welfare and future.

  “In fact, some kids don’t identify as one gender or the other. They’re called ‘non-binary,’ or ‘genderqueer,’ one word.”

  “This is all a bit much,” said Tilda, who had been pacing around the room and who now reached for her office chair and sat down again. “I’m sorry. I’m trying, like you, Laura, but what makes a girl want to be a boy?” she asked.

  “Is that a serious question, or are you just overwhelmed?”

  “A little of both, I think.”

  “I feel like I’m lecturing you, Mom. I’m not. Mark and I are confused and worried, too, a lot. I mean, sometimes we’re very adult and accepting and other times we can’t believe what’s happening, but Dr. Bernstein keeps us grounded. She’s very practical and evenhanded. She helps us to understand—for Harper’s sake.”

  “But why Tilly, and why now? She’s never shown any signs of being anything but a darling little girl.”

  “Mom. Please. Try harder to understand. And try to use Harper. I need to also, we have to, it’s important.” Tilda knew her daughter was right, and she was struck by Laura’s newfound strength. Tilda was no longer the one handing out tissues. Now it was Laura bolstering her.

  “I am trying, believe me. But just when I think I’ve got it—she’s definitely Harper, and this time it will stick—I waiver, and I want Tilly back.”

  She waited for Laura to soften and to admit to those same feelings, but Laura ignored her plea for more understanding.

  “One thing is very clear,” Laura continued. “These kids are vulnerable. They need a lot of support—and love.”

  And that was the bottom line. Laura would be as strong as she needed to be to not lose her child.

  “She’ll always have that,” Tilda answered. Always, no matter what.

  Winter wore on. Tilda, who hadn’t been to the Y in months, since Harold had died, began going again regularly, in hopes of staving off the continuing toll taken by the mounting years.

  As for the other, less serious, almost-not-worth-worrying-about indignities, she added to the list dryness—of nails, hair, and skin. Everything was dry, especially in winter, as if instead of being put out on an ice floe, nature was seeing to it that she would simply dry up and blow away. At least her hearing was still good, as were her teeth—yes, they were still her own.

  So she went back to the Y, hoping that would help. She worked out with weights, having read a long article recently extolling the benefits of lifting for bone health, strength, and other things she couldn’t remember. She swam for the benefits to her body and mind, having read that aerobic exercise helped the brain. She’d never been much for aerobics (a joke to a former gymnast) or Zumba (an even worse, newer model). And she’d never had the patience for yoga, but swimming was almost spiritual. Once she eased into the water and began taking long, leisurely strokes, the world fell away. There were only the awareness of her breath, the sensation of the water against her skin, and the near silence—the only sounds were the ones her heart and her body made with each stroke and as she flipped with each turn. Like flying . . . this is what meditation must be like, she thought. Then came a quiet joy, gratitude for the privilege of growing old. I’m still here. The thought engendered a surge of energy in her strokes. But then she felt the accompanying quiet sadness that Harold could not share in the privilege or the joy.

  Once back at home, after showering and lathering her body in lotion at the Y, she used her time to catch up on emails, bills, and the minutia of daily life. She made sure she kept up with Barbara. Although there were no visits imminent on either side, they stayed in touch at least once a week, by phone or by texting, and sometimes by Skyping. Looking at one another on the screen, they denied the reality of their mutual aging. When Tilda remarked, “I look terrible,” her sister would counter, “It’s the angle or the light or something.” They would then laugh, ignoring the inevitable march of time. Tilda would ask about Mike and Jake and Nate and be satisfied that all were fine. Barbara would ask earnestly how Tilda was doing, and when she responded in the affirmative, Barbara would ask her to please come visit. Tilda would say yes, soon, and the conversation would end until the next week. It was all that was required of their relationship now attenuated by time and distance.

  Closer to home, she was in touch with Bev almost daily. And George, too, although since their New Year’s kiss, she had been keeping her distance. There were lunches, dinners, and the occasional movie, but aside from some friendly handholding, there had been no more kissing. George seemed to be resigned to Tilda’s ambivalence, patiently giving her the time she needed. When she boldly asked if he was growing tired of her reluctant-lover routine, he had simply replied, “You’re more than worth the wait, my dear.” This had sounded to her like something Rhett Butler might say, and the thought had pleased her.

  And she had been in touch with Tilly, or Harper, as she was trying hard to always say out loud and to get right. But in her mind, her granddaughter was Tilly. Their most recent outing had been to the Wayne Museum of Art and History in Water Haven, the pride of the town, a cultural jewel larger than most of the regional museums outside New York. Tilda thought Tilly would enjoy the interactive celestial navigation exhibit. It was supposed to simulate the heavens of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries through the use of virtual reality headsets. She had read about it in the local weekly. The exhibit was in conjunction with the main attraction, the display of ancient maps and sea charts from the Age of Discovery.

  Tilly was waiting at her school’s entrance when Tilda picked her up. They would have a good two hours at the museum, Tilda thought.

  In the car, Tilly took off her down jacket, under which she wore a loose dark gray sweater vest over a long white shirt, no budding breasts visible. She was wearing zero makeup. Tilda noted the requisite jeans, but also saw that they were not the skinny ones the girls all wore. They were baggy, but not as drastic as hip-hop jeans. It was quite a get-up, Tilda concluded. Tilly pulled off her wool cap and ran her fingers through her hair. It was short. No more long ponytail.

  “When did you cut your hair?” Tilda asked, aware and sorry for the breathy sound of disappointment in her voice.

  “Don’t you like it, Grandma?” Tilly asked.

  Before pulling out of the school’s driveway, Tilda looked in the rearview mirror and said, “I think the traffic monitor is going to chase me if I don’t hurry up and get out of here.”

  As Tilda drove, Tilly pursued the topic of her hair. “It’s so much easier this way, but Mrs. Watson is furious. We’re all supposed to be bunheads on the dance team.”

  Tilly waited for Tilda’s reaction, and when Tilda didn’t say anything, she continued. “She wants me to grow it back out right away, but that’s crazy. Hair doesn’t grow that fast. But do you like it, Grandma?”

  Tilda finally said, “Yes, of course I do, Harper. It’s cute. You look great no matter what. But what about your coach? Can you still dance on the team?”

  “Yes. But she actually wants me to get extensions for performances, so I can wear my hair however she decides we should all look. It’s getting a little silly, if you ask me.”

  “But you’ll do it, right?” Tilda was aware that she was sounding a little too invested in Tilly’s dance career, but she guessed she was. Tilda held on to the hope that Tilly’s love of dance would help see her through a difficult time. She worried what would happen if she didn’t have dance any longer.

  “Oh, I guess. But she’s the only teacher who won’t call me Harper.”

  As fine as the maps and sea charts exhibit promised to be, Tilda was sure Tilly would want to go directly to the virtual reality display in the
adjacent exhibit hall and be fitted with a headset. Much to her surprise, her granddaughter seemed to be intrigued by the prospect of the maps. As soon as they entered the dim room, separate spotlights gently illuminating each one, Tilly appeared to be enchanted, taken by the idea that explorers had actually used these mistaken versions of unknown lands to find their way. The maps, though wildly inaccurate, were works of art in themselves. Some were wood-cuts, some metal-plate engravings, many still with their original, hand-painted brilliant colors. Tilda imagined them hanging in dark, wood-paneled libraries of long ago.

  “Did you see the sea monsters painted on the map?” Tilly asked, delighted by her discovery. “Look, you can see one there at the tip of Africa.” She was pointing to a green-and-red sea dragon of sorts, large and out of perspective with the depiction of nearby land. “I think that’s supposed to be Africa. Can you imagine, Grandma, going out to sea with these maps?”

  Tilda didn’t know how to respond, this sort of adventure being something she had never contemplated. But before she could say anything, an elderly man who had overheard Tilly commented, “Oh, the explorers didn’t use these maps.”

  Tilly turned to see who was answering her question.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” he said, “but you seemed so interested, I had to say something.”

  In his woolen flat cap, vest, and corduroy trousers, Tilda thought he looked rather old-world and wondered if he were a docent with a historic bent.

  “These maps are the product of early cartographers . . . do you know that term, young lady?”

  Tilly’s back stiffened as she pulled on the shirttails hanging out under her vest. “Yes, sir, I know they’re mapmakers.”