‘That’s . . . pessimistic. Doing stuff out of fear is always pessimistic.’
‘I dunno. I’ve had a lot of time to think.’
‘You missed the mocks.’
He shakes his head. ‘I had to take them the same day you guys did, but on my own, later.’
‘How did you do?’
‘Pretty shit. Dad’s not happy.’
‘I guess you’ve never done shit at anything before, right?’
‘Yep, I’m lowering all their expectations.’
We both look at the ripples on the water and watch a coot fight with a moorhen for some of Max’s crust.
‘So,’ I say. ‘If you can both do people and be done, what do you do?’
‘I don’t know.’ He thinks. ‘Accept that you’re a bit of both, I guess. Or that you’re neither.’
‘Or just be you. What does it matter?’
‘I guess. The bit beneath your heart,’ he mutters, with a wry grin.
‘Huh?’
‘Something my wise little brother said.’ Max hands me a bit of bread and gives me the first real look of the day. His eyes flit from my hair to my eyes, to my chin and he looks away shyly. We both pull off bread and try and feed it to a little duck who isn’t getting any because the bigger ones are faster and meaner.
‘You should go to the police,’ I say quietly. ‘What Hunter did was wrong.’
‘I just can’t.’
‘OK,’ I murmur.
‘Can we talk about something else, Sylvie?’ Max looks up at me. ‘Just, like . . . all everybody talks to me about at the moment is this stuff. Not specifically this stuff but . . . you know.’
‘Yeah, OK.’ I nod. ‘Sooo . . . you know there’s this half-guy I like?’
I see a tweak of a smile appear on Max’s face. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, he’s like a suicidal wackjob, but blond and pretty with a nice arse, so you can kind of get past the screwed-up-ness.’
Max laughs, a giggle of hilarity. It’s good to hear. His face lights up, just for a moment, but it’s there – that familiar blast of sunshine. He pulls the last bit of crust apart and chucks both pieces into the water. Then he puts his hands in his pockets and murmurs, ‘Kook.’
Archie
There have been many things that have gone through my mind since Max came in to see me in September last year, about being intersex, gender, my own ideology, and the ideology of my profession towards gender and intersexuality. We thought we understood gender – the idea of men and women as finite concepts with boundaries between each other, but lately I have come to understand that we are only just beginning to comprehend what ‘gender’ is, what it means to be allocated a certain gender, how much that informs the person a child becomes, and what happens when we don’t talk about gender as a malleable thing, when we shy away from discussing gender with children and teenagers and even adults. Dealing with trans individuals in the clinic did not prepare me for dealing with Max, because being one gender and wanting to be another is a completely different thing, perhaps even the opposite, of feeling, as perhaps Max does, OK as you are, but forced to choose. As a doctor, most of the health issues we work with involve a clear-cut right or wrong way to be. It is not OK to be obese, it is not OK to have cancer, it is not OK to eat sugar all the time. Many moral issues are the same: it is wrong to be racist, it is wrong to pay men more than women for the same job, it is wrong to murder. Perhaps this is why intersexuality is so controversial. The ‘norm’ is to have two separate genders, and when someone presents as different from the norm, we think they are ‘wrong’, we call their condition a ‘disorder’. But how detrimental is intersexuality, really, to a person’s life? It’s a conversation I wish, in a way, I could have with Max, but that is not to be. Distance prevents me from doing so, and also protects me from the emotion that must make this issue more difficult for Max and his family to discuss than for me. As much as I now know about Max, about this rare condition, I sense I can only begin to imagine what it must be like for a parent of an intersex child, understanding that physically your child is happy and healthy, perfect even, but that, due to societal pressure to be normal and the fear of differences, being intersex may just ruin their life. It’s not the fault of the condition, but one can understand how ‘fixing’ the condition might seem to make the problem go away.
I found out about Karen leaving when Max and Steve Walker came to see me at the surgery to talk about the overdose. An ambulance had taken them to the nearest hospital in the middle of the night. Max used the painkillers I gave him and some of Karen’s sleeping pills, but he was also inebriated. We don’t know how much Max really meant to do any harm to himself, and I suspect Max himself does not entirely know what he meant to erase. They pumped his stomach at the hospital, kept him overnight and sent him home.
Steve wanted to do more for him, so they made an appointment and came in to see me just before New Year. Max said he took the pills because he couldn’t sleep, but he also said he was depressed. He was confused and seemed disorientated. I arranged for a psychiatrist to meet with him once a week for an hour. We put him on a mild anti-depressant for two months. He comes off it at the end of February. Steve didn’t want to put him on any medication at all, so he was insistent that it was mild and short-term. The psychiatrist tells me Max is doing quite well, and slowly coming to terms with everything. He didn’t talk for the first few weeks, then one day he began, tentatively, to speak about his feelings.
I drove to the Walkers’ house the other day. They live in a rather grand and sparsely populated area of countryside on the edge of Hemingway, called Oakland Drive. You have to squint at the house names on the gates as you pass. All the houses are set back from the road, beyond long drives.
Max lives at ‘The Gables’. It’s a large, white building set back from the road, and looks to be over a century old. It has a tall, wooden gate in front of it and a hedgerow around it, with a couple of tall trees in the back. It looks a nice place to bring up kids. I went because Steve asked me to come to talk to him, without Max, about the future.
I advised they continue with counselling, and talk as a family. I said that I could see Max adjusting well in time. I didn’t stay for coffee, as Steve suggested. It’s a natural impulse to become involved with patients’ lives when you have been through something this important with them, but it’s equally as important to stay objective. That’s what they need me for. I don’t suppose I’ll see Max again for a while. In fact, I hope not. That will mean he’s doing well.
With this in mind, when I see Karen Walker in the clothing boutique on The Promenade, my first thought is to subtly slip out of the store. First I have to remove the shoes I’m trying on. I pull them off, apologising softly to the shop assistant, but before I can dash out, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
‘Hello, Archie,’ says Karen, in her smooth but strangely cold voice. ‘It’s so nice to see you.’
I smile politely. ‘How are you, Karen?’
‘Good!’ She nods, realising how she sounds: determined; a little crazed. She laughs. ‘I’ve been thinking about drinking in the morning. It’s something I’ve never done that I’ve always wanted to try.’ She pauses, as if waiting for me to say something.
I take my cue. ‘I’m sorry for calling your husband about the clinic in London—’
‘Are you?’ Karen cuts in, rather sharply. She drops her head. ‘Sorry,’ she mutters. ‘It’s . . . been a bad year.’
I slip my handbag over my shoulder. ‘I really am sorry, Karen. I was concerned when I came in that morning. I didn’t know the clinic. I thought Max might have gone on his own.’
‘No,’ Karen speaks over me again, but this time softly. ‘No, you didn’t. But that’s OK. Maybe I was a little . . . bad with Max. I hope I’ll get another chance but . . . how can I know?’
For a moment she looks like she might cry.
‘Karen?’
She dips her long neck and her golden hair covers it as she brushes her cheek with a finger. Her
head bobs up again and she beams at me, just like Max used to do.
‘Is everything going OK with Max? With his therapy?’ she asks.
‘Things aren’t so bad.’ I hesitate, wondering how much she knows. ‘I hear he’s doing well. Obviously Dr Evans and I don’t share notes, but she tells me he’s . . . on the mend.’
She nods again, earnestly. ‘Mm, I think so. I don’t know . . . Daniel tells me he is.’
‘He is,’ I say, and I reach out and touch her arm gently.
‘I just wish he would talk to me,’ she murmurs, looking off towards a rack of dresses. ‘We used to talk a lot.’
‘It’ll happen.’
Karen shrugs. ‘I don’t know. He hasn’t been telling me the truth for a long while, even before we stopped talking.’
It seems to me like she wants to talk. Perhaps she doesn’t have many people she can turn to.
Then she sighs, and says something that makes me want to set her straight, despite my need to stay professional and distanced.
‘He wouldn’t even admit that he was attracted to boys at all. What am I supposed to think? I used to think he was so open and brave.’
‘Isn’t he going out with Sylvie Clark now?’ I ask, trying to deflect this last comment.
‘Sylvie? I thought they broke up?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I say pointlessly, because Steve had told me the day before that they are seeing each other again. ‘I don’t know. I just presumed.’
‘Well, he’s probably bi, but he won’t talk to me about it.’
‘Karen, really, Max isn’t.’
‘How would you know?’ Karen says, almost disdainfully.
‘Well, it wouldn’t be a problem anyway, but I know he isn’t.’
‘I suppose he talks to you more than he talks to me now.’
‘I haven’t seen him in a long time, Karen.’
I turn to go but she grabs my arm. ‘Wait!’ she exclaims. ‘How do you know?’
‘I . . .’ I’ve said too much. I see suspicion in her eyes and I turn away. ‘Just take my word for it,’ I say, heading for the door.
‘I mean, if he isn’t . . .’ Karen’s voice has become firm, and yet desperate, like her throat has constricted. She grasps my arm with both hands and looks me in the eye.
‘Archie?’ she whispers. The boutique owner stares at us, and together we step outside into the light.
I look around at passers-by. When we’re alone, I say, ‘I can’t. Confidentiality.’
‘Archie.’ Karen pulls me to her. She looks stricken with grief. ‘What is it?’
I open my mouth but I can’t speak. Suddenly, Karen Walker doesn’t need me to speak.
‘Oh my god.’ She drops my arms and steps away, her eyes wide in horror. She puts her hands to her mouth.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, not knowing what to say or do.
‘Oh my god.’ A deep, hollow sound comes from her throat. ‘Max.’
Max
Sylvie and I are making out in my room.
‘I love you to the nth degree,’ I mumble through her lips.
‘I love you . . . with every fibre of my being,’ she says back. It’s a game we play.
‘I love you . . . more than I love football.’
‘Oh my fuck, how romantic. OK, I would love you even if you were covered in hair.’
‘I would love you even if . . .’ I smile, kissing her neck. ‘You were some kind of goth-y, biker-chick freak who wrote poetry.’
She nods, grabbing my cheeks. ‘That’s so sweet! I would love you even if you were half-and-half.’
I grin and laugh. ‘I would love you even if you had oral herpes.’
‘That’s disgusting. I would love you even if you had gonorrhea in your eye.’
‘That’s highly unlikely.’
‘You’re highly unlikely,’ Sylvie says, and kisses me, stroking her hands down my back and grabbing my bum. I giggle and she slips her hands around to the front of my pants.
‘Not yet,’ I murmur.
‘Not yet? As in, not right this second? How about this second?’
‘Oh my god, stop.’
‘How about now?’
‘Stop!’ I yell, tickling her.
We get entangled on the bed and kiss more, when suddenly I hear a voice shouting my name. I sit up.
‘Wait, Sylvie, listen.’
‘Ignore it,’ she says, biting my jaw. I almost fall back onto the bed, but then I hear it again.
‘MAX!’
‘Sylves, I think it’s my mum.’
‘Shit, really?’
‘Yeah. Come on.’
I take her hand and we go out onto the balcony of the landing, but she’s not in the hall downstairs. I can hear shouting in the kitchen, so we run down the stairs.
When I push open the door, I see Dad stood by the kettle. Mum is stood at the other end of the table, shouting at Dad.
Everyone goes quiet when we come through the door. I feel a soft object bump my back and Sylvie puts her hand in my palm.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask.
Mum turns to me. ‘I . . . I . . .’ she stammers. ‘I just wanted to see you and your dad wouldn’t let me.’
‘Well.’ I shrug uncomfortably. ‘That’s because I don’t want to see you.’
‘I thought we said you wouldn’t come over for the next few weeks,’ Dad says to Mum quietly.
‘I have to talk to him!’ Mum shrieks, looking at me. She’s been crying. Her make-up is dark and pooled under her eyes.
‘Come on, Karen, you can’t just burst in and yell things at him. He’s very unsettled right now,’ Dad says. ‘He needs to rest and take things easy.’
I go and sit at the table just in front of Dad, pulling Sylvie after me. He moves so he’s just behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. I don’t want to leave Dad alone to have a screaming match again. It was horrible enough the first time.
‘Come on, Karen, we said you wouldn’t come here.’
‘He’s my son!’ Mum says, and I suddenly feel really sorry for her. I look down at the table and pick at the wood. She puts her hands up to her face and covers a little gasp of pain. ‘Maxy?’ she says to me. ‘Why won’t you tell me anything anymore?’
I shrug and mumble, ‘You know why.’
‘No, even before that,’ Mum moans. ‘You didn’t want to tell me, but you could have. I’m so sorry if I made it hard for you, but you could have told me.’ She sobs and covers her face again.
I frown and look up at Dad. ‘Could have told you what?’
She looks up at me and whispers, ‘How the baby came about.’
‘But I did,’ I protest.
‘Please, Max,’ she begs. ‘I want us to talk. I want you to tell me who . . .’ She brushes away tears from her face and her voice gets ragged and breathy.
‘I want you to tell me who, and I will lock them away . . .’
And I realise.
‘No!’ I shout loudly. I stand up, throwing my chair backwards. I don’t want to hear it. Every cell in my body is trying to throw off what she is saying, stop time, change the course of present momentum. ‘Shut up!’
Dad has to jump out of the way of my chair as I stand. ‘Max! Be careful!’
‘Tell me who it was, Max,’ Mum says, like a lawyer this time, with both her palms flat on the table. ‘Tell me who he was and I will make sure he never harms you or anyone else ever again.’
She looks as if she would kill him. Dad is staring at her like she’s crazy. But then I watch it dawn on his face too, feeling the panic rise in my body until it feels like the blood is drumming in my ears, a cacophony of embarrassment, shame and, weirdly, guilt. I do not want Mum and Dad to know. I don’t want it to be another problem. I don’t want them to think of me that way.
No no no no no no no, I think. No!
‘Karen?’ Dad murmurs. She looks at him with tears in her eyes and confirms with a small nod. Both of them turn to me.
‘Max, tell me,’
Mum says.
I can’t say anything.
‘Max, you have to tell us,’ says Dad. ‘It’s OK, Max. You can do it.’
‘Be brave, honey,’ encourages Mum.
There’s a silence. Mum is waiting for me, Dad is waiting for me, Sylvie is gripping my hand so hard, and I look at her hopelessly. She looks back at me and it’s like we converse with our eyes.
I can’t, I say.
You have to, she says.
No. I shake my head. I don’t.
And I realise I can’t say anything. My mouth won’t move, my voice won’t speak. I’m paralysed again. I can’t say anything.
I look down at the table.
‘Hunter.’
Mum and Dad’s heads both snap to Sylvie.
She says it again, softly. ‘It was Hunter.’
Daniel
Mum and Max end up hugging in the living room for a long time, and then a police officer comes round and I’m not supposed to know anything but I listened from the stairs so apparently Hunter is being arrested. Everybody was crying for a while, but they’re all alright now and everyone’s happier now Mum is home. Dad says she isn’t staying overnight though, she’s just looking after us until Dad and the policeman have gone and dealt with Hunter and come back. But Sylvie is staying overnight. I don’t know what happened exactly. It’s hard to hear from the stairs. They had the door closed.
Mum and Dad had a fight, which is why Mum isn’t staying here at the moment, which I can understand, because sometimes they are both very irritating. But sometimes they are really nice. Like when Dad builds a fort in the back garden with me or Mum takes me for ice cream in Oxford at the posh tearooms. She says I’m a big boy now and I won’t misbehave. That’s right. I won’t. I’m grown up. I’m ten and two months and twenty-one days.
I hear a tap over my shoulder and when I turn around, Max is standing against the doorframe.
‘Hey buddy,’ Max says. He looks all red and jolly for the first time in ages, which is good because he wasn’t even jolly at Christmas. He was just faking it for me, and it was so obvious. He kept going up to his room for five minutes and then coming down again, and then in the evening he was getting upset in his room and Dad came and gave him a big bear hug for ages and they talked a bit quietly, and then Max came downstairs and him and Dad watched action movies after I slept. That’s what Max told me. He said they watched Terminator 1 and 2, and then True Lies and ate chocolate-covered raisins.
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