‘Did he want a boy and he didn’t want them to make me into a girl?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Well, he’d obviously like it more if I was a boy.’
‘That’s not true,’ says Mum. She sighs.
We walk into Topshop and get on the escalator to Topman.
‘Now I can hear you. What are you talking about?’ says Dad.
‘You,’ replies Mum, curtly. ‘Tell Max about what you did when he was born.’
‘What I did?’
‘About him being intersex.’
‘Well, nothing. We decided you were alright how you were.’
Mum sighs again when we get upstairs and leans against a rail of jeans. She looks at Dad regretfully, like she’s about to say something nice about him, but doesn’t want to. Instead, she turns to me.
‘I went to pieces when you were born. Dad dealt with everything: the doctors, the examinations, the hospital appointments. I couldn’t come with you to them. I found it too upsetting. I was worried you’d grow up and everything would come back to haunt us, which,’ she shrugs, ‘has happened.’
I bite my lip. ‘Probably wouldn’t have happened without . . . you know.’
‘It would have someday, though, Max.’
‘Maybe not,’ says Dad.
I shrug. ‘I was fine, though. I’ve been fine.’
‘Well . . .’ Mum purses her lips and fiddles with the label on a pair of twisted cords. ‘You know your dad painted Daniel’s room yellow because it was unisex?’
‘Did you?’ I ask Dad.
‘Yes. We wanted Danny to be whoever he was too. We shouldn’t talk about this here,’ he says, looking uncomfortable. ‘We’ll talk about it at home.’
‘Yes,’ Mum agrees, feeling a T-shirt sleeve. ‘That’s soft.’
‘Dad’s always got the campaign team round when we’re at home,’ I tell Mum, when Dad has wandered off towards the belts. ‘What else did he do?’
‘He . . .’ She walks around aimlessly. ‘Stopped them from taking pictures of you without your pants on. After the hormones you had when you were thirteen, he convinced me we shouldn’t take you back to the doctors. He said they just wanted to document you and watch you and write papers on people like you to forward their own careers. He said they were sick perverts, wanting to poke and pull and stare at you. And—’ She sort of winces. ‘He was the one who said you couldn’t have operations until you could decide for yourself. He said it was mutilation. No one was going to cut up his perfectly functioning baby.’ She throws her hands around when she says this last bit, like she is imitating him word for word.
‘Dad said that?’ I stop walking. Mum turns back to me, avoiding my eye, feeling the black denim skinny jeans next to me.
She shrugs. ‘He wanted you to be able to have children if you wanted to.’
I must look stunned, because she says, ‘Obviously he thought you might be more androgynous than you are.’
‘He knew it was a possibility I’d be more of a boy, though,’ I say.
‘Max,’ Dad says, coming back to us. ‘Come on, we can talk about all this at home.’
‘No one’s going to recognise you here!’ Mum hisses at him venomously, and struts off.
Dad walks off in the other direction.
‘Dad wanted me to be able to have kids?’ I say to myself.
I stay where I am, shocked, frowning, thinking. Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel” is playing on the sound system. I put my hand to my lips and bite my nail, and feel my eyes tearing up at the corners.
Dad was OK, in principle, with me having a baby. He thought it would be OK, even when he knew I could be a total freak, even when he knew I could be a boy, a man. He thought . . . He thinks . . . Does he think that now?
‘Max,’ Mum comes rushing back, looking remorseful. ‘Don’t cry, it’s OK, I’m sorry.’ She takes my hand and leads me out of the shop. ‘I shouldn’t have told you in the store, I’m sorry.’
‘What about Dad?’ I say, looking back.
‘I’ll call him,’ Mum says, taking out her BlackBerry. I look at her and open my mouth, but I shut it again and wipe my face, feeling tears sliding between my fingers.
‘He just . . .’ She strokes my hair off my face and I struggle away from her. She looks hurt. ‘He just didn’t want to have to decide without talking to you. He said if it all worked, why not let you be . . . you.’
‘What did you think?’ I mumble.
‘Steve, we’re outside the shop. I think Max is tired.’ She hangs up. ‘To be honest, when I had thought about it for a while, I agreed with him . . . in principle. But the world doesn’t work that way. We thought we were doing well because nothing had gone wrong so far. Then something like this happens . . . Max, I’m sorry. I’ve been going crazy thinking about it, about everything, about you having sex, being pregnant. It’s just overwhelming for me too.’
I blush. ‘Shh,’ I mutter.
She continues, stroking the hair off my face. ‘We can’t change the world we live in, in our lifetime, anyway. We can’t all be idealistic like your dad. We have to live in the real world.’ She touches my chin. ‘I want you to be normal so you can have the best chance at a nice life. Do you understand why I want that?’ Mum is almost crying now. ‘Do you understand what I mean? Max? I love you, but I want things to be better for you. You understand?’
‘Yeah, Mum,’ I nod, drying my face, tired, my body aching, sore, exhausted, drained, sick and sighing. ‘I do. I really, really do.’
She puts her arms around me. ‘Oh, my love,’ she whispers, and I close my eyes to the streams of shoppers walking past, eyeing us inquisitively.
Karen
When we get back from London, Daniel rushes into the kitchen to see if we’ve bought him Christmas presents, and Debbie and Lawrence greet us warmly.
‘The family is back!’ exclaims Lawrence. ‘Excellent. Tuxes and dresses on in the next half an hour, please. Magdalene College Christmas Ball won’t wait for its guest speaker.’
‘I’m tired,’ says Max.
‘You don’t have to go,’ I tell him, emotionally exhausted myself.
‘Ready to talk?’ Steve murmurs.
‘Now? Really?’ I say.
‘Stephen, I have Holden on the line for you,’ Debbie says excitedly.
‘Is this bag for me?’ Daniel says, grabbing at a Hamleys carrier we dipped in for at the last minute. Steve holds it aloft.
‘Not until the twenty-fifth!’ Steve says, taking the phone. ‘Sorry, always chaos in my house on a Saturday. How can I help you, Holden?’
‘I can’t WAIT for Christmas!’ yells Daniel. ‘Lawrence had the tree delivered today.’
Lawrence smiles, looking at me. ‘You were so busy.’
‘Thanks Lawrence, how thoughtful.’
‘Can I call you back in ten?’ Steve murmurs. ‘Thanks.’
‘Come see the tree,’ Daniel says, grabbing my hand.
‘Karen?’ Steve sits down at the kitchen table, folds his arms and waits for me to join him.
‘Sure,’ I say to Danny, ignoring Steve, and heading through to see the fir that I neglected to order, dwarfing the room, branches bursting jollily out across the carpet.
‘Soon,’ Daniel says, ‘there’ll be loads of presents underneath it!’
‘Let’s decorate it tonight,’ says Max quietly, from behind me.
I see him brush something off his face, and he walks past me, lowers himself onto his knees, and rummages through the box of tiny bells and ornaments by the tree.
‘Cool,’ Daniel agrees, and kneels down beside Max.
Max’s blond head and Daniel’s light red one bend together before the tree, and I take a deep breath and think about how it will soon be Christmas, and everything that’s tearing me up inside now will be behind us.
I feel Steve put his arm around me, from behind.
‘Karen,’ he murmurs. ‘We should talk about this. I know you’re upset.’
‘You alwa
ys know.’
‘Stephen?’ Debbie calls from the kitchen.
We wait, unmoving, feeling each other breathing, feeling the pull of our busy lives; lives that revolve around home and work and other people. Steve dips his head to my shoulder and kisses it.
‘Get off me,’ I whisper.
‘Stephen?’ Debbie calls.
He holds me close and kisses my neck. ‘Karen . . . I love you,’ he whispers to the nape of my neck, rather hopelessly.
Sylvie
Monday morning
Homeroom’s boring
All I do is think of you
I’m busy writing these pretty mundane but genuinely felt lyrics when my phone buzzes.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey. You mind me pranking you?’
‘It’s not pranking if I pick up.’
‘Good point. Why did you?’
‘Teacher’s late again,’ I say.
‘Terrible.’
‘She’s an addict.’
‘Yeah, to crack. I heard.’
‘So, why are you calling me rather than coming to get me?’
‘I’m standing outside the window.’
‘What?’ I stand up. ‘Why?’
‘Come see what love looks like, kook,’ Max’s voice says into my ear.
‘Love?’
He giggles. ‘You know.’
‘Christ,’ I say. ‘I see you. You’re naked.’
‘No I’m not! Which window are you looking out of?’
‘I’m joking.’
He spots me and waves. ‘Are you coming down?’
‘Yeah, OK.’
‘We’re bunking off again.’
‘Golden boy, what are you doing with your life?’
‘I’m rebelling.’
‘You’re throwing it all away, like a modern day James Dean, but with an even nicer arse.’
‘Why, thank you.’
‘Are you really bunking off again?’ I say doubtfully. ‘I mean, I can get away with it because I’m so good I don’t need to be here to get As, but, like, I’ve noticed you work super hard.’
‘I’ll survive. I can’t be in school. I’m a fugitive now. Everyone thinks I knocked someone up. It’s pretty unbearable.’
‘Everyone but me, huh? That’s why you’re hanging out with me.’
‘That and your rack.’
‘Oh my god, Max Walker is being rude! I’m telling everyone I’ve ever met right now.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘Yes I am. I’m tweeting it.’
‘No you’re not!’
‘And I’m tagging it with the hashtag “Stephen Walker’s son”.’
‘Urgh, don’t say that. Dad’s doing a press day.’
‘So?’
‘Um, nothing. Hurry up, kook.’ I hear his breath shudder.
‘Are you freezing your balls off waiting for me?’
‘Well . . .’ he says. ‘Kind of.’
‘Why did you just look at your crotch?’
‘Are you still at the window? I can’t see you! Will you just freakin’ come down?’
I run up and hug him from behind.
‘AH!’ he screams.
‘Got ya!’ I yell. We turn to each other, hold our phones aloft and both hang up. They both lock at the same moment.
‘Oo,’ I say looking at them. ‘It’s fate.’
Max grins happily and hugs me. ‘You make me feel so good, Sylvie.’
‘Alright, don’t be cheesy. You know I’m a commitment phobe.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Come on, let’s go fool around on a grave.’
‘Gross.’
Max
Tuesday the eleventh is the day of the first appointment at the hospital.
The doctor is called Dr Jones. He’s tall, has greying brown hair, and a kind face.
‘After the termination, it is usual to have some mild bleeding and some abdominal pain. If that gets to be too much, just come back and see us,’ he says. This is one of the only things I pick up on. Mum and Dad listen attentively as I watch Dr Jones’ mouth moving and zone out.
‘Shall we have a chat about post-operative contraception?’ he asks, turning to me.
I shake my head.
‘No?’ he says, turning to my parents.
‘No,’ I say.
‘OK.’ He hesitates for a moment, then recovers. ‘Let’s get on with the pelvic examination, shall we?’
Mum and Dad leave the room for that. It’s horrible, but it’s over quickly, and the doctor says we should do an ultrasound because it’s hard to tell with my anatomy if we’ll be able to get the foetus out in the normal way.
I nod.
‘Is that OK?’ he asks.
‘Sure,’ I say in a small voice.
Mum comes in for the ultrasound, and the technician sets everything up and rubs the scanning thing across my stomach. I watch the technician, but she doesn’t seem to think anything’s weird or wrong. She turns on a monitor and watches it intently. It’s angled away from me, but I watch the flare of light dance on and off across her face, and realise those flares of light are the closest I’ll ever get to seeing what mine and Hunter’s child looks like. The technician catches my eye.
‘Can I see?’ I ask quietly.
She hesitates. ‘You want to watch the scan on the monitor?’
I bite my lip as Mum says, ‘No.’
I can feel Mum staring at me.
‘Might as well see,’ I mumble, not looking at Mum, and the technician angles the monitor so I can watch. The door opens and Dr Jones enters, with a couple of other white coats.
‘Can you tell the sex?’ I ask.
‘No,’ she replies. ‘Not until between twenty and twenty-eight weeks.’
I gather the weeks into groups of four in my head. Five months.
I’m finding my voice again, looking at all the lines on the monitor, so I ask another question. ‘Why was my stomach hurting so bad?’
‘Early uterine cramps,’ the technician says, looking at me sympathetically. ‘It’s just your uterus stretching to accommodate the foetus.’
‘It all looks relatively normal, Max,’ Dr Jones murmurs kindly. ‘Perhaps a bit smaller around the vaginal passage, but I think it should be possible to do under general anaesthetic.’
‘Can I have the picture?’ I ask.
‘Pardon?’ the technician says, just as Mum is saying, ‘What?’
‘Don’t they usually do a picture?’ I look from the technician to Mum. Mum is looking at me like I’m insane.
‘Sorry,’ I say.
The technician doesn’t reply, just leans over to a printer and, after a bit of whirring, the machine spits out a small piece of paper, which she hands me.
Then Dr Jones tells us on the way out that he’ll see us on Friday for the abortion, and that’s the entire visit. It takes forty-five minutes total.
When we get home, Mum puts her head in her hands on the kitchen table and won’t speak. I go to my room and sit in the dark, but for a nightlight.
There is a little broad bean shape in the picture. After a little while I can’t look at it, so I hold it in one hand and cover my eyes with the other and lie there, curled up in the top corner of my bed, thinking and breathing and trying not to think.
I continue to do pretty much this all week.
I am a normal guy. I am a normal guy who would never have a problem like this. Like what? Like nothing. It doesn’t exist. I am a normal sixteen-year-old. I listen to music. I wear my iPod. I laugh with my friends. I dream about kissing Sylvie Clark. I kiss Sylvie Clark.
I am a brother. I am not a sister. I am not an everything. I am not a nothing. I have no big choices to make. I am a teenager, and my biggest job is to be normal.
I can’t look at myself in the mirror anymore, or at any reflection of mine in glass. And I don’t know why.
Karen
I’ve been sleeping in the spare room since Saturday, after the trip to London, and I am in there
on Wednesday, stripping the bedclothes, waiting for Max and Daniel to come home, when I hear the door slam. Today Steve and I came home from work at midday in order to make up and discuss Max. We sat at the kitchen table, too tired to talk, until we both, in silent agreement, stood, walked up to the bedroom, and lay down beside each other. We both slept for four hours without waking up, until the telephone rang, with news.
I walk out onto the landing.
‘Boys?’
‘Hi Mum!’
‘Your dad has something to tell you. I think he’s in the front room.’
Steve appears at the doorway as I descend the stairs, and Max and Daniel take off their shoes.
They shuffle in together in their socks. They both have on their school uniforms. Max’s is basically an entire suit, with a black V-neck underneath his blazer. Apart from the uniform, he wears a watch on his left wrist, a nice one we bought him for his fifteenth birthday. His hair is tousled and his cheeks are red from the cold. Daniel has his version of tousled hair, with tufts sprouting comically on his crown, and a red face, except because his hair too has a hint of strawberry, he looks like a little peach. Daniel wears a knitted navy blue jumper with a white shirt underneath, a red tie and grey trousers. They look completely different but somehow alike, just in the face, a hint of an upturned nose, some freckles, wide eyes, long eyelashes.
‘What’s up?’ Max asks, in a soft voice.
‘Well . . .’ Steve looks at Max with a hint of concern, then turns to smile at Daniel. ‘Julie’s baby was born today, in the early hours of the morning, so we’re going out to the hospital to see it.’
‘If you’d like to,’ I add quickly, looking at Max.
‘Cool,’ our eldest son says.
‘Daniel, would you like to see the baby?’ asks Steve.
‘Yes, excellent,’ Daniel says, nodding.
‘Good, then let’s jump in the car and we might miss the rush hour traffic on the way to London,’ Steve tells them.
They both stand up and head for the door.
‘What was it?’ Max asks, turning back.
‘A boy,’ Steve says. ‘He’s called William.’
Daniel
Golden Boy Page 24