by Casey Plett
15
The next morning, Wendy’s stomach was a wire ball—the sugar thing again. (She’d made a few more amaretto sours.)
She forced her body up and to the bathroom and peed with her head slumped between her legs. Cradled her torso. She shuffled back to her room with her hands touching the walls, drank down some T1s with water, and fell back into bed. She didn’t have to work at the store today.
Later, she almost put her ad up, then Sophie texted: Mom and I going to Stella’s for breakfast. Love you to join. She stared at the phone a good five minutes before texting back, yes.
Sophie and her mother looked exactly the same—six feet tall, neck-length hair, and long icy-pale faces, with flushed cheeks and diagonal sloping lines under their eyes and noses. They looked like cartoon versions of a Menno mother and daughter.
Well. Some cartoon.
They ordered coffees from a girl Wendy knew from high school, a brunette in a scoopneck with a flower in her hair who’d always referred to herself in the third person as this lady. She’d dated one of Wendy’s guy friends once. She’d never gotten comfortable with the whole sex-change thing.
Sophie’s mom folded her scarf and put it on the back of her chair, then unfolded it and put it back on. “I’m always cold,” she explained to Wendy. “They never heat anywhere good enough for me.”
“Ah,” said Wendy.
“I’m Lenora.”
“I’m Wendy.”
“Yes, Sophie talks about you a lot.”
“You do?”
“All the time,” Sophie said quietly, taking off her gloves.
“Yes, well, just certainly glad this could work out,” said Lenora. “We love Stella’s Cafe. It’s so nice they put one around here.”
“I like it. I grew up in this neighbourhood. Partly, anyway.”
“Oh my,” said Lenora. Her eyes went wide. “Well, you’ve seen a lot of changes then.”
“Have I?” said Wendy. On one hand, her life and her neighbours’ lives were mostly the same as when she was a kid. On the other hand, she hated this conversation.
“I live on the other side of Portage now though,” Wendy added. “Near Sherbrook.”
“Ah,” said Lenora. She looked at her food and cleared her throat. “So do you then …” she trailed off. “Sophie tells me you work out by Polo Park.”
“Yeah, at Tammy’s Gifts and Books.”
“I’ve shopped there! And how’s that?”
“It’s fine. It’s great. And you, what do you—?”
“She’s a nurse,” said Sophie.
Their coffees came and they all emptied the cream bowl. “So,” said Lenora, “Sophie told me you’ve discovered some interesting family history.”
Wendy looked at Sophie, who was serene-faced and blank.
“Yeah,” said Wendy slowly. “Yeah, that’s true. What’d she tell you?”
“Well, that your family is from the Landmark area, for one,” said Lenora. “I grew up in Kleefeld, but my uncle Jake married into Reimers from Landmark. You’re a Reimer, yes?”
“Isn’t everyone?”
Lenora laughed. “So you are a Mennonite. Yes, we can play that game later. But if I remember what Sophie said, it’s that you think perhaps your grandfather”—her voice went exactly one shade quieter—“you think your grandfather may have been transgender. Transgender like you two. That’s, that’s correct, yes?”
“Yeah,” said Wendy. She was still hungover and coffee wasn’t helping. “Yeah, maybe.” She realized Sophie still didn’t know any of the new Anna stuff. “I’m not exactly sure,” Wendy explained. “This woman called when my Oma died. She knew my grandparents. She said my Opa was like me—except she didn’t know she was talking to me, she thought she was talking to someone else.” Wendy dug into her bag for more T1s. “They don’t like me being out. Out there.”
“Sacrifices, yes!” Lenora said immediately. “I understand very much about that.”
Sophie shook her head almost imperceptibly.
“She has letters from my Opa,” Wendy said. “She wanted to tell my Oma, but, you know.”
“She will have carried around your Opa’s things for a long time, I imagine,” said Lenora.
“He died twenty years ago, yes.”
“Did she know about you? That you’re—transformed?”
“No, she thinks I’m cis.”
“Beg pardon?”
“She doesn’t know I’m trans,” said Wendy.
The flower-haired waitress came back. “You folks ready to order?”
“Oh, geez,” said Lenora. “I haven’t even looked at the menu. Though I think I know what I want.”
“I’ll have a two-eggs breakfast,” said Sophie. “With hash browns. Are they shredded? I always forget.”
“No, they’re diced,” said the waitress. “I guess they’re like big pieces. More like slices.”
“That’s okay.” Lenora ordered a grilled chicken burger.
Wendy scanned the menu. Her stomach was still churning; she didn’t want to eat much in the first place, and she had only about seven bucks anyway. “Can I just have a plate of fries?”
“We actually don’t have fries,” the waitress said, looking embarrassed.
“No?”
“No,” she said. Then, again, “No,” the embarrassment gone. “We don’t do fries. We just have the hash browns.”
“Well, I’m going to the washroom,” said Lenora.
“I hope it’s okay I told my mom,” said Sophie.
“It’s fine,” said Wendy. Her brow was furrowed. “I knew you lived with her, but I guess I never really realized it.” Sophie and her mom lived out in Fort Richmond, where they grew up. Wendy and Lila had visited her there once, at night.
“Yeah,” breathed Sophie. “Well …” She took off her arm warmers, white with black criss-cross designs, and cupped her hands around her coffee. Wendy scratched her hands.
“How you doin’ anyway?”
“Shitty,” said Sophie. “I mean not cause of the—whatever,” she muttered. “I wasn’t doing great before that. That didn’t help, though. I hadn’t had a call for a while, you know. I wanna get my own place after Christmas. I just don’t wanna …” Her face was blank. “I’ll get over it. Sorry I haven’t called you. I wanted to see you. I just been like—”
“Yeah,” Wendy nodded. She took Sophie’s hand.
“You doing anything after this?”
“No, can I come over?” said Sophie.
“Yes.”
“Thank you.” Sophie slugged her coffee. She looked thoughtful now, more peaceful. “You know I’m twenty-nine years old? Did you know that?”
“I’m thirty,” said Wendy. “What’s on your mind?”
The waitress came back and refilled their coffees. Sophie gestured, trying to speak, but then her mom came back.
“So here’s a question for you! Was your family EMC?” Lenora asked, sitting down.
“Yeah.”
“Mine too. I think I do know your family. I think I’ve heard about you, in fact! You have a Timothy in there? Would be about my age.”
“Yeah,” Wendy said, surprised. “That’s my dad’s brother. How’d you know?”
“Well, my dad’s friends with a Timothy Reimer from Landmark. He used to work for my dad.” She smiled thinly. “And word travels fast in the Mennonite world about those who are—unique.”
“Right.” Sophie rolled her eyes, peeling the top off a creamer.
“Got it,” Wendy mumbled.
“The EMC Church your grandfather would’ve grown up in was very restrictive,” she said tonelessly. “They thought laughing was unbecoming of a Christian, for instance.”
A memory floated into Wendy’s head of Henry apologizing for a joke that was the epitome of harmless—the knock-knock joke you have to start.
Start the joke.
Okay … knock knock.
Who’s there?
… …
He’d grinned
like an imp then looked embarrassed once Wendy got it. He had asked Wendy to forgive him for being hurtful.
“And they believed in sacrifice,” Lenora continued.
“I know that,” said Wendy.
“Quite strongly,” she said. “Well, great.”
Sophie drummed her fingers on the table.
“Your grandfather would’ve had a long, quiet process to deal with his issue. And you realize, of course,” she said stiffly, “he would not have had the options you two have today. That he could be so fortunate would not have been remotely on his radar.”
“I know,” said Wendy.
“Would’ve been quite different for him.”
“I know.”
“Sorry. Rude of me to presume you wouldn’t know. I’m sure your parents have told you all sorts of things. Though,” Lenora seemed to reconsider, “it wasn’t as oppressive as some think. Or as some remember, for that matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, men would leave often—not before they had families, of course.”
“They would?” said Wendy.
“Oh yes! There was an understanding that young people will be rowdy or wild. Drink, or … Would’ve been extended only to boys, of course. But if a young person happened to do things the church wouldn’t approve of, or if he happened to go to the city for some time and come back, it wouldn’t have been unheard of, nor unforgivable. Some boys you probably expected it, honestly. Like, oh, that one, he needs to get something out of his system. It makes sense to me even now, really. No matter what you believe in life, why wouldn’t you give young people some leeway before coming back to what’s probably best for them?”
Sophie took a long drink of her coffee.
“How would I find out if my Opa ever did that?” said Wendy.
“Well,” said Lenora, “you would ask this woman Anna, that would be my guess.”
Wendy was silent. “I think I’m afraid of meeting her,” she said, surprised at her own candour.
“Of course you are! This must be a big deal for you,” she said.
Sophie snorted.
“Thank you,” Wendy said to Lenora.
“What is her name?” asked Lenora.
“Anna Penner.”
“And where does she live?”
“Morweena. It’s very little, up in the Interlake.”
“Oh, Anna Penner from Morweena!”
“What?”
“I’ve heard talk of her, yes! Very short woman. Bit of an odd bird, people said, her husband a little broody, I think. Very into her faith. Very religious. Likes animals, I think.”
“Funny that.”
It was storming and cold as they waited to cross at Broadway. Wendy glanced at a man standing beside them.
“Ernie?”
He was right beside them, all done up with a toque and face mask. Wendy had stood chatting for a minute or two without noticing him.
“Oh, hey!” Ernie said. “Hey, Wendy, how are ya? I didn’t see you there. Oh, Sophie! Well, look at you two. Hey there!”
“Been wondering when I’d hear from you,” said Wendy.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’m sorry,” he said, embarrassed. “I’ve got, like, I didn’t tell you this, but I have a kid … it’s hard to … my free time. I’m sorry, I should’ve texted you. I still want to hang out with you again. I do. I understand if you don’t. I’m sorry, I fucked up.”
“That’s okay,” Wendy said genuinely. “Oh my God, I get it, it’s okay, please don’t worry about that. I—look, I have to go now.” Sophie was silent. “We have to go. But text me anytime, please? Like, anytime. I want to see you again too.” The light changed, and on the other side of the street they went separate ways. “Okay, ’bye.”
He grinned. “It was nice to see you again. We’ll hang out soon.”
At the house, Sophie shrugged off her coat and looked up the narrow staircase leading to their part of the house, painted and carpeted several times over. There was an indent near the bottom of the staircase that was once a fireplace, now filled with boots.
“You know when I lived in Chrysalis, I lived in this big old country house,” Sophie said. “Just on the edge of town.”
“That sounds nice,” Wendy said.
“It was,” Sophie said, momentarily dreamy. “I had to share it with a bunch of idiots. But still. Hey, you’ve never lived anywhere else but here, have you?”
“Nope,” Wendy said, bored. “I’ve always been here.”
Wendy sat in her chair, and Sophie sat on the bed. “You wanna, like, watch some TV or something?” Wendy said.
“Okay.”
“Can I get you anything to drink?”
Sophie laughed. “Would you judge me if I wanted a drink drink?”
“Girl!” Wendy hooted.
“Aw, you get me.”
Wendy went into the kitchen and made whisky sours, even though she still felt a little sick.
The two girls walked up to the third floor and sat in front of the living room TV. It was chilly up there, and Wendy got blankets from the side closet. They watched some awful reality shows while the wind beat from outside and whistled through the house. They flipped through more channels and found a religious show, a preacher gesticulating as he spoke, wearing a big robe and big glasses, and with short grey hair.
“My grandparents used to watch him,” said Sophie.
Wendy’s head turned. “Yeah?”
“Still do maybe, I wouldn’t know.”
“Mmm.”
The man on TV spoke grandly about the hidden nature of sin. Now and then the camera zoomed out to show that he was in a huge megachurch. It was sunny and there were palm trees outside.
Sophie lowered the volume. “Did you ever believe in God?” she asked.
“As a kid, yeah,” said Wendy.
“No kiddin’. Wouldn’t have thought, with your dad.”
“My grandparents,” Wendy said sleepily, snuggling into the armchair. “They knew I wouldn’t get it at home, so they made sure I—” she let out a high-pitched yawn, “they made sure I knew about the Bible. All that.”
“Got it.” Sophie studied Wendy’s face. “I didn’t,” she offered. “We went to church now and then, but my mom always made it clear she didn’t believe in it. Kinda weird that way.”
“It stays with you,” said Wendy. “In ways you don’t expect.”
Sophie waited for her to go on. Finally she said, “I’d like to hear more about that.”
Wendy redid her ponytail, her hair momentarily billowing around the chair. “I stopped believing in God in high school. My dad was doing well for the first time in my life—maybe I could take the loss, and it wasn’t as bad. I don’t know. I guess that sounds like horseshit, but it’s linked in my head. Anyway. I stopped then, though I still like going to church.”
“Me too. Though I never—yeah.”
“I missed things about God you can figure—security, hope. And for years, I was angry about the bad things religion can do to you—this had nothing to do with gender—but there were things I didn’t figure out for a while.”
“What’s one?”
Wendy let out a breath. Sophie tucked the blanket around her. “You know how, when you lose something that’s been legit meaningful in your life, your brain kinda wants to swap something else in? Like, right away?”
“I do, yes.”
“Like how addiction gets swapped with other things. Though addiction and religion are two completely different beasts. My dad likes to make that comparison, and he’s wrong. Anyway,” said Wendy, “when I was a kid, I thought of Him as someone always watching me and judging. When I was very little, I thought any bad thing would send me to hell where I would be tortured and burned for eternity, you know the whole thing …
“But in my last few years as a Christian, like my early teens, I realized that’s not true; the world is full of terrible people, and lots of them believe in Jesus, so for this to make any sense then God h
ad to be forgiving. And, of course, people say God is forgiving, but it was only then I believed it. I think God really is kind. I got that then. But—I still had to impress Him. I thought, The Lord can see every bad thing I do. I began to think of Him as more unhappy with me than angry. And I really wanted God to be happy with me. I believed He loved me, and I had to just,” Wendy jerked her head, “not screw it up.”
Sophie nodded and sucked at her drink. “Yeah.”
“But then, I stopped being a Christian. And that fear didn’t go away, it transferred. Probably fuckin’ pop psychology or whatever, but there was always someone I was trying to impress. Usually women. Even when I started dating guys—always women in my head.” She sipped from her glass. “Whenever I did something bad, they were reacting in my head. Shaking their heads! Admonishing me that I had done something so wrong. I had these detailed apologies with so many different women that didn’t exist! The conversations didn’t exist. Obviously, I didn’t literally believe they saw my actions like God could—but it didn’t matter. I did something wrong, and I would imagine them hurt. Like I said, they were usually women, women a few years older than me. Never women I wanted to sleep with either.” She emptied her glass. “Guess there was stuff about gender. Heh.”
Sophie was silent for a moment then said, “I feel like everyone has a rotating list of people in their head they’re trying to impress. It was specifically about God for you?”
“It was exactly like God,” said Wendy. “Being forgiven more than you deserved. By someone good-hearted. Someone sad and exasperated you weren’t doing better. Someone who was right. I was pissed off when I figured this out. You know how many years I wasted giving this power to other people?”
“Who is it for you now? Not that you have to tell me.”
“Nobody,” she said. “I was so pissed off at myself when I figured it out. I don’t think there’s anyone; not in that way.” Wendy thought for a minute. “Hey, never thought about it that straight up.”
“That’s good.”
“No one has ever understood my life,” said Wendy. “I have given up on anyone understanding where I’m coming from. And it’s fine. And I actually mean: It’s fine.”