by Nan Higgins
They laughed, and London patted his hand. “You can call us whatever you want, my love.”
Once they dried their tears, they began opening their other gifts, but when any of them looked back on that day, the only gift they would remember was the first one that Quentin opened. The gift for all of them.
* * *
That evening, they braved the snow to have Christmas dinner with Betty and Herb. They waited until dinner was nearly over to share their good news. Betty rushed to Quentin, who was still seated, and hugged his head so tightly, they could barely hear his muffled laughter. Herb pulled a handkerchief from the front pocket of his sweater and wiped his eyes, his smile bigger than London had ever seen it.
After they cleared the plates, Herb handed keys to Reggie. “Can you go over and water the plants? I want to play Scrabble with my grandson.”
Quentin beamed. London, Reggie, and Betty stood in the doorway, watching them set up their Scrabble board.
“I just can’t imagine a better Christmas.” Betty sighed.
“Well, I guess I better walk across the street and water some plants,” Reggie said.
“I’ll walk with you if you’d like some company,” London said.
“Your company? Always.”
Betty went to the coat closet and pulled out their coats. “Just be careful out there, girls. There are sure to be some slippery spots.”
“We will.”
The night was clear and sparkling with a bright, fat moon. Downtown, they rarely saw more than a handful of stars even on the clearest of nights, but here, they were just far enough from the city that the sky seemed positively packed with dazzling lights. London and Reggie’s gloved fingers intertwined as they made the short walk across the street.
Reggie flipped the light switch just inside the front door, and they set to work getting the watering cans filled and the plants watered. Between the two of them, they were done in less than ten minutes. London waited as Reggie took a final look around the living room.
“I think we got them all.” When she turned, she visibly took in a gulp of air.
London had gotten down on one knee, reaching out. “Come here.” Her outstretched hand was steady. “Please?”
Reggie took the three steps across the room and took her hand. London reached into her coat pocket, took out the folded construction paper she’d been carrying around for months, and handed it to Reggie. She’d thought it might be hard to let it go when this moment came. She’d thought she would have to fight down the feelings of panic and fear that had always blocked her from committing to her own happiness. Now, staring up at her love, all she felt was calm and the absolute understanding that she was finally ready to embrace her life with open arms.
“Reggie, I love you so much. When I think about my future, it’s filled with images of you. You’re the one I’ll be coming home to, every time I come home, forever. You make me so happy, you make me crazy, you make me honest, and you make me feel.
“I talked to the Smiths in Florida. This house is ours, if you want it. I negotiated with them—if you can call it that, considering they wanted what they bought the house for in the sixties—so we can move in after they get back in the spring and get all their stuff out. All I want is you and Quentin in a place where we can grow old, and he can grow up. Will you marry me?”
A long silence. “You bought this house?”
“No. But I will if you want me to. Everything is in order; just say the word.”
A twinge of a smile passed across Reggie’s face before it disappeared. “We don’t have to get married to adopt Quentin. Grant said we’ll have to jump through more hoops, and it’ll probably take longer, but it’ll most likely go through without marriage given how long we’ve been together.”
London stood. “I know. That’s not why I’m asking.”
Reggie bit her lip and ducked her head. “I thought you didn’t want to get married.”
“I thought so too. But these last few months I’ve taken a hard look at what I want and what I’m scared of. I’ve spent all this time trying to reconcile who I am to a letter that I didn’t even write. I’ve been focusing on the wrong things. I always associated marriage with my parents’ world, the world of rules and institution and doing things because you’re supposed to. I hated that world even before I got kicked out of it.”
“I don’t understand. Now you want to be a part of that world?”
“Of course not,” London said. “But you’re not a part of that world, and you want to get married. Your parents aren’t a part of that world, and they’ve been married, what, forty-six years? It took me this long to realize how many reasons there are to get married that have nothing to do with my parents or their life. I want to be with you, I want us to be a family. You, me, and Q. I want it to be official, all of it. If you still want to marry me.”
Reggie looked at the letter. “Why do you still have this thing when it doesn’t mean what it thought you meant?”
“I’m giving it to you. I’ve made some changes I think you’ll like.”
Reggie unfolded the letter, and the longer she looked at it, the larger her smile grew. The list of goals now looked like this:
1. Wear business suits every day. *No. I look better in jeans and combat boots.
2. Get a job in marketing. *I already have a job I love.
3. Fall in love with a really awesome boy. *I did, his name is Quentin.
4. Get married. *Now, that I can do.
5. Volunteer at least once a week to help people in need. *Done.
6. Have a dog named Chowder. *Name is negotiable.
Reggie looked up, tears glistening in her eyes.
“Yes.”
Epilogue
Shortly after the murder trial ended in February, London agreed to speak at Compass about Tate. She arranged for Joan to have a CD player in the main living area when she arrived, and London slipped Tate’s road trip mix into it. She was all nerves. She’d practiced and practiced her speech and got emotional every single time. A few tears were okay, but she really didn’t want to have a total breakdown in front of these kids. She had thought about calling and canceling but couldn’t bring herself to back out. So here she was, anxious but hoping for the best.
She pushed play and turned to face the room filled with kids. Many she recognized and some she didn’t, and she was grateful that Q and Reggie sat at the back of the room, smiling at her. The opening chords of “Beautiful Day” by U2 played, and London began to speak. She told them stories from when they were kids, detailed Tate’s transition, and finally, discussed his death and the trial. It was satisfying to let them know that Karl McCoy and David Witcher had been convicted of second-degree murder and had both received the maximum sentence of twenty years in prison.
“I’m always more inclined to talk about Tate’s life than his death,” London said, nearing the end of her speech. “But I’ve gotten to the point where I can tell Tate’s story, his whole story. As much as I’d love to only tell the good parts, that wouldn’t be honest. Tate was very honest. I think if he were here, he’d like me to tell you to live. Live carefully, yes, but live fully and bravely too.”
It was at this part where she tended to lose control of her emotions, but she surprised herself. Rather than breaking down in uncontrollable sobs, she felt a warm sense of calm. She believed Tate was there with her, maybe right next to her, guiding her through it.
London peered at Reggie and Quentin and smiled broadly. “Finding your family can take a while. Take your time getting to know people before letting them close to you, but once you let them in, love them with everything you’ve got. Someone I love very much once said, ‘Not all wishes are wasted.’ That’s true. It can feel like you’re wasting your time and effort, but once you find your people, let them in. Let them love you. Live out loud. Life is too short to do anything else.”
* * *
As it turned out, the Smiths’ house wasn’t a good fit for their family. While they
loved the neighborhood, and obviously it would’ve been great to live so close to Betty and Herb, it was far from Quentin’s school, and they didn’t want to make him change districts; plus, it was far from work for London and Reggie. Besides, the city was where they’d always belonged.
“You were so keen to get me to marry you, you almost moved us to the suburbs,” Reggie was fond of saying.
They found a large, prewar house near Franklin Park that suited all their needs. It was on the edge of the city rather than in the middle, but they loved the area, and the house gave them more than enough space. London even had a dedicated room for work and art, the door of which Reggie insisted stayed closed at all times lest she be tempted to go in and organize it to suit her own excessively organized taste.
It also gave them plenty of space for the enormous, two-year-old German shepard mix they rescued, a dog the people at the shelter called Biscuit.
“It’s not Chowder,” London said, lying on the concrete floor of the shelter the second time they visited Biscuit, where her voice was muffled because the dog had his front paws on her shoulders and was covering her face in sloppy dog kisses. “But it’s pretty darn close.” They’d taken it as a sign that the dog who chose them also had a name that was food oriented.
Their lives were filled with these changes in the months after that fateful Christmas, and more than that, they were filled with adoption filings and court dates and wedding plans. The court dates they found especially stressful, even though Grant assured them that everything would end in their favor.
“These things always take time,” he said. “And I have a feeling they’ll speed up at least a little once the wedding happens.”
They didn’t waste any time in that aspect, either. Not just because it would help adoption proceedings, although that definitely stayed on all of their minds, but because they knew what they wanted: small, simple, and sweet.
On a chilly, slightly overcast day in March, twenty-five of London and Reggie’s close friends and family gathered in Schiller Park, their white wooden fold-out chairs facing the stage of the amphitheater. Black and gold ribbons hung from the back of each chair, and a thick, gold-flecked black cloth swept down the aisle in the middle.
Two small white tents in the back held the brides as they got ready and waited for the ceremony to start. Reggie had her father in her tent, Grant kept London company, and Quentin passed messages between the two. When London peeked into the crowd, she saw that Diana sat beside Betty in the front row. How times truly did change.
She was grateful she’d been able to have her twin back in her life. Their reconnection hadn’t been fast or easy, but the tears they’d cried together seemed to have watered their roots and strengthened them. That Diana was at her wedding made her hopeful for their continued relationship.
London looked in the mirror and adjusted her hair for the dozenth time.
“You look great, babe,” Grant said. “Beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
Q popped his head in. “Reggie says she won’t cry if you won’t.”
“Tell her no promises,” London said. Quentin grinned and popped back out.
“It’s about time for me to head out there,” Grant said. “You’ll be walking down the aisle in less than ten minutes, so I should take my place.”
London hugged him. “Thank you for performing the ceremony.” She was determined not to cry before it even started, but it was a struggle. “You have no idea what it means to me. To us.”
“I think I have a bit of an idea. Thank you for asking me.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “By the way, Thomas is out there. He told me to tell you the papers you had drawn up are ready to sign.”
“That was fast.” she paused, blinking back tears for the second but probably not the last time that day. “He’d be proud, wouldn’t he?”
“Tate? Yes, he’d be proud. And I have to believe he is proud, wherever he is. He’d be proud of what you’ve done, and so happy for you today.”
“Yeah.” She looked at the ceiling in an attempt to keep the tears from escaping. “I think you’re right.” It didn’t take away the pain that Tate wasn’t here the way she wanted him to be. She’d felt all morning like she was forgetting something. She’d checked and rechecked everything she needed until she realized she’d made herself late. In the car, she realized nothing was forgotten, but missing Tate had made her search for something she wouldn’t find.
London had been working with Joan to create a subgroup under the Compass umbrella called TransConnect, dedicated to resources for the trans community. Everything from counselors to medical doctors to legal advice. That was what she’d decided to do with the money Tate left her. The idea had sparked in her mind the moment she saw the large sum on the bottom of those legal documents, and it had been quite the undertaking.
“You might end up being an executive after all,” Joan had joked.
London had laughed. “I’m not cut out for that, and you know it. I just want to take this money and put it toward something I believe in. Once we get it set up, it’s all yours to run as you see fit.”
Grant pulled London into another quick hug, interrupting her reverie. “I’ll see you out there,” he said, and then, in a gesture that would’ve tickled Tate, he smacked her butt.
London sat carefully on a little chair in the corner. She reached into the sleeve of her dress and pulled out the letter Tate had written.
Dear London,
Are you okay? Of course you’re not. If you’re reading this, I’ve gone to the great big boobs in the sky. Remember when we thought heaven was made of boobs because that’s what clouds looked like? If that’s the case, I’m sure I’m doing great, and I’m sure you’re having a tough time.
I’ve thought a long time about what I wanted to say to you in this letter, as I’m getting ready to become the person I always wanted to be. I have no idea how I’d go about living my life without you, so it doesn’t seem right to give you advice on how you should live without me. I’m not gonna do that. I don’t think there’s really a right way to handle situations like that anyway, except to do the best you can, which I know you always do.
Mainly, when I’ve thought of writing this, I’ve been searching my brain for anything I’d like to tell you, things I haven’t told you before. That in itself has been weird because we tell each other everything, don’t we? Almost. Nearly everything.
If there’s one thing I haven’t said, or at the very least, haven’t said enough, it’s thank you. Long before I thought transitioning was something that could ever happen for me, you knew it could. When I thought it was just a dream, you spoke about it as if it was a certainty, and if you hadn’t been so sure, I don’t know how many more years it would’ve taken me to get to the place where I made the decision to live, truly and honestly, as the man I’ve always been.
In the last several weeks, I’ve planned my funeral and gotten my affairs in order on the off chance that surgery gets the best of me. I’m not afraid of death. My main fear during all of this has been that you will somehow feel responsible if anything happens to me. That you will mistake this gift of surety and encouragement you’ve given as the reason that I’m not in your world anymore. Maybe you won’t feel that way, and please, I hope you don’t. These last few months I’ve been taking testosterone and seeing my body transform have been the most exhilarating of my life, and even planning these surgeries has been exciting because it gets me where I need to be.
What you’ve given me—not only in terms of transitioning, but always, our whole lives—is the freedom to just be myself. You’ve loved me so dearly and unconditionally that I always knew I had a place to be me. You taught me what family was, and have continued to teach me every day since I’ve known you. No matter what happens, no matter how my story ends, I will always be grateful to you for that.
You’ve already done so much, but I want to ask for just one more thing: always give yourself the freedom and space you’ve given me.
Find your dreams and pursue them as fiercely as you’ve helped me pursue this. Be you, always, no matter what shape that takes.
I’m not sure how to end this because I know that if you’re reading it, this is going to be a good-bye, and you know I’m no good at those. I guess I’ll just say see you later. I’ll see you later, London, and I know you’ll have some badass stories to tell when I do.
Love you.
Tate
P.S. The only other thing I never told you was that I tried on your bra in seventh grade after you fell asleep at my house. It was way too big, and the lace made my boobs itch. I don’t know why I never told you before.
A few tears spilled from London’s eyes, and she grabbed a tissue to blot them away, even as she giggled at that last part of the letter, as she had every time she read it. She tucked it back into her sleeve and patted it.
After months of carrying the construction paper around, London hadn’t wanted to replace it with another letter. She’d had enough of getting her courage and identity from a piece of paper in her pocket. But she did bring Tate’s letter with her on certain occasions when she wanted to feel his comforting presence. She’d had it in her pocket for all of their adoption court appearances. And she couldn’t leave him out of today of all days.
“Love you too,” she said.
Quentin reappeared. He looked so handsome in his tuxedo with the shimmering gold tie. His usually unruly curls were slicked back into a modern pompadour.
“You look great.” She straightened his tie. “The perfect man to walk me down the aisle. Don’t let me fall, okay?”
He laughed. “We’re in trouble. I was gonna tell you the same thing.”
She heard the first strains of “Don’t Dream It’s Over” by Crowded House, and her spine straightened.
“Okay, here’s where I need you to help me. You have to peek out and watch Reggie and her dad go down the aisle, tell me when they make it to the end, and that’s our cue.”