And She Was

by Jessica Verdi

  The space under my ribs seems to shrink, pinching my organs together. “Oh wow. Okay.”

  “What are you up to out here?” she asks, opening the book to a dog-eared page. It’s a novel. I add that to my mental picture: a family of readers.

  “Just catching up on some emails,” I say.

  “Anything exciting going on back home?”

  I know she’s asking about friends, not Mellie. “Not really.” I shrug, and casually pick up my phone again.

  To: acelove6@email.com

  From: Mellie.Baker@email.com

  June 23 (5:27 AM)

  Subject: The beginning and the end

  Dear Dara,

  I don’t know if you have any questions about any of this. I think it’s important that these emails be solely about my story—our story—not about definitions and studies and statistics. I already fear the story’s been going on too long, and I don’t want to get off track too much, so I won’t stop to explain the technical terms. I’m far from the authority on it all, anyway, and everyone’s experience is different and I don’t want to speak for anyone else. From our conversation, I know you know a little about what transgender means, so I’m relying on that here. But please, if you do have specific questions about it or gender dysphoria or anything at all, ask me. Or, if you’re not ready to talk to me about this yet, Google knows all.

  After learning about Renée Richards, I made a list of every book in the library about gender identity and sexuality, and read them systematically, cover to cover, not starting the next until the previous was completed, its contents sufficiently digested. There wasn’t nearly as much published about the topic then as there is now, and our little local library barely had anything on the subject, but at the time I felt like I’d stumbled upon a diamond mine. Each new bit of information slotted perfectly into a hollow in my mind, making me more whole.

  I read while at the library, crouched in a corner at the end of the Medicine and Science aisle—I didn’t want the librarians noticing the types of books I was checking out, and I couldn’t risk anyone in my family finding them. The librarians didn’t ask why I never checked anything out; I think they suspected I needed the library itself more than the books inside—a refuge from home—though they never brought it up directly.

  Eventually the library got dial-up internet, and, tentatively, I started exploring online. The internet wasn’t the wealth of information it is today, but it was certainly better than out-of-date library books. I found a website called Susan’s Place, which was, miraculously, a networking resource for trans women. I spent time on there almost every day, making sure to delete my browsing history every few minutes.

  One Saturday evening when I was exactly your age, shortly after high school graduation, I arrived at the library, after yet another dinner with my family where I sat there quietly and listened to my sister and brothers talk, to find things were different. Instead of the usual empty aisles, low lights, and quiet din of computers running and pages turning, tables and portable shelves had been set up in the entryway, the overhead fluorescents were blazing, and a fair-sized crowd was milling about, sipping coffee from small paper cups and eating cookies and brownies they’d purchased from a baked-goods table. Propped up on an easel by the front door was a large sign that read “Book Sale.” The tables and shelves were piled high with old books, each with price stickers on them. Twenty-five cents, fifty cents, one dollar.

  I asked Marjorie, my favorite librarian, what was going on.

  “Oh, hello, Marcus, dear,” she said, her apple cheeks shimmering with freshly applied berry-pink blush. “No one told you?”

  I shook my head.

  “We received a grant from the state to purchase thousands of new books, and they’ve just been entered into the system. So we’re holding a sale to get rid of some of our older and lesser-read titles to make room for the new ones.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you!” She beamed. “We’re thrilled. Why don’t you take a look around and see if any of your favorites are up for grabs?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. The internet had largely replaced my book research, but those dusty old volumes had saved me. Given me hope. My bookmarks were still in some of them. The books were my friends, and I didn’t want to have to say good-bye to them too. Frantically, I began to scan the tables. I was able to take inventory pretty quickly—I knew the spines and covers of my books by heart—and breathed a sigh of relief when it became apparent that none of the medical journals were on the chopping block.

  As I headed toward the computers, I noticed all the shiny, new, just-delivered books stacked all over the library. Curious, I veered down my usual aisle.

  Like magnets to steel, my eyes were drawn to a book, faceup on the top of a pile, with a woman on the cover. Looking back, I probably only noticed it because of how stunning she was, with her dark skin, platinum hair, and long legs peeking out from her gown. She was pretty, and I was a hormone-ridden teenager who was attracted to female humans. Nothing more complicated than that. But it was the book’s description that had me clinging on to it for dear life. The woman on the cover was a drag queen. Drag queens aren’t necessarily trans—many of them are cis men, RuPaul included—but it rocked my world to discover that this beautiful woman spent much of her life presenting as male.

  The book was RuPaul Charles’s autobiography. I hadn’t heard of RuPaul before, but I was desperate to know more about her. She was anatomically male but looked like that—and she was famous. People admired her. She was important enough for this little suburban library to buy a copy of her story.

  I had to read it immediately.

  To this day, I still don’t know how I gathered the courage to walk back up to the desk, place the book on the counter, and hand Marjorie my library card.

  But I did, and the librarian just smiled and thanked me.

  The book might as well have been a tube of lipstick, or one of the lacy bras I used to covet during my shopping trips with Kristen. I felt like I’d just taken a huge step. Toward what, I didn’t quite know, but it felt good.

  I hid the book in the back of my closet, under piles of clothes and tennis gear, and only read it at night after everyone had gone to bed.

  Barely two weeks later, I got home from practice to find my father waiting for me on the front porch. There was a fire in his eyes I had never seen before.

  “What’s … going on?” I asked hesitantly.

  He crossed the porch, grabbed my upper arms, and threw me into the side of the house. The breath went out of me and my shoulder stung. He yanked me forward and pushed me against the wall once more, even harder this time. He didn’t retreat; he was in my face, his expression a mask of blind rage, clearly hoping I’d fight back.

  I stared at the ground, shivering in my father’s shadow.

  Then I heard a noise, a crack. I glanced to my right to find a metal bucket off to the side of the porch, a small but brilliant fire roaring inside. I can only imagine I didn’t notice it earlier because I was too frightened of my father to properly take in my surroundings, but now I realized that the fire I’d seen in his eyes was only a reflection of the very real blaze just a few feet away from us. Or at least, that’s what I told myself. It helped to have an excuse for his inhuman appearance at that moment; my fear level dropped just a notch.

  He must have sensed it, because he let go of my arms, and the places where his grip had been pulsed, desperate to reclaim their blood flow. I took a slow step toward the fire and peered over the edge of the bucket, confirming what I’d subconsciously already known. The RuPaul book, or the shrivels of what was left of it, was inside.

  Turned out my parents’ suspicions hadn’t decreased post-Kristen after all. I wonder if they’d been looking for an excuse to hit me, punish me, change me, throw me out, whatever it took to remove the blemish from their otherwise perfect, God-fearing family.

  They were about to get their wish.

  I
looked back up at my father. The fire-eyed monster was gone, but in its place was something worse. A very real human staring directly at me with such definitive, blinding hatred I had to look away.

  That was the last moment I laid eyes on him. My heart throbbing against my rib cage, my throat tight, my arms and back and shoulder aching and bruised, I walked into the house, past the living room where my mother and all three of my siblings had been sitting quietly, watching my father beat me up in front of our home, and into my room. I packed some clothes and my tennis gear, and left. My movements were methodical, robotic. It must have been some sort of survival instinct kicking in, which is strange, because I was pretty sure I thought about harming myself even more than my father dreamed about harming me.

  No one said a word. That’s maybe what’s haunted me the most over the years—that we never spoke about the issue at hand. They hated me, but they never even knew me.

  When the front door swung shut behind me, I swear I heard a collective sigh of relief. I never saw them again.

  So. Now you’re caught up on the Hogans. You know everything I know. Maybe someday, when we’re both ready, we can find out what became of them … together.

  Love,

  Mom

  No thanks, I think. They sound awful. Not anything like the Pembrokes.

  I consider writing back, but just then a car turns onto the gravel road. It stops in front of the house, and an older man and woman get out. Yoshimi runs to greet them and leaps right into the man’s arms.

  Catherine takes my hand and grins at me. “Ready?”

  “I think so,” I say with a shaky laugh.

  I slip the phone in my back pocket and smooth out the front of my shirt and shorts. I’m not as dirty as Catherine, who’s been out back with the animals all morning, but I wish I weren’t still in the clothes I slept in. And it would have been nice to be able to brush my teeth.

  Ruth and William run straight to me. They’re both fit and tanned. William is gray-haired; Ruth is blond, like her daughters. Like me. They look exactly as I pictured them, right down to the neat, tailored clothing.

  “Hi,” I say, holding out a hand. But Ruth throws her arms around me and hugs me as if she’s trying to make up for the last seventeen years. It’s as awkward as it was being hugged by Catherine the first time, but I concentrate on hugging her back, trying not to let go or pull away too quickly.

  “Oh, Dara,” Ruth murmurs in my ear. “My sweet, sweet baby girl.”

  William stands beside us and places a warm, large hand on my shoulder; he pulls it away after a minute to wipe his teary eyes.

  When the hug ends, I realize Ruth has been crying too.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you,” I say, a little shy.

  Ruth flinches, but recovers quickly. “Of course. You were too young to remember. We have met before. We were actually a big part of one another’s lives for a year or so, until …”

  “Right,” I say quickly, filling in the blank. “Sorry.”

  “Shall we sit?” William asks, gesturing to the porch. He sets down Yoshimi, and she chases after a fly.

  Ruth sits next to me on the swing, and Catherine and William pull up chairs.

  “Tell them the story, Dara,” Catherine urges.

  I know it’s still morning, but today already feels like it’s lasted for ages. I’m worn out, in every way, and I don’t particularly feel like going into the whole Mellie-betrayal story yet again. But of course I have to. Ruth and William are waiting expectantly. Everyone’s staring at me.

  So I tell them. They hang on my every word. Then they ask about tennis and school and friends. If we’ve ever traveled, what sorts of books and music and films I like. They ask about our new last name and what Francis is like. They ask what “Marcus” does for a living, what procedures he’s had done and what he looks like now. I show them a photo on my phone of Mom and me from graduation.

  Ruth gasps, and a hand flies to her mouth. “Oh my …”

  “Are you sure that’s him?” William says, squinting and bringing the screen closer to his face as if searching for a clue.

  “I’m sure,” I say.

  “Unbelievable,” he whispers. He and Ruth exchange a long glance. There’s a lot being said, but I don’t know them well enough to decode it. He turns back to me. “Those documents and pictures you were telling us about. The ones you found. Do you have them with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “May we see them?”

  I stand up, but Catherine stops me. “I’ll go.”

  “Oh. Okay, thanks. They’re in the front zip pocket of my suitcase. If Sam’s not awake yet, bang on the door until he gets up.”

  Catherine laughs. She thinks I’m being funny; she doesn’t know about our fight.

  “Can I ask you guys some questions?” I ask while we wait. We’ve been talking for a while now, and I’m feeling more comfortable. Just like I’d hoped, just like Catherine promised, they made me feel welcome from the start. Not only welcome, but really, truly part of it. The family. Like I’ve been on an extended vacation, but I’m back where I belong now.

  “Please do!” Ruth says, pleased. “What would you like to know?”

  “Well …” I think about which question to ask first. “What was Celeste like?” I’ve gotten Catherine’s account, but I want more.

  Their faces grow sad, and I wonder if it’s because they’re remembering and missing her, or if they’re thinking how tragic it is that I never got to know her on my own.

  “She was the kind of person who made friends everywhere she went,” Ruth says. “Everyone loved her. She wasn’t like Catherine, who’s always known what she wanted to do with her life, but that never seemed to concern her. I think she would have been truly happy doing anything. That was just who she was—adaptable, easygoing, always finding the good in things.”

  “She was prelaw at U Penn,” William says. “She would have made a fine lawyer, if given the time.”

  “She was still in college when she had me, right?” I ask.

  They nod.

  “What did you think of that? Of her getting married and having a baby so young?”

  “Honestly, we were thrilled,” Ruth says. “We thought Marcus was a lovely boy …” Her jaw tightens, and she very subtly rolls her shoulders back. “And they seemed very much in love. We were excited to be grandparents, and of course we insisted on helping out financially so she could finish her schooling and start her career.”

  “Do you have any other grandchildren?” I ask, realizing I never asked Catherine if she had kids.

  Ruth looks down, and William shakes his head. “Catherine here doesn’t seem all that interested in motherhood.” He gives her a disappointed look just as she returns with the papers.

  “Not true!” Catherine retorts. “I’m mother to four horses, two dogs, a cat, three goats, nine sheep, and now twenty enormous pigs.”

  He pats her knee patronizingly. “I know, darling.”

  Apparently, Catherine is the black sheep of the family. But the fact that they gave her this entire farm, and probably money too, to pursue her dream proves how much they care about her, even if they don’t always understand her.

  “Was Sam up?” I ask.

  “Yeah, he was on his computer.” She hands her dad the stack of documents and photographs. William takes his time looking through it all, then passes them to Ruth, who grazes her fingertips reverently over the photos of Celeste.

  I have to ask. “What happened back then?”

  They all look up at me. “You mean …?” William says.

  “I mean what made my moth—Mellie run away? How was she even able to? How did it all go down, from your perspective?”

  Ruth and William share another look.

  “It’s okay,” I assure them. “You can tell me.”

  “What do you think happened?” William asks slowly.

  I shrug. “All Mellie said was that you weren’t supportive of her transition, and it reminded her o
f her bad relationship with her own parents, and that’s why she left. I don’t know what was said, but Catherine mentioned you thought she was having a breakdown?”

  “Marcus didn’t tell you specifics?” William seems surprised by this.

  I know it’s all they knew her as, but it’s still weird to hear them calling her he and Marcus when I’ve clearly been calling her she and Mellie.

  “No.” I don’t mention that she’s trying to now, with the emails. “But I honestly don’t see what could have been so bad that she thought changing our names and going on the run was a reasonable option.”

  “Neither do we,” he says. “That’s part of why the last seventeen years have been so difficult. We don’t know what we did to deserve this.” I look from him to Ruth to Catherine. They look so helpless. Broken. “We may have reacted … unfavorably. But I’m sure anyone would react the same way when their daughter’s husband starts wearing dresses and makeup with no explanation. Before we knew it, you were gone without a trace.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “What do you think, Dara?” Ruth asks. “You must have some strong feelings about it all.”

  “I think it sucks,” I say bluntly, and they smile. “You’re really nice people. I wish I could have had you in my life this whole time.” My nose prickles. I rub it with the back of my hand. “I wish we’d stayed in Philly, where I could have trained at a real tennis center …” I sniffle, and wipe under my eyes. “I wish none of this had ever happened.”

  Ruth circles an arm around me and cradles me against her. I never knew the comfort of a grandmother’s embrace until this moment. “Us too, sweetheart. Us too.”

  Catherine has to get back to work, but William, Ruth, and I take a long walk around the property together.

  “I went to the house in Cherry Hill first,” I tell them as we stroll. “I hadn’t realized you’d moved.”

  “I’m sorry. Of course we would have told you if we had known how to contact you,” Ruth says.

  “Oh, I know that. I wasn’t blaming you or anything. It was actually nice to get a chance to see the house where Celeste grew up.”