And She Was

by Jessica Verdi

  As I make my way to my room, a thought occurs to me: There must be video of Mellie and Celeste’s wedding somewhere too. Now that I know I had two parents who loved each other, who married each other, I can’t help wanting to see what that looked like. The dress, the kiss, the dancing, the cake.

  But then I’d also have to hear people calling Mellie Marcus. I’d maybe even have to hear her call herself Marcus in the recitation of her vows.

  As I get ready for bed, I decide to ask Ruth about the wedding album—and only the album—soon.

  I slip under the expensive duvet and slide my phone off the nightstand so I can write to Mellie and ask her to send me the passport documentation. But just as I do so, it dings with a new email. Finally.

  To: acelove6@email.com

  From: Mellie.Baker@email.com

  June 25 (9:49 PM)

  Subject: Coming out

  Dear Dara,

  Celeste and I fell in love like Serena Williams serves: fast, hard, and with a little bit of magic.

  We couldn’t get enough of each other. During the days we were busy—me with training, her with school—but the nights were ours. She slept most nights at my new apartment; her dorm was basically just a storage unit for her stuff now. I cooked for us while she studied, and then after dinner, we’d talk and read to each other and watch movies and play games and do puzzles. We went on long runs together on Saturday and Sunday mornings.

  I said “I love you” first. She said it back immediately.

  Her friends became my friends. They were interesting, wonderful people. A couple of them were even openly gay.

  I went with Celeste to her parents’ house for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Believe it or not, the Pembrokes and I got along well back then. They welcomed me instantly.

  She was at all my important matches, cheering me on.

  But there were things I still hadn’t told her.

  She knew I was driven, and she knew I struggled with depression, and she knew I was estranged from my family. She just didn’t know why. But she stuck by me, and said she knew I’d tell her when it felt right. Which allowed me to breathe easier temporarily, but put a lot more pressure on me long-term. Eventually, I would have to tell her. Either that, or leave her. Both felt impossible.

  Celeste urged me to see a therapist, but I resisted. It was the obvious place to try to start to work through things; I knew that. But I knew if I spoke to a therapist I would have to tell them the whole truth—they wouldn’t let me off the hook like Celeste had. And, honestly, it felt wrong to tell anyone without having first told her. She was the most important person in my life. She was part of me. I trusted her. She had to be the first person I told.

  I was just so scared.

  But the feelings weren’t going away, and no matter how hard I fought, or how much I focused on other things, they were taking over an increasingly more prominent part of my thoughts. I was slipping too—I’d gone into a makeup store and bought a tube of mascara, without ever fully deciding to do so. I’d just been walking by the store and it suddenly felt imperative that I go inside and buy something, anything. And a few times, while Celeste was at class, I’d tried on some of her dresses. I told myself I would stop doing it, but I knew I wouldn’t. It felt too good. And I desperately needed to feel good.

  So one night at dinner, about a year and a half into our relationship, I forced the words out.

  “Celeste, I have something to tell you.”

  “What’s up, babe?” She took a bite of the grilled asparagus I’d made and gave me a thumbs-up.

  I cleared my throat. “Can you put the food down for a sec?”

  She laughed. “Sorry. I’m famished.”

  “This will only take a minute.”

  She seemed to realize how nervous I was then, and her expression sobered. “What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing’s wrong. I don’t think. Actually, I don’t know. Uh … you’ll have to tell me.”

  Her eyebrows pulled together, but she didn’t say anything.

  I took a deep breath. “I think—I mean, I know—I’m transgender.” My voice cracked on the word, but I did it. I got it out.

  She pursed her lips, pulled inside her own thoughts, and my entire body shut down while I waited—I couldn’t breathe, move, think. The only thing still working was my heart, which was beating even faster now than it had been before I said the words. Finally, she asked, “What is that?”

  I expelled the breath I’d been holding. Of course. She hadn’t had the word dancing around her brain, taunting her, for years like I had. And this was before all the TV shows and movies and the celebrities coming out—trans issues weren’t anything close to mainstream. Celeste honestly had no idea what I was talking about. The realization almost made me laugh. But now I had to do something I hadn’t anticipated—I had to explain.

  So I did, as best I could. I gave her the textbook stuff, the basic definition, and then I kept it specific to me, my own experience.

  She remained perfectly quiet and still. One thing was clear—she definitely hadn’t suspected. Her eyes grew glassy, and they flickered as if she were thinking hard. I imagined she was reworking our entire relationship, past and future, in her mind. I felt like the worst kind of garbage, tearing down her illusions of who I was, what our life together was. I only hoped there would still be a foundation standing when I was done.

  I told her about the mascara, and I told her about her clothes. I told her how envious I was of her—of her body, her pronouns, the way she was perceived by the world.

  “But … do you …?” she started, then shook her head and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Her dinner was pushed away now, forgotten.

  “Do I what?”

  “You want to be like me. I get it. I mean, I don’t, but I’m hearing what you’re saying. But … do you still want to be with me?”

  My heart broke in half. “Oh my God. Of course I want to be with you.” I grabbed her hands. “That’s why I’m telling you all this. You’re the first person I’ve ever told. I love you, and I trust you, and I needed you to know me—all of me.”

  “And this is why you’ve been so down?”

  “I think so. Maybe. Yes.” I didn’t tell her, though, about how sometimes I thought about slipping away, leaving the world behind for good. About how it had always felt like a solution, ever since I was a kid. She didn’t need to know that. And the very fact that I was telling her about me now meant I was trying to live, right? I was trying to find a way to be okay.

  “And it’s why you don’t talk to your parents?”

  “They didn’t know know, but they knew I was different—I think they thought I was gay—and they weren’t okay with it.”

  “But you are gay. At least you think you are?”

  I blinked. “No, I … what?”

  “You said you think you’re a woman … on the inside. And you said you still love me and want to be with me. So that means you think you’re … a lesbian.” She was speaking slowly, clearly trying to make sense of it all as she went.

  I hadn’t thought of it that way before. “Oh. Well, I guess so. Yes.” I didn’t like the idea of yet another label, yet another thing to make me different, but if it helped clarify things for Celeste, I was on board.

  “But I’m not a lesbian,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “But … you want to …?”

  “Do I want to what?” I asked. I kept my voice soft, as if the room were filled with sleeping babies. “You can say whatever you’re thinking.”

  She chewed on her lip. “I don’t know. Become … a woman?”

  “Yes,” I said right away, and was sure my own expression was as shocked as Celeste’s was. But now that the truth was out, I felt clearer. I’d opened up space in my mind for even more truth, more possibilities. I did want to present as a woman full-time. I wanted it more than anything. “But I can’t,” I said.

  “Because …?” Her tone was almos
t encouraging now. I could tell there was something she wanted me to say here, but I didn’t know what it was.

  “Because it’s hard. And expensive. And because I need to keep playing tennis. I need to make it. I can’t prove my parents right.”

  She looked down. “And because of me, right? Because you still want to be with me?”

  I nodded profusely. “Yes.” A little twinge of guilt prickled my stomach then, because I hadn’t considered Celeste in my reasoning to keep living as the wrong gender. It had always been about my parents and tennis and not veering from that path. And of course the impossible logistics, and the fact that I didn’t know if I was strong enough, emotionally, to handle what would inevitably come at me. But Celeste and I had always been so solid that I’d started to take her presence in my life for granted.

  There was a stretch of silence. Celeste took her hands back and placed them in her lap. Then she got up, poured herself a glass of wine, and took a long sip. She came back to the table, but didn’t sit down. “Listen, Marcus. I love you. I still want to be with you. And if putting on my clothes sometimes, when no one else is around, is going to make you happy, I can live with that. As long as you don’t stretch them out.” She raised an eyebrow.

  I laughed at her joke, and felt warm all over. I couldn’t believe it. She was saying it was okay. She was saying she understood.

  “But it has to be in private,” she continued. “You can’t even do it around me. If that’s not okay with you, we have to break up. I’m not a lesbian.”

  I nodded. “Absolutely.” It made sense, though she didn’t seem to grasp that whether I transitioned or not, I was still a woman.

  “Nothing’s going to change.” She was telling me, not asking.

  “Nothing’s going to change,” I agreed.

  And to the rest of the world, nothing did. I remained a he, as far as Celeste and everyone else were concerned, and life went on. But now that I had permission, I allowed myself to “go there” more than I ever had. I started buying some pretty things of my own to put on at home when she wasn’t around. I started tweezing my eyebrows … just a bit. I grew my hair longer … also just a bit. Celeste saw the new clothes and new underwear in my dresser; she saw the makeup in the bathroom cabinet. She didn’t say a thing about any of it.

  It was new, exciting, and enough. For a little while.

  Love,

  Mom

  A wet spot has developed on my pillow, and I realize it’s tears. I wipe my eyes and flip the pillow over. Then I click “reply.”

  To: Mellie.Baker@email.com

  From: acelove6@email.com

  June 25 (10:20 PM)

  Subject: Re: Coming out

  Thank you for telling me this. Ruth, William, and Catherine have told me a lot about Celeste, but every new story helps bring her a little more into focus for me.

  I’m in Hilton Head, at William and Ruth’s house. I’ve signed up for a few tournaments, and Ruth said I could play in one in France, so I’m going to need to get my passport now. Would you mind sending me copies of our name-change documentation?

  Thanks.

  I add “Love, Dara” but delete it before pressing send.

  Five minutes later, another email comes in.

  To: acelove6@email.com

  From: Mellie.Baker@email.com

  June 25 (10:25 PM)

  Subject: Re: re: Coming out

  Dear Dara,

  Everything you should need is attached. I love you.

  Love,

  Mom

  The next day marks one week since I left Francis. Ruth takes me shopping after practice. They’re hosting a fund-raiser tomorrow night for a friend of theirs who also happens to be the junior senator from South Carolina. They apologized profusely and said they sent out invitations months ago and that they never would have planned it if they’d known I would be here. They said if it makes me uncomfortable to have a bunch of strangers in the house when everything is already so new for me here, to just say the word and they’d cancel it. I appreciated that, but told them I don’t mind. The fact that they’re so generous with their time and home and wealth—not just with me, but apparently with all sorts of people and causes—is one of the things I admire most about them.

  And so now I need something nice to wear. The lavender jersey dress isn’t going to cut it this time.

  “This shop is one of my absolute favorites,” Ruth says, pulling into a parking spot in a cute little downtown area. “The owner is a little funny, and normally I wouldn’t consider shopping here, but he has the best collection on the island, so what can you do?”

  “Funny?” I ask. The way she says it, I don’t think she means he’s a comedian.

  She gives me a look over the top of her designer sunglasses. “You know.”

  “I don’t.” I mean, I do. I’m just a little surprised she’d say that.

  She presses her lips together as if considering whether to explain, but then just shakes her head and opens the car door.

  As soon as we enter the shop, salespeople descend upon us. “Hello, Mrs. Pembroke,” a young woman with her hair back in a perfect chignon and her feet crammed into stiletto heels says. She kisses Ruth on both cheeks. “Welcome back. May we bring you some sparkling water?”

  “Yes, please, Nadia. With lemon. And one for my granddaughter as well.”

  “Of course.” Nadia gestures to one of the other salesgirls, who scurries away to get the drinks.

  “Nadia, this is Dara.”

  Nadia takes both my hands and lifts my arms up to my sides, then steps back to study me. “She’s exquisite.”

  “Isn’t she?” Ruth gushes.

  “Um. Thank you,” I mumble. I’m not feeling particularly exquisite right now, with my post-shower wet hair and regular old clothes, next to the supermodels working in this store.

  “Dara is going to need a cocktail dress for an event tomorrow evening. That’s priority number one. But I’d also love to set her up with a few basics. Tops, skirts, pants that fit her properly. If I have to see her in another pair of skintight leggings and a ratty tank top, there’s no telling what I might do!”

  Ruth and Nadia share a laugh, and I feel my cheeks burning.

  The other girl brings the water, and I sip it gratefully.

  Nadia walks us through the store, pulling things off racks, holding them against me, asking my opinion. Sometimes I shake my head no way, but most of the time I just shrug. I don’t know anything about fashion. The fitting-room rack slowly becomes laden with hangers.

  I’m relieved when it’s time to try everything on, because it means a few minutes alone behind a closed door.

  When I’m modeling one of the dresses for them—a black-and-white, cinched-waist, knee-length thing that isn’t something I would have chosen for myself but is definitely better than the light-blue poofy thing I tried on last—a man comes over.

  “That is lovely on you,” he says, and though it’s clear he works here—he’s in all black like the rest of the salespeople—he actually sounds genuine, not sales-y. He’s tall and thin, with perfectly trimmed facial hair. His shoes are very shiny.

  Ruth turns around; he’s standing just behind her chair. “Hello, Derek,” she says, and her voice holds none of the warmth she bestowed on Nadia or even the other girl who seems to have no name.

  “Hello, Mrs. Pembroke,” he says cordially. “So nice to see you again. And who is this fetching young lady?”

  She doesn’t rush to introduce me like she usually does, and that’s when it clicks: This is the owner. The “funny” guy she doesn’t want to give her business to.

  “This is Mrs. Pembroke’s granddaughter, Dara,” Nadia supplies.

  “I didn’t know you had a granddaughter! Welcome, Dara!” He comes over to me and kisses me on both cheeks. Guess it’s store policy or something.

  “You really think it looks okay?” I ask him, lifting the fabric of the skirt out to the side and studying myself in the mirror.

&nb
sp; “Absolutely. It wouldn’t even need any alterations. What’s the occasion?”

  “My grandparents are having a fund-raising dinner for a senator. Vernon McDougal, I think?” I look to Ruth. “Is that right?”

  She lifts her chin. “Yes, that is correct. He’s a friend.”

  Derek’s jaw tightens perceptibly, and his smile becomes just a bit more strained, but it doesn’t leave his face. “I see. Well, you’re sure to be the belle of the ball in this dress.” Another customer enters the store then, and he excuses himself.

  I’m pretty sure something just happened here. And I’m certain I have no idea what it was.

  “That’s your third miss,” Monique calls out from the other side of the net without breaking her serving stride. It’s the next morning, and I’m running up and down the baseline at top speed, hitting slice after slice. It’s an extreme defense move, the main goal being to simply keep the ball in play.

  Three misses out of several dozen hits doesn’t seem that bad to me. Bob always said that it’s okay to miss sometimes—no one is perfect, and errors are part of the game. The more important thing is to learn how to recover, to not let the misses mess with your head and throw your entire game off course.

  Monique has a different philosophy. She points out the things I do wrong far more than she compliments the things I do right. “You’re never going to be the best unless you act like the best,” she says, disappointed, hitting another ball.

  My focus zeroes in even tighter. Run, breathe, slice. Run, breathe, slice.

  I don’t miss again.

  Ruth comes over as I’m packing up my gear. She’s already dressed for the party, even though it doesn’t begin for hours. “I just heard back from the travel agent,” she says. “Everything has been arranged. We leave for Charlottesville two weeks from today. She booked us a lovely suite at a historic inn with a terrace overlooking the gardens.”

  “That sounds great! Thank you so much.” I bounce a little on the balls of my feet, riding a new wave of excitement. My worn-out calves aren’t happy about it, but I don’t care. In a matter of weeks I’ll be playing in my first professional tournament.