And She Was

by Jessica Verdi

  I follow my grandmother across the room to where William is chatting with a man in a crisp blue suit and red tie. This close, his hair appears to be dyed black, but there’s still a bit of gray at his temples. I wonder if he does that purposely to look distinguished.

  “Vernon, this is our granddaughter, Dara,” William tells the man. “She just graduated from high school and is about to play in her first professional tennis tournament. Dara, this is Senator Vernon McDougal, US senator from the great state of South Carolina.”

  They toast to that, and Vernon says something generic, at which I smile and nod equally as generically, but internally I’m rolling my eyes at William’s sudden loyalty to a state he’s only lived in for two years.

  “You’re very lucky to have such wonderful people as grandparents, Dara,” Vernon says. “In the short time we’ve known one another, we’ve become great friends.”

  “Yes, they’ve been incredibly generous and welcoming,” I say, thinking that’s a pretty neutral response until I catch Ruth’s glare and remember I’m not supposed to say anything that would tip off that we haven’t actually always known each other. “How did you all meet?” I ask, redirecting.

  “Oh, I believe it was at an event similar to this one, is that right, Ruth?”

  “Yes, it was last year at the Cantons’ dinner. We got to talking politics, as usually happens at these things, and hit it off immediately.”

  I smile and nod again. I’m beginning to feel like a robot. But I don’t know what else to contribute. “Do you know if dinner will be starting soon?” I ask my grandmother.

  She checks her watch. “Yes, I’ll have the caterers begin transitioning everyone to the main dining room in about ten minutes. Why, are you very hungry?” She seems concerned.

  “Oh, no, I’m fine. Just wondering.” Wondering if I have time to get away from the party and go online for a few minutes.

  Someone else comes over to introduce himself to the senator, so I use that as an excuse to slip away. I don’t think I could get away with going all the way up to my room, so I decide on the bathroom at the other end of the first floor, by William’s home office, the one Ruth told the caterers to use.

  I lock the door behind me, flip the toilet lid down to create a seat, and take my phone from the clutch bag Ruth insisted I carry even though we’re at home.

  What do I search for?

  I try What it’s like to be transgender.

  The screen fills with results—support groups, personal blogs, psychological studies, podcasts, medical journals, interviews in major publications—and I vow to never take modern technology for granted ever again. I can’t imagine what it was like for Mom, having to navigate her way with only a few random library books, some old-school online forums, and her own thoughts to get her by.

  I click on links randomly, trying to read as much as I can before having to sit through dinner with a bunch of strangers. I don’t know why I suddenly feel like I have to learn everything right this second. I didn’t give it much thought before now, and obviously, the information will still be there tonight, tomorrow, forever. There’s time. But for some reason it feels important.

  There are an estimated 1.4 million transgender people living in America today.

  Gender dysphoria is not considered a disorder.

  Not all transgender people have surgery.

  Transgender = a term for those whose gender identity differs from that which they were assigned at birth.

  Transsexual = a term for those who have changed, or intend to change, their bodies through surgery and/or hormones. This term is considered outdated and has largely fallen out of use.

  Forty-one percent of transgender and gender nonconforming people have attempted suicide, compared with a 4.6 percent national average.

  Most states do not have laws ensuring job protection or protection against discrimination in the workplace for transgender people, and as a result many turn to sex work as their only option.

  White trans people often receive more support, representation, and benefits, and are at a lesser risk of violence, than trans people of color, especially black trans women.

  The statistics and facts roll through my brain, and I try to grasp on to them. But it’s when I read a quote from someone’s blog that I stop reading, and just sit and think.

  I think well-meaning cis people often have difficulty understanding, the blogger wrote, because they try to frame it from their own point of view. They think, What would I, Jennifer, feel like if I wanted to be a man? They don’t think of it as fact—an “I am” statement instead of a “what if” statement. They don’t take themselves out of the equation long enough to consider how trans people are so often mistaken for something they’re not. They’re mistaken for Jennifer, a woman, when Jennifer is actually a man. But because everyone assumes Jennifer is a woman, he’s told he has to pretend to be one.

  And I think, maybe, that’s what it comes down to. Not trying to make sense of it in relation to my own life, but instead just really listening. Really trying to understand what Mom’s telling me. I’m not sure I’ve done such a great job of that lately.

  But even now that I’m starting to better understand her as a transgender person, and better understand her as a parent, and even better understand why she might not have felt comfortable around the Pembrokes, I can’t quiet the part of me that still doesn’t understand why she thought her only other option was a life of hiding. Why would she go to such an extreme?

  Something is still missing.

  I check my email again. We’ve got to almost be at the end of the story.

  Zero new emails.

  I stand up, smooth my dress, and splash cold water on the back of my neck. It’s been a lot longer than ten minutes. Ruth is probably looking for me.

  I wonder what Sam’s doing. He’s got to be home by now.

  Quickly, before I lose my nerve, I send a new text message.

  I’m sorry.

  A few seconds later, he responds. Me too. I shouldn’t have left like that.

  Only after the words appear on the screen do I realize how scared I was that he wouldn’t write back. That I messed things up forever.

  No, you should have. I was being a jerk.

  Only a little bit. And then: I miss you.

  I miss you too. I think about asking if he went back to Sarah. For all I know they could be together right now. But if they are, I don’t want to know.

  On my way back to the dining room, I take a selfie. Expensive party dress, fancy makeup job, and behind it all, far more miserable than someone who has everything she’s ever wanted has a right to be.

  Wish you were here, I type, and send it.

  You look like shit, he replies.

  It’s the only thing that could have gotten me to laugh right now.

  As the weird, illogical smile warms my face beneath the makeup, it hits me that Sam has always been the one to make me feel better. No matter what’s going on or where we are … or if we’re at the tail end of the biggest fight of our lives. I’m not myself without him.

  I take another photo, still laughing. I send it.

  His response comes immediately. Beautiful.

  You make me happy, I write back.

  Right back at ya, he says.

  When I walk into the dining room, I’m grinning from ear to ear.

  I slide into my seat next to Ruth. The salad course has already begun.

  “Where were you?” she hisses into her shoulder.

  “In the bathroom. Sorry, Grandma. Tummy ache.”

  She presses her lips together so hard they go white behind her lipstick. But she doesn’t say anything else. Diarrhea probably isn’t on her list of approved dinner party conversation topics, either.

  William stands up and clinks his wineglass. The din of conversation cuts off. “I’d just like to say a quick thank-you to all of you for coming this evening and helping to support Senator McDougal’s reelection campaign.” Vernon does a half stand
to the sound of applause, waves around the room in thanks, then sits down again. “Together, we will ensure another six years of traditional values and religious liberty in South Carolina.” The guests all applaud and cheer.

  My fake stomachache turns into a real one.

  Traditional values and religious liberty. I know what that means; anyone who watches the news and reads political posts online does. It means everyone in this room, including my grandparents, actively puts their money and votes toward making sure LGBTQ people feel a little less like people. They want to repeal marriage equality and force trans people to use the wrong public bathrooms and take away gay couples’ children and allow businesses and hospitals to refuse service to anyone they want. No wonder Derek got quiet at the mention of Vernon McDougal’s name yesterday.

  “And,” William laughs, “if you haven’t opened your checkbook yet, don’t worry, we’ll catch you on the way out.” Everyone laughs like it’s the funniest joke they’ve ever heard.

  I stare at my salad.

  Maybe it’s because I’m hearing this right after reading all that stuff online, but I can’t shake the sudden feeling of extreme claustrophobia, of being trapped between two very different worlds—one that I don’t want anything to do with, and one that I dismissed before ever really seeing it.

  William encourages McDougal to say a few words. While everyone’s attention is occupied by whatever political pandering he’s spewing, I Google his name under the table. It only takes seconds for the picture of the man to become much more complete. The discriminatory bills he’s worked to pass. The petitions and protests against him from gay rights groups. My suspicion was right—this is a person who uses his position of power to make sure people like Mom aren’t ever going to be viewed as equals under the law.

  Guilt cascades over me. I should have done my research before putting on this stupid dress and eating this fancy food and being cordial to these people. I just never thought the Pembrokes would be like this.

  You didn’t think it or you didn’t want to think it? the other half of me asks.

  The signs were there. The way Ruth spoke about Mom earlier, the way she forbade me from mentioning “the situation” to anyone, the way they’re nodding along with the senator now …

  The private tennis court and the paid tournament tour aren’t feeling quite as free as they once did. Not that I think the Pembrokes have been bribing me—I do believe they care about me and want to give me everything they never could. I just don’t know if I feel comfortable taking it anymore, knowing where else their money has been going.

  But the tickets have been booked. The plans have been made. It’s my best chance to make something of myself on the pro circuit. I don’t know what to do.

  I keep my mouth shut throughout the rest of the evening. I smile and do my best to look pretty for all the people who keep telling Ruth and William I’m pretty, like it’s really a compliment to them instead of me.

  At the end of the night, I say good night, wash the makeup from my face, and get into bed. The last thing I do before falling asleep is email Mellie.

  To: Mellie.Baker@email.com

  From: acelove6@email.com

  June 27 (11:43 PM)

  Subject: (no subject)

  Mom,

  I’m so confused. Today was weird. Things here are not what I thought they would be.

  You said if I had questions, I should ask. Well, I’m asking now. Tell me why you ran away. Tell me why no one could know who we used to be. Tell me why you lied. Straight talk, like the rest of your emails so far. Please.

  I need to know the end of the story.

  xo,

  Dara

  And the next morning, I have my answer.

  To: acelove6@email.com

  From: Mellie.Baker@email.com

  June 28 (12:21 AM)

  Subject: Re: (no subject)

  Dear Dara,

  Are you all right? What’s going on? If something’s wrong, please just get out of there. Come home.

  I’ve tried so hard not to interfere, to give you the chance you asked for to get to know the Pembrokes for yourself. That’s why I’ve been holding off on telling this part of the story. I didn’t want you to think I was trying to influence you again. You deserved to be able to form your own conclusions about them. But now I’m wondering if maybe I should have taken the risk anyway. I don’t know. If I did it wrong, yet again, I’m sorry.

  I’m actually in the middle of writing the end of the story right now. Give me a few minutes, and you’ll have your answers.

  I love you. Come home.

  Love,

  Mom

  I’m glad I was asleep when that email came in, because the waiting between when that one was sent and the next one was finished would have been torture. But they’re both in my inbox now, sent hours ago.

  To: acelove6@email.com

  From: Mellie.Baker@email.com

  June 28 (1:15 AM)

  Subject: The end

  Dear Dara,

  I hope that by now I’ve at least managed to show that I never intended to live my life in the closet. I’ve dealt with fear and intimidation and depression and denial, but when it comes down to it I’ve never been ashamed of who I was. I like who I am. Celeste was the only person I officially came out to, not because I was embarrassed, but because I haven’t had many trustworthy people in my life. If my parents had been supportive, or if Kristen’s and my friendship had lasted longer, I would have come out to them too. I didn’t stick with tennis not because I felt I had to live in hiding, but because I was mentally fragile and unable to deal with public scrutiny, ridicule, and debate. And when I did eventually transition, I intended to live as openly as a cisgender person would.

  I never wanted to lie. I never wanted to pretend I was something I wasn’t. I had planned on telling you everything from day one. You were aware of it all back then; you just don’t remember now.

  So this is all to say that the only reason any of us are in this position today is because of what the Pembrokes did. I know you’ve probably told them our last name and where we live and what our lives have been like, and though it makes me ill to think about—this is the very thing I’ve been running from all these years, after all—I know that I don’t own our story. It’s yours too, and you can choose what to do with it. And if the Pembrokes have to be in our lives at all, I’m thankful it’s happening now, after you’ve turned eighteen and we don’t have to fear the law anymore.

  You and I saw William and Ruth a lot after Celeste died. They wanted as much time with their granddaughter as possible, and I was in favor of that. Two weekends a month we got together in Philly or Cherry Hill and went to the children’s museum and to lunch and the park, and they bought you everything you pointed at in the toy stores.

  This was at the height of my transition, and I dreaded their reaction to my rapidly changing appearance. I never officially came out to them—I was finally showing the world who I was, and that was a big enough step; I didn’t feel the need to tell them too. The only person in my life who’d deserved an explanation was gone. And I was working hard in therapy on not seeking the approval of others, especially more parent-like figures. My only goal was creating mental and environmental stability for myself and for you.

  But Ruth and William weren’t blind. I saw the way they looked at me—adding up the clues, mouths turned down in disapproval. I waited impatiently for the other shoe to drop, wondering each weekend we were scheduled to meet if this would be the time they said something. I think they had been hoping the “problem” would just go away without them having to address it. Conversations like this weren’t considered polite in their circles.

  Finally, one Saturday afternoon, eight months after I began hormone-replacement therapy, I announced my acceptance to nursing school, and was met with silence. No congratulations, no handshakes. They were caught up in some silent communication with each other, matching frowns on their faces.

  “I know it�
�s not that exciting,” I continued, “but it’s important to me. Classes start next month …”

  Ruth turned toward me, studying me intensely while somehow never looking directly at my face. She took in my red-and-white skirt, the way I crossed my legs when I sat, the gentle curl of my hair. William stared into his cup of coffee.

  I knew what they were thinking. They hadn’t been listening to a word I was saying.

  Ruth reached across the table to rest a hand lightly on mine. I steeled myself. “Marcus, sweetheart,” she said softly. “I wonder if it’s maybe a good idea for you to speak with a grief counselor.”

  It took a minute for me to understand what she was saying. They thought I was having an extreme reaction to losing Celeste. That was how they’d explained it to themselves.

  I took my hand back and placed it in my lap.

  “Why?” I asked calmly. “Are you working with one?” I knew they weren’t.

  Ruth’s toffee-colored lips became pinched. “We’re worried about you, is all. First you quit tennis, and now …” She trailed off, as if she didn’t have words for whatever this was. She waved a hand, indicating my entire body. “We know Celeste’s passing has been hard on you. We understand. We miss her too.”

  I straightened up. “I work with a therapist twice a week, actually,” I said, cringing at the deep tenor of my voice. We all noticed it, I was sure—how I was trying so hard to be one thing, but my voice clearly said I was another. That one piece of evidence won the argument, with no option for an appeal. I vowed in that moment to begin taking voice lessons.

  “Oh, really?” She seemed surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “What sort of things do you talk about with him?”

  “Her. And that’s private.” I knew I should just acknowledge the issue at hand: find clear, nonthreatening words to make all this easier for them. If they had been nicer, I probably would have. But there was a biting aggression in her voice that was decidedly unkind. I wanted to lift you out of your high chair and get the hell out of there. Wishful thinking.

  Ruth sighed and pressed on. “You know what I mean, Marcus. What’s with the cross-dressing?” She whispered the last part. She sounded like she was mad at me for forcing her to be the one to get to the point. Like I was purposely embarrassing her by expecting her to sit in a restaurant, in public, with me as I was now.