Happy Families

by Tanita S. Davis

  “Ysabel, do you agree with that?”

  I shrug. “I guess.”

  Dr. Hoenig raises her eyebrows. “So you don’t agree with all of it?”

  I heave a sigh. “No, I agree with all of it. I’m just …” I let the words trail away.

  “What’s the matter with it?” Justin protests. “I covered everything.”

  “I know. It’s fine, but …” I look at Dr. Hoenig. “This whole thing’s kind of pointless.”

  She gestures. “Keep talking.”

  “Justin and I don’t really have rights, no matter if we sit here and pretend that we do. Dad’s just going to do whatever, and he and Mom are going to decide where we live and those kinds of details, and until we’re legally of age, we just have to go along with it or find a foster home.”

  “Well, that’s grim,” Dad mutters, pushing up the sleeves on his shirt.

  “No, it’s true.” I straighten in my seat. “First, you and Mom split up. Then, Mom starts trying to sell the house—without even asking us—and Poppy won’t even consider letting us move in with him and Grandmama, because you and Mom have already figured out we’re all moving—never mind if I can find another welding teacher or if Justin can find a good debate team—”

  “Hold on a minute.” Dad leans forward. “What do you mean, ‘we’re all moving’? You’re not moving, Ysabel.”

  “Now, see?” I’m irritated. “How much easier would our lives have been if you’d just said that to begin with? Just a few statements like ‘You kids aren’t moving. We’re not getting a divorce. Everything’s going to work out.’ ”

  “How was he supposed to know everything would work out?” Justin interrupted. “It’s not like anyone ever knows that.”

  “It’s not like anyone ever knows everything that has to do with their well-being, either, but you don’t hear me criticizing your list,” I retort.

  “Time-out,” Dr. Hoenig says quickly, a slight smile on her face. “There are too many good points being brought up here to miss. Now, Chris, this seems like an ideal moment to give a few statements that you can make—apparently the consensus here is that there’s been too much confusion and not enough information. So, let’s have three simple statements from you.”

  Dad straightens up to oblige her. “One: no one is moving. Two: no one is getting a divorce. Three: no one is selling the house.”

  “Then what’s with all the Realtors?” Justin interrupts. “I’ve talked to the same lady three times.”

  Dad opens his mouth, then closes it, frowning. “Three times? We were pricing places a while back,” he admits finally, “but that’s done. They shouldn’t still be calling.”

  Justin and I exchange looks. “Oh,” I say, feeling stupid.

  “See? No mystery,” Dad says, his voice smug. “You can always ask if there’s something you want to know.”

  “There’s some stuff you don’t want to have to ask,” Justin mutters.

  “Like what?” Dr. Hoenig encourages him.

  Justin glares at Dad. “Like, ‘Is that my dad in drag at my debate event, or have I lost my mind?’ ”

  I wince. Justin has never quite forgotten that I didn’t believe him that day.

  Dad’s expression is troubled. “Buddy, you should never have had to ask that. I’m so sorry. That entire day was a disaster. My flight was delayed, and I was already late. I thought if I took the time to change, I’d miss the whole thing.”

  “You knew! You watched me walk off that stage, and you didn’t even say anything.” I hear the accusation in my voice.

  Dad shakes his head. “I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t face you.” He sighs. “If it hadn’t been for Poppy catching up with me on my way back from Robinson, I might not have ever said anything.” He looks at Justin. “I just wanted to forget it happened. I figured you wanted that, too.”

  Justin looks away, tacitly refusing to meet his eyes and ease the ache in his voice.

  Silence stretches. None of us know what else to say.

  “We’ve had a lot of things get swept under the rug in the last few months, Nicholas family,” Dr. Hoenig finally says quietly. “A lot of things we’ve been afraid to ask, a lot of things we’ve not wanted to face. Tomorrow, let’s see how much progress we can make toward getting down to bare floors.”

  As if on cue, the three of us stand. Dr. Hoenig opens her door, and we file out.

  * * *

  It’s an hour later when Dad breaks the silence.

  “This is it,” he says, braking and signaling left. We turn off of the tree-lined road onto a graveled lot. In the distance a tall bridge arches over a wide, muddy expanse of river. A few people are pulling inner tubes down the steep embankment toward the water below, and others stand around cars, changing shoes and slapping on sunscreen.

  We drive through the lot kicking up dust. I raise the window hurriedly, and Dad slows as rocks spray out from under the tires. A guy near a battered orange and white striped van waves, and Dad waves back, almost windmilling his arms in the confined space near the windshield.

  I give the group a guarded glance as we pass. There are ten or fifteen people standing there, most of them adults, with a couple of little kids by the hand. Dad turns into a parking space and throws open the door, practically before the engine stops.

  “Morning!” bellows a tall, tanned woman with a shapeless bush of sun-bleached hair. She’s the lady Dad introduced me to at the street fair, and I strain to recall her name. Trina? Tina?

  “Sorry we’re late,” Dad calls. He pops open the trunk and digs around in its depths. The car bounces, and the back window is obscured as Dad hauls out whatever he’s got in there. A few people from the group move over and stand around the back of the car, chatting and laughing with Dad. Justin exhales and looks across the car at me, tension on his face.

  “This is it, huh? The big meet up.”

  I look at my brother and try to smile. “Yeah. I guess we should get out?”

  Happy Trails

  Justin

  The air smells like hot asphalt and dust. I get out cautiously, pulling my backpack up on one shoulder and looking at the people leaning on their cars and talking in little groups.

  Dad’s friend comes around the car and gives me a huge smile. I give her a nod, taking in her Nordic giantess look. She’s taller than I am, and the long, bare legs beneath her black shorts are tanned and muscular. Her red golf shirt has letters on the pocket that make it look like a uniform.

  “You must be Justin. I’m Treva,” the woman says, holding out her hand. I give it a quick shake and drop it, not much in the mood for meeting new people or making small talk.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say. Her voice is no lower than Mom’s, and something in me relaxes a little.

  “Good to see you again, Ysabel.” Treva smiles, waving as Ys comes around the back of the car to stand next to me. “Boy, you both look just like your daddy.”

  “We’re nothing alike,” I’m quick to point out. Her innocent observation doesn’t set well. Right now I’m not ready to be related to my father.

  “I’m sure you’re your own man,” Treva says calmly, giving me a half smile. “You ready to hit some rapids today?”

  “Rapids?” Ysabel exclaims. “Nobody said anything about rapids.”

  “They’re not too intense.” Treva laughs, moving toward her. “There are a couple of spots where it gets pretty fast, but we’re not talking miles of white water here, just a couple of exciting spots. I’ve been a guide for years, and I’ll tuck you up in my boat and make sure you stay dry.”

  “No, thank you,” Ysabel says quickly. “I’ll just go with Justin.”

  “We’ll probably all be stuck on the same raft anyway,” I tell her. “There’s something like seven people per raft, right?” I turn back to Treva for confirmation.

  “Six, usually. We’re expecting about thirty-eight people, and some of the kids will just be non-paddling passengers.” Treva looks up as a dusty white bus lumbers
into the lot. “I think that’s our ride to the riverhead. Chris! You ready?”

  “I’m ready,” Dad says from right behind me. I twitch, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck stiffen. I resist turning around to look at him. His silence since we left Dr. Hoenig’s office lets me know that he’s feeling bad, but I’m not ready to care yet.

  We crunch across the parking lot, puffs of dust following. It’s already really dry in this part of the state, and I’m grateful I’m wearing Dad’s old running shoes and not mine as I see a wet swimmer climbing up the bank from the river and watch the fine white dust turn into sticky mud beneath his feet.

  I buff the toe on the leg of my pants and then frown. Ysabel thinks I’m obsessive about my shoes, but I just like my kicks to be clean. That’s not an issue, is it? Is Dad this particular about his clothes? Was that the first sign that he was … turning into Christine? How do you know, even when you’re little, that just because you like a tiara you’re going to be like this?

  I shake my head. Now is not the time to be thinking of Dad.

  At the bus stairs, Treva stands with a clipboard next to the driver, and the two of them converse. A couple of guys start lugging boxes over, and the driver bounds down the bus steps to unlock the under-bus storage. I expect to see rafts loaded, but there’s only big boxes, a cooler, and a couple of folding tables.

  Bored, I take in the crowd moving toward the bus. There’s a little bit of every population—dark- and fair-skinned folks, both curvy and thin, and all kinds of body art; dreadlocks and dye jobs, mixed in with military-length flattops and shaved heads. I’m surprised to see so many little kids here. Most of them are hanging on their parents’ arms and bouncing around, playing with the dirt, but I see at least a couple of guys our age. A tall guy with wavy brown hair stares at me openly, then turns and mutters to the big blond kid next to him.

  O-kay. So, are they judging me or scoping me out? Am I going to be hit on by gay guys or what? I hate this day already.

  “Hey, Chris!”

  I turn at the shout to see Dad’s expression lighten as a man makes his way from a car that’s just pulled in, a girl trailing hesitantly behind him. The man’s dark hair is in a silver-streaked military buzz, and he is ripped and tanned in his sleeveless shirt, his dark eyes energetic. His grin is lively and vigorous in contrast to the girl, who is thin and wiry and stands listlessly next to him, saying nothing. She looks normal enough—like a girl, I mean—but I look closely, trying to be discreet. She squints out at us from beneath a massive sun hat that covers most of the top half of her face.

  She’s hiding. She must be a transperson.

  “Hey, Ike,” Dad greets them, slapping hands with the other man. “How are you, Bethany? Let me introduce my kids.” Dad smiles. “Guys, this is Isaac Han and his daughter, Beth. My kids, Ysabel and Justin.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Ysabel says, ducking slightly to see beneath Bethany’s hat. I give her a look at her rudeness, but she only gives me a slight shrug, as if to ask, “What?”

  I shake Mr. Han’s hand and read the ink just above his collarbone: To Thine Own Self Be True. “Shakespeare on a tat. Cool.”

  “They’re some good words to live by,” Mr. Han says seriously, and nods. “Nice to meet you, Justin. Heard a lot about you and your sister.”

  My smile vanishes. Heard what? I’m sure I don’t want to know.

  Dad and Mr. Han chat casually about nothing. They make an odd pair; as big as Dad is, he looks almost skinny next to Mr. Han. I wonder how much I’d have to work out to be that cut, and realize regretfully that outside of dropping out of school and devoting myself to buffing up all day, I probably don’t have that kind of time. Mr. Han must be a personal trainer or something.

  Ysabel, Beth, and I stand around awkwardly, silent as the dads laugh loudly at some joke Mr. Han’s told. Finally Ysabel attempts to peer beneath Bethany’s floppy hat again.

  “So, Bethany. What year are you?”

  “Sophomore.” Bethany’s voice is quiet and lower than I expect.

  “Us too,” Ysabel says. “You live around here?”

  Bethany shakes her head. “In Pleasant Hill,” she says. “Almost an hour from here.”

  There’s a slightly friendlier silence, then Beth asks, “You live with your dad now?”

  “No,” Ysabel and I say in unison.

  “I mean,” Ysabel says hurriedly, “we’re just visiting. We might be staying with him sometimes, but”—she shrugs uncomfortably—“we don’t know what’s happening yet.”

  “Actually, we won’t be staying,” I put in, giving Ysabel a look. She gives me a quick frown, as if I’ve said too much of our private business in public, but the truth is, we’re not staying. I’m not staying, anyway.

  And Bethany just nods, as if Ysabel hasn’t been babbling and we haven’t just been having a silent fight.

  Before I have too long to wonder about that, Treva calls out family names and checks them off her list on the clipboard. Dad gives a wave when she calls our name, and soon, it’s clear we’re all accounted for.

  “Let’s roll!” she shouts, and waves people toward the bus. The last of us in the group make our way toward the vehicle, pale beige under the layer of grime coating the back end. Ysabel puts two or three people between us and Dad before she ducks in front of me and mounts the steps. She chooses a seat near the back and dumps the yellow life jacket on the seat to the floor. After opening the window, Ysabel collapses into the green vinyl seat.

  Treva, somehow, is right behind us. She drops into the seat across the aisle from us. “So, you guys,” she begins, including Ysabel in her friendly smile. “You rafted before?”

  “No. What’s your shirt say?” In debate team, Mr. Lester says that going on the offensive is sometimes the best way to make your opponent give something away involuntarily. I watch for the quick blink that shows Treva switching mental gears.

  “It’s my company,” she answers, holding her sweatshirt away from the well-endowed curve of her chest to give me a better view of the embroidered black logo: “en|GNDR—it’s just another way to say ‘engender.’ ”

  My eyebrows jump, hearing the word made from the stylized letters. “Are you one of Scanlon’s clients? Does my dad work for you?”

  Treva laughs. “Good grief, no. This is my business.” She gestures. “This group. I run outdoor activities for TransParent and a few other special groups.”

  “So, transpeople only want to hang out with other transpeople?” Ysabel asks. “Great.”

  Treva shakes her head. “I doubt that. It’s just, sometimes, gay or lesbian people or transpeople want to simply be themselves and have fun, and … other people can make that difficult.”

  Ysabel slumps back. “Oh.” She straightens, then blurts, “So, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  Treva flicks a glance toward where Dad is sitting, then grins. “I guess your dad didn’t mention it. I am a transsexual person,” she says. “Was that what you wanted to know?”

  “I knew it,” Ysabel mutters.

  I check out Treva’s chest again, then clench shut my eyes. They look real.

  “I’m an MTF,” Treva continues. “MTF, if you’re not familiar with the term, means—”

  “Male-to-female,” Ysabel interrupts. “So, you used to be Theo or something.”

  “Travis,” says Treva, with a wry look. “You okay with that, or are you panicking?”

  Ysabel just shrugs. “Whatever.”

  Treva glances over. I gulp and manage to keep my eyes above her neck this time. “No,” I manage finally. “I’m, uh, not panicking.” Not much, anyway.

  Treva gives a businesslike nod. “A transitioning parent can be a lot to adjust to, but I’m glad to see you’re here, giving it a shot.”

  I immediately change the subject. “So, what’s all the stuff you loaded under the bus?”

  Treva’s eyebrows waggle. “Lunch,” she says, “and super-secret items.”

  “Paddles, probably.
” Ysabel rolls her eyes.

  “Nope, not paddles,” Treva corrects her. “The rafts are already waiting for us.”

  Just then, the bus driver hollers a question, and Treva stands. “Duty calls, friends. See you on the river.”

  Still Waters

  Ysabel

  The switchbacks on the gravel road raise clouds of dust that sift into the old bus windows. The window in front of us drops into its aluminum casings with a clatter as we round a corner, and the pair of women in the seat ahead of us surge to their feet to close it, laughing and coughing and batting the dirt off of each other’s clothes.

  I examine their thin, wrinkled necks and frosted hair and narrow my eyes. They look like someone’s grandmas. They can’t be transgender or transsexual people, or whatever Treva calls it.

  I’m not surprised that Justin’s staring at them suspiciously. When our eyes meet, he gives me a slight shrug and goes back to his examination, as if determined to discover … something.

  We’re surrounded by a sea of zinc-slicked noses and sun visors, and I can’t help but stare, trying to figure out whose face might be fooling me, whose happy smile is a cover for a life that might surprise me. My count is shaky; I come up with first one, two, three, then revise my count to two, then four.

  No one else on the bus seems concerned about anything. Everyone else is laughing and talking or looking out the windows. A couple of people are holding up cameras and snapping away, modeling their ugly life vests. I tamp down another surge of confusion, shaking my head at my silly thoughts. Everyone looks so normal! I keep wanting to exclaim.

  Of course they do.

  After what seems like miles of driving uphill, the bus suddenly pulls off the road into a narrow lane, and the driver sets the brake and kills the engine. The smallest kids whoop and begin unfastening their seat belts. Treva waves her arms for attention and moves toward the middle of the bus.

  “Okay, people, listen up,” she calls, and the bus quiets some. “We’ll get out of the bus, we’ll stay off the road, and we’ll get into groups of six. If you’ve got a child under ten with you, you’ll need to make sure that you and that child are in Scooter’s or Ted’s group.” She points. Two big guys at the front of the bus stand and wave briefly before sitting down.