Waiting Read online

  She read Lena's letter many times. Perhaps read was the wrong word. Studied it, maybe. Admired it—the purple ink, the way Lena combined both print and cursive, the way Lena couched some phrases.

  Caris:

  I don't know where to start. Maybe six months ago, when I found out Mom was a man in a woman's body. She walked into Azizi. Midnight, Wednesday. The bar was pretty empty.

  "Just water," Mom said, but I knew that.

  I took a break, and we sat on a bench in front of Chili's. Wasn't too cold. We had our jackets.

  "You're not answering your calls," Mom said.

  "I've been busy. School's nuts."

  "Caris is pregnant," Mom said. "About two and a half months."

  I said something like: "Oh. Congratulations. I guess." I had not known you were trying to have a baby.

  Mom's chin trembled and her eyelashes wavered. "Yes. Thanks."

  "You don't look happy about it."

  "I never meant for it to happen."

  "Huh?"

  "Lena." The misery in Mom's word was so acute that it caused a pain in my heart.

  "What?"

  "I love you."

  I could not say the words back.

  "She's the one. Caris is the one. The love of my life."

  "Congrats."

  Mom ran a hand through her hair. Tugged at her tie. "I have to tell her something. I'm afraid I'm going to lose her."

  I stood. "I have to go back. See you later."

  I was not doing that to be rude. You have no idea how it was for me living with Mom when I was in middle school and high school. She had several live-in relationships. They all started great. Went sour eventually. Mom would break up with them, and more than once I was the one who had to comfort these women.

  This situation with you was giving me that same awful feeling, hence me wanting to get away.

  Mom grabbed my arm. "You know your friend Karl?"

  "What about him?"

  "I'm like him."

  I did not understand at first. The realization dawned gradually, a brain cell here, a brain cell there. I sat back down, my chest heavy, but my brain cells coordinating frantically. Searching memory banks for clues. Finding a few. I thought about touching Mom, some gesture of comfort on her shoulder, but we don't have that kind of relationship.

  Tears sprung to Mom's eyes. I shifted away from her. Had never seen Mom cry, did not want to start now. "I was going to tell Caris. I went to the mall to buy her a gift. Sweeten her up. I saw a baby book instead and thought: 'Let's have our baby.' And then Caris became pregnant on the second try, and…we're done. Our marriage is over. I can't tell her."

  "Why are you telling me?"

  "I don't know," Mom said. "But I see how you are with Karl. He's—he's normal to you."

  "He is. He's normal. So are you. All right?"

  The next day, Mom and I met Karl for lunch. Mom was in tears most of the lunch, hot, wet, wild tears in this upscale Italian place, people staring at us, and all I could do was plan my escape route, stare and fidget and thank God that Karl was able to hug her.

  This strange person who looked like Mom was doing…this. Being human. Crying. Instead of acting like a god.

  Mom told her story and listened to Karl's story, which was similar to hers. Several suicide attempts, two for Karl, and for Mom, three, all shortly after my father died. I so did not need that information about Mom. She can't be distant all my life then all of a sudden, let me in with a flood of information and expect me to be instantly warm and understanding and a doting daughter.

  Anyway, Karl's story had a happy ending. "Yours can too," he said.

  "I'd lose my job. Mom and Dad would be devastated. And Caris…"

  "She deserves to know," I put in. Basically my first comment of the lunch. "She's your wife."

  "I know she's my wife!" Mom said, and her nose had a dripdripdrip.

  Karl spoke up: "I'll go with you to your first therapy appointment. We'll figure out a way to tell Caris." People considering sex changes are required to undergo at least ninety days of therapy before they start hormones. They have to be fully resolved to their new identities and tell their families.

  Karl and Mom met a few times on their own. Fine with me. Let him deal with her. Sometimes Mom came into Azizi while I was on duty, sometimes to talk to just me, sometimes to Karl.

  I made a conscious effort, first in my thoughts and later in my conversations with Karl, and with Mom, to refer to Mom in the masculine. But I couldn't call him "Dad." Reginald Ismay is my father. Daelyn Ismay is my mother. Mom didn't want me to call her "Dad," and I was glad. I'm going to try again with the masculine now that hopefully you've had time to absorb this information.

  I apologize if the rest of this letter is a confusing mix of him/his/she/her. I slip a lot.

  I guess I'm really apologizing to Mom. Mom, I'm sorry I slipped sometimes. I meant no disrespect. It's taken me a while to deal and get used to this.

  I would like to say that Mom's secret brought us closer, and apparently he thought it did. We spent more time together. Inside, though, I was just… I don't know. Scared. More compartmentalized about my feelings for Mom.

  So, Almond's. To Mom's credit, he didn't lecture me about Caroline. We were pretty quiet, but he told me about the fight with you. You wanted to know why he was freezing you out. You thought perhaps he was cheating. You wanted a separation if things were not going to change.

  Mom told me some things he had done to you. Criticizing your everything, even the way you walked, your shoes making a squeek squeek.

  "I'm leaving her," Mom said.

  I stayed quiet. Mom had rejected his girlfriends before they could hurt her. Was going to do the same to you and did not have the guts to explain why. I went to the bathroom and hoped Mom would be gone when I got back. No such luck.

  At last, I said: "You're a coward. You want to be a man, grow some balls."

  "I know," he said. He gulped down a glass of water. Got up to leave. "You coming to the hospital?"

  "No." I wanted nothing to do with Mom anymore.

  "Please understand, Lena. I can't lie to that baby. I can't look into that baby's eyes and be a fraud for yet another person. I can't lie anymore. Caris is going to need you after I—" he cleared his throat. "After I leave her. I'd really appreciate it if you…"

  "You want me to tell her for you. I'm not. Guess what, though? She'd understand. She'd try to, anyway. She loves you. I see it in her eyes every damn time you're together! If she's the one, what the fuck are you doing leaving her?"

  Mom smiled, just a little. "She wouldn't understand."

  "You won't know until you tell her."

  Mom studied me, her gaze dark and intense. She hugged me a long, long moment. Cried a little.

  Guess she knew it could be our last hug. Her last-ever hug.

  "I love you, Lena," she said, and yet again, I could not say it back.

  You know, now that I think about it, I don't remember ever telling Mom I love her.

  Mom thinks I have commitment problems. You probably think I do, too. Could be. I fall in love easily. Too easily. With multiple women. Lots of women at the same time. I'm young. I'll be all right. Just gotta sow oats.

  Is that commitment problems? Maybe, maybe not.

  I don't think I was in love with Caroline. I loved her, but that's different from being in love. Maybe that's why I was able to stay with her a year.

  Anyway, I wonder what was going through Mom's mind when she pulled into the street. Maybe something like this:

  He had made it fifty-six years as a woman. He could make it another fifty-six as a woman.

  Or: He was an unmoored mess. The plan to continue being a woman would never succeed. He looked left one last time and on impulse, pulled out. The actions he had to take were clear. The Cadillac was sturdy. Great air bag. Firm seat belt. The truck wasn't moving fast. He would survive. Be very banged up, probably. But he would survive. I would find the "suicide" note in my tote
bag and tell you all that he was a man. You would stay with him. You and Grandma and Granddad and the law firm would be so relieved he was alive, you would forgive anything.

  I really don't think she meant to die. The wreck was a cry for attention. Maybe I should have just told you. The wreck could have been avoided. All this could have been avoided.

  Whatever happens, you can do so much better than Mom. I should have encouraged Mom to leave you from the start, when you were two months pregnant, because you do deserve better. I'm jealous of Mom. The look you get in your eyes sometimes when you stare at her, and you think no one's watching…

  I hope someday someone looks at me like that. I hope I look at someone like that someday.

  -Lena

  Chapter 7

  Lena lay in bed, unable to sleep. As usual. As always—since the car wreck. She had just gotten off the phone with Malik and Joanna. Dinner next week at an Applebee's in Silver Spring, the six of them: her, Deonte, Malik, Joanna and the children. Oh, goody. Joanna and Malik would not let her, or Deonte for that matter, alone with the children. That is, Joanna and Malik had never offered. Lena certainly had not asked. Too afraid of the questions the children might ask. She wondered if Deonte had asked. Probably not. He seemed more uncomfortable around them than Lena did. But he had never lost touch with them. The kids had had Deonte, had known Deonte, all their lives. Lena was someone who disappeared when the kids were two years old, only to resurface when they were ten.

  Lena willed Nakeem Joseph and Aron Michelle out of her mind. Right now, she needed an orgasm. It would release sleep chemicals. Sleep hormones. Endorphins. Whatever. She had not tried to masturbate since her mother's wreck. Had been nowhere near the proper mindset.

  She thought she was ready now.

  Lena was in the mood for something quick—five minutes or less. Using her fingers would take longer, especially since she was, for all intents and purposes, one-handed. Sometimes she liked to use a couple of fingers from both hands to rub together the lips of her vagina. That movement stimulated her clit pretty well, indirectly. Wasn't gonna happen with the cast, so Lena got her vibrator. It looked more like a toy than a vibrator. It was a cute little baker man, complete with painted-on black moustache. It had come with a baker's billowy cap to conceal its extra-long head.

  She twisted the bottom—the baker's shoes—and lowered his head to her clit. Ahh. Yes. Lena arched her back. ComeonComeonComeon…

  Mom's in a coma. Lena saw the labyrinth on her mother's head. What if—shit. Lena twisted the vibrator off. She took a few deep breaths, trying to clear her mind.

  Caris popped into her head. No. No. Lena had fantasized about Caris several times during masturbation. Okay, more than several times. And a few times during sex with Caroline.

  Caris would get this orgasm done. Easily. But…

  Lena gritted her teeth. She really wanted to sleep. She closed her eyes and lowered the baker's head to her pussy again. She imagined Caris mounting her. Caris looking down at her with that little lopsided smile. Caris soft and womanly and saying: "You're crazy hot, Lena. I want to fuck you all night."

  Lena kissing her neck.

  Caris's breasts. Breasts Lena had actually witnessed. Who cared if the nipples were extra big? That was temporary, and even if it wasn't temporary, Caris was so—she was Caris. Simple. Okay, yeah. Lena pressed the baker's head down harder. She placed herself back in the bathroom. She was on the edge of the tub again, and Caris was on the toilet. Caris wore that nifty bra that exposed her breasts.

  "Kiss me," Caris said, so Lena did, and they lived that magical kiss again.

  There it was. The orgasm. Quick. Small. Enough to get the job done. Maybe now Lena could sleep.

  *****

  Caris began practicing in front of the mirror. She would smile, more of a beam, really, and say: "Hello! How nice to see you again. I'd like you to meet Dale, my husband."

  Husband.

  Husband.

  The word did not feel too bad on her tongue, but she was alone. If she said it to a real person…who knew.

  It felt wrong when she rocked Donovan and said: "Your father."

  Your father.

  Your father.

  Dale is your father.

  That did not feel right.

  Caris had to admit she knew next to nothing about transsexualism. She did not have transgender friends. She did know that it was easier to go from male to female because constructing a vagina and clitoris out of a penis was much simpler than making a penis out of a vagina.

  Google was her friend. Caris typed the search words "transgender female to male." She clicked on a few random links until she got to TSFAQ.info. One section discussed common reactions and feelings about transition, such as the transgenders' loved ones being fearful the people's inner core would change, that they would become like strangers, that their body changes amounted to mutilation, that they, the loved ones, would never be able to let go of their preconceived idea of the people being a certain sex.

  Dale had been nowhere near the point of transition. Nowhere damn near.

  Caris worked on a reply to Lena's letter, their kiss humming in her mind all the while.

  Lena:

  You know how windows get when it rains hard? The rain drills down, the water runs together, and if you look outside, all you see are big blurs. Especially when you're driving. Smudges of red, blue, patriotic smears like it's the Fourth of July, or whatever.

  I went to church with your grandmother last Sunday. I'm not religious, but she wanted to go. She's getting to be a foxhole believer. Anyway, so we went to a Methodist church. Shirley went straight to the altar and kneeled. I was more roundabout. I ran my hands over the columns. They were rough. I liked them. They reminded me of your cast. Which I forgot to sign, by the way.

  Anyway, once the service started, Shirley was all cocked ears and vigorous, agreeable nods. The pastor had a unibrow. A unibrow. I could not focus on anything except his black fluffy caterpillar, waving, weaving and straining with the fury of the Lord. The pastor caught me gawking. Several times. So I looked at the one stained-glass window. Rain pounded the window, and the angel was a blur. That's not supposed to happen. Rain isn't supposed to change the image in stained glass. Right?

  I blinked, and the angel took the shape of a monster—dark, menacing, leering, pointed teeth. My pulse shot up, but when I looked again, the angel was back. Shirley and I drove home in a monsoon. I saw the monster in every blur. That's my life. No definition. A blur. Faint edges. I'm floating, like Dale is. I don't know if I like being a mother. I don't know where I'm going. I'm doing a temporary job soon, though. Three weeks. It'll be nice to get out of the house again and have a life again for a bit.

  Anyway, not sure the point of this letter. No need to reply. I hope you're well.

  -Caris

  *****

  Dinner at Applebee's with the Soundros family went okay. Same as usual. Lots of fake smiles and fake laughing from Malik and Joanna. Lots of stolen glances toward Lena and Deonte from Nakeem and Aron. The six of them got together maybe three, four times a year. These dinners lasted an hour, not much more.

  This dinner was no different. Nakeem and Aron caught Lena and Deonte up on their friends, activities and grades. Malik and Joanna were great parents. The kids were great kids. They had perfect lives.

  Deonte announced that he was engaged. He showed around cellphone pictures of his fiancee. He invited the Soundroses and Lena to the wedding.

  Like with the other dinners, Lena left after giving each person a perfunctory hug and feeling as if most of her soul had been scythed out. She loved these children and sometimes even allowed herself the pleasure of referring to them as her children. However, she had never been alone with them. Had never had a deep, non-superficial conversation with them. She was glad they were happy and would have it no other way. But, damn. Having them in her life was painful. Sometimes she regretted the open adoption, at least where she was concerned. The kids liked it. Th
ey liked knowing their biological mother and father.

  Lena hoped Malik and Joanna talked to the children about safe sex. Using condoms. All that jazz. She had been stupid. Hell, she was twenty-nine and still stupid. The children weren't stupid, though. Nope, they were brilliant and lovely.

  *****

  The third floor of a modest ten-story building in Arlington housed the offices of Gunter & Philpott. Caris entered hesitantly, wondering what to expect. Her life was about to change, again.

  The law firm was relatively small, employing five lawyers, three paralegals and seven secretaries/assistants. Caris's new boss was Ted Gunter, a former subordinate of Dale's. Caris glued on a smile and kept her head high as she walked to her desk. People grinned. Some went up to her and introduced themselves. No one seemed to know about Dale. Caris had specifically asked Ted not to say anything. She did not want whispers and furtive, apologetic glances behind her back.

  At noon, she joined a group of secretaries from throughout the building for lunch. Several of the women complained about their boyfriends or husbands.

  He leaves his underwear on the floor.

  He leaves the toilet seat up.

  He'd rather watch football than make love.

  He goes golfing all weekend and leaves me with the kids.

  Caris said nothing. What could she add? My wife got in a wreck, on purpose, she was a man, I don't know if she's alive or dead, and she left me with a newborn. And I had the most fantastic, most incredible kiss with my stepdaughter. I want more. More, more, more.

  "You're not married?" one of the secretaries or glorified assistants asked, glancing at Caris's bare fingers.

  Husband.

  I'd like you to meet Dale, my husband.

  Caris's stomach constricted with the knowledge of what she was about to say. "Actually, I am. I'm a lucky woman."

  The other women leaned in, their expressions expectant. Caris brushed away her apprehension. "My…my…" My wife. "My husband," Caris said, the word sour on her tongue, like it had never been before in private, "his name is Dale." My husband. See, I can do it. See, Dale. But even as she said the word, thought the word, she knew it was wrong. Felt wrong. She wanted a woman, not a man. "My husband cooks. He does laundry. We have a baby. Dale's great with the baby. He gets up in the middle of the night to help."