Mick and michelle, p.22
Mick & Michelle, page 22
“Am not. I’m very focused when it matters. I have killer instincts for winning.”
“Really?”
“Watch it. Wanna shoot some hoops? I’ll beat you, as usual. Winner instinct, right? At least now you can blame your utter failure as a basketball player on you being a girl. Everyone knows girls suck at basketball.”
I throw a pillow at his stupid head.
When we head over to the basketball court, he beats the shit out of me. Same old, same old.
Chapter 35
GRANDPA’S HOUSE looks like it belongs in some magazine, it’s so shiny. On the inside, anyway. The outside is the same as the rest of the street: weather-worn red brick with white window frames and five steps leading up to a narrow front porch. Inside smells of flowery detergent after Gabriel scrubbed the floors while I did the surfaces and windows. He popped up at noon every day for the past week, said hi, and went straight to work. Now and then he small-talked, almost like the old days. We even shared some food on the steps the one day when it didn’t rain. Only once did he refer to me and my confession.
“I guess ranking girls is off the table now,” he said.
“Why?”
“You know.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s Ash you have to hide it from. She’ll strangle you if you objectify. As you do.”
“You know it’s just stupid banter, right?”
“All the ass and boob appreciation? Leg-spread potential comments?”
“Okay… now you make me sound like a pervert. A slobbering one-track mind kind of guy.”
“You kind of are.”
“Yeah, well, I’m more big words than action, though. Keep that in mind.”
“I went along with the ranking. I should have said something, but I didn’t.”
“My mother would have grounded me if she’d heard me.”
“Maybe you should ground yourself, then.”
“Yeah. That one across the street looks real sweet, though. I can say sweet, right?”
“You can even say hot.”
“I better head back inside before I forget my new respectful self,” he said, breathing out a short laugh. “I’m sorry I’m such a dick. I’m working on it.”
And that was the extent of any serious conversation briefly touching on this new Mick/Michelle dimension. Maybe I should have pushed him, but I don’t see the point. My heart still beats faster just from thinking about him, my mind unable to quench the still present need to preserve the old pre-truth version of him. Such a stupid battle.
At least Diana’s stopped her rants. I have Diego to thank for that, no doubt. Now we’re in limbo, the painful sort. I have phoned her a couple of times. Forced myself not to hang up. Forced myself to breathe while I shook all over. Didn’t help much—she never picked up. She’s not deleted me online, though. Because she wants to expose me or because she wants to make up? It’s not even a truce.
There’s this weird stalemate in our house too, where we’re tiptoeing around me while maintaining the good old normality of the Mullins way of living. I’m giving them time—a couple of days, at least—and they’re giving me space. Ash acts as the go-between who asks questions during dinner and has these visions of my future all mapped out in her head. Her version is kind of rosy and paved with few tricky curves.
“You’ll be the president of the gay-straight alliance at school. You’ll write stories in the paper that’ll be picked up by the Huff Post. You’ll be prom queen.” Sometimes I think it’s all just overly positive blah-blah. Nice to hear, anyway.
Ma and Dad smile every time they see me, but they don’t say much. There’s ruffling of hair, pats on my back, shoulder hugs, and concerned stares. Smiles. Lots of smiles. As if that positive gesture can say more than a thousand words. It sort of does, but I didn’t expect them to mumble with each other constantly and then turn mute when they hear me approach.
“This is a nightmare,” I hear Dad say when I come out of the bathroom. Ma shushes him. I stand completely still while they listen for signs of me. Lowered voices trickle up the stairs, like breadcrumbs beckoning me to follow them.
I carefully sneak over the two creaky steps and slide down to sit on the bottom one. The sound of me is the static quiet surrounding eavesdroppers, a low rustle that most parents have fine-tuned ears for.
“A nightmare,” I hear Dad say again, mumbling this time. I don’t hear exactly what Ma replies, and I expect them to notice me any second, but I remain crouched on the stairs. Commercials on TV blare out, and someone turns down the volume a few notches.
“Listen to this, Nessa,” Dad says, and I see his hand waving briefly on the right side of the door opening. He’s pacing the room, his heavy steps unleashing low thuds like a disorganized drum beat. Three steps more and I’ll be visible.
“Those harmless hormones? They’re effing dangerous! It says here, increased risk of thrombosis and embolism. Increased risk of heart failure. Heart failure! This is not good, Nessa. Jesus. Our genes already run rife with that shit, and then this treatment makes it worse?”
“Sit down, Gerry. You’re doing exactly what you told him not to do. Her, I mean. Her.” An exasperated sigh. “You said to stay away from all that online info.”
“And for good reason! Have you looked at the depression statistics?”
“I have. But don’t you think she’ll sink into hopeless depression if she doesn’t go through treatment? There’s this glow on that sweet face now the truth is out.”
“I know. Makes me happy to see. I’m just desperately scared too. That kid has never looked unhappy, right? Makes me real worried about what else he’s been hiding if he can appear so well adjusted and content all the time. This is so far away from what I thought would be his future—”
“She and her, Gerry.”
“Yes, yes, her. She. Cut me some slack. You’re just as green as me on this.” He scratches his legs so loud I cringe from the dry sound. Some of his bad habits are just icky, and his leg scratching is up there with his absentminded hunt for belly-button fluff bunnies.
“Keep your cool just a little.”
“How the hell am I going to hide that I’m shitting my pants here? I’m not exactly a good actor. I look at the kid and my head screams ‘don’t die, don’t die’ so loud I can’t sleep.” Oh, Dad. I bite down on my arm to stop myself from crying out.
They’re silent for a long while.
Honesty. Such a fickle thing.
“When other people find out… that’s what I worry about. Strangers. Kids from school. That’s when we need to focus. At some point our baby will be in harm’s way. That statistic is the one I fear the most. That’s the one that’ll keep me up at night for the rest of my life. Complete with harrowing images,” Ma says, fast as if she’s running.
“I need someone to tell me that the statistics are numbers and not fates. ASAP.”
“We’ll get there, Gerry. Come on. Just make sure we hide the worst fear. Okay? It’s extremely important that we stay confident now. We’re on serious defense duty. Shields against evil.” She chuckles but chokes on it.
“Uh-huh. Could have been worse.”
“God, Gerry.” A short sob. I think she’s losing it. Should I feel guilty at all? I don’t know. I sit here shaking, but I think from relief, not fear. They’re not fake, my parents. In some ways, they’re perfect. Not too perfect. Just good, so annoyingly good.
“Shh. We’ll be fine. Just fine. Trust me.”
“I always do.”
“And I’m always right.”
“No, you’re not, but okay. Let’s take that argument some other day. I need a run.”
“You sit down. This is not something to run from. What do we do about the rest of the family?”
“What will old Mick think about this?”
“He’ll have a few things to say about this new situation, I’m sure.”
“He’s not too weak to handle this, is he? Have you ever heard of anyone dying from shock?”
“Oh, I’ve heard about that. There’s a series about it on one of the health channels. I don’t think Da is a candidate, Nessa. He doesn’t have weak nerves. Not easily shaken. Tough guy, yeah?”
“A hard nail, he likes to think. On the inside, he’s soft as baby mush.”
Soft, weak, susceptible to shock. There’s that risk.
“He’s living proof he’s an iron man, surviving that stroke. Me, on the other hand, I think my blood pressure is through the roof.”
“Stop joking.”
“To die from shock is exactly the kind of thing I would have believed and feared at that age.”
“Of course. Gerry the altar boy. You lived in perpetual fear of damnation if you did anything wrong. I remember you praying very fervently at Mass.”
“Oh, so you did notice me when I was still a nobody? Well, well, well. Did you also know I got drunk the first time at thirteen on Father Doyle’s sacramental wine? I replaced it with grape juice. Clever, huh?”
“Really? Did you confess your sins?”
“Not that one, no. Da told me not to. He found me pretty much passed out. Father Doyle would have given me a hiding, and Da never supported that kind of punishment. Besides, I was getting too old to be the altar boy anymore.”
“You better not tell the kids that story.”
“It’s actually a funny one. I never did pay up for the wine.”
“Maybe save it for their wedding or something.”
“I don’t see any weddings for Mick. How is that going to work? I don’t get it. Not sure I want the specifics of relationships and all that.”
I don’t want them to google any kind of sex, ever. I don’t want to think too hard about the sex. Why can’t I just long for that kiss with someone instead of complicating everything? So maybe I’m fooling myself. So what? At least I know I’m stalling.
“You don’t want to think about the change?” Ma asks. “It’ll happen right in front of our eyes soon. We better educate ourselves on everything, including the details you’d rather be in the dark about. We really have to be on board all the way.” That’s her fist hammering the last words into the table, I think.
“Take it easy. I know. I already am on board. This is still weird, Nessa. A boy being a girl? Removing all traces of being male? That’s painful for a man to imagine. Not easy for me to think about.”
“Just roll with it. That’s the only way. Don’t you dare chicken out.”
“Chicken out? That’s nonsense, and you know it. Don’t try to make it seem like I’m not supportive. I’m being honest here. I unload my stuff with you, and then I move on. That’s our deal, Nessa. Always. Right?”
“You’re right. I’m just being Mother Bear and all that.”
“This whole situation is still insane. We know people who just won’t handle it well. Those fuckers….”
“Yeah, those fuckers better not mess with our kid, or else.”
“Okay, calm down, Nessie. No rage rampage.”
“I’ll need a lot of runs. That’s for sure.”
“Let’s just see what reruns we find on TV for now. Your marathon obsession is getting out of hand.”
“I have a hobby. You don’t.”
“We’re not really having that discussion again, are we?”
A phone rings. A hushed mumble. Ma says hi to someone, and Dad turns up the TV volume. The theme song of one of those pawn shop series blares out, making me jump. As he scrambles to turn it down, I slip up the stairs, then do a loud step routine down it again before I casually enter the room and say I’m off to meet Diego and I’ll be back in a couple of hours.
Complete and utter truth, as always.
“Okay, have fun,” Dad says, smiling as if it’s Oscars night and he lost out again. Ma waves, chatting on the phone with someone about running but staring at me with huge eyes that don’t look worried at all. My acting genes must all come from her.
“I’ll even consider breaking curfew by ten minutes,” I shout as I open the door. As if that’ll ever happen.
Chapter 36
I’M HALF-ASLEEP on my bed after helping at Grandpa’s yard sale, which garnered a larger crowd than anyone expected. Furniture and items lined up on the porch, the stairs, and the tiny front yard, spilling out onto the sidewalk. Half the crowd consisted of locals happy to reminisce about the old days, and the other half were mostly people hunting for a house and eager to get a peek inside. No one was allowed inside—Dad said to keep them curious—but almost every item on sale ended up with a new owner.
Predictably, the boxes with generic Ireland and Queens pictures went to a pair of young professionals eager to retrofy their apartment. Some shaky night tables, a rickety chair, two boxes with various ugly lamps and knickknacks, three boxes with kitchen utensils, and a worn commode were left unsold and will go into Seanin’s van to find new homes at a flea market come tomorrow morning, unless someone snatches the leftovers during the night. That’s what everyone hopes for, and no cops will chase them for it.
I’m about to doze off when I hear Ma’s soft steps on the stairs. She knocks on my door.
I know what’s up.
They’ve been downstairs mumbling between themselves since we came back from Grandpa’s house, and I just know from the looks they exchanged all day, and how they kept touching me with this huge but restrained affection, that this is the day for the talk.
“Could you come downstairs? We want to talk to you,” Ma says.
“Do I have a choice?” I ask, not out of spite, just for no particular reason.
“No. Not really,” she says. “We’ll come upstairs if you don’t come down. That’s fine too.”
“I’m coming.”
Downstairs, Dad fumbles with the remote and drops it to the floor when he tries to shut off the TV. He retrieves it, then pats the seat next to him on the sofa. They want me wedged between them? That’s intense.
I drop down on the beanbag instead.
“Okay. Okay… okay…,” Dad rambles.
“Gerry,” Ma says, her voice sharp. “Get a hold of yourself.”
“Okay. Okay…,” Dad continues, and this earns him a smack on his thigh. He grabs Ma’s hand and holds it in his lap.
“We’ve done a little research,” Ma says. “We contacted a clinic in the city that specializes in gender… what do you call it…?” She searches for the words.
“Gender dysphoria,” I say in unison with Dad, who says, “Gender identity disorder.”
“I think ‘gender identity issues’ sounds better,” Ma says.
“I think ‘transgender’ will do,” I say.
“They can see you next week, before we leave for the cabin.”
“Like a therapy session?”
“More like mapping your thoughts about this and so on,” Dad says. “Find out which way to go from here.”
“I know which road I’m going,” I say. “I’m not staying like this. I’m getting on those hormones now, before it’s too late.”
“They’ll know how to proceed safely. We’ve informed them about your little drug stunt. It probably works in your favor. From now on, no more illegal drugs or pretending to know how to treat yourself,” Dad says, struggling to hide the vulnerable streak in his voice.
If I sat between them, he’d hug me, and I’d cry flooding rivers. I must focus first.
“They better not make me wait,” I say.
“I’m sure they’ll know exactly what to do and when, and they’ll give you the correct facts to counter all the internet babble,” Dad says.
“It’s not all babble,” I say, somewhat defensively. I wouldn’t know what I want if I hadn’t been able to do my own research. I’d sit here a confused mess. Right now I’m only a mess some of the time. Not all confused.
“If my voice changes—”
“We’ll deal with this together. There’s voice therapy. Lots of options.”
“I don’t want your voice, Dad. I have nightmares about it. Sorry.”
“I can live with being your personified nightmare, kiddo. You just have to be realistic, you know. There are no quick fixes to this situation. You talk to the professionals, sort through whatever you wonder about, and see where you stand. No need to be so dead set on one path.”
“This isn’t some weird obsession. I’m a girl. I want to look like one too. And I don’t mean just my face.”
“We’re not questioning your identity. We just think you need to slow down a little, take your time. This will take years no matter how you feel,” Ma adds. She has this way of soothing people with her calm, low voice, and it works like a charm most of the time.
“What about the money? I don’t—”
“The money is not your concern. You hear? We take care of that.” Dad puts up his hand to stop me.
“But it costs a fortune. No insurance covers all of this. How—”
“Stop. Not your concern. Money is not an issue here,” Dad says, close to employing his cop voice. “Don’t you worry about that.” How am I supposed to not worry about money when I know they will need to work extra shifts and take out loans?
“Ash says you’re still paying the loans from having us,” I say.
“Actually, we made the last payment a while ago. We’re good to go. Not that you need to know anything about our finances. You’re still the kid, and we provide for you. That’s our job, and we like it.”
I sink into the beanbag, then change my mind and get up. I wedge myself between them on the sofa, breaking their hand-holding. Ma hugs me, kisses my cheek. It makes me squirm as always, and she chuckles when I wriggle out of her embrace. Not all people are constant huggers, but maybe it’s an acquired taste. I want to hug her back, so I do.
“Why don’t you think this is weird?” I ask.
“Flat-out the strangest thing I’ve ever experienced,” Dad says. “If I hadn’t been so relieved those pills weren’t steroids, I would have freaked out.”
“Gerry!” Ma chides him, exasperated.
