AN ARIA FOR CAMI
Washington, D.C., December 18
I was working on a motion for leave to file a sur-reply brief – defendants had improperly slipped new arguments into their reply – when Eileen stuck her head in my door.
“How’s it coming?”
“Good. The draft should be ready for you to look at in about forty-five minutes.”
“Great. Daviana’s just wrapping up her draft of the proposed sur-reply, so we should be able to file tonight. Shoot your draft to David and Daviana when you’re done with it. I’d like to take you to lunch, if you’re free.”
Of course I was free for lunch, for the lead attorney on my current case who also happens to be the head of the firm’s litigation department and a member of the management committee.
Eileen knew that, but she was big on observing all the proper forms, and was always unfailingly polite. It is among the many reasons I loved working for her, and was delighted to accept her invitation. The only downside was that I would have to quasi-socialize while masquerading as a man, which increasingly felt like a chore.
I finished my draft motion and emailed it to David and Daviana for their comments. Then I grabbed my coat and walked up to Eileen’s office. Her door was open, as usual – the firm’s culture is that doors are only closed when needed.
She saw me, smiled and waved me in. “Two seconds!” She turned back to her computer, finished typing something, then said “There!” with the distinctive air of someone who’s just pushed a problem off of her desk. “Feel up for a walk?”
“I’d love to.” I didn’t spend much time outside during the week, so I was grateful for Eileen's penchant for walking in even the foulest weather. In this case, it was dry and in the low 40s, so even mere mortals could bear it.
While we were walking, she asked about my plans for Christmas, and I explained that I was going up to Boston to be with my sister and her fiancé. I hadn’t made travel arrangements yet because I wasn’t sure when I might be able to get away, but I was planning on taking the train.
“It’s actually really convenient that you’ll be in Boston,” Eileen said. “Judge Gordon just scheduled the hearing on the outstanding motions for 1:00 on the 27th – you were probably on your way to my office when the ECF notice posted. I want you to argue the Corinth-related issues at the hearing. The train ride from Boston to New Haven is pretty short, so if you arrived the evening of the 26th we’ll have time to complete our prep.”
Eileen knew that I was eager to make my first argument in court, and I was quick to let her know how excited I was.
She thought a bit more. “I don’t know how soon you wanted to be up at your sister’s place – or how soon she wants to host you! – but there’s no reason you can’t take your laptop along and work from there for a couple days if you want to go up early. We will have to do some work next week to prep for the hearing, but it’s nothing that’ll require us all to be in the office.
“Daviana’s going to be in Puerto Rico all next week, and David’s going to leave for San Francisco on Friday. I’ll talk to him about whether he wants to join us in New Haven on the 26th. Though I’m confident the two of us can handle it,” she added with a smile.
I was on cloud nine. But for form’s sake, I said, “I hate to have all of us desert you next week!”
She just chuckled. “That’s me, ‘Horatius at the Gate.’”
I must have looked blank. She laughed some more, gave my arm a pat and said, “Google it. But don’t worry, I can hold the fort for a few days. I’ve reached the age where my kids come back to visit me at Christmas, so I don’t have any travel plans.”
I asked her about who she had coming for the holiday and we discussed Christmas traditions for most of the eight blocks or so that separated the office from Founding Farmers DC. Her eagerness to see children and grandchildren for the holiday was a painful contrast to my own parents, but that wasn’t something I was comfortable sharing.
When we arrived, I had the sense that Eileen was well-known – and well-liked – at the restaurant. She received a big smile and warm greeting from the hostess. And, our waiter appeared with impressive speed.
She ordered a sparkling water and a salad.
I picked a different salad and unsweetened iced tea.
After the waiter departed she said, “Cam, you don’t have to endure a salad just because I limit myself to that at lunch time. With my build and metabolism I have to watch my calories. You don’t!”
I made a joke about it and added that I don’t tend to eat much at lunch.
She looked uncharacteristically indecisive for probably four whole seconds. “I suppose I shouldn’t say this, but you should maybe revise your eating habits. You seem to have lost a lot of weight, and you weren’t exactly heavy when you arrived at the firm. You need to take care of your health.”
I had a sudden urge to reach across the table and touch her arm in reassurance, but I suppressed it instantly. Cam would never do that, and I could not forget and be myself here.
Instead, I gave her one of Cam’s smiles – warm, certainly, but no visible teeth – and said, “Thank you. Really. My weight’s always fluctuated a fair bit randomly, but I’ve noticed that my suits are looking a bit baggy. I’ll try to be more careful.”
What I didn’t say, of course, was that my dresses looked a lot better at my present weight!
While we waited for our food, we talked a bit about the impeachment vote, which was scheduled for later in the day.
“I’m actually old enough to remember the Nixon impeachment,” Eileen remarked. “I was too young to care about it at the time, but my parents were very interested so it was on TV a lot. Sam Ervin, now – there was someone who really understood the Constitution! But I never thought I’d live to see another impeachment – let alone two more.”
“I think you’ll see a lot more of them now, sad to say.”
“I know.” Her voice radiated disapproval. “The Republicans are already howling for revenge. I expect it’s going to become a regular thing now, any time the President’s party doesn’t control the House.”
“Do you think it was a mistake to bring the Articles?”
She didn’t hesitate. “No. I started my career as a prosecutor. The evidence here is essentially unrefuted, and if trying to use the release of Congressionally appropriated funds to coerce political favors from a foreign government isn’t a high crime or misdemeanor, I don’t know what is. I don’t think the Speaker had a choice.”
I agreed. We talked a bit about the hearings, and, from a professional standpoint, discussed who had given compelling evidence. She had been particularly impressed with Colonel Vindman’s emotional testimony; I liked Dr. Hill’s analytical approach.
At some point in our conversation, the food arrived and we continued talking while we ate. When it was cleared she ordered a coffee and I did the same. Then she got a mischievous look on her face and asked the waiter to bring a slice of the carrot cake with two forks.
When he walked away, she smiled sweetly. “I, of course, will just have a bite. To make sure they haven’t lost their touch!”
“Determined to fatten me up, are you?” I joked.
“You bet! Your sister’s a doctor; I don’t want her thinking we’re working you to death!”
After the coffee and dessert arrived and Eileen had taken her promised bite out of the cake, she leaned back in her chair (which, somehow, she managed to do without losing her always perfect posture). “As you know, the firm gives out annual bonuses to associates, and the amount is the same for each associate class. This year, associates finishing their first full year will be receiving $25,000.”
My eyes widened. I certainly knew that the firm gave bonuses, but this was the first year I was eligible and I didn’t really know what to expect. “That’s fantastic!” I said, thinking about all of my student loans.
Eileen just smiled. “What you probably don’t know – because we don’t publicize it – is that we give additional performance-based bonuses to a few associates who have done really exceptional work over the course of the year. We have a hard limit of one per class. Most years, there are classes where no one fits the criteria. The management committee reviews each nomination very carefully. And . . . they’ve awarded you an additional $15,000 bonus for this year. Congratulations, Cam!”
I was truly stunned; there were probably thirty associates in my “class,” and some of them were positively brilliant. I stammered, “I don’t even know what to say! Thank you so much!” It was very obvious that this was all Eileen’s doing.
“You’ve got a great work ethic, an eye for detail, and a degree of judgment that usually takes longer to develop,” she said. “I told you before that most lawyers, and even most litigators, aren’t suited to trial work. I think you’ve got the gift. I made sure my colleagues knew and appreciated what we’ve got.”
I steadied myself so that I would stop stammering, which really wasn’t the image I wanted to convey. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’ve done, but also, how much I’ve enjoyed working on your trial team. And I’m learning so much. Not just about law. But about how to be a lawyer. How to be a part of a team. The right way to deal with conflicts . . . . It’s just an amazing experience.”
“Good!” she said, adding, “now, is there anything you wanted to raise with me before we head back?”
I had a brief fantasy of saying, “yes, I want to talk to you about coming out as a transwoman.” She likes my work. She wants to keep me happy. . . .
But she had also gone to bat for me with every member of the management committee, no doubt calling in favors to ensure that I got the extra performance bonus, doubtless over their own preferred candidates. I didn’t want to repay her by giving her a headache to deal with.
So instead I said, “Well . . . I was wondering if I could also present the oral argument on the three other issues I had covered in my sections of the brief?”
She gave me a big smile. “I was really hoping you would ask. Trial lawyers are like pitchers – they always want the manager to give them the ball!”
I laughed, and we walked back to the office.
Washington, D.C. and Maryland Suburbs, December 18, later that day
I left work early – for me, 5:30 is early – so I could go home, get out of my work clothes, pick up some takeout, and meet Sarah at her boutique. I had called her during the day and she had suggested I swing by after work because she had to spend the evening pulling together end-of-year information for her accountant.
For Sarah, I wore my skinny jeans tucked into my knee-high black boots, a jewel-tone red wool v-necked sweater over a lacy camisole, light makeup and tear-drop earrings. I did my hair in what was becoming my go-to hairstyle – a loose braid that cascades over my right shoulder and reaches the top of my (alas prosthetic) breast. I regretted that I wouldn’t have time to do my nails.
Sarah would surely notice.
I arrived at her boutique just after 7:00 bearing curries and naan bread. The door was locked, so I shot her a text from my “Cami-App” letting her know I had arrived.
She came out a minute later, unlocked the door, and smiled at me. “Glad you finally made it. I’m hungry, and I’m starting to hate Quickbooks!”
I laughed and assured her that the cavalry – or at least the chuckwagon – had arrived.
We went to the back office and she cleared some space on the table. “So, what’s up?”
I told her a bit about my week, including the tale of my shopping adventure with Steve and its denouement the following morning.
She looked at me shrewdly. “That was well played, Cami.”
“You think so? It sure didn’t feel that way, but I couldn’t think of a better solution.”
“I don’t think there was a better solution. The only way you could have avoided it would be to wear a big sign around your neck that says, ‘Warning, transwoman.’ Which would lead to a whole lot of even worse things, just in case you hadn’t figured that out.”
She waved her fork at me. “He kissed you without warning – which, thank goodness, you actually enjoyed – and you retreated to a place of safety before telling him you were trans. That was smart, and I always approve of smart.”
I looked at her for a minute, trying to figure out how to ask the question that had suddenly popped into my head while she was speaking.
She looked back. “Alright, girl, out with it!”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I was just wondering why you do it. You’re so free with your time. So supportive. And I know I’m not the only struggling waif you’re looking after!”
That got a snort. “You’re no waif, and how you dealt with Steve proves it. A waif would be in here moaning about how unfair life is. Got no patience for that shit.”
She took a forkful of rice and rogan josh, chewed it thoughtfully and swallowed. “As for your question, you might not believe the answer.”
“I might surprise you,” I said, a bit dryly. I wasn’t the innocent I’d been even a year ago.
She cocked an eyebrow at me. “You might at that. So here goes. It’s because I’m a nun, and I take my vocation seriously.”
She laughed outright as I choked on my chicken tikka. “Ha!” she said. “You sure didn’t see THAT coming!”
“No, you got me,” I confirmed. “I don’t understand, though. I wouldn’t have thought nuns’ assignments would extend to running a trans boutique. I mean . . . .”
I ran out of words.
“You were about to say, I sell sex toys?”
I nodded, red faced. “And you cater to the transgender community. I thought . . . I mean, I’m not Catholic – but I kind of thought the Church opposes everything to do with transgendered people.”
“The party line from the Vatican,” she responded, “is that we should help people accept their biologically determined gender. As usual, a ‘we know best,’ patriarchal approach. Pretty typical.”
“The party line?” I was confused. “But you said you are a nun, not that you were one. Isn’t it your party?”
“Listen, I went into the convent right out of high school and lived the traditional religious life for a lot of years. I took my final vows – poverty, chastity and obedience. All that. But I lost it when the sex abuse scandals started to become public. I mean, lost it. I was spitting mad. All those pompous hypocrites, protecting other priests rather than kids.
“But the fact that the folks in charge – the bishops, the cardinals, all of them – didn’t take their faith seriously doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t. I looked at my life, and decided that God didn’t give me a vocation just to have me teach privileged children in a leafy Maryland suburb.
“So I broke my vow of obedience and I left. I can’t be part of Catholicism, Incorporated anymore. But my other vows, my vocation – those, I’ve kept."
"But why here? Why this?" I asked. “You could do more . . . ah . . . conventional charity work. Like, what was her name? The ‘Nuns on the Bus’ woman?”
“Simone Campbell,” Sarah supplied. “All she got from her ‘superiors’ for her more conventional work was an investigation over her supposedly ‘communist’ and ‘radical feminist’ views.”
She shrugged. “I respect Simone, but I made a different choice. Did what I thought Jesus might do. I went to where the wounded souls were, so that I could help them and give them a bit of comfort in a hard world. Not too many people in this country more hurt, or misunderstood, or abused, than trans people.”
“But why run a boutique?”
“You may have noticed that trans people tend to be a little shy of strangers. Just for example, and not to be too particular about it, you showed up at my door. Not because I’m a nice lady, which I’m not. You showed up because you needed a gaff.”
“Point,” I granted. “Though, ‘rough around the edges’ doesn’t mean ‘not nice,’ at least not in my book.”
“I’m a nun. And, to the eternal frustration of all of the chauvinists in Roman collars I’ve had to deal with, ‘meek and mild’ wasn’t part of our curriculum.”
I laughed.
“Anyhow,” she added, “I just don’t think the Creator of the universe and everything in it is quite as obsessed with the gender and sexual preferences of humans as institutional religion seems to believe. That particular obsession is spelled C-O-N-T-R-O-L.
“I’ll take it on the chin if I’m wrong about that. But I’ll tell you this, Cami. If heaven excludes women like you and others I’ve known over the years, just because they’re trans, then I don’t want any part of it. I’ll stay with you. You’re my people.”
We talked some more. I found it easy to talk to Sarah; her unvarnished responses were incredibly refreshing.
A bit to my surprise, I told her about my rather complicated romantic relationship with Liz (without, of course, revealing names). I hadn’t told anyone else that I had willingly played a sexually submissive girl to Liz’s dominant role for several months after she had broken up with me – well, with Cam. But somehow I was able to tell Sarah the story.
“I’d ask you for the details, but I can see you would just turn so red I might have to squeeze you into tomato juice.” She laughed at my expression. “That’s alright. I get the picture. Maybe it’s what you needed? Probably good you didn’t keep it going, though. It sounds like you ended up in a better place, the two of you.”
“We did,” I confirmed. “Though, we’re still kind of working it out. Liz is strongly heterosexual, and I’m a woman now. And . . . well . . . I was very attracted to Steve, so I’m kind of responding like a heterosexual female myself. Though, I still love Liz.” I added, lamely. “It’s complicated.”
She smiled. “To paraphrase one of my favorite philosophers, ‘Life is complicated, Princess. Anyone who tells you differently is selling something.’”
I chuckled, though I was unfamiliar with the reference.
“William Goldman,” she explained, no doubt responding to my blank look.
I told her how indignant Liz had been about Steve’s reaction upon finding out that I was trans. “To use your expression, she was spitting mad. I had to calm her down. He can’t help what he wants in a romantic partner, any more than Liz or I can. But I was actually touched by her reaction. We didn’t work out as a couple, but no one’s more protective of me.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with having guardian angels. The more the merrier.”
One of the reasons I had wanted to talk to Sarah was the recommendation for gender affirming health care and therapy Fiona had given me after researching the question wasn’t one of the places Sarah had recommended. She might know something Fi didn’t, since she saw this world from the demand side rather than the supply side, so to speak.
She put my concerns to rest immediately. “No,” she said definitively. “Most trans folks I know don’t have any kind of insurance and they don’t have much money, so I direct them towards options that they are more likely to be able to afford. Haverford has a whole interdisciplinary group that can provide you with the kind of care most trans girls could only dream of.”
She looked at my face and added, “I probably shouldn’t have said that. Now you’re going to feel guilty about getting care that other people can’t. Well, don’t. Take care of yourself first, okay? If you can, later, then pay it forward.”
“Yes, Sister Sarah,” I said, as meekly as I could.
She pretended to pull a ruler out of the sleeve of her non-existent habit so she could whack me with it.
As I was leaving, I turned and pulled her into a fierce hug.
She resisted at first, then resigned herself to it. “Sorry, Cami,” she said as I broke off. “Never been much of a hugger.”
“Think of it as your penance,” I quipped, and blew her a kiss on my way out the door.
It was quarter past nine before I got home – a bit late to call my sister. But I shot her a text just to see if she was available.
She responded at once by calling me back. “Hey, sis,” she said, “What’s new?”
I told her about my conversation with Eileen, and asked when I should come up. “I don’t want to interfere with any of your plans.”
“Not to worry — Come up as early as you want. We’ve got the guest bedroom ready. Both Henry and I will be working at least part of the time, but you’re welcome to hang out here as long as you like. And I’ll be off by noon on Christmas Eve.”
She added, a bit shyly, “I thought you might like to join me for some pampering at my salon in the afternoon of the 24th.”
I was so touched. Fi was really trying hard to make me feel comfortable, even though it was a big adjustment for her. “Fi, that’s so sweet. I’d love to come with you!”
I decided to come up on Saturday morning; I was having a gift exchange with Al and Javier Friday night.
We signed off and I put on a kettle for tea. I felt the need to unwind a little before turning in for the night. It had been a big day. My work news had been unbelievably good. And, Sarah had left me a lot to think about.
I had walked away from the evangelical Christianity of my youth long before I discovered that I was trans, but my discussion with Sarah, the nun-in-self-exile, touched me in a deep place. There was a part of me that still longed for the spiritual connection I had felt in my faith.
One more thing for me to think about. So I changed into my long green nightie with the impractically long lingerie straps, put on my dark-green dressing gown, and did just that, while I drank my tea and brushed out my long, dark hair.
Amtrak Acela, Northeast Corridor Train, December 21
It was 9:55 am and I was getting myself aboard the train for Boston. Cami, I decided, had altogether too many clothes. I had to carry a bag with my laptop . . . and a suitcase . . . and a garment bag to hold Cam’s suit. And my ticket.
A nice young man carrying nothing but a backpack stepped in to give me a hand.
I accepted gratefully, got the larger bags stored and thanked him, before sitting beside a young woman in the only available seat for several rows. I appreciated his help, I really did. I just was not in the mood for his company.
Once I had my luggage settled, I turned to look at the woman next to me. She had earbuds in each ear, so I just smiled. She smiled back, settled into her seat and closed her eyes.
I made myself look away; it’s not polite to stare. But she was, objectively, a strikingly beautiful young woman. Very long, light brown hair in a river of tight curls disappeared down her back; a high forehead, rosy cheeks, a heart-shaped face, and full lips. What I had seen of her figure was equally stunning.
Remembering an art history class I had taken my last year of college, she looked like the model for Renoir’s “Ingenue.” Curious. Intelligent. Sensual.
Cameron Savin would have been too intimidated to sit beside her, and if it had been the only seat on the train he would have been too embarrassed to speak to her. As Cami, I did not feel remotely inhibited, though this woman made me acutely aware of the limits of what I could aspire to in the looks department. But I was honest enough to be aware of those limits, anyway.
On the bright side, it would be easy to avoid male attention. So long as I was sitting beside this vision of womanhood, I would be as good as invisible. And right this instant, that suited me fine. I had no immediate desire to repeat my experience with Steve.
I was fine, really. I just needed a bit of time to lick my wounds.
We pulled out of the station smoothly and got on our way. I became vaguely conscious of the faint sound of music leaking from my companion’s earbuds – of a high, achingly beautiful soprano, singing in a language I did not understand.
I put my head back and closed my own eyes to concentrate on the sound and found myself caught in the pathos, the beauty of the music, of the singular, soaring voice. After it ended, I sat silent, almost stunned by my own reaction.
There was a light touch on my left arm, and a soft voice asked, “Are you okay?”
I turned and saw my companion through a prism of tears. I hadn’t even realized that I had been weeping. Blinking so I could see straight, I found myself looking into a pair of soft brown eyes, full of concern.
“I’m so sorry,” I said quietly. “I don’t know what came over me. But I couldn’t help overhearing your music . . . it just hit me like a freight train.”
Concern shifted to understanding. My arm got a squeeze. “Nothing to be sorry about,” she said, still keeping her voice low. “If you can listen to Maria Callas sing “Vissi d’art” without feeling it, there’s something wrong with you.”
“Vissi d’arte?” I asked, a bit stupidly.
She grinned. “Opera. Puccini’s Tosca. And probably the greatest soprano voice of the 20th century.”
I returned her grin with a softer smile, put my hand over hers and gave a gentle squeeze. “Thank you. I know you didn’t intend to share it, but that was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard. And, apparently just what I needed.”
“You’re very welcome. You should listen to more opera if it affects you like that.”
“I hate to admit I don’t know anything about it,” I said ruefully. “But clearly I need to change that.” Something about that sound, even muffled, had unlocked a deeply buried sadness in my soul.
I sat up straighter and looked at her more directly. “I’m Cami. And really, I don’t usually break out in tears for no reason. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“No worries, Cami. When the aria finished I opened my eyes and saw you were crying.” She added, belated, “I’m Nicole.”
“I’m delighted to meet you.” Then I smiled and added, “So, what’s an ‘aria?’”
She laughed. “Right. Opera 101 for you! Write on the chalkboard, one hundred times, ‘An aria is a melody for a solo voice, usually sung with accompaniment.’ I know you’ve heard some; everyone has. You just didn’t know what it was.”
“I couldn’t make out what she was singing. Was it in Italian?”
“Yes. Not all opera is in Italian, but . . . well . . . Tosca is Puccini.”
“Do you know what she was singing about? Something about it just hit me deep.”
Nicole gave me another understanding look. “Floria Tosca is an opera singer. A powerful man captures her lover and threatens to kill him if she doesn’t give herself to him. Vissi d’arte is her lament that God has abandoned her, when she gave jewels for the Madonna’s mantle and gave her song to the stars and to heaven.”
“A lament that God has abandoned her? No wonder I felt gut-punched. You know the piece that well . . . you aren’t just a fan, are you?” Awareness dawned. “You must be an opera singer.”
She waggled her fingers. “Aspiring. Well . . . beginning, anyway. But yes.”
“That’s amazing! I can’t begin to imagine what your life must be like!”
She was, it turned out, happy to tell me about it. She truly was extraordinary – a bachelor’s in music education, a master’s in vocal performance; fluent in French, German, and Italian; at twenty-eight, she had sung in performances across the country and in Italy. Her days were a blur of practice, study, and marketing herself to opera companies. It was quite a different world.
We were halfway between Wilmington and Philadelphia when I got a call from our paralegal Greg. I answered, then stepped into the area at the back of the car to take it quickly. He was just wondering whether I had taken particular binders up with me; I explained that I had only taken pdfs, but Eileen wanted to have the binders sent to local counsel’s office in New Haven.
When I got back to my seat, Nicole said, “I suddenly realized I’ve been talking about myself this whole time, which is just rude. What do you do, Cami?”
I told her I was a lawyer, and it was her turn to look impressed. “Really! I always think of lawyers as distinguished older men in suits, but I’m sure it’s not like that any more. I’m also guessing it’s not as much fun as it looks like in the movies?”
I laughed. “It depends what you think of as fun. But they really can’t show on TV or in movies what we spend most of our time doing; no one would watch. Research isn’t a spectator sport.” So I talked about my job for a bit as we rolled into Philadelphia.
The couple across the aisle from us got off the train and I noticed that Nicole, like me, was a bit nervous until two older women sat down there.
I looked at her sideways. “You know, I was enjoying our conversation so much . . . .”
She giggled. “Yeah, I know. I figured a guy would sit there and we would have to spend the next thirty miles explaining that we really weren’t alone before he showed up.”
I laughed with her.
“I was doing my ‘earbuds in the ears, NOT interested routine’ when I boarded,” she explained. “I was so relieved when you sat down next to me.”
I said, “Yeah, I’ll confess, I jumped at the chance to sit here because a guy helped me with my bags and I was afraid I’d have to deal with him the whole trip. Sometimes I wouldn’t mind, but I’m not in the mood. This has been so much better!”
She laughed, gave my knee a pat, and said, “Sure has!”
She was on her way to New York to spend Christmas with her parents and would stay through New Year’s. Audition season was officially over, but she had a late request to come in and audition at the Met for a part in its upcoming production of Aida.
“I’m so excited!” she said. “I’ve never had an audition at the Met, and it would be fabulous to perform there!” Her audition was scheduled for the same day as my oral argument up in Boston. When I told her where I was headed, she said, “I LOVE Boston – I got my Bachelor of Music at Berklee!”
Our conversation continued like this all the way through New Jersey. At some point I went to the cafeteria to get a coffee for myself and a tea for Nicole. I paused to ask the older women across from us if I could get them anything, and ended up coming back with two teas, two coffees, and a bottle of spring water.
“Thank you, young lady,” one of the women said. “You two seem to be having such a lovely time over there!”
“That’s what makes the world so wonderful, isn’t it?” And truth is, I couldn't have been more right.
As we approached Penn Station in New York, Nicole said, “You need to give me your number. It sounds like you don’t get out nearly enough. You should come up to Baltimore and have a girl’s night out with me and Maggie!” Maggie was her roommate.
“That would be a blast!” I gave her my “Cami App” number and took down her cell phone number.
The train slowed down and I got up to let her out. She rose gracefully and stepped into the aisle, and I saw that she was even more gorgeous than she had appeared when sitting. Probably 5’8”, curvy, with a waist that looked toned even through the deep red of her woolen dress. Her tight curls spilled all the way down her back and practically reached her rear end.
The train came to a stop and we gave each other a spontaneous hug. “Good luck,” I said as we embraced.
“You too! Have a great Christmas! And call me!”
The remainder of the trip was uneventful. I moved over to Nicole’s seat out of politeness, and my former seat was taken by a middle-aged guy with a pot belly who just sat back into the seat and closed his eyes.
I looked out the window and watched as we traveled along the Connecticut shoreline, thinking about how hard it had been to make friends my own age since leaving law school.
I was a bit of a loner in high school and even college, where I was honestly pretty obnoxious, trying to show my worth by proving how smart I was at every opportunity. In law school, though, I purposefully remade myself – something that was made possible by the fact that no one there had ever met me before. I chose to become someone who listened and asked questions, who was understanding and empathetic.
As a result of my efforts, I had made some real friends, but we scattered to the four winds after graduation. I had seen a couple who had ended up in D.C. a few times, but we were all working long hours and schedules seldom meshed.
I hadn’t made friends at the firm, although I was certainly friendly with people I worked with. Part of this, I knew, was that my social life had revolved around Liz since we had started dating, almost a year ago. I had made a lot of trips to Pittsburgh from last February through the middle of August. And, since Liz broke up with Cam, I had been spending all of my spare time discovering the woman inside the shell that Cam had become.
Spending a couple hours talking with Nicole had been a real balm for my soul. I marveled at how easily it had happened. I suppose Cam might have struck up a conversation with a guy he was sitting next to on a train for a few hours, but the chances that the conversation would have been particularly meaningful were slim.
I didn’t think this was just a Cam issue. Guys just don’t relate to each other like Nicole and I had done so spontaneously. They do things together more often than they simply talk to each other. This was an aspect of being a woman that I had not anticipated.
And I loved it.
Boston, Massachusetts, December 21, later that day
I arrived at Boston’s bustling South Station by mid-afternoon, wrestled my suitcase, garment bag, laptop bag, and purse onto the platform, and was greeted by freezing temperatures, overcast skies, and my sister Fiona.
Fi was at the end of the platform, clearly trying to find me in a river of humanity. Her eyes passed over me and then suddenly returned with a flash of recognition.
And, I thought, joy.
She immediately began pushing through the surging crowd like a salmon returning up a roaring stream to its hatching ground, so I edged forward to meet her.
She practically crushed me in a hug when she reached me, and probably would have managed but for the fact that I was encumbered by multiple bags and could not properly hug her back.
“I'm so glad you’re here!!!”
I managed to say, “Me too, Fi. Merry Christmas!”
She pulled back, held me at arm’s-length and took a good look. She was beaming. “You look good, girl! I wasn’t sure whether you would be traveling as Cami or as Cam.”
I explained that I had to dress as a male if I was flying, but trains were safe.
There was still snow on the ground from earlier in the month, though it no longer looked fresh and beautiful. We loaded my luggage into Fiona’s car, which was something sky blue and very small. “Practical for Boston,” she explained. She and Henry were renting a townhouse across the river in Cambridgeport, so she headed north.
While she drove, she asked about my trip and I told her about my wonderful encounter with Nicole. I mentioned my speculation that there was a kind of emotional connection that women have that men don’t.
She nodded, keeping her eyes firmly on the road – Boston drivers really are crazy Massholes. “Probably true. But women can be real bitches to each other, too. It’s not all hugs and kisses, I promise you.”
“Another illusion shattered,” I said with mock sorrow.
She pulled into a common garage, fished out a key card to raise the gate, and found a place to park. Then she grabbed my computer and garment bags, leaving me my suitcase, and we walked over to her unit.
“Haloo!” she called out as she came in the front door, to be answered by a pleasant-sounding male voice coming from upstairs. But she diverted me down a hallway and led me to a ground-floor bedroom, saying, “Just drop your stuff here – this is the guest bedroom – and we can go see what Henry’s been up to.”
I was grateful for the chance to drop my bag, and Fiona put my garment and computer bags on the neatly-made bed. “I see you’re still a neatnick,” I said, looking at the immaculate room.
She grinned a bit sheepishly. “Yeah, though I have to get help these days.” Then she grabbed my elbow and started guiding me out of the room.
Fiona had told me that I didn’t need to worry about Henry, and had reminded me that he had actually given her a hard time when he found out that she had reacted badly to hearing I was trans. But I had butterflies in my stomach.
My new relationship with Fi was still fragile; she didn’t really know me as Cami and had spent very little time even with Cam since she left for college, almost fifteen years ago. And she was really all the family I had left; my parents would never accept me and Iain didn’t have any use for me. Never had, come to that.
So it was very important to me that I make a good impression on Henry, whom she clearly adored. “Fi, can you give me a second to freshen up? Before I meet Henry for the first time?”
Her face went from mildly exasperated to understanding to mischievous in two seconds. She squeezed my arm. “He won’t bite and you look fabulous. But you won’t believe me, so why don’t you take a few minutes and come upstairs when you’re ready. I’ll see if Henry needs any help.”
I gave her another hug, more fierce than before, and whispered, “Thanks, Fi” into her hair, somewhere in the vicinity of her ear.
She left and I heard her light steps on the hardwood stairs.
Much as I wanted to change into a dress, I didn’t think that would be appropriate. Fi was wearing jeans so it was likely that Henry would be dressed casually, too.
I left my own stretchy jeans in place but removed my boots and put on a pair of nice flats. Discarding my sweater, I selected a camisole and a pretty rayon-poly blend top in emerald green with three-quarter sleeves and a soft collar, unbuttoned just enough to fold into a nice v-neck.
My over-the-shoulder loose braid with curled ends had held up well, but my makeup did need some freshening. Especially around the eyes, where my earlier tears had done some damage.
I didn’t know much about Henry – I had only seen a couple of photos, and Fiona’s email blast to family when they started becoming an item was pretty light on details. All I knew for certain was that he came from an old Boston family and his work had something to do with finance. Since Fi knew nothing about money and cared even less, she didn’t say much more about it than that. He went by “Henry,” which struck me as very formal.
Well, time to find out.
At the top of the stairs, the townhouse opened to a spacious living area combining a kitchen, dining room, and living room. Fiona and Henry were both in the kitchen fussing over something.
Henry was dressed in a maroon sweatshirt, so I thought I had guessed right in staying with jeans. He was a bit taller than Fi, with medium brown hair, a rectangular face, and pronounced laugh lines around his mouth and eyes.
He looked up, saw me at the top of the stairs, and immediately came around the kitchen island to greet me, a large and very genuine smile lighting up his face. “Cami! I’m so very glad to meet you!”
He gave me a quick hug and even a peck on the cheek, before stepping back, taking my arm and guiding me into the kitchen. “Come on in! Wow, you and Fi really do look alike!”
It was impossible not to like Henry. I’m sure that Fi had warned him that I was behaving like a frightened rabbit, but I expect he would have gone out of his way to make me feel comfortable even if she hadn’t. That’s just who he is.
He lit up when he discovered that I like baseball. Naturally, he was part of Red Sox Nation, and his fondest memories of the sport were from 2004, when the Sox became unbeatable at exactly the right time and broke their 87-year old curse.
“I was eighteen, and my Dad took me to game 4 of the ALCS. Can you believe it? I was there, right there, when Big Papi hit the game-winning homer in extra innings. Half the fans had left when we were down a run going into the ninth; figured it would be just like 2003!”
I marveled at his good fortune. As a Cardinal’s fan I didn’t have good memories of 2004, when the Sox had mowed us down in four straight games to win the World Series. But game four of the 2004 ALCS between the Sox and the Yankees is probably one of the most iconic moments in baseball.
Of course, The National’s improbable run in the last season, and their come-from-behind win in game seven of the World Series against the Houston Asterisks, had similar magic. I was able to give a first-hand account of Mad Max Scherzer’s amazing pitching in game two of the NLCS — unforgettable even though he was delivering a beat-down to my beloved Red Birds.
Henry and I were chatting away like besties when I looked over to see Fiona looking on with an expression that was both bemused and happy. I gave her a big smile that said, “Okay, you were right,” and “Great catch, Sis!” all in one. Around 6:00 we paused and Henry went to check whatever it was he was cooking.
I took the opportunity to say to Fi, “Don’t tell me he cooks, too!”
She got a beatific smile on her face. “You can make your own judgment about that. But I’m a fan!”
“That’s good, because I don’t remember you having any interest in cooking!”
She laughed. “Well, it isn’t Mom’s thing either, really, so it’s lucky I learned to boil water. I got by, but Henry really enjoys it and knows what he’s doing.”
Despite her light tone, I noticed that a shadow crossed her face at the mention of Mom.
I went to join her on the couch and captured her hand. “How are you doing, Fi,” I asked softly. “I know you put on a good show, but that fight with Mom and Dad must have really hurt.”
She looked down at her hand, captured in mine. Ironically, but unsurprisingly given her line of work, my nails looked better than hers.
“No regrets, Cami, if that’s what you’re asking. I’d do it again, in a heartbeat. . . . But yeah. It hurts. A lot.” She shook her head. “By the time you came along, I think parenting had worn them down. Life had worn them down. But when I was a little girl — really little — they were so happy. And I knew how much they loved me, and I wanted them to be proud of me. Wanted it so bad!”
She was starting to tear up, so I wrapped my left arm around her and pulled her close.
“I thought I could reach them. Because they loved me so much, you know? I could make them accept Iain, accept you. Could make them see how much they loved you too. Big sister was going to come in on her frickin’ white horse and save the day, and everything would be right again. Everything would be perfect. And we could all be a happy family again . . . .” She was crying harder now.
I looked over her head to Henry; saw he was watching from the kitchen. My eyes implored, but he shook his head and pointed to me. I gave an almost imperceptible nod. Clearly I was the one Fiona needed to talk to about this.
“I told you before, you’ll always be my hero, Fi.” I put all of my love into my voice.
She squeezed my hand in acknowledgement but didn’t look up. “And then when they said those horrible things about Iain, I got so mad. And I lost it with them, and gave them an ultimatum. And then . . . then Daddy called me an ‘ingrate.’ Said he never wanted to see me again! Daddy said that. To me!”
I had no difficulty imagining our father saying such a thing, but I had never had the kind of relationship with him that Fiona had once had.
I had no words. In a real sense, I had caused this. My decision – my recognition – that I was female where it mattered most had caused this. Fiona would be in St. Louis with Henry right now if I had been willing to join them — as “Cam.”
But for my need to be honest with Fiona about who and what I was, and my unwillingness to continue the charade with my family, she wouldn’t have issued her ultimatum. She would still be the Golden Child, and her daddy would be walking her down the aisle when she married her wonderful guy.
“Oh, Fi, I’m so sorry! So very sorry. If I hadn’t been so selfish . . . I could have kept quiet. Could have waited! I owed you so much more than that!”
Her hand gripped mine like a vice. “No!” she hissed, emphatically. “Don’t you even think that, Cami! Don’t ever think that!”
“But it’s true,” I said, voice hoarse. My tears were coming hard. “I’m still Cam Savin at work. I can do it. I could have been Cam Savin for you, for our parents, for a while longer. Long enough . . . .”
“Long enough to get me through the wedding, is that what you mean?”
I nodded spasmodically. I felt her left hand on my cheek, though I was too blinded by tears to see it.
“Henry set me right about that, Cami. It’s just a ceremony. A celebration. I was all focused on how it was supposed to be. You and Iain and Rob, Henry’s younger brother, would be groomsmen. My best friend Cassie Johnson would be my Matron of Honor. Dad would walk me down the aisle. And everything would be just so. Everything perfect. Everyone happy."
"But don’t you see?" she implored. "It would have been a lie. The man I wanted to have walk me down the aisle would never, ever, have turned his back on you. Would never, ever, have disowned Iain. I tried to reach him, tried to bring that man back.
“This will sound conceited, but if the love he once had for me wasn’t enough to bring him back, he’s gone. That’s his body walking around, but Daddy’s gone. And you are not responsible for that. Hell, they don’t even know that you're trans.”
She paused, but I just said nothing, could only sit there, overcome with guilt and grief.
She continued, her voice urgent. “And how would it have been, if Mom and Dad had agreed to accept Iain for my sake, and to apologize to you for Thanksgiving? Even if I’d had my picture perfect wedding, and we had all the photos of the family, and they all looked perfect, just like I had always imagined?”
I could see where she was going, sure enough.
She confirmed it. “It would all have been a lie, and it would have unraveled just as soon as you came out. Because as soon as you let Mom and Dad see who you really are, we both know what would happen. So the pictures would all be a fantasy, a fake image of a perfect family.”
Still, I said nothing. I’m not sure I could still speak.
“Cami, listen to me. Please. I’m sorry that I’ve lost Mom and Dad. That we all have. Sorry beyond words. But it’s not your fault. It’s not Iain’s fault. And, though I could have handled things a lot better, it’s not my fault. It’s theirs. Somewhere along the line, they lost the capacity to love us unconditionally for who we are, even if our choices disappoint them. That’s on them.”
I tried taking a breath, but found myself gulping for air, my throat tight. I felt someone pull my left hand from Fi’s shoulder and bring it back to my side. Someone was wrapping both of my hands around a glass of something cold.
I heard Henry’s voice; could vaguely sense him standing over me. “Just take it in sips, Cami. Take it slow.”
I brought the glass to my lips and cool water trickled down my throat. I tried another breath. Better. After three or four sips I felt for the coffee table and put the glass down. Henry – pretty sure it was Henry – was pressing a tissue into my hands. I made use of it, recovering my vision as my throat’s constriction eased.
I looked up. “Thank you, Henry.”
Fiona looked about as bad as I felt.
I smiled wanly at them both. “Not the cheerful dinner companions you deserve, Henry, especially after all your work.”
He smiled back easily. “Don’t worry about that. It’s a stew, and we can eat it whenever. You two needed to cry this out.”
I looked at my sister. “Damn, but you did good!”
That, at least, got a smile from her.
Henry said, “I’m going to send both of you to your rooms for a half hour to recover. Take a couple aspirin or you’ll hate the headache you’ll get from the crying. Come back dressed for dinner, why don’t you?” he added, with a wink for me.
“But before you go, if an outsider can make an observation?” he asked.
We looked at each other, then both nodded.
“You can’t deal with the people your parents have become, but you still love them, right? If only for who they were, what they meant to you?”
Fi nodded emphatically; my nod was more tentative.
“Then I think you should assume that they do still love you both, in the same way that you love them. They can’t deal with who you have become. That means you can’t have a relationship; I understand that. And it’s worth grieving. But it doesn’t mean they stopped loving you.”
Fi gave him a hug and headed upstairs to their bedroom. I simply touched his arm in gratitude and went downstairs.
Truth is, I barely even viewed them as my parents at this point. Unlike Fi, my relationship with them had been distant. So long as I got good grades, they didn’t bother me.
I got good grades.
Fiona had been far more important to me emotionally when I was a child than either of them. Fi was rock-solid certain of their love; I never had a sense of it. It was easier for me to step away from a relationship with our parents. But I deeply regretted my role in causing pain to Fiona, even if that role was indirect.
Nonetheless, there was nothing I could do to change things now. All that I could do to make amends was to be the best sister, and the best sister-in-law, that anyone could wish for.
And that, I resolved, was exactly what I would do.
Boston, Massachusetts, December 21, immediately following
Per Henry’s suggestion, I took two Advil and washed them down with twelve ounces of cold water. I carefully removed my makeup; if my earlier tears had caused damage, my later flood had caused the facial equivalent of a mudslide. I saturated a washcloth with warm water and just held it to my face, feeling the pores open.
Then I removed the washcloth, put it under cold water for a minute, and brought it back to my face. This time I held it for at least three minutes. When I removed it again, my face no longer looked puffy. I fished around in my toiletries and found some eyedrops, tilted my head back and applied them liberally.
Henry’s implied challenge was just what I needed. I stripped down to my panties and gaff, removing even my bra, reapplied the makeup covering the seams of my prosthetic breasts, then completely redid my facial makeup, going for a much more dramatic evening look. Rather than smokey-eye, which isn’t really my thing, I applied two tones of blue, one darker and the other more iridescent, to bring out the clear blue of my eyes.
I slipped on a waist cincher with garter snaps, then sat to carefully roll a sheer dark stocking up each leg. One of the first dresses I had bought for myself – a red slip dress with a straight front — was perfect for the evening. It exposed my natural chest to just above the seams of my prosthetics, in a way that made it appear that the flesh over my unimpressive pecs was naturally rising to well-shaped breasts. I appreciated the illusion.
I had to wear the dress without a bra because the back plunged into a deep U, coming to a point at the very end that was just above the waist cincher; long spaghetti straps went from the far sides of each breast and connected low in the back.
Once I had my dress in place, I took the ties out of my hair and brushed it out. I parted it slightly to the left and covered my forehead left to right with tresses clipped with a barrette. The remainder I brought around from the back to cascade over my right shoulder and down toward my right breast. It was a good look for fancier occasions.
I finished the look with drop earrings, a couple of thin bracelets, and a pair of three-inch heels. After checking myself in the mirror I decided it would pass, though the slip dress was pretty daring. I can’t resist a direct challenge to my womanhood!
I checked the clock and saw that I had taken closer to forty minutes than thirty. Oh, well. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. I took myself up the stairs, taking small steps to retain my balance.
My hosts were standing close together near the dining room table, looking elegant. Fiona was wearing a long, form-fitting strapless dress in a jewel-toned blue that made her strawberry-blonde hair, pulled into an attractive updo, look almost fiery. A sapphire and diamond choker flashed at the base of her neck; her arms were bare of jewelry but her engagement ring flared on her left hand. Her makeup, like mine, was dramatic.
The dress did a wonderful job of showcasing Fi’s figure. She wasn’t especially busty nor were her hips all that wide, but she had a high, narrow waist that made everything around it look bigger, and she had a delightfully round and pert rump.
Jealous!
Her skin, like mine, was almost translucent, white with a blue undertone, but hers was softer, finer. It positively glowed in the subdued lighting Henry had selected.
Henry demonstrated what understatement can do for a man. To complement Fiona, he wore a crisp linen shirt in the same tone, but a lighter shade, as her dress, with gray wool dress pants and an immaculately-tailored, black silk blazer. His only jewelry was a watch, which looked both discreet and expensive.
Fiona was the first to react to my appearance. Just like the first time she saw me dressed as Cami, her eyes went wide and her mouth formed a silent “O.” When she wasn’t slaying dragons, Fi could be quite adorable. She glided over in her stilettos, matching my height almost exactly, and held out her hands.
I put mine in them.
“Let me try starting this over, okay? Cami, thank you so much for coming. I hope you had a lovely trip. Won’t you join us for dinner?”
I worked to match her light tone, but couldn’t quite. “Fi, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look this lovely. You are the best sister anyone ever had. Except for the sister I promise to become. Except for that. Now,” I said, before I started choking up again, “let’s eat!”
Dinner was fabulous. Henry hadn’t cooked a “stew,” he had made Boeuf Bourguignon and fresh bread. He paired it with a perfect Pinot Noir and it was heaven on earth. We all kept the conversation light, and the candles provided a sense of timeless elegance.
“We eat like this all the time,” Henry said, with a straight face. “Which is why Fi has an entire closet of evening gowns. Just for dinner.”
Fiona managed – barely – to keep the wine in her mouth from coming out her nose, and wagged a finger at him.
“Truth is,” she said, “we almost never have time to even cook properly. And I can’t remember the last time we had an occasion to dress up. But we wanted to do something extra special for you. After all, Henry’s never met anyone from our family before.”
Before that could go in awkward directions, she said, “And Iain, of course, will never put up with any fuss of any sort. I really hope he comes to visit – I have invited him – but I’m afraid we’ll take a lot of ribbing for our bourgeois middle class lifestyle. And that’s assuming he doesn't find out that Henry’s actually slumming.”
I giggled. “Yeah, I was trying to figure out earlier how you planned to get Iain to wear a tux for your wedding. A collared shirt might be pushing things!”
She laughed. “Iain’s Iain. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
I asked if she had spoken to him since Thanksgiving.
She confirmed that she had. “By his own account he’s doing okay. Naturally he told me not to worry about him, and gave me grief for telling Mom and Dad they should reconcile with him — since, it should go without saying, he has no intention of reconciling with them. He did tell me that he’s actually not gay, and specifically mentioned that he’d told you.”
“Yeah, he was being pig-headed,” I agreed. “What’s new? But he told me not to say anything, and I figured it was his secret to tell. I’m glad I don’t have to hide that nugget from you, though.”
Dinner was followed by a fresh-baked apple crisp that cooked while we were eating dinner, paired with a single scoop of vanilla ice cream and a splash of brandy, together with decaf coffee that Henry ground while the water was heating.
I was impressed; not too many people are as fanatical about coffee as I am, though the use of decaf surprised me.
“No choice,” Henry said. “We are a bit older than you are, and it has more of an effect later in the day. Still, I found one of the few indie roasters in town that makes a CO2-processed decaf, and that’s not nearly as bad as anything else you’ll find.”
Trying it, I had to agree.
We finally ended up back in the living room by the gas fire. I was in a comfy chair; Henry and Fiona were snuggled together on the couch.
Henry poured each of us a thimbleful of the good brandy as a nightcap. “Having a nice dinner with my lovely bride-to-be and her beautiful sister, all of us dressed to the nines, required a suitably sophisticated finish. Very civilized.”
“Henry, I was pretty nervous about meeting you. I didn’t know what to expect. Fi’s descriptions were long on superlatives and short on details. But you’ve made me feel so very welcome, and under really extraordinary circumstances. Thank you.”
He acknowledged this with a smile and a wave of his snifter, then said, with equal seriousness, “It’s really a pleasure to meet you too. I’ve probably heard more about you than you have about me – I do live with Fi, after all. But I didn’t really know what to expect either. Even Fi doesn’t know you that well anymore; it’s been a lot of years since you saw much of each other.”
He paused a moment, thinking, then added, “That’s a blessing, though, in a way. I get to see you through my own eyes, rather than seeing you more through Fi’s. And I want you to know that you are always welcome here. Always.”
None of us were eager to go to bed; the night seemed magical. Fi was kinder, better, more understanding with Henry at her side; her fire not so much banked as focused. They wanted to know more about my story – how I discovered my female self; how I nurtured it; what my living situation was; how things were going at work.
I elided the first issue; my journey of discovery had some pretty shocking moments and I didn’t necessarily want to share them with my perfect older sister, much less her equally perfect fiancé. But I discussed the rest pretty honestly, including my recent and aborted romantic interlude.
Fi looked at me thoughtfully. “I guess I hadn’t thought about how your gender change might affect your sexual orientation. You sound pretty certain it’s switched?”
“I guess ‘pretty certain’ is about how I’d phrase it. I’m certain that, as Cami, I notice men, and find them attractive. Well,” I added, “If they are attractive, that is!”
Fi smiled.
“I notice beautiful women, too, though,” I continued. “I mean, Nicole had to be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever personally met, and I certainly noticed. But . . . I didn’t feel any urge to do anything about it. I didn’t want to ask her out or anything. Didn’t fantasize about getting her in bed. I just wanted us to be friends.”
“I’d tell you to be careful,” Fi said, “but you know that already, and it sounds like you are being careful. Guys can just be so unpredictable.”
Henry snorted. “Women, of course, are renowned for their predictability and linear thinking!”
Fi and I both responded with appropriate mirth.
“She’s right on this one, Henry,” I said, becoming serious. “And I think you’ll agree I may have a unique perspective, since for me the ‘battle of the sexes’ is kind of like a civil war that the ‘Y’ chromosome lost. Men and women are unpredictable in different ways. But women’s unpredictability doesn’t usually come with the possibility of physical violence; the vast majority of violent assaults are carried out by men.”
To illustrate the point, I said, “If I had led Steve on, just continued to let the relationship develop, and he had found out I was trans when we were alone, just the two of us . . . well. I don’t really think he would have hurt me. But I can’t ever discount the possibility that he might have. That’s not something I ever had to worry about as Cameron Savin.”
Henry looked grim. “Fi’s right. Be careful.”
They were delighted to hear that I had found such a great mentor in Eileen. But Fi agreed with my analysis that the time wasn’t right for me to discuss my changing gender. “I think you’re wise to be sensitive to the needs of your team and your client, so long as there’s a defined end-date. When you’re in a position to have the talk with them – presumably, with Eileen – I think they’ll appreciate how you ‘handle’ the timing.”
Henry nodded in agreement. “Lots of organizations have non-discrimination policies,” he said. “My firm does. Your firm does too; I looked it up.”
I was surprised at that, which made him smile. “I like to do my research,” he explained. “And Cavandish, Edwards and Gunn touts their policy on their website. I’m surprised you haven’t looked.”
I looked suitably sheepish.
“It’s all just words, though, unless people really feel it,” he added. “It's hard to know whether they do until you test it . . . unless someone else has gone first?”
I shook my head. “If they’ve had a trans attorney, I think I would know about it. But there are hundreds of lawyers and multiple offices. I might not know.”
“Well anyway,” he said, “when the time comes, you’ll see whether the policy is just words, or if the people running the place believe it. If they don’t, you’ll know. And here’s my advice if they don’t — go find someplace that does. You’re a lawyer; you know what your rights are. But a position you have to sue to get isn’t one that’s worth having. You don’t need that in your life, when there are so many other options.”
It must have been 1:30 in the morning before we called it a night.
I gave Henry a hug and Fiona an even longer one. “Good night, sis. Thank you. For everything. I love you so much!”
Boston, Massachusetts, December 22
Despite the late night, I was up at 6:00, only an hour later than my usual time. I put my dark-green dressing gown over my light green nightie, and went into the bathroom to see whether I was fit to be seen.
Sigh. Not yet. There are times when being a woman is hard!
On with the padded panty gaff. Now I’ve got a couple of curves again. Brush out the hair; put it back in my loose side braid. Shave, scrub my face, brush my teeth. Put on a bit of lipstick and treat my face with cleanser and moisturizer. Okay. Good enough for first thing in the morning, if I’m spotted.
I padded upstairs and heard no noises. The door at the top of the stairs to the third floor was closed, but the door at the bottom of the stairs was open. I closed it very softly, then went to hunt around in the kitchen.
Based on our conversation last night, I had actually learned a bit more cooking than Fi had. Even if I would never be in Henry’s league, I could surely manage to come up with something tasty for breakfast.
First things first, and that meant coffee. As I expected, Henry kept his fresh beans in the freezer. I had noticed where he kept his grinder and his thermal pot, so I had all of that going in short order.
Rummaging around the refrigerator produced eggs, several cheeses, scallions, spinach, bacon . . . . Easy peasy. I looked in all the appropriate places and found a suitable casserole dish and put together the makings for a frittata. We could slice and lightly toast the leftover bread from last night, and it would be perfect.
Once I had the frittata ready to go, I covered the casserole with Saran wrap and put it in the refrigerator so it wouldn’t be done too soon. I poured myself a cup of coffee and padded back downstairs.
There wasn’t room in the first floor to do my usual morning exercises, but I did my stretches, then I got undressed, removed the makeup again, and took a proper shower, including all of the necessary shaving, shampooing, conditioning . . . .
When I got out of the shower, I put some mousse and rollers in my hair, covered it in a towel turban, slipped back into my dressing gown and listened at the bottom of the stairs before tiptoeing to the top. No one there. But, I saw that the lower door to the third floor staircase was now open and the coffee pot was showing signs of having been raided.
Good. I pulled the frittata out of the refrigerator, turned the oven on to preheat it, and hurried back downstairs.
My nails still looked good, so I wasn’t going to fuss with them. I wasn’t sure what we were doing today. One or both of them might have to work, but it seemed unlikely given how late they had stayed up. So I went with something versatile – dark tights; black boots, my full, deep red skirt, and a gray, merino wool sweater.
I zipped back upstairs and heard the third-floor shower going, so I put the frittata into the oven and got back downstairs to do my face and my hair while it cooked. All the popping up and down stairs led me to singing to myself, "When I up, down, touch the ground, it puts me in the mood; up down, touch the ground, in the mood for food!"
As I was taking the frittata out of the oven, Fiona poked her head out of the doorway to the third floor. “Good morning, sunshine,” she said. “What are you doing up so early?”
“This is late for me!” I said.
“Me too,” Fi said, “but not on my days off. What is that incredible smell?”
I showed off the frittata.
“Oh, wonderful. I’m sharing a house with two cooks! What could be better!”
I was feeling pretty virtuous since Fiona was still in her nightgown, covered by a soft flannel robe. Her hair was loose and more disheveled than usual.
She said, “Henry won’t be down until he’s properly dressed, which will be in about five minutes, I’d estimate. But he’s my fiancé and you're my sister, so I don’t care if you both see me looking like this.”
I came over and refilled her coffee and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “You always look perfect to me, Fi.”
“Ha!”
I was determined. No little brother humor from me. I suppose I might have tried for little sister humor, if I had the first idea of what it sounded like. But I was not going to tell Fi that she looked like the back end of a long night, even if she did. And besides — she always did look perfect to me.
Fi’s prediction was right on the money; Henry was down in five minutes, looking freshly cleaned and comfortable in nice-looking jeans, a casual button-down shirt and a pullover sweater with an intricate pattern of reds, olive greens, golds, and russet brown. We sat at the bar and had coffee, the frittata and some toasted bread, and nobody said much until it was done.
Henry was complimentary and wanted to know what spices I had used. We discussed alternatives that would have subtly different flavor variations.
Fi went for her third cup of coffee. When she was feeling more human, she asked what I’d like to do with the day, and if I needed to do any work.
“Nothing I need to get done today. I figured I would work when you were both working too, so I can see more of you.” I smiled. I seem to smile a lot, as Cami. “I’ve never been to Boston, so I’d love to just stroll around. If there’s stuff you need to do, I can go by myself, though obviously I’d love your company.”
They had freed their schedule for me, and both of them thought a walking tour would be perfect. Fiona went upstairs to get a shower and get dressed while Henry and I handled the clean up.
While we were waiting for Fi, I asked Henry about the plan for Christmas.
In my parent’s house Christmas eve had been a bigger deal than Christmas day, at least in terms of family. We would spend the whole day visiting – my Dad’s parents, Ted and Lenore Savin, and my mom’s mother, Catriona Campbell, ending the evening with a big dinner at her father’s house. Gavin Ross was a tall, gaunt man haunted by too many memories of World War II; he and “Gammy Campbell” were divorced, but both of them loved their daughter with Gaelic ferocity.
Henry’s family had different traditions. “Folks are pretty much on their own for Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. We usually get together at Uncle Chip’s big house on Beacon Hill for dinner early in the afternoon on Christmas. Probably forty to fifty people, give or take.
“Chip’s kind of taken on the mantle of the head of the family since Grandfather died two years ago. Pretty classic New England Christmas stuff. I don’t do the tree and decorations here, only because I couldn’t possibly compete with what he does.”
I was trying to figure out how I might politely ask whether Henry and Fi expected me to go, whether I was invited, and how I actually felt about it.
I must have been losing my poker face, because Henry touched my shoulder. “You’re absolutely welcome to come, and Fi and I would love it if you did. But it’s a hundred percent up to you. If you are at all uncomfortable, you don’t have to come. Fi and I will need to make an appearance, but it can be as long or as short as we want.”
I thought about it. “Do they know that I’m trans?”
He assured me that neither he nor Fiona had said anything to anyone about my being trans. “But, Fi and I have been dating for a year and a half, we’ve had dinner with my folks a half dozen times or so, and one or both of my brothers were around on some of those occasions. I’d be surprised if she didn’t mention having two brothers at some point.”
Hmmm. That does present a dilemma. “Let’s give it some thought,” I told him. “I absolutely don't want you to miss any of your family Christmas. I also don’t want to cause a scene or make any trouble — and I’m really sorry if I have.”
“Thanks, Cami,” he said, “But my family would be insulted if I left Fi’s sister home while we came to the party. And, if they feel differently based on what’s listed on your birth certificate, then they would be causing trouble, not you.”
While I appreciated what Henry was saying, I didn’t want to be the source of any friction, regardless of whether I was “at fault.”
When Fi came down, we bundled into warm coats and Fiona loaned me a powder-blue knit cap and she put on a matching one in white. “You two look too cute,” Henry said, snapping a couple of shots on his phone.
I don’t think I had been called “cute” since I was five. But standing there with Fi in ski caps, I even felt cute!
While we walked to the Bunker Hill Memorial, Fi suggested that we might want to raise the issue with Henry’s parents at least, and possibly with his brothers, as they were the only ones who might have a clue.
Henry’s take was that we shouldn’t. “Let’s not make a big deal about it. You're coming with me; no one’s going to hassle you.” So, with some trepidation on my part, that’s what we decided to do.
The Memorial is a big obelisk on a hill (Breed’s Hill, naturally) that has a commanding view of the City of Boston across the Charles. We all decided to walk up to the observation deck of the monument for both the exercise and the view.
I was happy to find that my morning workouts over the past six weeks were paying off; I made it up the 294 steps without any huffing and puffing. Fi and Henry both seemed to be in good shape, too.
It was a cold day, and although it was overcast the air was clean and the view spectacular. I got some shots of Fi and Henry, looking very engaged. Very in love.
Henry took a few of Fi and me. I told him I wanted copies. Being a little sister was a million times better than being a little brother!
A good-looking Park Ranger was answering questions about the battle; I watched him talking to a boy, probably twelve or so, who was there with his mom. I liked the Ranger’s attitude – not talking down to the boy; treating his questions respectfully and giving him factual answers in ways that were still interesting.
The Ranger caught me watching him; my cheeks dimpled in a smile and I gave him a wink.
He smiled back and returned his attention to the boy.
Fi caught me looking too, and matched my wink.
I made sure I wasn’t being observed and stuck my tongue out at her. Laughing, we turned and walked back down.
From the memorial, we followed the red brick markers of the Freedom Trail down to the navy yard, where we went aboard the USS Constitution, a three-masted heavy frigate that is the oldest commissioned ship in the U.S. Navy. It was sufficiently cold that there were few visitors.
I tried to imagine the ship swarming with the hundreds of men that had been required to sail her. The mind boggled.
Next up, we crossed the Charles and went to Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market, great places to people watch even in the cold of late December. Groups of young women in tight formations, physically close, animated. Young men in smaller groups, carefully observing personal space, louder, ribbing each other, being bros. Young families; couples arm-in-arm. The unmistakable smell of roasting chestnuts. The ring-ring-ringing of collections for the Salvation Army.
Suddenly I was drawn to the sound of choral music. I glanced at Henry and Fiona, asked a question with my eyebrows.
“Sure,” Henry said.
We made our way over to where the choir gathered. They were silent as we approached, then a young man stepped forward and raised his voice in a high, clear tenor, piercing the cold air with Handel’s famous setting of Isaiah.
“Comfort ye! Comfort ye, my people, saith your God! Saith your God! Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem . . . Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her, that her warfare, her warfare, is accomplished. That her iniquity is pardoned . . . that her iniquity is pardoned!”
For the second time in as many days, I was struck by the power of a solitary voice, here raised in a paean of joy, of comfort, of good news, a bookend to Floria Tosca’s song of despair and abandonment.
I thought of Nicole, of her passion for music. I thought of my friend Sarah, living her vocation by bringing comfort to the broken, the rejected. I thought of Fi, weeping bitterly at her rejection by the father whose love had been a bedrock of her childhood.
I turned and gave her a one-armed hug, my eyes misty.
She looked at me quizzically, and I pulled her in close. “Comfort ye, too, Fi.”
She hugged me back hard, understanding.
The choir finished the song and we turned to walk away. We hadn’t turned the corner when they broke into “Ev’ry Valley” and I slowed to hear the familiar words. “Every valley shall be exalted . . . every mountain and hill made low . . . the crooked straight . . . the rough places plain.”
I pondered the imagery, and thought of the mountains of prejudice yet to be leveled, the valleys of ignorance still to be filled . . . . Please, God, I prayed, get us through all the rough patches. Bring us safe home.
I found I was no longer moving, and Fi and Henry turned back to see me standing still.
I looked at my sister. My hero. “Fi? Will you come with me to a Christmas service? Is there somewhere – anywhere in this city – that has a place for us? For me?”
I was engulfed in a crushing hug, and Fiona said fiercely, “Of course there is, Cami. And we’ll find it!”
To be continued . . . .