AN ARIA FOR CAMI
“Pour mon âme, quel design!”
– Donizetti, La Fille du Régiment, Pour mon âme, quel design! (Aria)
New York, December 31
My brother Iain was not looking happy. I couldn’t actually remember the last time I had seen him look happy, so that wasn’t unusual. It was strange to see him neither angry or mulish, though, and while that change was largely welcome his sudden lack of fire was worrisome as well.
We were standing uncomfortably close together; his room at the Otterburg Clinic – an in-patient rehab facility in the Bronx – was not spacious. Normally Iain loomed over me; he was four inches taller, he had the substantially heavier Savin build (Fi and I favored the Ross side of the family), and considerably more muscle mass. We had both lost weight, but Iain seemed to have somehow shrunk, become less than himself.
“You okay?” I asked him quietly.
“It’ll do.” He sounded resigned.
“Anything you need?”
He shook his head.
It was time for me to go, but I felt like I still hadn’t reached him. “Iain . . . Can you tell me what’s wrong? What happened?”
He sighed. “Drugs, Spam. If you don’t know, you don’t know. That’s why I agreed to come here. I’m not getting high anymore. I’m just keeping myself from falling through the floor.”
I wanted to give him a hug, but I knew better. Iain would never accept comfort from his little brother. I couldn’t do much more than say, “I’m so glad you were willing to give this a try.”
He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Thanks. For . . . setting this up. And everything.”
I got ready to leave, but he stopped me. “Fi said she gave the folks an ultimatum about bringing me back in the fold. Tell me you didn’t do that, too. I don’t want their money, or their piety, or their hypocrisy. But that’s my fight, not yours. Understand?”
I was happy to see some signs of life back in him, even if it felt like he was only really alive when he was angry about something. I gave it two second’s thought and decided it was time. “I’ve got my own issues with the ‘rents, Iain, so I’m not just walking away from them over you.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Spam,” he said. “You were always the peacemaker. Drove me nuts, too.”
I looked at him, exasperated. “Yeah, I’d probably still be trying to get you all to be singing Kumbaya if it were an option, but it’s not. Dad and Mom would never accept that one of their children was trans.”
He did a double take. “You?!” He sounded both incredulous and amused.
I nodded.
He just started laughing, and it wasn’t a nice laugh. “Dude, when you try that joke, it’s gotta be plausible. Dad had no trouble imagining that I’d sleep with a guy. But you? Trans? Keep it real, Spammy.”
I could feel my face turning red. Through clenched teeth, I said, “Being trans has nothing to do with whether you can look the part convincingly, you idiot!”
He just laughed harder. “Who said anything about looks? You probably could pass, with your small hands and all that hair.”
“Then what makes you so God-damned certain I’m not trans?”
He stopped laughing, and looked completely serious. It wasn’t an improvement. “Spam, in that sheltered, normie bubble you live in, you don’t even know transwomen. I do. And I’ll tell you this, little brother. It takes more guts to be trans than you’ll ever have!”
There were a million things I wanted to say, but I suddenly realized that I didn’t have the energy. I was past caring what he thought of me. “Sixty days, big brother. Try not to fuck it up.”
I turned and walked out, the sound of his derisive laughter following me down the linoleum-floored hallway.
College Park, Maryland, December 31, eight hours later
I was finally home in my cozy garage apartment. I closed the door behind me, dropped my bags, and just stood for a moment, taking in the familiarity of it – the safety and security.
I had only been gone eleven days, but I had been on quite the roller-coaster, dealing with one challenge after another. Meeting my brother-in-law to be. Handling my sister’s grief over her alienation from our parents. Getting assaulted at a Christmas Party. Cleaning up the legal mess from the assault. Dealing with my brother’s arrest. Having an old friend find out I was trans and turn his back.
There had been many, many high points too. Christmas with Fi and Henry. My madcap New York adventure with the incredible Nicole. Making my first argument in court. But on the whole, I thought, what I need right now is some peace and quiet. Time to sit still, to process, to put the pieces of my life back into some sort of recognizable order.
It was New Year’s Eve; there would be parties and dancing, toasting in the New Year. I was content to be right where I was.
But not as I was. Because I had to deal with New York officialdom, I had been dressed and acting as Cameron Savin for the past five days, with the time spent with Nicole as my sole escape. Tomorrow was a holiday, and I could put away all of that for a day and two nights. What a blessing!
All of the Cameron clothes I had taken with me would need to be washed or dry cleaned; I had only brought enough male attire for two days, thinking I would just need it for New Haven. I had stretched everything out to last longer, and it showed. So rather than carefully hanging it all, I dropped it on the back of the couch for later bagging. Socks, underwear and shirts into the hamper.
I went naked into the bathroom and did not emerge for forty-five minutes, by which time I was washed, shaved, shampooed, conditioned, and properly padded. I could be Cami once again.
I could be me.
I slipped into the only nightie I had not taken with me on my travels – a pale blush charmeuse nightgown Liz had given me in Philadelphia. It felt wonderful to the touch and silky on my freshly-showered body. I stepped into a clean pair of panties, pulled them into place, made myself a cup of tea and sat in my comfortable chair, legs tucked up, a fleece throw wrapped around my shoulders.
On a whim, I ran a search on my streaming service and found a performance of Tosca. I hit play and closed my eyes, letting my mind wander.
I hadn’t even been dating Liz a year ago. We were working together on her employer’s case, but everything was still very professional. I imagined what it would be like, if I could go back in time twelve months and talk to my only slightly younger self. To tell that assured young man what was in store for him. Would he have been able to handle it?
He might guess the cost of the incredible transformation I had undergone this past year – the loss of friendships, the rejection by parents.
But could he possibly understand or appreciate what I had gained? The experiences that I had shared with Liz? The amazing closeness of my new relationship with Fiona? My friendships – Al and Javi, Sarah, Nicole – that would never have occurred in the ordered, regulated world Cameron Savin had occupied?
Not a chance.
Cameron had been insufficient for the world that had opened before me over the past year. As Cami, I had managed. Hopefully, I would continue to. The one thing I was sure of, as I sat and drank my tea and listened with dawning interest to the world of opera, was that 2020 would be filled with even more challenges.
Ready or not, here they come.
College Park Maryland, New Year’s Day
I was still having terror dreams. I had only had one night – the night of my frolic with Nicole – that I had managed an uninterrupted night’s sleep. When I woke up at 4:30, I decided it was close enough to my usual wake-up time that I should just get on with it.
If they continued, I was going to have to talk to someone about these dreams, residue from the assault a week ago. I would normally wait; I optimistically hoped that they would start to fade given some time. But I was scheduled to see a psychiatrist on Saturday morning anyway.
Per Sarah’s and Fiona’s suggestions, I had gotten in touch with specialists in transgender health to assist me in transitioning to my new life as a woman. Fi’s contacts had gotten me straight through to a clinical psychiatrist who would be be able to coordinate and oversee fairly comprehensive care. I thought I might as well raise the dreams then, too.
A new year should begin with good habits. My resolution to be better about sleep had not survived a day, but there was still a chance for my exercise-related resolution. So I got out of bed, changed into yoga pants and a sports bra, had a big glass of water and got busy.
Ten minutes of stretches. Twenty-five minutes of intense aerobic cheerleading routines. Ten more minutes of stretches. I pushed myself hard and by the end of the session I was hot, sweaty, and seriously virtuous. Back to the shower!
By 7:00 am, I was doing laundry, and had a lot to do. I was wearing a simple dress with capped sleeves and a pretty bra and panty set; my hair was set in the over-the-shoulder loose braid I had adopted for daily wear, and I was wearing light makeup and a dash of perfume.
This despite the fact that I was not, not, not going to leave the apartment today. I was going to do laundry, and listen to music, and do some reading. And make some calls. But I was staying home, even if that meant that I would be eating something from the freezer.
Which it did.
No, I was nicely dressed because I like dressing nicely. I feel better, more connected. Like the song says, I enjoy being a girl. Sometimes it’s no more complicated than that.
By noon my laundry was mostly done and I had caught up on both news and opinions concerning the world and the nation. The House of Representatives would be sending articles of impeachment to the Senate at some point in the next two weeks, and there was a great deal of discussion about that. The facts were mostly all known, though, so most of the chatter was just rehashing the same things people had been writing for weeks.
I had some work that I could do in advance of tomorrow. I had worked out of Curt’s apartment on Monday and Tuesday when I wasn’t dealing with Iain’s issues, but inflow had kept up with the outflow. Still, I was in pretty good shape. I decided to wait on that and make some calls first.
My first call was to Fiona. She tended to use Skype from her home computer, so I tried that first.
I got a pick-up after four rings, but it was Henry whose image showed up on my screen. “Hey Cami! A very happy New Year! How are you?” Henry, who would be a charming prince if America had royalty and if New England had charm, was looking very cheerful.
“I’m doing great, Henry. How about the two of you?”
He said, “We’re good. Things settled down very quickly after Christmas, given the way you managed things concerning Jonathan. Fi . . . well, she took a while to calm down, but she’s mostly there.”
He gave my image a close look. “You look dazzling as always, Cami, but if I may presume on our almost in-law status, you also look tired. Are you sure everything’s okay?”
Like I say, “charming.” Also, he cooks. Really, really well.
I sighed. “There’s been trouble with Iain. I dealt with it, but I need to bring Fi up to speed.”
“Oh! I’d get her right away, but she got called into work. Is it an emergency?”
I was surprised. Fiona’s a doctor and works at MassGeneral, but she’s in the infectious disease division, not the ER. “On New Year’s Day?” I queried.
“Yeah. They’ve got information on an outbreak of something in China that they called her in for; I gather it’s an ‘all hands’ kind of thing.”
“Seems pretty far afield for an emergency.”
“I hear ya,” Henry replied, “but it’s not all that unusual. Fi’s always telling me that in her line of work, it really is a ‘small world after all.’”
“Well, my call’s not urgent. Like I said, I think I’ve got things under control. But if you could ask her to give me a jingle when she gets in, I’d appreciate it.”
My next call was to Liz. She’s an iOS kind of person, so I shot her a text and asked if she had time to do a FaceTime so I could wish her a happy New Year. Rather than responding, she just used FT to video call me.
I had clearly caught her at the end of an exercise session of her own; her skin was gleaming, her face and chest were flushed, her sweat-dampened hair was in a headband and she was wearing a tightfitting rayon top. All of which is to say, she looked healthy, happy, and generally wonderful.
“Happy New Year, Cami!” She was still breathing hard but grinning like the joyful predator she is. “Don’t you look cool and pampered!”
I laughed. “Way ahead of you, sleepyhead. I finished my exercise six hours ago.”
She shook her head in disgust. “Only one type of exercise I’d even consider at that hour of the morning.” She stopped. “I don’t suppose . . . .”
I laughed and told her not to be silly.
We caught up. I told her about Christmas, but decided for some reason not to tell her about the assault. Maybe I had gotten that out of my system talking to Nicole. However, I did tell her about meeting Nicole and about our wild adventure in New York, which made her laugh hard.
“I can just see you dancing on table tops, mooning the Met . . . . Oh, my God! But seriously, Cami . . . Opera?”
I told her about what had happened with Iain. And about our last encounter.
“Are you shitting me?” she said. “He thinks you don’t have the guts? Does he know you at all?”
I shook my head. “Not really. He left home right after high school and disappeared into the New York art scene; I was, what? Fourteen, maybe fifteen when he left? I’ve . . . .”
I paused, trying to find the right words. “Even before this last year, I had changed a lot. Grew up a lot. I pretty much remade myself in Law School because I didn’t like the person I had always been. But Iain and I never saw each other often enough, or for long enough, for him to get any of that. In his mind, I’m still the snotty younger brother he was happy to leave behind.”
“You know, Cami, I try . . . I really do. But I will never understand your family. How did you turn out so good?”
I asked her about her own Christmas, and she was glowing. Lots of family, all of them getting along. Dinner with her best friends from work on Friday.
She said, “I did what you suggested. I let them know that you were coming out as transgendered, though not yet at work. And I asked them about getting together on MLK weekend.”
“And?” I asked, thinking about Curt.
“I told you, I know these guys. They were all completely okay with it. Janet was a bit startled, I think, but she just wanted to see pictures. Then Tish did, then the guys did too. They couldn’t believe it, but they’re all really eager to see you.”
“Liiiiiz!” I drew her name out like a threat. “Which pictures?”
She grinned at me evilly, but very quickly said, “The G-Rated ones. Only those. You know you can trust me.”
I did, and said so. And every time someone who knew me as Cam was willing to accept me as Cami, I felt a surge of . . . what? Relief, of course, but more than that. Rightness? Joy? Something special, anyway.
I asked about her weekend.
She hesitated and gave me a sideways look.
“Derek?”
She nodded, still looking uncertain. This was dangerous ground for us.
I thought to myself, Cami girl, it’s past time. Do the right thing.
So I looked straight at the camera and gently said, “Liz. It’s okay. I’m okay. Really. And I want, want, want you to be happy. Derek is making you happy. Or at least,” I said with a sly look, “satisfied.”
That got a smile.
I continued, “So let me put down a marker. We’re girlfriends now, alright? And you don’t hold back on your girlfriends. Dish!!!”
It still hurt, some. Maybe more than some; my attraction to Liz was powerful.
But we hadn’t been a “couple” since last August, and our decision to continue a form of sex play had been contingent on neither of us getting involved in a serious relationship. Although that hadn’t been the triggering event, it was clear to me at Thanksgiving that our intimate relationship would need to come to an end, for both of our sakes.
For myself, I had gradually awakened to the realization that, while I was more comfortable in a supporting role in sex, I didn’t want to be a passive participant. I might want Fred Astair as my dance partner, but I wanted to be Ginger Rogers, not the hat rack.
For Liz, though, our sex play had been potentially more destructive. She recreated, in exaggerated form, the warped power dynamic that had brought her so much pain during her ten-year marriage, just with her in the role of her dominant ex-husband and me in the position of the perfectly submissive plaything. She could never break free of the trauma of her failed marriage while reenacting it.
She needed to move on. Because we were so emotionally close, she knew I still had romantic feelings for her and wanted to shield me from the pain of watching her do it. But that would only serve, over time, to create a wider gulf between us.
I had to convince her that I was alright – indeed, that I was cheering for her. Fake it ’til you make it, Cami. And I would.
She was quiet for almost a full minute, staring at my image on her screen, as if she could see into my heart. Maybe she could; Cami would never even have been born but for Liz. She had a very direct gaze, her stunning green eyes almost unblinking.
I stared back projecting calm, sincerity, and honest curiosity. When I need it to, my face shows exactly what I choose to show. I may not be Cameron anymore, but I still know his tricks.
I won, I guess.
She finally said, “Okay, girl, I’ll dish. But only ’cuz you made me.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said contritely, an echo of Candi in my voice.
She stuck out her tongue. “Derek and I had a great time Saturday afternoon. He, umm, had a couple of new ideas, you know?”
One of the things Liz really liked about Derek was that he was eager to try new things in bed. Like me, Liz had a fairly conventional background and had, throughout her marriage and her sexual experiences both before and after it, a fairly conventional sex life. We had disrupted that pattern, and she discovered that she liked exploration. She just liked doing it with a guy. A real guy.
I smiled. “What new? Hanging from the chandeliers?”
Her smile had a distracted quality. “No. Well, but . . . .” And then she got quiet and, if anything, even more tentative than she had been before. “The important thing is, he spent the night.”
“And . . . . ?”
“Cami, all of those one-night stands I’ve had, I’ve never had them here. When Derek became a – ah – repeat player, I had him over here a couple of times. But, we would have sex, it would be great, we might do it again, then out he goes. Or, we would meet somewhere else. We would have sex. And off we’d both go.”
“Cameron slept over.” I made it a simple observation.
“I know, but that was different. Or, I hoped it would be.” She gave me a sad-sweet smile. “I was trying for something real, something long-term. Like – well, better than – what I’d had when I was married.”
I’d known that, of course, but hearing her say it still made my throat tighten. So I just nodded, as if to say, “Go on.”
“So, waking up and finding Derek in my bed, I realized . . . . maybe this is something real, too. Maybe we aren’t just playing around. Maybe I need to take this seriously.”
I leaned forward and used a tone I had never used with her before. “Liz, honey . . . . can you tell me why that’s a bad thing?”
She was startled; throughout our relationship – our multiple relationships, as I traveled the twisting road from Cam to Candi to Cami – Liz had always been in the driver’s seat, the dominant partner. But she needed something else right now, and just maybe my last incarnation could give it to her.
She nodded as if in recognition, and whispered, “Because I’m scared.”
Liz had somehow emerged from the breakdown of her marriage a strong, exceptionally good-looking woman who was always perfectly put together. Confident, competent, and unapologetically strong-willed, she knows her own mind and likes it. That Liz would be scared was hard enough to imagine; that she would admit it to me, six years her junior and a novice at the whole being a girl thing, told me that this was really serious.
But I had seen Liz weep over her marriage, three years after she had ended it. In fact, I’d kind of been the precipitating cause of her weeping over it, which might be why she was opening up to me and not to one of her other, older and more experienced, friends. She carried a lot of baggage, and a lot of scars, from ten years of trying to be the perfect little wifey that she thought she was supposed to be.
If Derek was getting close – especially if it happened without Liz having meticulously planned for it in detail and in advance, leaving herself prepared fall-back positions and clear and unobstructed lines of retreat – I could definitely see that it might cause her to freak out.
“It’s Jack, isn’t it?” I asked quietly.
She nodded once, looking miserable, then shook her head almost angrily. “It’s Jack, but it’s more me than Jack. We tried so hard. And it wasn’t enough. I know we had something. We were so certain on our wedding day. And it all just trickled away, until one day I woke up and found I was sharing a bed with a complete stranger. But he hadn’t changed. Jack was always the same guy.
“It was me. I changed. God, I can’t go through that again!”
I wished so badly that I could just hold her, and found myself thinking, irrelevantly, that Cami’s first instinct when someone was in pain was to rely on touch, where Cam’s never had been. That tool was unavailable in this circumstance. Dammit.
I also knew that Liz hated to cry and was trying very hard not to. I flashed back to how Nicole had managed me in a similar state, just a couple days before. I put all of my love, all of my compassion and concern, into my eyes, the set of my mouth, the entire expression of my face.
But I kept my voice light, conversational, just touching the outer boundary of levity. “Liz, have you considered the possibility that you didn’t have any idea who you really were at eighteen? Or, the likelihood that, at thirty-three, you’ve overcome that handicap? Most people do, you know.”
The cat-green eyes blinked, then narrowed. A ghost of a smile – the one that says, “I know what your game is, girl!” – danced around her lips. But her anguished look eased and she took a long breath. “Yes, I have actually considered those things, oh Great Swami!”
“And . . . you’re right, obviously. I know it up here,” she tapped her head. “It’s my gut that gives me trouble. I had a pretty visceral reaction when I woke up Sunday morning, I can tell you. And enough of my freak-out bled through that I felt I had to offer to join him for dinner to make up for it.” Her voice sounded much more normal.
I kept my tone easy, unthreatening. “Was it a good dinner? Did you feel like you had a connection, even outside the bedroom?”
The question surprised her and she had to think about it. “It was a nice dinner,” she concluded after a moment. “Really nice. We had a good time. He’s actually pretty funny, in an easygoing way . . . . as you know, my own sense of humor tends to have a bit of a bite. But yeah, I’d say we connected.”
“Okay, Liz,” I said. “Why don’t you just take it a step at a time? You don’t need to decide if it’s serious, or if he’s Mr. Right. You just need to see whether there are other parts of your lives where you seem to fit. You kind of came into this relationship backward, starting with the sex. So you know the engine works, you just don’t know much about the rest of the car.”
She looked thoughtful.
I smiled. “I know it’s hard to believe after the two of you spent a couple of months trying out half the beds in Pittsburgh, but you kind of just had your first date with the guy. Try a few more.”
This time she laughed easily. “God, I love you, Cami!” Then she sobered and said, quietly and sincerely, “Thank you.”
We ended our call a bit later, after chatting idly about this and that and making plans for MLK weekend. I had to sit for a few minutes afterward and recover. And tell myself I was doing the right thing.
I worked for a couple hours, expecting to hear from Fi. Along about 4:00 I wrapped up and logged my time. I decided I needed to do something completely frivolous and hunted down a movie based on a line Sarah had deliberately misquoted the last time I’d seen her.
I had never seen The Princess Bride, but I discovered that some of the lines were so iconic they had filtered into the broader culture. I spent a wonderful couple of hours in the company of Westley and Buttercup, Inigo Montoya and Miracle Max, and ended up feeling “mostly” better.
I was cooking a stir-fry from chicken and vegetables I had pulled from the freezer when I got a text from Fi. “Heard you need to talk. I’ll be home by 7:30. That okay?”
I confirmed.
I punched up her Skype account at the scheduled time, a cup of tea at my side. Fi looked a bit distracted, but otherwise good.
“Hey kid,” she said, “Happy New Year!”
I smiled warmly. “To you too, Fi. Miss you guys!”
She got right to business. “So . . . trouble with Iain?”
I explained.
Her reaction was fairly clinical. “I agree he’s never been physically violent before, far as I know. But the temper’s always been there — I should know, since I have it too.” She flashed a smile, but it disappeared quickly. ''Of course, depending on what he’s gotten into, drugs can wear away your inhibitions.”
She sighed. “Iain and I were never close. Not like you and I were when you were little and I was looking after you. He was always so . . . .” she searched for the right word and couldn’t find it.
I decided to be helpful. “Angry? Oppositional? Surly?”
My litany made her laugh. “Yeah, all that. And moody, and dramatic . . . . I never figured him out. Mom and Dad never figured him out. No wonder they buried themselves in church; it was cheaper than booze.”
But he had also, always, been the big, strong brother, the natural athlete, the guy who could and would go toe-to-toe with Dad.
As a child, I had learned to navigate the dangerous waters that divided my parents and my brother, and occasionally found words to calm the tempests between them.
Useful skills, though they had earned me Iain’s contempt. Useful for an attorney, and, I was finding, useful for a woman, too. Maybe even natural for a woman.
“So it sounds like you managed to bail him out of jail, sweet-talk the DA, buy off his roommates and get him into a rehab facility. For which, I’m sure, you received no thanks at all from Iain.” Fi gave me a look. “But I’m grateful, even if he isn’t. I don’t know how long it would have taken me to get all of that worked out, or even if I could. At least, let me pay for it.”
She saw my gathering protest and stopped me. “Don’t be silly, Cami. You know what my situation is here. I’m not hurting for money, and that would be true even if I wasn’t engaged to Croesus.”
“Fi, this isn’t Hutchinson family business, it’s Savin family business. Besides, you and Henry haven’t even set a date.”
She smiled smugly. “Ummm . . . well, about that . . . .”
All thoughts of money and idiot brothers momentarily vanished and I practically squealed, “You DID?!!!”
She nodded happily.
“I am so happy for you! You are perfect for each other!”
She smiled at me fondly. “January 16, 2021, little sister. Got anything on your calendar?”
I teased, “I think I can free up the date. But you’ll owe me.”
She replied, grinning wickedly, “Oh, I’ll repay you, ’cuz I get to choose your Maid of Honor dress!”
I laughed so hard my eyes watered, but when I got myself under control I said, very firmly, “Fi, you told me that Cassie Johnson was going to be your Matron of Honor. She should be.”
She looked exasperated. “She was, but that’s before I even knew I had a little sister.” She paused and added softly, “who I happen to love very much.”
That made me tear up. “Thank you. It means so much to me that you would offer. I can’t tell you how much. But Cassie’s been there for you all through med school, through thick and thin. You were her Maid of Honor, and she should be yours. . . . I’d really like to be a bridesmaid though, if you’ll have me.”
She glowered. “Where did all of this stubborn come from?”
I looked innocent.
“All right,” she conceded. “You win. But only if you let me pay for Iain’s nonsense.”
That set off another round of arguments, wherein I was beaten back from my starting position of “You don’t have to pay anything” to “Fifty-fifty, and no more arguments,” to my covering the cost of restitution to the roommates and Fi covering the far costlier rehab. I was also out the bail money, but I would get that back after Iain completed rehab and the charges were dropped.
In the end, she had persuaded me by pointing out that our parents had helped her with the cost of med school and she’d been paying down her loans longer, while I had to cover law school myself and my outstanding debt was higher.
“Besides,” she said, “you are going to have some new expenses yourself. I don’t know what your insurance situation is, but it’s a fair bet that at least some of the gender affirmation treatment you will want isn’t going to be covered.”
That, I expected, was only too true. I conceded – I hope with good grace.
As I got myself ready for an early bed an hour or so later, I decided it had been a very good day. I had needed to just recharge my batteries a little. I smiled sleepily and thought I should do it more often.
Baltimore, Maryland, January 4
“Cameron Savin? Please come this way.” The receptionist led me out of the waiting room, which looked like every waiting room in every medical services building in every city I had ever lived in. We walked down a carpeted hallway – at least they had avoided the institutional white linoleum – and stopped at a door that bore the name plaque “Kiara Chun, M.D.”
Fiona had talked to colleagues and gotten several recommendations for me, and I had researched each of them, read their biographies and reviews on sites that aggregate them.
I had chosen Dr. Chun mostly because her life story spoke to me: raised in Thailand, educated in the United States, she was the daughter of a Hindu woman and a Korean man – neither society being known for being especially tolerant of mixed-race children. If anyone could understand this new and strange world I was in, it would be the woman who survived such an amazing journey.
I had positively agonized about what to wear for this appointment. It was unseasonably warm and foggy, so I didn’t need to dress for winter. Should I wear a dress? Would that be too obvious? Skirt and blouse? Jacket? How should I do my hair?
Ugggh!!! I wanted to look confident in my femininity, but confidence eschews exaggeration. I wanted to be taken seriously. I wanted to be relatable. Above all, I wanted to be believed.
I wanted too damned many things!
In the end, I went with a simple sky-blue A-Line dress with a U-neck coupled with a navy-blue jacket I had just purchased. The combination would be suitable to wear at work. Someday. I wore nude pantyhose and my black pumps, kept the makeup morning light and discrete, and stuck with my tried-and-true over-the shoulder loose braid.
Hopefully, the package would say, “I’m a professional woman who has a medical issue to raise with her doctor,” rather than, “I’m a guy who desperately wants to be accepted as a woman.”
Damn, I thought. This is going to be hard.
The receptionist knocked on Dr. Chun’s door and opened it. A woman got up from behind the desk to walk to the door and greeted me with a warm smile.
She was petite – scarcely surprising given her heritage. Her features seemed very Korean, but her skin was darker, with reddish undertones. It was an unusual combination. I would never have been able to guess her age, but as it happened, I didn’t need to. I had found in my search that she was thirty-seven. A decade older than me.
“Please come in,” she said in a pleasant contralto. I crossed the threshold . . . a big step . . . and the receptionist closed the door behind me.
Rather than shaking my hand, she took me by the elbow and guided me to a pair of arm-chairs.
No couches, thank God.
“I’m Dr. Chun. Please have a seat.”
“I’m Cameron Savin, but informally I’m using Cami.”
“Would you like me to call you Cami?”
I was actually conflicted. Cami is a bit informal, while Cameron can be a girl’s name as well as a boy’s, it’s just less common. Still, I’d put the name out there, so I had better use it. “That would be fine.”
“Okay, Cami. You made an appointment to see me about Gender Affirmation Services. But why don’t you start by telling me in your own words why you’re here and what you are looking to accomplish.”
This is it.
“I’ve come to realize that I am a woman. Here,” I said, touching my chest, “where it counts. Although I’m currently dressing as a male for work, that’s temporary, and the rest of the time I am dressing and interacting with others as a woman. What I want . . . .”
I paused, trying to remember how Sarah had put it. “What I want is to look in the mirror and see the woman that I know myself to be. I don’t want to wear padding, I want to be padded. I want to hear my voice and know that it’s a woman talking. I want people who interact with me to simply think of me as a woman, not a trans woman.
“I don’t know what I will need to do, to make all of that a reality. Whether I need hormone therapy, or surgery, or what. But that’s the goal.”
This was Dr. Chun’s specialty; she had heard lots of wishes, hopes and dreams, so she didn’t look surprised at anything I had said.
“We can absolutely help you with all of that. We have relationships with otolaryngologists for voice therapy. With endocrinologists for hormone therapy and dermatologists for hair removal. Finally, we have relationships with surgeons who perform cosmetic surgery, breast augmentation surgery, and vaginoplasties if you decide to go that route, though there are some constraints that mostly relate to what can happen when, and in what sequence.”
She paused, making sure I was following her, then added, “But you don’t need to make any of those decisions today. Instead, I’d like to engage in a process that will help you decide which, if any, of those services makes sense for you.”
“If any?” I asked, a bit surprised.
“That’s right. You must know that you already present well as a woman – and I’d like to talk to you more about that later. If your primary goal was simply to be able to pass as a woman when dressed, you’re already well on your way. Which is not to say you can’t make refinements. If that doesn’t meet your goals, you can decide to use additional services. But every part of it, each step, is your decision. Okay?”
“Perfect.”
Next up was my life story, or at least those elements that had a bearing on my feelings about gender and gender identity. It wasn’t easy for me to open up about any of it. It was – is – deeply personal, and much of it is as embarrassing as hell.
But Dr. Chun is really, really good at her job. By asking questions in an easy, nonjudgmental and routine way, she got me to discuss difficult subjects like dressing up in party dresses when I was young, or learning to masturbate while wearing my sister’s outgrown swimsuit. She made me realize that these are background questions she commonly asks clients seeking gender affirmation care, and my responses weren’t necessarily out of the norm for that population.
Some of her questions kind of surprised me. Like, “How do you feel about having a penis?”
“It’s an appendage. I don’t love or hate it, but that’s like saying I don’t love or hate my big toe. Why would I?”
“Some transwomen report feelings of disgust concerning their penis; it’s not unusual. But we’re just trying to get the lay of the land here.”
“Well . . . I guess my penis is small relative to other adult males. So, I suppose that means it might not be optimally designed for one of its two functions. For my own purposes, it also gets in the way when I’m wearing clothes designed for women, and that can be annoying. But it doesn’t bother me. I really don’t give it much thought.”
She wanted to know about my experience of puberty. I said there wasn’t much to tell, since not that much happened. My voice dropped, but not that much. Shoulders, feet, penis, all got bigger . . . but not by much. Minimal face and body hair growth. No issues with acne. I do recall thinking for a period that I kind of smelled bad. But on the whole, it had been a non-event.
“How did that make you feel? Were you . . . disappointed? Relieved? Did you experience feelings of inadequacy?”
I had to really think about those questions. “I suppose I was disappointed. My older brother ended up tall – about 6’2” – as well as strong and athletic. I guess maybe I assumed I would look like him, and when puberty sort of passed me by I realized I’d always be the runt.”
She asked me if I had been dressing since high school, and I shook my head.
“No; that was a pretty brief thing, really wrapped up with exploring masturbation – though I didn’t even know that’s what it was called at the time, if you can believe it.”
"When did you start dressing again, and why?”
And that, of course, was where the rubber met the road. Explaining my relationship with Liz was hard. But it had to be done. I decided I would try to be as clinical, as detached and impersonal, as possible.
“A woman I was dating broke up with me because I wasn’t satisfying her sexually. I was very invested in the relationship and pushed to continue it in some form. We discovered that we were both erotically stimulated by sex play that involved her in a variety of dominant roles and me in submissive ones.
“The primary tool she employed was to feminize me, at first by giving me specific things to wear. But later, she had me select, purchase, and model outfits for specific hypothetical occasions, like a dinner with friends or a beach party. To do it well, I had to really try to think about how I presented myself, in ways that women do and guys just don’t.
“And . . . I loved it. I had an increasing sense that the ‘real me’ was actually expressed when I was thinking, acting and dressing as a woman. I realized that it wasn’t a game for me, and that I’m transgendered. That’s when Liz and I ended our role-playing. With the temporary exception of work, I’ve been living as a woman since then.”
I expected at least a look of surprise – the story sounded crazy even to me, and I had lived it. I expect my face was flaming.
But she looked unperturbed, just taking a few notes. as she had throughout. “Can you give me a timeline on these events? How long ago did all of this happen?”
“The first time she had me wear panties was, I think, August of last year. We continued our sex play through Thanksgiving, which is when I concluded for certain that I’m transgendered, though I probably began to suspect it in early October.”
That, oddly enough, was the first thing to surprise her. The delicate brow over her right eye might have inched upward half an inch. “Then this must all be very new to you. A great deal to handle all at once. Yet, I get the sense that you are deeply certain. Can you tell me about that?”
Her voice was warm and understanding, but she touched one of the fears I agonized about when I made my appointment: that she might think, because of how quickly this change had come over me, that it was a passing idea, almost like a fad or something. I had already given my answer a lot of thought.
“I know I haven’t always felt I should have been a girl,” I said, probably a bit defensively. “And I know a lot of trans girls and women have had that experience. But every step I’ve taken on this journey, I’ve just been overwhelmed by a sense of rightness. That I’ve suddenly discovered what I was meant to be.”
Searching for an analogy, I said, “It’s like that movie scene when Dorothy lands in Oz and discovers what color looks like. She wouldn’t have ever noticed that her world was colorless before, because all she ever knew was black and white.”
She cocked her head. “But Dorothy spends the rest of the movie trying to get back to her black and white world. You don’t think that might happen to you. Why not?”
It was interesting that she hadn’t asked whether I thought it might.
Reassuring, too. “Dorothy was a child, and she missed her home. Her Aunty Em. I left home when I was twenty-one, and I don’t think I’ll even return for a visit now. It’s certainly not home anymore. And I’ll be honest: I’ve always thought Dorothy was an idiot for going back.”
She cocked an eyebrow in question.
“Have you been to Kansas?”
Dr. Chun, I discovered, had a very musical laugh. Nicole would love it.
“Seriously, though,” I said, “I can’t imagine accepting a black-and white existence after discovering color is an alternative, or a world without sound when you were given the gift of hearing. It’s like that for me.
“When I dress as Cami, interact with people as Cami, I feel like I have access to a whole range of experiences that were closed to me. And most important, my relationships with people – men and women – are just so much deeper, more meaningful, more fulfilling. I feel like I’m completely alive for the first time. I’ll never go back.”
She asked me to expand on that, and I talked about the relationships I had formed, or had renewed. With Liz, but also with Al and Javi, with Sarah.
I talked about my connecting with Nicole on the train, and how that never would have happened to Cam. I talked about our dinner and our midnight adventure, singing and dancing our way through New York.
She wanted to know who else I had told, and who I hadn’t and why.
I told her those stories too – about my parents, and Fi, and Curt. I told her about Iain’s reaction.
“So you will prove him wrong?” she asked.
“I suppose so, but that’s just a byproduct. I don’t have anything to prove to Iain.”
We discussed the things that I had done to try to present myself more credibly as a woman, from the obvious – my prosthetic breasts and my padded panty gaff – to the purely cosmetic (hair, nails, makeup) to my careful observation and study of how women communicate with both men and other women, including both verbal and non-verbal forms. I also mentioned getting detailed feedback from Liz through the initial part of my transition.
We discussed issues concerning sexual orientation, and I explained that, as Cami, I had found myself to be sexually attracted to men, although I was still attracted to at least one woman. She asked whether I had any romantic or sexual encounters with men. I explained about my kiss with Steve.
And then I stopped.
She waited.
I took a deep breath. “There is another event, and I was meaning to talk to you about it as well, for other reasons. I was assaulted at a Christmas Party by a man who had discovered that I was trans, and who wanted me to” – here I thought of Cornelius’ dry prose – “perform fellatio on him. Which I didn’t.”
She put her pen down and asked me whether I had reported the assault to the police.
“No,” I responded. “He was related to my sister’s fiancé, so I felt compelled to come up with a resolution that didn’t involve criminal charges and prison. It’s hard to explain, but he was a threat to my sister – to the family that she is going to be joining. And, I wake up at night, almost every night, having terror dreams about danger to Fiona.”
“Not danger to you?”
I shook my head. “No. From the moment the attack started, I was just overwhelmed by fear for Fiona. I’d say it was irrational, but it wasn’t – the danger to Fi was real. But, it’s certainly irrational to still be afraid. It’s like feeling aftershocks from an earthquake.”
She took some more notes, asked some more questions. At the end of our session, she said, “I think we’ve made a good start today. I’m really amazed at the progress you’ve made already in presenting as a woman. You have had many teachers, but you must also be a very good – and very motivated – student.
“There are a couple things I would like to suggest as next steps. I have some materials I want you to review that describe treatment options. What they might accomplish, what their benefits and limitations are. When we have our next session I’d like to discuss some of them with you in more detail.
“I also think it would be helpful to get some bloodwork, to get a baseline of your existing hormone balance. Finally, I’m going to give you a prescription for your terror dreams. But, I don’t want you to start taking it until you get the blood drawn for the lab work.”
That all made sense to me, so we set it up.
I left the office feeling emotionally drained by the two-hour session, but very hopeful. I was starting to take real steps toward my future, and I felt very good about that.
Baltimore, Maryland, January 4, immediately following
It was only late morning, and I needed some quiet time to think. Normally I get that at home, but I decided to take advantage of the weather and have a look around the Inner Harbor.
I saw that there was a walking tour that might take an hour or so. I was sorry that it did not include the famous Fort McHenry (“O Say, Can You See?”), but otherwise it sounded perfect.
So I strolled along, seeing the sights. A Civil War era sloop; a WWII era submarine. The morning fog had lifted and the waves sparkled in the harbor.
My mind, turned inward, still took it in and spun it back to me – the story of a city, once a front-line in defense of an infant nation, once one of the young country’s most important ports and commercial centers, now remaking itself. Sometimes growing, sometimes shrinking. Always adapting, evolving. So much history here, in such a small space of time.
The cries of seagulls took me back to the quiet of my own room, listening to recorded sounds of the seashore . . . the smell of chamomile . . . the finality of a text. “I’m sorry Cami, I can’t go there . . . .” A lot of history there, too, in a small space of time.
My history.
Was my desire to express myself as a woman simply a result of external stimuli? A desire to please Liz, in some way to keep her, that just got out of hand? I forced myself to consider the question objectively, as Dr. Chun must have been doing during our interview.
It didn’t ring true to me. Almost as soon as I began the process of self-feminization, the sex play with Liz had become a secondary thing. Wonderful in its own way, and . . . well. The sex had been mind-blowing for me. But still, secondary. As I had told Dr. Chun, each step I had taken had felt more right, more liberating.
The harder question, the one I had avoided thinking about, and that Dr. Chun hadn’t asked, was whether I desired to become a woman because I was simply inadequate as a man.
I was standing on the harbor walk, gazing at the majestic masts and spars of the Constellation, but my brain was no longer processing external stimuli. Was I a failure as a man?
I thought about my physical make up, reversing the objective scrutiny I had given myself when Liz first challenged me to think of my body as female.
I was neither tall nor short; my face was neither strong nor pretty; I had no feature that stood out as being particularly masculine or feminine, save maybe my hands (which, as Iain had remarked, were on the small side – at least the palms; my fingers were longer and tapered). I had body hair (when I didn’t shave), but not much of it.
It had been relatively easy to make myself look like a woman, though women have more tools at their disposal than men. Could I have made myself look more like a man? Would I have wanted to?
“Excuse me, love. Are you okay? You’re looking a bit lost.”
I turned at the sound of a kind voice, saw an older woman standing a couple of feet from me. Pleasant face. Silver hair. Like me, enjoying the unusually warm weather. Unlike me, I thought, she probably isn’t questioning the foundation of her existence.
I smiled warmly. “I’ve just got a lot to think about, that’s all. But it was kind of you to stop. Thank you.”
She returned the smile and gave my arm a pat. “I’ll let you get back to your thinking then. Take care.”
As I watched her walk away I thought how, as Cam, I would never have walked up to a young woman, lost in thought on a Baltimore dockside, and asked her if she was okay. I would have been concerned that I would be perceived as a threat, simply because of my maleness. And, there is an excellent chance that the young woman would at very least have seen such an approach as an unwelcome imposition or a pick-up attempt.
Cam would have held back. Stayed back. Not engaged. But I didn’t want to live like that, and Cami wouldn’t need to.
I hadn’t been a failure as a man. I did okay at it. You don’t have to look like Chris Hemsworth to be a man. But in our society, males do have to think, act, communicate, and relate in ways that I find deeply unsatisfying.
A man is expected to be strong, but in a forceful, dominant way that has no appeal to me. I’m not weak, but my strength simply flows in ways that are not recognized as masculine. I’m a shield, a bulwark, a home port. I have no will to dominate, no desire to control. No urge for aggression.
I can act hard and tough, and when necessary I had done so. But for me it’s an act. Like an introvert who can be the life of a party, I know how to do it. It just drains me. Being a loving and supportive sister, being a caring and compassionate friend . . . these things are the fullest, truest, most life-affirming expressions of my deepest self.
If there’s a secret to men’s relationships I had never gotten the memo, and in that sense maybe I had simply failed as a man. But I didn’t think it was all on me. There are limits to how far men want to open themselves up, and be open to others. At least in my society, in the Year of Our Lord 2020.
I had male friends, especially in law school. Like Curt. We had been close – or what I had thought of as close. But I could never, ever, have had as meaningful a conversation with Curt as I had had with Nicole, whom I had only known for a few hours.
And I wanted that. I wanted all of it.
And I love all the rest, too, though I realized now it was less important to me. I love the pure sensuality of womanhood. The feel of silk against my smooth skin; the moist touch of creamy gloss on my lips; the movement of air against bare legs. The smell of flowers, of perfume. The quiet swish that nylons make when I’m walking in a skirt . . . I revel in it.
Maybe I have gender dysphoria, maybe I don’t. I suppose Dr. Chun will tell me her view about that when the time comes. But I wasn’t running from a life I couldn’t endure. I was running toward one that I could see unfolding before me, as beautiful as a morning glory that opens to greet the dawn.
When it comes to being a woman, I have gender euphoria. That is the pole star that was guiding my steps.
I finally stopped looking blindly at the old sloop and really saw her. She had been designed as a weapon of war, but for those who sailed her she had been hope in the storm, a place of companionship and shared endeavor, a shield against those who would harm them. And in the end, she had brought them safely home. Ships really are women, I thought.
And so am I.
To be continued . . . .
IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE: Dr. Chun is a fictional character, and the description of her session with Cami is not necessarily indicative of what would happen at such a session at any particular institution and for any individual patient. As they say in car commercials, actual mileage may vary. What they mean is, it always does. -- Emma T.
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
Beltsville Maryland, January 4
The clerk behind the desk had a studiously neutral expression on his face. “Just step over to station three and they’ll take your photo.” He had reviewed all of my papers, including the certified copy of my birth certificate. Everything was in order, naturally.
But the birth certificate indicated that Cameron Ross Savin was born male and the person in front of the clerk did not look especially male. My application for a Maryland Driver’s License allowed me not to identify a gender, and I had chosen not to do so.
Maybe the clerk didn’t approve; certainly he seemed stiff and formal. But, I told myself, he also works for the DMV. Warm and fuzzy isn’t in their mission statement.
I walked over to station three, my pumps click-click-clicking on the drab linoleum. Following my doctor’s appointment in the morning, I had gone home and changed before running this particular errand. Javier and Al, my landlords, had left me their car to use while they went visiting Javi’s family in Colombia.
My favorite red skirt and a white dress shirt made a statement, but one that wouldn’t show in the official photo. A portrait shot would capture the collar and just the beginning of the shoulders, but wouldn’t reach either my (prosthetic) breasts or the bra straps that could be seen through the light fabric of the shirt.
I wore only the very lightest makeup – foundation, nearly invisible blush, a touch of lip gloss roughly the same color as my natural lips – and my hair was in a ponytail that was gathered mid-way between the low and tight setting I used when dressed as Cam and the high point where I would wear it to affect a pert, “girl next door” vibe.
The photo needed to be ambiguous, because I wanted to be able to use it whether I was dressed naturally or was wearing my Cam-o-flage.
I longed to be able to proudly list my gender as “F” and take a picture that reflected what I knew inside. Part of me felt that what I was doing was an act of betrayal. But I was where I was in my life, caught between being my old self at work, and my new self outside of it. Like most half-measures, it was unsatisfactory.
The woman taking the photos showed me my image. I looked calm and cool and completely sexless. I hated it.
Perfect.
The bells over the door jingled as I entered the boutique, and Sarah looked up from her reading. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she said, giving me her usual once-over. As I walked up to her stool behind the check-out counter, she said, “Cami, either you’re up to something nefarious or you’ve lost your touch. You looked better the first time I saw you. What gives?”
“Let me guess,” I said, “they didn’t teach diplomacy in nun school, either.”
She grinned. “I skipped that class.”
I grinned back. “Really? Well, I knew you’d chew me out for looking like this, but I had to get a Maryland driver’s license since I moved out of the District, and I decided I needed one that I could use regardless of how I’m dressed. I’ll fix my hair and my face before I go. Honest!”
Sarah wasn’t giving me a hard time for aesthetic reasons. She preached the importance of safety for trans people, and especially for transwomen. And in her view, nothing provided more safety than blending in. If people would only see a woman when they looked at me, they wouldn’t give me trouble for being trans.
It was good advice and I had taken it very much to heart. Blending in is easier for me, since I have a build and features that are not overtly masculine. But it still required constant mindfulness and significant effort; Sarah was entirely correct that my current look fell short of my capabilities.
She nodded. “Huh. Let me see the photo.”
I showed her the new ID.
“Yeah, okay. I guess that’s mission accomplished. Definitely ugly enough for a driver’s license.” She handed the photo back. “How long are you going to keep it up? All this jumping back and forth has got to be wearing on you.”
“I’m hoping I only have to make it through the very beginning of April. Three months.”
She made a noncommittal noise, but she followed it with a mischievous smile. “I’ve got a present for you, then. Well, a treat, anyway. Seeing as how you’re a lawyer and all, you can pay for it.”
She walked me down an aisle, stopped, and pulled a garment off a rack. It appeared to be a smallish white tank top with wide shoulder straps and a high U neck, but it was designed as a body suit, with the bottom looking like a leotard. The front had what was clearly recognizable as a men’s fly.
I gave her a sideways look. “Okaaaay . . .”
She laughed. “You don’t get it, do you? It looks small because it’s a Rayon-spandex blend. Stretchy. Under a dress shirt, it’ll look just like a men’s undershirt. But it’ll feel like you’re still a girly girl. How’s that for clever?”
I busted a gut. “Okay, you got me. Gotta have it. Make it two. I don’t know which is more funny – that you thought of me when you saw this, or that a nun shops for kinky underwear!”
She grinned. “I can get you a good bargain on vibrators while you’re here, too. After Christmas special, just for you!”
I giggled. A lot. “You kill me!”
We went back to the counter and she rang up my new underwear. When she was finished, she said, “So what brings you here today? Since you didn’t come to take advantage of my latest sales.”
“Mostly just to see you. I had my first appointment with Dr. Chun this morning. It went well. I’ve got stuff to read, and they need to take some blood work and such. But I’m making a start.”
“Good!”
We chatted about transitioning for a bit. What she had seen, what she thought I might expect.
I managed to get her to talk a bit about how she was doing as well. I’d been in the shop for half an hour and there weren’t any other customers.
“It’s a niche market. I sell enough to keep the doors open and pay a few bills of my own, and I don’t need more than that. Most of my sales are online these days. I get by.”
She asked me about Christmas, and I told her about how I had prevailed upon my sister and brother-in-law to come with me to a midnight service at Boston's Episcopal Cathedral. “I don’t know if it’s the right place for me, but it was sure right that night. I really needed it. I do miss belonging to a faith community.”
“I assume you’ve belonged to one before?” When I nodded, she said, “Let me guess . . . . Evangelical; some variation of Reformed. Right?”
“Yes . . . what, is it tattooed on my forehead, or something?”
“Or something,” she said dryly. “Cami, I’m a professional, or I was. You’d be amazed at the tells everyone has with respect to their religious background. But anyway, you said you miss it. Why not go back?”
“Well, they aren’t wild about LGBTQ+ folks, so there’s that. But I left a long time ago.” I thought for a minute. “I know you were – are? Catholic. So maybe you haven’t been taught that God elects a few for salvation, and the rest are destined for damnation from before they were even born?”
She rattled off the catch-phrases. “Double predestination; unconditional election and reprobation. You’re right. Not in our catechism, but comparative theology was covered in nun school. Amazingly enough.” But then she just looked at me, not giving me any help.
“Well, that is what I was taught,” I explained. “But once I was old enough to really understand the idea . . . I just couldn’t accept it. I can’t. It’s like God is this mad potter who makes a million plates that he fully intends to smash, except for ten that he’ll pull out completely at random.”
I paused and added, quietly, “Except it’s worse than that. Because we’re not talking about ceramics. We’re talking about people. Billions and billions of people. Each made in God's own image. What kind of God would do that?”
Sarah cocked her head. “I do believe I have witnessed a miracle. Somebody left a church because they don’t agree with its theology? I was starting to wonder if anybody took theology seriously anymore.” She was being funny, in a Sarah sort of way, but it was clear she wasn’t making fun of what I had said.
I asked, a bit uncertainly, “You think I shouldn’t?”
“I didn’t say that. I just said almost no one does. Not here, anyway. They choose their church based on whether it’s close to their home, or if they have friends there, or if they like the preacher. Or maybe the choir. Maybe if they have good parking, for all I know.
“And it’s not just Protestants, so don’t think I’m finding fault. If you want to see real ignorance, ask Catholics what the feast of the Immaculate Conception celebrates. Virtually none of them know. Or care.”
“You take it seriously.”
“Sure. But again, I’m a professional. You probably take pleadings and writs and all that seriously; doesn’t mean plain Jane Sarah needs to. But look, if theology matters to you, it matters. If you want a faith community that agrees with your personal theology up and down the line, though, you might have a long hunt.”
I thought about that for a minute. “No, I don’t think I need that. But, I don’t want a faith community that’s built around an idea of God, or of people, that just seems wrong to me.” I was speaking slowly, feeling my way.
Sarah just waited, watching me.
I tried to bring some order to the thoughts swirling in my head. “When I was younger, I was sure I had all the answers. And I wanted everyone to know it, too. But when I got older, I decided I wanted to be the type of person who was quicker to ask questions. More willing to listen. Less likely to force my views on others.”
I smiled ruefully. “Some days I manage better than others, but I do work at it. I guess I’d like to find a community that’s more like that. Less like the way I used to be. Does that make any sense?”
She looked skeptical. “Sounds like a debating society, not a church. Though, there are denominations that exist to have rip-roaring debates about the nature of God, if that’s your jam.”
I shook my head. “Not debating, no. I don’t need more of that. Just . . .” I paused, thought, and came up dry, ending with a sound of disgust. “Gaaaaah! I don’t know.”
Sarah gave me a long, measuring look. “How about a community that gathers to pray together, for each other and for this broken world. Where they share their stories and their struggles, put each other back together and lift each other up. Would that be what you’re looking for?”
“YES!!! Where do I sign up?”
“Don’t be so quick, Cami,” she warned. “I’m talking about a group of transwomen who gather for prayer every month. When I suggested you should talk with other women like you, you didn’t exactly leap on the idea. I didn’t press it. Not my place. I know you want to be seen as just another woman, without any modifier. I get that a hundred percent. Maybe they aren’t your people.”
I’ll confess that I was conflicted, and for exactly the reason Sarah had identified. But I knew that these were Sarah’s people. The flock she poured her heart and soul and vocation out for, every day. Sarah had said she went where the wounded and broken people were, and that few people were as hard-pressed today as the trangendered community.
I knew myself to be privileged in many, many ways. And, I didn’t like to think of myself as “broken.” I’m strong. I’m independent.
I’m arrogant.
I thought of my night terrors. Of my feelings of inadequacy. Of how much it hurt when I was rejected by old friends. By family.
And I’m not broken? I don’t need prayers, and healing? I don’t need the support, the wisdom, of women – of transwomen, dammit! -- who had walked this crazy path before me?
Who do I think I am?
My throat was tight when I tried to give an answer. I managed to husk out, “I would love to join them, Sarah. If they’d have me.”
Sarah dropped her pose of ironic detachment and said softly, “Good. Good. Because no one else can really understand what you’re going through, Cami, even if they’re in your corner. Not family, not friends. Not me. And you can understand what they are going through like no one else. You have a unique ability to lift each other up. Don’t waste it.”
I got myself back under control and thanked her. We talked some more, and I pressed her on details so that I would have some idea what to expect. There were seven transwomen in the group, all with faith backgrounds that were different flavors of Christianity.
Each no longer felt welcome in their “home” church, for a variety of reasons (Though none, according to Sarah, had done anything so bizarre as to leave over a theological dispute!). But, like Sarah herself, their faith had survived the loss of their religious affiliation. They met in a private home belonging to one of the older members.
I asked lots of questions and got answers to some.
Finally, Sarah stopped me. “Christ, Cami, you think too much! Just come and meet them. Be yourself. You’ll figure it out.”
A customer wandered in, and I left so that Sarah could get back to her secular work.
There are few better places to people watch than an airport. Almost everyone is there because they are either going somewhere, coming from somewhere, or dropping off or meeting one of the above. There is a feeling of movement, of purpose.
There are eager people, tired people, bewildered people. There are people making hard good-byes. There are joyous reunions. Brisk men and women of affairs, striding confidently. Wide-eyed children, watching jets take off and land. Overworked flight crews. Every size, race, ethnicity, and style of dress.
The flight from Bogotá had landed minutes ago, and I was in a throng of people waiting for the newly arrived passengers. A college-age girl I had chatted with briefly was standing nearby, waiting for her boyfriend to arrive. Nice girl; very pleasant.
Suddenly she looked radiant, and so did the dark young man who was pushing his way toward her. I felt a lump in my throat as they reunited, joyous, tender, passionate, all rolled together.
“That,” said a humorous voice near my ear, “is why you need to find a Colombian man!”
I spun around, having been distracted from my task. “Javi!!!” I gave him a big hug then gave Al one too. “Welcome back, you two!” I cheerfully took each man by an arm, and, steering toward baggage claim, peppered them with questions about their holiday.
When we got to the car I said, “Let me chauffeur; you’ve been traveling all day. Besides, I’m all legal now.” I told them about my new license, and my meeting with Doctor Chun.
They asked about my own holiday, and I said it had been eventful. We arrived back at the homestead. “I got some staples for your fridge for the morning. Now go get some sleep!”
They laughed, and Al said, “I don’t remember when we had such a nice homecoming. It’s good to see you!”
Washington, D.C., January 6-10
“Good morning,” Eileen said warmly as she walked into the conference room. Unusually, she was the last person to arrive, though she was still right on time.
David, Daviana, Greg, and I were already sitting, the sensible among us (me, Daviana) with a cup of coffee. We all said our good mornings and Eileen got down to business.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ve got just over ten weeks before jury selection. So, we’re going to need folders for each witness – ours and theirs – with outlines of questions, the documents that we’re planning to get in through that witness and the other documents that we want to ask them about. For direct, I’m going to take Jacoby. Dave, can you take Dr. Silverman?”
David Parr nodded; Sam Jacoby was the principal witness for the company and Dr. Richard Silverman was our liability expert.
Eileen continued, “Daviana, I’d like you to handle our damages witnesses, Marcuccio and Wilensky.”
Daviana looked enthusiastic, nodding with a smile.
“Cam, ready to take a witness?” Eileen asked with a grin.
“Absolutely!” I said, matching Daviana’s enthusiasm.
“Great,” she responded. “Thune and Sanchez for you.”
I nodded. These were fairly minor fact witnesses whose testimony was limited – perfect assignments for a second-year associate. I was thrilled.
Eileen divided up the five people on Defendant’s witness list as well so that we could start preparing for cross examination. “I’ve prepared an annotated outline of what I anticipate the closing argument will look like. You’ll see the documents and witnesses I’m using to make the case. Use this as your road-map when you’re preparing your outlines and your folders. If you see something that should be in the outline but isn’t, or is in the outline but lacks support, flag it.”
She next explained that we were using a jury consultant to do a mock trial exercise in mid-February, where we would present summaries of our case to a “panel” of regular people, paid to act as mock jurors for the day. It was an opportunity to shop arguments and see what worked and what didn’t.
It was also a very expensive exercise; the client had to pay for the lawyers’ time, including travel, the consultant’s time, the mock jurors’ time, not to mention all the preparation. But when a case involves a lot of money, clients with the resources understand that there aren’t too many better ways to prepare for trial.
Eileen made the assignments. “David and Cam, I want you to present our case in the exercise; Daviana and I will be the ‘red team.’ We’ll get more details when we meet with the consultant on Thursday.” The team breakdown made sense; David and Daviana had been working on the case from the beginning; Eileen and I were the trial reserves.
The meeting went on in this vein for some time. I watched Eileen with keen interest. She’s like a master craftsman, I thought.
She exuded the sense that she knew her business and took real joy in it. Our questions, comments, and concerns didn't distract her. Rather, she viewed them as teaching opportunities (here’s why we need to do this thing, or do it this way rather than that), and also as opportunities for her to look at issues with a different perspective. She made each of us feel valued and all of us feel like a team.
It was one of our longer meetings. As I walked back to my office, I reflected, bemused, on how I had just stumbled into this job. I went to a big firm because I had a pile of debt and I didn’t want to be paying it off forever. But it had been such a great fit for me. I was learning so much, and had such great people to work with.
I felt a shiver of apprehension. Would it be such a perfect fit, I wondered, when they find out I’m Cami? Will I still feel welcome here? Or will I feel, instead, grudging acceptance? Will I see stiffness and formality, I thought, remembering the face of the DMV clerk, rather than Daviana’s warm cheerfulness, or Eileen’s approval?
I didn’t think so, but then, I had also thought better of Curt, who had been both a good friend and something of an intellectual sparring-partner when we were in law school.
Sitting down at my desk, my pinpoint Oxford shirt slid over the rayon and spandex of Sarah’s hysterical present, and the bottom stretched and tugged against my crotch. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, I decided.
In heels.
Each day, I was getting a little bit closer to a challenge that I had set for myself: I wanted to be able to do splits. I worked on this during the stretching phases of my exercises, and generally got closer after the aerobic portion than before. I could get my pelvis as close as three inches from the floor, but I hadn’t achieved my goal . . . yet.
I was at work by 7:30 and often stayed until 9:00 or 10:00. But I didn’t have an instant when I thought I was wasting time or engaged in make-work, which made each day pass very quickly.
I had a call during the week on my “Cami App,” and I took it behind closed doors.
“Good morning, Cami,” an unfamiliar female voice said. “I’m Jill Lavery from Dr. Chun’s office. The doctor asked me to give you a call to let you know that the results of your bloodwork came in. After looking them over, she’d like you to get a physical examination as well. If you have a GP you prefer that’s fine, or we can get you an appointment with one of our affiliates.”
I was a bit surprised and asked if anything was wrong.
“No,” she quickly reassured me. “The doctor just wants a more complete baseline picture. She told me you really preferred Saturdays when possible, and we do have an affiliate who is open and has a cancellation this Saturday – Doctor Sheppard up here in Baltimore. Will that work?”
“I hate to ask this, Jill. But . . . is Dr. Sheppard a man or a woman?”
“It’s Doctor Theresa Sheppard.”
I exhaled, thinking that I really don’t want to have a man examine me anymore. If anyone has to see me in my current, in-between state, let it be a woman. “Okay,” I agreed, and we set it up.
I sat for a moment, thought about what I had going on, and sent a text to my friend Nicole, a very New York City girl who was living in exile in the Baltimore area. “Hey crazy girl. I’ve got a doctors’ appointment in Baltimore Saturday AM. Want to get together after?”
A minute later I got back an enthusiastic “Hell Yeah!”
I was working on a response when I got another text.
“Do U know how to ice skate?”
I had to send back a regretful “No,” but what I got back was “Ha!!! Mags doesn’t either! You girls are getting a lesson!!!”
I could only laugh. Nicole is such a fireball. “Sounds great,” I wrote. “Call you later to coordinate?”
She responded, “I’m home. Call whenev. Love ya!”
I sent her a text hug in return and went back to work, feeling much better.
Another morning, another doctor’s office. This one came with linoleum. More paperwork. More signatures. “C.R. Savin,” equivocal.
A nurse taking my blood pressure (110 over 75) and pulse (52); numbers meaningless to me. Height (still 5’10,” just), weight (only 136 pounds – yikes!). An examination room. “Please remove all your clothes and put on this gown, opening to the back. Dr. Sheppard will be in in just a few minutes.”
I removed my sweater, skirt, shoes, panties, and tights. My camisole. Each item came off more slowly as my reluctance increased. I stood for a moment in my bra and panty gaff, then finally sighed and got on with it. I had simply placed my prosthetic breasts into the cups of my bra without attaching them, and as I unhooked myself I felt strangely naked. Finally, I pulled off my panty gaff and freed my penis.
I folded my clothes like they were treasures and carefully set them on a chair. Within sight. Within reach. Here I am, I thought. No disguise, no defense. Except a stupid hospital gown that tied in the back.
It would have to do.
Dr. Sheppard was a willowy woman, about my height, with medium-brown shoulder-length permed hair, hazel eyes, and a clipboard. I thanked her for fitting me in on a Saturday.
She smiled and explained that shifting to a Tuesday-Saturday schedule had allowed her to expand her practice, while giving her staff a weekday off when more things were open.
She went through the usual examination. I hadn’t had all that many; growing up, you went to the doctor when you were sick, not when you were well. But I knew the drill. Tapping the chest, the back. Looking into eyes and down the throat. Reflex tests. The usual.
When she was done with those, she said, “Doctor Chun asked for a set of baseline measurements, so let me do that.” Out came a tape measure. The good doctor was very thorough. My skull, my neck; shoulders, arms, chest, waist, hips, legs, hands, feet. Testicles. Penis. I felt like a prize heifer.
As she was doing her tests and measurements, she kept up a stream of questions covering my medical history, some family history. She asked me about my siblings and my parents. Asked me, as had Dr. Chun, about puberty. She asked about my diet and exercise. How much sleep I was getting. Medications and allergies. Alcohol and drugs. Was I sexually active? What were my work habits?
Answering questions kept me occupied while I was being poked, prodded, and measured.
She wrapped up. “Great. Well, Cami, you seem to be in very good shape from a general health perspective. You need to be better about eating and sleeping. I know, I know. You are super busy. And I get that. I really do; doctors don’t tend to be good at practicing what they preach, especially when it comes to sleep habits.”
She talked a bit about my bloodwork – various markers were low or on the low end of normal – again, the numbers meant nothing to me. She wanted me to start taking a multivitamin every day.
“And,” she said, looking at me sternly, “I know you want to appear more feminine, too. But you can’t starve yourself into the right shape.”
At that, I looked a bit guilty.
“I’m serious, Cami. I’m not saying you need to gain weight, though it wouldn’t hurt you. But I don’t want to see any more weight loss. And I would be interested in knowing what amount of variability you are seeing, so get a scale and track your results daily.”
I asked her whether anything in what she had seen might be an impediment to hormone therapy.
She shook her head. “No, from a general health perspective you’re in good shape. I don’t see any issues that would cause me concerns that way.” Then she was off.
I let out a deep breath. Dr. Sheppard had been very pleasant, very professional and very thorough. But I felt an intense desire to be somewhere else.
I pulled off the hospital gown and, before I proceeded further, pulled the necessary vials from my purse and re-attached my prosthetic breasts, sighing as their familiar weight once again pulled at the skin of my chest and caused me to arch my back slightly, adjusting my posture to compensate for the additional weight. I applied makeup to the seams and hooked myself into my bra, nesting each breast in its lacy bed.
Feeling much more presentable, I tucked, slipped into my panty gaff, and then got dressed again.
Praise be!
Baltimore, Maryland, January 11, afternoon
“Cami!! Over here!”
I had just entered a restaurant that was one of the surviving bastions of Baltimore’s old Greektown, and immediately saw Nicole enthusiastically waving to me from further inside. She was sitting next to another woman who I assumed was her roommate Maggie.
I returned Nicole’s wave with equal enthusiasm, a huge smile breaking across my face just at the sight of her, and quickly worked my way back to her table.
She jumped up and gave me a quick hug. “Cami, this is Maggie; Maggie, Cami.”
Maggie was blonde and blue, average height, and had a warm smile. “Just want you to know I’m officially jealous about your New York adventures, Cami – I’m so bummed I wasn’t there!”
I laughed as we all sat down. “It was a riot, that’s for sure. I don’t think I’ve ever had that much fun! But wait – isn’t it like that every night at your place?”
Maggie pulled a face. “Not hardly; it’s work, work, work at ‘Opera House.’”
Nicole giggled and explained. “That’s what we call the row house we live in, because it’s where we do our vocal exercises and our practices, study scores, learn our parts. Give voice lessons. We sleep there, too, but it’s kind of secondary, you know?”
I shook my head. “No place to get away from work?”
They were both wearing the same goofy smile, but Maggie was the one that answered, “Crazy, right? But . . . it’s hard to describe. Nicole said you’re a lawyer?”
I nodded.
She flashed a smile. “Awesome! But . . . is law what you do, or is it what you live for?”
I had to think about that a moment before responding. “I really love what I do, but . . . I guess I’d still say it’s what I do. It’s my craft. It’s not who I am.”
Nicole broke in. “Yeah, that’s a good way to put it. Mags and I talk about this. We really do live for music, for singing. Doesn’t mean I don’t like to go out and have fun.” She shot me a smile full of shared memory. “But I’d just be lost without music.”
Maggie nodded in firm agreement and added, “Yeah. So I bitch and moan about the hours and all – but I have to do it. Can’t stop myself.”
She looked at me shyly. “Nickie told me about that song you sang in Rockefeller Center. ‘How Can I Keep from Singing?’ I know I can’t. I know she can’t. It’s how we both feel – who we are. So it’s work, work, work at ‘Opera House,’ but we’re a happy workforce.”
“Hi ho, hi ho!” Nicole sang, smiling like Happy.
We talked about where they had met and how they came to be roommates, what they thought of Baltimore (“It ain’t New York,” was Nicole’s short take), where they were singing next. Maggie made me feel very comfortable by asking how I was dealing with my transition, in a way that made it completely clear that it was a non-issue for her.
I decided to treat it with the same nonchalance, mentioning that I was now working with a team of medical professionals and hoped to begin hormone treatment in a couple of months.
“Are you excited? Or, is it scary?” she asked, curious.
“Excited. Thrilled. I’m really looking forward to it.”
“You know,” Nicole said, “our voice coach might be able to help you. A lot of what we do in our exercises has to do with learning better vocal control, working to expand our range – that’s pitch control – and learning how to properly support the voice and keep from straining it. If you had a broader vocal range, you could work to reset the pitch where you center your speaking voice.”
I asked who their voice coach was, and chuckled when they told me. “She’s one of the people my medical group uses; I was going over materials they wanted me to study just yesterday. I suppose it’s not surprising since they’re based in Baltimore. You’d recommend her, then?”
They both did, with their signature enthusiasm.
It was a great lunch. So refreshing to be treated as “just folks.” But Nicole, bless her, nixed dessert. “Okay, you two. No more stalling. Let’s find some ice!!!”
So we piled into Nicole’s car and she drove us to a rink. “Mags said she’s done some in-line skating,” Nicole said. “You?”
I had done some rollerblading, though it had been some years. Like, fourteen. Gulp!
“No problem, then!” she said. “It’s the same thing, mostly. It’ll be a blast.”
I was sure that Nicole’s boundless enthusiasm was papering over an entire host of potentially lethal problems, but I was very pleased to discover that she was actually right on the money.
I was still pretty shaky at first, and Maggie was a bit more so.
But Nicole patiently worked us through our initial wobbliness. The main difference is how you stop, and again, Nicole’s instructions were clear and simple, she gave easy to understand demos and displayed no impatience. Within a half an hour we were skating comfortably and having fun, though we were keeping it very simple.
I skated over to Nicole. “Woman, you have a real gift for teaching!”
She grinned. “I’d better; it’s part of how we make a living!”
She said they give voice lessons. Evidently teaching skills are pretty transferable.
Around ten minutes later, the rink’s sound system had a hiccup and cut out. A voice came over the intercom. “Sorry folks. Technical issue. We’ve made a call but it’ll be silent skate for a bit.”
Nicole got her crazy grin on. “Oh, no it won’t!!”
Maggie skated to the other side of Nicole and looked across her. “Right, Cami. Nickie says you’ve got a nice voice. Pick a song – a show tune – and lead us off with the melody. We’ll improvise!”
If I wasn’t skating, I might have been paralyzed. I’m supposed to sing with THESE two! But I had sung with Nicole, and it had been perfect. And the chance that I knew a piece of music these two didn’t was essentially nil.
On a sudden inspiration, a show tune from my youth jumped to the front of my mind, and I sang, “Meet me in St. Louie, Louie, meet me at the fair!”
Nicole linked arms with me on her left and Maggie on her right, and began improvising a high harmony on “Don’t tell me the lights are shining, anywhere but there.”
Maggie figured out where Nicole was going and joined another harmony for, “We will dance the Hoochee Koochee, I will be your tootsie wootsie; Meet me in St. Louie, I’ll be waiting there!” Maggie’s voice was lower than Nicole’s, but I didn’t have the background to know if she was a second soprano or an alto, or possibly something else I hadn’t heard of. But, like Nicole, she was superb.
People were applauding and shouting, “More, more!!!”
We laughed, and Nicole said, “Pick another one,” and we sang, and we skated, and other skaters clapped along, laughing and smiling. As we finished our third, we glided off the ice, faces cherry-red from the chill of the ice, the exertion, and the sheer fun of it. The girls laughed and took a bow to acknowledge the cheers, and we clumped off to grab a seat and catch our breath.
A middle-aged guy came over and gave each of us a cup of hot cider. “Thanks, ladies. That was awesome! I think we’ll have the music back in a couple minutes, but that was really special. Like a flash mob or something. Anyhow, thanks!” Clearly he worked there.
Some younger guys who had been on the ice came over to say how much they enjoyed it. We were seated, so they seemed to loom over us, but I was pretty sure they were big guys, anyway.
We chatted for a couple minutes, but were interrupted by the sound of our benefactor’s voice over the intercom announcing that their sound system was fixed and apologizing for the issue. The music resumed, and one of the guys invited us to couples’ skate.
Nicole looked at me and Maggie and said, “Nothing to it – no different than what we were just doing together.” So we agreed.
I found myself partnered with a guy who must have been 6’4” and outweighed me by a hundred pounds – I felt tiny beside him, which was actually kind of nice. I said, “Hi, I’m Cami. I haven’t ice skated before, so I’m afraid I’ll have to keep it pretty basic.”
He smiled. “I’m Tom. Don’t worry, Cami. I’ve been skating since I was six – Bruce, Trey, and I used to have hockey practice right here when we were kids. I won’t let anything happen to you. And, I’ll walk you through it as we go, okay?”
“Sounds good,” I said, working hard to keep any hint of nervousness out of my voice.
He took us out onto the ice smoothly, first just holding my right hand in his left. “So, here’s what we’re going to do. I want you to match my leg movements, okay? So our right legs move together then our left legs move together. Ready?”
I nodded and focused on the slow, powerful thrusts of his legs, then matched my own to them.
Once we had completed a circuit that way, he said, “Okay, now, we’re going to keep doing exactly the same thing, but I’m going to shift your hand from my left to my right hand, and put my left hand behind you. On three – one, two three.”
He effortlessly made the exchange, and I found that we were now skating much closer together, more like a pair, and his left palm rested lightly below my shoulder blades, just over the clasp of my bra.
“That feel okay?” he asked.
In fact, it felt wonderful, but he was asking if I was feeling wobbly. I shot him a grin. “Let’s go!”
We skated like that for a while. He would say, “Okay, on three, let’s do six hard kicks, then just glide for a bit. One, two, three,” and I would follow his lead. He used his hand on my back to provide a bit of guidance.
It was really an amazing feeling, sailing over the ice, blades of my skates in a perfect line, feeling completely secure in Tom’s very competent hands. With his help I was going much faster, and much more smoothly, than I had gone before.
The music wasn’t so loud that we couldn’t hear each other, so we were able to talk in between his giving directions. Apparently the three guys had known each other for almost twenty years. They had all played hockey together through high school and Bruce – the one who was skating with Nicole – had even played in college on a scholarship until he had gotten injured one too many times.
“Now,” Tom said, “we just come down here from time to time to play around on the ice.” He added, with a cheerful grin, “And, check out the pretty girls, of course!”
I laughed.
Given that I hadn’t skated in almost fifteen years and I’d never skated on ice, I thought I did very well. We didn’t do anything complicated – nothing like the intricate maneuvers that Nicole and Bruce were executing – and I only got wobbly once, when one of my skates caught a bit.
But Tom just got a little lower and brought his left hand down to my hip to pull me back in and steady me. We skated through three songs, then headed for the sidelines.
I saw that Maggie and . . . “Trey,” was it? . . . were already off the ice as well. We joined them and watched Bruce and Nicole do one more song. There were only a couple of people on the ice, and they used the freedom to really cut loose.
They made an impressive pair. Nicole is, in any setting, absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. On the ice, she looked fluid and graceful – practically serene. While Bruce lacked her natural grace and . . . presence, for lack of a better word . . . like Tom, he was a strong, powerful skater and his impressive hockey player’s physique was striking.
They both looked like they were enjoying the chance to skate with someone who really knew what they were doing. On their last pass, Bruce provided extra locomotion while Nicole balanced on one skate, her left leg high behind her, her back arched and her arms extended.
They were still on the ice when Tom said, “Guys, I’m sorry to be a party pooper, but I’ve got a shift tonight. It’s been a lot of fun!”
Maggie and I told him how much we had enjoyed ourselves, and said our farewells. So it was just Trey, Maggie, and me waiting when Nicole and Bruce glided off the ice. Maggie and I gave them hearty applause as they came up to us.
“You guys looked fabulous!” I enthused.
“Wow,” Maggie said, “You said you knew how to skate, Nicole, but I had no idea you were that good!”
Nicole laughed. “Mom had Olympic fantasies for me when I was little. Before I got better ideas!”
We were all skated out, so we got back into street footwear and Maggie and I returned our rented skates. Bruce suggested that we all go out to dinner.
The rest of the crew were enthusiastic, but I begged off. “I’ve got an early day tomorrow, too,” I said with regret. “You guys have fun. Nicole, this was a great idea! And Maggie, it was so good to meet you!”
Nicole said, “Oh, do you have to?” and Maggie pulled a face. When I said I really did, Nicole said, “You’re taking the MARC train back, right? Let us drop you off at the station, at least.” Since the station was close to where they were going for dinner, I accepted with thanks.
Maggie and I piled into Nicole’s car and got underway; Bruce and Trey had come in separate cars and were going to the restaurant to get a table.
When we were underway, Nicole said, “Is everything okay, Cami? I didn’t know you had to get back?” She’s a sensitive soul.
“I’m fine,” I assured her. “I had a great time. That was incredible – I had no idea what I was missing.”
I quizzed Maggie, who thought it was much better than she had expected, but was not as enthusiastic as I was. We got to the MARC station and I hopped out, stopping by the driver's window to stoop down and give Nicole a kiss on the cheek. “You have the best ideas, girlfriend!” To both of them, I said, “Have fun!!!”
Soon I was on the platform waiting for the train that would take me back to College Park. It really had been a wonderful time, though I could not hide from the touch of sadness I had felt when Tom departed. I had seen the brief look of surprise on Trey’s face when Tom said he had to work, and I was fairly certain Tom was just giving an excuse.
I was likewise pretty sure I knew the reason for it. If I had felt Tom’s steadying hand on my hip when I wobbled, then Tom had certainly felt the padding there that gave me some shape. It looked convincing under a skirt, but it didn’t feel like a woman’s hip.
He had, I thought, handled it very well. No fuss, no accusations, no sudden coldness. We had even continued to skate for another song. Had we been maybe a touch less close? Had he talked a bit less? Maybe. But also, maybe not. Any pulling away, any distancing, had been so subtle that I might well have been imagining things.
My gut, however, told me that I wasn’t.
Certainly, he had not asked for my number, or shown any interest in getting together again. I expected that would not happen with Maggie and Nicole. Of course, I thought with a smile, if Bruce didn’t try to get Nicole’s number he was either blind or insane.
But that’s different. Any girl, trans or cis, who wanted to hang out with Nicole would have to be able to deal with being overshadowed. It would be annoying, if Nicole weren’t such an amazingly decent person.
College Park, Maryland, January 12
Following my morning exercises – still not quite there on the splits! – and my shower, I got dressed and went to join Al and Javier for breakfast in their apartment above the salon.
Their work was picking back up; the holiday rush to look perfect giving way to the post-holiday lull, followed by a return to normality. Al said, “We actually did a brisk business in Bogotá – would have made a pile, too, if they weren’t all family!”
Javi laughed. “My nieces all wanted to look perfect for Three Kings’ Day. We left on the fourth, so I couldn’t do their makeup for them. But Al here was a popular man with the scissors!”
We talked about Javi’s family a bit. He was one of seven and had seventeen nieces and nephews – so far. I asked, cautiously, about how accepting his family had been when he came out. We have the kind of relationship where we can ask each other those questions, thankfully.
“It was hard. Colombia is not a bad place to be gay. Same-sex couples have had legal protections longer than they have here, and Bogotá has a great gay community. But that doesn’t mean coming out is easy. You lose some friends. Sometimes even family.
“My father was the kindest, gentlest man. He never said a bad word about my decision, but I knew – I could tell – he was hurt. Momma rules the roost back home, and so none of the family ever gave me grief. I’m closer to some of them than I was before. I think Al had more trouble than I did, coming from Michigan.”
Al related his experience, which sounded closer to mine. Uncompromising parents, better luck with siblings. Friendships that survived. Others that didn’t. He agreed with Javi that Bogotá had probably been more welcoming than Roseville.
“I met Javi in Bogotá,” he said. “I wanted to get away, far away, from where I grew up. Everything that was hemming me in. I knew I was gay, and I wanted to explore that far from the eyes of my family.”
“Everyone back home thought I was nuts, thinking I was going down to some third-world slum where I’d get killed by drug lords.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Almost like they’d never even been to Detroit. But I loved it. And,” he looked fondly at Javier, “it worked out well for us.”
I always love talking to my landlords, and we kept going well after we had finished eating. But I had work to do, so I finally got up, stretched, and got ready to face the day.
Al stopped me. “Cami, I almost forgot. We got a letter in the mail for you; looks like it was forwarded from your place in DC. Let me go get it.”
It was a card-sized envelope, addressed by a familiar hand that I generally saw only twice a year, at Christmas and my birthday. The sender was identified in the upper left corner as “CC Campbell.”
“Gammy Campbell!” I said. “My mom’s mother. This must be her annual Christmas card. I’m glad they forwarded it. Gammy was always my favorite. And seeing her on Christmas Eve was part of what made the season complete!”
Javi asked, “Does she know about your transition?”
I shook my head. “No, I’ve only told Fi and Iain. Fi wouldn’t tell anyone. Neither would Iain, since he doesn’t talk to anyone. And he didn’t believe me, anyway.”
I took the letter back to my apartment and opened it. The front of the card was a stylized image of the Magi bearing gifts, and the inside had the usual Christmas greetings.
But on the facing side, Gammy wrote, “Dear Cameron – I hope you are well and keeping out of trouble. Especially given where you live. Anyhow, your mother told me she is no longer speaking to any of you and doesn’t intend to ever, ever. I’d like to blame her pig-headedness on her Ross blood, but God knows the Campbells have their share.
“Anyhow, my daughter, who drives me crazy even if I love her, won’t tell me what all of this is about. I was hoping you might. Maybe – who knows? – I can help. She’s miserable, so I’d like to. Even if it is her own fault.” It was simply signed “Gammy.”
Oh my, I thought. Where to even begin? I can tell her the proximate cause of Mom’s outburst, but that wouldn’t really be honest. The real reason that reconciliation isn’t possible isn’t Iain, as probably even my parents believed. It’s me. Should I tell Gammy?
I made myself a cup of tea and put on some think music – in this case, a collection of Chopin’s piano etudes. I sat at my desk, staring at my blank screen. What should I say? Anything? Yes, I owe Gammy that. The truth? Do I owe her that? Or, is she happier not knowing?
I thought about my grandmother. What did I know about her – /em>really know? I smiled, recalling my exhortation to a young man shopping for a Christmas present. Stop thinking of her as the nice old lady who helped make Christmases special. Think of her as a person, as a woman. What would Catriona Cameron Campbell want?
I decided I didn’t really know her all that well – at least, I didn’t know her nearly as well as I’d always assumed I did. She had grown up in Morgantown, West Virginia during the great depression and World War II, the youngest of three daughters.
Her father, the Campbell, was from Scotland, but even her mother was of solid Scots-American stock. Her Cameron ancestors were among the flood of refugees who had come to Appalachia during the Highland clearings that followed the Stewart’s defeat at Culloden.
She had divorced Grandpa Ross before I was born, I wasn’t sure when, and had lived in an apartment in St. Louis so that she could still be part of her daughter’s life. She had done a lot of babysitting for Mom when Fi and Iain were young; less when I was (after all, I did have older siblings to look after me).
When I was in high school, she moved back to Morgantown to be near her sister (who was ill), as well as her mother’s family. Some years ago, she had moved into an assisted living facility there, firmly declining Mom’s offer to move back to St. Louis where her daughter could look after her properly.
So, what did I know, really? She was stubborn, for certain (as her letter acknowledged). She had grown up in tough times, knew the reality of a hardscrabble existence. She had lived for decades with Grampa Ross, who I recalled as being pretty grim.
Would she have any frame of reference for understanding who I was and what I was doing? Would she see me as simply a frivolous child of privilege, acting out on a whim?
I just didn’t know.
But in my memory, she had been a kind woman. I didn’t recall a single instance when she had given me anything but love and acceptance. She had been warm and generous, and her apartment at Christmas had always been filled with music (“Mister Bing Croooooosby . . . !”) and the enticing smells of baked cinnamon. I owed her a response, at the least.
No, I decided. I owed her the truth. And a woman who had grown up West Virginia poor during the great depression would be able to handle it, if anyone could. Even if she didn’t understand.
Then another thought occurred to me. Morgantown isn’t all that far from Pittsburgh, where I was going next weekend. Rather than sending a letter, I could actually talk to her. Try to get her to see me as I am, accept me for what I had become.
She could be no help with Mom; she would know that. But our relationship wasn’t entirely derivative. Perhaps it would survive, even though my relationship with her daughter was beyond repair.
I would need to think about it some more. But I decided I’d get some work done while that idea percolated in the back of my mind.
“Hey Nicole!” I said, happy for the interruption. “How was dinner?”
“It was fantastic!” she gushed. “We had such a good time; I just wish you could have been there with us!”
With very little prompting, she launched into a discussion of all things Bruce. His virtues apparently extended well beyond being handsome and knowing how to ice skate, and Nicole was positively bubbly. It was, in all honesty, adorable.
When she was done extolling the wonders of Bruce, she said, “He asked if we all wanted to get together Friday night for a movie. Maggie dragged her feet a bit, but I’ve talked her into it. Can you come? I’m . . . . Well. It’s . . . .”
She stopped, then tried again. “I think it might be a bit soon for a one-on-one, you know? I think he’s trying to keep this from being too much like a ‘first date,’ and I kind of think that’s right. Will you come?”
“Of course I will, silly. But . . . you should let them know I’m trans.”
“Why?” She sounded surprised. “We’re not hauling them back to our lair to jump their bones!”
I laughed. “I get that. But I think Tom already knows, or suspects. Best to get it out of the way. If it’s an issue, I won’t go, that’s all.”
Nicole was indignant. “If it’s an issue, I've got a problem! What did Tom do?”
“He didn’t do anything, and he couldn’t have been nicer. But he kept me from falling at one point, and in the process touched some padding. He didn’t say anything or give a hint that anything was wrong, but he left quickly after we got off the ice, and I suspect he was uncomfortable with the situation.”
“That’s so stupid!” she said, still indignant. “You were just skating!”
“Not really, Nicole. I mean, yes, we were just skating. But guys don’t skate together like that. Girls, maybe. Guys, no. And . . . you know what it felt like, out there on the ice, skating in sync with a strong, good-looking guy?”
“Yeah,” she said, drawing out the word.
“Well, I felt that too – that sexual frisson that made it more than just skating. And I suspect Tom did too. When he discovered that the woman he was skating with might not be what she seemed, I think it disturbed him. And that’s perfectly normal. Something I have to deal with.”
She tried one more time. “Cami, I swear! You’re as much a woman as I am!”
“Sweetie, no one is as much a woman as you are! But thank you. It means a lot to me. . . . Still, much as I don’t like to admit it, physically, I’m missing some parts that cis women have, and those parts tend to be very interesting to men. That’s just part of my reality. I can’t blame guys who aren’t attracted to me for how they feel – or don’t feel. Attraction doesn’t work that way.”
Nicole was quiet for a minute, then she sighed. “You’re being a lot more mature about it than I would be.”
And that was likely true. Unlike me, Nicole had probably never faced rejection. “Just talk to Bruce, tell him that you would love for me to come, but that I asked you to raise this issue to make sure it wasn’t going to freak anyone out. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said quietly. “I’ll do it. But I still think it sucks. Big time.”
I got her on to happier topics, and by the time we ended our call, ten or fifteen minutes later, she was her usual bubbly self.
Suburban Maryland, Later that Day
“Here we are,” Sarah said, as she parked her 2004 Corolla in front of a nondescript ranch house on a quiet street. I got out, keeping my head down and my coat loose. Sarah joined me and we walked to the front door.
“Nervous?” she asked.
“Scared,” I admitted.
“Huh. I think you’ll manage. Never seen them bite.”
But I was scared. My nervousness had manifested in third- or fourth-order issues, like what I should wear. Did the women try to look their best? Or, would that be rude? Formal? Not formal? The only thing Sarah had said that might even theoretically be useful was, “Be yourself.”
But what, for me, did that even mean? Was I the woman I aspired to be? Or, was I something else, something unformed, unfinished?
“Fake it ’til you make it” was practically my mantra. Feeling like I might not be good enough at work? Fake it. Assume it’ll come. Recovering from a break-up? Don’t let ‘em see you cry.
I had been pursuing my gender identity the same way. I knew I was a woman where it mattered, and as far as my nonconforming body was concerned, I would just fake it. Use padding and prosthetics and cosmetics as a bridge, hoping that someday my body would look feminine without such assistance.
And I had been pleased with how well I had managed. How good I was at looking and acting like the woman I knew myself to be. Liz, Al, Javier, Sarah, Fiona, even Dr. Chun – everyone told me so. I had patted myself on the back about it. I could just be a woman.
But Tom had demonstrated that it wasn’t that simple.
And I knew what Dr. Sheppard saw, when I had to set aside my prosthetics and my padding. When she got out a tape and took my measurements, piece by piece.
A pale, thin, male body.
And however much I might wish it were otherwise, that, too, was a part of who I am. I could fool the outside world, usually – the eye is easily fooled; the ear, the sense of touch, less so. But it was past time that I was honest with myself, at least.
And, I decided, I should also be honest with Sarah’s flock. If I couldn’t show them who I am, warts and all, could I show anyone? Would I need to keep the world at a distance until I “made it,” whatever that might mean?
What if I never did?
Sarah had said nothing about my outfit when she picked me up, but she was sharp enough to understand. I was wearing a skirt and blouse over a plain white bra and panty set, but for once I had left my prosthetic breasts and my padded panty gaff at home. I wore no jewelry. No makeup. It was just me, naked and vulnerable once more.
Sarah rang the bell and an older woman opened it. Probably mid-fifties to mid-sixties. She was around six feet tall and possessed strong features and a calm expression. She was wearing a plain, but nice, calf-length dress with a crew neck and long sleeves; she showed a full figure, but no one who saw her would think she was born female. If that still bothered her, she hid it well.
She greeted me with a warm smile. “I’m so glad to meet you, Cami. Any friend of Sarah’s is always welcome here.”
To my surprise, Sarah said, “Jacqui, you’ll introduce her?”
Our hostess smiled. “Of course.”
“Then I’ll go get to work.” Sarah turned to walk away.
I was a bit panicked at the thought of navigating the evening without anyone I knew, and blurted out, “You're not staying?”
Sarah turned back. “I told you, this community is run by transwomen, for transwomen. I’ll be around afterwards for fellowship, but I have to make the potstickers.”
I hid my dismay with a quip – “Saints in heaven preserve us, you’ve become the frying nun!” – then waved Sally Field off.
I don’t know how much of my inner turmoil was evident to Jacqui as I watched Sarah walk away. But she touched my shoulder lightly in sympathy. “It’s okay. Everyone here has walked in that door with the same stomach full of butterflies. But I can promise, this is a safe place for you. For all of us. Let me introduce you to the others.”
She gently drew me in and took me into the living room, where a grouping of chairs was arranged in a broken circle. I must have been the last to arrive, since there were already seven women in the room.
Jacqui was clearly the oldest, but three were my age or younger, and the remaining three looked like they were in their mid-thirties to their late forties. Some would easily pass as cis-gendered women, others would not.
Interestingly, I was not the only one there who wore no makeup. Everyone else had feminine curves, but I had no way of knowing how far each had gone in the transition process.
After spending a few minutes introducing me to the other women (oldest to youngest, Jacqui, Angela, Jenny, Sam, Traci, Steph, and Marta), we all sat. Jacqui lit a single candle, then offered her hands to the women on her right and left.
As we all held hands, Jacqui said, “Sisters, will you pray with me?”
I bowed my head and thought, “Hello, God. I’ve missed you!”
To be continued. . . .
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
Washington DC, January 13
“Hey David – got a minute?” I was standing at the door to David Parr’s office, and it was another Monday in the trenches. Suit, dress shirt, tie, hair in a club – I had my work mask firmly in place.
David looked up from his screen and waved me in. “Sure Cam, what’s up?”
“I spent some time this weekend trying to find a few clips from Dr. Silverman’s deposition testimony to use in our presentation to the mock jury. Just some highlights. I had only read the transcript before. Listening to him . . . I just don’t think he’s going to come across well. Their expert sounds better.”
At that last comment, David’s eyebrows shot up. “Trotter is a complete idiot! He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Richard Siverman was our expert witness on liability; Caleb Trotter was the Defendant’s opposing expert.
“I agree. But . . . I’ve read their reports, I’ve read the sources they site . . . . the jury won’t have. And Trotter just sounds credible. Silverman . . . he mostly seems pompous.”
David had defended Silverman’s depo and had taken Trotter’s. But it had been over a year ago, and he had never watched the video. “Pompous, huh? Ouch. I’d better go back and watch the tape. We can definitely work on style issues when we prepare him for his trial testimony, and that’s what really matters.”
I went back to my office, one worry less on my plate, a whole lot more waiting for me. Getting a case ready for trial is just an incredibly intensive endeavor. It was lots of long days, and detail work, and meetings. With clients, witnesses, experts, and technicians. And, of course, with the other attorneys. The work rolled on and never stopped.
College Park, Maryland and Baltimore Maryland, January 17
For the first time in a long while I had actually rented a car – a Rav4 – for the weekend. I had cut out early from work (far from the only one doing so the day before a three-day weekend), and I did not need to be in Baltimore until 7:00. But I had spent the long week looking like Cameron Savin, and Cami needed a bit of fluffing before she faced the world.
Nair. Shower. Shampoo. Conditioner. Mousse. Curlers. Turban. Moisturizer. Reattach prosthetic breasts and nail extensions. Polish.
This was always my favorite moment in my transition back. While my hair and especially nails were setting I couldn’t really do anything. So I would often just sit in my comfy chair, wearing my silky bottle-green dressing gown, absorbing the sensual feel of the fabric against my skin, the peculiarly feminine smells of moisturizer and nail polish, and whatever music I chose. I was invariably calmer when the interlude ended; more ready to face whatever followed.
The day was clear and cold, with the temperature just above freezing. I was meeting Nicole, Maggie, Nicole’s maybe boyfriend and Maggie’s . . . double date, perhaps? . . . to go to a movie, so the right play was tight jeans tucked into my high boots. I wore a more-conservative-than-usual, heavier than usual wool sweater over a camisole. I wanted to look good, but I didn’t want anyone to think I might be trawling.
The evening might well be awkward. Nicole reported that she had spoken to Bruce about my being trans and everyone was chill. But who knows?
For the same reason I was very careful with my makeup, and I did my hair in my go-to casual style (loose braid tumbling over one shoulder). Feminine, but simple. Just a girl hanging out with friends on a Friday night. I added plain stud earrings and the lovely watch that Liz had given me for Christmas, wrapped a patterned wool scarf around my neck, shrugged into my winter coat, and then headed out.
We had agreed to meet at the theater since everyone was coming from different places and several were coming from work. Nicole, Maggie and Bruce were already there when I arrived. I gave hugs to the girls and said a cheerful, “Hi Bruce!”
His response was equally easygoing. We were chatting for just a couple minutes when Trey came around the corner. I was surprised to see Tom with him. Any potential awkwardness was avoided with generic “Hey guys!” greetings from Nicole, Maggie and me.
The price the guys had to pay for fair company was that Nicole and Maggie were anxious to see Coda, a movie about a musician, played by Patrick Stewart, who tries a late-in-life return to giving live performances, only to suffer from stage fright and instability. The guys were good sports about it.
We went into the theater to sit down. Tom picked a row and was followed immediately by Bruce, then Nicole. That, I decided, was my cue. I followed Nicole and was followed by Maggie, then Trey. So I was neatly bracketed by my girlfriends. No awkwardness there.
Except that the whole “Let’s avoid any awkwardness” thing was pretty awkward. I kept my sigh silent.
The theater was a new design which served food during the movie; there was a long, bar-style table in front of each row of seats. While we were waiting for the show a server walked down the aisle in front of us and took our order. Generally I wouldn’t be a fan, but I was pretty hungry and I hadn’t had a chance to eat. Our food even came before the previews were over, so someone in the kitchen was hustling.
Then the feature started and I let myself get lost in the movie. It was a tight story – the movie only went an hour-and-a-half – and I enjoyed it. Like the main character, I have found solace and peace in Beethoven’s sonatas.
Nicole and Maggie were more deeply touched, unsurprisingly. They both had such boundless joy in their music that the idea that debilitating performance anxiety can occur later in a career was a scary one.
The guys didn’t have a lot to say about it.
Trey suggested we should all grab a drink at The Tornado, a bar the guys knew that was not too far away. It was only a bit after 9:00 so everyone was game. We decided to condense to two cars since The Tornado didn’t have a big parking lot, and I drove Nicole and Maggie in my rental. They were still talking animatedly about the movie.
I was getting quiet as I noticed that we were driving to an area that looked darker, grittier, and possibly less safe.
We pulled into a poorly-lit parking lot and I found a spot to park near the dumpsters in the back. At my suggestion we left our coats in the car since it might be tight quarters indoors.
Inside, The Tornado was pretty full, with a mix of people at the bar and at high tops. I pulled Nicole and Maggie back to a table near the kitchen, the guys following in our wake.
Trey said, “I’ll get us a pitcher.” He waded into the crowd near the bar. Bruce and Tom were saying something, but I couldn’t make out much through the noise. Nicole and Maggie were looking a little lost.
Trey came back juggling a pitcher of beer and six glasses. I begged off on the grounds that I had to do more driving. That was true as far as it went, but I would have passed on the drink even if I wasn’t driving. I didn’t feel comfortable.
Everyone was talking loudly, struggling to be heard. The Bucs/Saints playoff game was blaring on the TVs over the bar, drawing an enthusiastic crowd. The sharp “crack” of cue balls breaking filled the area on the other side of the bar.
The beer flowed. The noise got louder. Wilder. I didn’t need to look at my watch – my beautiful, delicate, lady’s watch, so very out of place in this place, to know the time. It’s time to get out of here.
Suddenly there were other faces pressing toward us. Hungry faces. “Hey babe – come home with me. I’ll show you a good time!” This was, naturally, directed at Nicole.
More faces behind that one. Angry faces. Drunken faces. Bruce was rearing up, furious. Trey and Tom surged to his support. There was shoving. Voices getting angrier. Someone threw a punch. The sound of glass breaking. Red, furious faces. Uncontrolled. I saw someone start to approach us – Maggie, Nicole, and me – from the side, while our “gallant” gentlemen were otherwise engaged.
Time to pull the ripcord.
“C’mon!” I shouted. I grabbed Maggie’s hand – she was closest to the new threat – and pulled her forward, put my other hand on Nicole’s shoulder, leaned in and barked, “Follow me!”
Then I plunged through the swinging door into the kitchen, pulling my friends with me and dashing to the back. Red tile. Stainless steel. Sounds and smells of cooking, frying. Bar food. Cooks and dishwashers. Surprised faces.
“You’re not allowed in here,” a large Black woman said as we barreled through.
“Just leaving!” I said, and opened the door that led to the dumpsters in the back – as well as the parking lot. The freezing, cleansing air hit us like a slap, filling our lungs.
My car was close. Nicole and Maggie were now racing behind me. I had the keys jammed in my fist with one protruding through my fingers – a tip I’d heard in a self-defense class ages ago that I’d never thought I’d have to use.
It also meant I wasn’t fumbling for the car keys, so we were inside in a flash. I was out of the parking lot and turning up the street just as people began spilling out the front door, the fight still very much in progress.
“What the fuck!!!” Maggie exploded.
Nicole was shaking.
I just drove. Out. Away. Somewhere that looked safe. When we hit an area that was quiet and well-lit, I slowly pulled over to the curb.
Nicole was in the passenger’s seat, crying quietly.
Maggie was still sputtering.
I put a hand on Nicole’s shoulder and said softly, “Nicole, honey, it’ll be okay. It’s alright. We’re safe. Let me take you home; we can get your car tomorrow.”
She nodded but couldn’t speak. I looked in the back seat.
“Maggie? Maggie?” I managed to get her attention. “Could you tell me your address?”
She gave it to me, I fed it into my phone, and got us moving.
Their row house was maybe fifteen minute’s drive. By the time we got there everyone had calmed down some, but they were clearly shaken. Nicole – always graceful Nicole – fumbled with her keys and dropped them.
I swooped down, picked them up, and unlocked the door. Got them both inside. Locked the door behind us.
They stood like they weren’t sure what to do.
There was a small, inhumanly tidy living room to the left of the entryway; I pulled them in. “Sit a minute.” I got them off their feet. Then I went back to the hallway and followed it past the staircase to where I assumed – correctly – the kitchen would be.
Nicole and Maggie were musicians and neatniks, so they had what I was looking for and it took no time at all to find it. In short order, I was going back to the living room with three steaming mugs of green tea.
They were talking, thank God; the shock was wearing off. Nicole was saying, “How could he do that? He just charged into a fight and forgot all about us!”
I handed her one of the cups, gave the other to Maggie, and then sat down. “He’s a hockey player, Nicole. His go-to response is to drop his gloves and throw punches.”
Maggie said, “God, I felt so unsafe. What were we even doing there?”
It was a good question. It had been clear to me walking in that we were out of place. Given how each of us were dressed, how our hair and makeup were done, we blended in perfectly at the nice theater and would have looked right at home in a trendy bistro or wine bar.
The Tornado, however, was just a working-class bar in a working-class neighborhood. It would be perfectly safe for locals. It probably would have been safe enough, but rough, if we had dressed to go there. The guys, being guys, hadn’t thought anything of it, but the three of us had stood out like suits in a biker bar.
I thought of Sarah’s advice, so critical for transwomen: You are safest if you blend in. It was good advice for cis women too.
They talked for a bit. Really just venting more than talking.
When they wound down, I asked, “Will you be okay?”
Maggie sighed and said, “Yeah. I’m . . . upset, but mostly I’m mad. I’ll be okay.” She looked at Nicole.
So did I.
Nicole looked down, as if she could pull an answer from the dregs in her tea cup. Her eyes were bright with tears she refused to shed.
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” she said, though her voice still shook. “Mags will tell you, I have a bad habit of getting all enthusiastic about guys before I really know them. And then something like this happens. Well. Not like this exactly. But something. I’ll get over it. Him. I always do.”
I said, “He made a mistake Nicole. Well, two. Are you sure you want to write him off so quickly?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t just put me at risk, Cami. He put my friends at risk, too. And then took it as some challenge to his ego when . . . when . . . .”
She stopped and took a deep breath. “I’m not some damned battle prize. He acted like someone was challenging his manhood, not like someone was threatening me. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t know what would have happened to us. Either of us.”
“Too right,” Maggie fumed. “I was so mad I was about to start scratching and clawing at people. And that wouldn’t have ended well.”
We sat for a minute, lost in our own thoughts.
Nicole looked at me. “I know you’ve got places to be tomorrow, but I can’t imagine you want to drive right now. Will you stay the night? We’ve got a couch in the spare room upstairs. I think we could all use some rest. And . . . I’d feel better with you here.”
“We both would,” Maggie agreed.
Nicole was right. Now that the emergency was over, the adrenaline had dissipated and reaction set in. I wasn’t tired, I was exhausted. I accepted gratefully.
She loaned me a flannel nightdress and brought me into the spare room upstairs that they used as a TV room. She came in after I had changed with a big poofy comforter, which she insisted on tucking around me. “Thank you for what you did tonight. I couldn’t even think straight. When everything started to happen, I just froze. It was like a bad dream.”
I held her right hand in both of mine. “You’re safe now, Nicole. Safe. Okay?”
She nodded, but her eyes looked less certain.
Nicole was kneeling next to me, worry lining her angel’s face. “Cami? Cami?”
I grabbed her hand, tried to anchor myself back in the present. To remember that I was here, that I was safe. I was not on my knees. There was no monster above me. Just me, and my friend, who was distressed.
Breathe. Ragged. Try again. Breathe.
Nicole was saying something. What? Listen! Breathe.
“Cami, I couldn’t sleep, then I heard you calling out. Calling for Fiona. Are you okay? CAMI!?”
Fiona! Fiona in danger!!! Breathe, dammit! Think!
I finally pulled myself out of the nightmare. Got my lungs to start working. Felt the fear, the terror, begin to recede.
I squeezed Nicole’s hand. “I’m sorry. Bad dream. From . . . from Christmas.” I remembered that I had told Nicole about the attack. About Jonathan.
She understood immediately. “Does this happen every night?”
I shook my head. “At first. Not now. I did get some medication. But . . . . oh, Jesus, that was bad.”
She just held my hand in both of hers while my pulse and breathing slowed. After a few minutes, she said, “Cami, you’ve got your nightmares and tonight I’ve got mine. Why don’t you join me in my bed, and maybe we can both sleep?”
And that is how I woke up, spooning with the Most Beautiful Woman I Had Ever Personally Met, who was my very dear friend. I had slept the rest of the night peacefully, dreamlessly, and so, to all appearances, had she. Her heart-shaped face looked calm, peaceful, untroubled.
I gently extracted myself, tucked the comforter close against her back, and tiptoed downstairs.
Baltimore, Maryland, January 18
I got a much later start than I had hoped.
While Nicole and Maggie slept, I found that the house contained only tea (sadness!), though at least some of it was black. There were eggs, onions, mushrooms, and gruyere cheese. No luck on tomatoes. No bread of any sort. They had a frying pan suitable for omelets. Bueno.
After chopping the onions, slicing the mushrooms, and shredding the cheese, I heated some water and made myself a cup. Still no sound from upstairs.
I decided to grab a shower. Afterward, I gave myself a careful examination and didn’t see any untoward hair growth overnight. Not surprising since my face- and body- hair is sparse and grows slowly at the best of times. I changed back into my clothes from yesterday, then used my makeup mirror to add just a touch of lipstick and eyeshadow.
Maggie emerged from her bedroom just as I was about to go back downstairs. She gave me a smile, walked over, and gave me a long hug. “Thank you for yesterday. You’re a lifesaver.”
I let go and gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Go do your business; I’ll have some breakfast ready for you in a couple of minutes.”
She raised her right hand, squeezed my left shoulder, and then disappeared into the bathroom.
Her omelet was coming off the stove just as she came downstairs, hair in order, wrapped in a long bathrobe and her feet swaddled in fuzzy slippers. I put her plate and a mug of tea on the kitchen table for her.
She blew me a kiss and sat down while I started making the next omelet.
“How did you sleep?” I asked her.
She grinned. “Great, but I always sleep great. If I have dreams, I never remember them. How about you?”
I had to confess that I’d had a bad night and Nicole had undoubtedly had a worse one. “I got the sense she’d been awake the whole time before I woke up, and I have no idea when my night terrors hit. Might have been 3:30 for all I know. So I’m glad she’s sleeping in.”
Maggie said, “I had a text exchange with Trey last night.”
I raised an inquisitorial eyebrow.
“Apparently Bruce had been frantically trying to get in touch with Nickie and she was ignoring him. Probably shut her phone off; she usually does.”
“Usually?”
“Yeah, she wasn’t kidding when she said she gets ahead of herself with guys. But impulsiveness works both ways. When she gets pissed, she doesn’t hesitate to swipe left.”
She returned to her earlier point. “Anyway, I told Trey we were fine, no thanks to them. He was still making excuses by text when I said we should all remember having a nice time skating and leave it at that. He didn’t get the hint, so I told him that he and Bruce should lose our numbers. Fortunately we never said where we live.”
I sat down to join her when my omelet was ready. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out with you and Trey.”
“Meh. I wasn't really interested. Bruce was the pick of that litter and – don’t tell Nickie I said this – I wasn’t all that sold on Bruce either.”
“Oh?”
She shrugged. “Trey was a nice enough guy. Good-looking, sure. Likes hockey, football, basketball, in that order. Likes country western music. Oh, and beer. He really likes beer. Brews it, I think. Anyhow, not a great deal of overlap. I just went along last night because Nickie wanted some cover. Like you did, I expect?”
“Yes, though . . . I really enjoyed skating with Tom. It was . . . .” I found myself blushing.
Maggie smiled at me wickedly. “Oh, was it?”
I laughed. “Yeah. But like I told Nicole, I think he guessed I wasn’t all that I seemed to be when he grabbed my hip to keep me from tumbling, and he bugged out after that. I was surprised to see him last night.”
“Do you think maybe you were imagining things?”
I shook my head. “He made sure we weren’t sitting together at the movie – and thank you, by the way, for running interference for me when it came to seating! Anyway, I wasn’t any happier about how the guys behaved last night than you or Nicole."
I paused, considered, and added, "I think you had it just right. We had a lovely time skating; it’s a great memory. But I’m not spending more time on him than that.”
She made a small, dismissive wave. “Bye, Felicia.”
“Exactly!”
We finished our omelets and rinsed off our plates, then sat down to finish our tea.
Maggie said, “For what it’s worth, I think you’re more than you seem to be. You couldn’t have gotten us out of that jam last night any quicker if you had planned it in advance.”
I shot her a surprised look and shook my head in disbelief. “Of course, I planned it in advance, Maggie.”
She wouldn’t have looked more surprised if I had said I’d been hatched by space lizards.
I leaned forward and grabbed her hands for emphasis. “I wanted to talk to you about that this morning. To both of you, but you’ll pass it on. I don’t know Baltimore, but I know enough to have been aware we left the nicer parts of town within blocks of the theater. Then we pull up and the parking lot isn’t lit properly. We walk in and we stand out like circus clowns. We. Weren’t. Safe.”
“I should have just driven on, and that’s on me,” I said, giving her hands a squeeze. “I didn’t want to rain on Nicole’s budding romance. But at least I was able to get us a table by the back exit, and make sure we left our coats in the car, so we didn’t have to go looking for them if we needed to leave in a hurry.”
She nodded and looked both thoughtful and sheepish. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. Nick and I were just merrily talking away. I guess we figured we were with three hulking hockey dudes, so no one would hassle us. We both know better. In a rough place, big guys with girls can be magnets for a brawl.”
She paused, then gave me a quizzical look. “I guess I’m surprised you know all that. I mean, I know you’re trans, but . . . you didn’t have to go through your teens and twenties thinking about personal safety the way a girl does. Did you?”
I agreed, I hadn’t. “But, as a transwoman, I really have to be even more careful, and that’s something that’s been firmly impressed on me. If a guy who is thinking about a little fun finds out I’m not built the way he expects, there’s a decent chance I end up dead. The good ones – like Tom, for example – just walk away.”
Maggie looked pale. She thought a minute, then opened her mouth to say something, only to close it again.
I gave her a fond look. “Whatever it is, I won’t be offended. Go ahead.”
She blushed and said in a rush, “Why do it? Why put yourself through all that, subject yourself to all that . . . all that hatred. All that danger. Was being a man so bad?”
“It wasn’t ‘bad.’ But I discovered it wasn't who I am. On top of which, I really, really love being a woman. I could never go back.”
She sipped the last of her tea and sat for a moment. “My little sister had a classmate who was trans and we’d talked some, back when she was transitioning. But I’d always been comfortable in my birth gender and I’ve never envied guys much. Other than thinking they don’t have to deal with periods and bad hair days and catty friends and worrying about what to wear.”
“Yeah, there’s that, I guess!” I chuckled.
“You know, I've tried, and I just can’t see you as a guy. When Nickie came back from New York, she was all bubbling over with enthusiasm – you know how she is! – about this new friend she had met on the train, and how I just had to meet you. She said you were the most thoughtful, caring woman she had ever met. ‘Cuz it was Nick, I discounted it for the enthusiasm effect. But I shouldn’t have. I’m so glad we get to be friends.”
Well, if she was trying to make me tear up, she couldn’t have come up with a better way. So when Nicole stuck her head in the kitchen and asked, “Did I hear my name being taken in vain,” she caught me with eyes full of tears. Again.
But I dabbed them dry just as Maggie said, “Yup, as usual!”
I got up and gave Nicole a hug. “Hey sleepyhead. How are you doing?”
She hugged me back. “Much, much better!” Then she gave Maggie a hug too.
“Hey!” Maggie joked, “what did I do to earn that?”
Nicole held her at arm’s-length and said, “I’m just feeling really grateful for you this morning. I’m sure I’ll get over it!”
I sat her down where I had been. “Sit still for a minute and I’ll get you breakfast.”
She laughed. “Damn, girl. Will you marry me?”
We laughed and I whipped her up an omelet, which turned out looking the best of the three, though that said less than I would have liked. Henry’s omelets, I thought, are delicious AND look good. Even the magnificent Fiona didn’t deserve him.
We talked a bit more while Nicole ate her breakfast and had her tea. Maggie had a second cup, but I was wanting my coffee. When they were finished Nicole hopped upstairs and changed into casual clothes. Maggie was going to wait for a shower. So I gave her a good-bye hug, then drove off to the theater with Nicole to get her car.
She was quiet for a bit, then said, “Thanks for joining me last night. I just couldn’t get to sleep no matter how hard I tried.”
I reached over and touched her leg – about all that was within easy reach while I was driving. “I was touched that you felt comfortable asking me.”
“Why? Because you’re trans?”
I nodded.
“Cami, I’ll say this as often as you need me to, but you’re as much of a woman as I am. More important, you’re my friend and I trust you. Most important – because I can get carried away, as Bruce demonstrated, again – Mags trusts you, too.”
I thanked her for the compliment, but added, “Don’t let the world snuff out your enthusiasm, Nicole. Much less some guy!”
We arrived at the parking lot and I circled it carefully before pulling up next to Nicole’s car – at 9:30 on a Saturday morning, the only one in the lot. It had been the one place Bruce might have found her since she had to go back for it, but there was no sign of other people.
She threw me a smile. “Thanks, girl!” She popped out, once again graceful and vibrant.
Once she was in her car and moving, I pulled out of the lot and drove back to College Park.
It was almost noon before I had left my apartment – three or four hours later than I had planned. I had no regrets about staying overnight at what Nicole and Maggie fondly referred to as “Opera House.” I felt very close to them both and whatever else it had done, yesterday’s experience brought the three of us closer together.
But I was starting to wonder whether I was trying to fit too much into a day. And, I was getting cold feet about stopping to visit Gammy Campbell. It would be after three before I could even get there. After hemming and hawing, I decided to get a second opinion and called Fiona over the car’s speakerphone.
After four rings, I got her message; when it was done, I said, “Hi Fi, it’s Cami. Hope you’re well. I got a card from Gammy Campbell asking what was up between Mom and the three of us, and I thought I might see her since I was driving to Pittsburgh, to fill her in. But I’m running late and I’m having cold feet. Any thoughts?”
While I was leaving the message I got a standard Apple text – the type you send with one click – saying “Sorry, I can’t talk right now.”
Cumberland, Maryland, 1:40 the same day
My phone gave a “ding” and I saw another text had come in. I pulled off to the shoulder to read, “Tied up but got your vmail. Talk to her, she might surprise you. Text how it goes.”
Text how it goes? I wonder what emergency had Fi so tied up on a Saturday. But, I guess I had her advice.
I got back on the road and made a second call, this time to Liz. She picked right up. “Cami! How’s travelin’?”
“Hey Liz! I’m on my way, but I’m going to be later than I’d hoped – maybe too late for dinner.”
She asked whether everything was okay, and I explained about my late start and the stop I was planning in Morgantown.
“She doesn’t know?” Liz asked.
“No. But, I’m not hiding from family, so she’ll find out eventually.”
“Given that you haven’t told your parents, I’m not sure how you figure ‘not hiding from family,’ but I’m sure you’ve got some convoluted explanation for that.”
I laughed. “Well of course I do. I’d tell my parents if we were still speaking to each other, which, after Thanksgiving, we’re not.”
“Lawyer!”
“Yup!” More seriously, I added, “She doesn’t know what’s going on, and she wants to help. Help Mom, mostly, I guess. But all of us. No one’s going to tell her anything if I don’t. Mom doesn’t know, Iain doesn’t care, and Fiona won’t because it’s my story to tell.”
She was quiet for a minute; I wondered if we had lost the connection. But then she said, “She probably won’t accept you, Cami. She’s got to be in her eighties or nineties now. They grew up in a very different world. Are you ready for it?”
It was my turn to be silent for a minute. “I hope so. I steeled myself for it, but as you know, I’m never really ready for rejection when it matters.”
“And she matters?”
“I think she does. Yes. Of my blood relations, she’s the only one other than Fi and maybe Iain who might accept me. The Savins never would; that’s where the fundamentalist strain in my family comes from. And Grandpa Ross has been gone a long time.”
“Be careful then, Cami. Will you?”
I promised I would.
“Listen,” she said, “while I’ve got you . . . I’ve got a bit of turbulence on my end, too. I was hoping we’d have tonight and tomorrow morning to catch up, but my brother – Thor, the youngest – asked if I could look after my niece overnight; he and my sister-in-law really needed a night off. I couldn’t say no, so I’m afraid I’ll have some company when you show up. But he’ll pick her up in plenty of time for us to get ready for tomorrow’s shoot.”
I laughed. “I am trying to picture you dealing with a baby, and my mind boggles.”
“Laugh it up, girlfriend,” she growled, “I’m going to volunteer you to help!”
We wrapped up the call and I promised I would let her know when I left Morgantown. I settled down and concentrated on driving, watching the thin, winter sun light the hills and woods of Western Maryland.
Morgantown, West Virginia, 3:30, later the same day
“Good afternoon, I’m here to visit Catriona Campbell.”
The pleasant-looking woman behind the desk smiled. “You’re here to see Cat? Oh good! One of my favorite people! She’s in room 203. Up the stairs, turn left, down the corridor.”
I thanked her and walked up the stairs, trying to still the butterflies in my stomach. How many times will I have to do this?
How many times will I have to face family, old friends, and put my truth before them. How many times would I feel the weight of their judgment? A line from an old movie leaped into my mind: “You have been weighed. You have been measured. And you have been found wanting.”
How many times?
Her door was closed. I stood before it, uncertain, and smoothed the skirt of my shirtdress. Tugged on the white cardigan I was wearing against the cold. Maybe she was sleeping. Maybe I shouldn’t bother her. Maybe ignorance is bliss.
Eventually I tired of my internal debate, raised my hand, and then knocked.
A surprisingly strong voice answered. “Come on in. You will anyway.”
I’m not sure what I was expecting. It had been a lot of years since I had seen her and she had been in assisted living for a while. Perhaps she was spending most of her time in bed, plugged into the TV, watching reruns of Turner Classics.
No. She was sitting in a recliner that looked comfortable. She had a book on her lap and was dressed in stretch pants and a knit top. Her eyes, blue as my own, were still sharp as she looked over her glasses at the latest intruder. Though her once iron gray hair was now wispy and ivory white and her formerly stocky frame had thinned, it was still Gammy Campbell.
“Yes?” she asked, politely enough.
I stood there, not sure what to say.
She looked at me, beginning to show some annoyance. Then her eyes narrowed and she cocked her head. “You aren’t my granddaughter, but you look like her. I’m fairly certain I haven’t forgotten someone. So suppose you tell me who you are and why you’re here.”
I closed the door behind me and stepped into the room. “I am your granddaughter, Gammy. But you’ve always known me as your grandson.”
She just stared at me, pretty much like I assume owls stare at field mice.
I thought, You have been weighed . . . .
She said, heavily, “Cameron.”
You have been measured . . . .
I just stood, feet and knees together, an errant schoolgirl before a stern principal, waiting for judgment.
Finally, she waved to a chair that looked like it had come from her old kitchen table. “Oh, sit down. I won’t eat you. Tell me what this is all about.”
I walked to the indicated chair, where young Cameron had no doubt sat numerous times, eating Gammy’s cookies and chatting like a magpie. I smoothed my dress behind me and sat down, catching Gammy’s glint at the feminine gesture.
“Gammy, I got your card. And I thought I owed you the truth. This is the real reason no one’s talking to each other. Although,” I added wryly, “Fi and I are the only ones who actually know that.”
Gammy shifted in her seat. “I’m not typically slow, but you’re going to spell that out for me. Your mom’s not speaking to you because you dress like a woman, except she doesn’t know it?”
So I told her how Mom and Dad had disowned Iain at Thanksgiving when he said he was gay; how they had locked me out and refused to speak to me when I went after Iain; how Fiona had canceled her plans to come home for Christmas and introduce her fiancé to the family, and had insisted they apologize to Iain and me if they wanted to attend her wedding.
How they had disowned her instead.
She listened silently until I finished. “All that sounds . . . well, it sounds like Howard and Aileen. And like Fi and Iain for that matter. Though I noticed that you didn’t actually say he was gay.” She got a gleam in her eye when she saw that she’d scored on that point. “But I’m still not seeing what it has to do with you wearing a dress and looking like a co-ed.”
“Fiona only gave them her ultimatum after I told her that I couldn’t join her for Christmas in St. Louis because I had come out as transgendered.”
Gammy thought about that. “She’d have gone otherwise, even though they’d disowned Iain?”
I looked away and said softly, “That was me, Gammy. She wasn’t going to, but I knew how much it would mean to her for Mom and Dad to be at her wedding. For Dad – for her daddy – to walk her down the aisle. I tried to talk her into going out there with Henry, but she wanted me to agree to come, too. And that’s when I told her why I couldn’t.”
Gammy was quiet a long time, lost in thought. In memories. “Well. I guess you finally found that the price tag for keeping the peace in our family was too steep even for you.”
I looked down, not sure what to say.
“Still,” she said, “you picked a strange place to make your stand. Tell me why.”
I opened my mouth to answer but she added, with a sharpness indicative of a competent woman too long surrounded by patronizing youngsters, “And kindly assume that I did not stop paying attention to what was going on in my country or my world in the 1950s.”
I nodded in acknowledgement. “I don’t actually know if it helps if you’ve read about transgendered people, or watched anything on TV. That 'what' is easy to describe, but you asked ‘why.’ That’s hard. But I’ll try."
I paused, trying to think of how to bridge the gap between her world, her experiences, and my own. I had thought about little else during the long drive from College Park, but still I struggled for the right words.
"I know in my heart, I know with every fiber of my being, that I’m a woman. This is what I was meant to be. It’s not about enjoying wearing a dress, though I do. It’s about feeling a completeness, a rightness, when I express myself as a woman, when I relate to other people as a woman.
“I can still look and dress like a man, but when I do, it feels phony. Fake. I feel as out of place as you would if you wore a man’s clothes and tried to live and interact as a man. And I don’t want to live a fake life. A half life. I won’t.”
She chewed on that for a bit before responding. “Well, you’ve got a nice way with words, so you didn’t waste money on your schooling. But I’ll be honest with you. In my life, I’ve never had much patience with people who talk about living 'authentically.' Whether it's artists or musicians or whatever. Authenticity’s a luxury most folks can’t afford.
“My pappy played a mean hornpipe; he’da loved to be a wandering musician. But there was work to do, and mouths to feed. There was a wife to care for. Bills to pay. He was a good man. The best. If he’d followed his dreams, I wouldn’t be alive. Nor would you.”
You have been found wanting.
“You say that your decision to be transgendered is why you and Fiona can’t reconcile with my daughter. The reason the woman who gave you life will go through her life, go to her grave, without the children who should be there for her. Without seeing her grandchildren, if she ever has any.”
She looked at me with hard eyes. “So tell me: Is your ‘authenticity' worth that price?”
That finally got my ire up. I would be damned if I was going to bear the sins of the world, or even of my parents. I raised my head and said, in an even, clinical tone, “I don’t agree with your premise, so I can’t answer your question.”
“Explain,” she challenged.
“I’m perfectly willing to reconcile with your daughter,” I continued in the same tone. “As would Fi. I think you would agree, however, that under these circumstances,” I gave a gesture indicating my feminine look, “she would not reconcile with me?”
“I certainly agree with that,” she growled.
“Then the key to escape the fate you paint so poignantly is in her own hand, not mine, isn't it? If I am willing to accept her as she is, without conditions, is it unreasonable of me to ask that she do the same?”
She glowered at me. She had a daunting glower. “If you decide your happiness requires you to be an ax murderer, is it your mom’s fault if she stops talking to you?”
My eyes got as hard as her own. “Her decision, certainly. But if you think that’s an analogous case, we don’t have anything else to say to each other.”
She glowered another moment, but then she chuckled. It was a spare, dry laugh and not very merry. “Give that school of yours some money. You finally learned how to fight.”
She leaned forward. “All right. I don’t like it. It’s unnatural, and it’s self-indulgent. But that’s all I’m going to say on the subject. It’s your life and I’m not about to stop speaking to my kin just because they make choices I don’t approve of. Or, I would have stopped talking to your mom a long time ago.”
I looked at her warily, reluctant to lower my guard. This time her chuckle sounded more natural. “Not the sweet Gammy Campbell you remember?”
I gave Cam’s half smile and shook my head. “No.”
“Well, remember what I said about ‘authenticity’ being a luxury. When you were a child I gave you what you seemed to need. And Fi and that rascal Iain. And Aileen for that matter. But you’re all grown up now, and I’m eighty-six and have the luxury of being myself.”
“Which,” she added, “doesn’t mean I don’t still love all of you, even if Fi’s the only one who seems to have the sense she was born with. I’d be tickled if you were all happy, and over the moon delighted if you were even remotely capable of getting along. But if even you gave up on peacemaking, Cameron, what good can I do?”
“Me?” I said, stupidly.
“You,” she responded. “Always trying to get along. Trying to keep Howard and Iain from killing each other. Trying to keep Fiona and Aileen from sniping. I thought it was admirable. Futile, of course. But admirable.”
Whatever I had expected from Gammy Campbell, it wasn’t this. Fiona had said she might surprise me. I wondered if Fi had a clue.
Finally, I braved her fierce glower. “Can you tell me why, Gammy? Why was it futile? Why is my family so . . . .”
“So broken?” she finished.
I nodded.
She sat back, sunk in thought. “You look like a co-ed, but you reason like an adult. I guess you ought to know some of it. Some parts aren’t mine to tell."
I nodded in understanding.
"You know that your parents had a child between you and Iain?”
“They WHAT?”
“Huh,” she said. “I guess they didn’t mention that? And Fi would have been three. So she might not have remembered. Anyhow, yes. A little girl. Heather. I held her in my own hand. But she was premature, underdeveloped. She would have lived today, probably. But she didn’t make it; died after two days.”
I must have looked horrified. Sweet Gammy Campbell gave me another hard look. “It happens, Cameron. I buried two of my own, to have just one survive. It happens.” Her tone softened and she added, “Less now than when I was young, praise be. But it happens.”
“Anyhow,” she continued, “Heather’s death really cut them both. Howard was bad, Aileen was worse. I was looking after Fiona and Iain for a while so they could pull themselves together. I couldn’t do anything else. Eventually they found a way. Howard went back to his father’s church. Aileen went with him. It was pretty . . . well. . . . "
She seemed reluctant to continue, but eventually she brought herself to. "Look. I grew up Scots Presbyterian and we were God-fearing, full-Bible Christians. But mostly I grew up poor. Survival was our first religion. Howard and Aileen . . . it was different. They became very devout. Very committed to their church, their pastor. I couldn’t complain. They got back on their feet. They brought the kids home. Cared for them. But . . . .”
It was my turn to finish her sentence. “ . . . but they just kept getting crazier?”
She nodded reluctantly. “It was like a drug, I guess. Helped a lot at first, but then it just started to take and take. It was all rules and ‘thou shalts’ and ‘shalt nots’ and who’s in God’s good graces and who’s on the outs. All fear and fire. There was no joy, no life in it. Just pie-in-the-sky when you die. And then there was politics, and guns, and what all that seemed to come from the same dark place."
She spent a moment lost in memories; the bleak look on her face attesting that they were not good ones. "I did what I could for you kids, to show you a different way. But I wasn’t your momma. Then Fiona moved away, and Iain moved away, and you were getting almost old enough to move away, too. So when Jill needed me back here in Morgantown, I leaped at the chance.
“I just couldn’t deal with it anymore. I keep in touch, and God knows, I love her. He knows that I do. But I can’t save her, and I can’t keep watching her eat herself alive.”
I couldn’t believe it, but tears were streaming down her weathered cheeks. I found myself kneeling by her chair, her hands in my own. I didn’t say anything; I didn’t have anything to say. I could no more fix what ailed our family than she could.
I could only join her in weeping for it. For Gammy’s bitter, broken heart. For my parent’s guilt. For Fiona and all the love she had felt, and had lost. Even for Iain, reacting in spasms of anger to a world turned dark.
I don’t know how long we stayed like that. But Gammy disengaged a hand and laid it against my wet cheek, half benediction, half acknowledgment of our shared grief.
“Ye make a convincing enough lass, Cameron,” she said wryly, a bit of her father’s western highlands lilt creeping into her voice. “But ye see why I was over you so hard. I’ve never been able to get your mother to bend. If you’re committed to this – and you’ve convinced me you are – there’s nothing I can do. Aileen will have to deal with being alone. At least she has Howard.”
She said the last sentence as an afterthought, with an obvious tinge of distaste. My expression must have asked a question; she said, “Never you mind. He was a good man, once. A hard man, now. Not my favorite person, but I wasn’t married to him.”
I got to my feet, slowly. She looked up at me. “You’ll have to tell them yourself; I’ll not be sparing you that.”
I nodded.
She added, tartly, “Assuming, of course, that you all get to the point where you’re speaking to each other for just long enough to explain why you really shouldn’t be.”
“I’m sure the day will come. And, I will tell them.”
“You know about hell, I suppose?”
I thought of my upbringing. “It’s been mentioned.”
“I expect they’ll give you a refresher course.”
I could only nod. “Thank you . . . for trying, all those years. You made Christmas so special. And thank you for hearing me out, at least.”
She looked at me, eyes dry and clear once more. “And thank you, Cameron. For having the guts to tell me in person. Keep in touch.”
I bent, gave her a kiss goodbye, and then left her.
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, later the same day
I arrived at Liz's house around 6:30, which was better than I had feared earlier in the day. She was uncharacteristically flustered, but I wasn’t surprised. Liz had oodles of nieces and nephews and I had none. But she was just not a baby person. Never would be.
I kissed her cheek, dropped my stuff in the guest bedroom, and took baby Ingrid out of her hands. Ingrid, I thought, was adorable.
So Liz got some food together, which – while not her favorite thing – was well within her comfort zone.
I bounced Ingrid gently while we talked and I told Liz about my strange encounter with my grandmother. She managed to serve something that I could eat one-handed, which meant that I didn’t have to put Ingrid down. I didn’t want to.
By 9:00, Ingrid needed more in her stomach. I sat in the comfortable chair by the fire, held Ingrid against my body, and gave her a bottle. I found myself wishing I could give her my breast instead, that I could feel this beautiful infant taking nourishment from me.
I became aware, peripherally, that Liz was taking pictures. I might like copies of those.
I was, as usual, up early. Ingrid had gotten up twice during the night and I’d handled it both times, having finally convinced Liz to leave the Pack ‘n Play crib in my room. Ingrid and I got along well. And, I had gotten to bed early, so my total sleep quotient was still okay. Well, no worse than usual, anyhow.
By the time Liz’s brother Thor (honestly, that’s his name) came to pick up Ingrid at 8:00 that morning, she was cleaned, fed, and in a fresh onesie. I had handed her back to Liz, who handed her to Thor.
Thor was a big man, though he looked enough like Liz to make their relationship plausible, if not obvious. He was effusive in his gratitude.
Liz said, “Thor, really. Any time. That is, any time Cami’s here!”
We all laughed.
He got his daughter and all of the paraphernalia that traveled with her loaded into his car, then he drove off, waving.
I looked at Liz.
She looked at me.
I said, “So . . . got time for a little workout before we have to do the primping stuff?”
“Is that a challenge?”
I laughed. “Maybe . . . . Give me a minute.”
I popped into the guest bedroom and re-emerged, minutes later, dressed in a crop-top red sweater with capped sleeves, a ridiculously short white skirt, and sneakers. ‘I’ve got my uniform; where’s yours?”
This time she laughed even louder. “It is a challenge!” She disappeared into her own bedroom. When she came out, she was dressed in her old cheerleading outfit – the one I had worn when I pretended to “try out” for her squad.
We went downstairs to her exercise area and she put on some up-beat electronic music. Then we challenged each other.
She would do a series of cheer exercises. I would try to duplicate them, then I would do a set and she would try. Unlike our last session, where she was playing the coach, we were just two women bouncing around, challenging each other to kick higher, to jump higher, to move better.
She finally threw in a split and I just managed it.
Success!!!
After thirty minutes we were hot, sweaty, and cheerful. I was nowhere near as good as Liz, the former queen bee of her high school cheerleading squad, and never would be, but we both had fun.
I said, “So, did I make the team?”
“Keep tryin’, kid!”
We went upstairs and took showers. I took a blow-dryer to my hair right away to get it dry. Since Liz wanted these pictures for her website, I had decided my picture should look a bit less recognizable. So the folks at the salon were going to attach a wig and do something dramatic and different for my makeup.
Liz emerged a bit later, dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a crisp white shirt. As usual, she looked perfect, since she very much looked like a photographer.
Liz drove to her salon, which had been told the same story about a photoshoot as last time, but this time it was even true. They finished my nails and makeup in about forty-five minutes, then came out with the wig. My own hair was pulled back and put in a tight bun against the back of my head and they fussed with a wig for a few minutes before letting me see it.
“Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you,” Liz said.
Since my mother doesn’t even know that I’m a woman, I thought Liz was probably correct.
Nevertheless, I was flabbergasted. My makeup was dramatic, with peach undertones I don’t usually have, and false eyelashes that actually looked good (normally, I don’t like how they look on anyone).
The hair was an effusion of honey-gold that flowed half-way down my back as well as over my shoulders and down my chest. It was abundant, and very, very girly. I could pass for eighteen. Well, twenty, anyhow. Maybe Dolly Parton had been onto something all those years with her wigs!
We thanked the ladies at the salon, then went off to the next destination. Liz had worked a deal with a local bridal shop where they gave her a discount on rentals for the day in exchange for advertising and credit on her website. She picked up a wedding dress, two bridesmaids’ dresses, three tuxes, and the necessary accessories. We loaded them into her car and brought them back to the house.
It was about 12:30; the rest of her crew wasn’t showing up until 3:00. We had a quick bite to eat – some premade soup and toast – then got to work. I helped her set up her greenscreen and re-do the bridal trellis she had put together last time, decorating it with artificial flowers. Once it was up, a couple of people could move it around without too much trouble. Then we set up Liz’s camera gear and lights.
I went back into the guest bedroom and stripped down to my padded panty gaff and my prosthetic breasts. Liz, who had seen it all before, came in with me and started handing me items, one by one. First, a white, boned corset, which she proceeded to tighten mercilessly after I put it in place. Then a pair of snow white panties with a gorgeous lace pattern. Then, once again, she gave me a petticoat in crinoline.
She stopped to admire her handiwork. “I like you better with your own hair, but the blonde is certainly dramatic!”
We went into the main room and I sat in front of the green screen and was once again photographed rolling my stockings up my legs. Liz gave me artistic direction throughout. “A little more bend in your right elbow. No! Too much! Keep it a nice, curved line. Curve your back a bit more as you bend down. Point your toe . . . .” All the while, she was snapping photos like a madwoman.
Eventually she finished that series of photos. “Okay, Sweetie. It’s time. Are you ready?”
I nodded, and she brought out the dress. Surprisingly, Liz had gone with a dress that was both sleeveless and strapless.
She unzipped it, arranged it, and had me step into the middle of it. Then she brought it up until it was in the right place, carefully zipped it back up, then fussed with the satiny fabric until it lay shimmering atop my crinolines.
“Wow,” she said.
“Let me see!” I didn’t even know how the bodice was held up, except that it was remarkably stiff. Probably it stayed up because it didn’t want to disappoint Liz.
We went into her bedroom and I looked in her full-length mirror. She brought one of her cameras and took pictures of me admiring myself in the dress. I was captivated by the image, able to imagine myself as a bride – lovely, fresh, and perfect as any girl on any wedding day. I would have wept, but I couldn’t ruin all of the makeup.
We added shoes, and a thin gold necklace with a striking pendant. She put a ring on the long tapered fingers of my left hand, and then she gave me a bouquet of artificial flowers.
We went back to the area where the green screen was set up, and she started taking lots of bride shots. The bride standing. Sitting. Smelling her flowers. Looking dreamy . . . . You’ve seen the poses in any number of wedding albums. She used them all.
The last time I was here, I had not gotten into a wedding dress, but I had worn the corset, the stockings, and the crinolines. And she had laid me gently on my back, raised my legs high, and slowly, inexorably, fulfilled my wish by popping my cherry with the aid of a strap-on.
I realized I hadn’t had any sex since that day. Hadn’t even masturbated. And here I was again, this time fully a bride. And Liz was close.
So very close.
The bride closed her eyes, unbidden, and bent her nose to delicately sniff the non-existent aroma of the artificial flowers. Liz kept taking photos; it was a pose, after all, even if she hadn’t called it. But I was just getting myself back under command. I had an overwhelming desire to be held, and kissed, caressed, petted, fondled, loved . . . .
I drew a long, deep breath through my nose, feeling the air fill my lungs, expand my chest, push against the corset. I thought of Nicole, getting ready to sing, and I slowly, slowly, exhaled through my slightly parted lips. Again.
“Cami? You still with me?” I suddenly realized Liz had been giving instructions, and I turned my attention back to them.
Her friends Fernando and Tish were the first to arrive. Tish was probably her closest friend, unless I was. But they were very close. She looked up at me – Tish isn’t very tall – and extended her hands, palms up.
I took them lightly in my own.
“Cami. It’s good to meet you. And, it’s good to see you again.”
It was an odd greeting, but it was an odder circumstance. They had never met Cami, but they had hiked, kayaked and rock climbed with Cameron.
Fernando just stood back and said, “Wow. Just wow. You look fantastic, Cami!”
Her friend Tim Jackson arrived next; he actually gave me a two-handed hand-shake. “So good to meet you, Cami!”
Janet Talmage was the last of the crew that I knew, though Liz had expanded her circle a bit since last August. Janet gave me a gentle hug. “You make a lovely bride.”
The two new editions, Bob and Carla, arrived together and were apparently an item. With everyone there, Liz had them get changed, disbursing them to various parts of the house for that purpose.
The bridesmaids wore pale blue satin; the guys wore classic tuxes, but the groomsmen had vests in the same material as the bridesmaid’s dresses. Tim was wearing a white brocade vest; he would be playing the groom.
Liz went into maestro mode. She organized different groupings. Under the trellis. Away from the trellis. Talking to each other. Laughing. Sitting at a table. She took shots of Fernando pretending to give a toast. Of me pretending to throw the bouquet.
She took lots of shots of me with Tim. By his side. Looking at him. Looking down demurely while he bent his head toward the crown of my hair. Laughing with each other.
It was fun and funny. Liz kept it all moving as she snapped millions of pictures. Finally, she assessed that she had enough raw footage. Everyone disbursed again to get out of their wedding attire and back into street clothes.
Liz came in with me, since she didn’t need to change and knew that I would need help. Not without regret, I stepped out of the beautiful wedding dress, which Liz hung with appropriate care. Then she was behind me, working on the laces of my corset while I took careful breaths and tried not to imagine her hands wandering, just a bit.
To here, or maybe here . . . .
Finally I was free of the corset. The rest was easy enough, and soon done. I switched into a pretty A-line dress, as the crew was going out to celebrate the successful shoot at a nearby restaurant.
I also removed the wig, placing it on the loaned wig stand, brushed out my own hair, and returned it to my preferred over-the-shoulder loose braid. The bridal makeup also had to go, replaced by a more casual look.
The dinner was lovely. Everyone was friendly and nothing seemed at all awkward. I guess it stood to reason. These were Liz’s friends, doing this as a favor for Liz. I was no threat. They had known me before, and they had been friendly, but ours had not been the type of friendship that would have survived the end of my relationship with Liz.
As the evening wore on I slipped out, needing a moment with my own thoughts. I felt a shiver as I stepped to the railing on the patio and looked into the darkness. In nice weather, they had tables on the patio, and wine, and laughter. But tonight it was clear and cold, and I was alone with the stars and my thoughts.
I felt Liz’s presence in the darkness at my back. A light, soft touch where my neck meets my shoulder. And a whispered voice saying, “I want you, Cami.”
Neither the voice, nor the presence, were Liz. It was Tim, my “groom for the day.” He stepped closer. I could feel the warmth of his body. His fingers slid down my shoulder, touched the bare skin of my upper arm, while his other hand reached up and cupped my opposite shoulder. His voice was low, urgent, at my ear.
“Please, Cami. I want you so bad.” I felt the touch of warm lips, a kiss at the base of my neck.
I said nothing.
“You know you want it too, Cami. You know you do.”
And it was true. Oh, it was so true! I wanted “it,” and I wanted it bad. I wanted it now. I wanted to be held, and loved. I wanted kisses and sweetness and power and urgency. I wanted heart racing and blood pounding. I wanted . . . . Oh, I wanted!!!
But I didn't want it like this. I barely knew Tim. He was Liz’s friend, not mine. He and Cameron had gotten along fine when Liz and Cameron were an item, but I couldn’t tell you three interesting things about him. I had never felt any spark, any sexual tension, with Tim. I wanted it alright. But not with him. Not tonight.
I raised my right hand and gently stilled his wandering fingers. Keeping my tone light, I said, “Not on the first date, Timmy! I’m not that kind of girl!”
His hands stopped moving and he was still.
My heart beat slowly in my chest. One beat. Two.
“We have tonight, Cami. Who knows what tomorrow brings?”
Three beats. Four. Five.
“We can choose what it brings,” I suggested. Six. Seven. Eight.
“Okay, Cami.”
The hands withdrew and he walked away.
I stared into the dark, the cold seeping into my bones. Wasn’t I worth a little romance? Or was that too much for a transwoman to ask? Should I be grateful that any man would want me?
I thought of Steve, the first man to kiss me. Of Tom, his strong arms around me as we skated around the rink. Both gone, vanished, as soon as they knew what I was.
The night had no answers, but I had my own. How many times had I said it, when I faced rejection? The heart goes where the heart goes. I had never had sex, as either Cameron or Cami, without being in love with my partner.
The loves had been few and, with one exception, had not lasted. But in the moment, they had been real. Liz was cheerfully willing to have sex to give release to her body’s wants and needs, but I was not Liz.
I would have love, or nothing at all.
In the meantime, I thought, I should probably break down and talk to Sarah about a vibrator.
To be continued . . . .
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, January 20
Liz and I sat in the comfortable chairs by her fire, watching as snowflakes swirled around her back deck, where they settled briefly before disappearing. It was quiet and beautiful and peaceful, even if the weather would somewhat lengthen my drive home.
We finally had a bit of time to relax – the first calm moments since I had arrived Saturday evening. It had been two months since I had been here last, at Thanksgiving. Half a year since Liz had broken up with Cameron, in these very chairs. Almost a year since our first date. Such a short amount of time!
We had both been up early. Normal for me; less so for Liz. She knew I would have to leave well before noon, and wanted to squeeze in as much time as possible before I did. So we had showered and dressed, had a bite, and were settled in, warmed and cheered by her gas fire, having thirds on coffee.
I finally told her the full story behind my Christmas in Boston, including the attack that I was still reliving in nightmares. I told her about shopping with, and getting kissed by, Steve; about skating with Tom. About Nicole and Maggie, about Fiona and Henry. About Sarah and the faith community she built and nourished.
We talked about the prior evening. “Tim took a shot at you, didn’t he?” Liz asked.
I looked at her cautiously. Tim was her friend, and I didn’t want to cause any issues.
She correctly interpreted my look and waved it off. “I saw him follow you out on the patio. Was tempted to intervene, but I decided you were more than capable of handling Tim. Besides,” she said, watching me, “I didn’t know whether you might be interested.”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing against Tim. But I don’t really know him. Haven’t ever felt anything for him.”
“Yeah, that’s not the sort of thing that would worry Tim,” Liz agreed. “He made a pass at me when we first met, too. But I don’t screw around at work, literally, and told him so. He backed off. I assume he did yesterday, too?”
“He did.” I fell silent.
Liz looked at me with a degree of compassion she rarely shows the world. “You’re wondering if there’s someone out there for you, someone who will treat you right?”
I looked into my coffee. “Sure, of course. I mean, I know life’s not fair that way. And I knew in my head I might have to give up on romantic relationships if I wanted to live my life as the woman I know I am. If that’s the price – even if it’s just part of the price – I’ll pay it. But it does hurt, Liz. I try not to let it, but it does.”
She was quiet in response, finally stirring to say, “I wish I could tell you it'll all work out. That just because you’re a wonderful person – and you are, Cami, the best I know – you’ll live happily ever after. But it would sound pretty stupid coming from me, since I let you go myself. Still, I hope you find what you’re looking for. Who you’re looking for. And that he turns out to be right for you.”
We talked about my work, and hers. How she was finally getting her team to work together properly, after she had to bring a couple engineers to heel. We talked about her plans for doing side gigs as a photographer.
We talked about her old friends and her new ones, so much a part of the life she had woven for herself when she came back to Pittsburgh. When we had first started dating, I really didn’t have a life of my own, living in a new city myself, fresh out of law school. I had eagerly latched on to Liz’ friends, just as I had adapted myself to her interests and hobbies.
I was building my own life, now.
We talked about Derek, and the budding romance that was slowly, carefully, adding color and texture to the vibrant sexual relationship they already enjoyed. She was finally taking him seriously, and it seemed he was treating her like a serious prospect as well.
One stone, one brick at a time, she was dismantling the moat and glacis, the bastions and batteries and hardened defenses that she had constructed since the end of her marriage to stand guard over her inmost thoughts and feelings. An open and vulnerable heart, protected by nothing more than trust in its own resilience, nurtures and husbands a different kind of strength.
We talked about our shared archive of eye-popping images and video, and decided it was time to delete all of the compromising material. We had the memories, and they would be enough.
We talked for hours. Memories, hopes, fears . . . a fitting bookend to our first magical conversation in an Ethiopian restaurant in Adams Morgan. And through it all, unspoken, I felt a shared realization that I was finally letting Liz go. We would remain friends forever, I was sure of it. But the duet we had sung together this past year was finally resolved, the last notes of the diminuendo fading into memory.
It was time to leave. I loaded up my rental car, closed the trunk and moved to give Liz a farewell hug. Instead, one last time, she pulled me in and kissed me deeply, gloss-red lips to gloss red lips, a passionate and lingering kiss suffused with love and longing, gratitude and grace.
The fingers of my right hand brushed her cheek, light as the falling snow, a wordless parting. God go with you, dear one.
As I turned at the end of her street, I saw her in my rear-view mirror, small but as vivid as my first memory of her, always and forever a cardinal in a field of dusty heather. She raised her arm in farewell and was lost to my sight.
College Park, Maryland, January 21
“Hi Henry,” I said to the image of Fiona’s husband-to-be on my computer screen. “I don’t suppose my sister is home?”
He shook his head. “Sorry Cami. I’d say your timing was unlucky, but she’s barely had a moment since you left after Christmas.”
“I saw articles in the Times this morning, about the Coronavirus case in Washington state, and what that Chinese doctor was saying about person-to-person transmission. That’s what she’s been working on, isn’t it?” Fiona worked at the infectious disease division of MassGeneral.
Henry nodded. “Yeah, pretty much non-stop, around her normal clinical duties. Conference calls to discuss logistics, preparing protocols. Trying to make sure they have supplies where they need them. Just in case.”
“So it's bad?”
Henry waggled his fingers. “Probably too soon to tell. Could be like SARS; lots of localized problems, but nothing that gets out of control. But it also could be worse. A lot worse. Right now, there’s too many unknowns to make good predictions.”
“That must make your job hell, too.”
“It hasn’t yet. But I think it will. We’ve been quietly taking profits for the past week, ten days, just to reduce exposure. And making some hedges in the pharma sector, naturally; Robbo’s been busy. It’s a delicate balancing act. No one wants to spook the markets, but no one wants to be left holding the bag if this breaks the wrong way, either.”
I thought, this is one of the few times when I’m happy that I have no assets to invest. One less thing to worry about.
I told him to let Fi know that I had visited our maternal grandmother and had what I described as a “full and frank exchange of views,” but that we parted on good terms. I said I had also learned a few things about my family that I hadn’t known, and that I would talk with Fi about them sometime when she wasn’t saving the planet. It could all wait.
He promised to pass on my message and we signed off.
“Hey Cam, did you hear this?”
I was in Daviana Narvaez’ office, going over some inconsistencies in the exhibit labels for the documents we planned to introduce at trial. The senior associate on our trial team, she could teach a nuclear engineer a thing or two about being detail oriented.
A news alert had just popped up on her screen. “China just placed all of Wuhan under quarantine. That’s . . . .” she paused a moment to run a quick search, then looked ill. “Dios. That’s like twelve million people!”
Daviana and I finished what we were working on, but attempting to concentrate on something as trivial as exhibit labels was difficult.
I thought, What does this mean? Who even knows?
Baltimore, Maryland, January 24
“Please come in, Cami. I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Karpedian, our endocrinologist.” Dr. Chun, my clinical psychiatrist, walked me into her office where a middle-aged man with a high forehead, intelligent eyes, and silver at his temples rose to greet me.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “May I call you ‘Cami?’”
“Please do, Doctor. I’m glad to meet you.”
We sat in comfortable chairs around a small, round coffee table.
Dr. Chun started the conversation. “We’ve gone through the results of your bloodwork and the report from Dr. Sheppard.” Dr. Theresa Sheppard was the GP who had poked, prodded, and measured every conceivable appendage of mine a couple of weeks ago. “We wanted to discuss the results with you and let you know what we’re seeing.”
What they were seeing, apparently, was a condition called “hypogonadism.”
Dr. Karpedian said, “You don’t meet every criterion, but you meet enough of them. Your testosterone level is abnormally low for a man. And, based on the experience of puberty that you described to Doctor Chun and Doctor Sheppard, coupled with the measurements that Dr. Sheppard took, it appears likely that you had the condition at least as early as your teens.
“It would explain why your secondary sex characteristics – things like upper body muscle mass, face and body hair, the depth of your voice, and your Adam’s apple – are less pronounced then in most adult males. And, as you reported to Doctor Chun, and Doctor Sheppard confirmed, your testes and penis are also smaller than we would expect to see in a post-pubescent male.”
They waited while I took that in.
“So, my physical appearance was pretty significantly affected by this condition?”
“That’s what the evidence points toward, yes,” Dr. Karpedian answered.
“I just assumed I was small.”
“Do you know if you had any testing done when you were going through puberty?” he asked. “It would provide us with a lot of useful information.”
I shook my head. “I’m positive I didn’t. We really only went to the doctors’ office if we were seriously ill. We didn’t do wellness visits. And I was pretty healthy.”
“I see.” He sounded both disappointed and disapproving.
While I could definitely see his point, I pulled the conversation back to the present. “I suppose it’s nice to know how I got the way I am. And I’ll need to process that a bit, I expect. But what does this mean for me now, today?”
“A lot of that’s up to you,” Dr. Chun said. “But we’ll tell you what we think the options are, at least.”
Doctor Karpedian took the lead. “In the ordinary course, once we developed a better understanding of the type of hypogonadism you have, we would recommend testosterone replacement treatment. If you’d received this treatment in your teens it might have kick-started puberty and you might have developed in a way that is more consistent with the male average.
“But even today, testosterone replacement therapy can help you develop more typically male secondary sex characteristics. That wouldn’t be the only reason we would recommend it, though. Hypogonadism can result in additional negative symptoms if it isn’t treated. Put another way, the treatment would fall under the category of ‘medically necessary,’ rather than merely elective or cosmetic. Which typically matters for insurance purposes.”
“You said ‘in the ordinary course?’” I asked.
Dr. Chun answered, “Right. Because that may not be what you want, if you want to pursue treatments to assist in gender affirmation.”
"I see,” I said. “Will this diagnosis preclude the estrogen treatments that we discussed in our last session?”
“I don’t think so,” Dr. Karpedian replied. “Not if that’s what you want to do. But I’d like to run a couple of additional tests to determine the nature and source of the underproduction of testosterone before clearing you for any hormone treatment – whether estrogen or testosterone.”
“Would the hypogonadism have an effect on my body’s response to estrogen therapy?”
Dr. Karpedian made a noncommittal gesture. “Possibly. You might see a more pronounced effect from the treatment. Not as much as someone who has never experienced male puberty. But possibly more. Hard to say for sure.”
Dr. Chun added, “What I recommend right now is that you do the additional tests that Dr. Karpedian mentioned, just so we have a better sense of what’s going on. Assuming the tests come back clear, you will need to make a choice. Do you want hormone therapy that will make you appear more masculine . . . or more feminine?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but Dr. Chun held up her hand. “You absolutely don’t have to decide today, and even if you’re positive I would recommend that you take some time to think it over. It’ll take a week for the additional test results to come in. We can talk about it then, and you can decide what you want to do.”
Reluctantly, I nodded.
She continued, “You don’t need a diagnosis of gender dysphoria to begin hormone treatments, but the diagnosis is usually required if the treatment is going to be considered ‘medically necessary’ for insurance purposes. You meet all six of the recognized characteristics to one degree or another, and only two are required for me to make the diagnosis.”
“However,” she said, “the symptoms must have persisted for at least six months. Based on what you’ve told me I’m only comfortable saying two months, though I could stretch the point to three.”
“So hormone treatment to make me more male would be considered ‘medically necessary,’ but treatment to make me appear more female would be ‘elective?’”
“That’s about the size of it,” Dr. Chun confirmed, “although obviously that changes if your dysphoria continues.”
My heart ached for all the transwomen who lacked my financial options. The quirkiness of our healthcare delivery system bordered on institutionalized cruelty in this circumstance – and so many others besides.
I took the tests.
My condition was a blessing. I was able to pass as a woman much more easily precisely because my “secondary sex characteristics” were “underdeveloped.” I knew it, and I truly was grateful for it. There were transwomen in my faith community who would have thanked God for my condition.
I also had no doubts about my choice. The absolute last thing I wanted was to have testosterone coursing through my blood, coarsening my skin, making me hairy, bulky. Deepening my voice.
No! I wanted just the opposite. I was not even tempted by the chance to be a “normal” guy. Like Tom, Steve, Tim, or Curt. Or Iain. Or my father. I didn’t even want to be a wonderful guy like Henry. Not anymore.
And yet, part of me was grieving for the boy I had been, for everything he had endured. All the pain, the anguish. The bullying. So many memories.
I remembered myself in middle school, watching Iain working out, wondering if I would be as strong as he was when I got my growth. The growth that never happened. I remembered the taunts of the jocks in high school.
I remembered Liz, sitting on her back deck in the morning sunshine, trying to explain, in a way that didn’t tear me apart, that I wasn’t able to satisfy her during sex, and wondered whether my underdeveloped penis played a role in that. All because my body had failed to produce sufficient quantities of a hormone.
Blessings notwithstanding, the force of my memories left me with an overwhelming desire to weep. And a wish – stupid, selfish – for a shoulder to weep on.
I shook my head, angrily. Gammy Campbell was right; I am self-indulgent. I needed to stop my wallowing. Maybe I would have had an easier time in life if I’d developed more in puberty. But maybe having an easier time would have made me less patient, less able to feel empathy for friends who were hurting. More callous.
Those bad years had left scars, and they were smarting right at the moment. But they had also driven internal growth, made me who I am. Everything happens for a reason.
Do I really want to be someone else? Seriously?
I put my phone back in my purse, surprised to find it in my hand. I won’t mourn for Cameron Savin, but if I do, I’ll do it alone.
College Park, Maryland, January 25
I took special pleasure in my exercises, making a point of doing my cheer routines – something I did because it was both fun and a great aerobic workout – wearing the cheerleader outfit I had bought for my challenge with Liz the prior weekend. I should, I thought fiercely, get myself some pom poms.
No, I’m not going to take testosterone!
I Naired and treated myself to a long and sensual shower, sliding the creamy moisturizing soap down the long, smooth length of my legs, feeling the hot water sluice over my skin, massaging sweet-smelling conditioner into my scalp.
Emerging refreshed, I reapplied my prosthetic breasts, tucked and slipped into a clean panty gaff, and went about making myself pretty, for no one but myself and no reason but whimsy. I had to work today, but it was a Saturday and Cami was going to work from home.
I made myself a light breakfast and opened my iPad to catch up on the headlines. In the normal course, the upcoming Iowa caucuses would be the focus of all news coverage, but the impeachment trial in the Senate, now underway, had pushed it to the second rank.
More ominously, the Coronavirus was all over the news. A second case in Washington State. Spooked investors were starting to exit the market, causing broad declines. More bad news out of China.
I felt a chill deep in my bones that had nothing to do with the winter outside. How bad would it get? Nobody knew. And there wasn’t anything I, or almost anyone, could do about it, other than to get on with life, and hope for the best.
And, there was a lot of work in my in box.
It was the end of a long week, but once again I had to leave work early for a medical appointment.
Eileen had asked, casually, “Is everything all right?”
I told her that some issues had come up during my physical; I had to do some follow-up tests but it wasn’t anything serious. Which was truthful enough after a fashion, if incomplete. And the issues, while very serious to me personally, would not interfere with my work on the fast-approaching trial.
I was back in Dr. Chun’s waiting room, reading about the declaration of a world health emergency by the WHO, when her assistant brought me back to her office. Dr. Karpedian was not with her; he had sent us both copies of the test results, his analysis, and a green light to begin hormone therapy late yesterday. Either testosterone replacement therapy or estrogen therapy.
My choice.
Dr. Chun smiled as she came to the door. “Cami, given the care you have taken with your appearance, I assume you have made your decision?”
I laughed. It was a fair point. I had bought myself a jewel-toned red dress with a crew neck, three quarter sleeves, a tight bodice and a full, flaring skirt that fell to just below my knees in a heavy material that looked like velvet but wasn’t.
It was dramatic – not something a woman would wear to either the office or a doctor’s appointment – and I had done both my hair and makeup to match. Oh, yes, I was making a statement, from the flowing curls on my head to the tips of my three-inch heels!
“I’m dressed up because I’m meeting some friends for dinner. But yeah, it’s also my answer. This is who I am. Who I’m meant to be.”
She gave my arm a squeeze and led me to her chairs. “Tell me about it.”
So I did.
When I was done relating my thought processes and how I had reached my decision, she talked to me about her treatment recommendations, what to expect at each stage and an idea of the timeline.
Although I was cleared for the hormone treatment and eager to begin it, I would need to hold off on it until the trial was done. While changes in appearance would be gradual, they might be noticeable by the two-month mark. Moreover, the possibility that hormonal changes would lead to mood swings at the beginning of treatment meant that they would be a bad fit for a time of high stress when I would need to be functioning at my absolute best.
Nonetheless, I asked if she would write the prescription now.
She raised an eyebrow. “Why, Cami?”
“I can’t take them yet, but I want to have them. It’s like, one step closer. Something I can touch. A token, or a promise.”
She smiled again. “Okay. But I want you to let me know before you start taking them. We’ll need to monitor your progress.”
We discussed laser hair removal, but decided to hold off on that until the hormone therapy was well underway. I didn’t have all that much face and body hair, and the estrogen therapy might make it even less of an issue.
What I would be able to start immediately was the voice therapy. “Especially at the beginning,” Dr. Chun explained, “the therapy is really about expanding your vocal range, giving you access to a more convincing high register and more control over your pitch. No reason to delay any of that.”
I was excited by the prospect of taking concrete action, and happy to have an opportunity to work with the voice coach who trained both Nicole and Maggie. Whether I would take steps beyond these was something I could, and should, decide later.
Dr. Chun recommended taking things slowly, waiting until we saw the results of the hormone treatments before deciding about additional steps.
I left her office on cloud nine, overjoyed to be moving forward. I was going to take an Uber to the restaurant where I would be meeting Nicole and Maggie, but first I got a ride to a CVS.
I had a prescription to fill.
Baltimore, Maryland, January 31, later that evening
The Uber dropped me off at Tio Pepe’s in downtown Baltimore. I had reserved a nice table, both because I wanted to splurge on a celebration and because I wanted to give my friends a bit of a treat.
They lived pretty frugally. Like me, they had student loans to pay off, but the arts don’t pay as well as BigLaw, especially when you’re starting out.
Tio Pepe’s is a Spanish restaurant with low ceilings and painted brick walls, providing a warm and cozy space in the middle of a Baltimore winter. I was a couple minutes early, so I ordered a pitcher of their apparently famous and authentic sangria and a couple of apps. The drinks and starters arrived just as Nicole and Maggie swept in from the cold.
Maggie’s dress was a medium blue that highlighted her blonde hair and blue eyes, a flowing design with trumpet sleeves, an asymmetrical hem and a plunging neckline. Nicole, of course, was stunning in a long-sleeved bodycon dress in hunter green, her waist-length hair cascading down the back. They drew every eye in the restaurant as they entered.
Opera singers know how to make an entrance!
I gave them both big hugs and we sat, deep in conversation before I had even poured the sangria.
“So,” Nicole said, “dish, girl! What’s going on?”
I had told them I was celebrating, but I said I’d tell them why when I saw them. Instead, I pulled the prescription bottle from my purse and rattled it enticingly. “I got it! I was cleared!”
They knew immediately what I was talking about, and why it was so important to me. They were beaming.
The conversation flowed, burbled; it eddied when the waiter came by to take orders and again when he delivered our seafood paella, but found its flow again immediately. I told them about the photoshoot and I shared a couple of the images Liz had finished working on and had sent off to me to look at.
“Oh my God!” Maggie said. “That’s you?” It was a picture of me in bridal splendor, laughing with Liz’s friend Tish, who was dressed as a bridesmaid.
“Yes, but it doesn't look that way by design.” The dramatic makeup and long, curly blonde hair definitely changed my appearance radically. “I don’t really want pictures of me looking like this while I’m not out at work. And, I guess I want to earn a picture in a wedding dress.”
I also shared another shot Liz had sent, a picture of me in her comfy chair, head bent over her niece, a perfect and adorable infant, as I held her close and gave her a bottle.
“Your bridal shot looks very professional,” Nicole said, “but I like this one better. That is just so you.”
It was, in obvious ways: I wasn’t wearing a wig, my hair was in my usual loose over-the-shoulder braid, and I was wearing my standard makeup. But it was more like me in deeper ways too.
I had felt an immediate connection to that little girl, so tiny, so vulnerable. I had wanted to hold her and shower her with love, and felt incredible peace when she snuggled in to me and drew warmth from my body. I had never felt anything like it, and my joy and wonder shone through in the photo Liz had taken.
We talked, of course, about opera; Nicole and Maggie live and breathe it. Nicole’s favorite opera, as I knew, was Tosca; Maggie really liked Carmen, which was appropriate to our current setting.
“Carmen is a great mezzo soprano part,” she said. “And, she’s fierce and mercurial, very much her own person. ‘Libre elle est née et libre elle mourra’ – she was born free and will die free. Of course, she does die. It’s opera. But she has a good run! And, I like singing French.”
“You sing Carmen!!!” An older man with the sharp and distinguished features of a hidalgo had overheard her remark, just as he was coming up to the table. “Excuse me, ladies. I was just coming to ask if everything was perfect for you this evening. I couldn’t help but overhear your remark.
“I was privileged to hear Doña Teresa Berganza sing the role at the Teatro de la Maestranza in Seville, almost thirty years ago. She was older then, but still . . . the voice! The passion!!!”
Maggie put both hands to her mouth. “You did! Oh my God!! When Carreras played Don Jose?!!”
“Yes!!! Such an evening! Such magic!! I will remember it always!”
They geeked out a bit more, and Maggie had to explain that she was not presently scheduled to be part of any performance of Carmen, though she would love to one day.
When he left, I said, “You know, I just go places and have dinner. Regular gal. Simple, quiet. But when I’m with you two, anything can happen. People just connect with you, with what you do. It’s amazing!”
After dinner, we took an Uber back to “Opera House,” the row house where they lived. I had a small overnight bag with me because we had arranged in advance that I would sleep over.
They had taken an Uber to the restaurant because they wanted to feel free to drink; I had taken one mostly because I didn’t have a car. I was beginning to think it might be useful to get one.
Back at their house, we changed out of our finery and into something more comfortable. I had actually bought something for this purpose as well. On my own, I loved the sensual feeling of a sexy nightie under my dark green silk dressing gown, but that wasn’t appropriate for hanging out with Nicole and Maggie. So I had purchased a flannel nightgown and a heavy fleece bathrobe in a warm red color.
We made ourselves some green tea and trooped into the living room, where Maggie and Nicole gave me, with great enthusiasm, an introduction to opera. They would play a favorite piece – Maggie insisted on including Carmen, of course – maybe two or three renditions, pointing out the differences in interpretation.
We discussed how the artists were using their voices. Nicole and Maggie debated their favorite composers and librettists.
It sounds dull and technical, but it wasn’t at all. These two women might be young, but they had studied the subject for years with passion and intensity. They were sharing the thing they knew best and loved most in the whole world, the spark that gave their lives meaning. That allowed them to stand up in a crowd of complete strangers and sing.
I was captivated.
We turned in late and I slept deeply and dreamlessly.
I woke early as usual, despite the late night. I’m sure Dr. Sheppard would scold me for my bad sleep habits, but I love the early morning. It was quiet and I was seldom interrupted by the demands of the outside world. Besides, while I had been in bed a shorter amount of time than normal, I had definitely slept better.
I put my fuzzy new robe over my nightgown, added some slippers, and padded downstairs from the spare bedroom where I had spent the night. Maggie had explained that the house was part of her parents’ retirement plan. They had bought three separate properties in Baltimore over the years, fixed them up and rented them out, using the rent to pay off the mortgages.
Opera House had been their first purchase and was already paid off. When Maggie and Nicole were ready to move on, it would become a rental once more. Her parents were both still working, so they were willing to let Maggie live there rent-free for now.
The living room was not suited for my morning exercise routine, which in any event tended to be a bit noisy. But there was space enough for me to do my stretches, so I concentrated on that. I went for fifteen minutes, took a short break to make some tea, then went for fifteen minutes more.
I was getting locked in on my splits now, able to do them consistently and without quite so much obvious strain. Though I felt a bit silly doing them in my nightgown, which had to be hitched over my hips to complete the maneuver.
When the girls wandered down, forty-five minutes or so later, I had tea ready and had cut up some fruits and berries and added them to vanilla yogurt for our breakfast.
“You’re up early,” Nicole said through a smile of greeting. “What’re you up to?”
“Just reading a piece about the impeachment proceedings.”
“Politics,” she said with distaste. “I can’t listen to all that stuff. Drives me crazy.”
I shook my head. “It’s always fascinated me. But now, as a transwoman, ignoring ‘politics’ would be like . . . .” I grasped for an analogy, then smiled and said, “it would be like going into a bar in a bad part of town without an escape plan.”
She grimaced at the reminder. “Is it really so bad?”
“Nicole, there are states where it's illegal for me to use the ladies’ room. Wouldn’t matter what I felt inside, or how many happy hormone pills I had taken. Wouldn’t even matter if I had all my male parts surgically removed. Plenty of people in America, right now, today, think that what I am doing isn’t just unnatural, it’s immoral and evil. And, they think I’m a threat. The ‘why’ doesn’t really matter. What matters is the fear – and the hate.”
“I’m sorry,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “I know we get tunnel vision here; we’re absorbed in our art, our music. When I think about it, I know how lucky we are. But mostly we just take it for granted, I guess. I heard about the bathroom bills, even if Nickie missed that. But . . . I just dismissed it as something stupid, like bad performance art. It didn’t touch me . . . I didn’t feel it, like you do. I should have.”
Nicole looked thoughtful. “Maggie’s right. We’re so privileged. Lucky. And I don’t think about what’s going on in the real world nearly as much as I should. But still . . . politics!”
I laughed, and the moment passed. Like most Americans, they loved their country, loved freedom and democracy, but took all of it completely for granted. Their world was more fragile than they dared to admit; democracy and civil rights, freedom and the rule of law, can be swept away unless they’re defended.
But part of me was glad that, at least for now, these two women lived in a moment where they could focus on their art, could explore their great passion and give such incredible beauty to the world. Not everyone is well-suited to the barricades. Though the time might come when they are called to defend them, nonetheless, I was grateful that it was not today.
Nicole and Maggie had one more treat for me before I left. They brought me down into the basement, an open space that was as large as the footprint of the whole house.
Had I known, it had ample space for my full exercise routine. But a section of it had been turned into a sound-proofed room for making recordings. The enclosure had a large glass partition on one wall, on the other side of which was a lot of professional looking audio equipment, including a synthesizer.
Nicole demonstrated, going in the room, closing the door, going to the microphone and singing. I couldn’t hear anything.
Then Maggie handed me a set of headphones, and I heard Nicole doing vocal exercises, as clear as if she was standing in front of me. I gave a big thumbs-up and she came back out.
“We do most of our work down here,” Maggie explained. "Our voice exercises, our recordings. We make demo tapes to send out for potential gigs. Having this space really allows us to focus.”
I was impressed, and said so.
Then Nicole said, “But we didn’t bring you down here to admire the hardware. You’re here for a workout – our kind of workout!”
I looked stupid I suppose, because Nicole looked mischievous and added, “You’re going to be working with Francesca Trelli; we can get you started before you meet her.” This was their voice coach, whom I would be using as a speech-language pathologist to develop a more feminine voice.
So Maggie and Nicole had me join them in doing vocal exercises, simply singing notes, or a series of notes, without words. They practiced some very basic warm-up routines with me, after first working on posture, breathing and good abdominal support for the voice.
Each of the exercises typically began in a low register and worked up and up. I had to switch to a falsetto before either of them were barely into the heart of their range, and had to stop altogether long before they topped out. But I definitely felt stretched, and they assured me that I could learn how to expand the top end of my present range.
A bit like learning the splits, I thought.
I really felt like I did after a workout when we went back upstairs. Nicole insisted on driving me home, so I got seriously pampered. When we arrived, she said that she wanted to see my apartment.
I felt a bit shy about it, strangely enough. It’s not that it was messy; I keep it neat (if not quite to Nicole and Maggie’s high standards). But I had actually never had anyone over. Other than my landlords, Al and Javier, no one else had ever seen my little refuge.
She spun around in the middle of the floor, taking it all in. “It’s . . . it feels just like you, Cami. It’s warm and friendly; organized. Peaceful . . . .”
One of the sliders to my closets was open, revealing my purchases from over the past months; she stepped close, ran a finger down the sheer fabric of my red slip dress and added, “And, so very feminine.”
She appeared to be thinking hard. “I don’t know politics and I don’t want to. But anyone who can’t see who you are is blind. Anyone who thinks you’re evil, or some kind of threat, is nuts. And if that’s what’s going on in this country, it’s time I got my head out of my ass and started paying attention. If there’s anything I can do to help, I’m here for you.”
I cry so easily now. I never cried at all, before. Nicole, bless her, could make stones weep. “You have got to stop doing that to me,” I said through my tears. “But thank you. I am so glad I sat down next to you on that train!” I cleared my tears and walked her back out to her car.
We ran into Al, who was popping out for an errand, and I introduced them.
Al said, “Oh. My. God! That hair – that hair I would do for free!”
Nicole laughed, we said our good-byes, and she drove away.
“Such a lovely young woman. Cami, it’s good to see you with friends. Especially women your own age.”
I couldn’t agree more, though I responded, “My old, guy friends are pretty good, too!”
College Park, Maryland, February 2
It was 9:30 in the evening. I had worked hard over the past day and a half, but the number of things to be done was inexhaustible. After a break for a late supper, I had gotten myself dressed for bed in my light green nightie.
But I had covered it with my dark green dressing gown and sat back at my computer to get another hour or two in before calling it a night. My hair fell loose and full over my shoulders.
Unexpectedly, my screen lit up with an incoming Skype call. Not work; it was, finally, Fiona. I eagerly clicked on accept, looked at my sister’s exhausted face, and said, “Oh my God, Fi! It’s that bad?”
Her smile in response was tired. “I’m just gonna pretend those weren’t the first words out of your mouth, little sister!”
“I’m sorry!” I was truly contrite. “But it really looks like you haven’t slept since the last time I saw you. Are you okay?”
She waved it off. “It’s been intense. Not a lot of sleep, but I’ll be fine. I know you called a couple of times. I’m sorry I’ve been so out of touch.”
I told her not to be silly; that I knew what she was doing was incredibly important. Then I asked if she had any better sense of how bad the coronavirus outbreak was likely to be, compared to what had been in the news.
“I know more, I expect. But not about the things that really matter. We know it can spread from person to person. We don’t know how transmission is occurring, the actual mechanism. We don’t know how infectious it is, and we don’t know how deadly it is.”
“So you’re preparing for the worst case?”
She shook her head. “In my line of work, there’s no way to prepare for the worst case. The worst case is Stephen King, end of the world stuff. But we’re doing what we can to be as prepared as we can be for whatever might happen.”
We talked a bit more about the nuts and bolts of what she was doing, and talked in general terms about what Henry and Hutchinson Financial were doing. It was clearly an all-hands-on-deck time.
But after a bit she said, “Now, sister mine. Do me a favor and talk to me about something, anything, besides coronavirus.”
I gave her the family news first.
“You know,” she said after I described my conversation with Gammy Campbell, “I don’t have any memory of another sibling, or of Mom being pregnant between Iain and you. I was little, and self absorbed. Had quite the ‘Daddy’s little princess’ syndrome. But I do have a clear recollection of living with Gammy for a while. I’d never really given any thought to why that happened. I can see how that might have really hit Mom. Dad too, for that matter.”
She was less surprised at my description of Gammy herself. “I knew her better, of course; she was part of my life until I left for college. And, I think she was willing to show her steel a bit more to me – because she figured I could take it – and to Iain, because she knew he needed it. You,” she said with a note of fondness, “I think she figured you just needed some love. You got plenty of discipline.”
She thought Gammy’s acceptance of my transition was a reasonable outcome. “She disagreed with what you’re doing and told you so, but she made it clear that she respects and loves you regardless.”
It wasn’t as emotionally uplifting as Fiona’s own embrace of my choice, but I agreed that it was the best I could expect from someone of her generation and background. For sure, I’d take it.
I also described my sessions with Dr. Chun, and Dr. Karpedian’s diagnosis of hypogonadism.
She was surprised, then thoughtful. “Not really my specialty. I always assumed you weren’t big like Iain because he took after the Savins and you were more like me and Mom’s family. But thinking about it, Grandpa Ross wasn’t small. I don’t really know about the male Camerons.”
We talked a bit about the next steps in my transition. I told her how excited I was to have the estrogen pills, even if I wouldn’t be able to start them for two months.
She smiled. “You know, I already have a hard time seeing anything male when I look at you. You look downright sultry all ready for bed!”
I blushed.
As we wrapped up the call she said, “I’m probably going to be hard to get in touch with while we’re working through this coronavirus issue. I wish I could be more present for you right now, with all the changes you’re going through. If I’m still buried in a month – which hopefully I won’t be – can you look after Iain’s discharge from rehab and his criminal stuff?”
I assured her that I would.
I sat for a bit after she signed off. She had been very cautious in what she had said to stress the tight limits of what was known about the new virus. But from the sounds of it, what little we did know was all bad.
As before, however, there was nothing I could do about it. Might as well get back to work.
I had spent much of the day on logistical issues. Our whole trial team was going up to Connecticut for all of the following week to prepare our witnesses for their trial testimony.
We would be staying in Hartford, where the client’s headquarters were located, but we would go down to New Haven Tuesday morning for a court hearing (David Parr’s argument, not mine), then again on Friday for the presentations to mock jurors that our jury consultant was organizing.
I was taking a brief break to listen to Senator Romney’s speech supporting conviction of the President on the charge of abuse of power, impressed despite myself by Romney’s obvious intelligence and sincerity. He had not presented himself nearly so well the two times he ran for president, I thought. What ambition can do to even the best of people!
Just as he was concluding his remarks, my “Cami App” chirped at me, and I saw that I was getting a call from Javier. I quickly got up, closed my door and took the call. “Hey Javi, what’s up?”
He replied in a voice I could barely recognize, “Cami . . . Cami you won’t believe it! Tina’s come back! She’s come back to us!” He was clearly weeping, uncontrollably. Tears of joy, of relief.
I had never met Tina, but in many ways I felt I was in her debt. She was a young transgender girl Al and Javier had taken in at eighteen at Sarah’s request. She had run away from her family years before, living by her wits on the street. They fixed up their garage so she could live in it, cared for her while she got her feet underneath her, and treated her like the daughter they never had.
But she had disappeared a few years later, leaving them, leaving her job and the life she had created, running once again. They thought her family had caught up with her.
Because they had loved her so much, they opened their hearts to me when I came to their salon, still uncertain of who I was or what I was doing, wanting to learn how to look like a woman. Al and Javi had figured out that I was transgendered before I was willing to own it myself. And, they had rented me her old apartment, convinced she would never return to them.
All of that passed through my mind in an instant when I heard the news. My first reaction was simple joy for my friends. “Oh my God, Javi!!! That’s amazing news!! How is she??”
His voice was still choked with emotion. “She’s good; she sounded good. We haven’t seen her but we’re going to the bus station to pick her up.”
“Does she need a place to stay? I’m happy to have her over at the apartment tonight. I won’t be home until late, but she’s welcome to crash. I can pick up an air mattress, if I need one.”
“Thank-you, Cami! I don’t know what her story is, but we may take you up on that. We’ll call later, okay?”
I agreed. “Oh, Javi. I’m so happy for you. For both – for all of you!”
He signed off.
Although I wasn’t really eager to share my sanctuary, I knew it was the least I could do. Al and Javi had no place in their apartment for their friend to sleep; their couch was really just a love-seat. And, I really was happy for all of them.
It was probably 9:30 before I heard from Javi again. He sounded more subdued; cried out and drained. He said that Tina did need somewhere to stay, and if my offer was still good they would take me up on it.
I assured him it was.
He told me not to worry about an air mattress. “We got one on the way home. We’ll get it set up and get her settled. Unless you’re leaving soon, she’ll probably be sleeping when you get home. She looks beat!”
It was almost midnight before I got home, and I worked to mute the clump clump of my wing-tipped oxfords as I came through the back gate. I eased open my door and used the light on my phone so that I wouldn’t have to turn on the overhead light.
An air mattress was on the floor near my desk; someone had used it but it was now unoccupied. I looked around, wondering where my guest might be, and was surprised to find a small, mouse-haired person asleep in my own bed.
Not the best of beginnings. Still, it had been her bed, once. And dealing with it would have to wait.
I pulled together my clothes for the next day, hung my suit and tie, and put the rest of today’s Cam-o-flage in the hamper. Then I fished out my flannel nightgown and crawled into the abandoned air mattress.
College Park, Maryland, February 6
I woke in the middle of the night, badly. The fear, the cold sweats. The racing pulse and ragged breath of my night terrors. I didn’t know whether I had made any noise. I lay still, trying to bring my body back under my mind’s control. To remember where I was.
When I was a teenager, a neighbor had asked me to look after her cats while she went on vacation for a week. They were beautiful creatures with long, smokey gray fur. But they were wary — very wary. They had been born in the wild and she had tamed them and cared for them. Around anyone else, they were skittish and mistrustful.
As I tried to get comfortable, tried to quell my terrors, I felt wary eyes on me. Looking to my bed, I saw I was indeed being watched by eyes that reminded me, frighteningly, of those feral cats. When I made a move, the eyes narrowed to slits, then very deliberately closed.
It was a long and sleepless night.
In the early morning, I got up quietly, got dressed and slipped out into the cold of the February morning. My usual routine – exercise, shower, coffee – was entirely out of the question. I would need to actually meet Tina, and when I did, things might be more comfortable. But my workweek was packed, and I didn’t know when I might have the time.
Before I left, I went to my desk and picked up my estrogen prescription from the prominent place where I had put it, a talisman and promise. Feeling both small and foolish, I put it in my pocket.
To be continued . . . .
IMPORTANT AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am not a medical doctor of any sort. Hypogonadism is a real syndrome that does affect the development of both primary and secondary sex characteristics, and it is normally treated through testosterone replacement therapy. However, readers should assume that all of it is more complicated than anything described in this chapter and remember that this is a work of fiction.
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
College Park, Maryland, February 8
I was tired, short on sleep, shaken by night terrors, and grumpy.
It was Saturday morning. Normally, one of my favorite times, because I could spend the day, and the next day too, being myself rather than pretending to still be Cameron Savin, a male attorney at Cavendish, Edwards and Gunn. I would still be working, more often than not, but I would be doing it from my own apartment. But with Tina ensconced there, that was going to be hard.
I still hadn’t even spoken to her, because she had been sleeping – rather pointedly, in my bed – both when I left for work and when I got home. I had crashed on the air mattress, generally trying to squeeze a full night’s sleep out of the hours between midnight and 6:00 am. Which might have worked, but I had night terrors every night since Tina had arrived.
I grabbed my phone and checked the time. 5:53 a.m. Normally I would have been finishing my morning exercises. Not possible. Hitting the shower, however, had not awakened my visitor yesterday, or if it had she had hidden that fact. So I pulled myself upright, got untangled from the sheets, and got to my feet.
Still no motion from the bed.
I went to my dresser and pulled out my breast forms, a panty gaff, and bra and panty set, my stretch jeans and a white cotton shirt. Unwilling to get dressed in front of a complete stranger, I brought everything with me into the bathroom and piled it on top of the sink. I started the shower and went into my beginning of the weekend routine.
Forty-five minutes later I was at my desk working, a cup of coffee close to hand. Tina remained, to all appearances, asleep, and I decided I was just going to ignore her until she woke up.
I had been at it for almost two hours when a voice behind me said, “Are you gonna be here all freakin’ day?”
I suppressed a quick snap-back, turned around and said, very deliberately, “Good morning. I’m Cami. I’m glad I’ve finally had a chance to meet you.”
Tina was still sprawled on the bed, a sour expression on her face.
I waited.
After she had given me her best basilisk stare for almost a minute, she said, “I don’t give a flying fuck who you are. I asked whether you’re gonna be here all day.”
I don’t always respond to direct challenges with sweetness and light; expecting it after the kind of sleep I had gotten the last three nights was asking too much. I cocked my head to one side and said in a calm tone, “I’m happy to have a conversation, Tina, but if you want to have an argument you’ll have to pay me. I don’t work for free.”
I turned back to my computer and went back to what I was doing.
After five minutes or so of silence, she started pounding the table by the bed and saying, over and over, “GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!!!!”
I got up, walked over to the bed, where she was at least now sitting up, and interrupted her. “Tina, I live here. And I’ve got work to do. Can you please tell me what this is all about? We haven’t even met!”
She glared at me. “I don’t fucking want to meet you. I sure as fuck don’t want to share a room with you. This is my place! Mine!”
“No, I’ve been renting it for months. You can’t disappear for years and expect that the world won’t change.” I was keeping my voice reasonable – the tone you might take with a toddler throwing a tantrum – because she didn’t appear to be stable. My tone didn't seem to calm her.
“No, YOU'RE the one that’s wrong! This is my place,” she snarled. “They made it for ME! They bought this furniture for ME! I’m finally able to come back and they’ve turned it over to some dick who plays dress-up and has the guap to drip. Dresses. Undies. Pretty little things to wear at night. Jewelry. Falsies. You think that makes you TRANS?”
I looked at her, nonplussed. “Suppose you tell me what it takes to be trans, Tina.”
She finally stood up to face me, standing only a foot away. “When they hunt you down, and get some sick judge to say you’re cray, and they lock you up and try to force you to give up – try for YEARS!!! – and you spit in their face, because you CAN’T, you fucking CAN’T even PRETEND you’re male. Then maybe I’ll think you’re serious.
“But you? You go out every morning, wearing a suit. Look like the man to me. Probably to everyone you see. Then you prance around behind closed doors in your pretty panties and think it matters?!! You’re a sick joke!”
I took a long breath, fighting down my rising instinct to bite her head off. “I haven’t faced what you’ve had to face. But I’m not your enemy! I want to help. Why are you attacking me?”
“You’re in my way, dickhead. I need this place. No. I don’t have the guap – the scratch – like you. I can’t take out some fucking ‘lease with an option to buy.’ I got nowhere left to go. I’ve got these two guys. That’s it. And. You’re. In. My. Fucking. Way. Can you wrap your head around that, or is it too much for you?”
She threw up her hands. “You want to help? Fine. Get the fuck out of my life.”
This was . . . not going to work. And, unfortunately, I really didn’t have the time to deal with it. “We’ll talk later.” I went back to my desk, shut down my laptop, put it and my iPad in my bag, and walked out, grabbing my winter coat on the way.
She looked triumphant.
My emotions were roiling. First, I was boiling mad. I had offered her hospitality and she had rifled through my drawers and closets and then verbally assaulted me.
But . . . she had also been horribly abused. I remembered Al and Javier describing Tina as the sweetest, kindest person they knew, like a daughter to them. She had lived in this apartment for something like three years; Al and Javi had known her well. No way she had fooled them for that long.
No. Tina had come back, but she was a bitter, broken shell of the young woman they had known . . . and loved.
It was 9:30 in the morning, and I was in a bind. I was walking aimlessly around the streets of my neighborhood when I had work I had to get done. I had to be on a plane to Hartford tomorrow afternoon. There was no time to deal with this. Any of it.
I crossed Baltimore Avenue and sat on a park bench on the outskirts of the campus that gives the town its name. It was forty degrees and I couldn’t sit long, but I needed a safe, quiet space. Then I called Sarah.
“Hey, Cami,” said the familiar voice. “I thought I might be hearing from you.”
“You guessed I might be having roommate problems?”
“Yeah.” It was almost a sigh. I knew she had come to see Tina during the day while I was at work.
“Sarah, I don’t know the whole story. I know she’s been abused; sounds like they found a way to institutionalize her. But . . . she sees me as her enemy. An obstacle to resuming her old life. I don’t know what to do.”
She had me tell her the whole story, and was quiet for a minute after I had finished. “What options are you seeing, Cami?”
“Wellllll . . . ,” I said slowly, “I can try to stick it out. Make it work. Al called yesterday, asking me to do that ‘just for a while, maybe a couple months, while she gets back on her feet.’ I said yes then – what else could I say? And I want to help; I really do! For her sake; for Al and Javi’s sake. But I don’t see how I can. Not when she resents me. Thinks I’ve replaced her.
“And . . . . God, Sarah! I hate to say this, but she’s going to make my life miserable and I just don’t have the bandwidth to deal with it right now. I’m working eighteen-hour days! I can’t come home to a war zone every night!”
“Cami,” Sarah said sternly, “You are not required to solve everyone’s problems. You can only do what you can do. What’s option two?”
“I leave. Throw in the towel. It feels like quitting, running away. Letting Al and Javi down. But if I can’t make it work – and I don’t see how I can, right now – I’ve got to get out. Now, not later. But . . . I don’t have time to hunt for a new apartment. I’ve got to be on a flight tomorrow.”
I thought for a moment. “Maybe I could ask Nicole and Maggie if I could crash at their place for a few weeks . . . They are wonderful people, though I hate to impose . . . .” I ran out of steam.
“Any other options?” Sarah asked.
“I can’t see any,” I said glumly. “I suppose I could ask Al or Javi to talk to her, but that just seems like calling in parents. It only works when they're actually in the room. Once they aren't, the situation’s just worse than before.”
I’d been the youngest of three, and my older brother had been hard to deal with on occasion. I learned early not to bring our frequent disputes to our parents’ attention. Moreover, if Al and Javi were the only people she trusted, I had to make sure that I didn’t do anything that might shake her faith in them.
“You have a lease. You could tell Al and Javi that it won’t work. You could also tell them what you told me this morning.” Her tone was carefully neutral. Sarah doesn’t like to give advice.
“That’s just what I can't do. Al and Javi are my friends. This matters to them, more than anything. I can't do that to them. I just can’t.”
“They love you, too,” she said carefully. “Whether you go or she goes, it will hurt them. Like parents with daughters who can’t get along.”
“I know. But I’ve got options and Tina doesn’t. She’s being vicious, but she’s not wrong. I am in her way. So, I should be the one to go. And I would, except . . . .”
I didn’t want to finish the sentence, but Sarah wasn’t going to finish it for me. “Except . . . ?” she prodded.
“Except I worry about what she’ll do to them. She’s desperate, and she’s wounded. She is not the beautiful girl they remember. She’s going to tear them apart!”
The line was silent, then Sarah said, “I can’t tell you what to do. And wouldn’t, you know that. But for whatever it’s worth . . . . I think you’re probably right. She may be too far gone to pull her back. I know I can’t do it, not right now. I know Javi and Al hoped you might be able to help, but they had no idea how she reacted to you. Given her hostility, it’s pretty clear you can’t."
"Do you think they can?"
"I don't know. Honestly, I doubt it. But, they’re the only people who might be able to pull it off. The only people she even half trusts.”
I thought about that for a minute. “I need to talk with Al or Javi. Both, preferably, but one of them’s got the shop this morning. Will you come, too? I need them to know what I’m doing, and why, but I also need to make sure they know the risks. Maybe they won’t want to take Tina on, though I doubt it. But it should be their choice. If it’s just me, they might think I was trying to manipulate them into kicking her out.”
“Even I know you better than that,” she replied. “But yes, I’ll help. Let me call Al and see if we can’t meet some place this morning. Things are quiet here; I’ll close up for a bit.”
The better part of an hour later, Al, Sarah and I were all sitting at a table in the back of a local diner. Al was the last to arrive; he looked exhausted and his handsome face was etched with worry. And guilt. Sarah had filled him in when she called.
“Cami!!!” he said, “I’m so sorry! I had no idea it would be this bad!”
I jumped up and gave him a long, daughterly hug. Then I sat him down and stopped him before he could say anything more.
“Al, it’s okay. Really. I understand. I know how much Tina means to you both. I know you want to help her. And I want to help her too. Maybe down the road I’ll be able to. But right now, given where she’s at, the only way for me to help her is to give her space. She made that clear this morning. . . . And, I guess I need some space too, even if it’s just a room.”
Al broke in. “It’s your apartment, and this isn’t your problem . . . . we’ll . . . .” But he ran out of words because he ran out of ideas. There just wasn’t space for a third person in the apartment Al and Javi shared.
I covered his balled hands with my own. “Thank you. Really. But I’m not going to be responsible for putting Tina back on the street. I won’t do it to her, and I won’t do it to you two. Like I said to Sarah earlier, I’ve got options and she doesn’t.
“I’ll go somewhere else, but . . . I need to make sure that you actually want to have Tina in the apartment. She’s not who she was, Al. You know that. I’m worried for you both. So’s Sarah.”
Sarah didn’t say anything, but she didn’t challenge my statement.
Al stared out the window, looking tired and grim. Then he sighed. “We have to try. Even if we can’t rescue her. We couldn’t live with ourselves, if we didn’t try. We loved her so much . . . . we still do.”
I gave his hands a squeeze and then released them. “Then that’s decided.”
We talked some more, but the rest was just detail. Al filled me in on what he and Javier had learned about the years Tina had been gone. Sarah talked about strategies for dealing with Tina’s trauma and red flags Al and Javi should watch for.
We discussed the possibility that either Sarah or I could be more help down the road, if and when Tina got to the point where she felt secure in her living situation and in the primacy of her relationship with Al and Javi.
Finally, we talked about logistics. I didn’t have a lot of stuff. My computer table and chair were the only furniture I possessed; the rest was mostly clothes – Cam’s and mine. I wouldn’t be able to clear everything out until I got back from Connecticut, but I would need to take everything I needed for the week.
Al said he would get Tina away so I could take care of that, and he would let me borrow his car.
He wanted to know where I was going to go, and I told him that I was going to stay with friends in Baltimore. I hoped that was the case, but I didn’t know it. There had been no time to ask. If Nicole and Maggie couldn’t take me, I would just have to come up with something else. Fast.
We got up, said our good-byes to Sarah, and he drove me back. Alone with me in the car, he said, “I’m so very sorry. And we’re going to miss you so much!”
I assured him that he was losing a tenant, not a friend. But I also knew that, unless and until Tina stopped feeling threatened by my relationship with the two men, I would need to be conspicuous by my absence.
College Park, Maryland, February 8, ten minutes later
Al texted to tell me that Tina was over at the salon, so I slipped back into the apartment that had been my sanctuary for these incredible months of change, and suddenly, so very suddenly, wasn’t. Life was coming at me too quickly.
But I had no time for wallowing. I made a call to Nicole and got a message. I called Maggie.
“Hey, Cami! What’s shakin’?” she asked, answering her phone.
“Hi Maggie,” I said. “I’m calling to ask a huge favor. I’m losing my apartment, basically right now. Can I stay with you for a bit until I can get another place, or at least store my stuff there?”
“Oh my God, Cami, what happened? Of course you can stay here!”
“I tried calling Nicole but got a message. Do you have a way to check with her?”
“She’s at a voice lesson this morning, but don’t be silly. She would insist,” Maggie said.
I promised to fill her in when I got there; we ended the call and I quickly started to pack. What I would need for the Connecticut trip went into my large suitcase with the wrap-around garment bag. Everything from the bathroom – shampoo, conditioner, toiletries, cosmetics, hairdryer, brushes, razor – into a recyclable shopping bag. Another bag for Cam’s shoes. A third for mine. Underwear, socks, hosiery, sleepwear into a fourth bag.
The important clothes from my dresser went into my carryon bag. I grabbed my small wooden jewelry box and added it to the bag as well. Then I stopped and, again feeling small, opened it.
My watch was missing.
It was obvious, since it was the largest item I owned. It was also the only valuable piece, both intrinsically and sentimentally. Liz had given it to me at Christmas. I wanted to storm into the salon and sweat it out of that nasty piece of work, but I forced myself to think first.
Was I sure I had put it back in the box?
Yes, I was sure. I had it with me last weekend in Baltimore and had put it in its safe spot before starting the week. I hadn’t had an opportunity to dress as myself since then. So, yes. It had been stolen.
Was it possible someone else took it?
No. From what Al had told me, Tina had been in the apartment the whole time, except when she was right next door.
But that also meant that it was probably still here. She hadn’t gone anywhere; she hadn’t had a chance to fence it. Maybe she had it with her, but I thought not. She wouldn’t want to get caught like that.
I checked under the mattress. Nothing. Patted down the sheets. Nope. Checked the pillow cases. And, bingo. There it was, along with three twenty dollar bills and a baggie that held six pills. I pulled my prescription container out of my purse and opened it up. Sure enough. Same pills.
She was sneaky, but clearly not as smart as she thought. I put the pills and watch back where they belonged, put the jewelry box back in my carryon and closed it. I loaded what I had packed into the car.
Plenty of space still, and I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my skirts and dresses for Tina to paw over. It seemed like each item came with a host of memories, from the A-Line dress with the floral motif that was my very first purchase, to the red slip-dress that had shocked Liz, to the beautiful party dress Fiona had given me for Christmas . . . .
I put down a towel over the other items in the car and just lay my nicer clothes on top of it, still attached to their hangers.
That was all I needed to take. I went back into the apartment and made sure I wasn’t forgetting anything important. But I wasn’t. I had eighty percent of my clothes, all of my toiletries and all of my valuables. I would need to get the desk and chair later. The food in the cupboards and the fridge I would leave, with one important exception.
I paused a moment, grabbed a piece of paper, and wrote Tina a note. “I told you that I’m not your enemy. But if you steal from Al or Javi, or if you do them any harm, I promise you that I will be. Do you really need more enemies?”
I left the note, unsigned, in the plastic bag that had held the estrogen pills she had stolen, and put it back in the pillow case. I also put the $60 back. I didn’t recall having left money around, so it might actually be hers.
I left the apartment and went to get the car. Javi was standing beside it, looking miserable. “Let me drive you, Cami. I’ve got things I want to say. And I can’t, here.”
I remembered how happy he had looked, those few weeks ago, when I had picked them up at BWI after they spent Christmas in Colombia. I thought, “Damn Tina!” But I dismissed the thought, damning instead the world, and the people, who had chosen to break her rather than accept her as she was, as God in His infinite wisdom had chosen to create her.
I got in and gave Javi directions.
He put the car in gear and started driving, remaining silent until we got on the highway. “You have been such a light in our lives. We don’t want to lose you. But Tina needs us so much. I’ve never seen anyone so tormented. We . . . .” He stopped speaking, his voice completely choked up.
“I know, Javi. I know. And it’s alright. I know you have to try. And I want to help you. What happened to her . . . but, this is the only way I really can help. At least right now.”
Javi nodded, looking forward, still unable to speak.
“Javi, you need to be careful. Both of you. Okay? I think she still loves you, and I hope that will make a difference. But she’s desperate.” I told him about the watch, and the pills.
He looked even more bleak.
“I wouldn’t have said anything,” I told him. “I didn’t want to; I know how much that will hurt you both. But you need to be careful. Okay?”
He nodded again, and drove for a while in silence. As we got close to the city, he said, “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have to pay the price for our love.”
“After all you both did for me, this is nothing. And Tina’s right, I have been blessed in so many ways. Friends. My sister. A good job. Health insurance and great healthcare. I can’t begin to pay any of that back. Let me pay it forward, okay? This isn’t on you. You aren’t taking the apartment. I’m giving it.”
When we arrived at “Opera House,” Maggie came rushing down the steps and gave me a big hug. I looked at Javi, standing behind her, and said, “You see? I’m so very blessed.”
He helped me unload the car, and Maggie had me bring my stuff up to the spare bedroom.
I gave Javier a fierce hug. “Now you be careful, both of you. Do what you need to do. And God bless you both!”
Too full of emotion for words, he hugged me back, then kissed me on each cheek, and walked back to his car.
I watched him drive away, following his car with my eyes as it made its slow way past the arts and crafts houses, past the parked cars and the ornamental trees, then turned at the corner and disappeared.
Maggie stood behind me. As Javi’s car drove out of my view, she said softly, “Welcome home. Come on in and tell me what’s happened.”
I was just about to go in when Nicole pulled up, stopped smartly and jumped out. “Cami!” She ran up the stairs. “I called Mags just as I was about to come home. What happened?”
So they both pulled me in, we made some of their ubiquitous tea, and I told them about the last three days.
When I was finished, Maggie said, “Damn, Cami, you need to find your inner bitch! She’s a complete shit to you and steals from you, and she wins? That just seems so wrong!”
But Nicole looked at me and smiled fondly. “You chose love again, didn’t you? Just like with that little dick at the Christmas party.”
“I had to give Javi and Al the chance to help her. For her sake,” I said, looking at Maggie, “since nothing in that sad life looks much like a win. But,” I said, looking at Nicole, “mostly for theirs. She means so much to them.”
“I get that,” Maggie said, “but I’m not sure you did them any favors. Sounds like she’s going to make them miserable.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I know. And so do they. But that needs to be their choice. I won’t block them from trying to save someone they love, not even to protect them.”
Nicole shook her head. “Some day you’re going to need to fight for yourself. But . . . . for today, what’s the plan, and how can we help?”
“Here's my problem. I’m flying to Connecticut tomorrow for work and I won’t be back until Friday night. I can’t start looking for an apartment until I’m back.
“And, honestly . . . I’ve been working really long hours. Nights and weekends too. I don’t know whether I’ll have any time to look until the trial I’m working on wraps up, which should be in six or seven weeks. Can I stay until then? I won’t be around most of the time, and I’ll make sure I don’t interfere with your work.”
“Of course you can,” Maggie said. “Stay as long as you like.”
Nicole added, “We’d love having you. I wish you could just move in with us, but I know it’s a bit of a commute for you.”
I looked back and forth from one to the other, dumbfounded by their spontaneous generosity.
My expression made Nicole laugh. “Honestly, girl, it’s no imposition. Besides the fact that we’re all friends – which settles the matter as far as Mags and I are concerned – we’re both in and out during opera season.”
Maggie nodded. “I’m leaving for Sarasota in just over a week to start rehearsals for Catalini’s La Wally. By the time that run is over, Nickie’ll be in Chicago doing Wagner. I’m guessing there won’t be too many times that we’re all here at the same time until next fall.”
I thanked them profusely, managing just this once to keep myself from bursting into tears. After some pushback, I got them to agree that I could contribute to the household expenses the same amount I had been paying Al and Javi for rent.
With that out of the way, I said, “Now, I really hate to do this, but I have some work I absolutely have to get done today, and I’ve already lost the whole morning and part of the afternoon. Let me go upstairs and get to it, and I’ll let you two get back to your own plans.”
“Sure thing.” Nicole said. “I’ve got a student coming for voice lessons at 3:00, and Mags has one at 4:00. We use this room for that. It’s not too bad upstairs during lessons, but you will hear us. If you’d be more comfortable, you can work at the table in the basement. The synthesizer only takes about half of it.”
That’s what I ended up doing. I heard the sounds of their students, but from the basement they barely registered. Around 6:30 Nicole came downstairs. “We’ve got a bit of supper ready. Will you come upstairs and join us?”
Grateful for the break, and still more grateful for the food, I followed her upstairs.
Maggie had made a wild mushroom soup and Nicole had added a simple salad. It was heavenly.
I insisted on doing the clean-up, in the process learning where everything went in the kitchen. Then I went back downstairs and was soon plunged back into my work.
A light touch on my shoulder woke me up. I had just intended to rest my eyes a moment!
Nicole said, “Cami, honey, you aren’t going to be good for anything tomorrow if you don’t get some sleep.” She was already dressed for bed, a flannel robe over her nightgown and her waist-length hair gathered into a long, thick plait.
I looked at her. “What time?”
She just smiled. “Bedtime.”
I followed her up to my new bedroom and found that my roommates had removed everything that wasn’t either mine or furniture, put away or stacked my things, and made the couch as bed-like as possible. Someone had even laid out my blue nightie on the couch for me.
This time I couldn’t hold back the tears. “What did I ever do to deserve you two?”
Nicole wrapped me into a hug. “You would do anything to help your friends, the people you love. Well . . . so would we. Now get some sleep, and don’t you dare set an alarm. You’re a wreck.” She gave my shoulder a final squeeze and went off to her own bed.
I got out of my clothes and into my nightie – how nice to be able to wear it again! – then went into the bathroom, removed my makeup, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. I went back to my new room, closed the door, and prepared myself for sleep.
It had been a long and emotionally draining day. But I had been right. I had options, and the love and care of good friends. Amazing that I had only known Nicole for six weeks, and Maggie for even less time. So if life was coming at me quickly, it was doing so in good ways, too.
I said a prayer for Tina, that tortured soul, and for Al and Javi as well. And a final prayer, one of thanksgiving, for the blessing of good friends and open hearts.
Baltimore, Maryland, February 9
I slept the entire night without interruption, and didn’t wake up until 7:30 – two and a half hours late for me. Given how much I still had to get done, I was going to have to forgo my daily exercises for the fourth straight day. Ughhh.
I got up to use the shared facilities and bumped into Maggie as she was on her way out. I hadn’t thought to put on my robe and I blushed as she gave my scantily-clad self a quick once-over.
“Damn, Gina! Look at you!” She giggled at my embarrassment, gave me a hug and said, “You look good, Cami. I couldn’t resist laying that out for you when we were putting away your things. Sometimes you’re like a commando. But other times you are just such a girly-girl!”
I laughed along. “Guilty, I’m afraid. I just . . . well. Yeah. I am,” I ended a bit lamely.
She laughed and trotted downstairs. “All yours, girly!”
Nicole was still sleeping – apparently she was not a morning person by choice, which I suppose wasn’t too surprising since she grew up in New York. I took a quick shower and got dressed in a skirt, tights, and a knit top. I didn’t do much with my hair and kept my makeup minimal.
I had hemmed and hawed. But in the end, I decided I couldn’t risk traveling without changing into male attire. Unlike my colleagues, I was flying into and out of BWI, and I was scheduled to arrive in Connecticut an hour and a half before they were.
My drivers’ license no longer listed me as a male, so it no longer qualified as a “Real ID.” But the TSA wasn’t scheduled to begin requiring Real-ID compliant ID’s until later in the year. I could try to fly dressed to conform to my real gender. However, wearing breast forms might trigger anomalies at some of the TSA checkpoints, and I simply didn’t want to have to answer questions from security personnel about the inorganic material filling out the size C cups of my bra.
Moreover, flights got delayed; luggage got misplaced. These things happened often enough that I could not count on getting to the hotel without one of my colleagues spotting me. Dressed as Cami, I looked very different than when I dressed for work. But not so different that people who saw me every day wouldn’t know me.
I wrapped up everything I needed to finish for work and asked Nicole and Maggie if they would let me buy them lunch. We walked to a local deli and got sandwiches to bring back to the house.
Over lunch, I raised a point that had been bothering me since I made my decision about the flight. “Neither of you has seen me dress up as Cameron Savin. And . . . well . . . I’d honestly prefer that you didn’t.”
“Why?” Nicole simply sounded curious.
“It’s me, mostly. I guess. I mean, this is who I am,” I said, waving generally to indicate my feminine look. “And when I get dressed as Cameron now, I feel like a fraud. I don’t want you guys to see me that way.
“But I guess it’s us, too. You’re letting me stay here, and it’s wonderful. And it’s comfortable, because we’re three women. I worry you might not be so comfortable if you think of it as having . . . well. If you think of me as male.”
Nicole and Maggie looked at each other for a second, as if communicating silently. Then Nicole said, “We know that you’re trans, and that you haven’t transitioned. We know what that means physically, and we don’t care. I’ve said it over and over. You’re as much a woman as I am. Wearing men’s clothes won’t make you a man in our eyes.”
“It’s not just today, anyway,” Maggie said, practically. “You’re going to be going to work and coming home dressed like a guy. We’re going to see you that way sooner or later. Like Nickie said, it doesn’t matter. Not to us.”
They were right and I knew it. But I was still not happy about it. A little after lunch I went upstairs, got undressed, removed my makeup and nail polish. Removed my breast forms.
This was always the hardest moment for me, when I felt most vulnerable. Clothes and hairstyle could make me look more masculine or feminine, but without anything to hide me I felt unformed and ugly, a bug caught half-way between caterpillar and butterfly.
I pulled on Cam’s travel clothes – a button down oxford shirt, khaki pants, a Navy blazer. The heavy shoes and belt. Then I pulled back my hair, tied it back in the severe Cam pony tail, and clubbed the end to hide both its length and its curl. My breast forms went in a drawer; I wouldn’t need them on this trip.
I ordered an Uber. Ahmed, driving a silver Camry. Arriving in six minutes. When he was one minute out, I picked up my suitcase and went downstairs. Nicole was reviewing music in the front room. She looked up, gave me a completely natural smile and said, “See you in a couple days, Cami. Safe trip!”
As I made my way to the car I thought, once again, that I really didn’t deserve either of them.
I was stuck in a middle seat on an American Airlines flight. To my right, an older woman, her eyes glued to a mystery novel on her lap.
The woman to my left was younger, probably mid-twenties. She had earplugs in her ears, no doubt playing music, but nothing I could hear over the roar of the engines. Her eyes were shut, but her posture and expression indicated she was very much awake. She was simply flashing a “do not disturb” sign.
I wondered whether, if I had flown as Cami, I would be having a conversation with one or both of my neighbors. I might be meeting new friends, as I had on the Amtrak to Boston that had brought Nicole – and later, Maggie – into my life. I might be learning new things, hearing about people I would never meet and places I might never visit.
But Cameron would meet a more wary reception. And, anticipating it, he would not reach out in the first place.
“Good evening folks, this is your Captain from the flightdeck. In preparation for our landing at Hartford/Springfield, please bring your seats and tray tables into the full, upright and locked position, and store any of those larger electronic devices you might have taken out . . . .”
The familiar drone of the landing instructions washed over me and I smiled. I was going to be glad to get off the plane.
I caught a cab from the airport to our hotel, located right in the middle of Hartford’s downtown, checked in, and got myself settled.
The four of us – Eileen, David, Daviana and I – met for dinner. We didn’t talk much about the case since we were ready for what we had set for the week.
Instead, the conversation was about the now completed impeachment proceedings, the messed up Iowa Caucus, the upcoming New Hampshire primary, and the Coronavirus. Over 10,000 cases had been confirmed worldwide; the President had declared a public health emergency and countries, including the U.S., were shutting down flights from China.
“I don’t really understand how shutting down travel from China is going to help,” David said. “People can travel from China to other countries, cause infections there, and there’s no restriction on those people coming here.”
I suggested that maybe the idea was simply to slow things down, give us more time to get prepared.
“Your sister works in epidemiology, doesn’t she?” Daviana asked.
“Close; she works on the clinical side on infectious diseases.”
“What are you hearing from her?”
“We haven’t talked much since the beginning of the year because she’s been working on this night and day. But last time we spoke, she said they still didn’t have answers to a lot of very important questions. So they’re just trying to be as prepared as possible for whatever comes down the pike.”
Our discussion of politics was interesting – and in many ways telling. For starters, all of us were Democrats. When all the lawyers are in one corner, it’s a fair bet that the greater number of people will be in the other. When it came to the Democrats who were running, we were all over the map.
David liked Mayor Pete. “He thinks clearly. Communicates complex ideas clearly. He’s been in the service. I like all that.”
Daviana was undecided. “No one's really made me sit up and take notice.”
I made the case for Senator Warren. “I don’t know how we got to a place in this country where people were so mad that they were willing to elect Trump. So maybe we need to do more than tinker at the margins like we’ve been doing for forty years.”
Eileen said, “Biden. Because he can win.”
Eileen and I talked about baseball. She was sold on the Nationals; they had won her over with their charmed season last year. I was, as always, big on the Cardinals, though they had come up short. We talked about the NLDS game we had seen.
I said, “If you really want to see baseball, you should catch a game at Busch Stadium.”
She looked skeptical.
“I’m serious,” I said. “The best fans – the most educated fans – in baseball. When someone hits a ball high and hard, the people don’t get out of their seats unless it’s actually going to be a homer, and they know it at the crack of the bat.”
But, I thought to myself, I doubt I’ll ever see it again. I had no desire, and no intention, to return to St. Louis. I’ll have to watch the redbirds play in other, lesser ballparks.
It was a pleasant evening, an opportunity to unwind a bit in the midst of our furious preparations. Eileen was always careful to make sure such events occurred; all part of the task of keeping a good team running well.
We said goodnight and I went upstairs and into my room. Once the door was shut and secured, I stripped, slithered into my silky green nightie, and slipped into bed.
I had my good dream once again – the one where I am running down a dock, wearing a lime-green one-piece swimsuit, beckoning someone to follow me. As always, in the dream, my hair is long and flowing and my curves are real and perfect.
But this time the sky was cloudy and the water had some distinct chop.
Hartford, Connecticut, February 10
Eileen and I met with Theo Jacoby, the corporate VP who was going to be our principal witness for the trial, while David and Daviana did some final preparations for the argument David would be presenting on Tuesday. Jacoby was a large man in all dimensions – tall, broad, heavy without being fat. His gray hair was short and tightly curled; his wire-rimmed glasses framed hazel-colored eyes.
Eileen looked small, sitting across the table from him. She also looked, and was, very much in charge.
“First,” she explained, “while the substance of your trial testimony is going to more-or-less track your deposition testimony from last year, the structure and format will be completely different. So, last time opposing counsel asked almost all the questions, and then David just asked a couple of clean-up questions to protect the pre-trial record. This time, you’re going to tell your story to the jury first.
“I’ll ask the questions, but they will be big, fat open-ended questions. What happened? Why? What did you do? Then, and only then, defendants’ lawyers will cross examine you. And, you won’t need to argue with them, because I’ll ask you re-direct questions that will allow you to expand on the answers you provided during cross.”
She continued her instructions, pausing to take his questions and stopping the explanation to give examples of what she was describing. Then she started asking him questions from her outline and working to perfect the responses.
Occasionally, Eileen would ask me to chime in on whether an answer could be improved, but this was an occasion to largely stay silent. It’s important for the witness and the attorney who will be handling the examination to coordinate very closely, without distractions. With very few exceptions, leading questions are not permitted in a direct examination, so advanced preparation is essential.
It was a very instructive session. Because he was our principal witness, preparation went all day, with only a short break for lunch. Eileen spent the last two hours going over questions that might be asked during cross examination. She also played snippets from Jacoby’s deposition testimony and we discussed which answers worked well and how others could be improved.
By the end of the prep session, he was much more relaxed, comfortable with his testimony and confident that he knew what he needed to know.
The key, I could tell, was that he ended the session secure in the knowledge that Eileen knew what she was doing and would have his back when he was on the witness stand. That would be harder for me to pull off with my own witnesses, since unlike Eileen I was not a veteran trial lawyer.
I asked Eileen about that when we were walking back to the hotel.
She grinned. “Fake it ‘till you make it, Cam. Never let them see you sweat!”
I could only laugh. Eileen was playing my song!
We were back at the clients’ offices, entering another conference room. David’s argument before the judge had gone well, although the judge reserved decision on most of the substantive issues being discussed. We had expected that.
Daviana and David were in a different conference room preparing one of the two witnesses Daviana would be handling at trial. Eileen was backing me up, but this was my show.
I looked across the table at the first of my two witnesses, Astrid Thune. Early thirties, with pale, pale hair in a thick braid and eyes the color of glacial ice — she would be a cool beauty, if she were not looking so nervous. Very likely she had never seen the inside of a courtroom.
I followed my gut instinct, walking around to her side of the table, giving her a warm smile and shaking her hand as she got to her feet. “Astrid, I’m Cam Savin. This is our lead trial lawyer, Eileen O’Donnel. How are you?” I sat at the end of the table and let Eileen sit across from Astrid.
Eileen offered a friendly “Good afternoon,” as she sat down.
Astrid looked at me, then Eileen, then back to me, before saying, “I’m good, though I don’t mind telling you I’d be better if I didn’t have to do this.”
“Never had to testify at trial before?” I asked.
She shook her head, still looking uncomfortable.
“There is nothing for you to worry about.” I kept my voice calm and light. “You did a great job at your deposition, and in some ways this will be easier. We’re going to walk you through every step, and by the time we’ve finished you’ll be ready for whatever might happen. You’ve got this. Promise.”
Finally, she started to look a little less stressed. “Well . . . good. I really like being prepared for things, and I didn’t know how to prepare for this.”
“That’s why we’re here,” I assured her. “So, first off, let me talk to you about how what happens at trial will be like your deposition testimony, and how it will be different . . . .”
I launched into my description, following more or less the same points Eileen had made in her preparation of Theo Jacoby. But both Eileen and Jacoby were older, more seasoned. Less nervous. It was clear that I needed to calm Astrid and give her some confidence. I worked hard to do that, communicating my own confidence that she knew her subjects and could communicate them clearly and effectively.
It took a while, but eventually she began to relax. And once she did, as I expected, she did fine. I started going through my outline of questions.
From time to time, I brought Eileen into the conversation, just as she had brought me in the prior day. But since this was my witness she was acting as a resource.
I didn’t want to rely on her too much, or it might lessen Astrid’s confidence in my ability to take care of her when she was on the stand. At trial, only one attorney for each party may examine the witness; since I could get no assistance then, I had to minimize the assistance I needed now.
By the time we were finished, Astrid and I had developed a good rapport, and she was no longer defensive when I suggested ways to make her answers more complete or understandable. We wrapped up, and I assured her we would have plenty of additional opportunities to go over her testimony, so she would be completely prepared when the time came for her to take the stand.
Eileen and I thanked her for her time and we started walking back to the hotel. It was only a couple of blocks, and Eileen would not let forty-degree weather deter her. That was practically balmy as far as she was concerned.
She was quiet as we started our walk. I was starting to worry that I had forgotten something when she said, “That was very well done, Cam. I don’t know if you were nervous, but you certainly didn’t show it. And, you were remarkably sensitive to her discomfort and did a nice job getting her past it.”
“I was nervous walking in. But once I saw how nervous she was I kind of forgot about it. I was surprised at how easy it was.”
Eileen thought about that for half a block or so. “Treat the jury the same way. Once the trial starts, just focus on them. Make sure you have a sense of when a witness is connecting with them. We can’t leave any jurors behind. It’s the same skill you just demonstrated, but the focus is different.”
I nodded.
As we got to the hotel, Eileen said, “We don’t hire people who aren’t smart and hard-working, but in my experience the kind of emotional maturity you demonstrated today is impossible to gauge and nearly impossible to teach. I wish we could.”
I thought about Steve, the clueless shopper, and smiled. Maybe empathy, at least, could be taught. It might not be instinctual, but in the end, it’s a habit of thought, a conscious decision to put yourself into someone else’s shoes. I suggested that to Eileen.
She chewed it over. “Maybe.”
Dinner that evening was more work-oriented, as the two teams shared how their respective witness prep sessions had gone. Then we called it a night.
Hartford, Connecticut, February 11, immediately following
Rather than heading straight for my room, I followed a whim, went to the hotel bar and got an Oban, neat.
It was a relatively slow night, and there were only a few people at the bar – a group of three and two couples. From where I sat, alone, I could see them interacting but could not hear their actual words. Observing their non-verbal communications, I challenged myself to guess what they were saying.
One couple was in their forties. She still looked good – very good – while he looked like an athlete who hadn't quite been able to adjust his diet as his body aged and his metabolism slowed. Still powerful, but heavier. His eyes lingered a bit too long on the younger women in the bar.
His companion was clearly aware, and looked both pained and annoyed.
The other couple was younger, both in age and in years together. The woman, in her early twenties, short and curvy, had hands that wandered, touched, promised. The man, a bit older, tall and well-built, was captivated. They laughed; their foreheads touched, then she came in for a light kiss. His hand rose to stroke her hair.
There was no need to hear what they were saying to know what they were thinking.
The group of three was more of a challenge. They – two women and a guy, all around my age, were talking together quietly like a group of old friends. But there was something about the way they were interacting that suggested that the guy and the girl further from me were an item, and the other was the odd gal out.
It wasn’t clear that she knew it. Something about the way they sat; about the way two sets of eyes met, and met again, while the other looked on.
The young couple left, no longer able to control the fire in their hearts.
The older man’s eye’s followed the young woman as she departed, snuggled into her boyfriend’s arm. The older woman abruptly rose, said something to her companion, and headed toward the lobby. He stayed, nursing his drink.
“Have another?” The bartender had wandered over.
I looked at my drink and smiled. “No, thanks. Slow night?”
“Mid-week in February, with no convention, this is about what we get.”
“That can’t make your life easier.”
She shrugged. “It’s a livin’, Hon. What do you do? Law, or insurance?”
I laughed. “No one else wearing suits?”
“Not in this town. Except maybe politicians, and even they don’t, mostly. If you’re not a lawyer, it’s either Travelers, Aetna, or The Hartford.” She wandered over to the forty-something wolf.
Two of the threesome – the two I thought were a couple – were getting up, and appeared to be urging the third to come with them. She waved them off, saying something humorous. They all laughed, but there was a tension to it.
The couple walked into the hotel, leaving their friend behind, looking at her almost-empty wine glass like it held some answers.
A few minutes later, the bartender handed her another glass of the same and said something to her. The woman looked at the wolf, speculatively. After a moment, she picked up her glass and made her way carefully to where he was sitting.
I thought, Oh, honey, you are SO going to regret that.
The bartender and I exchanged a look and a shrug, as if to say, what can you do?
I decided it was time to turn in, and headed upstairs. I wondered whether, a year ago, I would have bought the woman a drink, and laughed at the notion. Picking up women in bars was something that took more self-confidence than Cam ever had. She might have preferred Cam to the wolf. But who knows? Some women like the wolves.
But Cam was really just a disguise now, and one that was wearing thin. I divested myself of my Cam-o-flage, put my arms inside my green nightie and allowed it to slide teasingly down my body, thrilling, as I always did, at the sensual, transformational feel of the silky fabric.
I tucked myself into a pair of panties, slid into my cold bed, and fell into an uneasy sleep.
My dream was bizarre. I was back in the bar, but this time the bartender was giving me the wine glass, and I was the one walking over to the wolf, glass held lightly between thumb and two fingers. When I stood before him he snapped his fingers and I bent to kiss him.
Then I set my glass on the bar and began removing my tie and my suit jacket, letting them fall to the ground at my feet. He watched with dark eyes as I slowly unbuttoned my dress shirt and let it drop, exposing not the t-shirt I had worn, but a camisole and bra, daintily laced, pretty and feminine.
I reached back with both hands, displaying slender, milk-white arms, as I pulled my hair free. It billowed around my face like a smoky cloud and the wolf pulled me in, unresisting, for a deeper, more disturbing kiss.
My hands began to move without volition, echoing the caresses, the touches, of the young woman who had left the bar with her boyfriend. I felt . . . powerless. A loud siren began to wail as his tongue thrust between my welcoming lips.
I woke with a start, sweaty, tangled in my nightie. Which is when I realized that the siren was not part of a dream. It was, instead, the sound of the hotel’s fire alarm.
I froze, but only for an instant. Mercifully, through the aftershock of the dream that had left me disoriented and distressed, my normal reaction to emergencies kicked in.
I threw off the sheets and covers and rolled out of bed. One of my long lingerie straps had already slipped down; the other immediately followed and I got out of my nightie.
I had a pair of Cam’s sweats with me, since I had made some use of the hotel’s exercise equipment. They went on quickly. I stuck my feet in Cam’s sneakers, grabbed my room key and was out the door, making my way towards the stairwell with a stream of people.
My room was on the seventh floor, and progress down was slow as people on lower floors joined the exodus. But we did eventually come out in the lobby, where we were directed outdoors. It was freezing outside – literally – and people were not happy.
I looked around and didn’t see any of my crew; people were not all being directed to the same waiting areas. But I did see a face I recognized – the young woman who had decided to test the wolf. No one looked happy just at the moment, but she looked . . . truly awful. Shell-shocked. Hurt.
Unable to help myself, I was at her side without even thinking about it. I touched her arm lightly, very lightly, and asked, “Are you all right?” I kept my voice pitched so that only she would hear the question.
Her eyes came up, but she seemed to have trouble focusing on me. “Wha . . . oh. I’m . . . fine. I’m fine. Just . . . was surprised. By the alarm.”
“I don’t mean to intrude. But you look like something’s happened to you. Do you need help? Did the man from the bar last night hurt you?”
This time her eyes seemed to focus on me. “You saw . . . ?”
“I was in the bar when he bought you a drink, that’s all . . . . Did he hurt you?”
She closed her eyes for a moment and seemed to steady herself. Then she looked at me and said, “He didn’t do anything I didn’t ask for. No one’s fault but my own.” Her voice was low, and filled with self-loathing.
Just then an announcement came over the intercom inside, telling everyone that we could return to our rooms. The woman started to straighten up and I touched her arm lightly one more time. “You made a bad choice in a bad moment. That doesn’t make you a bad person. Okay?”
She looked at me again, almost puzzled, then reached up and gave my arm a squeeze. “Thank you.”
“There’s a CVS three blocks from here. If you need it.”
Her eyes widened fractionally, then she gave a quick nod, said “Thanks,” again, and walked to the stairs.
There was a large group of people waiting at the elevator banks, but I was only seven floors up. I took the stairs myself and spent the climb thinking about the poor woman. Although I had blithely assumed I would never do anything so foolish, my dream mocked my self-assurance.
How could even my subconscious be so stupid? And when I had been been startled awake, my body had been overwhelmed by sexual tension and excitement. I was only glad I didn’t have even a dream memory of going further. Saved by the bell!
On the walk to the client’s office the next morning, Eileen fell in beside me. “Quite the excitement last night. I saw you from the lobby, but you looked like you were helping someone. Everything okay?”
“Just a woman who was a bit shaken by the alarm. She’s okay.” I hoped it was true.
Eileen added, conversationally, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your hair down before. Almost didn’t recognize you.”
To be continued . . .