AN ARIA FOR CAMI
“fra dubbiezza e disìo tutta sospesa”
– Cilèa, Adriana Lecouvreur, Acerba voluttà (Aria)
Hartford, Connecticut, February 12
So, Eileen had seen me with my hair down. That had been so careless on my part. I had been flustered by my disturbing and erotic dream, surprised by the sudden wake-up by the hotel’s fire alarm, and so intent in changing from my nightie into male clothes that I hadn’t thought about my hair. Yikes!
However, I still had the ability to put on a poker face when I needed it. Keeping my voice unconcerned, I said, “I know! I keep meaning to get it trimmed, but I guess I’ve gotten superstitious about it. I’ve had a lot of success since I started letting it grow out in law school. I don’t want to jinx it!”
Eileen chuckled. “‘The rose goes in the front,’ right?”
I laughed, hard. “Exactly!”
Our conversation shifted easily to the schedule for the day. Both Daviana and I were prepping our second witnesses, and since David was the honcho on our damages case, he was backing up Daviana. Eileen was again my backup.
We talked about Joe Sanchez, my witness for the day. I said, “He sounded too defensive in his deposition. He’s got a great resume, based on his LinkedIn profile. I want to spend some time at the beginning of direct, building him up for the jury, making sure they know he knows what he’s talking about. Does that make sense?”
Eileen nodded. “The judge will give you some leeway on that, even though we aren’t offering him as an expert. Don’t let it go on too long, though.”
As we approached the client’s massive brick pile of an office, Eileen said, “Cam, I may be wrong, but I’ve had the sense you’ve had a lot going on these past few weeks. I don’t mean to pry and I won’t. But, as your supervisor, is there anything I need to know? And, purely as a friend, is there anything I can do to help?” Her tone was warm and her voice friendly.
I thought carefully about the nature of the dual questions she had asked. I felt certain that I could rely on her friendship. But, as she pointed out, she is also my supervisor, and a senior partner, not to mention a member of the firm’s management committee. Partners have fiduciary duties to each other as well as to clients. She would need to alert her partners if I confirmed her suspicions, if only because doing so would trigger application of the firm’s non-discrimination policies.
And she would need to be dealing with all that might entail just as we were rolling into trial.
If, on the other hand, I didn’t spill the beans, she would probably keep her suspicions to herself for the time being. And yet! I didn’t want to spurn an offer of help that I would certainly need. So I chose my words with extreme care.
“Thanks, Eileen,” I said, matching her warmth. “I really appreciate it. You’re right; I have had a couple things come up. But there’s nothing that can’t wait until after the trial, and I’m making sure that it does. I would absolutely let you know about anything that could affect my work. But, once the trial is done, I would really appreciate a chance to talk to you – as both a friend and a mentor.”
Eileen had chosen to make her offer while we were walking, so that neither of us would have to look at the other while we talked. It was a very useful tactic for delicate conversations; I decided I might use it myself sometime. Still, I glanced sideways at Eileen to see what I could gauge from her reaction. She appeared to be . . . serene?
Yes; that was a fair description. Serene.
“Well, I’ve got absolutely no complaints about your work,” she said. “And if you tell me there’s nothing I need to know about right now I’ll trust you. But my door’s open anytime. I hope you know that.”
I assured her that I did, and told her how much I appreciated it. And, with that, we went inside and went to work.
It was 8:00 pm, and I was headed back to BWI. It had been an intense, productive, and professionally satisfying week. Our mock-trial exercise had been incredibly instructive – enough to where I had no doubt that the client would consider the exercise to have been well worth the considerable expense. We would be ten times better prepared when we presented our case to the real jury in a month’s time.
Our panel of mock jurors, hired by our consultant for a one-day exercise, were drawn from the New Haven area and were representative of the people who might be selected for our jury. Three men, three women, diverse racial, ethnic, economic, and work backgrounds. Two retired; two union members; one academic, one contractor.
They had listened as David summarized our liability case, I laid out our damages case, then Eileen and Daviana laid out the opposing case for the Defendant, followed by a brief rebuttal by David and me. The “jurors” were told that their reactions to the presentations would be the basis for a subsequent mediation; they were not told that we were actually all working for the Plaintiff’s side.
Our presentations were mostly oral, but each side showed the most critical pieces of evidence for their respective cases, including excerpts of documents and video from witness depositions. As Eileen had suggested, I kept my attention focused like a laser on the “jurors.” David’s presentation, which we had both worked on, was logically tight and compelling, but David is a somewhat didactic speaker and I could tell that he was losing some of the jurors.
I tried to be more energetic in my presentation, to vary the pitch and volume of my voice more, to be physically expressive and to use analogies to explain some of the more esoteric concepts. Damages models are usually not simple things, but they have to be made simple in trial testimony.
Unfortunately, Eileen had stacked the deck by putting herself on the “Red Team.” In twenty-five brutal minutes, she calmly and methodically eviscerated our liability case, effortlessly tying together the best pieces of evidence for the Defendant’s side and casting doubt on the evidence we had presented. Daviana’s excellent presentation attacking our damages model was largely beside the point; without liability, damages are irrelevant.
David and I, having anticipated the content of the attacks (if not their potency), gave brief rebuttals. Then the moderator asked the mock jurors questions that we had worked out with him in advance.
On the whole, the responses suggested that the Plaintiff’s team had done better than I had feared. Two jurors found our claims persuasive and believed our damages expert. Eileen had wholly convinced two jurors that Defendant was not liable, and the remaining jurors were uncertain.
But plaintiffs have to convince everyone.
The moderator probed which pieces of evidence had been effective, which had failed to connect, and why. The “juror’s” responses were very enlightening.
After they left, Eileen said, “Okay, that was helpful. Don’t be too concerned that our side ‘lost’ today. We practice so that we get better, and now we know where we need to focus our work over the next month. The issues that were confusing or troubling to the jurors today can be fixed through good preparation of our trial witnesses. So I want us all to think about how we’re going to do that, and discuss it Monday morning.” She actually looked very pleased with the exercise, which certainly made me feel better about it.
I don’t like losing!
I was making notes on the topic Eileen told us to think about as the flight sped home. I was in a window seat, and able to screen my notes from other passengers. Not that it mattered; my neighbors had again ignored me. This time, I was happy about that.
I had a lot to think about. About the trial, mostly. But I was also thinking about the fact that my cover wasn’t holding as well any more. Eileen, I felt sure, knew or strongly suspected what was going on. Also, when I had gone into the gift shop in the lobby Thursday night to buy some Advil, I bumped into the woman I had seen in the bar, and later during the fire drill.
I hadn’t seen her in the back of the store, but as I was leaving I heard a hesitant voice behind me say, “It was you, wasn’t it? The other morning?”
I turned and recognized her immediately; my recognition was sufficiently obvious that she didn’t wait for a response. “I wasn’t sure, because . . . well. I mean, don’t take this wrong . . .” She was blushing furiously, having clearly gone out on a limb before her brain was engaged, but feeling compelled to finish her thought. “I, ah, thought you were a woman. I mean, that’s stupid, but . . . .”
I stopped her with a light touch, taking the opportunity to move us both out of the shop. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s a compliment. Anyway, you were dealing with other things. Are you okay?”
She assured me that she was, and thanked me again, and that was that.
But I knew why she had mistaken me for a woman. The hair had been part of it, of course, but during the entire fire drill encounter I hadn’t even thought about presenting as male. I had acted instinctively; naturally. And my “natural” communications, both in style and substance, had strongly signaled “woman.”
I thought to myself, we start picking the jury in just over a month. I only have to hold things together a little while longer. I’ve got to manage it!
Forty-five minutes later I was on the ground and had picked up my bags. I was so preoccupied that I started to head towards the MARC station before I pulled myself out of autopilot and remembered that I no longer lived in College Park.
But I was very happy to be heading to “Opera House.” Maggie had a part in the Sarasota Opera’s upcoming production of La Wally, and she was flying down to begin in-person rehearsals in just two days. I wouldn’t see her until after the trial – by which time Nicole would be in Chicago rehearsing for a production of Wagner’s Götterdämmerung. During the brief time I had spent with my roommates the prior weekend, I had come to appreciate what their lives were like during the season.
I got an Uber and then texted the girls to let them know I was on my way. When I came through the door, Maggie popped out of the kitchen. She gave me a smile and steered me to the stairs.
“Go dump your bag. We got a bath ready for you, so soak as long as you like, then come down and we’ll have some soup. Nicole’s just finishing some rehearsing in the sound room.”
“You two are amazing.” I gently pressed her steering hand on my arm, gave her a grateful smile, and headed upstairs.
I dropped my bag in my bedroom, found a few essentials, as well as my flannel nightgown, fleece robe and fuzzy slippers, and headed to the bathroom. A bubble bath! Oh, Maggie deserves a place in heaven! I pulled my hair loose from its bands and sank down to bring the water all the way up the back of my head. The stress of the week began to melt away as I closed my eyes and simply relaxed.
Eventually I sat up and shampooed my mop, then massaged conditioner into my scalp and down the growing length of my mane. I pulled the lot forward to rest on my chest, then sank back down and began shaving my legs. There’s not all that much to shave – undoubtedly a function of the hypogonadism that had muted the development of all of my masculine sexual characteristics during puberty – but I like my skin to be completely smooth.
I particularly enjoy the sensual exercise of shaving my legs – the tingle of the foam, the caress of the sharp blade over sensitive skin, the visual image of the razor’s tracks effortlessly skimming the soap away in long, straight lines.
When I had finished, I pulled the plug, then patted myself dry and took a blowdryer to my hair. I would normally have put in some mousse and curlers, but I didn’t want to keep Maggie and Nicole waiting. I simply left it loose, only pulling back the hair from my temples and securing it behind the crown of my head. After attaching my breast forms and applying the concealing makeup to the seams, I slipped on a padded panty gaff and then got into my nightgown and robe.
Finally, I shaved my face (mostly a prophylactic exercise), used cleanser and moisturizer, and put on some lipstick and just a hint of blush and eyeshadow. Maggie and – God knows! – Nicole needed no makeup to present as female; I preferred to have a little help!
I padded downstairs in my fuzzy slippers, finally feeling like myself again, and bumped into Nicole at the bottom of the stairs.
She smiled hugely and gave me a big hug. “Hey girl! Welcome home!”
I gave her an equally big hug in return, overwhelmed once again at my good fortune at having found such a fabulous friend. Then we joined Maggie in the kitchen and served some tomato basil soup with fresh toasted sourdough bread.
I told them a bit about my week. They thought the mock jury exercise sounded really cool. “You never see anything like that on TV,” Nicole said.
“What people generally don’t realize is just how much planning goes into every minute of a trial,” I said. “You spend hours perfecting ten minutes of testimony. And if a juror falls asleep for five minutes, literally hours of work are wasted. It makes it pretty intense for the lawyers.”
They were most interested in my exchange with Eileen on the walk to the client’s headquarters. They both wondered whether it wouldn’t have been better just to tell her.
“I don’t think so,” I said, “though I’m really just guessing. I think it would be disruptive for me to come out just before we start the trial. I think it will make Eileen’s life easier if I wait, and her reaction to what I said makes me more confident I’m right about that. I think the jury is less likely to think anything about my gender if I’m presenting as male; I do have more experience doing that, and in a work setting I don’t have any experience presenting as a woman. But I could be wrong about all of those things.”
Nicole nodded. “I guess I can see your point,” she said. “Though I have to tell you, I really get a very female vibe from you. I’ve only seen you presenting as male once, though, and we didn’t really talk. Obviously the physical presentation helped, but I didn’t have any trouble seeing Cami through your suit. I can’t exactly say why.”
“I thought the same thing,” Maggie said. “Maybe it’s just how expressive your face is. Or how you move? But, the jury will never have seen you present as female, so maybe they won’t see it like we do.”
“Let’s hope so, anyway,” I said. “I think I present differently as a male. Although it feels more natural to me now, I really worked hard to develop more feminine ways of appearing, moving, interacting . . . now I seem to apply those lessons in reverse. I consciously use my older mannerisms when I’m presenting as male. I mean, it’s funny that you mention my face being expressive; as Cameron, people joked about my having a permanent poker face."
"Seriously?" asked Maggie.
"Yeah, really!" I said. "Anyway, other than Eileen, who probably wouldn’t have thought about it if she hadn’t caught me with my hair down, I don’t have a sense that anyone at work is seeing anything odd in my behavior, and they’ve only known me as male. So I should be able to pull it off for a jury for two weeks.”
We called it a night a bit later. As I prepared for bed, I thought some more about our conversation. And about how the woman in the hotel had thought I was female even though I didn’t have my artificial curves, or the benefit of makeup or female clothing. I hope that my confidence in my ability to stay balanced on the tightrope isn’t misplaced.
Baltimore, Maryland, February 15
For the first time in over ten days, I was able to get up and do my full early morning routine. I rolled out of “bed” – a couch, but comfortable – got dressed in a sports bra and yoga pants, put my hair in a high ponytail, and slipped down to the basement for a full aerobic workout: Fifteen minutes of stretches, thirty minutes of vigorous cheer routines, and ten more minutes of stretches. I had at least been able to do some of my stretches in the hotel room in Hartford, and I had gotten down to the hotel gym twice and used exercycles, so I hadn’t lost too much. Still, I felt quite winded when I was done.
I trotted upstairs, hot and sweaty, and was in and out of the shower before 6:15. This time, I did apply mousse and curlers in my hair, then I put nail polish on my fingernails and went back to my bedroom to let it set. By 7:00 am I was downstairs again.
Having observed Nicole and Maggie last weekend, I decided I needed a few more casual clothes, if I was going to fit in properly. For the moment, I went with black tights and an oversized hoodie that had – for some reason – been part of my male wardrobe. It looked better on me as Cami, covering just enough at the bottom to be acceptable and accentuating my (unfortunately artificial) breasts. The thing must have fit my male self better when I weighed fifteen to twenty pounds more. At my current weight, it made me look practically petite. I wore a pair of flats and put my hair in my almost-signature over-the-shoulder loose braid.
I was looking around the kitchen for something I could make for everyone to eat for breakfast when Maggie popped into the kitchen wearing a knee-length flannel nightgown in a Royal Stewart plaid with a wide neckline that emphasized her bird-like collar bones. Her blonde hair, about the same length as mine, was still mussed from sleep, but her sky-blue eyes were wide awake.
“Good morning, Cami!” she said warmly. “I’m used to being the early bird around here. Do you always get up in the middle of the night?”
I gave her a spontaneous hug. “5:00, when I can manage it. I hope I didn’t wake you!”
She smiled and stretched like a cat. “No, I’m up early ‘cuz I’m excited about tomorrow, I guess. But then I heard you downstairs and thought I’d investigate.”
I asked her what she would like for breakfast, convinced her that it was okay to let me make her something, and shortly afterward served her an egg over easy, sliced tomato, and a piece of yesterday’s sourdough bread, toasted and buttered. She got green tea and I made myself coffee – the only thing I had brought from my kitchen last weekend.
Once she had done her morning vocal exercises, she planned to spend most of the day packing, though she had two students coming in that afternoon for lessons. She told me I should feel free to sleep in her room while she was gone, since her bed was undoubtedly more comfortable than the couch.
I told her that I had some calls to make, but would spend most of the day working. However, I had my first meeting with my voice coach, Dr. Trelli, at 1:00.
Maggie was excited. “You’ll love her – she is absolutely the best voice coach. She’s half the reason Nickie was willing to come live with me in Baltimore. . . . You’re welcome to join our morning voice exercises once Nick’s awake; it’ll definitely help wake up your voice.”
Before we got up to get started on our respective tasks, I said, a bit shyly, “I’d really like to do something nice for you as a send off. Do you have a favorite dinner? A favorite place to eat? Even a favorite dessert?”
She grinned at me. “Damn, I could get used to this! This time of year, I mostly eat soups of one sort or another. If you have a good soup recipe I’m game!”
“Deal!” I didn’t actually have a good soup recipe, but I would by-God get one!
We got to work. I went downstairs and opened up my laptop while Maggie went upstairs to get her shower and pull together her laundry.
Around 9:30 Maggie and Nicole both came down to the basement; by this point even Nicole was showered, dressed. and ready for voice exercises. These followed the same sets of patterns we had used the previous week. After thirty minutes or so we stopped, and I had to agree that my voice felt much more “awake.” It struck me as a strange description, but accurate. I felt like I could go to any point in my normal pitch range without feeling any strain – no sensation of “forcing” the higher notes of my register.
After our exercises, Maggie went upstairs again. Nicole was going to use the sound enclosure to work on Götterdämmerung. Before she went in, I told Nicole about my idea of making a nice dinner for Maggie.
She clapped her hands gleefully – I’d never actually seen someone do that. “That’s perfect! What were you thinking of making?”
I explained that Maggie had expressed a preference for soup, and I didn’t have a particular soup in mind.
“Oh!” she replied, “I have a fabulous fish soup recipe I’ve been dying to try – Mags would love it. Hows about I do the shopping this afternoon while you’re doing your lesson, then we can cook dinner together?”
That sounded perfect and I said so.
She flashed me a big smile. “Great idea, Cami!” then went into the sound booth. When I looked up from my computer screen I could see her at the microphone, headphones on and a look of intense concentration on her face as she sang.
At a bit before noon I shut down my laptop. Before I went back upstairs, I picked up the headphones to listen to Nicole. I could hear her voice blending with a recording that she played through the synthesizer. I closed my eyes for a moment and just listened.
Whatever piece she was singing, it did not have the beauty, the pathos of the aria she had sung from Tosca during our romp through Rockefeller Center, or the sheer sensuality of Maggie’s favorite aria from Carmen. But it had incredible power – an overwhelming sense of strength, of force. From a technical standpoint, it demonstrated Nicole’s virtuosity. I didn’t love the music, but . . . I found I could respect it.
After a few minutes of listening intently, I opened my eyes and saw that Nicole was watching me, a look of amusement and mischief in her eyes even as her voice rose higher and increased in power. I smiled back, waved, then removed the headphones and went upstairs.
Maggie was in the kitchen when I emerged onto the main floor. “Want some chicken salad?” she asked.
“Sounds perfect.”
She spilt the container between the two of us. “Nicole eats breakfast so late she generally skips lunch, or just has an apple or something in the early afternoon. So this is all ours!”
I finished and was cleaning the dishes when Nicole came up from the basement.
She said, “Why don’t I drop you off at Dottoressa Trelli’s studio and I’ll go to the grocery store from there?”
So, I hopped into Nicole’s car and we sped off. The studio was only five or so minutes away by car; I could easily have walked, but this saved time. Nicole dropped me off and I walked up the steps of another private residence which, like “Opera House,” was also being used as a studio. Unusually, the house had a stucco exterior, brightly painted trim, and colorful tiles on the risers of the stairs leading to an ornate front door.
I rang the bell, which generated a seven-note scale. This left me smiling just as the door opened, revealing a very large woman – at least my height, and substantially larger in all other dimensions – with blue-black hair and eyes so dark they might as well have been black too. She was wearing slacks and a loose-fitting top, and looked like she was in her early- to mid- forties. Her face was feathered with smile lines, and she used them to good effect.
“You must be Cami! Come in, come in!” She had me sit down. “Now. I’ve heard about you from Dr. Chun. And I’ve heard about you from those fine young women you are living with. But before we start, I’d like to hear about you from you. Tell me about yourself. Tell me what brings you to my studio.”
So, I gave her an edited version: the biographical details, education, work. Then I talked about my growing realization last fall that I was misgendered as a male, and my resolution to do something about it. The fact that, outside of work, I was now spending all of my time as a woman. My desire to make my presentation match my internal understanding of my gender.
Her intense eyes never left my face, but I felt like she was somehow in constant motion. She was nodding, or smiling. Her hands were moving. Clearly and visibly, she was completely engaged in what I was saying.
When I was finished she said, “Buono. With this, I can help. I am already getting a sense of your voice, your manner of speaking, of communicating. But, I have some exercises that will help more.” She handed me a sheet of paper.
I giggled as I saw it was a print of the Lewis Carroll poem, Jabberwocky.
“You know this poem? That is good,” she said. “Ecco. Here is what I want you to do. First, I want you to read this poem to me as if you were sitting at a conference table in your office, dressed for work, and I were one of your co-workers. In other words, use your ‘male’ voice.’ Then, I’ll have you repeat it in your ‘female’ voice. Please begin.”
This was unexpected. I closed my eyes for a moment and conjured the scene she had described. Cameron Ross Savin, Esq. Suit and tie. Wingtips. Hair strictly tied back and clubbed. Conference room. Reading. My eyes opened, and I read, “‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves . . . .’” The poem’s familiar cadences, in my male high tenor, inflection carefully cabined; stress indicated through changes in volume and pacing. Facial expression controlled; body and hands, still.
I finished the poem.
The Dottoressa again said, “Buono. Now, let me hear you, Cami.”
I smiled and began again. My voice was higher, lighter. Softer. I modulated my pitch more than my volume to provide emphasis, and allowed both my face and my body more range of expression.
As I read the father’s lines – “Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” my eyes shone with pride, my smile echoed my rising voice and my arms swept out, as if to embrace the conquering hero son. I finished the reprise of the first stanza more softly, on a lower pitch.
Dottoressa Trelli was smiling and nodding. “Yes! You have been paying attention, haven’t you? You are a good student of the best school – the observation of people. But!!! But!!! There is much room to improve, and that is what we shall do!” She was, as Lewis Carroll might have said, beamish.
In a quieter voice, she said, “In what you just showed me, I would say you have made a good beginning in a couple of critical areas. Intonation – the rise and fall of pitch in your speech – is noticeably more fluid in your female voice. Similarly, your volume is lower and more consistent. I would say your greatest strength, where you show the most difference between your ‘voices,’ is in nonverbal communication. Your face is very expressive as Cami, you make good eye contact, and your body is loose and free to speak along with your voice. This is all good.” She beamed again.
“Where I think you need the most help, and where we will focus most of our attention to begin with, is pitch and resonance. You are largely using your ‘head’ voice when you talk as a woman. That allows you to somewhat hide the depth of your voice and cuts out the deeper resonances that come from the larger sound chambers of a man’s throat and mouth. It’s a decent short-cut, and I see why you use it. Given the relatively high pitch of your natural male voice, it’s also reasonably convincing.
“It is not, however, desirable or sustainable. You need to be able to increase the effective range of your voice – the range that you can access using your full voice, your properly supported chest voice. This will be vastly more convincing – no one speaks in their head voice most of the time, and if you want to continue in your current profession you will especially wish to avoid doing so. A head voice is too soft to convey authority. And an unsupported throat voice that is pushed to a higher register sounds inauthentic. That will also damage your vocal cords over time.”
She nodded her head emphatically, to stress the point. “No! What you need to do is to increase your effective range. There are exercises for that, and you will do them every day, without fail. Yes?”
“Yes, Dottoressa,” I said obediently. I added, “Nicole and Maggie have had me join their morning warm-up exercises on a couple of occasions. Will that help?”
She was back to beaming. “Intelligent young women! Inspired! You are greatly blessed to work with them! Yes, it will help tremendously. They will be able to keep you doing the exercises correctly, without strain to the voice, but also push you where and how you need to be pushed – just as they push each other. There are some additional exercises that I will assign you as well; these have more to do with enunciation and articulation. In general, women tend to articulate more clearly, with crisper consonants. Yet, nonetheless, they tend to speak more quickly.”
With that, she sat down at her piano and walked me through a set of exercises. The first were, recognizably, the same ones I had practiced earlier in the day. She wanted to hear how I did with them, and what the current limits of my range were – the point at which I would go into falsetto. She stopped me periodically, giving me tips on posture and breathing to ensure that the notes were properly supported.
After that, she had me go through a different set of exercises than the ones I had done with Nicole and Maggie, aimed at articulation and speed. These were fun – almost tongue-twisters. Each time I went through them, she increased the tempo on her metronome. By the end, I was completely tongue-tied, but grinning like a springer spaniel.
She stopped me, and the metronome, and returned my grin. “Buono. Buono! You, I will enjoy training!”
She gave me several worksheets with the exercises on them, stressing once again that I was to do my exercises every day and without fail. I was very much afraid that I would have to at least curtail my normal physical workout if I was going to have time, but this was a priority. We set a time to meet the following weekend.
As I got ready to go, she said, “Dottoressa McGregor is leaving tomorrow, yes?”
“You mean Maggie? I didn’t know she had a doctorate!”
She responded, “We Italians are not so stingy with honorifics as you Anglo-Americans. She has a Master of Music degree from a prestigious school; it is enough, and more than enough! If you can prevail upon her to do so, ask the Dottoressa if she would do a recording of the second set of exercises for you before she goes. She is quite familiar with them. Her articulation at high speeds is exemplary, and her pitch, while substantially higher than yours, is still closer to it than Dottoressa Fontaine’s. Record your own sessions and compare your articulation to hers. You will see immediately what I am getting at. Your goal is to emulate her admirable clarity. Yes?”
With that, she shooed me out and I found to my surprise that it was already 3:30. The time with THE Dottoressa – I now understood why Maggie and Nicole both seemed to use verbal capital letters when they referred to her – had passed incredibly quickly.
Baltimore, Maryland, February 15, immediately following
The day was warm enough (I had changed into sturdier shoes and donned my winter coat), so I decided to walk back to Opera House. It took me about twenty-five minutes, walking through neighborhoods of modest houses, most dating from the early Twentieth Century, when Baltimore was more prosperous and fine craftsmanship could be had for less.
The smell of woodsmoke carried in the cool, dry winter air, and the sounds of a city – voices, traffic, equipment – combined in an intricate harmony. I thrilled to the cool touch of the wind as it swirled old leaves at my feet, bringing a feather of cold up legs sheathed only in tights.
A car approached and, as it drew level, I briefly saw a man’s face, grinning, followed by the sound of a high, appreciative whistle as he continued on his way.
I laughed. Oh, it could have been a problem, and in some circumstances it would have been. But he hadn’t paused or hassled me otherwise, and I was more than inclined to simply stick the compliment in my purse and enjoy it. It is, I thought, very good to be alive.
I was back at Opera House at almost 4:00. Maggie was working with a student in the front room, so I went around and came up the back stairs to the kitchen. There was no sign of Nicole, but I saw a covered bowl on the counter and, peaking, discovered that it held rising dough. I went in search of Nicole and found her downstairs, once again rehearsing in the sound enclosure.
I let her know I had arrived and sat at the table. Procrastinating a bit, I sent a text to Al and Javier asking how they were doing and whether I could come by tomorrow to get the rest of my stuff. After that, I sent a text to Liz just to let her know I was thinking about her, and a final text to Fiona. “Hey Fi – keeping you in my thoughts and prayers. Hope all is well. Are you getting answers?” Then I opened my laptop and got to work.
After a few minutes I got a call from Javier. He sounded better than he had a week before. “Hey, Cami! How was your trip?”
I said it had gone well, and asked how he, Al and Tina were doing.
“I think we’re making progress. It’s slow, but we’ll take it. We, uh . . . well. After what you told me about your watch, I went and gathered up the rest of your stuff when I got back from Baltimore last week. It’s in a bin in our apartment. The table and chair are still in the garage, but that won’t be any trouble.” He paused for a moment. “Would it be okay if I just drove it all out to where you are staying tomorrow?”
That spoke volumes; Al and Javi clearly thought it would be counterproductive to have me either encounter Tina again, or enter what was once again her apartment.
While on one level I was sorry to hear it, I didn’t have any great desire to run into Tina either – at least not in her current condition. In any event, there was only one answer. “Of course, Javi. How’s 1:00 sound?”
He agreed, clearly grateful I had accepted his offer, and we ended the call.
I had a short and cheerful text back from Liz, but nothing from Fiona. Another Saturday at work for her, I thought. I got back to it myself.
Nicole emerged from her session around 4:45. “Ready when you are!”
I shut down my computer and we went back to the kitchen. Maggie had apparently finished with her students and had gone back upstairs. I asked Nicole to give me a minute, then went up to Maggie’s room, where she was carefully folding freshly-washed clothes.
“Hey, Dottoressa McGregor!" I said with a big smile. “What’s shakin’?”
That got a laugh from her. “Don’t you start! She’s earned the title; I certainly haven’t!”
“Maybe not, but THE Dottoressa said I should ask you, and very specifically you, if you would do a recording of the exercises she just gave me, so that your humble acolyte could learn the secrets of your ‘exemplary articulation at high speed!’”
She laughed again. “Articulation exercises? Sure! I know exactly the ones she gave you. Let me just finish folding these and I’ll record it right now.”
“Better still, let me help you with the laundry. Least I can do.” We finished the folding in four minutes, and I was back down in the kitchen.
Nicole had started pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator. She had put on a floral apron, already powdered with some flour, and she handed me a matching one. “So, here’s the recipe!” she said, excited, as she handed me an iPad.
I looked it over and grinned. “Oh, you like challenges!” Nicole wasn’t just proposing we make “fish soup;” she wanted to make a genuine Marseille Bouillabaisse!
She grinned back. “Game on, girlfriend!”
While Nicole pummeled her bread dough, I started chopping onions, garlic and leeks and zesting some orange peel. I sauteed it all together with sprigs of fresh thyme and fennel seeds, then added tomato paste and a fresh tomato, diced fine.
Meantime, Nicole was preparing the “waste fish” that we would add to the broth – truly awful looking stuff like fish heads and bones, together with another fish she described as red mullet, singing a little ditty in French as she worked. The tune was a real earworm; it stuck in my head for weeks. She had me sing the chorus with her, a task somewhat complicated by the fact that I don’t speak French.
I got it eventually, but caused her some real chuckles before I did.
“I think you just said you like to eat Germans!” she giggled.
“Who doesn’t?”
Nicole layered her ugly waste fish into my pretty broth, then deglazed with some white wine and a splash of Ouzo. With a twinkle of mischief in her eye, she took a swig from the wine bottle then handed it to me.
“Merci,” I said – even I know that much French! – and followed suit. I quick-boiled some water in their electric kettle and added it to the pot, covering the fish, then we took the mixture to a full boil for several minutes before lowering the temperature to a simmer.
“Now,” Nicole said, “if you take care of the rouille, I’ll get this bread ready to bake.”
Even the rouille was complicated – very complicated, in comparison to my usual meals – but cooking with Nicole was fun. She was beating up on her bread dough, scolding it in a mixture of what sounded like Italian and German, while I put an egg yolk, garlic, leftover bread, red pepper, and a touch of saffron into the blender. Once everything was mixed together, I drizzled in some olive oil and a bit of the hot broth from the pot. I looked up to see Nicole rolling her dough into long ropes.
“Can you give me some more rolls this thickness?” she asked.
I moved to her side to lend a hand.
Once she had three ropes of her desired length, she started braiding them together. We made three loaves – “More than we need, but it’s as easy to make three loaves as it is to make one,” she said. “I’ll give the extras to our neighbors.”
The broth was still simmering away as we slipped the braided loaves onto a broad pizza stone and put it in the oven. Nicole sniffed the broth. “Let’s give that a couple of minutes. I need to powder my nose.”
I laughed. “But you already have!” She must have scratched her nose when her hands were dusted with flour, since there was a noticeable spray of powder on the upturned tip of her celestial nose.
She stuck out her tongue at me and then headed upstairs.
I used the time to clean up the growing mess of cutting boards, blender, knives, spoons, and miscellaneous implements.
When Nicole returned, she checked the bread, then came back to the simmering broth. Satisfied, she said, “Alright, time to grind it up.”
We ran a batch of the broth into the blender, fish bones and all, then put the resulting mixture through a fine mesh strainer and into a second large pot. It took three pours before all the broth was mixed and strained, at which point we put the fresh pot on low heat and stirred everything together.
While Nicole pulled her loaves from the oven, I poached the “good” fish – filets of red snapper, sea bass, monkfish and sole – in the broth, removing them as they were done. Finally, I added steamers to the mix and pulled them out just as they were opening.
The smells in the kitchen at this point were heavenly, and Maggie could no longer resist. “What are you two doing in here,” she said as she came through the doors. “It smells incredible!”
“Ah, ah, ah, ma petite cherie!” Nicole teased, “no spoiling our surprise! Be off with you! But,” she relented, as she gave Maggie a cup of the rich white burgundy, “Take zees to zee living room and relax yourself until we are ready for you!”
Maggie laughed, took the cup, and retreated.
We were just about ready. Nicole had me set the table while she cut one of the braided loaves into fine slices, then cut the slices in half and toasted them on a baking sheet.
I put out bowls and silverware, glasses of water for everyone and wine cups for Nicole and me. Candles were next, then cloth napkins fetched from where Nicole said they could be found (normally, we used paper towels!). Then I helped Nicole spread the rouille onto the toasted bread and brought it, the broth and the poached fish and steamers out to the table.
I was about to get Maggie when Nicole hooked my apron string with her finger. “Not for the table, Cami!” We laughed, removed our protective gear, checked each other’s appearance, then went and got the guest of honor.
Too often, these two women had brought me to tears with their generosity and kindness. Now it was Maggie’s turn. Her blue eyes glittered in the candlelight as she threw both arms wide. “I’m in heaven. I live in heaven!”
“That may be the very first time anyone — anyone ever — has said that about Baltimore,” Nicole quipped.
Nicole and I gave Maggie a communal hug, then we sat to eat. In each bowl, we ladeled broth, added some of the toasted bread, and then put in the poached fish and steamers.
I raised my cup. “Safe travels, Maggie – and good luck!” We clinked cups and Nicole and I drank.
Maggie toasted the best roommates ever, and we all drank to that.
Amazingly, the bouillabaisse tasted as good as it smelled. The broth was rich and complex, and both the fish and the shellfish were perfect.
Maggie said, “That is not the first time you’ve made that!”
“Don’t look at me!” I said.
“When I was a girl,” Nicole explained, “we sometimes visited Grandmère in Aix-en-Provence. She made bouillabaisse, but I never learned how she did it. I wish I had asked her to show me.”
“Is she still alive?” I asked.
She shook her head, ruefully. “No, we lost her, oh, ten years ago or so. She was not so old. But my Grandpère, he was much older. And after he died, she just seemed to die with him. It took a bit longer, but not too much.”
I touched her arm in sympathy; the memory clearly still pained her. “I am so sorry. You must miss her.”
“Yes. She was a wonderful woman. Full of life. Loved cooking, and music, and flowers . . . . I wanted to grow up to be just like her.”
“I think she would be very proud of you, Nick,” Maggie said.
Lightening the mood, Nicole responded, “Well, I think she would have liked this bouillabaisse, certainly. I’m pretty sure this is close – very close – to what she used to make!”
I asked, “Did she teach your mom her recipes?”
“Ah, no. They were Dad’s parents, not Mom’s.” Nicole smiled. “I swear Dad couldn’t cook a hot dog.”
Maggie said, “All Irish and – don’t say anything – English in my family, so no great cooking traditions. What about you, Cami?”
I shook my head. “Mom’s family are all Scots – her Dad was Highland Scots, her Mom was – is – Appalachian Scots. So they know how to cook to survive, and how to make sure you don’t enjoy doing it. My Dad’s family – well, no one knows. Family legend is that they were Huguenots who fled to the New World after the fall of La Rochelle, but I’ve never seen any proof. Far as I know it’s just a story. For sure, no good recipes ever got handed down!”
We talked, and had seconds, and opened another bottle. We talked some more. Eventually, I asked Maggie if she was all ready to go for tomorrow.
“Yep,” she replied. “All packed and ready to roll. I’ve got to be at BWI by 9:00, but I can just shower and go at this point.”
I gave her a big hug. “Go get some sleep. I’ve got the mess.”
But neither she nor Nicole would let me do that, so we traipsed into the kitchen, slightly tipsy, somewhat giggly, and started washing, drying, and getting everything back to Opera House immaculate. We were bumping into each other and tittering like teenagers, but we got the job done without breaking anything.
At Maggie’s insistence we all had ten ounces of water before turning in – “No hangovers tomorrow!” Then we went upstairs and off to our respective rooms.
I was beat. It had been a busy, but wonderful, day, and I was more than ready for sleep. I brushed my teeth, removed my makeup, moisturized, and got into my flannel nightgown. Back in my room, I grabbed my phone to charge it overnight. It was then that I noticed that Fiona had finally responded to my text.
Her text sobered me immediately. “I’ll call tomorrow. It’s a pandemic.”
Sleep was long in coming, and my night terrors returned. The specifics of the incident that triggered my terrors – the attack by that jackass at the Christmas party – no longer resurfaced. All that remained was the feeling the attack had engendered: the terrible, overwhelming sense that my sister was in danger. My mind screamed in silent, frantic fear.
Fiona!!! Be safe!!!
Baltimore, Maryland, February 16
5:00 a.m., and my phone alarm was softly buzzing. Normally I leaped up; this morning I suppressed a groan and the urge to hit the snooze button. Or, to just turn the damned thing off. But I threw off the covers, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, changed, and went downstairs.
The morning exercise session required a fair bit of grim determination at the beginning. I pushed myself harder than usual on all of the stretches. If I was going to go through this, I was, by God, going to get some bang for the buck. Then I went into the cheer routines. As usual, I repeated the same routine, which I had worked up to seven minutes, four times.
Through the first and second routines, I pushed, determined to kick higher, prance more brightly, manage the split with greater ease. But by the third round, the exercise began to have its normal salutary effect on my mental, emotional, and even spiritual, state. I began to smile as I continued to push, and push some more.
By the final round I was nearly “beamish.” Whatever the future might bring, I was healthy today and would celebrate it.
I finished with the final element, dropping down to do the splits, raising my arms in a “Ta da!” maneuver, arching my back and raising my head high. I held the pose for a moment, then reached down, breathing hard, to turn off the music on my phone.
“You do that every day!?” Maggie was at the bottom of the stairs, an incredulous look on her face. I could only nod, chest heaving, as I got my breath back.
“When did you learn to be a cheerleader? I can’t believe you did that in school.”
I grinned. “Long story,” I said, thinking to myself, “and one I ABSOLUTELY don’t intend to share!”
Maggie shook her head. “You just keep amazing me, Cami. I think I know you, and then!”
I laughed. “But really, I haven’t known either of you very long. It just feels like we’ve been friends forever.”
She smiled at that. “Yeah, it does. And I’m really, really glad about that. . . . You want the first shower?”
I shook my head. “You go ahead. I’ve still got to stretch for ten minutes.”
She smiled, shook her head again and headed upstairs.
We were all showered, dressed and ready for the day by 7:45 – barbarically early as far as Nicole was concerned. But she looked more rested than I felt. Or perhaps I was extrapolating from the fact that she looked fabulous. That didn’t really signify, though. Nicole always looks fabulous.
I made omelets for everyone, using some of the extra chopped onions and spices from the prior night’s dinner and toasting some of Nicole’s braided bread to go with them. As we finished and settled back with our hot drinks of choice – coffee for me, tea for my roomies – I told them about Fiona’s message.
“What does it mean?” Nicole asked. “I mean, I understand that a pandemic is a world-wide epidemic, but, how will that affect our lives?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. They shut down all of Wuhan – put it in lockdown. It’s bigger – way bigger – than New York City. They quarantined that cruise ship – the Diamond Princess – and wouldn’t let people off. But I don’t know whether we’ll be talking about local flare-ups here and there, or something else. Fiona might know, but she probably won’t. Hopefully I’ll be able to talk to her today.”
We sat silently for a few minutes, sipping our drinks, lost in our own thoughts. None of which were very cheerful, judging by appearances. But Maggie finally sighed, stretched, and got up.
“Well, whatever’s going to happen, the show must go on. So I’d better get going.”
We all got to our feet and helped her carry her three bags down to the car. It would be a tight fit for the three of us, but neither Nicole nor I would stay behind. When we got to the airport, we all jumped out.
I pulled the bags from the back while Nicole gave Maggie a big hug, kissed her on the forehead, and said something softly that I didn’t catch. Then she got back into the car to circle while I helped Maggie get her bags to baggage check.
Once we had dropped her two large bags, now tagged, with airport security for screening, I gave her my own hug and a squeeze and, thinking of Fi, said fiercely, “Be safe, Maggie!! Be safe!!”
“You too. And take care of Nickie for me, will you?”
She let me go, and went to catch her flight. I went back outside and hopped into the passenger’s seat as Nicole came around the loop.
“You look blue, Cami.”
My smile was a bit lopsided. “Crazy, right? But Opera House certainly won’t feel the same without her there.”
“That’s our life, though,” she said. “The chance to do what Maggie is off to do right now – that’s what we spend hours training for every day. It’s a crazy-assed way to live, I guess, from any normal person’s perspective. But we wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I chewed on that while we made our way back home.
When we got back, Nicole said, “Okay, now I promised Mags I would make sure that you did all of your voice exercises. Let’s start with the warm-ups since we both need to do them. You can do your articulation exercises later – Maggie left you the recording – but you must do them. Or I’ll be in trouble with The Dottoressa, not just you!”
So we went downstairs and did our vocal stretches, after which Nicole disappeared into the sound enclosure to work on her opera and I opened my laptop to work on the trial.
I got a ping from my computer’s Skype app around 11:30 and was delighted to see that it was from Fiona. It had been two weeks since I spoke with her last and she still looked exhausted.
I decided I wasn’t going to comment on that. “Hey, big sister! I wish I could give you a hug; you look like you could use one.”
Her smile was tired, but genuine. “Hey, Cami. How are you? For that matter, where are you? I don’t recognize the space. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
I responded, “I’m fine, and I’m home – my current home, anyway. Long story, but I’m staying with friends until my trial’s finished. Now, tell me how you are doing. And what. Your message last night was pretty bad.”
“I’m okay, just . . . working. Too long. Too hard. And, nothing’s enough. It’s going to be bad, Cami, we just don’t know how bad. The evidence from the Diamond Princess is that this coronavirus spreads pretty easily, and infected people can spread it even before they show any symptoms. That makes it really, really hard to stop the spread.
“The death toll in China is already higher than it was during SARS. So, the disease – COVID-19 – can cause severe illness and death, the virus spreads from person to person, including through asymptomatic people. And, it’s starting to show up in different countries around the world.”
“Okay,” I said. “I mean . . . not okay, obviously. But . . . is there anything that we should be doing to prepare? Anything we should be doing differently? I assume closing the borders to flights – assuming we could even do it – would just slow things down?”
Fiona nodded. “Right. Buying time, which I hope to God we use. But now hospitals are scrambling for scarce resources and it’s a zero sum game. And until we see where it’s going to hit first, it’s impossible to know where the most resources should be directed.”
Pragmatically, I asked, “Is there anything that the public should be doing to prepare? Anything I should tell my roommates, or work colleagues?”
She shook her head. “Good hygiene, generally. Wash your hands regularly – REALLY wash them, with hot water and soap. Cover your sneezes – and don’t sneeze into your hand! Don’t, for God’s sake, go into work or go out if you are feeling sick. That sort of thing. Beyond that . . . . It’s harder to say. It’s not clear whether it's spreading through the air – aerosol transmission – and if so, how far.”
“I’ve seen some buzz about maybe wearing face masks?”
She shrugged. “Wearing masks may be helpful. Probably helpful, I’d guess. But there aren’t enough of them. Hospitals are fighting each other to get proper supplies of N95s and surgical masks right now. And, there’s no evidence yet that general mask wearing would be useful or effective even if everyone was doing it, which they can’t because we don’t have them.”
“I see why you look so tired,” I said. “This sounds really frustrating.”
Surprisingly, Fi shook her head. “It’s scary, and it’s frustrating, but this is what we trained for. I’m where I’m supposed to be, Cami. All of us here wouldn’t be anywhere else, doing anything else. It will be bad. But I promise you this, little sister. We’ll get through it.”
I smiled a bit wistfully, thousands of childhood memories of my heroic sister coming into my head all at once. “Reach for the stars, Fi.”
With quiet warmth, she finished the line: “And when I catch them, I’ll bring ‘em home just for you.”
After a moment, she sat a bit straighter. “I don’t have anything else on that particular subject, but there was one more thing I wanted to talk about, before I get back to work.”
I raised an eyebrow in question; she was definitely in “Dr. Savin” mode.
“Did you talk to your medical team about whether you wanted to preserve any of your sperm before you started hormone treatment?”
“Yes, Dr. Chun raised it with me. She said the effects of the hormone treatment would make it very unlikely I could have children later if I didn’t.”
“And, you decided . . . ?”
“Not to do it. No offense to you, Fi, but I’m not so enamored of my gene pool. If I want to raise a child at some point, there are lots of children who need good homes.” Trying to make light of it, I said, “Besides, you’re there to preserve whatever good genes we’ve got, and strong, virile Iain can always sow some oats if the world really needs more Savins.”
She bit her lip, not falling for my attempt at light-heartedness. “It’s your decision, of course. You do what you think makes sense. But . . . you probably shouldn’t count on me. I’ll be thirty-six before I’m even married, you know. It doesn’t get any easier. Tick-tock.”
She paused for a moment, but she was clearly searching for a way to say something else, so I didn’t interrupt. Finally, she said, “Cami . . . I don’t know what your thought process is. But I want you to know, for whatever it’s worth, that I think your genes are worth preserving. I think you’re wonderful. The world may or may not need any more Savins, but it could sure use more people like you.”
She was fighting tears.
“Thank you for that,” I said gently. “You know I love you too. But if you’re worried that I don’t want to reproduce because I think there’s something wrong with me, that’s not it. I’m fine. Really. But I can’t see spending thousands of dollars to preserve my DNA when there are so many babies out there without a good home. It just seems wrong.”
Fi nodded, still looking sad. “Okay. You’re a big girl, so I’ll butt out. But I wanted to make sure you’ve thought it through.”
We talked about a couple more things, inconsequential mostly, then Fiona had to get back to work.
And so did I. I said, “Thanks so much for calling. I know you’re incredibly busy, and I suspect you’re going to stay incredibly busy. Just know that you are in my thoughts, every day. I’ll keep you in my prayers too. And if there’s anything I can do to help . . . anything at all . . . just let me know, okay?”
“I’ll do that. Love you, girl.”
“I love you too,” I responded.
I signed off, and sat still for a moment, processing.
Nicole stuck her head out of the sound booth. “That looked intense. You okay?”
“Yes . . . It was Fiona. She didn’t have a lot of practical advice, but the news on the COVID-19 front is all pretty bad. And, she’s starting to worry about our mortality, I think.” I told her about Fi’s sudden concern with preserving my sperm.
Nicole looked thoughtful. “I’m with her, I think you’re pretty special. But I have no opinion on whether that’s genetic. Anyhow, you think she’s worried about it because she’s concerned about this pandemic?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know. But she never raised it before, and she seemed pretty serious about it.”
We talked a bit more, but once again, there wasn’t really anything we could do about the pandemic, other than continue on with our lives and see how things panned out. So Nicole went back to work and, after a moment, so did I.
I went upstairs at about 12:45 and made sandwiches for Nicole, Javier, and myself. Javi was a couple minutes late, but not much. I popped out to meet him as soon as he arrived, gave him a hug and helped him get first the bin, then the dis-assembled desk and the chair, into the house. The bin went up to my room and the furniture went into the basement for storage.
Once we had that stored against the far wall, I caught Nicole’s attention through the glass window of the sound enclosure and made a motion indicating eating.
She nodded, held up a hand indicating four minutes, and continued singing.
I brought Javier upstairs.
Nicole joined us just about when I got glasses of water poured and the sandwiches set out on plates. I introduced the two of them.
Nicole said, “Cami has told us so much about you and Al. All of it good!”
“Likewise,” Javi responded. “I’m so glad you were able to take Cami in on such short notice; we feel terrible about it.”
“Eh,” Nicole said, then, indicating her sandwich, she added, “She manages to be useful from time to time.”
We all laughed at that.
Javier said that Tina was settling in. She was still staying tight inside the apartment and only getting out to go over to the salon or to Al and Javi’s upstairs apartment. But their conversations seemed to be easier and she appeared to be less hostile, less prickly, than she had been when she first arrived. “No real breakthroughs yet,” he concluded, “but no breakdowns either. So, we keep at it.”
It was a good lunch, though Javier was more subdued than his usual cheerful self.
Nicole went out of her way to be charming, and that helped tremendously.
By the time he left, Javier appeared to be feeling less guilty about my abrupt departure a week before. He knew I was in good hands.
“Sisters, will you pray with me?”
I was back in Jacqui’s house, meeting for the second time with the small faith community of transwomen that Sarah had brought together. Unlike last time, I was wearing all of my padding as well as light makeup.
Sarah had picked me up at the College Park metro station rather than my new home, and I knew better than to appear in public places dressed like a woman but not trying my absolute best to look and act like one. Like the other transwomen present, I bent my head and concentrated on Jacqui’s prayer of invocation.
Later in the service, when it was my turn, I said, “Sisters, will you pray with me? I have so many things to pray for tonight. So many! I would like to pray for Tina, a transwoman, my age, who was badly hurt and terrorized by her family. Join me in praying for healing for her, for her mind, her heart, her soul. I would like to pray for my sister Fiona, who is working hard to combat this new disease, and for all of those, all over the world, who are dealing with COVID-19. Join me in praying for courage, for strength, for healing.”
I took a breath. “Finally, I would like to offer a prayer of thanks. For each of you. For my wonderful roommates. For my friends, my colleagues. For the doctors and specialists who are helping me. I am so very, very fortunate. So blessed. Please pray with me, sisters.”
And my sisters joined my heartfelt prayers.
To be continued . . . .
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
Baltimore, Maryland, February 21
It had been a long week, but Nicole and I had settled into a routine. I had to be out before she was awake, so I did my voice warm-up exercises alone after I did my (slightly shorter) physical exercises and stretches. It took me longer to get into work, too, but I was usually there by 8:00 thanks to the MARC train.
I worked until around 9:00 pm and did my articulation exercises when I got home. Dottoressa Trelli was certainly correct about Maggie’s very clear and crisp consonants, regardless of how fast she spoke. I was making slow progress in my efforts to emulate her.
Nicole was a night-owl by nature, so I did see her in the evening and she popped down a couple of times to hear my exercises and give me some tips. Her explanations were very clear and precise – she knew a tremendous amount about the production of sound, and it showed.
I was sleeping in Maggie’s room as she had suggested – and as Nicole insisted. “No sense sleeping on a couch when there’s a perfectly good bed that’s not being used!”
So I was sitting at Maggie’s vanity, just checking a few last emails, when my cell phone began to buzz.
It was Iain.
I hadn’t spoken to my brother since I dropped him off at the drug rehabilitation center at the beginning of the year. We hadn’t parted on the best of terms, which wasn’t all that unusual. So I was pretty apprehensive when I saw his name on my caller ID at 10:30 on a Friday night.
“Iain?” I said, perhaps more warily than I intended.
“Hey, Cam,” responded the familiar gruff voice. “Still makin’ the world safe for plutocracy?”
I sighed internally. “You bet. What’s up?”
The line was silent for long enough that I thought the call might have been dropped. Then he said, “I’m sorry, Cam. I called to apologize for being a prick all the time, and I start out by being a prick. It’s like I can’t help myself.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of that, so I probed carefully. “Well . . . umm. Apology accepted, I guess. But what brought this on? Are you feeling your mortality or something?”
“No. Just clear-headed. It’s been a while. I’ve been in some dark places, kid. Messed me up. I’ve just been angry so long . . . nothing went right and I guess I wanted to blame someone else. Everyone else. You. Fi. Everyone who got a break when I didn’t, or got ahead when I didn’t. Anyone I could think of. Anyone but me.”
He stopped talking, and I really didn’t know what to say. This didn’t sound like my brother. More accurately, I thought, it didn’t sound like the person I always thought my brother was.
“Iain,” I said, “I’ve known you all my life, but I realize listening to you right now that I don’t really know you at all. What were you looking for, all those years ago, when you left? What was your dream? And why do you think you failed?”
“It’s not that hard to understand, is it? Dad and I . . . we were always butting heads. He wanted me to be like him. Wanted it bad. Wanted me to be into sports, wanted me to be smart, to go to college. Come back, go into insurance. Take over his business someday, I guess.”
I could almost hear his shrug over the phone. “I don’t like being pushed, so I pushed back. I did sports, but my sports. I did drama. That pissed him off. Otherwise I blew off school. Blew off church. Left home as soon as I could. I thought I’d come to New York, and I’d wow everyone with my acting, and show everyone – show Dad – that I didn’t need his bougie respectability.
“I’m okay. I got bit parts. Was part of the scene, you know? But nothing more. Not enough to survive. I got restaurant jobs to pay the bills, like everyone else, waiting for the ‘big break.’ I told myself I’d get out if I hadn’t gotten a big part by the time I was twenty-eight, when I’d been hustling for ten years. But I didn’t. I love this place, you know? And, I didn’t have any better ideas. So I just stayed, and kept at it, and started using to take the edge off, instead just to have a good time. Until I started losing it – first with Dad, then with my roommates.”
He seemed to have finished, so I said, “Iain . . . you’re only thirty-two. It’s not too late to start over. Maybe find a new dream?”
“I’m done with dreaming, Cam. Gammy was right about that. ‘You can spend your life dreamin’, or you can spend your life workin’. Only one of them will keep a roof over your head.’”
I chuckled. That was Gammy Campbell, sure enough. “Okay, but if you don’t need a dream, you do need a plan. What are you thinking?”
“I’ve got a job lined up when I’m done here – a restaurant I’ve worked at before, up in New Rochelle. That’ll keep me for now. Come spring, construction pays better, and I’ve got some contacts. If I take some classes on the side, I may be able to apprentice to an electrician in a year or so. Pay’s better.”
“Is there anything I can do to help? Anything you need? Do you even have a place to stay?” I said, almost gingerly.
His response was gruff. “I won’t bite your head off. I know I did before. I didn’t want to admit I needed help . . . or that my kid brother was doing better than me. And I know what you and Fi did for me . . . it wasn’t hard to find out that you lied about state money for rehab, and who was really paying.”
“I’m sorry for lying. I didn’t see any other way.”
“There wasn’t one,” he agreed. “I wouldn’t have come here if I’d known. And you were right; I needed to come.”
He was quiet a minute. “I really hate to ask, but I do need some more help. I’ve got a friend – another artist who didn’t make it – who’s also looking for a place. He found something that’ll work for both of us, and we can manage the rent between us. But we need a security deposit and first and last, and we don’t have it. Swear to God – or I would, if I believed in one – I will pay you back. But I could really use some cash for that.”
Iain had never, ever, asked me for anything; I agreed immediately and we worked out the details. We talked some more – it was the first time in forever that we had a real conversation.
But I didn’t raise the issue of being trans again, and he didn’t mention it. He hadn’t believed me when I told him in January, and I wasn’t going to risk that kind of reaction again. He would get the picture next time I saw him. Literally.
Speaking of which . . . “Do I need to be there when you get discharged?”
“No,” he answered. “I just walk out. Your lawyer friend at the PD’s office says they don’t need me back in court. The DA will drop the charges on March 3, and you can get the bail money back.”
“That’s good. I’d come up if you needed me, but I’m slammed at work for the next month or so. I’m working on a case that goes to trial next month up your way, in Connecticut. Hopefully I’ll be able to see you once it’s over. You’re on the way, by train. But, busy or not, I’m always here for you.”
We talked a bit more; it was nearly midnight when we ended the call. I sat at Maggie’s vanity for a few more minutes, bemused. I don’t think I’d ever talked to Iain for so long, one-on-one. It was positively disorienting.
After a minute, I started brushing out my hair, using the soothing feel of the repetitive exercise to quiet my thoughts so I could get some sleep. As I sat at a woman’s vanity, wearing a sheer nylon nightie and my dark-green dressing gown, brushing long dark hair that now reached to the lace of my décolletage, I wondered impishly how Iain would take to having a little sister.
Baltimore, Maryland, February 22
I got up at my normal time and did a full hour of physical exercise, adding a fifth seven-minute routine into my workout. I shaved, showered, did my nails, hair and makeup, put on my jeans, my calf-length leather boots and a fun, frilly top, made some coffee and started right in on work. At this point, I was adept at making sure I had everything with me that I would need when I left the office on Friday night.
When I heard Nicole begin to stir, I made up some omelets – they were beginning to look a bit better, though nothing like Henry’s – as well as some green tea.
She came downstairs in her robe and slippers, her hair in its nighttime plait, and gave me a sleepy grin. “I love weekends.”
When we were done with breakfast, Nicole went upstairs to get washed and dressed. I did the dishes, dried them and put them away – there was no mess at Opera House! – then went back to the basement and got back to work. Nicole joined me around 9:30 and we were able to do voice exercises together.
She gently chided me for “scooping” – beginning to sing before I had the right note, then lifting up to reach the actual note that Nicole was singing. She played the tape and I caught it right away. We worked on that as we went through the exercises, and it definitely helped. She was an excellent instructor.
When we were done, Nicole spent some time working on her parts – I assume for Götterdämmerung, but I knew she was also working on other parts she would be singing later in the season.
I went back to work. We had a light lunch at noon, then Nicole got ready for an afternoon of teaching voice to college students. I gratefully accepted her offer to let me borrow her car and got out of her butt-length hair.
First, I went off and saw the Dottoressa and had a good second lesson. We spent forty-five minutes on exercises to expand the high end of my effective range and fifteen minutes on articulation exercises.
She thought I had made better progress on the former than the latter. “More time with Dottoressa McGregor’s tapes!” she demanded.
One does not argue with The Dottoressa.
After my lesson I went off to Target to pick up a few more casual things to wear around the house. My purchases to date had focused on dresses, skirts and – honestly – sexy-feeling lingerie. I knew that I was overcompensating and that cisgendered women more often wore practical clothing – pants, shorts, T-shirts; sweatshirts. It didn’t matter when I was living by myself, but I felt overdressed wandering around Opera House in dresses when Maggie and Nicole were less formal.
I was fond of my stretchy jeans, so I got two more pairs (one black; one olive), a couple pairs of heavy tights, a few women’s T-shirts with v- and scoop necks, with either capped sleeves or sleeveless, and a couple of tailored fleece tops.
On my way to the register, I saw a scrumptious surplice-neck black camisole that I had to have, and two more pairs of nylons. And a royal blue sports bra with intricately patterned back straps. I decided that my inner girl had done enough damage for one day – thank God for Target prices! – and I made it out the door without any more impulse buys.
After that I went grocery shopping and picked up some staples for the week – a few things that would be quick and easy since we would both be pretty busy. It was after 4:00 when I got home, and Nicole was just finishing with her last student in the front room. I went around and came through the back door to the kitchen.
As I was making my third trip with grocery bags, a young Black girl, maybe twenty, came out the front door, smiling and chatting with Nicole, who waved me over. “Cami, this is Shana, Shana, this is my roommate, Cami.”
Shana flashed a thousand-watt smile. “Hey!”
I returned the smile. “She working you hard?”
She shook her head. “Singing for Miss Nicole? Nah! She slays!” She waved good-bye with a cheery, “See ya!” and was off down the road.
I looked at my roommate. “Miss Nicole, I think I old.”
She grinned. “Start teaching kids. They’ll keep you young!”
I took the grocery bag in through the front door and brought it back to the kitchen, then went back out to get my other purchases. But Nicole had already purloined the bags and was bringing them upstairs.
“Ooooh!,” she teased, “somebody’s been shoppppping!”
I pretended to grab for the bags, she pretended to pull them away, and we giggled.
“C’mon,” she said. “Show me!”
So I showed her the pants, tights, t-shirts, and fleeces. She gave me half a smile. “Your friend Sarah again, right? Fitting in?”
I nodded, a bit sheepish. “Yeah, I thought I was kinda overdressed.”
Nicole put her hands on my shoulders. “In this house, you wear what makes you feel good, okay? Not what you think will make us feel good. You don’t have to blend in here. You. Are. Safe. Got it?”
To keep from tearing up, I leaned in, gave her a peck on the very tip of her nose. “Yes, Mom!”
Then I pulled back and said, more seriously, “I love dressing like a woman – I love the look and feel of different fabrics, the way they feel in different combinations. But liking women’s clothes is like a bonus; it’s not what makes me trans. When I’m able to be full-time as a woman, I expect I won’t feel as much need for my clothing to give me comfort and reassurance. Then I’ll probably lounge around in more practical clothes.”
“Should I get you some sweatpants then?,” Nicole asked (knowing that I loathed them).
I shivered in mock horror. “No! Not that!”
“Well, okay then,” she said. “But I think you’re holding out on me, girlfriend. That last bag doesn’t look empty to me!”
That led to a chase around the room, until, cornered, I showed her the pretty sports bra, the nylons, and the silky black camisole.
She held that last garment up against my torso. “Oh, yes, very practical, Cami!” She laughed and returned my peck on the nose. We went into the kitchen and put away the groceries.
I had picked up a rotisserie chicken and some salad for dinner, so we ate that and a bit of sauvignon blanc. We cleaned up, I put away my new purchases, and we each got a bit more work done. About 7:30 we had arranged to Facetime with Maggie, so we went upstairs for better WiFi.
Maggie looked great. “Hey!” she said, excited. She filled us in on how rehearsals were going and how she was settling in. She was sharing what sounded a lot like a dorm room with another singer. “It’s tight quarters, but we’re really only there to sleep,” she said. It was apparent that the rehearsing was intense and went on all day.
We didn’t have much exciting news for her, though I did mention that I had a really good call with Iain.
“Really?” she said. “That’s fantastic!”
I gave her – really, gave them both, since I hadn’t said much about it to Nicole – all the details.
At the end of the call Maggie yawned like a panther. “Early bed for me tonight. Listen, I miss you guys!”
“Miss you, too!” I said.
Nicole smiled and blew her a kiss, and we signed off.
After 8:00 I excused myself to watch some results from the Iowa caucuses. The TV was still in my room, which had been kind of their TV lounge before I showed up. None of us watched TV much, so it hadn’t been a problem.
After half an hour or so Nicole knocked, came in, and sat down on the couch with me. “Okay, Cami. I want you to tell me what I’m watching. And why I care.”
So I did.
We sat for a while, watching the talking heads describe what was happening. It became increasingly apparent that Senator Sanders was going to win handily. He had already won the New Hampshire primary and had the most votes in the Iowa caucuses. He was starting to look unstoppable.
And I guess I was starting to look worried. “You don’t like Bernie?” Nicole asked, with nothing more than pure curiosity in her tone.
I waved my hand. “I don’t have a problem with him, though he’s not my favorite. But . . . I’m really worried that he can’t win the general election. And that’s the one I care about.”
Nicole was quiet for a bit, then got up and stretched, lacing her fingers together, inverting her hands and reaching for the ceiling. “You’ve convinced me . . . . But it seems like a stupid way to pick a president.”
With that, I couldn’t disagree.
We were meeting in the conference room we had set aside for trial prep. Neatly stacked boxes full of neatly labeled binders, containing all of the potential trial exhibits for both sides, lined one wall.
I was the last to arrive; I had been delayed by the news flash that had popped up on my phone. I apologized and said, “Dr. Messonnier from the CDC is warning that we may be facing school closings, workplace shutdowns, cancelling large events. Cases keep popping up on the West Coast, and now Italy is some kind of hot spot.”
Daviana asked the question that was on all of our minds: “Are we going to be able to do this trial?”
But none of us had answers. We called our local counsel in New Haven, but he hadn’t heard anything either.
Finally, Eileen said, “We’ve got no choice. It’s full speed ahead unless the court says otherwise. We need to assume we’ll be picking a jury in three weeks. So let’s stay focused, shall we?”
“Biden in a landslide,” I said, as Nicole poked her head into my room and quirked an inquisitive eyebrow at me. I was watching the returns from the South Carolina primary.
She said, “Is that good news, or bad news?”
“Depends on your pony in the race, I guess. But . . . Warren, Buttigieg, Klobuchar and Bloomberg got almost no support from the Black community. If that carries over to Super Tuesday, their campaigns are dead in the water.”
She looked intrigued. “The Black vote is that important?”
“For any national race, it’s critical for Democrats.”
“Huh,” she said. “I wonder what Shana would say to that.”
We watched for a bit longer, but it just devolved into talking heads discussing James Clyburn’s clout. Nonetheless, Biden’s campaign had come roaring back after a near-death experience. Come-back stories are always interesting.
For all the work that we had done on the trial, there was still more to do, and we continued to be very busy. I had been working with my witnesses by phone, and I was helping David in his efforts to get our primary liability expert to sound like a real person instead of an overeducated toaster. This was proving to be quite a challenge for both of us. Part of the problem was that David and I were also too educated for our own good.
Eileen said, “Think of someone you know who’s smart, but hasn’t been to college.”
David, bless him, looked blank.
I immediately thought of Gammy.
“Now,” Eileen said, “imagine having Dr. Silverman explain his report to her.”
Eileen had been working on her opening statement for the jury. It followed the outlines she had prepared earlier, but she was working on specific language to figure out what would land well. We had several sessions where she tried new language and all of us provided feedback. And, work with the documents never stopped.
Just as it was getting easier and more natural for me to present as a woman, it was growing increasingly difficult not to. I could still do it, and do it convincingly. But it took concentration, mindful attention, and with all of the work involved in preparing for the trial, the strain of that constant concentration was wearing me down.
I took to wearing the underwear that Sarah had selected, partly as a gag. At least when I wore it at work, I would feel the touch of something feminine against my skin, even though I was presenting a masculine appearance. Anything to stay sane.
But March 3 was a big day for reasons unrelated to work. I made calls to make sure that Iain was all set. The drug rehab facility provided the necessary paperwork and the DA’s office, as promised, dropped the charges against him.
I spoke with Iain briefly. His friend had made their housing arrangements, and Iain was heading up to see the new place. He said he was starting work the next day, and at my request gave me his new address and the name of the restaurant where he would be working.
I had mental images of showing up there in my LBD and stilettos once the trial was done!
Later that night, as I headed back home on the MARC train, I read on my pad that there had been a COVID outbreak in New Rochelle involving a Bat Mitzvah at Temple Young Israel. Local authorities had ordered attendees at the event to self-quarantine. I sent a link to Iain by text and a warning to be careful, and received a thumbs up in response.
I thought about it some more. Was there anything else that Iain could do? Nothing that I could think of. But I sent Fi a text saying, “Iain now out of care and living in an apartment in New Rochelle. I saw there’s an outbreak there. Is there anything he should know? Can you call, or text him?”
I got back, “Will.”
Nicole was asleep when I got in. I found some cold chicken in the fridge and had a bite while I checked on the results pouring in from the Super Tuesday primaries.
Senator Klobuchar and Mayor Buttigieg had already dropped out and endorsed Vice President Biden, and it was clear he would be the presumptive nominee by the time the night was over. Quite the comeback! I just hoped that Eileen was right in her conviction that Biden could win in November.
A whole lot was riding on it.
I got myself ready for bed, snuggling into my charmeuse nightie – no sense being modest if my housemate is asleep when I go to bed and when I get up! – brushed out my hair, then buried myself under Maggie’s covers.
I woke up in the middle of the night to find Nicole standing by my bed, looking like a guardian angel. When my eyes opened, she half sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand to my cheek. “You were crying out again, Cami. Are you okay?”
“I’m so sorry. I wish I didn’t wake you up with these things. Just . . . just bad dreams.”
“Do you want to talk about them?”
“There isn’t much to talk about,” I said, frustrated. “If the dreams contain images, I can’t remember them. All I remember is the fear . . . the terror.”
Her face filled with compassion, she bent down and kissed my forehead gently. “Scoot over.”
I did as she requested, and she took off her robe and slipped into bed beside me, wearing a long, cream-colored négligée. She turned me gently away from her and spooned into my back, sliding one arm under my neck and gracefully draping the other over my chest.
“Sleep,” she commanded. “No more dreaming.” She kissed the crown of my head.
I did as I was told.
I woke up again, my body clock telling me it was close to time for me to get up. Nicole was a warm, soft presence at my back; I could feel the slow, deep rhythm of her breathing. I was acutely aware of every line of her perfect body next to mine, separated only by two layers of the sheerest fabric.
I thought, Careful, Cami!
I didn’t want my alarm to wake her, so I slowly slid from under her draped arm and slipped from the bed. She murmured something and slid her now-free hand under her cheek. She was so very beautiful. So perfect.
I reached over and gently tucked the comforter under her chin.
She smiled in her sleep and snuggled in more deeply.
I picked up my phone and tiptoed out the door and popped into the bathroom. It was time for my morning exercises, both physical and vocal. But I had the strong urge to go straight to the shower, to feel the hot water pound on my skin. To move soapy hands all over my body . . . .
I stopped, breathing hard. I hadn’t had any sexual activity, of any sort, for months. I was hot, bothered . . . horny as hell. My male member, currently not confined in a gaff, was making its unimpressive presence felt against the nylon of my panties. Nicole’s physical intimacy, wonderful and well-intentioned, had left my body aching.
I slipped out of my nightie and pulled down my panties. Forced myself to look in the mirror. I was not yet a woman, no longer a man. Caught in between, for a while longer. I closed my eyes and stood upright, as if I were going to practice for Dottoressa Trelli, then worked to slow my breathing, willed my blood to flow easily, dispelling the hot flush on my cheeks and throat. Finally I opened my eyes, in command of myself again.
I nodded at the ambiguous figure in the mirror, then got dressed for exercises.
An hour and a half later, having exercised voice and body, I showered – without incident – put on my Cam-o-flage, and quietly went out into the still air of the early morning.
Nicole slept, to all appearance, dreamless.
Baltimore, Maryland, March 6
Another Friday night. I was home early – 7:00 – so I was able to get out of my male clothes, shower, and then get dressed properly. Nicole had marinated some kabobs at lunch time and cooked them while I was changing over. We had a quiet dinner and talked about the latest disquieting news on the COVID front.
Another cruise ship was having problems, this time off the California coast. After the death of a passenger from COVID, the California Air National Guard dropped some test kits on the ship at sea, and 21 of the 46 people tested had tested positive. There were 3,500 people aboard, and the ship wasn’t being allowed to dock, so that the positive cases wouldn’t be “counted” in our national total. It was scary, and crazy.
And again . . . . we were helpless. All we could do was wait and watch.
Nicole said, “It’s like one of those bad dreams, where you can see a train go off the rails, or a car careening into a group of people, and you try to cry out, or move, but you can’t.”
“I know,” I said. “And it's bizarre, just going forward, getting up in the morning, getting ready for the day, like none of this is happening.”
But in the end, neither of us could think of any better way to deal with it.
We put aside our existential worries and FaceTimed Maggie to wish her luck. “All ready to go?” I asked.
“I can’t wait,” she replied. “Maestro DeRenzi is fantastic – just fantastic! And I really like Stephanie Sundine’s direction. It is going to be so good!”
Nicole had lots of technical questions, so I let the experts go at it. It was fun – how I imagined an outsider might view a conversation between Eileen and David about trial strategy for our case. Or, how an opera singer might hear a conversation between professional shortstops. The details are different, but the passion, the appreciation for those details – that was what would always come through.
At one point Nicole gave me a sideways look and flicked one of my drop earrings with a lacquered fingernail. “What are you grinning at, goof?”
I laughed. “You two, silly. I always like watching people geek out. The subject doesn’t matter.”
She growled in mock annoyance at being called a geek.
But I added, with complete sincerity, “There’s nothing more beautiful than people talking about the thing they love most. Nothing. So don’t let me slow you two down!”
That got a fond smile from both of them, and soon they were at it again.
The remainder of the weekend had been busy. I had had appointments with Dottoressa Trelli and with Dr. Chun, each of whom was reasonably pleased with my continued progress. I let them know that I would be out for the rest of the month; we were scheduled to go up to New Haven on Saturday the fourteenth.
Nicole and I were both buried in the labors of our very different lives. Every so often I had looked up from my computer to see her in the sound room, posture perfect, features radiating concentration, singing at full power. But not a peep came through the soundproofed enclosure. We had been in completely separate bubbles, mere feet, but worlds, apart.
But the regular workweek rolled around and the tempo picked up. Back in male garb, I was supervising the shipment of all of the materials in the war room to local counsel’s offices in New Haven, assisted by Greg Gilles, our paralegal, and Carrie Fox, Eileen’s secretary.
Five paper copies of every exhibit (one for the court record, one for the judge, one for opposing counsel, two for us), plus hard-drives with electronic copies of everything we might need. Manuals. Brief books. Supplies . . . .
My phone buzzed an electronic warning; I looked at it and felt my blood run cold. New York Governor Andrew Cuomo had just announced that he was deploying the National Guard to create a containment area in New Rochelle. Apparently the local self-quarantine order had failed to stop the spread of the virus; New Rochelle suddenly had over a hundred COVID cases – more than half of New York state’s total.
“I’m sorry,” I said absently. “Greg, Carrie . . . can you give me a couple minutes? There’s something I need to deal with.”
I heard them say something affirmative, then I heard the door close behind them. I called Iain and got him in one.
“Hey Cam. I kind of thought I might be hearing from you.”
“I just heard the news about the containment area.”
“It’s nothing to worry about,” he assured me. “We got the low-down. They’re shutting schools and churches and synagogues for a couple weeks, setting up a testing center, disinfecting public spaces. That sort of thing. But it’s not like we can’t come and go. The restaurant’s still open.”
“Iain, I am worried. I haven’t talked to Fi in a while, but everything she told me . . . this thing’s bad. And we’ve seen what’s happening. In China. In Italy. You’re in the middle of the biggest hotspot in America. Can you . . . can you just get out? Not just out of New Rochelle. Out of New York? I’ll put you up. Anywhere. I’ll find a place.”
Iain stopped me. “Cam. Stop. Maybe it’s worse here right now. But that won’t last. There’s no place you could put me up that'll be ‘safe.’ You know that. Even Fi admitted that when she called me. Here, I’ve got a place to stay. Work. Friends.”
“But . . . .” I began, sounding irrational even to myself.
He stopped me again, his voice more gentle than I had ever heard it. “Thank you. Really. But I’m just barely starting to get my feet back under me. People went out on a limb for me. My roommate. My boss. I can’t just walk away. Any more than you would leave your job and your home just because of a virus.”
I was silent for a moment. The conference room seemed to darken, or else my vision was clouding. “Iain,” I said, “I’m frightened for you. Scared.” My voice was almost gone.
“Me too, kid,” he said. “But Fi will get us all through it. See if she doesn’t.”
“Okay,” I said. “Be safe, will you?”
“Always am,” he responded.
We ended the call.
The room faded to black. My vision was gone completely and I was blind. Caught in a waking nightmare of darkness, of crying and screaming. The smell of fear, the heat of fever, the sound of labored breathing, of hearts straining. Terror in the streets of Bergamo, of Padua . . . all of Lombardi. Beautiful Italy, I thought irrelevantly, the land of Dottoressa Trelli. Of Puccini. Opera.
I heard . . . a voice? Yes . . . a voice in the dark. Nicole. “Like one of those bad dreams,” her voice was saying, through the weeping, the cries, “where you can see a train go off the rails, or a car careening into a group of people, and you try to cry out, or move, but you can’t.”
I shuddered, opened my mouth to scream a warning. To Iain. To Fi. To anyone. Everyone. But I detected no motion, no sound. Nothing but a deep, rhythmic pulsing, like the thrumbing of a massive heart. Or a planet-sized ventilator. Or the slow, powerful beating of dark wings . . . .
The wings of the Angel of Death.
I felt a hard grip on my arm. Another voice. Please God! A real voice! “Cam!! Cam!! What’s happened? Cam!”
I tried to move again. Tried. And finally felt my muscles obey. My left hand reached up, blindly, clutching at the hand on my arm. I could feel my own breathing, ragged. But I could feel it, and I worked to bring it back under control. Vision was starting to return. I was kneeling, I could sense. My head was bowed. My right hand was clenched.
I heard the voice again. “Cam? Can you hear me?”
It was Daviana.
I nodded jerkily and took a deep breath. “I’m okay now.” My voice was barely a whisper.
“Like hell!”
I didn’t try to speak again. Instead I focused on simple motions. Release her hand. Give it a pat. Move it to the chair, that was . . . right there. In front of me. Grip the chair. Get my left foot under me. Push up, slowly. Use my left hand for balance. Right foot forward. Turn. Get into the chair. Okay. Raise my head, find Daviana.
She was standing. Looking worried — seriously worried.
I took a couple more deep breaths and tried my voice again. Stronger. The nightmare was receding, quickly now. I felt suddenly exhausted, but I was otherwise entirely in the present.
“Thanks, Daviana. I’m sorry I gave you a scare. But I’m okay. Really.”
She sank down into the chair next to mine. “What the hell happened?”
I thought of the terror, pushed it back. I forced my voice into Cam Savin’s cool analytical pattern. Calm. “I have PTSD. From . . . from an incident. I’m seeing someone about it. It’s never hit me when I was awake; I just think of it as night terrors. But I just got some very bad news, and I guess it got triggered.”
Still looking worried, Daviana asked, “What was the news?”
“My brother is living in New Rochelle. They’ve just imposed a COVID containment area there. He won’t get out. And, just like that, my PTSD hit. It’s not rational, I know. He’s fine.”
She looked at me intently for a minute and evidently didn't care for what she saw. “Look, I’ll spell you here for a bit. Give yourself a few minutes. Go home if you need to. I’ve got this.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m fine. Really.”
“Cam, you scared the crap out of me,” she said. “You couldn’t see me, or hear me, your face was covered in tears and you looked like you were talking to ghosts. That’s not ‘fine.’ Take a half hour – at least. Or, do I need to get Eileen involved?”
That, I absolutely did not want. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll be good. I’m sorry for giving you a fright.” I got up and headed for the door. When I reached it, I turned. “Thanks, Daviana.” Then I walked out.
I found the restroom – in this case, the men’s room of course – and went in. Daviana hadn’t been kidding; my eyes were red and my cheeks were soaked. I filled my hands with cold water; held them to my face, to my burning eyes.
After a few minutes I dried them off, then went back to my office. I closed the door, sat at my desk, and closed my eyes, allowing them to cool. There were some Advil in my drawer; I pounded two dry.
I spent the next twenty minutes focused exclusively on controlling my breathing, concentrating on each inhalation, each exhalation . . . driving all other thoughts from my mind.
Breathe in life, breathe out fear.
Breathe in life. Breathe out death.
Breathe.
After exactly half an hour, I re-entered the war room, gave Daviana, Carrie, and Greg a nod of thanks, then went back to work. After a few minutes, apparently convinced that I truly was okay, Daviana went back to her office.
On my way home later in the day, I sent Fiona a text. “I tried to get Iain to leave New Rochelle. Failed.”
I was almost home when I got her reply. “Me too. Keep those prayers coming.”
I replied, “Roger that. For Iain and for you. Be safe.”
Washington. D.C., March 12
I was at my desk going through my emails. Normally something I do on the train on the way into work, but I had instead been reading about the WHO’s decision the previous day to declare that the coronavirus constituted a pandemic. Fiona had called it early, but after over 100,000 cases in more than 100 countries and over 4000 deaths, there was no longer any doubt.
Other, more pressing matters diverted me when I got to the office, so it was mid-morning before I got to it. As I was finishing up with what had arrived overnight and in the morning, a new email came in, this one from the Connecticut District Court. I opened it and read.
From: CMECF @ ctd.uscourts.gov
Sent: Thursday, March 12, 2020 10:35 AM
Subject: COURT OPERATIONS UNDER THE EXIGENT CIRCUMSTANCES CREATED BY COVID-19
This is an announcement e-mail message generated by Court action through the CM/ECF system. Please DO NOT RESPOND to this e-mail because the mail-box is unattended.
WHEREAS, the Governor of the State of Connecticut has declared a public health emergency throughout the State;
WHEREAS, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has advised people to take precautions in light of the COVID-19 virus (coronavirus) outbreak, and has noted that the best way to prevent illness is to avoid being exposed to the virus;
AND
WHEREAS, trial jurors often have to work in close quarters to hear the evidence and deliberate following presentation of the evidence;
THEREFORE IT IS HEREBY ORDERED, effective immediately, that all civil and criminal (grand and petit) jury selections and jury trials scheduled to commence now through April 10, 2020 before any district or magistrate judge in any courthouse in the District of Connecticut (i.e., Richard C. Lee U.S. Courthouse in New Haven; Abraham Ribicoff Federal Building in Hartford; and Brien McMahon Federal Building in Bridgeport) are CONTINUED pending further Order of the Court.
I just sat there, staring at the screen. Even when we had talked about it, we hadn’t actually thought it would happen. Life would go on. Life always went on. Tomorrow would be like yesterday.
Until, suddenly, it wouldn’t be.
Another message came in, this time from Eileen. “Let’s gather in the war room at 11:00.”
I sent back, “Got it,” and pushed back from my desk. I stood up and for some reason got my jacket from the hanger on my door and slipped it on. I picked up my coffee cup and went out to the common area. Filled up.
“Oh, my God,” Daviana said, coming up behind me. “Can you believe it?”
I tapped my forehead. “Up here, yeah. I get it. But . . . the rest of me may take a while to catch up!”
She nodded, filling up her own cup and taking a sip. “Well, let’s go see what the plan is.” We headed to the now almost empty war room.
David was already there, then Greg came in followed by Carrie.
Coming in last, Carrie said, “Eileen may be a couple minutes late; she’s on the phone.”
We talked quietly for a few minutes, the mood somber and subdued. Eileen came in and, very uncharacteristically, took the seat at the head of the table.
“I’ve just been speaking with local counsel and some of his contacts in the federal bar in Connecticut. We’re looking at a three month delay, minimum. Apparently the Chief Judge is using the April end date as a place-holder; no one thinks it will be over that soon. And even if it does, criminal matters necessarily take priority because of the Sixth Amendment. I’ve already emailed in-house counsel and Theo Jacoby to let them know. They’ll spread the word.”
She looked around the table, seeing a ring of stunned faces. She said, gently, “I know how hard all of you have worked. How hard it was to get to this peak of readiness. And we were ready, no question. But trials get delayed all the time. Not usually for reasons this dramatic, but it happens. We’ll have to roll with it. And we can.”
Her eyes went around the room again, gauging our reactions. “So, here’s the plan. We’ll need to put things in shape so that they will be relatively easy to pick back up whenever we get the green light. We’ll need ramp-up time to get back to where we are now, but we’ll absolutely have it. Like I said, once they open the courts again criminal matters will have priority, so we’ll have lots of notice. Nothing’s going to be sprung on us. Okay? Any questions?”
Naturally, everyone had some. We talked about logistics, and speculated about the schedule, and basically said everything that can be said in a situation where almost nothing is known.
Finally Eileen pulled the discussion to a close. “So we have things we’ll need to do, but there’s nothing that can’t wait a few days – other than canceling our hotel and travel arrangements. Which I’d like you to take care of this afternoon, Carrie, if you would.”
Carrie nodded.
Eileen continued. “Other than that, I’d like you to all go home. Take the rest of the week off. Unplug. We’ve been at this almost non-stop for months. Go see your families. Let’s plan to meet Monday morning.”
People were pulling back their chairs and standing. We had a plan, and that provided some confidence. People no longer looked dazed. Daviana was even regaining her almost perpetually cheerful look.
I didn’t move. I looked down at the table, thinking furiously.
When I looked back up, Eileen was also still seated. Watching me.
I said, “Can you spare a minute?”
To be continued . . . .
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
Washington, D.C., March 12, immediately following
The door to the conference room closed behind Daviana, who – seeing me remain behind – looked concerned. Eileen and I were alone.
She gave me a lawyerly half smile. “I don’t suggest you wait to take care of personal issues until after trial now, Cam. So . . . if I remember correctly, there were some things you wanted to talk to me about?”
I nodded. “As a mentor, as a friend . . . and as my supervisor.”
Hearing the last item on my list, she looked more serious, but she just nodded in return. “Of course.”
I tried to think of a good way to explain. Lord knows, I’d had plenty of time to think of what I would say and how I would say it, but facing the reality of the moment, my erudition failed me. I knew deep down that all the smooth words, the careful words, were useless here anyway. The truth, and nothing but the truth, is usually brief.
“I’m trans, Eileen. And I’m running out of the strength, even the ability, to present as male. I could have made it through the trial. I convinced myself I needed to, that it was the right thing to do. But that’s when we were looking at three weeks. Not three months.”
“Three months, minimum,” Eileen added. “Probably more.”
She had listened to me quietly, displaying no change in her demeanor. Not surprise. Not – thank God – revulsion or even discomfort. “I’m glad you told me. I had an inkling something was troubling you, and after that morning in Hartford, I had a guess what it might be. I think I understand why you waited, but it’s going to be okay. Really.”
She leaned forward slightly. “Now. There are things I need to say as a member of the firm’s leadership team, so let me get them out of the way. We have a nondiscrimination policy. I assume you’ve read it?”
I nodded, mentally thanking my sister’s fiancé for bringing it to my attention. And, I thought, Henry can also cook!
“Good,” Eileen continued. “You know it is the policy of this firm not to discriminate against any employee on the basis of gender identification. And I will tell you – me, personally, Eileen O’Donnell – that the day we don’t live up to that policy is the day I walk out. Which they won’t want,” she said with a predatory grin, “because I’m hands down their best trial lawyer.”
In a more normal tone, she added, “But I also know this firm. I’ve done as much as anyone to create its modern incarnation. I know all of the partners to one degree or another. And I know every member of the management committee very well; I strong-armed half of them into doing a stint. I’m confident that we’ll do right by you.”
She gave me her most direct look, making sure her words had sunk in. “Better?”
“Better,” I said with a somewhat relieved smile. “Though, honestly, I wasn’t really worried about outright discrimination. This has just never struck me as that kind of place. I do worry that I’ll make people uncomfortable – and, I guess, the other way ’round. And I know that’s not something management can ‘fix.’ People are people. They have comfort zones, and trans people are outside of those zones for a whole lot of people.”
Eileen nodded. “I understand. And to be fair, I really don’t know what you’ll experience that way. This is a big place. We insist that everyone always behave professionally, and that is something we can enforce. And have. Beyond that, though, you’re right. Not much we can do. But, honestly, I don’t think you’re going to find yourself isolated or friendless. The fact that this is a big place cuts both ways. Everyone tends to find their own group. I think many, if not most, of our people are not going to be put off by your being trans.”
She was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Your bigger problem may be the world outside the firm. Life’s no cakewalk for women lawyers, much less trial lawyers. I’m in lots of meetings with all the bigwigs from some Fortune 50 company and I’m the only woman there – unless maybe the head of HR is a woman. Even now, in 2020.
“People will tell you it’s different today, but they told me the same thing forty years ago. News flash: it wasn’t then and it isn’t now. You’ll have to go through extra hoops to be taken seriously, and I can’t begin to tell you how tiresome that gets. I don’t know if that’s going to be even worse for you as a transwoman. But it sure as hell won’t be any easier.”
I protested. “Eileen, I’ve seen you completely dominate every room you’re in, no matter who’s there!”
She grinned. “There are some tricks to that, and I expect you’ll master them. But mostly it comes from building my reputation to a point where now it can do a lot of the heavy lifting for me. That takes decades.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“I know,” she replied. “I wish there were some silver bullet or magic wand that would eliminate bigotry and harmful stereotypes, but there isn’t. It’s just long, grinding work.” She added, jokingly, “Are you sure you want to be a woman?”
I returned her smile. “Yes, I am. Very. But it wouldn’t matter if I wasn’t. I am what I am. I just can’t hide it any more.”
She looked thoughtful and leaned back in her chair – a slight movement, barely changing her normal perfect posture. Simply a small signal that our conversation would now be less formal. She was taking off her supervisor hat, insofar as she ever could.
“Can you tell me about it? What’s it been like for you? How long have you known?”
“I guess I’ve always known that I didn’t quite fit. I just assumed it was me, though – just stupid insecurities everyone feels. Nothing really felt natural; I didn’t know why. Or rather, I didn’t even know it was possible for things to feel natural.
“Everything I did, how I interacted with people, how I responded to things, was calculated. I would think, ‘What is it that I’m supposed to be doing in this situation,’ or ‘What’s the correct way for me to respond to this individual.’ I would game it out in my head and make a careful decision on what to do. I assumed everyone was like that.”
I paused, searching for the right words. Eileen regarded me calmly and attentively, waiting for me to collect my thoughts. I should have this down by now, I thought to myself.
“Last year, I started to realize that people didn’t operate like that at all. Oh, maybe for big, important decisions. Sometimes. For everyday stuff, though, people were generally spontaneous – their actions simply flowed naturally from who they really are. But I had blocked those natural, instinctive reactions.
“And the reason I had was because, when I did express myself naturally, everything about my expression was female. Deep down, that’s who I am. That's when everything started to make sense. I knew what was ‘wrong’ inside me, and I suspected that I could 'fix' it by presenting as a woman.”
“So you tried it,” she said, making it a statement rather than a question.
I nodded. “I’ve been living as a woman for the past several months, except at work.”
“Given how many hours you’re here, a large exception,” she said dryly.
I chuckled. “Yeah, that part’s been hard. Because just as I was discovering how wonderful it was to just be myself, be the person I am inside, I was also making a very conscious effort to suppress all of that here.”
We talked a bit about my recent experiences. I told her about the change in my living situation, and how I was temporarily living in a house in Baltimore with two cisgendered women who were professional opera singers. And how they both accepted me as a woman.
“Twofer!” Eileen exclaimed. “You get fabulous roommates and you get to learn about one of the truly great art forms!”
I laughed, delighted. “You know opera?”
“I enjoy it. Your roommates know it. Big difference.”
I nodded. “I’ve been incredibly fortunate, but it’s really just a short-term solution. The commute is a real bear. And, I don’t know how they would feel about my being there full-time.”
We talked some more, then she said, “Well, I suppose I should put my supervisor hat back on and ask you what’s next. How do you want to go about changing your status here, and when, and what are the next steps in your transition?”
I took a deep breath. “You know, I’ve just been pushing off thinking about the nuts and bolts of this until after the trial. I want to begin hormone therapy. That will take some time to produce physical results – probably a few months before any noticeable changes occur, and the changes can take as much as two years to finish.
“I gather at the outset I might have to deal with mood swings triggered by hormones, just like a girl going through puberty – which is one of the reasons I thought I’d better wait until the trial was done. I think I can handle it. I certainly hope I can, but . . . I wasn’t so confident that I wanted to risk having a breakdown in the courtroom!”
She laughed lightly and said, “Yeah, that would have been suboptimal for sure. It’s been a while, but I do remember puberty – my own, and, much worse, my daughter’s!”
I laughed. “Yeah, not looking forward to that. But I do, at least, have resources and experience a fourteen-year-old lacks.”
Returning to the immediate issue, I said, “The treatment should allow me to present a more natural feminine appearance. But I don’t think there’s any need to delay changing over until that process is complete. I’ve worked hard at this, and as I said a fair bit seems to come naturally.
“I’m pretty confident in my ability to present convincingly as a woman here at work with the assistance of some padding. So I can start right away. I’m just not sure whether that’s the best way to go about it. I was hoping you might be able to advise me on that.”
“Hmmm,” she said. “Probably doesn’t make sense for you to go home today as you are and then just show up on Monday as a woman, no matter how convincing you are.”
She clicked a nail against her teeth, thinking. “I tell you what. Let me talk to my colleagues on the management committee. What they’re probably going to want to do is send out a firm-wide notice similar to the one we send out when new employees arrive. Though it might feel like putting an unwelcome spotlight on your situation, it would also spare you a lot of individual conversations. And, it would underscore the fact that the management committee is in your corner. Do you think that would work?”
I thought about it, thought some more, then nodded emphatically. “Yes, I think that would be best. Hopefully it’s no more than a one-day story.”
“Okay,” she said. “It may take a bit more time to get that taken care of. We’ve got a meeting scheduled for Tuesday anyway; I was going to have to miss it because of the trial, but now – Joy! – I can be there.”
From her expression, management meetings rated somewhere between orthodonture and amputation.
“Once I get their blessing on the strategy, I’ll draft some text and run it by you. In the meantime, why don’t you take next week off and get yourself sorted out. Just for example,” she said with a warm smile, “you might have to get yourself a work-appropriate wardrobe. I can probably arrange for the memo to go out by Thursday of next week.”
“But . . . we’ve got work to do next week. I don’t want to leave you short-staffed!”
She gave me a kind look. “Keeping a trial team functioning well as a team requires a lot of work and forbearance from every team member. You obviously understand that, but you’ve gone above and beyond your duty. It shouldn’t require completely suppressing your identity, which you’ve done for months. We can spare you for a week.
“Question is, do you want me to tell the team what’s going on when I meet with them on Monday? Would you rather tell them yourself? Or, have them find out when the rest of the firm does?”
“If you could tell them, that would be great. These conversations . . . really aren’t easy. You’ve been wonderful, but I’m always worried about how people will react.”
“I’ll be happy to,” she said.
We had to talk, of course, about the tail that so often seems to wag this particular dog.
“You are welcome to use the women’s restrooms throughout the office,” Eileen said. “Understand, that may make some people uncomfortable. Alternatively, it might make you uncomfortable. I don’t know, and mercifully I don’t have to care. We provide unisex restrooms on the sixth and eighth floors for people who, for whatever reason, are uncomfortable with the gender-differentiated common restrooms. Whether you use those instead of the women’s rooms is entirely your decision.”
As we were winding down our discussion, I said, “There’s one more thing I guess I’d better tell you. I promised I’d let you know if anything that was going on would adversely affect my work . . . . I have been dealing with PTSD since an incident at Christmas. I didn’t say anything because it had only affected me at night. But I had an incident in the office two days ago. Gave Daviana quite a scare. I am getting treatment, and Dr. Chun is confident it will get better. But I thought you’d better know.”
Eileen said, more formally, “Thank you for telling me. Communication on issues like this is important, so we can provide a supportive environment and make accommodations where necessary. Was there anything here you’re aware of that triggered the episode?”
I shook my head emphatically. “No; it was something else. That containment area they’ve established in New Rochelle – my brother Iain lives and works there. I talked to him; he’s not leaving. And I was just overwhelmed by fear. For Iain, for my sister – for the whole world. It’s not rational, but it suddenly just scared the bejesus out of me.”
“Or else you’re rational, and the rest of us are just whistling past the graveyard. You’re seriously worried about this virus, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know why, but it really scares me. Not so much for myself. But I feel like it’s coming on like some sort of tsunami wave, and we’re all frolicking on the beach building our sandcastles . . . . Anytime I start going down that rabbit hole, though, I ask myself what I should be doing differently – what all of us should be doing differently – and I keep coming up empty. So I just get on with life.”
Eileen nodded. “Yeah, that’s where I keep coming out too, though I don’t think I’ve had your visceral reaction to the news that’s been coming out. I also don’t have anyone in a hotspot, though obviously that can change.”
She paused a moment, shook her head, then returned to the earlier issue. “Anyhow, on the subject of your PTSD, you’re doing what you can for treatment and you’re normally fine. If there’s anything we can do, let me know. Keep me posted, but otherwise, just take care of yourself, okay?”
I agreed.
That seemed to cover everything, so I said, “Eileen, thank you so much. For everything. I’ll make it work, really I will. And I think I’ll be more of an asset here than I have been, trying to be male.”
She smiled. “You were doing just fine, and I don’t doubt you’ll continue to do fine. I’m looking forward to working with this woman you’ve been hiding from us. But . . . what should we call you? Will you use the same name?”
“You know, I should have an answer for that, and I’m sorry to say I don’t. Cameron can be a woman’s name as well as a man’s, but I’d like to make a break, somehow. On the other hand, the name I use with my friends doesn’t really work in a professional environment.”
Eileen stood up and started moving to the door, and I did as well.
“Well, give it some thought and let me know,” she said, “so we can put it in the memo that goes out to the firm. In the meantime, when we’re behind closed doors, not speaking as partner and associate, may I use your friend name?”
“I would really like that,” I said, fighting the prickling of tears. “Please, call me Cami.”
She smiled and held out her hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Cami.”
We shook hands, formally, both smiling, then she was gone.
Washington, D.C., March 12, immediately following
I went back to my office in something of a daze. I had taken the plunge! That thought dominated my mind. But at the same time, there were plenty more worries behind it. Until just a couple hours ago, I was one hundred percent prepared to be in a trial next week; now, I would be on vacation.
And then what? What work would I be doing when I got back? There’s always plenty of legal work to be done, but I wasn’t just a lawyer, I was a litigator. If we had the British legal system, I would be considered to be training to be a barrister, not a solicitor. What happens if all the courts close down?
But, as with everything COVID-related, there wasn’t anything I could do about that right now. I sat at my desk, closed my laptop, and put it in my bag, then took a moment to look around, realizing that this would be the last time I would sit here in a suit and tie. When I returned, I would look completely different. I would be, finally, myself.
A very Cami-like smile lifted my lips, and I left with a spring in my step.
As I walked up the street towards Opera House, I heard the sound of Nicole giving a voice lesson in the front room. So as not to disturb her, I went around to the back, came in through the kitchen and headed for the staircase.
Nicole paused her lesson long enough to stick her head into the hallway to make sure it was me. She gave me an inquisitive look and I mouthed, “Later,” then she went back to her lesson.
In my room, I removed my suit jacket and hung it, untied my necktie and put it on the rack. Unbuttoned my dress shirt, dropping it into the bag I was using as a clothes hamper. I sat on the couch and removed my wingtip oxfords, then the regulation black dress socks. Finally, the heavy wool pants joined the jacket on the hanger.
I unpeeled myself from Sarah’s present – a stretchy, nylon-spandex undergarment that looked like a man’s t-shirt and brief, but felt and operated much like a leotard. It had served its purpose. I thought, I’m finally done with half-way measures.
Finished.
I put on my dark green dressing gown, grabbed some critical supplies and went into the bathroom. After taking the time to Nair everywhere, I stepped into the shower, cranked up the heat, and in my imagination washed my male persona straight down the drain.
Finished, I thought again.
I carefully shampooed, using something fragrant, then worked conditioner into my hair. I waited five minutes, then rinsed it all away, too.
Finished.
I patted myself dry, put in some mousse and curlers, then attached my breast forms. Once they were set, I put my robe back on, poured myself a tall glass of water and went back to my bedroom. Next, I attached extensions to each of my nails, let them dry and smoothed them out with an emery board. I selected a deep red nail polish and lovingly, carefully applied it to each finger nail. Then I did the same with each of my toenails.
Suddenly hit with the memory of another singular moment of transformation, I sat on the couch and pulled Stravinsky’s Firebird from my phone’s playlist. Cradled in the palms of my hands, I held a small, brown plastic tube-like container with a bright white lid. It had been a talisman, a promise for the future. But the future had arrived much sooner than I had expected.
I was still sitting there when Nicole knocked softly and poked her head in. She took one look at me, came in, and sat on the other end of the couch. “Okay, girlfriend. It’s Thursday; it’s not even 5:00, and you’re not only here, you’re rounding third base and sliding headfirst into gorgeous. What happened? Did you lose your job?”
She sounded concerned, so I smiled reassuringly. “No. It’s all good. Well. Mostly good. I’m still employed. But our trial’s been put off because of COVID; we don’t know how long. Eileen thinks three months minimum.”
“Oh, God! What will you do?”
“For work? I don’t know. Lawyers can usually find trouble to get into. COVID’s a disaster, and disasters breed lawsuits like prize bitch spaniels breed puppies. But I doubt I’ll see the inside of a courtroom anytime soon. So, I decided.”
“Decided what?”
I opened my hands and showed her the bottle.
Her eyes grew wide as saucers. “Really? Now?”
“Now . . . and forever. No more hiding.”
She leaned back, a look of wonder still on her face. “I know you, Cami. No way you’re doing this on the sly. You told your boss.”
I smiled. “Yes. You do, and I did. Eileen and I had a great conversation. She’s going to let the firm know next week. I am on vacation until a week from Monday, so I can get things sorted out.”
Nicole’s smile was big enough to split her face. She bounced to my side of the couch and enveloped me in a huge hug. “Oh my God!!! That is SO wonderful! I am so happy for you! We have to tell Maggie! And we need to celebrate! Damn, I wish we were in New York!”
Nicole, enthusiastic, was practically a force of nature, but her mention of New York brought reality roaring back into my own mind. There was a pandemic out there, and it was growing. Spreading. And among the places where it was spreading fast was New Rochelle, a suburb of New York City.
I squeezed my wonderful roommate, then pulled back and held her at arm’s length.
“Nicole, honey, it’s good that we aren’t in New York tonight. I wish none of our family members were there either. So far, Maryland hasn’t seen much COVID, and I don’t think Baltimore has seen any. I’m sure it’ll come soon. But in New York . . . in New York, it’s now.”
She gave me a long, thoughtful look and, just like Eileen, asked, “This is really worrying you, isn’t it?”
I thought about my day terror in the conference room two days ago, and nodded. “Yes. I’m worried. No, that’s too tame. I’m scared. Terrified. For all of us. And I know I’m probably being silly.”
“Me too. They announced today that they’re starting to close schools and churches in Maryland and DC. Had you heard?"
I nodded.
She continued, distress growing in her voice, "Now you tell me they’re closing courts. I’m living in constant fear of a call that tells me they’re closing opera houses and concert halls, even though I know . . . . I mean, they almost have to, don’t they? I don’t know what I’ll do, what Maggie will do, if that happens. When that happens. And my parents are in New York City, right now. That’s their home. I feel like the world is just about to come crashing down on top of all of us."
She paused, took a breath, and very visibly slowed herself down. "But right now – right now, tonight, the world is still standing, and my very dear new friend has something amazing to celebrate. Please, Cami? Let’s steal a moment from whatever is coming, and do something fun, while we still can?”
I absolutely can’t resist Nicole, especially when she’s right. I smiled bravely at her. “‘Take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!’”
Her own smile returned, strong and bright. “That’s the spirit!”
“Welllll,” I said, drawing out the single syllable. “I think I might have something that will do the trick. It’s not Vissi d’Arte in Rockefeller Center at midnight, but Eileen did mention the importance of my acquiring a ‘suitable wardrobe for work.’ And I’ve never, ever, been shopping with a girlfriend before. Will you take me?”
She beamed. “Yes!!! But, two conditions. First, we find someplace nice to eat. And second, you have to promise that we won’t spend the whole time looking at work clothes. Lawyers dress funny!”
“Done!” I said, laughing.
She sprang off the couch to get ready, but I stopped her. “Nicole, before you go . . . .”
She looked back at me. “Yesssss?”
“My nails are still sticky, and I can’t get one of these pills out. Could you help?”
Her face softened; she came over and sat right beside me on the couch, took the bottle from my hands, pushed and twisted the top, and removed a single, precious pill. She closed the container and set it down, then put her left arm around my neck, brought her right hand to my lips, and said, “Open up, princess.”
When I complied, she set the pill right on my tongue, reached over, and picked up my water glass. “Now this,” she said, and handed it to me.
I drank the pill down, and deep inside, finally, a powerful dose of estrogen began to flow into my body. “Thank you,” I said, my voice sounding soft and warm.
“I’m glad I could share the moment with you,” she replied. Amazingly, she leaned in and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Now, get yourself ready!” She flowed off the couch and was out the door.
As soon as my nails were dry, I went back to the bathroom, took off my turban, removed my curlers and started blowing out my hair. I got it dry and headed back to my room, but Nicole stopped me in the hallway.
“Let me do your hair — I’ve been itching to try something.”
Intrigued, I readily agreed and we went back to her room (she has a suitable chair!). She first began to brush it out, using long rhythmic strokes as she hummed something under her breath. She took her time about it, too, brushing from both above and below, so I just closed my eyes and enjoyed the sensation.
When she was done brushing, she created loose, twisted braids on both sides of my head, brought them around to the back, and rolled them together into a complicated, loose over-under knot that she held in place with a long hairpin. She pulled a few curled tendrils to dangle down past my left ear and down almost to my shoulder. The end result created the appearance of a lot of movement and volume around my face.
She turned my head this way and that, pulled out a few more tendrils, then pronounced herself satisfied. I was admonished to go find something nice to wear to dinner, but not so nice that we couldn’t go shopping.
I settled on a short, tight black skirt and a flowing royal blue top with a wide, relatively shallow u-shaped neckline that did a nice job showcasing Nicole’s hairstyling efforts. Drop earrings, Liz’s watch, sheer black nylons and black pumps with a three-inch kitten heel added to the look. I wore a black bra and my new black camisole, and the cut of the neckline on my top allowed the straps to occasionally peak through, left or right. It was a bit flirty, but then again, I was celebrating!
I put on some evening makeup, enough to really bring out my blue eyes, and carefully painted my lips with a deep red gloss that matched my nails. Finally satisfied, I went to find Nicole.
She was still in her bedroom, almost ready, wearing a creamy silk sleeveless blouse over a classic white camisole, all tucked into a full, asymmetrical skirt in an almost tweedy sage-green. Her long, curly hair was loosely braided and piled on top of her head. She looked even more stunning than usual.
“Could you give me a hand with this?” She showed me a thin gold necklace. “I’m all thumbs this evening.”
I managed it, despite the complication of my nail extensions, and we went off to the mall.
Shopping with Nicole was completely different, and a thousand times more fun, than shopping by myself. She would give me useful feedback like “Yuck!” and “Absolutely!” Finding things I never would have considered, she would insist that I try them, and blow me away. She even came with me into the dressing room and help me with all of the unusual ways designers devise to fasten womens’ garments.
Sometimes I would talk her into trying something on and seeing how well my own eye was developing. She liked a lot of my suggestions, but said she wasn’t buying anything today. “Just window shopping – and I love window shopping,” she said with real enthusiasm.
But I decided that, regardless of all the fun things we were trying on, I would only actually buy work clothes today. Nicole was equally helpful there, despite her earlier finger-wagging.
“The key,” she told me, “is to get some really good foundational pieces, then add things so that you can mix and match.” Three conservative skirts (black, red, gray), a couple of well-made jackets, and several tops, including a couple of white or off-white shells. A couple pretty scarves to change things up. “And that will really do for you to start,” she said. We did add a dove-gray sleeveless dress that I could wear with the jackets, but that, she said, was gravy.
We brought the purchases out to the car, then it was time to get some food. Nicole drove to a seafood restaurant that she liked and we had a very nice dinner by a lovely wood fire. It was only 9:00 when we finished – my strange circumstances had allowed us to make a very early start – but Nicole stopped on the way home and we picked up a bottle of champagne.
“What are you two beauties celebrating?” asked the old guy behind the register.
I said, “Trust me, you really don’t want to know!”
Back at Opera House, we grabbed some glasses, went into the front room and popped the champagne.
“To Cami,” said Nicole, “long may she blossom!”
I raised my glass. “Soon may she blossom!” – which, as intended, got a laugh.
Nicole sat in a large chair, folded her legs and tucked her stocking-clad feet. “Cami, we’ve talked a lot since we first met, but I feel like there’s so much I just don’t know. You’ve been on this amazing journey, and it’s like I’m getting on the train late. Tell me your story!”
This was not the sort of conversation I could ever imagine Cameron Savin having with a male friend. I also wasn’t sure how to answer her. But I started somehow, and soon we were exchanging stories. Our families. Friends we had known. Moments that had been important to us. The difficulties we had been through. Our loves.
As wonderful as our first conversation had been, this one was far deeper, far more intimate. It was, simply, amazing. I had never experienced an evening like it; not even with Liz. Liz had been meaningfully older, far more experienced, and always very much in charge. Nicole was my contemporary.
Baltimore, Maryland, March 13
It was 1:00 a.m., the champagne was long gone, and Nicole gave me a wide, sleepy smile. “Welcome to one of the best parts of being a woman.”
“If guys find out it’s like this, they’ll be lining up to get snipped!”
We made our way up the stairs, removed our makeup, and did our nighttime rituals.
Nicole caught me again on the way back from the bathroom. “You’re not going to want that hairpin in your hair while you are sleeping.” Her deft fingers released my hair to flow down my back.
I went back to my room, took off my outfit, and got into my short blue nightie and my green dressing gown. Then I padded into the hallway and went into Maggie’s room, which I was currently using to sleep.
I had just pulled the covers back when I heard Nicole’s voice behind me. “Cami,” she said, very softly, “will you stay with me tonight? Please? I’m scared . . . scared about what tomorrow will bring. I don’t want to be alone.”
She was standing in the doorway, dressed again in the cream-colored négligée that hugged her flawless curves. My heart began to pound in my chest; I was surprised she did not hear it. I walked over to her and brought my hands up, resting them lightly on her torso, thumbs on her ribs, fingers curling around her back.
“Nicole,” I said, my voice suddenly husky, “I’m a woman, and I’m attracted to men, but honestly, I don’t think I can keep my hands off you if I sleep in your bed tonight.”
“I'm a woman,” she replied. “And I’m attracted to men. But tonight, I just want to love, and be loved, by someone I care about deeply. Someone I can hold on to. Gender isn’t very important right now. I have been with other women before. Is that so wrong?”
A million thoughts raced through my head. Reasons why this might be a very bad idea. I knew that I wanted to be with a man, as a heterosexual woman. But, my attraction to Nicole was real, immediate, and undeniable. My love for her was real, too. I knew that, like Liz, she was also heterosexual. And it had been hard — so very hard! — to make the break from Liz in similar circumstances. Unlike Liz, Nicole did not live a long distance away.
Because of the love between us, it was not wrong in my book. It was no sleazy one-night stand; nothing like what Liz’s friend Tim had offered back in January. It wasn’t wrong.
But it might be unwise.
None of that mattered. I would no more deny Nicole in her moment of need than I would cut off my right hand. I moved that hand up to cup the smooth curve of her cheek. “No. It’s not wrong.”
She stepped forward, folded her perfect arms around my neck, and kissed me with her soft, sweet lips. I was lost in her embrace, and found my hands moving across her back, feeling her frame, taught and powerful, under the silk of her négligée.
She broke off our kiss and leaned her forehead into mine. “So, that’s a yes?”
“I withdraw my objection,” I murmured.
“Come,” she invited, and led me back to her room. Once there, she ran her fingers down the front of my green dressing gown and undid the sash. Then she ran her fingers back up my sides, hooked her thumbs into the lapels of my gown at the shoulders and deftly slid it off. She turned and hung it behind her door.
While she was facing away, I stepped behind her, and pulled the pins – there were several – that held her hair in place, allowing the enormous mass to cascade down her back, like a lake suddenly released from a dam. I ran my fingers through it, marveling at its silkiness, its sweet perfume.
She turned to face me, took my hand, and led me to her bed.
We were under her sheets, this time facing each other. I ran a finger over her cheek, across the fine line of her jaw, down her slender neck. “You are so incredible,” I breathed.
She smiled. “So kiss me, you fool!”
I did. But even as our lips reconnected, my hands began to explore her magnificent body, fondling her full breasts, caressing her slender arms, the gentle swell of her belly, her firm thighs. My fingers curled around her round backside and squeezed gently.
She was breathing heavily, as excited now as I was myself.
I lifted one of her lingerie straps and slid it down her arm, freeing her left breast. Her skin was so soft . . . so smooth! I broke off our kiss and dropped my lips to the hollow at the base of her throat, then to her chest, before planting a series of soft kisses across the breast I had exposed.
One of her hands was tangled in my curls; the other was pressing the thin fabric of my nightie against the small of my back. Her exposed nipple was hard and dark; as I took it in my mouth she cried out and began to whimper.
My hand slipped under her négligée, caressed her thigh and rested lightly on her bush. I began to massage her pelvis as my tongue lashed her nipple.
She groaned, and I groaned with her.
I could no longer stop myself; I brought my head down, down, and kissed the engorged lips of her vulva.
Her excitement was intoxicating, electrifying. My tongue found her passage.
She gave a great cry, and another. Her breath was coming fast, she was whimpering, moaning, quivering.
I continued, giving her no rest, taking her juices, lovingly worshiping her perfection as it deserved.
She climaxed several times, bucking and crying out with pleasure. With a final, great shudder, she finally subsided.
I raised myself back to the top of the bed, slipped my arm under her, then rolled her body, unresisting, until her head lay on my shoulder and her long silky curls spilled across me.
She was utterly, completely spent.
I kissed the top of her head. “Sleep, angel. No dreams tonight.”
But I dreamt. I was on the pier over the ocean, but I was no longer running. I had reached the end. Wind whipped my long, black hair and tore at the planking and supports that held me above the waves. Rain lashed my body in sheets, soaking my lime-green one-piece swimsuit, making it cling to the curves that, in my dream, were all real, all mine. The water below me was inky black, turbid and impenetrable.
But my face was calm, peaceful. My legs were together, my feet side-by-side, lacquered toenails curled over the last plank of the pier. I looked straight out and raised my white arms to shoulder height. Then I bent my knees, pushed off strongly, and dove into space.
An instant later, the pier collapsed behind me and vanished.
Baltimore, Maryland, March 13, morning
If my alarm went off, somewhere, I didn’t notice it. My body’s internal alarm likewise took the night off, or at least the morning. When I awoke, the sun was already shining, and The Most Beautiful Woman I Had Ever Personally Met was gazing up at me from where her head rested on my shoulder, looking thoughtful.
“Good morning,” I said to her with a smile. “You look like someone who is thinking deep thoughts before breakfast. Which is just wrong. So you know.”
She smiled back at me. “I was actually trying to decide the best way to return the favor from last night. I might as well have been a man — one of the more thoughtless ones — for all the effort I took to give you pleasure.” Her lingerie strap had found its way back onto her shoulder, and she had one hand lying lightly on my nightie just over my stomach.
I covered it with my own left hand. “I have never been more satisfied.”
She looked unconvinced.
I raised my free hand to stroke her hair, her cheek, her bare shoulder. “Nicole, there’s nothing here you would want to see or experience. I can’t even pretend to be a man anymore, and as a woman, I’m mostly silicone. My breasts are fake, my hips, ass, and pelvis are padded. I wouldn’t want you, of all people, to see the kind of freak I am right now. I don’t want you to think of me that way.”
She gazed at me calmly. “Here’s a lesson in being a woman, Cami. It’s not all about appearances. It matters, sure. Especially in the beginning. And at the margins. But other things are more important. Like the fact that you are a truly wonderful person. And last night, when I was honestly desperate to be loved, to be comforted, you were there for me. You kept the darkness away, for a little while.”
She turned her head to plant a gentle kiss on my chest. “I know that your body isn't what you want it to be. What it will be someday. But it’s your body, and you are important to me. So I would like you to forget what you look like. Close your eyes if it helps, and imagine you are a beautiful woman. Because that’s what I see when I look at you. And that’s the woman I want to make love to. Right now.”
She rolled and straddled me, her négligée riding up on her hips. In a single, graceful motion she drew it over her head and dropped it on the pillow.
I couldn’t close my eyes, because I didn’t want to stop looking at her. Her hair surrounded her body like a cloak, tendrils caressing her breasts.
She began rocking back and forth, while her hands petted me, caressed my arms, my face, my torso. She bent down and kissed me, hard. Then she folded her legs together, slid her body down my own, and used both hands to remove my panty gaff entirely, exposing my inadequate, but very excited, male member.
I looked away, ashamed.
“Cami. . . . Cami. Look at me.”
Unwillingly, I brought my head around and saw her, crouched between my legs, surrounded by a nimbus of light brown curls.
“There is nothing you need to be embarrassed about. Nothing that shocks me. I am not disgusted. You are beautiful. Now close your eyes, girl, and let me prove it.”
Naked and vulnerable, I was now happy to comply. I lay on my back, arms at my sides, passive, as Nicole stoked the tender skin inside my thighs, stroked my stomach, and began to kiss me, intimately.
I was rock hard.
She gave my shaft the lightest touch and I gasped. She continued, and now I was the one who was whimpering and crying as my excitement mounted, mounted, and began to crest. Suddenly, her lips parted and she took it all in her mouth. Her tongue folded around me and I felt myself go, hot and hard.
In a moment, she had reversed our position from the previous night. My head was on her shoulder, my mouth inches from her breast. My dark hair spilled across her body, and she stroked me with her free hand as I wept cleansing, healing tears.
“It’s okay, Cami,” she crooned. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be a superwoman every minute. I’ve got you.”
I don't know how long that moment lasted, but eventually my tears did stop flowing. I blinked them away, in the process delivering a few angel kisses to Nicole’s upper chest. I brushed my lips against her lovely breast and levered myself onto my elbow so I could look at her. There was nothing in her face but tenderness and compassion.
“I hate to be the one to say this,” I said, “but I really need to pee.”
She groaned. “You had to say it!”
“Race you!” I said, leaping from the bed.
She followed me, naked, beautiful, and cursing a blue steak, but I got there first, sat down primly, arranged my nightie, and asked, “Have you ever been to Niagara Falls?”
She gaped, stopped cursing, then started to hop up and down. “Christ! Don’t take all day, or I’ll go on the floor and you'll have to clean it up!”
I laughed, but I finished quickly and abdicated the throne.
She closed her eyes and slumped, relieved.
I retreated to her room while she finished her business and stripped the bed, bundled the sheets and pillow cases, and put the covers back in place.
Nicole poked her head in. “I get dibs on the first shower!”
I smiled, blew her a kiss, and made a motion of dismissal with my hands.
She disappeared down the hall.
I brought the sheets, our nighties, and our dressing gowns down to the laundry, pausing at my room to snag my flannel nightgown. The sheets were dark, so I set the washer on a cold rinse setting, put everything in, and started it. Returning to the main floor, I made Nicole some green tea, and myself some coffee.
As the last of the hot water was flowing through my drip cone, Nicole came in, her hair turbaned, wearing her own flannels. She saw the tea, smiled, and took it to the table.
I joined her a moment later. “So . . . I guess we need to talk.”
She nodded, but looked – mercifully – unconcerned. “I’ll let you win this race,” she said, smiling. “So you can start.”
I took a sip of coffee, then set it down. “Where to start? I didn’t mean for that to happen last night, and I can think of a lot of reasons why it was a bad idea. But . . . I love you, so it was wonderful.”
I was silent for a bit. Then I said, “Your turn.”
She looked at me over the rim of her coffee mug. “I love you too, Cami. And it was wonderful, and I don’t have any regrets at all. None. So, now that we’ve taken care of the easy part, we can talk about the harder parts.” She smiled again. “Your turn.”
“Last night, we both said we were attracted to men. I know I don’t have any actual experience that way. Maybe I never will. But you do, and . . . and I’d like to. So, there’s that.”
She put down her mug and covered my hands with her own. “I think what you’re saying is that we can’t have ‘always.’ There’s something else that we both want, something different. I know that. We needed each other last night, and we were able to be there for each other. That’s enough for me. It could happen again. It might not.”
She paused and looked at me carefully. “But I need to know if that makes you uncomfortable. Or unhappy.”
I shook my head and smiled, clear and untroubled. “No. Not at all. I don’t have casual relationships, but this wasn’t – isn’t – casual. Love makes all the difference. I’m relieved that my physical attraction to you isn’t a problem. I was worried about it. A lot, really, the last time we shared a bed.”
“I’m probably more strongly heterosexual than you are,” she said, “but like I told you last night, I have been with other women, in somewhat similar circumstances. And enjoyed it. . . . Maggie included.”
I thought about that for a minute while we sipped our drinks. “Nicole, I’m a guest here. And I care about you both. I don’t want to do anything that hurts either of you.”
She stopped me and squeezed my hand. “It's not like that. Mags is hetero too. But we’ve shared a lot of ups and downs, heartaches and heartbreaks. There have been nights when we’ve been there for each other, just like you and I were there for each other last night. Then we get up again the next morning, and keep our eyes out for a good catch. Maggie wouldn’t have any issue with what happened last night.”
I couldn’t help but ask, “You’re sure?”
“Positive.” Then she grinned. “But, feel free to ask her about it!”
I stuck out my tongue at her.
“What do you have going on today,” I asked.
“Pretty much a normal day,” she responded. “I’ve got a lesson with the Dottoressa at 11:30, and I’ve got two students coming in for a joint lesson at 2:00. But other than that, it's just vocal workouts and studying parts. How about you?”
I said, “Since I actually planned to be working all day today, I don’t have anything else on my schedule. I think I’ll get in a proper workout – with you, for my voice, and on my own, for the rest of me. Then I might do some wandering. It’s going to be in the 70s today, if you can believe it. I might just go for a walk in a park. Wouldn’t that be wild!”
She laughed. “I’ll need the car when I go to see The Dottoressa, but otherwise feel free to use it.”
We ate some fruit and yogurt for breakfast, then Nicole went upstairs to make herself (even more) beautiful. I was surprisingly serene about the events of the prior night. It had been wonderful, and I treasured every moment. But, I did not feel any anxiety, any need to lay a claim on Nicole.
I washed, dried, and put away the dishes, poured myself a big glass of water, then went and rotated the laundry. Nicole came down around 10:00 and we did our vocal exercises in the front room. I changed into exercise clothes, went into the basement and started my exercise routine, late but very welcome.
By the time I came back upstairs, Nicole was off at her voice lesson. I took a leisurely shower and got dressed in a new pair of stretchy jeans, a sleeveless T-shirt, and a fleece. I added a pair of sneakers and put my hair into its usual loose side braid.
It suddenly occurred to me that Al could cut it properly now, since I didn’t need to preserve the option of a “male look.” I thought about calling the salon, since it was a work day, but it occurred to me that Tina might well be hanging out there during the day. So I shot him a text instead. I gave Sarah a call and filled her in on my good news.
Baltimore, Maryland, March 13, later that day
Around 1:00 I went down to the basement, opened my laptop and checked my emails. Unsurprisingly, under the circumstances, there was nothing particularly pressing. I went to my usual online news sources to see what was going on in the world. And saw a news flash that, following the President’s declaration of a state of emergency, the Metropolitan Opera of New York had canceled its entire season.
Just then, I heard someone come in the front door. I ran upstairs and saw Nicole, looking happy, as she often did coming back from her lessons. She saw my face, blanched, and walked slowly in my direction.
I met her half way and folded her in my arms. “Nicole, honey, the Met’s just canceled the rest of their season.”
She stiffened, brought up her arms and held me wordlessly.
I said, “Maybe . . . maybe it’s just New York. Because, you know . . . .”
I felt her head nod, but she said nothing.
Her cell phone rang. She squeezed me hard, then let go and fished it out of her back pocket. She swallowed, but then she straightened up, swiped, and accepted the call. “Nicole Fontaine. Yes. Good afternoon, director. . . . Yes, I just heard. . . . I see. The whole cycle? . . . . No, I understand. Thank you for the call.”
She ended the call and looked blankly at her phone.
“Chicago?” I said.
She nodded. “Not just Götterdämmerung. They were doing the entire ring cycle. It’s all canceled. Every performance.”
“Oh, Nicole!” My heart was breaking for her.
She shook her head, looking a bit dazed. She swayed a bit on her feet and her arm came up, haphazardly, looking for a wall.
I jumped in, put a steadying arm around her, led her into the living room and eased her back into the chair where she had sat, just last night, during our wonderful talk-a-thon.
“Stay here!” I dashed into the kitchen and grabbed a glass of cold water.
Her hands looked shaky, so I helped guide the water to her lips and she drank. Her eyes started to come back into focus, and she waved the water away.
“Thanks,” she said, carefully.
Her phone rang again. She closed her eyes, pain etched every line of her face. “Dear God, that’ll be Mags.”
She took a steading breath, looked at her phone, and answered it. “Hi sweetie.”
I could hear the sounds of distress coming from the speaker.
“The rest of this show? What about the others? . . . . Yeah, I guess there’s hope. But not much, huh? . . . . Yeah, Chicago too. Seems like everyone was waiting for the Met to pull the trigger. . . .”
There’s was a long pause on Nicole’s side, while I could hear Maggie talking rapidly. Then Nicole said, “Of course. What time? . . . Not a problem. Text me the flight info? . . . Okay. . . . Yes. . . .Yes. . . . No, she’s here. Her trial was canceled too. . . . I know, right? ‘The end of the world as we know it.’ . . . . I’ll do that. . . . I love you too. See you at 6:30. Bye.”
She closed her eyes and sat still as a stone. I ached for her, but had no idea what I could do that would make a difference.
Finally she stirred and, without opening her eyes, said, “She told me to give you a hug and a squeeze for her. She’s sorry about your trial.” She sounded tired, broken, and flat. Not like Nicole at all.
I found myself kneeling at her side. I took her hands in mine and bent over them, feeling the splash of my tears. “Oh, Sweetheart,” I choked. “I don’t even know what to say!”
Her eyes opened and a ghost of her smile returned. “Thank you for last night, Cami. I’m so glad we had that moment.”
“Don’t give up, Nicole!”
She whispered, “Remember what you sang to me, in New York? ‘How can I keep from singing?’ How can I, Cami? How?”
“You can’t,” I said. “And you won’t. I don’t know how, but you won’t.” I squeezed her hands and took a deep breath. “I promise you, Nicole. We’re going to get through this somehow. You, me, Maggie. We’re going to make this work. We will find a way.”
She looked at me for a long, long moment. “Superwoman’s back, huh?”
“Damned right, she is.”
“Okay, Cami. I’ve got nothing in the tank right now. But I’ll hang in there. We’ll come up with something.” She still sounded lifeless, but at least she was willing to listen.
Desperate for some further inspiration, I thought to myself, what would Eileen do? And the answer came to me.
I gave her hands a last squeeze, released them and stood over her. “Good.” I kept my voice warm, but for the first time I allowed steel to show through. “Here’s the first thing that’s going to happen. You’re going to go upstairs and take a cool washcloth to your eyelids. Then you’re going to sit down and have a mug of tea to open your throat again. Because you’ve got two students coming in half an hour. Their world is probably about to come crashing down, too, if it hasn’t already. They will need you to be Dottoressa Fontaine for them, even if it’s the last time. Can you do it?”
Her eyes had gotten wide at the change in me.
I hoped it would work; what I had done was the verbal equivalent of pouring ice water down her shirt. But I had guessed right.
At the mention of her students, she sat bolt upright. “Sadie and Terry!!! Oh my God!!” She jumped up and ran upstairs.
I sagged with relief, then went into the kitchen to make her tea.
I was very worried that Nicole’s students would also cancel, but they bounced up the stairs promptly at 2:00.
Nicole was ready for them. Whatever agony she was feeling inside, she was able to suppress it when some of “her girls” needed her.
While she was teaching, I took the opportunity to make a run to the grocery store and get something for dinner and tomorrow’s breakfast and lunch. I was thinking hard and making plans. I was just finishing putting away the groceries when I heard Nicole seeing Sadie and Terry out.
A few moments later she came in and leaned against the doorframe. “Thanks for the dope slap. I needed it. I’m going to go upstairs for a bit. I’ve got to call Mom and Dad. And a few other people, too. Then I might take a bath. Can you hold the fort?”
“Against all comers,” I said. “Go on now.”
She blew me a kiss and went upstairs.
I followed a few minutes later with cleaning supplies and fresh sheets. Nicole was talking in her bedroom so I closed the door to Maggie’s room to avoid disturbing her. I stripped down the bed and put on the fresh sheets, cleaned every surface and dust-mopped the floor. Everything looked as neat as Maggie always left it.
While I had everything handy, I cleaned our common bathroom as well, then tidied my own room. The dirty sheets went downstairs to the wash, and I pulled the earlier load from the drier. I folded Nicole’s sheets and our sexy sleepwear, and brought it all back upstairs.
I didn’t hear any talking from Nicole’s room, so I shot her a text asking if she wanted me to draw her a bath. She sent back a thumb’s up and a heart emoji, so I followed through. When it was finished, I went back to my room.
While Nicole was having her bath, I made up her bed, laid out her négligée, closed the door softly and went back downstairs. We needed ideas, so I opened my laptop, checked my mail, then started doing some furious research.
Around 5:00, I got a text back from Al. “Cami! I can finally cut your hair properly? Yay! I’ve had a ton of cancellations :-( so I can fit you in tomorrow at 1 if that works.”
Al and Javi’s business, like Nicole and Maggie’s, was under direct threat. I sent back a cheerful “I’ll be there,” and prayed they would be alright.
Nicole came down around 5:30. “Groceries, fresh sheets, clean rooms, a bath . . . I’m getting some kind of spoiled! But honestly, Cami. You don’t have to do all of this.”
I had some tea ready, so I put a mug down for each of us and sat down at the table.
As she sat to join me, I said, “I know that. But you and Maggie just had your stuffings kicked out, and a little pampering can’t hurt. Besides, between work and travel I haven’t been able to do much here to earn my keep.”
She clinked her cup to mine, sipped, and said, “My brain still seems slow. What’s the plan?”
I looked at her carefully as she sat across from me. She appeared to be fine. Not her usual self, obviously, but fine. Still . . . “Are you okay to drive?”
She took the question seriously – a worrisome sign in its own way – but after a moment’s thought said, “Yes. My reflexes are fine. I’m just having trouble planning.”
I relaxed. “What I’d suggest is that you pick up Maggie while I make something light for dinner. After that, I’d recommend an early bed. We’ll all think better when we’ve had some sleep and this day is behind us.”
She nodded. “Works for me.”
She left around 6:00, by which time I already had a marinated pork loin in the oven. Around 7:15 I heard them pull up.
I went out to help unload the car and found them both looking red-eyed and tired. I gave Maggie a big hug and just held her a moment. “Dinner’s on the table. Go get started; I’ll take care of this and join you shortly.” It was a measure of how far gone they were that they went along with my suggestion.
Maggie gave me a squeeze and a muffled, “Thanks,” then they both went inside.
I rolled Maggie’s big bag to the porch stairs and had to use two hands to get it up. My morning exercises were not designed to increase upper body strength! I went back to the car, unloaded her two smaller bags, then brought everything in and upstairs.
Neither of my roommates had eaten a lot by the time I joined them, but they were eating and talking quietly.
When it was apparent that they both eaten as much as they were going to, I told them both to go upstairs and get some sleep. “But I’m laying down a marker,” I said. “9:30 tomorrow, we’re going to have breakfast and we’re going to brainstorm. However bad this pandemic gets, we’re going to get through it.”
Nicole had heard it already; Maggie looked thoughtful. “Thanks, Cami. I’ve done a lot of crying today. Too much for my own good. I’ll be better tomorrow. Planning will help.”
I reached out and touched them both, wanting the contact. “Love you guys,” I said. “Now scoot!”
They went.
I cleaned the kitchen then went downstairs. It was a bit after 9:00.
I really, really wanted to talk to Fiona. I had sent her a few supportive texts over the last few weeks – nothing requiring a response – just to let her know I was thinking about her – and I had one exchange with her following my failed attempt to get Iain out of New Rochelle. I hemmed, hawed, and finally tried a skype call to Fi and Henry’s condo.
In a moment there was a connection, and Henry’s face appeared on the monitor. He looked, as usual, calm, competent and friendly, but he also looked tired.
He smiled and greeted me warmly, but said, “I’m sorry, Cami. She’s still at work. Biogen had a big conference here and scores of participants got sick. Naturally they’re at MassGeneral. If there’s something urgent I can get her a message, but mostly I’m just staying out of her hair so she can do what she needs to do.”
I put on a brave face, but I found my disappointment was so great it hurt. To keep from showing it, I asked, “Are you staying safe? Both of you?”
He nodded. “Yes. Fi’s in full PPE when she’s dealing with patients, of course, including, I gather, a face shield over her respirator. She also changes before she leaves work, then she gets home, showers downstairs and changes again before coming upstairs. She’s talking about staying downstairs in the guest bedroom to lower the risk that she’ll infect me, but hopefully it won’t come to that.”
I shook my head. “Henry, I knew it was bad, but . . . .”
“I know,” he said. “However bad people think it is, it’s worse.”
“How are you doing, Henry?”
He shrugged. “Work’s crazy. With all the shutdowns that are being announced, everyone wants to sell. Then people hear promising things about a stimulus bill, or about widespread availability of COVID tests – which is bullshit, by the way – and they want to buy. But we’ve got a longer-term strategy and so far it’s been working and our investors are on board with it. Long days, but nothing like what Fi is coping with.”
I told him about the trial, and about coming out at work. I told him about my current living situation and how my roommates had been impacted by the shutdowns. Finally I asked what he’d heard from Fi on the best ways to keep safe, since what was coming out of the White House seemed to go six different directions at once.
He snorted. “That crowd couldn’t find their backsides with a GPS. Don’t get me started on ‘anyone who wants a test can get one;’ you’ve got no idea how much trouble that piece of misinformation is causing for hospitals. In terms of advice, what Fi’s told me is still pretty much common sense stuff. Good hygiene. Wash your hands a lot. Cover coughs and sneezes, and not with your hand. Avoid crowds, especially indoors. Try to keep your distance from people.”
“What about masks?”
He shrugged. “Nothing new there either. Fi still says they probably help, but there aren’t enough available for use by healthy people who aren’t caring for sick people. It’s going to take a bit to ramp up production. I’m feeling pretty good about our investment in 3M, that’s for sure.”
I asked him to please give Fi a huge hug for me, and tell her that she was my hero and I missed her. I managed to keep from getting weepy, at least until I had signed off, but it was tough.
I really, really wanted to see Fi.
Baltimore, Maryland, March 14
I had gotten up at my usual time, done an hour of stretches and exercises, showered and gotten dressed. It was only 7:00; early still, but not for me. I was brewing some coffee when Maggie came into the kitchen, still in pajamas and a robe. She looked a thousand times better than she had. I gave her a hug. “Good morning. How are you doing? Can I get you some tea?”
She hugged me back and smiled warmly. “Me do, Mommy!”
I laughed. “Sure thing, Sweetie!”
I sat down at the table with my coffee and watched as she made herself a cup of tea. Once she poured the water, she took the cup back to the table and joined me.
“I’m doing better,” she told me. “You were right; sleep helped.” She pulled the tea bag out of her mug, set it on a saucer, then blew gently on her steaming brew. “I slept in Nickie’s bed last night. You knew?” Her tone was more careful than casual.
“I assumed. You two needed each other yesterday.”
She was watching me carefully. She laid a hand on my wrist. “Are you okay? Nickie was worried that you might be . . . .”
“Hurt? Jealous? No. Not at all.” I paused, then added, “So Nicole told you about two nights ago?”
She nodded.
“Maggie, I care about you both. Deeply. I told Nicole I didn’t want to do anything that would hurt either of you. If I have, I’m sorry. Very, very sorry.”
She shook her head, hand still on my wrist. “You didn’t. I’m glad you were able to be here for her – and glad she was here for you. It’s not like we’re an item, Nickie and I. Sometimes we’ve shared a bed, like last night. Sometimes there’s been more. But mostly we’re just very, very close friends. ‘Friends with benefits’ sounds tawdry, but it’s never felt that way, between us.”
I gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “So we’re good?”
She smiled back. “Better than good. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re with us. Especially now. I don’t think Nickie or I could have made it through the day without you, yesterday.”
Then she gave me a stern look. “But I won’t have you playing housewife to the both of us. I can look after myself. Most of the time, anyway. And so can Nick. You don’t have to carry everything all the time.”
“But maybe some of the time?” I responded, “when for some reason like, I don’t know, a global pandemic, you might be feeling a bit low?”
“Maybe,” she said, smiling. She got up to go get her shower.
“Maggie, there’s something you and Nicole need to talk about, without me around. Might be better if you did it before our pow-wow this morning, because it impacts financial planning.”
She gave me a questioning look.
“When I came here, I only asked if I could stay a few weeks, until the trial was over, when I’d have a chance to look for a place of my own. That’s still an option. But . . . would you like me to stay? I know there are pros and cons.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but I put my index finger over her lips.
“No,” I said. “Talk to Nicole first. Don’t worry about hurting my feelings; you need to figure out what makes sense for you both, then we can take it from there.”
She touched my arm, smiled, and went upstairs.
When I was shopping the day before I decided to try making a quiche. I got everything prepared, put it in the oven, and sat down at the table, using the opportunity to do a bit more research. By the time Maggie and Nicole came down at 9:30, the quiche was done, the table was set; there was fresh fruit, tea for two (and coffee for one!), and grapefruit juice.
Nicole came and gave me a hug. “Thanks, Sweetie,” she said. “for everything.”
We dug in, and after we were getting down to nibbling on fruit, started our talk.
Nicole said, “Cami, of course we want you to stay. And we would even if we didn’t need to rent out that room. Which we do now, for sure. But we love having you here with us.”
Maggie nodded her agreement. “But . . . do you want to stay? It’s a nasty commute.”
“Yes. I want to. I’ve never shared a space like this . . . I mean, except when I was living at home with my parents. I never even realized how lonely I was, living by myself all the time. . . . And besides . . . .” I stopped, trying to figure out how to express what I was feeling.
Nicole prompted, “And besides?”
“Did you ever see that Disney movie, Lilo and Stitch?” I asked
They both nodded; Maggie said, “Of course.”
“I don't remember all that much about the movie,” I confessed, “but there’s one line I never forgot.”
Immediately understanding, Nicole said, softly, “Ohana.”
I nodded. “‘Ohana means family.’ I want that. Here. I feel like we have it. One Ohana.”
Looking just a touch misty eyed, Nicole raised her juice glass. “Ohana!”
We clinked glasses, and Maggie and I returned her toast.
Then I said, “Okay, so that’s decided. Now, we need to talk about how we get through this pandemic. Together. I can see a couple of issues that will come up; I’m sure you’ll spot others. First, we need to get a handle on our financial situation. As long as I’ve got my job, we won’t starve or have the heat shut off.”
Maggie looked momentarily rebellious.
But I gently said, “Ohana, Maggie. We’re all going to pitch in. This is one way that I can. But you will want to find work that pays as well, for your own sake if nothing else. So we need to talk about that. I have some ideas.
“Second, one way or another, we have to find opportunities for both of you to sing. I have only the barest idea. But whether or not you get paid for it, both of you have to sing, and do it where people can hear it. No ifs, ands, or buts. You. Must. Sing. Period.
“Finally, we’ve also got to find ways to not go batshit crazy here, because I think opportunities to do things outside the house are going to disappear in a hurry. There may even be lockdown orders; we’ve seen it in China and Italy. It can happen here. So . . . projects. Things we can teach each other. Things we can learn, together or separately.
“I don’t know how busy I’ll be at work, but I doubt it will be anything like the last few months. And you two will have more spare time then you’ve ever had. You didn’t want it, but you’ve got it anyway. So let’s think about productive ways to use it. Let’s see the opportunities as well as the losses. The pandemic will be over someday. If we think creatively, if we use this time like a gift we may never see again, we could come out of it stronger and more resilient than when we went in.”
I was channeling Eileen, and how she had gotten our team refocused after the stunning news on Wednesday. Get people thinking. Make a plan. Create some direction.
Looking at my friends, I could tell by their posture, by their eyes, that it was working. They weren’t just listening, they were actively engaged. Considering a way forward, rather than wallowing in despair over what had been lost.
Maggie nodded. “I like it. I do. So, let’s start with the yucky stuff. Money.”
“Okay. Most important, Maggie, what’s the story with the house?” I asked. “I know your parents have been letting you use it rent-free for now, but it’s part of their retirement savings too. Do you know how long this arrangement will last?”
“They’re both a few years from retiring, and there’s no way they’ll kick me to the curb in the middle of all of this,” Maggie responded. “I’ll talk to them about it – I need to talk to them anyway – but I’m sure we don’t have a problem on that score.”
“Great,” I said. So . . . what are our expenses? Who even handles that?”
Nicole smiled. “I usually handle the bills. The regular household expenses are gas, electric, water, cable and groceries. Probably twelve to fifteen hundred dollars a month. Our regular individual bills are, I guess, cell phones and payments for voice lessons.”
I thought about Al’s cancellations. “I wonder whether in-person vocal lessons are going to continue if this goes on – which will obviously affect your incomes as well as your expenses.”
Nicole frowned. “Yeah, I’d thought about that. I don’t know how that will go.”
“Well, you’ve got one pupil anyway,” I said. “Me. I’m going to continue to need lessons, and if Dottoressa Trelli isn’t giving them, I’d like to work with you two. You’ve already been helping, for free. For the immediate future, she’s got me working on expanding my range and improving my articulation, and you’re both more than qualified. I don’t know what else she had planned, but I need to take care of first things first.”
I asked whether they had sources of income apart from voice lessons and professional singing.
Maggie sighed. “No, and I’m not sure I’m good for much else, either.”
“That,” I said confidently, “is where I’m sure you’re wrong. There are things you can do. Some of them might not appeal to you, and some might not work out. But you are smart, articulate, motivated . . . there’s plenty you can do. Let me throw out a specific idea. Have you ever done a podcast?”
They looked at me blankly.
“I’m guessing a lot of people will think about doing this . . . eventually. But let’s be out of the gate first. Remember that night when we got back from dinner and you both gave me a tutorial about opera? Or, when I told you how much I enjoyed listening to the two of you geek out about it? There’s an audience out there – people who will want to learn; who may want to hear fresh voices. And, like us, may suddenly have some spare time they didn’t want.”
Nicole shook her head, bemused. “I wouldn’t have the first idea how to do something like that.”
“The technical elements are easy, and you already have a very nice sound studio downstairs. How to get paid for it . . . that’ll be more difficult, and will take time. But if it doesn’t pan out, you won’t have lost anything. And, you will have given your co-host an education in opera!”
Maggie laughed. “You’re willing to co-host a podcast about opera?”
“Absolutely!” I grinned wickedly. “You need me. Unless you just want to talk to other out-of-work opera singers, you have to speak to people who are interested but not knowledgeable. I’ll be there to ask the questions that are so basic they won’t even occur to you doyennes – and, asking questions is what lawyers like me do best.” I sounded like Tigger.
Nicole seemed willing. “Try me!”
“Okay,” I responded, “why is it that everyone always ends up dead at the end of an opera? We have happy movies. We have happy songs. Happy plays. Why can’t we have happy operas?”
That did it – they both busted a gut.
We talked about other opportunities as well, areas where they could develop or hone skills that were useful, if ancillary, to their careers.
I mentioned that I had learned to design websites in high school and college, and marketing is important in the entrepreneurial world of opera.
Both Nicole and Maggie were interested in improving their dance skills, since that might open up musical performance opportunities outside of opera. Sort of like diversifying a portfolio.
Then Maggie grinned. “You know what I want to learn? It’ll help with the dance. I want to learn how to be a cheerleader!”
“Huh?” Nicole looked puzzled.
I just giggled.
“You didn’t know? That one” –Maggie pointed at me – “is up at the crack of dawn, doing cheer routines. Every day. I saw her, and I tell you what: it’s GREAT exercise. I want to learn it!”
I thought about how Liz would react if she heard that her cheer squad reject was going to be giving lessons, and laughed out loud.
We continued in this vein, brainstorming. There was a lot of positive energy. By the time we were done, everyone was feeling sharper and more optimistic. I thought to myself, Thank you, Eileen!
And, speaking of which . . . . “Hey . . . I was wrestling with something, and with everything that happened yesterday it slipped my mind. I need a name. For work.”
Maggie looked puzzled. “Why not Cami? It’s a great name. It’s you.”
I smiled at her. “Thanks for that. It is me. But, Eileen was right when she said women have a harder time being taken seriously as lawyers . . . as litigators. ‘Cami’ is . . . I don’t know. Informal doesn’t quite capture it. Intimate, maybe?”
“I can see that,” Nicole said. “It’s one of the reasons I like your name, I think. But that wouldn’t be a plus at work.”
Maggie asked, “You’ve ruled out staying with Cameron?”
I shook my head. “I wouldn’t say I’ve ruled it out. It’s sort of a default. But . . . I’d prefer to make a break. Something that respects the fact that I’ve changed. I’m not just the same person wearing different clothes.”
Nicole looked thoughtful. She pulled out her phone, ran a search, then nodded. “What about ‘Camryn?’ It’s the same name, but it’s not. Just like you are the same person, but also different.”
It was perfect. I jumped up and gave her a quick but exuberant kiss. “You’re amazing! That’s it!”
We all got up, and it was a healthy sign that once again everyone worked cooperatively to get the kitchen spotless.
Then I said, “Now if you girls will excuse me, I’m going to get a one hundred percent, no hedging, ‘Camryn’ haircut!”
They cheered me on my way; Nicole had already insisted that I take her car.
I parked in front of the salon and came in the front door. Which felt strange; normally I had come in from the back. But I wasn’t living on premises anymore.
Tina was sitting at the reception desk. She looked at me with an unreadable expression. “I’ll get Al.”
But he came in before she had a chance to move and gave me a quick hug. “Cami! So I finally get to give you a proper cut!”
I laughed, and we went over to the sink so he could give me a rinse.
I filled him in on my news, but didn’t ask much about how he and Javi were doing, assuming that Tina could overhear. I explained that I had decided to stay in Baltimore and commute since my roommates were fabulous and it was at least convenient to all of the health care professionals from Haverford, if not to work.
He sat me in his chair and asked what I was thinking about for a cut.
“I like it long; I want to continue growing it out. I like being able to wear my loose side braid. But . . . I want it to look one hundred percent feminine. No more straddling the fence. Cameron is done.”
Al smiled. “I think I can manage. Let me trim the front into long bangs; you can do different things with those, but won’t always have to pin them back. Then, I want to layer the rest, and of course trim all of the ends. You’ll still be able to do your braid, but if you want to just blow dry it and let it hang free, it will look pretty and feminine and frame your face nicely. Okay?’
“I’m in your hands, Maestro!”
He got to work. At some point Javier wandered in and we chatted a bit, too. Business was slowing considerably, and quickly. But they were still getting by.
“It’ll be tight,” Al said. “Maybe real tight. But we’ve been in tight spots before, Javi and me. We’ll get by.” They shared a look that carried a long freight train of memories.
When he was finished cutting, Al took a blow dryer to my hair, sprayed on some product and began brushing it out. When he was finished, he handed me a mirror. “Let me introduce you to my friend ‘Camryn!’”
Wonderful! The cut made my hair look much, much more full. It looks . . . fun. Interesting. Very feminine.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you so much!”
We made our goodbyes, and I held my finger and thumb to my cheek and ear in the universal sign for “call me,” so that I might hear how things were going with their new tenant. But I needn’t have bothered; she was no longer at the front desk. I walked out and discovered that she was, instead, out by Nicole’s car.
“So, you decided to get off the fence?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. Ah . . . congratulations.”
This was a bit unexpected, but to be encouraged. “Thanks.”
“Listen,” she said. “That note you left? I wouldn’t steal from these guys. Never. I don’t know you. But these guys are everything. Okay?”
Ah. Well, an apology would have been nice, I suppose, since she had tried to rob me, but I wasn’t going to stand on protocol. Besides, there were more important things to think about. “I’m very glad to hear that. Very glad. But . . . they’re going to need more than that.”
She looked at me warily.
“This pandemic . . . . their business is going to be hurting. They’re going to be struggling. They’ll need you.”
“Huh?”
“Tina,” I said patiently, “you need to find ways to pitch in. Find ways to make some money. Without stealing it. They’re paying all the bills and their income is about to go in the crapper. You’re living here, you’re an adult. For your sake, and for their sakes, you need to pitch in.”
She looked like she’d been pole-axed. “I . . . I don’t . . . I mean . . . what can I do?”
“I don’t know. But you need to figure it out. They need you to figure it out. They do, but they won’t ask. And they’ll probably be angry with me for saying this. But honestly, you can contribute. You just need to figure out how.”
My phone rang; I pulled it from my back pocket to make sure it wasn’t someone I had to talk to. I didn’t recognize the number, but . . . the ID said that the call originated in New Rochelle. I felt a stiletto of fear pierce my heart, an echo of my panic attack.
“I’m sorry,” I said absently, “I think I need to take this.”
She stood still, watching me.
“Hello?” I said, answering the phone.
An accented male voice that I did not recognize said, “Hello? Is this Cameron Savin?”
“Speaking,” I said.
“Are you Iain’s brother?”
I wasn’t going to quibble about gender. “Yes. Is he okay?”
“My name is Mahmoud Masoumi. We haven’t met, but I’m Iain’s roommate. He . . . I don’t know if he’s okay. He was okay yesterday, but I came home from my shift last night and he wasn’t here. He left a note saying that he thinks he has the COVID, you know? The virus?
“The note, he said, he didn’t want to infect me. I don’t know where he went. He won’t answer his phone. I’m worried about him. He mentioned his brother was a lawyer in DC, so I was able to find you. Not too many Savins, I think. Do you know where Iain is?”
As soon as he started speaking, I knew. I knew what he was going to say. I knew that COVID had finally hit home. And my mind immediately clicked into hyperdrive, eliminating all emotion, stripping away everything but purpose. A decision tree began to unfold in my mind, which began clicking down the list of things that suddenly needed to be done. Right away. Now.
Click. Click. Click.
To be continued.
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
College Park, Maryland, March 14, immediately following
“I’m sorry, Mahmoud,” I said, “I haven’t talked to Iain for days. I don’t know where he is.”
As I was talking my brain relentlessly clicked through an unfolding list of things that I needed to be doing. “Is there any chance he went to the hospital?”
<< click - try calling Iain. Maybe he’ll take my call >>
“I called around,” Mahmoud said, “but he hasn’t showed up anywhere.”
<< click – but he won’t answer. Of course he won’t. so . . . need to get to New York >>
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll try to reach him. But if I can’t – and, maybe even if I do – I’ll be there as quick as I can. Can I reach you at this number?”
<< click – driving would be faster. And, I’ll need a car when I get there >>
“Yes,” he said, “but . . . I’ll be on shift from 4:00 until midnight. I won’t be able to talk to you while I’m on the job.”
<< click – I don’t know how long I’ll need to be gone; I’d better rent a car >>
“I understand. I should be up there before you get off shift. Let me know if you hear anything; I’ll do the same. Okay?”
“Yes. Yes. I’ll do that. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Mahmoud. Talk to you soon.”
I punched Iain’s number. No answer. “The mailbox you have reached is full . . . .”
I shot him a text: “Iain – where are you? Call me!” My mind continued to march through my next steps.
I looked up.
Tina was still watching me, face again unreadable.
I had no time, but this was something I needed to deal with before I left. A loose end. “When Javier first told me about you, he said you were the sweetest, kindest person he’d ever met.”
Her face turned hard. “‘Sweet and kind’ get you dead in the looney bin, Boo. That girl’s long gone.”
I nodded. “You became who you needed to be, just to survive.”
“Fuckin’ A, I did!”
I focused on her intently. “Then you know you can do it. Become who you need to be. Do what you need to do. You’re that kind of strong.”
Now she looked wary, sensing a trap.
“You said Al and Javi were everything. You shittin’ me?”
She shook her head, defiant. Still silent.
“Then become who you need to be now. To help them. You’re not in the asylum anymore. You’re out, you have friends who love you. Who need you. You need to do more than just survive.”
Unconvinced but . . . maybe? Wavering? I didn’t have all day to bring her around with sweet reason though, so I hardened my voice and challenged her. “Or, are you just going to sit on your scrawny butt and watch while their business dies? Then hit the street once they can’t afford to put a roof over your head or food in your gut?”
She stood silent, rigid, holding my eyes with a lava-hot stare that seethed with contempt for the pampered, privileged princess she saw whenever she looked at me. Her look positively screamed, “You have no right!!! No idea what you are asking!!!”
I looked back, unflinching. Unrepentant. Unyielding. My eyes said, “Life’s not fair. Deal.”
She blinked first.
“You some kinda bitch,” she said, disgusted. “But . . . . Yeah. Fine. You’re right. Happy?“ She dropped her eyes for a moment, thinking, then looked up. “I heard your call. Get outta here. I got this.”
There was nothing more to be said. I nodded sharply, jumped in the car and sped off. One loose end, taken care of. Make that three.
There was no way to sync my phone with Nicole’s older car, so I broke the law and called her using the handset. It was going to take me forty-five minutes to get back to Opera House, and I didn’t want all that time to be wasted just on driving.
“Hey Cami!” she said, answering.
“Hi Nicole . . . . I’ve got some bad news – Iain’s gone missing and apparently has COVID, or thinks he does.”
“Oh my God!”
I just kept going. “I know. But look, I need to get up there and find him. Can you do me a couple of favors?”
“Name them.”
“First, I need you to pack a bag for me. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Find my practical stuff. And . . . something work-like, from what we just bought, in case for some reason I need to get official. Underwear. Cosmetics. My pills.” I thought a minute, then said, “I remember seeing a package on the shelves in the utility room. Some sort of masks?”
“Yeah,” Nicole said. “From when Mags and I were building the sound room. Something from Home Depot.”
I said, “I don’t know what kind they are or whether they’re any good, but could you throw in one or two?”
“I’ll give you the whole package,” she said.
“One or two. They might be hard to replace.”
“Ohana, Cami. You get the whole package.”
No time to argue. “Okay,” I conceded. “Second, could you call a car rental company and get me something to drive? Reserve it for . . . a week, maybe? If I don’t need it that long I can suck it up; if I need more I can extend it.”
“Take my car,” she offered.
“Your car can’t talk to my phone, and I’ll need to make calls while I’m driving.”
“Problem solved! I’ll drive you. You can make all the calls you need.”
I had been afraid she would volunteer. “Nicole. Sweetie. Thank you. But you can’t. You need to take care of Maggie. And she needs to take care of you. And both of you need to get started on the things we talked about this morning. So we’re launched when I get back.”
She was quiet for a long moment, then said. “You don’t think you’re coming back, do you?”
I could tell from the sound of her voice that she was crying.
“I may get COVID,” I said, evenly, “But I’ll be careful, and most people who get it have survived. I have to take the risk; Iain needs me. But I wouldn’t forgive myself if I got either of you two sick as well. Please, Nicole? Please understand?”
The line was silent for an even longer interval before she responded, her voice choked. “Okay. Fine. But promise you’ll come back, Cami. Promise! Iain’s not the only one who needs you!”
I thought of all of the risks, all of the “unknown unknowns” revolving around this virus. If this week had taught me anything, it was that the future was unpredictable and fortune was fickle as a bitch in heat. Literally anything could happen and probably would.
But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I told her, “We’ll get through this together, just like we talked about this morning. I will come back. I promise.”
Her voice eased. “Okay. That was stupid, I know. But thank you anyway. Thank you. . . .” Becoming determinedly matter-of-face, she added, “Now. You’re going to need a place to stay in New York, right?”
I knew her parents lived in the city, but I had to forestall her from going down that path. I wasn’t going to risk infecting them either. “Yes. Someplace that I can bring Iain, once I’ve found him. What I want is . . .” I thought a moment. “A motel. Something with a separate bedroom; a two-bedroom suite would be best. Where I can drive to the door, away from prying eyes. He may look sick; I don’t want any questions.”
“Got it,” she said. “Any preference on location?”
“I don’t want to have to go far. So, near New Rochelle, but I’d rather not be in it.”
“Okay. Price range?”
“I don’t need fancy, but I don’t want skeevy. Whatever that costs, I’ll pay.”
“Okay: Bag, rental car, motel. Anything else?” Her voice sounded strong again.
“I can’t think of anything.” Then I said, softly, “I’m sorry, Nicole. Thank you, for all of this. But also, for understanding.”
I drove on, risking one more call. I used the speech function on the phone to say, “Call Hutchinson Investments, Boston.”
The automated voice responded, in its usual inhuman cadence, “Do you want to call Hutchinson Investments, Inc.?”
“Yes,” I commanded. When a receptionist answered, I said, “Good afternoon, this is Camryn Savin,” effortlessly adopting the slightly different version of my first name that Nicole had proposed hours before. “May I speak with Henry Hutchinson please?”
“Is he expecting your call?” she inquired.
“No; I’m his fiancée’s sister. Something’s come up and I need to alert him. If he isn’t available, please ask him to call as soon as possible.”
“He’s in a meeting right now. Do you need me to interrupt him?”
I thought about that. There really wasn’t anything Henry could do this instant. “So long as he gets the message in the next hour, hour and a half, that should be fine.”
“I’m sure his meeting will be over by then, Ms. Savin. I’ll let him know.”
I thanked her and ended the call.
The rest of the calls could wait until I could do them legally. I drove on.
Maggie and Nicole were waiting in the front room when I arrived. Maggie jumped up and ran to give me a hug; Nicole followed more slowly.
“It’s okay, Maggie,” I said, soothingly. Looking at Nicole over Maggie’s shoulder, I said, “I’ll be back.”
“You’d better be,” Maggie responded, “or I’ll kill you.”
“Your bags are packed and I’ve sent you an email with your hotel information. I reserved a car from National at BWI for a week; I know you do the Emerald Aisle. Soon as you’re ready, we’ll drive you there.” Nicole had come through – not that I’d had any doubt.
“I forgot to ask you to pack my laptop; I’ll go grab it.”
Nicole pointed to where three bags were standing. “We thought of that; it’s in the blue bag, along with your pad, your portable printer, and your power cords.”
Maggie pulled away. “The last bag has cleaning supplies and whatever cold and flu remedies we had in the house, along with some Gatorade.”
I wanted to stay; I needed to go.
“Go use the restroom,” Nicole said. “We’ll load the car.”
I popped upstairs, did my business, and was down in minutes. They were just closing the trunk.
Maggie hopped in the driver’s seat and pointed Nicole and me to the back. “I’m the chauffeur tonight.”
Nicole slid in and put an arm around me. As we got underway, she said, “You’ve been Superwoman for Maggie and me since we got our bad news yesterday. And now you’ve got to go be Superwoman again. We understand. I understand. But you’ve got fifteen minutes, right now, to just be Cami. Rest your mind. Let go. We’ve got you.”
Nicole accomplished the impossible and broke my brain’s emotionless hyperfocus, its relentless analysis of the things I needed to be doing. I closed my eyes and leaned my head on her shoulder. She stroked my hair gently.
Suddenly released from my mind’s rigid and frozen grip, I found myself weeping. “I’m so scared,” I confessed through my tears. “I don’t know where he is. New York is huge. And I’m not sure what to do when – if – I find him. If I screw it up, he could die. And . . . and . . . God, this thing just terrifies me!” I was sobbing.
She gently lowered my head to rest on her breast and continued to stroke my hair and back. “I know, Sweetie. I know. You’ll be strong and smart and competent when you need to be. I know you will be.” She cradled my head and held me in her arms.
I poured out my anxieties, my fears, my terrors . . . a torrent of tears.
We drove.
From the driver’s seat, Maggie quietly said, “We love you, Cami. We’re here if you need us. If you need anything.” She paused, then said, with evident reluctance, “Five minutes, Honey. Time to get your cape back on.”
Nicole gave me a final, fierce hug, pressing my head against her bosom, then let me go.
I straightened up, gave a sniffle, and smiled when she handed me some tissues. I dried my eyes and my cheeks. “How much of a wreck am I?”
Nicole gave my face a critical look. “Not as bad as it might have been. Lucky you just had a light day look going. When we stop, I’ll do emergency repairs.”
I took a few deep, steadying breaths. It had worked before. I closed my eyes. Breathed.
Breath in hope. Breathe out fear.
Breath in strength. Breathe out weakness.
Breath in life. Breathe out death.
Breathe. Just breathe.
I reopened my eyes, feeling a restored sense of calm. My emotions were subsiding, but my mind had not yet resumed its relentless march through the decision tree filled with possibilities and choices. Poised between past and future, holding only this moment, I looked into Nicole’s soft brown eyes.
She returned my look, equally calm. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I replied softly. “I may have ruined your blouse.”
“I’ll live. . . . I like your haircut. Very pretty.”
I raised my hand and lightly brushed her cheek with my finger tips, committing every line of her perfect face to memory.
Maggie said, “Here we are,” and parked.
Maggie got the bags out of the trunk while Nicole fixed my face, then we got out, each of us took a bag, and we went to the Emerald Aisle to select a car. I’d liked the Rav4 I’d rented back in January and it had versatility that might come in handy, so we popped the hatch on one and stored the bags. I fished out my pad and charger cords and put them in the passenger’s seat.
Maggie and Nicole each gave me both a hug and a kiss. They told me to be safe.
“Take care of each other!” I ordered.
Interstate 95, shortly after
After Nicole and Maggie left, I turned on the car and did the steps required to sync my phone. My brain whirred back to life and started functioning smoothly, but I still felt human. Bless my roommates for that!
I lined up the calls I wanted to make, ensured that I had the phone numbers I needed, and got underway. It was about 3:45, I hoped to be in the city by 7:00 – 7:30 at the latest. I wanted to leave the line clear for Henry, so I held off making other calls.
Henry’s call came while I was crossing the Delaware Memorial Bridge. His voice was warm, but he went straight to business. “What’s up, Cami?”
“Henry, Iain left a note for his roommate saying he has COVID and he needed to get out because he didn’t want to infect him. He’s not answering his phone, and hasn’t gone to a local hospital. I’m driving up right now to do what can be done and I should be there in about three hours.”
“Ooof,” he said. “That got ugly fast. What’s your plan, and how can we help?”
Thank goodness; Henry understands that someone has to go, and that I’m the logical candidate. Fiona may be less rational on the subject.
“I’ve got to find him first,” I answered. “But assuming I do, I’ll get him to a hospital if he needs one, or to a motel if he doesn’t. My roommate already reserved a place for me. When I find him, I’ll need some guidance from Fi on what I should look for to decide whether I need to take him to the ER. But, like I say, I haven’t even gotten to New York. I don’t need that info right away.”
“Got it,” he said. “What’s your plan for finding him?”
“I’ll make a few calls; try to get some ideas from some other friends of his. It’s not the best, but I can’t think of anything else. I’d report a missing person, but he hasn’t broken any law and we don’t suspect foul play. He just doesn’t want to be found, so the police won’t care. If you can think of better ideas, I’ll try them.”
“Nothing’s coming to me, but I haven’t even met him.” He paused for a moment, then added, “I’m assuming you called me because you want me to decide when it makes sense to tell Fi.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “I could have texted her, but I don’t think there’s much she can do until I find Iain. I don’t want to distract her for no purpose.”
“Understood,” Henry said.
He knows his woman, I thought.
But after only the briefest pause, he said, “I’m going to bring her into the loop now anyway, Cami. She might have some notion of where Iain might be, and I suppose there’s also a remote possibility that he might take her call even if he didn’t take yours. You may get your ears pinned back, though. Just be prepared.”
“Roger,” I said.
“Send me your hotel info, and call if you hear anything. I’ll be in touch.” We rang off.
My next call was to Eileen. She picked up after two rings. “Hello?”
“Hi Eileen, It’s Cam Savin. Cami. I’m sorry to bother you at home, but something came up in a hurry. Do you have a couple minutes?"
“Hold on a moment.”
I heard the sound of muffled voices, footsteps, and a door closing. “Yes, I’ve got a couple minutes. What’s up?”
I filled her in, then I said, “So, I don’t know how long this will take. But even if I find him tonight and have to take him straight to the hospital, I’ll need to quarantine until I’m safe. That’ll be two weeks, minimum. I’ve got my laptop with me, and I could do some work, at least, while I’m bottled up. But I don’t actually have any assignments right now. And, I don’t know whether or how this should impact the timing of my gender change announcement.”
“Listen, you focus on what you need to do to get your brother safe,” Eileen said. “I’ll talk to the management committee on Tuesday like we discussed, but I’ll otherwise keep the news on your gender change under wraps. I’ll also let them know why you’ve had to go to New York. We’re going to be dealing with a lot more of these COVID-related disruptions, I think. We’ll need to think about best practices.”
I said, somewhat diffidently, “Would it make sense to send out a firm-wide email, telling people to work from home if they have any COVID symptoms, or have been in contact with someone who has the virus?”
“It might. We’ve generally disfavored working from home. During normal office hours, anyway. And we have a ‘power through it’ office culture about coming in when you feel a bit under the weather.” She added, ruefully, “I might have had something to do with that attitude, being honest about it. But it could bite us in the ass right now.”
Turning back to my own situation, she said, “I’m sure we can find you some discrete projects to work on, if you’re in a quarantine situation. Just keep me posted on your progress in finding Iain.”
“Will do,” I said. Thinking just how important my income had suddenly become to my whole household, I added, “Thanks, Eileen. That’s a real weight off my mind.”
She said, “Good. Then I’m doing my job.” Sounding suddenly less formal, she said, “Be careful, Cami. Stay safe.”
“I’ll do that,” I promised, and we signed off.
I thought, I’m making a lot of promises that may be very hard to keep.
My next call was to the restaurant where Iain worked. He might not thank me for that – but he would have to live to get pissed off about it, and making sure that he did live was the bigger priority right now.
The person who answered the phone said, “Sorry; he’s not here. Hang on, though, let me get my manager.”
That told me a lot right there. When the manager came on, he confirmed it. “This is Mike Parker. Ang said you were calling about Iain. You're his sister?”
When I said yes, he said, “Listen, he called out sick yesterday. Told me he was afraid he might have COVID, so he thought he’d better stay away. Have you talked to him?”
“No, and he’s not answering his phone. His roommate doesn’t know where he’s gone. Do you have any idea?”
“I don’t — and I can see why you’re worried. It’d be just like him to crawl into a hole somewhere and try to deal with this on his own. Shit.”
“Do you know if he got tested? They were going to set up a testing station in New Rochelle, weren’t they?”
“He didn’t say anything about it. And . . . well . . . he doesn’t trust authorities much.”
That, I thought, was like saying cats aren’t inclined to trust dogs. Accurate, but insufficient to capture the virulence of the emotion. “Can you try getting in touch with him? You’re his friend and his boss, maybe he’d be more likely to answer.”
“Of course. But, what do you want me to tell him?”
“Tell him I’m on the way, that I’m here to help, and I’m not leaving until I find him. Have him call this number.”
“Okay, I’ll try. And, I’ll keep thinking about where he might be hiding out. I’ll call you if I’ve got anything.”
“Thank you!” I said, grateful to have someone who might be able to help. But I felt compelled to ask, “Mr. Parker . . . when was Iain’s last shift?”
He said, “I know where you’re going with this. It was Wednesday; he got off at 4:00. But he wasn’t showing any symptoms. He was fine.”
“There have been cases of people being contagious before they show any symptoms. You might want to check with doctors. Get your people tested.”
“Yeah,” he said, sounding heartsick. “Yeah, I know. But, if they shut us down, what’ll we all do?”
“I don’t know,” I said, aching. “Sure as hell wish I did.”
“Well . . . thanks for calling,” he said. “I’ll be in touch if I’ve got anything. Will you let me know if you find him?”
I assured him that I would. Another promise.
Next I called Ian’s prior roommates, Aidan and Tina. I got a machine and left a message. Hopefully the $5,000 check they had gotten from me as restitution for Iain’s drug-induced temper tantrum would at least earn me a return call.
I drove for a while in silence, thinking about my next steps. I was passing by the Joyce Kilmer rest stop when a call came in.
Fiona.
I was relieved, but also almost afraid to answer. She was probably not going to be happy about what I was doing, and Fi could be . . . percussive when angry. Kinetic, even.
I steeled myself and accepted the call. “Hey, Fi,” I said. “Don’t be too hard on me, okay?”
But it turned out I was unduly worried. Or at least, worried about the wrong things. The person on the other end of the line was my sister, but she was also Fiona Campbell Savin, M.D., and on the battlefield I was about to enter, she was a brigadier.
“Listen, Cami, I’ve only got a couple minutes so I have to make this short and I’m not going to argue with you. I don’t have any better ideas on how to find Iain. Before you go looking, I want you, at a minimum, to get a mask and disposable gloves. Use them. Don’t touch your face when you have them on. When you find Iain, get him masked too. Good so far?”
“Good,” I replied, matching her crispness. “Go.”
“Okay, next. If you can get him tested, great. But the results will take three days anyway. Assume he’s got COVID if he’s showing any symptoms that you might normally associate with a flu or a cold, and act accordingly. Understand, he may have a flu or a cold. But you have to assume the worst. With me?”
“Assume the worst, right.”
“Okay, next. There’s not much we can do in a hospital for people who have mild or moderate symptoms, and right now I’d avoid hospitals unless you have to go. We’re ground zero for every virus known to man, and COVID’s no exception. So, if you’ve got a place to park Iain and keep him isolated, that’s great.
“He’ll need to go to the hospital if you can’t keep his fever down below 103. If it gets to 103 and you can’t get it down, bring him in. If he becomes incoherent, bring him in. If he gets the shakes and you can’t get them under control, bring him in. Severe chest pains, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, same. If he starts having trouble breathing, it’s time for 911, and don’t hesitate for a second. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Repeat it to me.”
“Keep him isolated. Bring him to the hospital if he has severe chest pains, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, uncontrollable shakes, becomes incoherent or spikes 103 and we can’t get it back down. Call 911 if he’s having trouble breathing.”
“Good. Next. Treat fever with alternating Tylenol and Advil. Use cough and cold medicine on the secondary symptoms. Make sure he gets lots of fluids. And eats. Best keep it bland, but he needs to eat. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Okay, next. Keep him isolated from you. When you go in to check on him, or give him medicine or food, make sure you’re both masked. Wear gloves. I’d feel better if you got a poncho that you only wore when you saw him; it’s crap for PPE, but it’s probably better than nothing. Limit your exposure to as few minutes at a time as possible.
“When you’re out, remove your protective gear and scrub thoroughly. Rinse your hands, lather up and sing yourself the ABC song while you rub your hands together. Use hot water to rinse off. Clear?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
She paused, then said, more softly, “It should be me, Cami. I should be there. And I hate myself that I can’t be. But I can’t leave. God help me, I can’t. I’ve got a hospital filling up with scared people, and I’ve got a job to do. Please, please be safe? And take care of that idiot brother of ours?”
“Fi, you are where you need to be. Don’t blame yourself.” Echoing Tina, I said, “I’ve got this. Now go!”
But I could sense that she was still on the line, saying nothing. Not hanging up. “I’ll find him, Fi. And I’ll be careful.” Deep breath. “I promise.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ve gotta go. Love you, sis.”
“Love you too, Fi.” I said, and ended the call.
That had been a lot to digest, but her recommendations had pretty much tracked what I expected. It was very useful to have the punch list of symptoms that would trigger escalatory action, though. I should be in pretty good shape, all things considered. I didn’t have any disposable gloves, or a poncho, but otherwise I had what I needed.
It was full dark and I was on the approach to the GW Bridge when I got a return call from Iain’s boss.
“Hello?” I answered.
"It’s Mike – Mike Parker. I just heard from Iain; he called me back.”
“Thank God!”
“Well, not so fast,” he replied. “He told me to tell you to go home, that he wasn’t going to infect anyone, and if you thought you were going to guilt him into letting you get him, you were forgetting Penrose Park. I don’t know what he meant by that.”
I didn’t either, but I hadn’t given my name and Iain must figure Mike had been talking to Fiona. She would probably get the reference, but it didn’t matter.
“Anyhow,” he continued, “the important thing is, I heard church bells in the background while we were talking. I’d know them anywhere, ’cause I grew up three blocks from Trinity Episcopal. He’s still in New Rochelle, and he’s got to be pretty close to there. I’m going to go drive around and see whether I can spot anything. How far out are you?”
I checked the display. “Twenty-five minutes, give or take. I’ll drive to the church and call if I haven’t heard from you before then.”
“Got it,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”
New Rochelle, New York, half an hour later
I parked. The massive stone tower of Trinity-St. Paul’s loomed overhead as I stepped out of the car. I went to the trunk, opened the bag that Nicole and Maggie had indicated would contain medicines and cleaning supplies, and found the package of masks. I pulled out a couple and put them in my purse. Then I locked up and called Mike Parker.
“Hey – it’s Fiona, right?” he answered.
I said, “Hi Mr. Parker. I’m here.” No sense wasting time on the misidentification. “Any luck?”
“Nothing so far,” he said. “I was just checking over in Ruby Dee Park.” Through the speaker I could hear the sounds of him walking.
“Where should I check next?” I asked.
“I was going to look at the underpass for the ’95.”
“I’ll check that,” I said. I had just come off the highway and it was close. “I’ll call you.”
“Likewise,” he said.
I went back to the car, got in and drove back the way I came. There was nothing under the piers of the highway, so I just started to turn around.
“Oh, fuck me!” I whispered, and found a place to pull over.
I knew how to find Iain. I’d been carrying it with me all along, like Dorothy and her stupid ruby slippers. I pulled out my phone and opened up the “Find my” app. I had linked Iain’s phone to the app when I got him out of jail at the end of December, and I hadn’t remembered to disable the link.
Iain had a lot of talents, but he was no tech geek. No way he thought to do it.
He hadn’t. Looked like Mike Parker had the right idea, but the wrong park. Iain was down by the water, at a place the map identified as Hudson Park. It was just over a mile away; I was there in three minutes. I parked the car by the marina and, following the GPS, walked briskly into the park.
It was dark and cool, and the bare trees looked skeletal in the light of the three-quarter moon. I walked deeper into the park, deeper into the shadows. There was some sort of building ahead – a greenhouse, maybe – and more trees to the left of it. Near as I could tell, he was in that area. Somewhere. Probably toward the trees.
Moving more slowly now, I began to walk that way.
My GPS had done what it could; I had to be close. I thought a minute, then called his number rather than his name. A light appeared in the trees ahead, and I heard a muffled curse followed by a cough. I walked that way, keeping to the shadows and moving as quietly as I could, thankful for my sneakers.
I was close enough. I stood in the long shadow of a dark, old tree. In my normal female voice, I said, “Iain.”
I heard his voice and saw him move.
“Shit!!!!” he exclaimed, lurching to his feet, coughing, looking at me from a distance of no more than twenty yards. “Damn it, Fi, I don’t know how you did that, but stay the fuck away! I’m sick! Go save the world, or something.”
I stepped forward, walking toward him at a normal pace, into a pool of silver moonlight. He looked scared. And angry. When I got to within fifteen feet, I stopped. He continued to glare at me, until suddenly his expression changed completely and he looked like he’d been standing in the middle of a railroad crossing when a train plowed into him.
“Fi is saving the world, jackass,” I said conversationally. “And you’d be the first to agree that the world can spare a lawyer, or five. So stop being stupid, will you?”
Finally he stopped staring. “Jesus H. Christ!”
“Strike two,” I said. “The Bible says He was male. Plus, He wasn’t a lawyer. You’re slipping.”
He chuckled. Chuckled harder. Then, he started to cough, but had the presence of mind to do it into his elbow. When he stopped, he said, “Sonofabitch. You were actually telling me the truth? I will be damned.”
“I wouldn’t bet against it,” I said fondly, “especially if you don’t stop being an idiot.”
He tried to say something but I stopped him. “Iain, listen. I get what you’re trying to do. I admire it, even. But I can help you do the same thing while improving your chances of surviving. I’ve got a motel room just a couple of miles from here; it’s got two bedrooms and I can keep you isolated until you get better. I can keep an eye on you there, make sure you don’t get worse, and get you food and medicine.
“And before you say anything, Fi’s given me instructions on how to keep you from infecting me. So . . . you won’t be hurting anybody, and you’re improving your chances of getting through this. That should take care of any reasonable objections, and anything else is just sheer Savin pigheadedness. Living’s more important, Iain.”
Finally he stopped trying to interrupt me, and actually listened. Might even have been a first. He stood silent for a minute, just looking at me standing in the moonlight, as the light breeze ruffled my dark hair. Then he raised his hands in a hopeless gesture. “They never should have let you learn how to argue. Big mistake. Okay, you’ve got me. This place was kinda creepy anyway.”
I smiled, relieved, then reached into my purse and tossed him a face mask. “Don’t blame me,” I said. “Fi insisted. And I’ve got to wear one, too.” I slipped one band, then the other, over my head and brought the semi-rigid fabric cup over my nose and mouth. “Wow, these things are uncomfortable.”
He was still fussing with the straps. “We wear ’em sometimes on construction projects. It’s better if you pinch the metal part over your nose.”
I discovered I had the metal part under my chin, and had to take it off and put it back on again. “This is going to take some getting used to.”
“Work on that bedside manner of yours, doc,” he chided.
I winced. “I’m sorry, Iain,” I said. “I want you to know, Fi would be here if there was any way, any way in the world, that she could be. But her hospital’s swamped. She can’t leave all of her patients.”
“I know. I was just teasing. You’ll do fine, kid. After all, you weren’t even supposed to find me. How did you manage it?”
I waved him toward the car, angry that I felt it was unsafe to give him a proper hug. I thought of a line from an old movie Gammy Campbell had played for the three of us every Christmas season. “Does Macy’s tell Gimbell’s?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Gammy.”
On the way to the car, I called Mike Parker.
“Fiona?” he asked.
“I’ve got him, Mr. Parker.”
“Oh thank God,” he said.
“I’m going to take him to the motel and look after him. Thank you so much for all of your help!”
“Thank you,” he responded. “Keep him safe, will you? He’s a knucklehead, but we’re fond of him.”
“I’m on it.”
He told me to let him know if I needed anything.
I said I would. It was possible we might need it.
Iain had overheard enough of both ends of the conversation to say, “He thinks you’re Fiona?”
“There wasn't a good time to fill him in on the complicated story of how you acquired another sister, so I just didn’t say anything. Now, let me text Fi. And Henry.” By the time I had done that, we were at the car. “It’s cool out, but let’s keep the windows open. We don’t have far to go.”
Around twenty minutes later, we pulled up to the motel where Nicole had booked us a room, located in nearby Mt. Vernon. I had all the details, so I parked the car by the room and went to get the key.
“Stay here,” I told Iain.
He was feeling the cold, even though I had blasted the car heater. I got out, removed my mask so as not to attract attention, and walked around the building and across the parking lot to reach the office. Nicole, the wonderful Nicole, had even gotten a room that was not in the line of sight of anyone in the office.
A stout man with a shiny head and fringes of white on each side was at the front desk.
“I’m Cameron Savin,” I said, giving the name on my drivers’ license. “I’ve got a room booked for the week?”
He checked the log. “You sure do, Miss Savin. I’ll need an ID and a credit card, and I’ll get you a key.”
“Great,” I said, handing them over. “I have it booked for a week, but could you tell me what the monthly rate would be? We might need to be in town for a while, and if it’s cheaper I’d rather do it that way.”
He gave me the rate, which was significantly cheaper, so I took it for the whole month. I figure I would need to stay for fourteen days after Iain recovered, so it could be a while.
He handed me two keys. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”
I smiled, thanked him, and went back to the car.
I got Iain through the door just as quickly as possible, then checked the place. Nothing fancy, but everything was clean and well-maintained. It had a central living space with a couch, a chair and a TV, a small kitchenette, a table for two, and two bedrooms. One of the bedrooms had an attached bathroom with a shower; the other bathroom served both the common area and the second bedroom.
Iain was tired, filthy, and looked sick and frankly miserable. I said, “Can you manage a shower?”
“I’d kill for one.”
“Okay. Here’s the plan. Get yourself a shower. Dump your clothes; I’ll take care of them later. When you’re out of the shower, get in bed and under the covers. Go commando for now. I’ll ask your roommate to drop off some of your clean stuff later; he’s working now. I’ll get you some Tylenol and some cough medicine. Okay?”
He sketched a salute.
I said, with real regret, “Iain, doc’s orders – the real one, not me. We’ll need to keep this door closed, and we’ll both need to be masked when I’m in there with you.”
“Good by me, Cam. You don’t want this, trust me.”
I turned to leave him to his shower, but before I closed the door to his bedroom I turned back. “Iain? Could you do me a favor?”
“Depends on what, squirt,” he said, smiling.
“Call me Cami.”
He looked startled. “Okay, if that’s what you want. But I won’t be able to use “Spam” as a put-down nickname anymore, and ‘Spammy’ is just gibberish.”
“I can’t begin to tell you how much I’ll miss that,” I said dryly.
He chuckled as I shut the door.
While he showered, I sent a text to Mahmoud, his roommate, letting him know that I had found him and asking whether he could drop off some of Iain’s things. My mind was still going like a piston engine. I needed to get some supplies to comply with Fiona’s mandates, and we were going to need some food. Now and later.
I thought about it and decided in a completely cold-blooded way that I should run out as quickly as possible and hopefully hole up thereafter. I had only just met up with Iain. Maybe I was already infected. But I wouldn’t be contagious yet. I don’t know how long it might take, but I was pretty confident it would be more than a few hours.
I’d better find out what I had with me first, I thought, since I had left all the packing to Nicole and Maggie. But first things first, and start right. I spent a couple minutes thoroughly washing my hands. Then I brought my bags into the other bedroom and unpacked.
On the clothes front, I had jeans, yoga pants, t-shirts, a fleece, a light waterproof jacket that must be Nicole’s and my heavier wool coat. I had my dark red full skirt, a black jacket and cream-colored shell in case I needed to look businesslike. They had thought to pack some exercise clothes. There was also an assortment of footwear and underwear. My flannel nightgown. Also, my light green nightie and dark green dressing gown, with a little note attached (“Maybe not the most practical thing, but you need to stay sane, too!”).
I had cosmetics, hair care products, and toiletries. Some medicines, but not a lot. My pills. Some Gatorade. Lysol and some antibacterial wipes. No gloves. Unsurprisingly, no poncho. Okay. I had a good notion.
I no longer heard the shower running, so I put my mask back on and knocked on his door. “Mask up – coming in.”
“Hang on . . . . okay. Got it.”
I opened the door and found him in bed, covers pulled to his chin. “Any better?”
“The shower was great,” he said. “I'm not as cold, but I’m wiped. Completely.”
I came over and put a glass of water, a couple pills and a couple ounces of cough syrup by his bedside. “It’s 9:00, so the Tylenol should hold you for a bit. Take all that. I’m going to run to Target and get us some supplies. Kindly stay put, would you?”
He looked up at me, his expression hidden by the mask. “I’m done running. I didn’t know how I was going to get through this one. I wasn’t even sure I how I was going to get through another night. Thanks, kid. . . . Cami.”
He could not see my smile, so I just put my fist over my heart, then left him.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 14, immediately following
I was back in the car and headed out; Target was open until 10:00. But I had time, now, for one more call.
Nicole picked up immediately. “Cami! – How are you?”
“I’ve got him, Nicole. And the motel is perfect, and the packing you guys did was perfect, and you're both perfect, too. How’s that?”
“How is he?”
“A mixed bag, I guess. He’s got some chills and a cough, and spending last night on the street – well, in a park – didn’t do wonders for his appearance. But he’s actually in a bit better shape than last time I saw him. The rehab facility got him clean and sober, but they also had him eating properly. He’s a long ways from strong, though. If you saw him, you’d probably guess he was closer to 42 than 32.”
“You sound like you’re on a speaker phone,” she said.
“Just a run for supplies. I want to hole up as much as possible.”
“Makes sense.”
I told her about my conversations with Fi and Eileen, and how I had figured out how to find him.
That made her laugh.
“Nicole, I’ve arrived at Target and I’ve got to go. I miss you both. God, I miss you!”
“We miss you too. Now, cape up, girl! Do your thing!”
I wasn’t a superhero in the store so much as a whirlwind. Big cart. Food – keep it simple; make sure it lasts. More fluids. Tea. Honey. Lemons. The room had a Keurig – ghastly, but even medicinal quality coffee beat tea. So, K-Cups. More cold and flu medicine. More Advil. Digital thermometer and caps. Batteries.
On the chance that Mahmoud couldn’t help or that Iain had very little, a fresh toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo. A harsh but powerful soap. Disposable rubber gloves. I thought a bit more and tossed in an electric razor. Pricey, but no one who is shaky likes the other kinds. Paper towels. Strangely, the store appeared to be out of toilet paper, but we had enough for now.
Then I went into the men’s section and found a couple pairs of pajamas, a flannel bathrobe in the wrong tartan (Neither Ross nor Campbell, much less Cameron, were generally available, so the Black Watch would just have to do). Slippers. A packet of underwear and a couple clean T-Shirts. A packet of fresh socks. A pair of cargo pants; his jeans had been 36-34 (I had checked), but they’d been baggy. So, 34-34. I found a rain slicker that would have to serve as my “PPE.”
I was about to call it quits, but I had a dark inspiration. I dashed over to the infants’ section and found a relatively cheap baby monitor. Iain wouldn’t like it, but it would allow me to keep tabs on his condition without being in the same room.
I went to the self-checkout, since anyone with half a brain could figure out from the totality of my purchases what had brought me out, and I didn’t want to raise an alarm. I was out the door and on the road by 9:45, and back in the room by 10:00.
I brought everything inside, put away the groceries, donned my mask and checked in on Iain. He was out like a light. As quietly as possible, I laid out the PJ’s, bathrobe and slippers in the chair, put the thermometer on top of the dresser, dropped off the toiletries and razor in the bathroom, and plugged the monitor in by his bed.
Then I left, closed the door, and washed up. I would take care of the rest of the unpacking when Iain was awake.
I was finally done with my tasks for the day. Had it really been this morning that I had made a quiche for my housemates and talked strategy for how we were all going to thrive during the present unpleasantness? Had I really spent an hour at a salon having my hair cut, just this afternoon? It felt like a lifetime ago.
It was, too.
I went into the bathroom not attached to Iain’s room, laid out my toiletries, removed my makeup and moisturized. I changed – somewhat defiantly – into my light green nightie, and took my estrogen pill. Then, finally, I was able to sleep.
I woke in the middle of the night to muffled sounds coming from the monitor by my bed. So I put on my dressing gown, cinched it up, and crossed to Iain’s room, pausing to snag my mask before tapping on his door and entering.
He was tossing and twitching, muttering in his sleep. I checked the time: 12:30. The Tylenol would last another two and a half hours, in theory, but it looked like he needed the Advil dose.
I grabbed his glass, went back to the common room, poured him some water and got the pills. Then I stopped, muttered at myself, washed my hands thoroughly and put on both my rain slicker and a pair of thin, disposable rubber gloves before returning to his room. I turned on the light by his bed, reached out and grasped his restless arm. Even through the gloves, his skin felt warm.
“Iain.” I gave him a shake. “You need to wake up.”
His eyes popped open, looking a bit wild. “Fi?” he asked groggily.
“No, it’s Cami. I’ve got to take your temp and you’ve got to take some Advil.”
He focused. “Oh . . . ah. Yeah. Okay.”
“Can you prop yourself up for a minute?”
“Yeah, hang on.”
He got the pillows behind him and pushed up a bit. I handed him the pills, then the water. When he was done, I checked his temperature. 100.5. Not great, definitely a fever. But well below the danger zone.
”How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Still tired. Cold.”
“Okay. I got you some warm pajamas. Get those on and I’ll get you another blanket."
“Okay. Great. Thanks.” He sounded a bit out of it.
I went and got the blanket off of my bed and brought it into his room. He had the pajama bottoms on and was struggling a bit with the buttons on the top, mostly because his hands weren’t completely steady and he was coughing.
“Stick your elbow over your lower face for a sec,” I ordered.
He did, and I quickly did up his buttons. I made him take another shot of cough syrup, got him back into bed, and dropped the second blanket over him. He was asleep again before I even got out of the room, though he was still coughing some.
I went out, removed my slicker, mask and gloves, washed my hands, and went back into my room. Pulling a small pad from the bag that protects my laptop, I made notes of the times I had given him medicine, his temperature, and his condition. Then I looked at my stripped bed, sighed, and changed into my flannel nightie. I added socks to keep my feet warm, and got under the too-thin sheets. It was 1:20.
I was up and in his room again at 3:30 (coughing; fever 100.7) and 6:00 (coughing; fever 100.6). At that point I gave up, took a shower, and got dressed. It warmed me up. The chair in the common area was cozy and I thought I might doze for a bit, but my phone rang back in my bedroom. Fi had responded to my text last night and had indicated she would call first thing, before she went into work.
So as not to wake Ian, I went back into my room, closed the door and flicked accept. “Good morning, Fi.”
“Good morning, Wonder Woman! Good work last night! I’ve got fifteen minutes, so tell me first, how’s he doing? Be as detailed and specific as you can be.”
I gave my summary, checking my notes for specific readings.
When I was done, she said, “Okay, I think you’ve got the situation under control. Keeping notes is a good idea. I don’t see any reason to bring him in at this point. Only thing I’d say is to keep a closer eye on hydration.”
She paused, apparently checked her watch, and said, “I’ve got six minutes. What else can you tell me? How are you, how is the place you’re staying, and do you need anything?”
I did what I could to answer, but we ran out of time and she had to go.
I went back to the common area, sat in the semi-comfortable chair and tried to catch up on the news, but found myself dozing off.
Iain was awake again by 8:30. He took some medicine, I took his temp (100.9) and he went in to get another shower. While he was in the bathroom I put the clothes I had bought him in the room, made up the bed, then went back to the common room, closing the door behind me. I made a couple cups of coffee and brought one into Iain's room.
The shower stopped and a few minutes later I could hear him using the electric razor. Good. And also coughing, which sounded deeper. Less good. Later, I heard him moving about the room, then I heard a knock from the inside of his door.
“Mask up, Cam . . . Cami.”
“Okay, hang on.” I got the thing on properly and retreated to the kitchenette. “All clear.”
He came out as I was putting on my rain slicker, moved to the other side of the small table in the eating area and sat down. “You look pretty silly in that.”
“Ah well. I used to be ignorant of fashion too, when I was merely a guy!”
The banter had its desired effect. He took a pull from his coffee. “You’re convincing as hell, you know. And I never had a clue. Not one. Did you always feel this way?”
I was getting a bit tired of explaining it, but Iain wasn’t unsympathetic. And, unusually for him, there was no underlying effort to vie for superiority, to put me down. So, I told him more or less what I had told Eileen a few days – years, it seemed – before. He sat and listened, coughing occasionally but not saying anything.
When I finished and before he could say anything, I said, “Fiona’s orders, you need to eat, and you need a Gatorade. So, eggs and toast or oatmeal?”
“Doesn’t matter. Wait. Not toast; I don’t want anything scratchy on my throat. Hurts enough as it is.”
As I was making him some oatmeal, he said, “I’m trying to picture the old man’s face. Does he know?”
“I haven’t said anything. Fi hasn’t. So unless Gammy told them, no. But she said she wouldn’t.”
His eyes got big. “You told Gammy?”
“I went and visited her at the place in Morgantown. Back in January.”
“Holy shit. What did she think?”
I handed him the bowl and retreated back to the far side of the room. “On the whole, I can’t say she was impressed. Thought I was being self-indulgent. But she made it clear that she wasn’t going to stop loving her kin just because she didn’t approve of their life choices.”
He said, with more force than he should have (since it triggered his coughing), “Being trans isn’t a ‘choice!’”
I wondered how many trans people he had known; he had hinted that there were more than one when I talked to him in January. For whatever reason, he appeared to hold them in high regard. But I decided not to pry.
“I know, but convincing her of that . . . she’s like a ninety-year old Scottish oak. She’ll fall someday, but she will, by God, never bend.”
He nodded, scooped up the last of his cereal, and washed it down with coffee.
“Thanks, Cami. I’m going to retreat back to my lair; I’m already tired again. This COVID really sucks. I can’t even taste anything.”
“Okay, but take the Gatorade with you and drink it down, okay?”
He got ponderously to his feet, waved a hand in acknowledgement, and went back into his room, closing the door behind him.
I added to my log entries: Raging sore throat; impaired sense of taste.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 16
Another bad night, another morning. Iain had spent almost all of Sunday in his room, mostly lying down. The fever had stayed below 101 but crept up overnight. The cough was still bad; I couldn’t say it was worse.
He reported that his throat was still sore, he couldn’t taste or smell anything, and his joints ached.
I reported all this to Fiona first thing in the morning; she counseled patience and said I was doing fine.
Mahmoud had dropped off some of Iain’s things, but it was a very small bag. I just had him leave it outside.
He was very happy with that arrangement.
I was already tired, and this was only day two. But Iain was back in his room and I had some calls to make.
First I called Eileen and told her my news, concluding with, “So, I don’t know how long I’ll need to be here, but it’s two weeks after he recuperates, and he hasn’t gotten better yet.”
“Understood. I’ll talk to the Management Committee tomorrow, but we’ll work something out. How are you getting by?”
“It’s actually been pretty exhausting. He’s not sleeping well, so I’m not sleeping well. But I’m managing.”
I called Maggie (it was too early to call Nicole!) and filled her in.
She told me that the other two operas she was scheduled to be in this season had also been canceled, which wasn’t a surprise, and that Dottoressa Trelli had suspended vocal lessons. She and Nicole were on the fence about doing the same thing, to protect their students, but two of their students had canceled already.
I called Dr. Chun’s office to alert them – belatedly – to the fact that I had started the estrogen therapy.
Iain started coughing again, and was having trouble getting it controlled. I went in to help.
Another bad night, another morning. After Iain had his morning shower, he just got back into his pajamas and went straight back to bed. He was still coherent, but he was more monosyllabic. I forced him to eat, take medicine. Drink Gatorade. His fever had passed 102 overnight, but it was back down to 101.6 in the morning.
I gave Fiona the morning report. She stayed calm, but sounded more and more like Dr. Savin. Not a good sign.
I got a call from Al and Javi, wanting to know if I was okay. I filled them in. They were excited to tell me that Tina had actually gone out and applied for three jobs.
“I really think she’s making progress!” Javi said.
I thought to myself, honey may catch more flies than vinegar, but sometimes nothing works better than a hard whack with a fly swatter.
I called Nicole, who was determinedly cheerful and upbeat. Dear woman. But she had another student cancel.
“What’s the state of the cookie jar?” I asked.
“We’re okay for this month, Cami. Don’t worry about it.”
But I had just gotten paid, so I got her to agree that I could make a contribution. She told me that she and Maggie had been researching the podcast idea and were getting excited about it.
I thought, I want to go home!
After my call to Nicole, I sat quietly and thought for a few minutes. I had promised Nicole and Maggie that we would get through this, and we should be able to. But I could only contribute emotionally if I was there, and I could only contribute financially if I was employed. What if I lose my job? What if . . . I faced my fear . . . I get COVID, and I’m not one of the survivors? What would come of my promise then?
After a few minutes of brooding about it, I fired up my laptop and went to the website for my bar association. They had a deal with The Hartford for life insurance without underwriting. A simple questionnaire. One that I could fill out honestly — this morning, at least, if not necessarily tomorrow.
I had never bothered with it before. What was the point? But now there were people who needed me. I filled out the form and made the premium payment. Just the fact that the insurance company hadn’t suspended taking new customers made me feel better.
The day was more of the same. Iain needed medicine and liquids every two-to-three hours, and I was able to get him to eat simple foods. I was going to need to do something about laundry in the next day or two.
Eileen called around 4:00. The Management Committee was on board with the idea of a general memo announcing my gender change, to go out a few days before I came back. Eileen would send me a draft in advance, though there was clearly no present rush. The Committee also approved paid sick/sick family leave through the end of the month, as well as remote work during my quarantine period.
She told me they were very supportive. “They had no issues at all about your being trans. Really, the bigger concern is the leave issue. If this virus continues to spread we could find ourselves hemorrhaging money through payroll while our billables collapse. We’ve got three more employees who are in similar circumstances already; two in the New York office and one in Brussels.”
Well, I thought, I’m covered for now. The future will just have to do what it’s going to do.
Later that evening, I saw an “all hands” email from work, telling employees to stay home if they had symptoms or were in close contact with someone who had COVID, and to report in if this was the case. For now, leaves of absence and requests to work remotely would be approved on a case-by-case basis by the Managing Partner for Personnel, Evan Barksdale. Employees were reminded to be careful about hand-washing and general hygiene.
The memo went out under the joint signatures of Barksdale and of Raphael Oliveira, the chairman of the Management Committee. The biggest of the big guns.
Iain was coughing, sounding weak. I went to help him.
Another day, another bad night. Iain was no better, but his temperature was still in the range of 101.5 - 102.3. The cough was the same; maybe a bit more frequent. And for longer intervals. He was staying in bed. Had chills, then sometimes felt very hot. On the whole, he seemed to be holding steady. But I was getting pretty run-down.
I kicked myself. Stop whining. Nurses do this every day. Doctors do this every day. Fi does it. Get over yourself.
Fi had sounded even more doctor-like when I gave her this morning’s report. “I’m going to prescribe something to help him sleep.”
My mind was feeling a bit wooly. “Can you write prescriptions in New York?”
“I can write them in Massachusetts. Rob has to go down to the city today to meet with some pharma bigwigs. He’s going to stop by your motel this evening and drop off the prescription. If there are any other supplies you need, text the list to Henry.”
I’d met Henry’s brother Robert at Christmas under less-than-ideal circumstances, but he’d been very helpful and I was appreciative of his help. Of any help, for that matter. “Fi, you’ve always been my hero, but I had no idea. How do you do this every day?”
She laughed softly. “Same way you get to Carnegie Hall. Now, hang in there, kiddo.”
Mount Vernon, New York, March 18, later that day
The day was more of the same. I thought about supplies and sent a list off to Henry to forward to Robert. I monitored Iain, got my protective gear on, got him medicine, got my gear off, scrubbed up. The same routine for food.
I did it all again. In between, I read work emails and tried to follow the news, cleaned every surface in my room, my bathroom, and the common area. My delicates got hand-washed in the bathroom sink and hung them to dry in my shower.
It was almost 6:00 when Robert gave a diffident knock on the door. Anyone who was familiar with the Hutchinsons of Boston would know in a single glance that he was part of the tribe. He had short, straight, jet-black hair, a stockier build than his father or brother, and a younger, beardless version of his father’s ascetic face.
When I had seen him last, he had been a bit at sea, having to deal with drafting an affidavit attesting to actions taken by his cousin Jonathan. He had been tense and uncertain, most unlike the confident king of the prior night’s dance floor.
But while Robert, like Henry, had been keeping long hours as they helped steer Hutchinson Investments through one of the crazier markets in fifty years, he looked rested, poised, and mercifully competent. When he saw me, whatever he had intended to say died on his lips.
“Robert!” I said, hoping to help him out. “Thank you for coming.”
He shook his head, as if clearing cobwebs. “Cami, I’ve got the stuff on your list in the car, but it’ll wait. I’ve got something hot for dinner and you’re going to sit down and eat it, right now, before we do anything else. You look great, by the way, except for the tire tracks across your body from where the truck ran you over.”
This wasn’t the Robert I had dealt with at all, and I was sufficiently bemused that I did what he had asked me to do. I sat.
He came in, bringing a take-out bag and a wine bottle with him. He set it on the table, then went to the kitchenette and grabbed three plates.
I said, “Just you and me. Iain had some soup and is sleeping.”
He nodded, put one plate back and grabbed two glasses. Then he served chicken pad thai. It was piping hot, spicy, and tasted like heaven on earth. He poured two small glasses of wine and silently clinked glasses with me.
“How did your meetings go?” I asked, trying to make conversation.
“Very productive. Now eat, for the love of God. We’ll talk when you’re done.”
I did. We finished it, and I easily had more than half.
I swallowed the last of my wine. “Thank you. I think you’ve saved my life, and I didn’t even know I was dying. Now, let me get the rest of the stuff and get you on your way. As far as I know, I’m perfectly healthy. But I know I could have COVID, and that I wouldn’t need to have symptoms to be contagious.”
He shook his head. “No. That was my plan, but I’m changing it.”
I started to protest but he held up a hand and said, urgently, “Listen to me. You’re run down, you haven’t been eating well and you’ve been sleeping worse. That’s the best recipe on earth for getting sick, which will make you far more susceptible to the virus. And if you’re sick, you’ll be no good to Iain anyway. So you are going to go, right now, and get some sleep. I’ll cover through midnight, and I’ll wake you up before I go, okay?”
“Robert. I don’t want to infect you.”
“I’m just as likely to be infected as you are. We’ll be careful with Iain.”
I tried a different argument. “You aren’t driving to Boston at midnight."
He smiled. “No; I’ve got the room next door through Sunday. I’d spell you through the morning, but I’ve got two more days of meetings and I’ll need to be rested myself. Now, walk me through the drill, then Go. To. Sleep. Or, I’ll rat you out to Fiona.”
I wanted to fight, but I knew it would be futile. Robert was right; I did need some uninterrupted sleep, or I wouldn’t be functional. So I conceded with as much grace as I could.
He got the supplies from his car, including – praise be – an extra blanket – then I ran him through the protocol, gave him my log notes and the monitor, and showed him where I was keeping the medicines, gloves, and masks.
He pulled a mask from his back pocket. “That part, at least, I’ve got covered.”
I was glad, since I was on my third mask and only had two more. I went into the bathroom, removed my makeup, washed, and moisturized my face, brushed my teeth and retreated into my bedroom.
Before I closed the door, I looked back and saw that Robert was sitting on the couch with a laptop open, reviewing something with a look of intense concentration. I decided not to disturb him.
It felt like Robert woke me minutes after I had gone to sleep. I opened my eyes to find him perched on my bed, lightly pressing my upper arm. His face was shadowed; the room only illuminated by moonlight.
“I’m sorry, Cami,” he said with real regret. “I’ve got to go catch some sleep. It’s 12:15; Iain had Tylenol at 11:00 and is currently sleeping. His 11:00 temp was 102.1. Intermittent coughing. It’s all written in your log. The monitor is on your bedside again.”
I smiled and lightly touched his arm. “Thank you, Robert. Thank you! Go get some sleep.”
He stood, looked down at me for a moment and smiled. “Okay. I’ll check in on you in the morning. And Cami?”
“Yes?”
“It’s just Rob with friends. Okay?”
“I’ll remember that.”
He left, and I drifted back to sleep.
When he stopped by at 8:00 the next morning, I had already been up twice, given Fiona my morning report, showered and gotten dressed. I had taken advantage of both the blanket and the chance for uninterrupted sleep to wear my nice green nightie rather than flannel the prior night, and perversely felt better for it.
Robert – Rob – asked how the rest of the night had gone and I filled him in. I thanked him again and said, truthfully, that I felt a million times better.
He smiled. “Yeah, the tire tracks are mostly gone, I think!” He told me to pull together the laundry and he would drop it off on his way to his meetings and pick it up on the way back.
I put on my gear and went to see Iain. He was awake, but still doing no better.
“Who’s out there?” he asked. “Is it the guy who was here last night?”
“Yes; that’s Fiona’s fiancé’s brother. He spelled me so I could get some sleep.”
“Oh,” he said, sounding disinterested. “Just was wondering, that’s all . . . .” His voice kind of faded away, as if he forgot he had been speaking. He refocused. "I’m feeling pretty cold. Is it time for a shower?”
“Sure. Can you manage it?
“I think so.”
“Okay, you do that. I’m going to strip the bed and we're going to get your sheets and pajamas laundered. So I’ll need you to dress in street clothes today, okay?”
“Sure, sure,” he said, shivering.
I pulled all of the laundry together, excepting only my delicates, bundled them up and put them in Rob’s trunk.
“Text me what you want for dinner,” Rob suggested, and drove off.
Three minutes later, I heard coughing, and Iain calling my name. I grabbed my mask and rushed into the bathroom, to find Iain sitting on the floor of the shower, knees to his chin.
“Sorry, Cami, I just can’t manage to get back up.” And he coughed some more.
“I’ve got you, bro.”
I shut off the water, then got a towel and helped him get a bit dry. It was going to be a lot harder to get him up if he was wet. When that was done, I crouched down, put my arm around him and maneuvered him to his feet.
Once there, he was able to take his weight. I had him lean against me while I finished toweling him off. Then we got him back into his bedroom. Sitting on the bed, he was able to get his underwear, pants and a T-shirt on, then fresh socks followed by his slippers. At that point, he just lay back on top of the covers, tired by his exertions. He closed his eyes and coughed, holding his elbow over his mouth. Even the cough sounded tired.
I folded the half of the covers he wasn’t lying on over him, then took his temperature. 102.5. Worst reading yet. He wasn’t due for the Advil for half an hour, but I decided to advance it. I propped him up long enough to take the pills, then eased him back down. He closed his eyes wearily, then opened them again.
“Cami,” he said, his voice weak. “I’m trying. For Fi. For you. I’m trying. But I’m so tired. So tired . . . .” Without waiting for my response, he fell back into sleep.
But he slept right through for six hours, and when he woke, his fever had gone down to 101.7. He was still coughing deeply, but his sore throat was better and he seemed a bit stronger. I made him soup and he managed it, got Gatorade into him, gave him Tylenol and cough syrup, followed by more water. He got to the bathroom with me there to spot him, then went back to bed.
“Sorry if I gave you a scare this morning,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt that bad before.”
“Well, I said, “I don’t want to sound like Pollyanna, but just maybe you’ve turned the corner.
He knocked on his skull. “Knock wood and fingers crossed!”
Mount Vernon, New York, March 19, later that day
Iain was again sleeping when Rob came back, but I woke him so we could put fresh sheets on his bed and put his now clean clothes and pajamas away. Rob had brought sushi, but also some miso soup, which suited Iain fine. He went into his bathroom while I got his room ready, and I heard him using the electric shaver. I made his bed, put the soup in a bowl by his bed, and went into the common area, where I stripped off mask, gloves, and rain slicker, and then went to wash my hands.
“H-i-j-k-l-m-n-o-p . . . .”
My reverie was broken by Rob’s chuckle.
“I’ve heard of singing in the shower, but I’ve never heard of singing children’s songs at the sink!”
“Oh!” I said, self-consciously. “I almost forgot I was doing it. Fiona suggested I sing that to make sure I spend long enough washing my hands.”
“Doctors!” he snorted.
When I finished removing yet another layer of skin from my hands, I sat down and joined him at the table. He had, once again, poured us each a small glass of wine; again we clinked glasses.
I said, “Listen, I’m not famished or severely sleep deprived, so perhaps we can have a conversation while we eat. It’s considered civilized.”
“Is it?” he said with mock surprise. “Imagine! You sound like Dad.” He grinned, then turned serious. “So tell me how today went.”
“This morning was scary. I really thought I was going to have to take him in. He sat down in the shower and couldn’t get back up. I managed to get him dried off, dressed, and back to bed. He was completely exhausted and practically collapsed. But then he slept six hours and woke up stronger, with a lower fever. So . . . I just don’t know.”
We talked about it a bit more and concluded all we could do was to continue monitoring his condition and doing the best we could. He hadn’t crossed any thresholds.
So I said, “Please. Tell me about your day. I feel like I’ve disappeared down a black hole. What’s going on in the wild world?”
“Oddly enough, good things. Exciting things.”
He told me about messenger RNA, or mRNA, technology, and how some companies were using it to rapidly develop vaccines that could be used to fight COVID. “And by rapidly, I mean, incredibly rapidly. They are starting clinical trials now. That’s unheard of. It’ll still take months to complete all the necessary tests, even if everything goes well. But that’s months – not years. No vaccine has ever been developed that quickly.”
“But it seems to be spreading really quickly. Will even that be fast enough?”
“The $64,000 question. Except that it’s more like the trillion dollar question. We need to buy some time. We’re starting to do things – like, you heard that New York City closed down the public schools, right?”
I nodded.
He continued, “We’re going to have to do a whole lot more. We need to stop a lot of activity, get people to stay at home as much as possible. Wear masks. That’s what this mammoth relief bill they're working on in Congress is all about. If we can find a way to keep non-essential people home without losing everything – their homes included – maybe we can keep the virus from getting out of control, until we’ve got the vaccines.”
We had a long talk about it, and when we were done I felt incredibly more optimistic.
I said, “You know, I’ve just been living with this thing for weeks, feeling powerless, hopeless. Feeling it coming, like . . . l-l-like . . . .”
I stammered and stopped, and felt the blood drain from my face. The memory ripped and tore at my mind, the sound that had driven me to my knees in the middle of the day in a conference room in DC. That massive, inexorable, pulsing beat, a vast bellows . . . . the vision of dark wings . . . .
“Cami!” Rob said sharply.
His voice was low, but cracked with command. He was next to me, holding my shoulders. “Cami!” he repeated, urgently.
I blinked my eyes, blinked again. Took a breath. He released my left shoulder and lightly guided my head until I was facing him, looking directly into his eyes. Eyes that suddenly seemed much older than they had before.
“I don’t know where you went just now, but you shouldn’t be there,” he said, quietly but very firmly.
“No.” I reached up and pressed the hand still gripping my right shoulder. “Thanks for pulling me back.”
He held my eyes for a minute, making sure I was really back from that place of horror. He stood, letting me go and looked down at me. “That’s happened before, hasn’t it?”
Reluctantly, I nodded. “Yes. Mostly at night. One other time during the day. That . . . that was what I was remembering.”
“Fi doesn’t know?”
I shook my head. “I am seeing a different doctor about it. It’s pretty recent.”
He gave me a shrewd look. “Since Christmas, maybe?”
I winced, then nodded.
“I wondered whether you’d gotten off as unscathed as you wanted us all to believe.”
“Rob. I’d really, really appreciate it if you didn’t say anything about this. I want Fi and Henry – and you, for that matter – to forget about what happened that night. Or, understand that at least it’s been dealt with. It's done. Finished.”
He looked at me thoughtfully. Coming to a decision, he held out his hands, palms up, in invitation. I took them and he raised me up and looked me in the eye.
“Okay, Cami. If that’s what you want. All I remember about that night is that I got to dance with a very pretty girl. Like this, I think.”
He raised one of my hands above my head and pulled the other, effortlessly bringing me into a twirl. When I faced him again, he said, “Or, wait . . . maybe it was more like this?”
More magic of hand and foot, and I spun in a circle that ended with my back pressed against his chest and his arms around me, while one of my arms was free.
He held me for a moment and said, thoughtfully, “Yes; pretty sure it was that one.”
Then he reversed the maneuver, spun me back out to face him, bowed over the hand he still held, then let me go.
He smiled. “Yep. That’s what I remember. Great evening!”
I gave him the biggest smile in my toolkit. He had earned it, God knows. He could have just agreed to what I had asked, but he had somehow found a way to really snap me out of where I’d gone.
I dropped a deep curtsy (thanks, Liz!), then came back up and said, seriously, “Thank you, Rob.”
He tipped an imaginary hat to me. “Always a pleasure. Now – I’ve got this watch. I’ll get you at 2400.”
I quirked a smile. “Yes sir.” Then I marched off to bed.
He woke me at midnight, just as he had done the night before.
“His temp’s crept back up to over 102," he reported, "but it seems to be holding steady. The coughing’s worse, so I gave him the cough medicine along with the Tylenol. And he took a Gatorade. All logged.”
“Thanks, Rob. See you in the morning.”
He touched my shoulder and slipped out.
I went back to sleep.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 20
I was falling, falling, whipped by the wind, drenched by the rain, the grace and purity of my dive dissolving into wind-driven cartwheels. The boiling black sea seemed to get no closer as I spun, helpless, seeing sky, then sea, the sky again. Lightning streaked through monstrous clouds, so close that I smelled the ozone frizzle of its passage. I steeled myself for the thunderclap, but all I could hear was the pulse, the steady beat of those massive wings.
Then I could see it, rising from the depths, cresting from the waters, wings stretching wide to engulf the whole world, beating, beating, sound like a bellows . . . . I felt the crushing despair, the terror, rising with every beat.
With an effort that took every ounce of my strength, I wrenched my eyes open. I was panting and damp with sweat. I was back – back in my bed, in the motel. In my body. In my right mind.
But the sound had followed me. Was with me.
It was coming from the monitor by my head. The sound of a man gasping for air, of lungs heaving for breath, spasmodic, tortured. I was in Iain’s room before I’d even thought about it, unmasked and uncaring. His skin was hot and dry and his eyes were wild.
“Fi!” he gasped out, “Fi, help!!”
I grabbed him with one arm, pulling him to me. With the other, I grabbed his phone and dialed 911.
When the dispatcher answered I said, “My brother has COVID and is struggling to breathe. The doctor said if that happened he needed an ambulance, stat. We’re in room 128 at the Westmont Motel.”
“Your name please?”
“Camryn Savin. My brother is Iain Savin.”
“Can we reach you at this number?”
“Yes.” I also gave him my cell phone, then said, “Please, please hurry!”
Iain continued to struggle.
“An ambulance is on its way and should be there in six minutes.”
“Thank you!” I said, and he hung up.
“Hang on, Iain!” I pleaded. “Hang on!”
He was weeping through his efforts to breathe. “I’m . . . sorry . . . Fi . . . sorry!”
“Just breathe, honey. Just breathe. Don’t talk. I’ve got you. I’ve got you!”
My ears were straining, straining to reach into the dark, the uncaring dark, desperate to hear the bugles of the cavalry topping the rise. Dammit!
“I’ve got you,” I crooned, channeling Fiona. “I’ve got you.”
An eternity later, I caught the sound, at the very edge of my hearing. It faded out, then returned, stronger, growing more strident, more insistent by the second. The blessed sound of a siren, wailing through the sharp darkness of the Bronx night.
As the siren’s auditory blueshift reached its crescendo and stopped, I released Iain. “Two seconds, Honey!”
He cried Fiona’s name as I streaked out his room and ripped open the door to the outside, preempting the paramedic’s knock.
“This way!” I shouted and ran back into Iain’s room.
They followed, dark shapes, faces covered by masks and goggles, hands gloved. “Stand aside, Miss,” the second man said.
They got to Iain, and the first of them grabbed him and brought an oxygen mask to his face, covering his mouth and nose. He struggled for a moment, then began to take gasping breaths that slowly began to ease into something more regular.
As soon as he stopped struggling, the other paramedic began getting vital signs, then trotted back outside and returned with yet another man, pulling a gurney. They got Iain up and onto the gurney, then began to move it quickly toward the waiting ambulance.
They put him in back and I moved to join him.
One of the paramedics held me back with a firm hand. “I’m sorry, you can’t ride with him. And you can’t go into the hospital. COVID protocols. I’m very sorry. You’ll need to call.” He gave me a card with a number, slammed the doors of the back, then jumped into the passenger’s seat.
The ambulance sped off, its wailing siren now red shifting.
I was standing in the parking lot, barefoot, nearly blind with tears, wearing a flannel nightdress and holding a piece of cardboard, my only link now with my brother.
I felt a pair of strong hands on my shoulders, and Rob’s voice said, “Let’s get you inside, Cami.”
I let him lead me back into the room. Vaguely, I saw other faces, staring at us from other rooms. From windows. From doors.
Rob closed the door behind us.
I ran into my room, grabbed my phone, and dialed the number on the card. When it was answered, I gave my name and said, “My brother was just taken away by ambulance. He should be arriving any minute. Is there any information you need?” I answered their questions then asked if there was any news. But he still hadn’t arrived, and we ended the call.
I was cold. I put on my slippers and, somewhat awkward over the flannel, my green dressing gown. Back in the common area, Rob had just finished making some green tea. He was wearing some sort of robe over pajamas, and he’d managed to put on slippers before coming outside.
He had me sit in the room’s only comfortable chair and brought me a mug, put it in my hands and made sure that I had it before letting go and getting his own mug. His deep eyes held mine. “Tell me.”
“I woke up to the sound of him struggling to breathe. The trigger for 911. He was hot – very hot – but I wasn’t able to take a reading. And . . . he thought I was Fiona. I called dispatch and they were here – God, it must have been no more than ten minutes after I woke up. They gave him oxygen, then took him off. I can’t go with him. I can’t even go inside the hospital.” My voice cracked.
“Yeah, I heard that part.” He thought a minute. “It’s 2:30 now; he probably started having the attack by 2:00 or so. I gave him medicines at 11:30, so it’s not like we were late.”
“No.” I sighed. “I really thought he had turned the corner this afternoon. A false hope, I guess.”
We were silent, sipping our tea.
He said, “Nothing to do but wait, I guess.”
I wanted to tell him to go ahead and get some sleep, that he needed to be fresh in the morning. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to wait alone, and I knew, somehow, that he wouldn’t let me anyway. I was too tired to say the polite things and hear the polite things in return. We sat silently.
He was very still and his eyes were dark and distant.
“What are you seeing, Captain Hutchinson?” I asked softly.
It took a moment, but his eyes finally blinked and refocused, back in the present. “You knew?”
“Of course. I needed your affidavit, so naturally I reviewed your bio. Two tours in Afghanistan?”
He nodded, saying nothing.
“You don’t belong in that dark place either, Rob.”
“No,” he answered, then said ruefully, “though I don’t think we can make it vanish with dancing this time, can we?”
I returned his crooked smile.
My phone rang and I almost spilled tea all over myself as I jumped to answer. Iain had been admitted, they had stabilized his breathing and were waiting for an ICU bed to open up. Meantime they were keeping him on oxygen.
The nurse had more questions about when he had become sick, and I got the log and provided very detailed information indeed. She said they would keep me posted, but I could also call the number I had been given earlier if I needed an update. I thanked her and ended the call.
It was about 3:30. “Rob, I don’t think we’ll hear anything else tonight. Let’s try to get what sleep we can and touch base in the morning before you go in.”
He agreed that made sense.
I saw him to the door, where he turned unexpectedly and gave me a hug.
He held it for a moment. “You did everything that could be done, Cami. You had the best advice, from one of the best experts, and you followed it exactly. This is not your fault. Understand?”
I nodded. “I know. . . . But somehow, I don’t believe it.”
“Roger that,” he sighed.
Then he kissed me on the forehead and went back to his room.
I went back to bed, certain that I would never be able to sleep. But I did.
Eventually, I even dreamed, though not the same dream as before. I was in a Starbucks. What was I doing in a Starbucks? I don’t like burned beans. But Tina of all people was standing behind the counter, grinning like a fool. “Wake up and smell the coffee!” she smirked at me.
My alarm got me up at 6:20, since I normally made my report to Fiona at 6:30. I checked to make sure that I hadn’t received a call from the hospital. Seeing that I hadn’t, I speed-dialed the number and confirmed that Iain’s condition was unchanged, and an ICU bed had not yet opened up. Apparently he was sleeping.
Fi called at 6:30 and I took the call in bed. “I’m sorry, Fi. He’s at the hospital, waiting to be admitted to the ICU.” I gave her the short version of yesterday’s events.
“He’s in good hands, and you need to trust my colleagues now,” Dr. Savin replied. “There wasn’t anything we could do for the symptoms he had that you weren’t doing, but for more serious symptoms we’ve got a bigger toolbox, that’s all. I’ll call over and get the technical details; I can probably find out more than you can. I want you to get some rest. You’ve been through an ordeal, too. Okay?”
She had her metaphorical stethoscope on, and was being reassuring in a medico kind of way.
“Thanks, Fi. Will do.”
I’m sure she was blaming herself for not being here, just as I was blaming myself for being here, and not being sufficient. And somewhere the pagan gods were laughing at our folly. The bastards.
I couldn’t get back to sleep and didn’t want to miss Rob before he went in for his meetings. So I took a quick shower instead and got dressed, sticking with stretchy jeans, a t-shirt, and a fleece. After putting on some light morning makeup I fired up the Keurig, poured a cup and took a sip, then another.
My phone rang. I was surprised to see it was Rob.
“Hey, Rob.” I sounded a bit distant even to myself.
“Cami, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I woke up with a nasty sore throat. I’m going to need to isolate myself, starting immediately. So I’ll be staying here today, and advising the folks I’ve been with that they should quarantine and get tested.”
I took another sip.
“You might as well come over, Rob,” I said, sounding resigned. “I’ve lost my sense of taste. And, I can’t even smell the coffee.”
To be continued . . . .