AN ARIA FOR CAMI
“Verstossen sei auf ewig”
– Mozart, Die Zauberflöte, Der hölle Rache (Aria)
Mount Vernon, New York, March 20
I was pouring water for tea when Rob knocked on the door. Tea for two. I’d gotten my caffeine fix, and given the fact that my taste buds weren’t functioning, I might as well drink tea. I let Rob in.
He was wearing classic business casual – khakis and a white button-down shirt. To all appearances he was fine. He was giving me the same appraisal.
“You don’t seem to have fallen apart – yet,” I said. “Do I pass?”
“So far, so good.”
I gave him his tea and we sat at the table.
“Are your taste buds working?” I asked him.
He put the tea under his nose, sniffed, and then took a sip. “They seem to be okay.”
“In that case,” I said, “do you actually want tea? I only drink it for therapeutic reasons, or to be sociable. Or, in this case, because I can’t taste anything, so what the hell.”
He smiled. “Henry mentioned that you’re a coffee snob, and he would know. I usually prefer it myself, during the day. But the way my throat feels, the concoction you made is a lot better.”
I had added honey and lemon to his tea; I remembered my mother using it as a home remedy.
We sat silently for a few minutes, sipping our tea. Then he said, “I sent emails to the people I met with yesterday already; I’ll need to call them soon. But I’m also going to need to notify the people I was in physical contact with in Boston the last two or three days before I left. That will include Henry. So your sister’s going to know very soon. I’m guessing you haven’t told her yet?”
I shook my head. “And I really, really wish I didn’t have to. She didn’t give me a hard time for dropping everything and coming, but she thinks it should have been her job. If Iain doesn’t make it, she’ll never forgive herself. And . . . .”
I hesitated.
But he finished my thought. “And if anything were to happen to you, it would destroy her, right?”
I nodded, feeling miserable.
“I’m sorry, Cami. But I really do have to tell Henry. And if he quarantines himself like he’s supposed to, Fiona will certainly know. Anyhow, no way he’d keep this from her.”
“I know.” I sighed. “And I understand. But I told her I would look after Iain, and I failed, and I told her I would keep safe, and I failed there, too.”
I held up my hand to stop his protest. “I’m not not saying I did things wrong, Rob. I did it by the book, as far as I know and as far as there is a book. But it’s objectively true that I was unsuccessful. Fi is going to want to come down here and fix everything, even though she is desperately needed where she is. And whatever choice she makes is going to tear her apart.”
“I know. I get Fi. Believe me, I do. But you can’t shield her from this.”
I nodded.
He asked whether I had been in close contact with anyone.
I shook my head. “You and Iain are the only people I’ve been within ten yards of since coming here six days ago. I’ve got lots of people to call, but not for that reason.”
“Okay. Why don’t we make our calls, then get together at, say, 11:00? I think we’re going to need a plan to get through this, and two heads are better than one.”
“I’d like that. I don’t mind telling you I’m less worried about this – a lot less – than I would be if I were alone here. Not that I wish this on you!”
He stood. “Likewise, on both fronts. Uncle Chip doesn’t hand out compliments cheaply. Or, really, at all. And he says your ability to think under pressure is . . . commendable. Yes, I’m sure he said ‘commendable.’ We’re going to need that!”
Becoming more serious, he said, “It’s a great comfort to me that you’re here, Cami, even if I’d have spared you, if I could have.”
He left and went next door.
So easy to write. But I knew what devastation those few words would cause. Just as I felt I had failed, Fiona would feel it even worse. She would kick herself for not dropping everything to take care of Iain. For not telling me to just drop him off at the ER as soon as I’d found him. For any of the many choices we had made, the calculated risks we had taken.
Sometimes, all you can do is place your bets and spin the wheel.
The next call wouldn’t be easy, but it would be better than Fiona. I decided to use FaceTime. Nicole’s image appeared. I took in her breathtaking smile and cheerful “Good morning!” I felt like I’d gotten a huge hug. I wish I could bottle that smile and have it forever.
I smiled back, cheered. “Hey, Nicole!”
Maggie poked her head into the camera’s field of vision and waved. “Hi Cami!”
My smile got bigger. “You two are a sight for sore eyes! God, I’ve missed you!”
They assured me the feeling was mutual, then Nicole asked how Iain was doing.
“I’m afraid he’s worse. I had to call 911 last night – this morning, technically. He’s at the hospital, waiting to go into the ICU.”
“I’m so sorry,” Nicole said. “You were both fighting so hard. Are you okay?”
Well, nothing for it. “I’m still holding together. Mentally. And Rob” – I had mentioned him to Nicole when I had spoken with her the prior morning – “has been a big help. But, it turns out we’ve both got some COVID symptoms. Nothing much.”
Nicole froze; I might have thought it was a technical glitch, but Maggie didn’t freeze. She just looked like she’d been sucker-punched.
No one said anything, so I decided I had better. “Nicole. Maggie. I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m healthy. Unlike my older brother, I haven’t spent ten or fifteen years weakening my body with recreational drugs or living on poverty rations. COVID is serious, but it’s not like it’s an automatic death sentence. Okay?”
Finally, Nicole moved. “You’re right, Cami. I know you are – we know you are. But we’re worried for you – scared – and . . .” She paused, took a breath, and continued, “. . . and we’re not there. We can’t help. We can only wait. And worry.”
I knew how I would feel if our positions were reversed, and I ached for her. “I’m sorry. I really am. I know this is hard. But please don’t come up here, Nicole. New York may be the least safe place in America right now.”
She looked miserable. “I know, I know. Even my parents are going to go stay with my aunt in the Berkshires. They were hemming and hawing about it and I told them that if they didn’t do it I would come and stay with them in New York. The threat worked, but if I come up now, they definitely won’t go. And, I want them out of there!”
“Too right!” I said. “So listen. I’ll keep you posted, but there’s no sense worrying about it. We’ll follow the doctor’s orders, and do everything that can be done. So enough about that for now. Tell me what you’re up to.”
They looked at each other and Nicole seemed to slump.
Then she nodded, reluctantly. “Okay. I have a bit of a hard time talking about a podcast while you're dealing with everything that’s going on up there. But maybe it’ll help us all if we do.”
So we spent fifteen minutes or so doing that, and it actually did help. I thought the ideas were really creative, and I did my part, asking stupid questions that neither of them had thought about because they know too much.
When we had wrapped that up, I said, “Great ideas! Great energy! This is going to be fun! And I can’t wait to get down there to help!”
They smiled bravely.
I smiled back. Fantasy Island, and "Smiles, everybody." We signed off.
It was now 9:45, and the next person on my list was Eileen. I explained how my situation had changed.
“I’m so sorry. So, your plan is just to stay at the motel and self-quarantine?”
“Pretty much. My sister’s fiancé’s brother – if you can follow all of that – came down in part to do work in the City and in part to help with Iain, and unfortunately we’ve both got COVID symptoms now. The silver lining is that we’ll at least be able to look after each other and, ah . . . pull the rip-cord if things go south.”
“That certainly seems like the best of a bad set of options,” she agreed.
“Eileen, I know I’m approved for leave through the end of the month. And, I don’t know what this is going to be like. If I get as sick as Iain, I won’t be good for anything, and if Rob does, I’ll probably need to do the same sorts of full-time care that I did this past week. And God help us, we could both get that sick.
“But, it’s also very possible that we’ll both have mild to moderate symptoms and I’ll just be sitting in my motel room going mad with boredom. If there are any projects I can work on – maybe ones that aren’t time-sensitive, I would love to be useful.”
She chuckled. “That’s a lot of ‘if’s’ – but I’ll see what we can come up with.”
After I signed off with Eileen, I stared at the phone, gritting my teeth. No call was going to be harder than this one, but it had to be done. Iain was critically ill and I had to face the possibility that he very well might die. I had to call his father.
My father.
I got a recording, so I left a message. “It’s Cam. I’m calling about Iain. It’s urgent, so please call me right away.”
I put the phone on my lap and closed my eyes. Who else should I call? I hadn’t talked to Liz in a while. And Liz would want to know. She would probably have some hard-headed notions on how to straighten out my crazy life, too! I smiled. But it was Friday and she would be working. It wasn’t urgent. The same was true of Al and Javier.
And wouldn’t I just be worrying everyone to no purpose? Like Nicole, like Maggie, like Fi, even, there wasn’t anything they could do. I thought, I’ll call Sarah. She can pray for us, at least, though I tended to think Sarah prayed through action. But she could ask my sisters in our small community to add me to their prayers. They would normally meet tomorrow evening. I wondered if they would cancel.
The whole country seemed to be grinding to a slow, uneven halt. Like a train that’s jumped the track and is in the process of burying itself, car by car, into an avalanche field of tumbled snow and ice.
My phone buzzed with an income text. “What is it?” The number was my father’s cell.
“Iain has COVID. Please call me.”
The response, a minute later, was another text. “What is it that you want me to do?”
I thought about that. Texts were hard to interpret; his could be read as either a genuine inquiry or a snide rebuff. So I wrote, “I want you to CALL me.”
Two minutes went by, then three. Then I got a longer text. “If there is anything we can do for his physical care, we will do it. Let me know. Apart from that, Iain chose to leave this family. I can’t unmake his choice.”
My blood was starting to simmer. I typed, “He made that choice AFTER you disowned him!”
The reply this time was instant. “He severed himself from our family by his actions. Our later words just acknowledged that reality.”
I was getting really steamed, and I knew that was counterproductive. I took a deep breath to calm myself, then tried calling him again. He didn’t answer.
I texted, “Please pick up the phone. This isn’t a good way to communicate.”
He texted back, “I have nothing more to say on this subject, Cameron.”
I was incredulous. He hadn’t even asked how Iain was doing. I texted, “You could at least pray for him. Or, would that be too much to ask?”
Introducing religion had been a mistake. He replied, “The Lord’s purposes will unfold in time. I pray every day that all of you will be numbered among the elect. I fear, in Iain’s case, that the course of his life reflects reprobation.”
Now I was furious. To hell with being productive, to hell with trying to build bridges. And to hell with him.
“When you meet your maker, old man, you will not recognize Him!”
“It suffices that He recognizes me.”
I shot back, “Your own CHILDREN don’t recognize you!”
But he made the obvious retort. “My soul is not in their keeping.”
I was getting drawn into a fight very much on his turf, and it was stupid. But I thought of his son, gasping for each breath, shivering in my arms as I desperately listened for the sound of the ambulance. I thought of my sister, weeping bitterly that her daddy had disowned her and labeled her an ingrate.
I was too angry to even consider pulling back.
Furiously typing, I wrote, “Jesus CELEBRATED humanity. He fed the hungry, made wine for a wedding, broke bread with sinners. Cared for the sick. You turned your back on Him and created a god more to your own liking. One who looks like YOU. Have you traded your humanity for your bankrupt theology? YOUR SON MAY BE DYING, YOU PRICK! DON’T YOU CARE?”
His response, equally hot, was almost instant: “Blasphemer! You are no son of mine.”
There. This time he’d said it. But I chuckled nonetheless. I might be wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but I was also wearing panties, a bra, lipstick, light morning makeup and nail polish in a really fetching shade of rose. His precise statement was accurate, discounting, of course, his self-serving accusation of blasphemy.
But I agreed with him on a deeper level too. I typed back my response, as formal as a judicial decree. “On that point we agree. I will no longer honor you as a father, nor will I bear your name in this world. As the Lord says in Matthew’s Gospel, ‘I do not know you.’ Goodbye.”
I paused, reviewed it. Took a deep breath. Thought about it. Was this really what I wanted to do? What purpose would be served?
I hit send.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 20, immediately following
I put down the phone, feeling strangely tired, like I had been wrestling with a demon. Maybe in a way I had been. I had known that Dad would never accept me as a woman, but I hadn’t told him, or my mother, what had been happening in my life. We hadn’t been speaking to each other at the time, and that had suited me just fine.
But, like all children, I carried my parents inside me at all times. Bore the weight of their silent judgment. Well, I’m done with that.
My phone rang. I thought, You should have called me earlier, you bastard. Too late now.
But it wasn’t Dad. It was Fiona. Please God, I prayed, help me to do better with this call! I gathered myself together, put the last few minutes behind me, and accepted the call.
“Good morning, Fi,” I said, projecting all of my love into the words. All the warmth in the world, to unfreeze the chill I had put in her soul. The warmth of sunlight dancing on ripe wheat, or of a merry fire on a winter evening. The warmth of a fuzzy blanket, shared with your dearest friend. Any warmth I could imagine.
“Cami, you’re killing me!”
Doctor Savin was gone; it was just my sister, devastated, wounded to the core of her being, torn between her duty and her family.
I wanted to weep. I wanted to apologize to her for failing, but the last thing she needed was to bear my guilt along with her own. I wanted to tell her everything would be okay. But she would know, even better than I did myself, exactly what those assurances would be worth. What comfort did I have? What possible solace could I give? Because right now, the world needed her.
Even more than I did.
“Fiona. Fi. Listen to me. We did everything right, just like you would have done if you’d been here. We did. You have always told me that in medicine, doing everything right doesn’t mean nothing will go wrong. That’s what happened here. You couldn’t have prevented it.”
“You don’t know that, Cami!” She was weeping.
“Maybe not, but I know I followed your instructions, right up until I had to make the 911 call. Are you telling me I screwed up?” Maybe that would do it.
“No,” she said quickly. “I don’t mean that. I don’t! Don’t think it! I’m just saying I have more experience. Maybe if I’d been there . . . .”
She faded to silence, and I finished for her. “. . . And maybe not, too. We don’t know, and we’ll never know. We did the best we could. You, me. Rob. Iain too. We can’t do more than that.”
She absorbed that for a moment before responding. “Okay, but now you’re both sick. I need to get down there . . . now.”
This was the thing I worried about the most. “No, Fi. We’re both in good shape, and we’ll give you regular reports. You’ve said it yourself: there’s nothing you can do for mild symptoms that we aren’t doing. And you have a crapload of people you are responsible for right now that don't just have mild symptoms.”
“They aren’t my family, God dammit!” she broke in. “They aren’t you! It’s . . . It’s . . . Christ, it's too much, Cami. Too much! I can’t!”
Okay, I thought. Time for steel. It had worked with Nicole. It had even worked with Tina. I didn’t want to hurt Fi, but I couldn’t think of another way to reach her right now.
“Yes, you can. You can. They are your family, just as much as I am, and they need their doctor. Right now, today, their need is greater. You would be appalled if Iain’s doctors just vanished because they had family to deal with. So would I. So get back in there and save your patients!”
The line was suddenly silent, and I prayed . . . prayed . . . that someday she would forgive me for that. When she finally spoke, she sounded like she had been hollowed out.
“I know, Cami. I do know. And, I’ll do it. I just don’t know how long I can keep this up.”
“Fiona. I love you more than I can say. I would give anything to keep from hurting you. Anything. I will be careful, and we’ll give you regular reports. Set your mind at rest. You are exactly where you need to be.”
“Okay,” she said, sounding flat. Resigned.
“You’ve always been my hero, Fi. I’ll stay as safe as I can; you do the same, okay?”
“I will, Sweetie.”
We ended the call.
I handed him a fresh cup of his doctored tea. “Yeah, I’ve had better mornings. I think I prevented my roommate and my sister from coming to save me, at least for the moment, but they weren’t very happy about it. Oh, and I disowned my father. I mean, he disowned me first, but I made sure mine would count.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus.”
I sat down at the table, but he came around behind me. “Lean forward for a moment, Cami. You look tight as a snare drum.”
He put his hands on my shoulders and started digging his fingers into my taut muscles, starting softly but increasing the pressure until they went deep. I leaned forward, put my forearms on my thighs and lowered my head. He worked silently for a while, down my shoulder blades and up the back of my neck to the base of my skull.
After a few minutes he stopped, then walked around to the other side of the table and sat down. “A little better, I hope?”
I straightened up slowly, moved my head left and right and shook out my arms. “I didn’t realize how tense I was. Thank you. I’d return the favor, but I don’t think I’ve got that kind of strength in my fingers.”
He smiled. “I’ll show you sometime. It’s not all about power, though that helps. Mostly, it’s about applying increasing levels of pressure in the right places, and in the right sequence. But I’m good just at the moment.”
He took a sip of tea, then another. “Thanks. This really helps; my throat is seriously raw.” Another drink, a bit more liquid this time. Then he put down the mug and looked at me. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I thought about that, and shook my head. “It’s a bit raw still. But thanks. I appreciate the offer.” I had a sip of the odorless, tasteless, thin, hot liquid in my own mug. “I’d rather think about something else. Almost anything else. COVID, even. So . . . I was able to use you as a bit of a shield against Fiona and my roommates. I said we could look after each other. I hope you don’t mind?”
He shook his head. “It’s pretty much what I said to Henry as well. And to Mom.”
“I think we won’t find a better place to hole up. I’m still close if Iain needs me, and the set-up works. In fact . . . .” I stopped, and then blushed.
His eyes twinkled. “In fact, yes. I was thinking that, too, but wasn’t sure how you would feel about sharing the space. It really is the smart thing to do. If either of us has an episode like Iain did last night, we’re going to want someone close.”
I nodded, still embarrassed. And not entirely sure why.
“Then it makes sense for me to check out of the room next door,” he said. “May I suggest that you move into Iain’s room? The attached bathroom will give you a smidge more privacy.”
“Okay, that makes sense. I’ll get everything properly cleaned before you move in, and you need to make sure you thoroughly disinfect the room you’re currently in before you vacate it. I’ve got everything you need for that.”
It was his turn to nod. “I hadn’t even thought of that, but of course you’re right. The cleaning staff won’t be protected.”
It was part of the reason that Nicole had selected the “no intra-stay cleaning” option when she booked my room. It had also saved a few dollars.
Just then my phone buzzed – Nicole was FaceTiming. I hoped we had no new disasters to worry about. “Let me take this.”
Rob stayed where he was and I swiped accept. “Hey, Nicole! Rob and I are strategizing on how to get through this. Is everything okay?”
She smiled – warm, genuine, but still worried. “Yes, but I’ve got an idea. Mom and Dad are leaving tomorrow. They can drop supplies on your doorstep on their way out – you are very much on their way. Would that help?”
“Absolutely!”
Rob was nodding an emphatic agreement.
“There’s one other thing, too,” I said, “if they would be willing. I extended my car rental, but it’s stupid to hang on to it now. If they could drop it off at National Car Rental, that would be a big help.”
Nicole’s smile got wider. “I’ll ask. I’m pretty persuasive!”
“True!”
We spent a couple minutes discussing details; I promised to send her a supplies list, and we rang off.
“Your roommate sounds like a lovely person,” Rob said.
I agreed wholeheartedly. We talked about logistics and decided Rob should check out of his room Saturday morning as originally planned. He was going to spend the afternoon in conference calls with the people he had intended to meet with today, and he would do that next door.
“I’ve felt better,” he acknowledged. “But I don’t think I’m in any imminent danger, and that’s what we have to be concerned about.”
We decided to start our own logs, just as I had kept for Iain, so we would be able to chart what was going on. “It will help keep Fiona sane,” I added, “and that ain’t nothing.”
We started with our initial symptoms. As of 8:00 am, loss of taste and smell for me. Same at noontime, coupled with unusual fatigue. Temperature at noon was 99.1; elevated, but barely. I didn’t even know what my baseline temp was; 98.6 is average, but people have natural variability.
Rob woke with a sore throat at around 7:00 am; it was worse by noon. In addition, he felt some deep muscle pain and some fatigue. His temperature was 99.7.
We had some instant soup (or to be more accurate, Rob had soup and I had a flavorless, hot, viscous liquid substance which I ate with a soup spoon). Then we each took Tylenol and Rob went off with some throat lozenges and Gatorade.
For almost the only time since I arrived in New Rochelle six days before, I was actually alone.
I called the hospital. Iain hadn’t been admitted to the ICU and I could not speak to him because he was sleeping. They weren’t willing to tell me anything else, because I didn’t hold his durable power of attorney and he hadn’t signed a waiver of his confidentiality protections under the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, also known by the acronym HIPAA. I asked if I could email a HIPAA waiver to them and have him sign it when he was awake.
They hemmed, hawed, and agreed, while cautioning that they weren’t certain he would be in any condition to execute a valid waiver.
“Please try,” I said. “My sister and I are all he’s got.”
So I spent a bit of time doing some research, then drafted a HIPAA waiver that would allow hospital personnel to discuss his condition with Fiona and me and emailed it to my contact.
It was 1:30 and I was feeling weary. I decided the best medicine would be rest. Even if I wasn’t sick, my daily sleep deficits this past week had cumulatively created a sleep debt that would give the Chairman of the Federal Sleep Reserve nightmares, if such an official existed. I set an alarm for 3:30 and laid down.
My phone went off a bit after 3:00, however, so I fumbled around groggily for a moment and grabbed it.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hello, this is Sylvia Thomas from the Westchester County Health Department. I’m calling for Cameron Savin.”
I sat up, suddenly very awake. “This is Camryn.”
“Good afternoon, Cameron. I’m calling to follow up on a 911 call you placed at 2:12 am this morning. You had an ambulance sent for your brother, Iain Savin, and reported that he had COVID-19. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct. Has something happened to him? Is he alright?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “we don’t have any information about his current condition. I’m actually calling as part of an effort to track your brother’s close contacts so that we can try to get them isolated. Do you have a couple of minutes?”
I thought, sourly, that in fact I had nothing but time, but what I said was, “Of course.”
“Well, you know that you’ve been exposed to the virus. Have you been experiencing any symptoms?”
I decided I could speed this up. “I’ve kept my brother in isolation since this past Saturday. I was joined two days ago by Robert Hutchinson, who came to help out. Both of us began experiencing symptoms this morning; so far, they’re mild. I have had no other contacts since last Saturday. Mr. Hutchinson has, and he has contacted them this morning. We’re both planning to isolate in place while the virus runs its course”
I heard the sound of typing as she took down my information. She asked whether any of us had been tested, and I said we hadn’t.
“There is a drive-through testing facility in New Rochelle,” she offered. “We’re encouraging people who have been exposed to get tested.”
“I understand that. But it’s pretty clear that Mr. Hutchinson and I are infected, so it probably doesn’t make sense to risk other people in order to confirm it.”
“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully, typing in more information. “Can you give me contact information for Mr. Hutchinson, please?”
“If you give me your contact information, I’ll ask him to call you. I’m also aware of two individuals who were in contact with Iain in the days before he became symptomatic; I’ll give them your information, too.”
Sounding a bit put out, she said, “It would really be better if you just gave me their information; we can contact them.”
“The hospital doesn’t want to tell me my own brother’s medical condition because of privacy concerns.” I kept my tone pleasant . . . but firm. “I need to be at least as careful. I promise I will give them your information, I will urge them to call you, and I will stress that this is a public health emergency. They’re all good people. You’ll get more cooperation from them this way.”
She grumbled, but didn’t have much choice.
I got her contact information and ended the call.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 20, immediately following
I called Iain’s roommate and his boss, filled them in on Iain’s status and asked them whether they were okay. Neither of them had experienced symptoms, but neither had quarantined either. Mahmoud’s job was still going, but Mike Peters said the restaurant had closed, for now.
“We weren’t told we had to, but no one was coming in. This place is a ghost town. I’m on half pay and all the staff have been laid off so that they can get unemployment.” Mike sounded lost. He didn’t know of anyone else at the restaurant who had gotten sick.
I urged them both to call Ms. Thomas and they both said they would. Given that neither of them had developed symptoms, it seemed likely the contact tracing effort would not go past them.
It was now almost 4:00 and I was still in bed, still feeling tired. But not out for the count, yet, so I got up, put on my slippers, and went into the common room. I grabbed a Gatorade (thin, cold, tasteless colored liquid) and decided to take another temperature reading. 99.6. Directionally incorrect, but not surprising. I added general achiness to my list of symptoms and wrote it in the log.
I had an email from Eileen indicating that she had spoken with Russ Gardner, the head of the insurance practice group; he would have an assignment for me to work on by Monday, but I shouldn’t feel any pressure.
“Getting better is the most important thing," she wrote. "If some work will help take your mind off things, do it. Otherwise, rest!”
I sent back an acknowledgment and thanks. I had an email from my colleague Daviana as well. Eileen had passed along the news that I had COVID; Daviana’s email was lovely and supportive. I responded to that one as well.
I was tired, but not really sleepy; achy, but not debilitated. I was annoyed at the hospital. Worried about Iain. I was tired as all hell of the four corners of this motel room that had become my whole world.
I groaned. This is just day one! Like, mile one of a marathon, I thought. I needed an attitude adjustment.
But I had no brilliant ideas that way, so I decided to take my mind off my woes by researching the process for changing your name under Maryland law. Westlaw is my friend. I was deep into case law interpreting Rule 15-901 of the Maryland Civil Code when I got a text from Robert asking if it was a good time for him to come over.
“Please do,” I texted.
He knocked on the door a minute later and I ushered him in.
“How was your day, dear?” I asked, jokingly.
He smiled. “Oh, you are booooored!” But he looked tired; much more tired than he had five hours earlier.
I took pity on him. “Here, sit in the comfy chair and put your feet up. You’re acquiring your own tire tracks.”
“Thanks, Cami,” he said gratefully. He sank down into the chair, slowly put one foot, then the other, on the ottoman that went with the chair, and momentarily closed his eyes. “I haven’t done anything more stressful than talk to people all day, but I’m beat.”
I put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Let me take your temperature. And tell me where your symptoms are at. I’ll do your log entry, then we’ll see about getting you some food and rest.”
He didn’t fight me.
“You’re at 100.4, so up a bit. How’s the throat?”
“Still sore. My joints definitely ache, my head aches and my muscles feel fatigued, like I’ve been exercising them hard. My eyes are sore, too.” He thought a minute. “That’s about the full list, I think.”
I wrote all that down. “I’m doing a bit better, and I got some sleep. Why don’t you just rest there a bit. I’ll get you some Tylenol and a Gatorade. Are you hungry?”
He shook his head, eyes still closed.
I got him to take the pills and he leaned back in the chair. I went around behind him and very gently massaged his temples with the first two fingers of each hand. The look of pain and tension in his face began to ease.
After around ten minutes he said, “Thanks. That’s helped a lot. I have a really hard time functioning with a headache.”
I patted his shoulder. “We’re even. Stay here and I’ll make some soup. Our bodies will need the fuel, even if we don’t have much appetite.”
“Okay, boss,” he said, with something a bit closer to his normal smile.
Nothing fancy; just more chicken and vegetable soup that might as well have been dish water as far as I was concerned. But we both ate with more appetite than we expected. I made Rob some tea with honey and lemon and, on a whim, made myself a cup too. Naturally, I needn’t have bothered. It just tasted hot and wet.
Rob nursed his tea and looked a lot better.
I said, “The fever will drive some of the fatigue and achiness. If we can keep it down, it’ll help with everything else. So let’s do Advil doses between the Tylenol, like we were doing for Iain.”
“Makes sense. It doesn’t feel like it worked in his case, but we really don’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t been getting the extra doses.”
I nodded. Then I told him about Ms. Thomas’ contact tracing call.
“I talked to Henry this afternoon,” he said. “Apparently one of the guys I work with had been feeling a bit under the weather most of the week but didn’t think anything about it. He went home early yesterday and called in sick this morning. Based on his current symptoms, it sounds like COVID.”
His uncle’s response to the news had been to send all non-essential personnel home at noon and to tell everyone who worked with Don that they should isolate.
“If no one else develops symptoms over the weekend, we’ll open up on Monday, but Henry said the leadership team is discussing ways to have people work remotely for a while.” Rob shook his head in wonder. “You know, I don’t think Hutchinson Investments has ever closed its doors.”
He told me that Henry had hired someone local to give us assistance when needed. “He’s going to come tomorrow at 8:00 and drop off new sheets, towels, and blankets that match what we have – I sent brands and photos. He’ll give us heavy-duty plastic bags for our laundry, including all the current bedding. We’re to fill them, seal them, and disinfect the outsides of the bags. He’ll be by an hour later to pick everything up, and he’ll handle getting everything properly cleaned and disinfected. He’s got the right gear so that he can do it safely.”
I gawked at him.
“Cami,” he said, very gently, “I’ve grown up stupid rich. We have resources that most people don’t have. I try – really most of us who have any self-awareness try – not to let it warp us too badly. Not to flaunt it or rely on it too much. But in an emergency, it’s there and we use it. I think this qualifies; Henry does too. And, for what it’s worth, I think it will ease Fiona’s mind to know that help is nearby.”
I nodded, slowly. “I hope so. I’ve never heard her so distressed. . . . Well . . . one other time.”
Rob decided he was going to crash early, so he went back to his motel room armed with Tylenol, Advil, Gatorade, and something for his throat.
It was only around 7:00 and I decided I would hold off sleeping for a bit and clean. I stripped Iain’s bed and put my sheets and blankets on it for the night. After cleaning and disinfecting Iain’s room and its attached bathroom, I moved my stuff over. Then I cleaned and disinfected the room I had been staying in.
By that point I was dragging. But I took a moment and sent Fiona an email with a copy of Rob’s and my log entries. I checked my temp; it was holding steady.
In my new bathroom, I stripped, removed my breast forms and cleaned the area where they attach. I paused and looked at myself in the mirror. I’d only been taking estrogen pills for just over a week and it was too soon to see any changes, but that didn’t stop me from wishing for it. Longing for it. I gently ran an index finger over one of my nipples, yearning for some sign, some increase in sensation. Some sense of progress.
Nothing.
On the bright side, I hadn’t noticed any unusual mood swings, though I wasn’t exactly living in a period of calm. I sighed, lifted my light green nightie over my head and let it slide down my body, a silky caress, a hope for better days. The bed beckoned and I dove under the covers.
A headache, a raging thirst, and a full bladder forced me awake in the middle of the night. I blearily took care of all three and went back to bed. For once, I was not troubled by dreams.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 21
I woke up at my normal time – normal, that is, for when I was working, exercising, and doing voice lessons. 5:00. I smiled sadly, thinking of how many things I had let go over the past week, forced to focus all of my energy on the emergency at hand.
The aches in my body told me I would not be able to exercise right now even if I had the space, and even stretches would be painful. For all that, I didn’t feel horrible. I had slept well and my headache was gone.
I raised myself in the bed, a bit more gingerly than usual. My skin felt sensitive. Getting out of bed, I was steady, but definitely felt a little weak. I pulled my thin lingerie strap back to my right shoulder where it belonged, slipped into my dark green dressing gown, and went into the common area to take my temperature. 99.8. Well, it had been five hours or so since I’d had any medicine. So, not too bad.
I was thinking about my last night out with Nicole. How we had gone shopping at the mall and had a nice dinner out, knowing that we might not be able to do such commonplace things again for some time. Maybe I should spend some time this morning taking care of my appearance. I was strong enough to do it, right now. Steady enough. I had the luxury, at that moment, to care about it.
Who knows when I might feel good enough next?
I used Nair liberally. I showered, slowly, luxuriously, taking time to use the moisturizing soap all over my skin and even followed the shampoo bottle’s injunction to lather, rinse, and repeat. Applied conditioner and simply let the hot water massage my body while I waited for the conditioner to do its thing.
Out of the shower, I put mousse and curlers in my hair, turbanned up, then sat on the toilet and rubbed baby oil all over. When that dried, I reapplied my breast forms, concealed the seams, put on my robe and went into my bedroom. My toenails, then my fingernails, got treated to a warm, rich shade of brown.
While they dried, I sat, sipped some hot liquid beverage, and listened to Chopin.
Nor was I finished. I styled my hair, parting it slightly to my right and allowing curls to spill down my back and over my left shoulder. Imagining Javier beside me, giving me lessons in the mysteries of cosmetics, I took unusual care of my makeup, and applied the barest hint of scent behind each ear and in the hollow of my throat.
Rather than the practical underwear, jeans, and T-shirts I had been wearing, I pulled a pretty pair of lacy boy shorts over my panty gaff, with a matching bra and a pair of nylons. I had one skirt – my favorite, full skirt in a red wool — and Nicole had packed one cute top that was neither utilitarian or work-related, a soft white cashmere sweater with a v-neck and half sleeves. A pair of drop earrings, my watch, and a pair of pumps finished the look.
It was a completely inappropriate, wildly impractical outfit for the day, and it lifted my spirits tremendously.
Fiona called promptly at 6:30. She had calmed down after yesterday’s shock, but the detached professional of the past week was still not much in evidence. I told her that I had not heard from Rob yet this morning, but that the virus had been hitting him harder, especially by the evening.
She warned me not to get too confident: “CIVID’s weird, Cami. People’s symptoms are wildly different, their incubation periods seem to be different, and the course of the virus is different. He may do better than you today, or not. No telling.”
I told her about the trouble I had getting information out of the hospital. She cursed. “Goddammit, they know better. HIPAA does not prevent giving patient information to next of kin in situations like this, so long as the treating physician okays it.” She promised to call them, again.
“Fi, I should probably tell you that I tried to call Dad yesterday. To tell him about Iain. He wouldn’t take my call, so we had a lengthy text exchange. He said we should let him know if there is anything Iain needs for his physical care, so that’s good. But he otherwise made it clear that Iain was on his own.”
I thought carefully how to say the next part. “We had a bit of a theological dispute which, ah, resulted in our excommunicating each other. So to speak. He said I was no son of his, which I couldn’t exactly dispute. And I said I would no longer consider him my father.”
She was quiet for a moment, then started to chuckle. She was clearly trying, and failing, to suppress the laughter, and eventually it overwhelmed her completely.
Finally she was able to say, “I’m sorry, Cami. Really I am. I certainly know how much that experience hurt when he did it to me. But the mental picture of you texting thundering denunciations at each other . . . . And, he doesn’t even know you're trans?”
“No, we didn’t manage to get to that part,” I confirmed. “But, yeah, we did get a little Old Testament there by the end.”
“I’ll bet,” she said, then added, “But I have to say, good for you. For reaching out, which was more than I thought to do – and for sticking up for yourself and for Iain. He’s been bullying all of us for too long, and I’m glad you spanked him.”
“I told him I wasn’t going to use his name anymore. I’ve started researching how to change it.”
There was a pause before she responded. “Wow. You must have been pissed!”
“I was,” I agreed. “But I’m not now, and I still feel the same way. It’s time to make a clean break.”
“Have you chosen a new name?” she asked, sounding almost shy.
“I’m mulling it over. In the spare time the Lord has seen fit to provide in ample supply.”
She laughed. “Well, keep me posted, sis. I’d hate to not know your name. . . . Look, I’ve gotta go. Again. Rest, lots of fluids. Send regular reports. Text if you need me in a hurry. Okay? If I know you’ll do those things, I won’t go out of my mind or get in a car and come haunt you!”
“I will. And Fi . . . I love you, sis. You’re my hero.”
I had been up for almost two hours, and I was already feeling fatigued. I checked and discovered that my temp was still 99.8, or possibly was 99.8 again. I decided I’d take the Advil dose at 7:00.
In the meantime, I stripped everything off my bed and made a neat pile of the sheets, pillow cases, blankets, towels, and my own pile of laundry. I decided to surrender modesty and added my delicates to my laundry pile. I’d rather not have strangers going through them, but it was more important that the job get done. I might never even meet the person who was going to help us.
I waited until 7:15 before contacting Rob; I didn’t want to wake him prematurely, but he would need to be ready when Henry’s guy arrived.
He responded to my text by calling. “Morning, Cami.” He sounded congested. “How’d you sleep?”
“Pretty well. Temp’s creeping up, and I’m a bit tired and achy, but not too bad. You don’t sound so good.”
“My head feels like someone’s pumped water into it,” he said. “I slept straight through, which is good I guess, but it also means I got behind on the drugs and fluids. The headache’s pretty bad.”
“I’m up and dressed, so come over whenever you're ready. I’d say you’ll love your breakfast options, but you won't. Tea or coffee today?”
“Let me start with some coffee; it’s possible some of this headache is caffeine withdrawal. I’ll be over in ten.”
When I opened the door in response to his knock, he did a double-take and dropped the handle of his suitcase.
“Are we expecting company?” he asked, sounding confused.
I got him inside, grabbed his bag and pulled that inside too, then closed the door. He had come in and turned around, and was giving me a very appreciative look.
“Well thank you, sir! But no. I just knew I could do it today, and . . . and who knows? Maybe tomorrow I won’t have the stamina. So I decided to indulge myself while I could.”
I could see understanding in his eyes. He said quietly, “Yeah. I get that.” Then he slowly sank into one of the chairs in the eating area. “You mentioned something about coffee?”
I handed him a mug of what the Keurig produced. Normally I didn’t care for Keurig coffee, but now it was all alike to me, and I wasn’t going to add a caffeine headache to my woes. I joined him.
I had him go through his symptoms, taking notes. His sore throat was maybe a bit better, but he was stuffed up, had a headache, body ache, and overall weakness. He was at 100.9.
“I really don’t like where your fever is. When was the last dose of medicine, and what was it?
“I had a Tylenol just before I came over. Call it 7:30.” His voice caught and he coughed.
“Okay, Rob. Take the comfortable chair and sit still for a bit. Give the Tylenol a chance to kick in. Meantime, I’ve got something for your stuffed head; it should help a bit with the sore throat, too.”
I handed him a mug of a cold and flu medicine that came in the form of a powder which was mixed with hot water. He took it, looking weary, and started sipping it.
A few minutes later, we heard a car, then a car door, then the thump of something being dropped by the door. There was a sharp wrap on the door.
From the inside, I said, “Mr. Hutchinson is here. We’ll have the laundry ready for pickup in an hour.
A male voice responded, “You got it,” then I heard him walk away.
I opened the door, waved to the man as he drove off, and pulled the bags into the room. There were four large shopping bags with blankets, sheets, pillow cases, and towels that matched what was in the motel, as well as several large bags, in an opaque heavy-duty plastic, that were clearly intended for our laundry.
“The Tylenol is definitely kicking in,” Rob said. “As well as this other stuff. If you can give me twenty minutes, I’ll help you pull everything together.”
“Sure. Take half an hour, even. I’ll be generous. But what I’ll really need help with is making the beds. I can pull the stuff together for the laundry run in the meantime.”
So I did that, and as I was getting back from his unit with a bag of laundry, he got himself out of the chair.
“Hold on a sec,” I said. “I’d like to get another reading.”
His temp was back down to 100 even.
“Outstanding,” I said, relieved.
The laundry was all set, so we sealed the bags, then we both put on our masks and I sprayed down the outside of each bag with Lysol. Promptly at 9:00 we put them outside the door, and they were picked up moments later.
Rob was definitely feeling better, so we went next door, put our masks on, and cleaned and sanitized every surface. We took the new linens out of the bag, put the towels in the bathroom and made the bed. Rob made a last check, then we closed up and he went to turn in the key.
I went back into the unit we were now sharing and took a turn in the comfortable chair. It was 10:00 and I’d been going for five hours. I took off my shoes – why had I decided to wear pumps? – tucked my feet, and closed my eyes for a minute.
Something brushed my cheek lightly. I blinked stupidly for a moment, then saw Rob perched on the arm of the chair.
“Sorry about that,” he said softly. “I hate to wake you, but I think you need more medicine. I’d like to check your temp, too. Then I’d suggest you lie down for a bit. I’ve made the beds.”
“I was supposed to help with that!” I protested.
He looked serious and put his fingers back against my cheek, holding them there. “Each of us is going to need to do what we can when we have the strength to do it. I was useless earlier and you wore yourself out. So it was my turn. Now sit here a minute.”
He got up, invaded my ear with the thermometer, and said “100.7. Okay, Cami. Time for Tylenol, then go lie down.”
I took the pills, smiled and said, “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
He chuckled. “Wrong service branch, Cadet. Fifty demerits!”
I went to go lie down.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 21, afternoon
I woke up at about 12:30 in the afternoon, rolled out of bed and used the restroom. Fixed my makeup. Rob wasn’t in the common room. He had left the door to the bedroom he was using slightly ajar, so I was able to check on him. I thought, I should make a point of doing that, too.
He was sleeping. His breathing was a bit louder than one would expect, but otherwise he seemed like he was okay.
I felt less tired. My temp was back down to 100.1, but the aches were still there. I filed another log entry, opened my laptop, and checked emails. Then I spent some time on my name change research.
At 1:00 I took some Advil and made a log entry. I checked Rob’s log and saw that he would be due for Tylenol at 1:30. If he weren’t awake by then, I would bring it.
I called the hospital. Iain still hadn’t been admitted to the ICU, he hadn’t signed anything, and they remained close-lipped about his condition. HIPAA.
My phone rang. I checked the screen and was shocked to see the caller ID from my contacts pop up. It said “Mom.” She hadn’t called me since just after Halloween.
This one could get loud, I thought. To avoid waking Rob, I took the call in my bedroom.
I answered it with a noncommittal “Hello?”
“Cam? That you? You sound like Fiona.”
“It’s Cam,” I said, though I didn’t make any effort to drop to a lower register. Consistency would probably work better.
“Did it occur to you that I might want to know how Iain is doing?” she asked.
I bit back a retort; instead I said, “Let me tell you.” She didn’t try to stop me, so I plunged in.
“He was living in New Rochelle. Started feeling symptoms eight days ago. I got him into a motel where I could look after him while he isolated. Fiona gave me instructions. He had ups and downs, but he had an attack early yesterday morning where he was struggling to breathe. I called 911, and they took him to the hospital. He’s been admitted. They were giving him oxygen and waiting for a bed to open up in the ICU.”
She was quiet for a bit, absorbing all of that. “You’re still up there? In New York?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be there if he needs you?”
“Yes.”
Another pause. “Is there anything we –anything I – can do? I want . . . I want to be there. I want to see him. Your father says ‘No.’” She sounded like she had poured out a lot of tears.
I said, gently but firmly, “I think he’s right this time. New York isn’t safe right now, and they aren’t even allowing visitors into the hospital. If you came, you’d be no closer to seeing him than you are in St. Louis.”
She blurted out, vehemently, “I HATE this. I HATE hospitals. I HATE being helpless. I just have to sit here, and wait, and do NOTHING!”
There wasn’t really anything to say to that, other than, “I know. I know.”
She pulled herself together. “All right. I’ll wait. You keep me informed, understand? I’m going out to see your Gammy, so don’t be calling the home phone. Your dad’s not speaking to you.”
“Are you?”
She said, stiffly, “You’re father’s the head of the household. It’s his call. This doesn't count. S’an emergency.”
“Understood,” I sighed. If I remembered my Sunday school lessons correctly, Christ was the head of the household, but I wasn’t going to repeat my mistake of arguing theology with my dogmatic parents. Dad knew a chapter and verse to support whatever he wanted to argue; Mom just knew stubborn. “I'll tell you if I hear anything.”
“You do that.” She hung up.
It honestly hadn’t occurred to me that she wouldn’t follow Dad’s lead on this. But I was glad that I had misjudged her to a degree. She still cared enough about Iain that she was willing to defy the “head of the household” where her son’s life was on the line. Sometimes you take victories where you can get them.
I left the bedroom and got some water heating in case Rob needed an infusion.
Before they drove off, I went outside and blew them both kisses. They had given the world Nicole; they must be lovely people. Then I went back inside and put away the things they had brought.
Rob was working intently at the table in the eating area; I went into my room, FaceTimed Nicole and thanked her properly. She was relieved that I still appeared to be doing well.
I laid down again at around 3:30, this time leaving my door slightly ajar. Rob was again resting when I got up around 5:00. Our cycles were a bit off, but that actually seemed to work. We were both awake at the same time for dinner.
When we were done eating, I asked Rob if he would witness my signature on an HIPAA release I had prepared. “I don’t want Fiona to have to fight hospital bureaucrats like I’m doing to get info on Iain. In case . . . well. You know. I’ve drafted a durable power of attorney for her as well, but I want to find out if someone in the firm’s T&E practice can look at that one first. It’s trickier.”
Rob watched me sign the document, then added his signature.
“It seems strange – kind of melodramatic – to be thinking about this stuff.” I asked if he had a DPA then blushed when he gave me a strange look. “Of course you do . . . . I had forgotten your deployment.”
He nodded. “Yeah, you do get used to thinking about mortality over there. It takes a while to flip that switch back to normal.”
I toyed with my mug. “I should have gone too. To Afghanistan. 9-11 is almost my first memory of a public event. I grew up venerating service men and women. First responders. But when I was old enough . . . when I could make my own decisions . . . I looked away. Like Dick Cheney, I guess I had ‘other priorities.’”
His expression was impossible to read.
“I’m so sorry, Rob. I’m like all the rest of the people in this country who waved our flags, sent you off to fight for our ideals and our vengeance, and then went shopping.”
He reached over and covered my hands with his own.
I couldn’t help but notice that his hands were larger, strong and capable. Me, with my fine elfin hands, a soldier? Who am I fooling?
“Cami, no one’s ever apologized to me like that. What you said . . . there were plenty of times I thought about it that way. Over there, and even more, after I got back. Where was America? We were trying to do something big and important, and we were losing people. Some of the best people. But back home, it was ‘party on.’ There were moments I was pretty bitter . . . when I wondered what it would take to make people care.
“But I’ll tell you this, just speaking for myself. And speaking with a bit of distance. It was a privilege to serve. A privilege to be with those wonderful men and women who volunteered. And if you had met some of those people we were trying to help, in the towns and villages . . . . the women, the children . . . . Well. It was probably the most meaningful thing I’ll ever do.”
He released my hands and leaned back in his seat. “I know the President’s been eager to pull our guys out. I suppose it’ll happen sooner or later, and I don’t have a good feeling about what’ll happen then. Plenty of people loathe the Taliban, but no one likes the government. Or respects it. Still. Even if all we accomplished was to give people twenty years of something different – hopefully something better – I suppose that’s not nothing.” He was coughing a bit.
I got up and made him an infusion. While the water was boiling, I asked him what had moved him to volunteer.
He shrugged. “Good reasons and less good ones, I guess. There is a tradition of service in our family; we aren’t all syphilitic reprobates!” He smiled, but continued, “Patriotism, certainly. But probably more than anything else a need to prove myself, away from the cocoon of Clan Hutchinson.”
I nodded; that made sense to me. “I guess I went away to law school for similar reasons. But I should have volunteered. Even though I wouldn’t have made much of a soldier.” I found myself looking at my hands again – the soft, smooth skin, the delicate, tapered fingers. Useless.
He snorted. “Don’t be so sure. Remember, I’ve seen you in emergencies. You'd have pulled your weight.”
I gave him the infusion and sat back down. “Well, water under the bridge now, anyway. And, law seems to suit me, so it wasn’t a bad choice. Just . . . just a safe one. A comfortable one.”
“There’s nothing wrong with safety and comfort. And there are lots of ways to lead a meaningful life.”
We talked a bit, about our careers. Law and finance. What was interesting. What was tedious. He had gone into the army at twenty-two after college, served three years, gotten a master’s in finance and then joined the family business. He had only been employed there for three years, or so.
“I like it. We have a chance to help companies that are doing absolutely amazing things. To be a part of the development of therapies, medicines. Vaccines. And, that’s just the area I work in.”
We were both tired and called it a night. My temp was 100.4; his was 100.7. We started the night with Tylenol, and I set an alarm for three hours to take a dose of Advil at midnight.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 22
I still felt cruddy the next morning, but not noticeably worse.
Rob’s condition had again deteriorated somewhat overnight. His headache was back, his cough was more frequent and he had a bit of the chills. I got his information and suggested he take a long hot shower to warm up and to steam his throat and sinuses.
I had my morning call with Fiona. She was satisfied with the steps we were taking and just urged us both to get plenty of rest during the day. “The naps you both took yesterday are really important," she said. "Don’t try to power through this. Give your body all the help you can, okay?”
She was a bit concerned with Rob’s condition, though she assured me that neither his symptoms nor their severity were out of the ordinary. “I’m glad you’re there to take care of each other,” she said. “Robbie’s a really great guy.”
“Yeah. It’s certainly helping to keep us both sane.”
She must have detected something in my voice. “Ahh? And???”
I groaned. “Fiona Campbell Savin, I feel like death very lightly warmed over, Rob feels worse, and you want to play matchmaker?”
She laughed softly, but then she said, “Sorry, Cami. I couldn’t resist. There is nothing at all romantic in any of this. Believe me, I know. It just feels like forever since I was able to think about normal things, like . . . like . . . shopping, or dinner parties, or guys and girls. Or weddings . . . .”
Her voice caught. I remembered how happy she had been when she told me that she and Henry had set a date. Had that really been less than three months ago? But she had been dealing with COVID every day since – first in preparation for what might be coming, then for the reality when it hit.
“I’m so sorry, Fi. So very, very sorry. You’ve been carrying this load for a long time. I wish I could help you!”
“Well, perfect, honeybun, because you can. Get better. And get Rob better too!”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said contritely.
Rob came out of the bathroom, toweling his thick black hair, wearing jeans and a gray army sweatshirt.
“Better?” I asked.
He nodded. “It helped, for sure. But I’ve got to get this headache under control, if I’m going to function.” He sat down at the table and closed his eyes.
“Do you really need to function today? Might make sense just to rest.”
Without opening his eyes, he said, “Sunday’s really my best day to step back from what’s going on in the market every day and plot a strategy. I read reports, from our people and outside analysts . . . . “ He was pressing the heels of both hands against his head.
I went behind him, moved his hands and started massaging his temples again. “If you know a better technique,” I said, “walk me through it.”
“What you’re doing is great. It really is. But I’ve got pressure at the base of my skull, too. . . . Try putting your thumbs here” – indicating a spot just behind the ear, where the skull connects with the muscles of the neck – “and your ring fingers above each temple. Start light and slowly add pressure and a circular motion.”
I followed his precise instructions and he began to relax.
After a few minutes he murmured, “You have a good touch, Cami.”
I figured he would let me know when he had had enough, so I just kept at it.
Eventually he raised his right hand and lightly covered mine. “Thank you.” He slowly opened his eyes.
I resumed my seat across from him. “Back in the eighteenth century, I think you would have been described as a ‘man of many parts.’ You’ve been a soldier, you’re an investment banker, every woman at that Christmas Party can confirm that you’re an excellent dancer. And now, it seems like you know massage as well. What other talents are you hiding?”
He chuckled. “That’s Dad, mostly. He believed Henry, Sam, and I should be able to fend for ourselves. So we learned to cook, although neither Sam nor I are in Henry’s league. We can do simple sewing. Laundry, of course. Perform routine maintenance on equipment. Things like that. But Dad also believed we should be conversant in arts and literature. Play an instrument. Dance. Play chess.”
“Really? I can’t imagine that went over well!”
“When we were kids, we’d rebel sometimes, as you might imagine. ‘Why should we do this? It’s stupid! It’s boring!’”
He grinned, remembering. “He’d always give us this serious look and say, ‘Because it’s civilized, boys. Without civilization, we’re just a pack of apes throwing dung at each other.’ Sam and I – even Henry, I guess – always thought that throwing dung sounded way more fun, but . . . we didn’t want to disappoint Dad.”
I felt my eyes grow unexpectedly moist. “He sounds like a wonderful man. I bet you appreciate him now!”
“Every day,” he confirmed, “I mean, we always did. We just didn’t want to do things, sometimes. But Dad is the best man I’ve ever met, or ever will meet.”
A tear splashed on the table in front of me and I started to get up. “I’m sorry . . . .” I said hurriedly.
“Cami,” he said, stopping me. “That was thoughtless of me. I’m sorry. Please don’t go. I won’t pry, but if you want to talk about it, I’m here.”
I eased myself back into my chair, closed my eyes and dabbed them carefully with a paper towel. Once I had myself back in control, I opened my eyes and returned his gaze. “I honestly can’t imagine what it must have been like to have a father like that. I really can’t. But I don’t have anything to complain about. My father’s a hard man. Obsessed, in some ways. Still, he kept a roof over our heads and encouraged us to use our brains and be ambitious.”
He drank off the last of his infusion without taking his eyes off mine. “But, you still disowned him. I don’t imagine that’s something you did lightly.”
“No,” I said quietly. “It wasn’t. There was no love left in him, Rob. Not even for Iain. He offered to provide whatever Iain might need by way of physical support, but he didn’t even ask how he was doing.”
I looked away. Looked down at my hands, cradled in my lap. “Fiona remembers him as being very different when she was a little girl, but I don’t. He was always rigid. Rules and obedience and consequences. He didn’t even need to know I was trans to disown me; the fact that I dared to throw his Christianity back in his face was enough.”
“‘If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.’”
I smiled sadly. “First Corinthians Thirteen. Exactly.”
Moving somewhat slowly, he got up and took our empty mugs into the kitchenette. Then he gave my shoulder a squeeze. “I’m sorry. But it sounds like you are better off free of all that.”
I nodded. “I think so. It hurts, but we’ve both hit the point where the gulf between us is just too wide, deep, and fundamental to bridge. All we’re doing now is hurting each other.”
He decided he was in as good shape as he could be to get some work done, so he brought his laptop to the table and started working.
After I took my own shower and got dressed, this time back in practical jeans, a T-shirt, and a fleece, I put my hair back into my standard loose braid and draped it over my shoulder. I was about to go into the other room when I got an incoming FaceTime call.
“Liz!” I hadn’t seen her in two months, and our communications had been a bit sporadic.
“Hey, Cami!” Then she noticed my background. “Are you traveling?”
I nodded. “Long story though. How are you? What have you been up to?”
Liz, as always, looked vibrant. Red hair, green eyes, lean frame, and a predator’s grin. I could see that she was at her dining room table; morning sunlight was lighting her face, streaming in through the windows that led to her deck. Just seeing her brought back a flood of vivid memories.
“Well . . . work’s a bitch,” she said. “The governor ordered all ‘non-life sustaining businesses’ in the state to close their offices two nights ago. Telecom isn't really “life sustaining” – at least, most of it isn’t, and my part sure as hell isn’t. So we’re closed down. And, my project has been put on ice for now. ‘Not a good fit’ in the current environment. I was on a lot of phone calls yesterday that didn’t go anywhere.”
She shrugged. “It is what it is, I guess. On the bright side, I have been asked if I would do photography for a wedding next weekend. I guess the regular photographer bailed at the last minute.”
“I hope you said ‘No.’
She grimaced. “Tempted to, but . . . it’s Tish’s little sister. I don’t want to leave them in the lurch.”
“This is no joke, Liz.”
“I know, I know,” she replied. “But still . . . .”
“Okay, girlfriend, let me tell you about my week. Maybe it’ll change your mind.”
When I was finished, she looked stunned. “So, Iain’s waiting to get into the ICU, you’ve got it and are running a fever consistently north of 100, and you’re getting long distance medical advice from your sister?”
“That’s about it. Listen . . . I called 911 for Iain because he couldn’t breathe, Liz. I was holding him in my arms and he couldn’t get enough oxygen. He was about to die. This. Is. No. Joke. Please, please be careful.”
She looked at me sourly. “You’re a fine one to talk.” When I moved to say something, she raised her hand. “I know, Cami. You didn’t have any choice, and I do. I’ll . . . I’ll think about it.”
We talked about other things. Her relationship with Derek was getting more serious all the time. Liz confessed that they were talking about him moving in with her. “I know . . . weird, right? For me? But . . . also, not weird. I’m nervous about it. Real nervous. But I’m also excited.”
“I wish,” I said, “that I could give you the world’s biggest hug. Congratulations! I’m so happy for you!”
My call with Liz definitely cheered me up. There was something about her . . . something clean and sharp and bracing. I definitely felt better.
But Rob was starting to flag again. “My eyes just ache reading this stuff,” he said disgustedly, followed by a nasty bout of coughing. “Dammit. I really need to get through it!”
“Rob, if you tell me what I need to look for, I’ll go through the reports and summarize them for you. I don’t have anything to work on at the moment, and I’m reasonably sharp right now. You can grab some rest, and hopefully I’ll be done when you’re ready to think about it some more.”
He closed his eyes and thought about that. “I hate to take you up on that, but . . . it would really be a help. I’m just having trouble with my eyes; when I read, it’s triggering the headache again.” He coughed, sounding weak.
“Okay. The things that I’m really interested in . . . .” He launched into a surprisingly brief list, which included things that I would have expected, like inventory, margin trends, and R&D spend, as well as a half dozen things that would not have occurred to me.
I took his temp - 101.4 – got him some medicine, wrapped an ice bag in a dishtowel for his head, and sent him off to his room.
My own temperature was 100.5; not all that different from what it had been. Muscle ache, general fatigue. Loss of taste and smell. In other words, holding steady. I would take it. I plunged into the reports, taking notes as I went.
Two hours later, I was starting to droop as well, and I had developed a bit of a tickle in the back of my throat. I was just finishing up my notes when Rob came out of the bedroom, looking better but still squinting his eyes against the light. His temperature was back down to 100.8 but his cough was no better.
I got him a fresh infusion, changed his ice pack and had him sit in the comfortable chair for a few minutes.
He had the ice pack on his head and his eyes closed, but he was awake and alert. “Any chance you can give me your summary orally? The less I have to read, the better.”
So I did. It took only about fifteen minutes. He had a few follow up questions about different reports and I was able to answer them from memory.
When I was finished, he said, “That . . . was great. Perfect. Give me a minute.”
He sat still; so still I wasn’t even sure he was breathing. Then he said, “Could you possibly write some things down? Between what I learned in my meetings and your summary, I’ve mapped out the moves I want to recommend on five core portfolios. It’s clear in my head right now, but I just don’t have it in me to move.”
“Of course. Whenever you’re ready.” I sat at my keyboard and waited.
He thought for a minute more, then he started going through a list. For five different portfolios, he had recommendations for buying and selling that were dependent on how the market might move over the course of the next week or two. Long positions, short positions. Hedge buys. Options contracts.
The sentences were brief, like “Pfizer: 10,000 shares if it goes to 27.50.” Or “Long call on Tommosso Pharma, six months with a strike price of 15.” When he was done, he slumped a bit in the chair and coughed. “I think that’s got it.”
I asked if he would like me to read it back to him.
“Please.” He made one correction. He started coughing again, so he drank the rest of the infusion, though I’m sure it had gone cold. He asked me to email him my notes, which I did. He started to get up.
“Wait.” I shut off the lights and drew the shades. “Okay, that should hurt your eyes a bit less.”
He opened them in a gingerly way, then nodded gratefully. “Thanks. That should have occurred to me.” He made his way to his laptop, logged in, and then sent my notes on to his supervisor. “I feel like I’ve just spent an hour in the weight room.”
I closed my laptop. “Me too. I think I need to crash for a bit.”
“Good idea,” he said. “I know I just got up half an hour ago, but I may do the same. Are we all up to date on meds?”
“Yeah. All set.”
We slept most of the afternoon away. I tried calling the hospital. Still no change, and still no detailed information. Otherwise I rested, took medicine, drank fluids, and felt like a banana slug. But I was still moving, and that would do.
I got a call from Sarah, checking up on me since I’d missed the last meeting. When I’d filled her in on the latest happenings of my life and times, I recommended that the group should maybe suspend meetings for a bit.
“Well, shit,” she said. “Don’t worry about us — we’ll think of something. You taking care of yourself?”
“I’ve got the best and most dedicated virtual doctor on the planet. I’ll be fine,” I assured her, hoping it was true. But I probably ruined the effect by asking, “Sarah . . . Do you think God grants our prayers?”
She sighed. “Scholars write whole books on this subject. You know that, right?” Without waiting for my answer, she said, “I’m guessing you’re not looking for a treatise. And anyway, the best answer I ever heard was on an old TV program.”
“And?”
“Yes, God answers prayers. But Cami . . . sometimes He says ‘no.’”
We talked for a bit longer, but her warning rang in my ears, like the sound of a deep and mournful bell.
By the evening, Rob and I were both doing a bit better. We got up to have something to eat for dinner, more because we knew we should than because either of us was hungry. Afterward, we sat in the comfy chair and the couch, respectively, having some Gatorade.
“It’s a shame we don’t have a chess set with us,” I said. “If I’d known you played, I might have asked Nicole’s folks to bring one.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “Oh, don’t tell me you need pieces!”
I thought, Oh, my God! I used to be good – really good, back in college – and I prided myself on my ability to play blind. But that had been a while ago. And, I had just gotten quite the exhibition of Rob’s powers of concentration. Still, a challenge is a challenge.
“White or black?’ I asked with an answering smile.
“Oh, ladies first,” he replied gallantly.
“Pawn to king four,” I said, beginning the Ruy Lopez opening. He countered with the same move, then pivoted into the Berlin defense. Soon we were deep into the game. I was rusty.
But I was still good.
After five or six moves he just closed his eyes, seeing the board better without distractions, a small smile on his handsome face. I kept my eyes open, observing him as we played. Even with his eyes closed, his face displayed a lively intelligence and an active delight in exercising a skill that had clearly gone dormant.
We had been playing for over an hour when I said, “Knight to queen’s bishop six. Mate in three.”
He was quiet for a moment, internally looking this way and that. Then he laughed and opened his eyes. “Concedo. Well done! I haven’t had a game that good in a long time.”
“College, for me. None of my friends in law school were into it. Damn, I’ve missed it. Your dad was right. It’s civilized.”
“It is that,” he said.
We took out final temp readings and medicine and headed for bed.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 25
7:00 p.m., and I was dragging. The past three days had been a series of short periods of activity followed by shorter or longer periods of resting. When working, Rob was on his computer or on calls; I was using the Westlaw database to do research.
Russ Gardner had a team preparing a fifty-state survey of caselaw interpreting the impact of epidemics and government shut-down orders on business interruption insurance. The more states I could do, the fewer his team would need to cover, but they did have people to do it, if I wasn’t able. So far I had finished with Kentucky, Oregon, Ohio, and Wyoming. Light lifting, really.
But light lifting was all I could manage. I got tired after two hours of research, my throat felt strange and I had a mild, dry cough. Body ache was unchanged, but it was getting old. And my sleep was once again troubled and restless, filled with chaos and dark imagery. If I was in a marathon, it was a long way from over, and I wasn’t sure I had the stamina to keep going.
However bad I was doing though, Rob was worse. He managed to work for two hours in the morning and a bit more in the afternoon on Monday, but only managed an hour and a half in the morning and a half an hour in the afternoon on Tuesday. He’d beaten me in chess Monday evening, but we’d just talked quietly before going to sleep on Tuesday. He was too tired for mental gymnastics.
He had been markedly worse this morning and spent most of the day in bed, though he had taken a few calls and sat in on a conference call. No amount of ice, massage, or drugs could beat back his headache; his cough was worse, and his temp was now firmly over 102 degrees.
I had a brief call from Fi around 1:00, telling me that Iain was in the ICU, and that she had been able to speak with him briefly before he went in. “He was pretty out of it,” she cautioned, “but he knew who I was, and . . . well. He took comfort from hearing my voice.”
I thought, I’m sure he did. He’s convinced that Fi will save him. The hospital was not having much luck improving his condition, and they were worried. But at least she had been able to talk to a treating physician, so we had some real information.
Henry’s man had been by again today. Laundry and towels out, fresh towels in, and we had fresh bedding whenever we were ready for it. We also had a fresh supply of medicine, food, and Gatorade. But I’d taken care of collecting the laundry and getting the fresh things where they belonged because Rob had been sleeping.
Rob went straight to bed after dinner and was asleep again within minutes. I went into his room and observed him carefully. His brow was clammy and his sleep did not look very restful. His skin was blotchy, color uneven.
I really didn’t like how he looked or sounded, so I decided to plug the monitor back in. Back in my room, I got myself ready for bed. Brushed my teeth, removed my makeup, moisturized. That was all I had energy for. My green nightie tonight; the flannel was off getting washed. But even that failed to lift my spirits. I was tired, achy, and deeply worried.
However tired I was, I couldn’t get to sleep. A sense of deep foreboding had been growing all day, and as the sun went down it increased dramatically. I felt isolated, alone and terrified. I was still awake at 10:30, so I got up, slipped into my green robe, and got Advil for us both.
Rob barely woke, and looked no better. His temp was 102.2.
I went back to bed and tried again.
At some point I must have dozed off, but this was every bit the mistake I had known it would be. My nightmare returned in full force. Again, I was tossed up, down, and sideways by wild winds, like a damned soul in the midst of a hurricane. The seas raged black beneath me; lighting split the sky, and the wind and thunder were a mad symphony of fury, the soundtrack to the apocalypse.
But I knew worse was coming, and that was what I had dreaded so much it had kept me from sleep.
As always, I became aware of the sound first. The slow, powerful beat. Then, once again, I saw the creature rising from the depths, immense, titanic, lifted up by carrion wings that were vast and dark. The pulsing beat of the creature’s wings became louder, louder, blotting out even the sounds of the storm, the barreling roar and crack of the thunder, pounding at my mind, shredding my consciousness. My will to resist.
I opened my mouth and screamed, terrified but still defiant. “NOT THIS TIME, YOU BASTARD!!!!”
I tore myself from the clutches of the dream and practically fell out of bed. Stumbling forward, getting my feet under me, pushing for the door . . . . I was across the common room and inside Rob’s room in an instant. Only once I was inside did I realize that there had been no repeat of the prior incident. Rob was not struggling for breath. But he was bathed in sweat and shivering.
I stopped long enough to catch my breath and get my heart to stop hammering and the wells of my chest. Then I got water, Tylenol, and the thermometer from the common room, went back and perched on the side of his bed. “Rob. Rob! You need to take some medicine.” I shook him gently.
His eyes popped open and he looked momentarily wild. “NO! GET BACK!” But then he slumped, boneless but aware. “Sorry Cami. Seriously bad dream there.”
“Roger that,” I sighed. “Hate to do it, but we need to prop you up so you can get some Tylenol, okay?”
He shivered, tried to pull himself up, and failed. I cradled his head and shoulder in one arm, and brought both up high enough to manage. With my other hand, I put two tablets on his tongue, then brought the water to his parched lips. He drank deeply, then I laid him back gently onto the pillows.
I took his temp I saw that he had hit 103.2.
“I’m so cold,” he said. “So cold!!!” He was shivering badly.
I set the remainder of the water by the table, pivoted and brought my legs up onto the bed. I propped myself up against the pillows and the headboard, then pulled Rob over, cradling him to my chest. Covering us both under the two blankets, I wrapped Rob in a fierce embrace.
I growled to my inner demon, Not this time, you bastard. Not on my watch!
I fought off sleep. I told myself that I needed to carefully monitor his temperature. Fiona said I needed to bring him in if we couldn’t get it down once it spiked 103. She hadn’t said how long to try. So I held him, and I kept sleep at bay, and I prayed.
At 1:30 his temp was 103 on the button.
I held on, fighting sleep. He was still at 103, but it was moving in the right direction. I sang songs in my head to try to stay awake. Happy songs and stupid songs and anything with complicated lyrics that required concentration.
At 2:00 am, he was still at 103. His temperature hadn’t moved, but at least it wasn’t going up. I would wait longer.
Not tonight. Not on my watch. I tried recalling each of the moves of Monday night’s chess game, to try to figure out where I had gone wrong. There is usually a critical move – one which, in retrospect, is the hinge point for everything that happens afterwards. Usually in mid-game. I thought about it, focused, pushing against the tidal pull of sleep.
2:30. Finally, 102.8. He was no longer shivering, and I eased my death grip. As long as his temperature was not rising, I would wait to give him Advil until the three hour mark. He was below 103!
But now I had to confess to myself that I wasn’t staying just to make sure we could get his temp below the critical mark. I was staying because I knew, deep down, beyond any logic, that the dark angel would come for him if I left, if I slept. Would come for him as it had come for Iain.
And he would be in the hospital, and I would get no word, and bureaucrats in starched white uniforms whom I would never meet would tell me over the telephone that, so sorry, we can’t give you any information. HIPAA, you know.
Not on my watch!
3:00 came. He was holding at 102.8. No change.
I had figured out the chess problem. Now I was trying to think up limericks. “There was a young lawyer from . . . .” Well, where was I from, now? I couldn’t really think of St. Louis as home; it was just my point of origin. And even that was, in a sense, debatable. Cameron Ross Savin was born there, certainly. I had the birth certificate.
But Cami/Camryn – the terrified girl who had no last name – she wasn’t born in St. Louis. There was a young lawyer from . . . Pittsburgh? Well; arguably. And, it scanned. But what the hell rhymed with Pittsburgh? Shitsburgh, I suppose, but that seems a bit unfair . . . and anyway, I would need two rhymes for the limerick to work. . . .
3:30. Still no change in his temperature. I gave up on limericks. I dredged up prayers I had learned by rote when I was very young. Ran through them all. Tried making changes to adapt them to the present circumstances. “But Cami,” I heard Sarah say, “sometimes He says ‘no.’”
Not on my watch!!!
I had an argument in my head with my father about the theology of my modified prayers. Now, that was fun. But it also made me mad, and mad was good, because it kept me awake. Sleep was the enemy. Sleep was the demon’s ally.
4:00. 102.4. Hallelujah! I rolled Rob back into the crook where my left arm met my shoulder, propped him up a tiny bit, and slipped him two Advil. I grabbed the water and again brought it to his lips.
“Take just a little, Rob. Come on. You’re going to make it!” I murmured.
He managed a couple sips, then lapsed back into sleep.
I decided I would wait until 5:00 to get another reading, so I had to get through another hour. I started writing a convention speech in my head. Something that might bring peace to a fractured nation. Something that might give comfort to a frightened girl, fighting sleep and hoping that the Angel of Death might pass over.
5:00, and his temperature was down to 101.8. I positively sagged with relief. Almost there, I thought. Don’t give up now! I was out of mental tricks. I was just pinching myself, biting down on my tongue, my cheeks. Blinking furiously. Moving my jaw; easing my cramping legs. Sleep called, tempted, cajoled. And I fought back, with every ounce of my dwindling strength.
Not tonight, you bastard. Not tonight!
By 6:00 in the morning, miraculously, he was down to 100.7; neither of us had been under 101 since Sunday. I found myself weeping uncontrollably.
He had made it.
Through my tears, I saw him looking at me.
He was alive, and awake, and his keen intelligence was back in his eyes, re-animating his face.
I was overwhelmed with relief. With joy. I bent my head and whispered, “Oh, thank God. Thank God! You made it!” I leaned over and gently, almost reverently, planted a soft kiss on his parched lips.
I straightened. His gaze held my eyes. Touched my heart.
“Oh!” he said. “Do that again!”
To be continued . . . .
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
Mount Vernon, New York, March 26
What color were Rob’s eyes? I was looking down at them through a prism of tears, and they appeared to be the most welcome, and the most welcoming, sight in all the world. Dark gray, perhaps? But there were shades of blue, flecks of green, a small spray of gold near the pupils . . . they were, I decided judiciously, quite possibly the most fascinating eyes I had ever seen up close. Worth a great deal of inspection. And I could think of few things, right then, that I would rather do.
But there were two things that had an even higher priority. One, I desperately, desperately needed to sleep. I had forced myself to keep vigil, to keep alert throughout the long night that just ended, waiting and hoping and praying for his COVID-induced fever to break. It finally had. He had come through. But my own fevered body craved sleep like an addict craves a hit.
On the other hand, my most urgent priority was blessedly simple. I had kissed Rob, and he asked me to do it again, and right now there was nothing – absolutely nothing – I wanted to do more.
He was pinning my left arm, but my right was free. So I cupped my hand along the curve of his left cheek, bent down and touched my lips to his. Softly, at first, but I seemed to sink, to melt, into the kiss. I felt the palm of his hand – his left hand, my mind irrelevantly insisted on informing me, since I was pinning his right arm – slide behind my neck. Holding me close, drawing me deeper and deeper into that truly remarkable kiss.
Eventually, my overstimulated, sleep-deprived brain managed to generate a thought that was both germane to the situation and actually important: Rob was still stuffed up, and he was going to need to breathe. Eventually. Probably even soon.
So with great reluctance I pulled my lips back, retreated. Maybe two inches. I had an even closer view of one of those remarkable eyes. Both, really, but it would make me cross-eyed to try it.
“I think I could get used to that,” I said.
“I think we should find out,” he murmured in reply.
I bent to his lips again, slipping my free hand into the thicket of his coal black hair, while his own free hand slid lower, caressing my bare shoulder. This time I felt my whole upper body mold itself to his.
We broke our kiss again, and this time I rolled back to my side and he rolled forward to face me, separated by no more than a foot, our free hands resting on each other’s shoulders. Those remarkable eyes again . . . .
“Rob, I was so scared for you last night. It took a long time . . . a long time . . . to get your fever back down under 103. I probably should have brought you in, but I couldn’t. I just had such a bad feeling. Like I wouldn’t see you again if I did. You were burning up, but you were shivering . . . .”
I must have sounded a bit hysterical. “Shhhhh, Cami. Shhhhh. Hush now.” His left hand slowly circled my right shoulder. “Hush. I’m back now. You brought me back. It’s okay.” His lips – very kissable lips, it turns out – cracked into a smile. “I suppose it was too much to hope that a beautiful, scantily clad woman slipped into my bed to seduce me.” His fingers played with the delicate shoulder strap of my light green nightie.
I found myself blushing. “I really hadn’t thought about it. But now that you bring it up . . . .”
He chuckled. It was throaty and full of amusement. Of merriment.
God! I had made it through that awful night, and to hear such a sweet sound in the morning!
“Cami, dearest, you look like you are trying to force a truck to go uphill with nothing left in your tank. Just close your eyes. We’ll have plenty of time, you and me.”
I said, “Fiona” but he cut me off, saying, “Calls at 6:30. I know. I’ll tell her you're sleeping and give her a full report. Okay?”
I smiled. “A full report?”
He pretended to examine the spaghetti strap of my nightie carefully, rubbing it thoughtfully between thumb and forefinger. “Oh, I might leave a few unimportant details out. . . . However, if I leave medical details out, your dragon will incinerate me, and then where will we be?”
I brought my foggy brain to momentary focus. “Ah. Right. Okay. I didn’t make log entries last night, but the information is kind of lodged in my brain, you know? Your temp was at 103.2 at 1:00 am, 103 at 1:30 and 2:00; 102.8 at 2:30, 3:00 and 3:30, 102.4 at 4:00, 101.8 at 5:00 and 100.7 just now. You had Tylenol at 1:00 and Advil at 4:00. Got all that?”
He looked startled, then tapped his head and nodded. “I do. But, while that’s very useful, I doubt your dragon will be impressed. What are your own stats?”
“Oh! Sorry. I was busy. But . . . I had . . . Tylenol? When you did . . . . I think.”
He shook his head. “I am so doomed. She’s going to kill me.” He raised himself, reached across me and grabbed the thermometer. We were both getting adept at changing the disposable cap. He checked me and said, “101.6. Still not good. So, you’re going to take your Tylenol, Right Now, and then you are getting some sleep. Okay?”
Putting down the thermometer, he grabbed the pills and placed two gently on my tongue. He propped me up and had me finish the glass of water that was on the nightstand, then eased me back into the pillows. Last, and by far best, he bent down, kissed my forehead, and said, “Sleep.”
I smiled one more time before sleep reached up and pulled me under.
I woke up, feeling disoriented. I was back in the room I had stayed in while I was caring for Iain, and I had a moment’s sleepy thought that the last several days had only been a dream. My dreams were so vivid, sometimes. But this morning’s triumph – that had been no dream. Nor what had followed. I found myself smiling at the memory.
Once I’d maneuvered myself into a sitting position I took stock. My phone was by the bedside; presumably Rob had talked to Fi. She would be worried, I know, not having heard from me. I should send her a text and let her know I’m okay.
Rob had thoughtfully brought my dark green dressing gown and slippers from the other bedroom and laid them on the chair. I took the hint and got up, tugged my way into my robe and slippers and picked up my phone. 10:26 am. My goodness! I couldn’t remember the last time I slept so late.
My throat felt raw and there was no diminution in my body’s deep aches. I could tell that I was still running a fever, which I confirmed it with the thermometer: 101.7. Bah! I still felt gritty and sleep deprived, but I needed to use the facilities, and I needed a shower . . . and fresh clothes . . . and something to eat.
I poked my head out the door, feeling a little nervous. Would Rob regret this morning’s incident? God knows, I don’t! But if he did . . . Oh, I didn’t want to think about that. Not at all. But Rob wasn’t in the common area.
He had, as usual, thoughtfully left the door to the other bedroom slightly ajar so I could assure myself that he was still here, and all right. He had taped a note to it: “Hi Cami - Fiona told me to let you sleep a full six hours if possible, then wake you up for more drugs. If you get this first, I’m just taking a short nap. Wake me up if you need anything.”
I smiled, confirmed that he appeared to be sleeping peacefully, then carefully closed the door so as not to disturb him. I would be due for more medicine in around half an hour; he should be on the same schedule.
I went and took care of business, then went to get something for my throat. Some liquid; it didn’t much matter which since they all tasted the same. My phone buzzed on the counter of the kitchenette.
“Hello? I answered.
“Is this Cameron Savin?” a very official voice inquired.
My heart skipped a beat. “This is she.”
“Cameron, this is Ida Spear from Mount Vernon Hospital. I’m very sorry. Your brother Iain passed this morning.”
She was still speaking. Saying something. I tried to concentrate on it, but her voice sounded far away. Redshifting, like the sound of a siren as an ambulance races away, speeding towards a hospital . . . fading. My peripheral vision was narrowing, black at the edges, turning into a long, dark tunnel. I felt a powerful, bone-jarring pain against my knees, like someone had hit them with a crowbar, and the floor began to rise up, up; I threw out an arm just before it hit my face. I couldn’t hear the voice anymore . . . . I could hear nothing but the pulsing beat of dark wings. What was she saying? Everything was black.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 26, immediately following
I saw light. Not much, at first, but it was real. And I was back, yet again. Storm-tossed, my body falling and rising, buffeted by winds created by those monstrous, ink-black wings. I spun this way and that, my will gone. Tossed forward, I saw the creature’s face for the first time. Shockingly beautiful, a perfection of line and form, instantly conveying knowledge, wisdom, power . . . . A noble face. The face of a leader, a ruler.
Or a judge.
I had failed. Failed Iain. Failed Fiona. Failed, failed, failed. The creature raised a hand and the buffeting winds ceased. Without the wild winds’ support, I plunged, headfirst, then feet-first, twisting and cartwheeling faster and faster, until I finally hit the water and slipped below the surface of an inky sea that instantly enveloped me in dark and cold. So very cold!
I could not stop my descent through the icy water, going deeper and deeper. My dream vision began to fray at the edges, failing just as my earthly vision had failed.
Light returned again. But now I was in a snow-bound clearing, surrounded by deep, dark, majestic pines. Figures began to emerge from the silent trees. Walking towards a hole in the ground . . . a hole that held a box.
Oh, Iain!
But the figure in the box was not my brother. It was me. My image seemed peaceful. Eyes closed, hair meticulously arranged, as if Al had done it. The makeup showed Javier’s finesse. But I was pale and thin, and my curves would never be real.
I looked at the people who had come to stand by the hole. Robert, in a black suit and long coat. Rob! I so wanted you to teach me how to dance! And my wonderful, beautiful Nicole, her angel’s face streaked with tears, holding onto Maggie with a desperate grip. I won’t be there to help make our podcast. Another promise broken. Sarah was there, and Al and Javi, grief ridden, silent. Liz – vibrant, sharp Liz – stood out in red, her face carved in bitter lines.
And closest to the hole, to the box, Henry stood, despair eroding his handsome features, his arms wrapped protectively around a figure in black, suddenly fragile, fey and frail, the shattered remains of a once-heroic spirit.
Fiona! I failed you!! I could not even bear to look at her grief-ravaged face.
But there was one figure who displayed no sorrow. Instead, her face was consumed by seething contempt and scathing, magma-hot fury. She brushed past the mourners like they weren’t there, ignoring the hole, the box, and the pale figure inside it. Her hot gaze looked straight at me, wherever it was that I stood as I observed the scene. Looked me right in the eyes.
Tina.
“Coward! Quitter! Loser!” She spat the wods at me, unleashing her fury. “You turned your back on these people!!!”
“Dammit, Tina,” I said, finding my voice. “Iain’s dead. I failed, don’t you understand that?” I answered her rage with a cry of despair: “FAILED!”
She looked singularly unimpressed. “Oh, that’s never happened before? Well surprise, Boo. Shit happens. So where’s your steel now? Fine for your sister. Fine for Nicole. Fine for Tina. Sure. They can suck it up and take more, can’t they? But not you, huh? Not the princess?”
She leaned forward, spat, and spoke with a precise, clipped voice. “Get. The Fuck. Up!”
I was shaking. “Let me go! You don’t know what you’re asking! You have no right!!!!”
Her eyes blazed white hot. “I have no right? Me? Please.” Summoning years of bitterness – distilled, bottled, and consumed to the dregs – she added, “Life’s not fair, bitch. Deal.”
I wanted to punch her, pound her. Wring her scrawny neck. But she was gone. They were all gone, and the clearing was gone. I was once again foundering in the depths, surrounded by the frigid, deadly water.
Spurred by Tina’s contempt, I forced myself to fight – clawing, struggling, kicking with my legs, pumping with my numbed arms, trying to stop my fatal descent. Trying to reverse it. I could see light above me and I pushed for it. Pushed, and pushed and pushed, lungs bursting, throat burning. Vision contracting. Growing weaker now. Pushing.
My head crashed through the surface into a world made new, then suddenly my eyes were open, and my lungs were drawing in air in great, gasping heaves.
Rob was holding me in one arm while he desperately tried to dial something on my phone.
I reached up, still gasping, and weakly grabbed his wrist. “No, Rob!” I got out between the straining of my abused lungs. “No.”
“Yes! You were turning blue! You need an ambulance NOW!”
“No,” I said again, still heaving. “It’s not COVID.” Panting, I tried again. “Shock.” Pant, pant. “Shock. Give me . . . .” pant, pant . . . “give me a minute.”
He dropped the phone and used both arms to bring me into a sitting position, holding me firmly but loosely. His voice was suddenly calm and professional. “Lean forward. Lower your head. Take slow breaths. I’ve got you. Breathe. Easy.”
I followed his directions, let his voice guide me. The pounding of my heart began to subside and my labored breathing grew longer, deeper. Eventually, I reached up and squeezed his arms. “Okay.”
He helped me to my feet, my knees for some reason screaming agony, and got me to the couch and eased me down. Then he went to the kitchenette and got me a glass of cold water. He held it while I drank down a few mouthfuls, then set it down and squatted in front of me, looking at me carefully with his remarkable eyes. “Talk to me.”
I said, simply, “Iain.”
His eyes closed briefly, in pain or prayer or maybe both. Then he got up, sat beside me and gathered me into his arms.
I wept, and I wept some more, until I had no tears left. For Iain, and for Fiona. For our mother. Even for our father, who refused to see his son, and now never would. And for all the families in all the countries in all the world, for all the people who were losing their fathers and mothers, their brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, lovers . . . . I did not have enough tears for them all.
The world did not have enough tears.
Through my anguish, I heard a voice, soft and comforting. A chaplain’s cadence, unhurried, calm and formal. “I know that my Redeemer lives, and that at the last he will stand upon the earth. After my awaking, he will raise me up; and in my body I shall see God. I myself shall see, and my eyes behold him who is my friend and not a stranger. . . .” Rob’s voice.
I let the words wash over me. “I don’t know if I can bear it all. And I have to tell Mom. And . . . and Fi.” My voice cracked and I clutched him tight. “Please, Rob. Please. Help me!”
He held me close and stroked my hair, my back, saying nothing. Simply being by my side, sharing the grief that was tearing me apart.
My phone buzzed again. I slumped.
Rob bent, picked it up and looked at the caller ID. “It’s Fiona, Cami. They must have called her, too.”
I nodded, took the phone in numb hands, and accepted the call. “I’m so sorry, Fi.” I had no more tears, but my throat remained constricted, choking my voice.
“I talked to the doctor,” she said. “They did everything they could. Everything I could have done. But . . . but I wasn’t there for him. He trusted me, and I wasn’t even there. He was all alone!”
“I know. Not me, not you, not Mom or Dad or even a friend. No one.”
“I don’t know if I can keep doing this. Sitting here, doing nothing! I can’t bear the thought that I could lose you, too. I can’t.” Her voice shook. Fiona, at least, still had tears to shed.
In my mind’s eye, I saw again that small, shattered figure by my bier in the frozen woods. That would not happen. That would NEVER happen.
Slowly, deliberately, and forcefully, I said, “Fiona, I swear to you. I will get better, and I will get out of this damned motel, and I will, by God, dance at your wedding, and no angel or demon in heaven or on earth will prevent me. Swear to God!”
The line was silent for a moment, then Fiona said, softly, “I believe you, Cami. I don’t know why, right now, but I do.”
We were quiet a moment. Quiet, but still very much present.
There were some practical things that we needed to discuss, but, pulling myself further and further back from the brink, I told her that I would take care of whatever needed to be done on the administrative side. “I couldn’t save him. Maybe no one could. But I can at least take this off your hands while I’m sitting around here waiting to get better. Please, Fi. Go save some other people from what you and I are feeling right now.”
She took a deep, deep breath and exhaled explosively. “Okay, Cami. Okay. I don’t know how long I can keep it up. I don’t. But I’m on it.”
Rob had kept his arm around me throughout. As I signed off with Fiona, he gave my shoulders a squeeze. “You need some medicine. And some food. And probably, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, a hot shower. Let me give you a hand.”
I nodded. He got us both some Tylenol and took our temperatures. 100.1 for him; 101.8 for me. I said, “Thanks, Rob. I’ve . . . I’ve got to tell Mom. First.”
He nodded and sank down beside me. I called her number.
“Cameron?” she answered.
“Mom, I’m sorry. Iain didn’t make it. We lost him.” Dead silence, as still as a grave in a dark, deep wood . . . .
“Damn it!” Her voice was clear and cold, bitter and biting. “God damn it to the hottest hell!”
The line went dead.
“I don’t think I can remember hearing her swear.” I tried calling her back, but she didn’t answer. I put down the phone. Closed my eyes, exhausted. Like I hadn’t had any sleep at all.
I stuffed my feet into my slippers and went back into the common room. Rob got up from behind the table where he had been doing something on his computer and folded me into his arms, holding my head to his firm, warm shoulder. We stood there a long while, silent.
Not moving my head from its resting place, I said, “I’m going to have to call the hospital now. Make the arrangements.”
He didn’t move. “What are you thinking?”
“We’ll have to do cremation. If we sent his remains to a funeral home, no one could be there. I’m contagious, you’re contagious, and no one else is available. It’s the only way.”
“Maybe it’s the best way,” Rob said into my hair. “It’s what I would want. Clean. Like . . .” Uncharacteristically, he stopped; didn’t finish the thought.
“Like what?” I asked his shoulder.
“I just remembered a verse. From Malachi. ‘But who may abide the day of His coming? And who shall stand when He appears? For He is like a refiner’s fire . . . . He will purify them and refine them like gold and silver.’ I imagine cremation is like that. A refiner’s fire. I’d want that.”
I thought about that for a bit. “For me as well. For Iain, though . . . Iain might prefer a Viking’s Funeral. Something dramatic.”
“I expect longships are hard to come by these days. . . . But it’s fire just the same, right?”
“Fire,” I confirmed.
Finally I sighed and pulled back to look at him. “Thank-you, Rob,” I said. “For everything. If I was alone here . . . well. Thank you.”
He traced my cheek with the fingers of his right hand. “Go make your calls. I’m here if you need me.”
I sat on the couch and made calls. The hospital wanted me to come in and confirm the identity of the body. I explained that I was in isolation. No, no one else was available. I suggested we do it by video call. They sputtered. Not permitted. Did they want me to come in? No, no! Not permitted.
I gave them some time to square the circle. In good bureaucratic fashion, it took them almost half an hour to come up with the idea that I could do the identification remotely. By video call.
I assured them that they were wise, very wise, to suggest it. We arranged a time. However, they could not release the body to me until the death certificate was issued. Things were very busy. Apparently. It might be a few days.
I called the Medical Examiner’s Office about the death certificate. They said they would get back to me.
Next, I called the Cremation Society. Yes, they could do it. But, I was supposed to be onsite, to positively confirm the identity of the body before the procedure. I explained the problem of being in isolation. They said they would need to get back to me.
Time for some Tylenol. My temperature was down to 101.1, but I had a nasty headache, on top of everything else. This time, the headache was not caused by COVID. At least not directly.
Rob passed on the medicine. His temp was down to a remarkable 99.7. His headache was gone and his throat felt much better, but he still had a cough, some body aches, and general fatigue.
I called Iain’s roommate. Mahmoud was very distressed, and lapsed into Farsi. Iain’s friend Mike was more stoic, but equally shaken. I had the impression that maybe Iain had been a different person, a less angry person, when family wasn't around. I hoped so.
It was 1:30 and I was out of gas. I struggled to get up; my knees were really bothering me. Rob was suddenly at my side, helping me up, guiding me into the bedroom. I pulled my feet from the slippers and sank down on top of the bed.
Rob said, “I’m going to leave this door open completely, and I’m going to be in sight. I am right here. No dreams this time, Cami.” He touched my face lightly.
I looked up at him, so solid. So warm. I touched the fingers that had brushed my face. “Rob. Someday – when all of this is over . . . will you teach me how to dance?”
Mount Vernon, New York, March 26, afternoon
Rob woke me up at 3:00 to give me some Advil. I was holding steady at 101 degrees; Rob had crept back up to 100. I sat up. “No backsliding!” I said sternly. “Get some medicine, right now. And some rest. You’ve been up for five hours.”
I could tell he wanted to protest, but he didn’t. “Okay, Cami. Give me an hour, but no more than that, okay?”
“One hour,” I said. “Don’t bother getting up; stay where you are.” I bent down, slipped his feet from the loafers he was wearing, then stood up. He was sitting on the bed, looking slightly bemused. I leaned in, kissed him lightly, and murmured, “One hour.”
He slept, and I kept an eye on him through the open bedroom door.
I checked my phone – no voicemails – and cleaned the daily junk from my emails. Russ Gardner liked my insurance analysis. His email included some follow-up questions and I sent a response. I sent a second email to Eileen, letting her know that Iain hadn’t made it, but that I was still in isolation and symptomatic.
I received an immediate response: “I am so very sorry for your loss. My prayers are with you and your family. Be safe.”
When I woke Rob at 4:30, his temp was back down to 99.6 (I was still holding steady). He took care of his business and emerged a few minutes later.
My video call to identify Iain’s body was at 5:00. I made some tea for both of us and we talked quietly. Waiting.
At 5:00 exactly, I received a FaceTime call on my iPad from an unknown caller. I set the pad on the table and swiped left. Rob came around behind me and rested his hands on my shoulders.
The man on the other end of the line was older, silver gray hair and a lined face. “Good afternoon. I’m Doctor Sykes. Let me first say how very, very sorry we are for your loss. And, I’m so sorry we have to do this over the phone. It feels so impersonal.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” I responded. “I want you to know – I want all of you to know – how much we appreciate everything you’re doing. And everything you did for Iain.”
He bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “I have to ask a few questions for the record, to establish who you are and your relationship with the deceased. I apologize for the formality.”
I nodded.
“Could you please state your full name?”
“My given name is Cameron Ross Savin.” His eyebrow rose a fraction at my phraseology, but he didn’t comment on it.
“What is your date of birth?”
“September 7, 1993.”
“What was your brother’s name?”
“Iain Frances Savin.”
“And when was he born?”
“July 2, 1988.” I had a sudden recollection of Iain at a beach house. The Jersey shore. Making a production out of blowing out candles on a cake. I must have been four. Where had that memory come from?
“When did you last see your brother?”
That memory was permanently seared into my brain. Iain, desperately trying to breathe, calling for Fiona. I struggled to keep my voice steady. “Last Friday morning. March 19, around 2:10 a.m.”
Rob’s fingers pressed on my shoulders.
“Okay, Cameron,” the doctor said. “We’re going to take the camera into the other room. I will show you the body and ask you to confirm that it is the body of your brother Iain Frances Savin. If you are not completely sure, or if the video image isn’t clear enough, please say so. It’s very important that we be certain.”
I nodded again, not trusting my voice.
The doctor got up and walked to a door; someone offscreen followed, holding the camera.
On the other side of the door, a body was laid out on a table, dressed only in a thin hospital gown. Cold. Lifeless. So pale the features might have been carved from wax. In death, he appeared calm, even peaceful. So unlike the passions that had animated his face in life. But there was no doubt.
None.
“I confirm that this is the body of Iain Frances Savin, born to Howard and Aileen Savin of St. Louis, Missouri on July 2, 1988. My brother.” My voice held steady, though tears were beginning to blur my vision again.
The camera moved to focus again on Dr. Sykes. “Thank you for your assistance, Ms. Savin. Cameron. And again, I am so sorry for your loss.” We ended the call.
Rob bent down and wrapped his arms around me. Then he guided me to the sitting area, put my mug of tea in both hands, and sat across from me. “Still can’t taste it, can you?”
I shook my head.
He took a sip of his own mug, then set it down. “Tell me about your brother.”
So we talked about Iain. The childhood prankster. The angsty adolescent. The passionate, often angry, man. The guy with the permanent chip on his shoulder. The mobile face, the powerful voice. Always dramatic, Iain. The only person in our family who would go toe-to-toe with Dad and not back down. Iain never backed down.
“I’m sure Fiona has better stories,” I said. “They were much closer in age. . . . I just hope she has a chance to sit down with your brother tonight and tell some of them. It . . . it helps.”
We sat quietly for a bit, then I sighed. “He was a complicated guy, and we didn’t have a great relationship. To some extent, we got along better in this motel room than we ever had before. Maybe he liked having a little sister better than a little brother. I don’t know. But I’ll miss him.”
We had some dinner and we talked some more. The day faded, and I felt a rising apprehension. I feared the night; feared sleep and the terrible dreams it might bring. When Rob suggested I should turn in, I resisted.
He looked at me evenly. “I understand that fear, Cami. I’ve seen it. Felt it, lived with it. Sometimes it helps to talk through the terrors. Not always. But I’ll help you if I can.”
I looked down at my hands. “It started after Christmas, like you guessed.” My voice was low. “At first I seemed to relive what had happened and what I’d been feeling in that library, when . . . when Jonathan came at me. But before long, the images went away. The only thing left was the feeling . . . the fear. I was terrified for Fiona.”
He broke in, surprised. “For Fi? She was downstairs, wasn’t she?”
I nodded. “She was. It wasn’t a physical threat. He was going to try to destroy her relationship with your family. I knew how much it mattered to Fi . . . especially since her own family was such a hot mess. I don’t think you realize how important family is to her . . . .” It’s impossible to convey just what family can mean to someone like Fiona.
I gave up with a shake of my head. “Anyway, once this damned pandemic hit, my fear has just gotten bigger and more generalized. It started invading even pleasant recurring dreams I used to have.” I blushed and decided I wasn’t going to describe those pleasant dreams in any detail.
“What I keep coming back to, over and over now, is a crazy scene where I’m falling toward a deep body of water, and I’m getting tossed around like a ragdoll by some sort of massive hurricane. And . . . .” I stopped, having trouble going further. My breathing felt uneven.
Rob was beside me; I hadn’t noticed him move.
He wrapped his right arm around me and held my hand with his left. “I’ve got you, Cami. You’ll get through this. What comes next, in your nightmare?”
I shivered. “A huge creature – I think of it as the Angel of Death. It rises up out of the water and spreads these massive, dark wings, like they would cover the whole world. I can hear them beating . . . .” Even the memory shook me.
He held me tighter.
“Anyhow, that’s what woke me, when Iain had his attack. And again last night. And this morning, when I heard the news, I was back in the nightmare, just like that. But this time I hit the water and sank like a rock, and then suddenly I was at my own funeral. And you were there, and Nicole and Maggie, Al, Javier, Sarah. Tina. . . . And Henry. Henry was holding Fi. What was left of her.”
I was weeping at the memory of Fi’s agony, crying uncontrollably. But I felt like I had to get through it. “Tina came and chewed me out. Then I was back in the water, trying to get to the surface. Running out of air. I was sure I wouldn’t make it. But when I did . . . .”
I paused, thinking about it, trying to recall what had happened next. It had been so quick. . . . But when it came back to me, I was filled with wonder.
“I hadn’t focused on it, Rob. Because just after, I was back with you, trying to breathe and stop you from calling an ambulance. But when my head broke through the surface of the water I saw the most beautiful thing . . . . No storm. No dark angel. Just a clear blue lake, a perfect, cloudless sky . . . snowy mountains . . . air so clean it almost hurt. It felt like the first day of the world.”
He just held me tight while I processed everything. At some point I dabbed the tears from my eyes and nestled into his protective arm, laying my right hand against his chest.
He kissed the top of my head. “Better?”
I gave him a little smile. “What? You aren’t going to tell me what my dreams mean?”
He chuckled. “Not a chance. You’ve got enough anxieties bouncing around your head to create a whole highlight reel of nightmares. Look. I’ve had friends of mine who were absolutely certain that they weren’t going to survive a mission. Positive. They knew it, and nothing anyone could say would change their minds. They were almost always wrong. Almost. Who am I to say? But I do think your dreams have shown your greatest fear.”
I nodded. “Fi,” I admitted, my voice heavy.
“More precisely,” he said, “that somehow, harm comes to Fiona through you.”
I chewed that over before saying, “I guess that’s right. I hadn’t thought of it that way before. But . . . I am petrified that somehow I’ll hurt her.”
“Have you always been close?”
I shook my head. “Not really. We were when I was small, but in a way a babysitter might be close to the child she’s watching. Fi’s seven years older. And when she went away to college, she didn’t just walk for the exits, she ran. We’ve actually become much closer since I’ve discovered I’m transgendered. In some ways, I think she saw it long before I did.
“But . . she’s always been my hero, even when she wasn’t there. The smart, beautiful, vibrant sister who would save the world. Who would reach for the stars . . . .” As the memories hit me, my voice grew soft and distant. “So long as she had a safe place to stand. A place to call home. A warm hearth. Family. Peace.”
He squeezed my shoulder gently. “Let’s see that she gets them, then. You need to get better, like you promised her. But no demon will come for you tonight. I will see to that personally.” He kissed me again, this time on my lips.
His kiss was soft and sweet.
I found myself responding, kissing him back with intensity and passion. I broke off, honestly a bit embarrassed.
But he chuckled, snagged some stray strands of my hair and tucked them behind my ear. “And here I was,” he said, “worried that I would go out of my mind with boredom being cooped up in a motel for weeks!”
My flannel nightgown hadn’t come back from the cleaner and my green nightie wasn’t dry yet, so I had to settle for yoga pants and a sleeveless ribbed t-shirt. I slipped into bed and he snuggled against my back, spooning against me. No angels or demons disturbed my sleep; the only dream I remembered when I woke up involved Albert Pujols returning to the Cardinals and playing like he had when I was young.
Sweet dreams.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 27
At some point in the night, between the last time we took some Tylenol and the time I woke up, we must have rolled a bit apart. I propped myself on my elbow and studied Rob as he slept.
His Hutchinson heritage was apparent in the squarish face, strong jaw and nose. But the bones seemed finer, sharper than those of his brother or uncle. His eyebrows, too, were thinner, less bushy. He did resemble his father very strongly, though I didn’t remember anyone in his family having those remarkable eyes.
Rob knew exactly who and what I was. Yet he had never, not once, treated me as anything other than a woman. Yesterday had definitely and dramatically altered our relationship, in a way that I found myself welcoming without reservation – but not without worry.
Would this new aspect of our relationship – what I was afraid to jinx by calling it ‘love’ – survive the bizarre moment in which we found ourselves, thrown together in a small space, helping and being helped? And, even more deeply worrisome, could it survive an encounter with the physical limits of my body?
Would he . . . could he . . . want me?
I tested my feelings, as carefully as Cameron Savin had always tested everything, unwilling to simply trust what I felt deep down. But no skeptic’s eye could shake the conviction that had lodged in my heart. It hadn’t happened when I kissed him; instead, it was when he had kissed me back. Oh, yes. I definitely wanted him, in every way that any straight woman has ever wanted a man.
I ached to reach over, to caress his fine features. To trace the line of his jaw with my fingers. To wake him with a kiss, welcoming the day. Instead, I slipped from the bed and let him sleep.
At 6:30 I spoke with Fiona and gave her the status of my arrangements for Iain. She agreed that cremation was really the only option and thanked me for handling everything. Then she grilled me on my condition and Rob’s, where at least I had better news to report.
“Rob really seems to have come through it,” I said. “His fever broke the night before last, and it’s stayed below 100 degrees since yesterday afternoon. The last reading we took at midnight was 99.1. He’s still pretty fatigued, but the other symptoms seem to be getting a lot better. Even the cough isn’t as bad.
“I’m doing better as well, but not as much improvement as Rob. My midnight reading was 100.8, I’ve still got all the muscle and joint aches, and I’m tired, and have some coughing. And, still no taste or smell.”
I got my shower and got ready for the day, sticking with jeans, T-shirt, and a fleece, together with a simple high ponytail. I didn’t have much energy for more. Rob was up and in the shower when I got out of my bathroom, so I fired up the Keurig. He came out of the common bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist and damp hair clinging to his temples.
“Oops!” he said, “I thought I’d be out before you were!”
I couldn’t help but notice his well-formed shoulders and chest, the latter with a modest amount of curly hair as black as what was on his head.
I swallowed my doubts and grinned wickedly. “I’ll let you know if I have any complaints!”
He returned my smile, put a hand behind my neck and brought me in for a kiss. “Hey,” he said gently. “Sleep okay?”
“I did. . . . Thanks for being there.”
He smiled again, then went to get dressed.
She was warm and supportive and wonderful. She asked about the arrangements and I told her about the progress I had made so far.
She said, “So you’re supposed to observe the cremation?”
“That’s the rule, yeah. Apparently some places were making no efforts to actually give people the right ashes, there was a huge scandal, and everyone had to establish rigid procedures to give the practice credibility again. But I don’t know how I can do it if I’m in quarantine.”
“If you do it, you shouldn’t be alone. I know I can’t be there with you in person, so don’t start on me! But, even if I could only be there by FaceTime . . . I want to be there for you. Think about it, okay?”
“If I haven’t already said this, my bad, but you are the most wonderful person in the world. Thank you. I don’t know what the arrangements will be, but I would feel a thousand times better if you were with me, even if you can’t be physically present. I miss you so much. You and Maggie both.”
“Then get well, girl,” she said softly. “Get well, and come home.”
I was a bit teary when we ended the call. I popped out to get something hot to drink, to help open my throat.
Rob looked up and raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just a bit weepy because my roommate is really wonderful. Which sounds strange when I say it – the weepy part – but I can’t help it. She wants me to FaceTime her if I have to observe Iain’s cremation, because she doesn't want me to be alone.”
“That’s a really good idea. Fiona and Henry might want to participate the same way. It could be a long time before anyone is holding any kind of funeral or memorial service. . . . But you won’t be alone, Cami. I’ll be there with you – if you’ll have me.”
“Now don’t you get me weepy, too,” I scolded. “But thank you. I . . . of course I want you there, Rob. Assuming, of course, that I can be there.”
I went back into the bedroom and made some more calls. Still no death certificate. The person from the Cremation Society said they were trying to figure out how to manage our situation, especially recognizing that it was likely to become a more frequent occurrence. He promised to call me back.
Mom still wasn’t answering her phone.
I went down for a nap around 10:00. I was getting tired of being tired. When I got up at 11:30, Rob was asleep in the other room. We both seemed to need a lot of sleep.
I was just getting myself some Tylenol when I got a FaceTime call from Liz. I took it in my room.
As soon as she saw my face, she knew. “Oh, no. He didn’t make it.”
“No,” I said. “He died yesterday morning.”
Her green eyes were more serious, more grim, than I had ever seen them. “I’m sorry, Cami. You tried so hard – fought so hard. All of you did.”
We talked a bit about Iain, and the arrangements I was making, and Nicole and Rob’s idea about being present by video. Liz suggested I try a new app that her company was now using for video calls, something called Zoom. Apparently it worked better for having multiple participants. She also said, “I’d like to be there, too, Cami.”
We talked a bit more. I listened carefully and determined Rob must still be sleeping, then I said, “Liz. Could I talk to you about something?”
She gave me a look that said both, “What do you think we’re doing right now,” and “of course.”
I dropped my voice. “I shouldn’t even be thinking about this right now. I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t help it. I . . . . I’m . . . .”
I stopped, frustrated, tongue-tied, feeling like a child. Or, I thought suddenly, like an adolescent girl. Just great.
Liz observed my efforts to get through a sentence. “Boy trouble? Rob?”
I blushed to the roots of my hair, and my voice got even lower. “Yes. Or, no. Not trouble. Not that. But . . . I think I’m falling in love with him, Liz. Which is crazy, I know it’s crazy. We’re stuck here in this motel room, day after day, and we can’t see anyone else, and my brother just died, and . . . and . . . . Oh, dammit, Liz! What am I going to do?!” I sounded like an idiot and I was embarrassed as all hell.
Liz looked uncharacteristically understanding. “Cami. Honey. Slow down. Take a deep breath. I don’t know why you expect your heart will wait for a convenient time to jump the rails; no one else's does. Don’t feel guilty about it. Now, suppose you tell me what’s been happening?”
So I gave her the details, ears all the while straining to catch any sound from the other room. I told her about our talks, and our chess games. About my vigil Wednesday night and how it resolved. About yesterday, and last night. About this morning.
Through it all, she was patient, listening carefully, asking a few clarifying questions. When I was done, she asked, “So . . . what’s the problem, Cami? You seem to be doing just fine.”
I stared at her, dumbfounded. Hasn’t she been listening?
She saw my expression and smiled slightly. “I’m serious. Listen. You're a wonderful person. Take that as a given; I know you won’t agree but everyone else does. If he wasn’t attracted to you, he wouldn't be kissing you. Oh, maybe the first time – you had just spent the night keeping him alive – but not the third time, or the fifth time.”
“But . . . .” I interjected.
“. . . but nothing!” she retorted. “Based on everything you’ve observed about him, is he someone who just goes around kissing people for no reason? Do you think he’s just having some fun?”
That stopped me. “No. Rob is . . . . I mean . . . . I’ve obviously been around guys all my life. Compared to Rob, most of them seem like boys, even the ones that are older than he is. Like Tim. Rob is serious. Solid. He’s, I don’t know. Substantial. I can't describe it. I don’t want you to think he’s not fun – you should see him dance! – or funny, or clever. But he’s the last person on earth I could imagine just playing around with someone’s feelings. He’s not wired that way. At all.”
Liz smiled and shook her head. “Oh, girl, have you got it bad!”
“I know,” I said, miserable. “I know. And I suddenly find myself wanting to be everything he could ever wish for, everything he could want in a girl. In a woman. But . . . but I’m trans, Liz. You know what I look like, under the makeup. Without the padding. I can’t be what he wants!”
“Learn something from my experience, would you?” Liz suddenly looked serious, even severe. “You need to be yourself. Never waiver from that. Never. If he’s attracted to who you are, great. If he isn’t, that’s his loss. As far as your being trans, it hasn’t fazed him yet. I’m not saying it will be all wine and roses, but don’t buy trouble. You are absolutely capable of satisfying a man, so long as he’s interested in you. And it sounds like he is.”
Liz’s hard-headed common sense finally managed to put some hairline fractures in my armor of self-doubt. “I hope so. I really do.”
She softened. “Give it time. This is all coming at you so fast. And you’re still sick, and you’re dealing with Iain. If there’s something there, let it grow at its own pace, and don’t tie yourself in knots if everything isn’t wrapped up in a bow by lunchtime. Okay?”
“Okay. . . . What would I do without you?”
She laughed. “That’s easy. You’d think too much and worry yourself silly. You’re in lockdown with a good-looking guy who wants to kiss you. Just enjoy it!”
I have amazing friends.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 27, afternoon
Rob was up again at noon and we had a bite to eat. I wasn’t positive, but I thought that maybe . . . maybe? I could taste something. It wasn’t enough to be certain, but I was encouraged, nonetheless. My temp was down to 100.5, and Rob’s had gone back to 98.5. He said he normally ran a little cooler than the average, but if he wasn’t completely at normal he was close
After lunch Rob tried to get some more work in. I sat across from him at the table and checked my work emails. One from rafe.oliveira flagged as “Urgent” immediately caught my eye.
TO: All Personnel, All Offices
FROM: Raphael Oliveira, Chairman of the Management Committee, and Evan Barksdale, Managing Partner for Personnel
DATE: March 27, 2020
RE: EMERGENCY OFFICE CLOSURE
As a result of the growing threat of the COVID-19 virus, the firm will be closing all offices to in-person work for two weeks, effective COB today. We hope to be able to reopen on Monday, April 13. However, if it is not reasonably safe to do so at that time, we will extend the office closure for an additional period.
All employees should bring their laptops home with them at the end of the day today, as well as other equipment and materials necessary to work remotely during the office closure. Employees who are not in the office today should contact the office manager for your location to arrange delivery of necessary equipment or material to your residence.
Our IT Department is working to evaluate software solutions that will allow us to function more efficiently from remote locations for a period. When they are ready, they will upload the necessary software to your laptops remotely. Details will follow.
This is a difficult time and we are sure you all have lots of questions. It would be most efficient if you emailed them to Lynn Oster; she will compile a list and we’ll work on getting everyone answers as soon as possible.
We will be in touch in the near future with additional information. Until then, we hope that you and your families stay safe.
When I finished reading, I said, “Well, I’ll be dipped in shit.”
Rob looked a question at me and I explained.
“Do you think the two weeks is real?” he asked.
“Seems unlikely, but we’ll see. I’m glad I’ve got my laptop here. But I just can’t imagine what this is going to be like. Everybody working from home? All at the same time?” I shook my head, thinking of a staggering number of complications. “How on earth can we do litigation when we’re scattered all over the place?”
Rob said, “I can see where that might pose more of a challenge than running my office with everyone working from remote locations. But I guess that the machinery of justice has to grind on, so you’ll all have to think of ways. On the bright side, it’s going to give more tech-savvy lawyers like you a bit of an edge.”
“Maybe.” I chewed it over. “I should definitely start thinking about how we can make technology help. I was talking to my friend Liz while you were sleeping; she was saying good things about an app for multi-person video conferences. I think she called it ‘Zoom.’ Maybe it would help. But it won’t be the same popping into someone’s office with a quick question. Or having a good litigation team meeting.”
Rob ran a search on his computer. “Yup. Zoom Video Communications, Inc. A good product, by all accounts. And the stock’s been nuts since early this year. Looks like we used it as part of our hedging strategy. Not my area, of course.”
He went back to work.
I was debating doing the same when I got a call from the medical examiner’s office, telling me that Iain’s death certificate had been issued. I needed to get things set with the Cremation Society, but the hospital agreed to hold the body while I did that.
Back in my room I tried calling Mom again. She still wasn’t answering and I was getting worried. After going back and forth, I decided I had better try to do something to make sure she was alright. I did a search and then put in a call to the assisted living facility where Gammy Campbell lives in Morgantown, West Virginia.
When I asked the receptionist if there was a way that I could speak with Catriona Campbell, she was apologetic. “She doesn’t have a phone in her room.”
“Would it be possible for someone to bring her a cell phone? It’s a bit of an emergency.”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Her granddaughter, Camryn.”
“Camryn, we don’t ordinarily bring phones to residents. Can we take her a message?”
“It really would be better if I spoke to her. Her grandson Iain passed away yesterday. COVID. And, I can’t reach her daughter Aileen, so I’m worried she might not be okay.”
“Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry! Poor Cat is going to be devastated! But you’re absolutely right. I’ll see if I can’t get someone into her room with a phone. Can we reach you at this number?”
I assured her that they could.
Five minutes later, I got a call back; the ID said “Sheila Tinsdale.”
“Hello?” I said, accepting the call.
“Is this Camryn?”
“It is.”
“Let me put your grandmother on.”
There was a pause, followed by a familiar voice, dry and matter-of-fact. “Cameron?”
“Gammy . . . I’m very sorry. We lost Iain yesterday. He didn’t make it.”
She was silent for a moment before saying, “Oh, the poor, poor, boy!” Her voice was brittle with pain. “Aileen told me you were looking after him?”
“I was. But we had to send him to the hospital a week ago. He just . . . he couldn’t get enough oxygen.”
She was silent for a moment. “This’ll hit your mother hard. You told her?”
“I did. Yesterday. She, ahh . . . swore a bit. Then she hung up, and I can’t get her to answer my calls. Will you try to reach her?”
“Aye, I’ll do that,” she said. “Iain . . . oh, he was such a scrappy, headstrong hellion. God, I loved that boy!”
“I know, Gammy. And he loved you too.”
“Thank you for being there for him. I’m so very glad you were. That he didn’t think he’d been disowned and abandoned by everyone.” She sighed. “Well, let me try to call Aileen. I’ll get you a message somehow.”
We ended the call.
Later in the day, I got a call from Gammy’s facility. She had reached Mom, who was grieving but otherwise okay. It wasn’t much, but I couldn’t expect more. No one should have to outlive a child; Mom had outlived two.
“I get that,” Rob said. “But why wouldn't that make her closer to the children who are still alive? Your sister is in the middle of this whole pandemic. You’re sick with the virus right now. She could lose you too. Is that what it would take for her to show any love?”
I had no answer to that. “I don’t understand her, either Rob. I never have.”
Two more nights, sleeping by Rob’s side. Sweet, dreamless sleep. Mornings looking at him, wrestling with my feelings. Wondering what he was feeling, but afraid to ask. Days living by Liz’s wisdom to simply let this evolve in its own time. To enjoy it.
We had been taking things easy. Resting, talking. Simply being in each other’s company. There had been touches, kisses, and tenderness. He would catch me looking at him; sometimes, while I worked, I felt his eyes on me.
Neither of us talked about it.
I had been uncharacteristically emotional. Memories of Iain would catch me unaware and leave me crying.
Rob was always there, providing comfort and support. Sometimes words; more often just a warm presence, a touch.
After a lot of back-and forth, the Cremation Society had offered to let Rob and me into the facility for the cremation so that they could adhere to policy, subject to certain precautions. We would be masked, and Rob even had Henry’s guy drop off face shields and gloves when he did our latest laundry swap.
The facility was the size of a small warehouse and the process was largely automated, so they decided that they could handle it without putting anyone at risk. We would almost never be closer than fifty feet from any of their personnel, who would also be masked.
Fiona had approved the plan as well. “I don’t know when you’ll stop being infectious, so you will absolutely need to take precautions. But, based on the layout, and the masks, face-shields, and gloves, it should be safe enough. Of course, you both have to stay well enough to actually do it.”
They scheduled the procedure for Monday at noon.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 29, evening
By Sunday evening, even my temperature had gotten back under 100 degrees and my aches and pains were receding. My sense of taste and smell were still impaired and I still had a lingering cough.
Rob was almost as good as new, though still fatigued.
Rob and I were discussing plans for the next day following a dinner that I was positive I could actually taste, though it tasted funny.
“That’s not you. Or else it’s both of us. That did taste funny.” He picked up the dishes, put them in the sink, then came back and started massaging my neck and shoulders.
I stretched forward, put my hands on the table and my head in my hands, and let him work.
“You are tight, tight, tight,” he said, as his fingers worked down my shoulder blades. He stopped after a couple minutes and rested a hand lightly on my back. “Let me do this properly. Go lie down. And remove your fleece; the fabric’s too thick for me to get through properly.”
I decided I would not read anything into his offer beyond what he had said. Don’t force it, Liz had said. So I took off my fleece and laid face-down on the bed. But I had worn a camisole under the fleece today; my T-shirts were off being washed.
Rob came and sat on the bed. He began, slowly and methodically, to give my back a thorough, deep and therapeutic massage.
I found my tension draining away. All my worries. It felt like even my grief became a dull ache as his fingers loosened every muscle group. After half an hour, I was not remotely sleepy, but I was fully, deeply relaxed.
I felt his lips brush my shoulder blade, then the top of my shoulder close beside my lingerie straps, then the back of my neck. I felt his warm breath in my ear, and heard his voice, low, husky, almost trembling. “You are so beautiful . . . so perfect! I don’t know how to love you properly. But I want to learn. God, I want to learn!”
Am I dreaming? Is this real? I rolled over, finding myself inches from those amazing eyes. Eyes filled with love. And . . . could it really be? Desire? Was it possible that this beautiful, wonderful man might actually want me?
I held his eyes in my gaze, pouring everything I felt for him into it. “Are you sure Rob? You know I’m not . . . .”
He stopped me. “I know. But you are all the woman any man could ever want. Could ever hope for. For the rest, for how we go about making love, you and me . . . the mechanics don’t sound complicated. People manage. The question is, are you sure?”
I framed his handsome face with both of my hands, somehow feeling his strength, his passion, his tightly controlled will through the sensitive nerves of my fingers.
“I’m sure, Rob. I could not be more certain.”
This time his kiss was fierce, exultant, full of his own desire.
I returned it with equal fervor, then parted my lips and felt his tongue, urgent, mix and mingle with mine.
Then he raised his head and shoulders, breaking the kiss. “I want you this instant, girl, but not like this.” His breath was ragged. “Let me do it right. I can . . . I can hold on.”
My laugh was low, intimate. “Not for too long, I hope.” I brought my hands in – my soft, slender hands – and slowly, teasingly, began to unbutton his shirt. He was using both arms to hold himself over me. I wriggled lower, continuing my work, then raising my head to kiss his chest where I had freed it. When I had the last button undone, I ran both hands up his abdomen and over his well-formed pecs.
“Okay, love,” I said. “Sit up for me.”
He pivoted into a sitting position and I followed him up, kneeling on the bed. I drew off his shirt and began to explore his fine, strong body with my hands. My lips. My tongue. His arms came around my back, digging into the muscles he had loosened, quivering.
“Oh, God, Cami!” He buried his head into my neck, my shoulder, kissing the sweet spot where the two joined.
It was wonderful . . . amazing. I was on fire, and I wanted more. Wanted everything. I brought my hands down, undid the clasp of his belt. Tugged and undid the button below. Pulled down his zipper, becoming clumsy in my own urgency.
He groaned.
“Lie down now, Rob. Lie back.” My voice was throaty, almost unrecognizable.
He lay back against the pillows, allowing me to pull his pants down, down, then off of his bare feet. His underwear, black and tight, was straining to hold his erection. I ran my fingers over the front panel, lifted the waistband and pulled them down, then paused to give him a most intimate touch, and a delicate kiss where it would make him writhe. I pulled his underwear past his knees, then off.
I stood up to admire him, lying there, so perfect. So desirable. I unbuttoned, then unzipped, my own jeans and – with somewhat greater difficulty (women’s jeans!) – pulled them off.
He was staring at me with wonder and desire. At me!
I didn’t remove my lingerie, wanting to preserve, as long as I could, the illusion of my feminine curves.
He raised his right hand, palm up, inviting me to take it.
I reached out, lightly resting the tips of my fingers over his.
He pulled himself to the sitting position, swung his legs on either side of mine, and pulled me close, his engorged penis crushed against the sheer silkiness of my camisole. He kissed me hungrily, tried to break off, then buried himself again.
My fingers were in his thick hair, and I was squirming sensually, straining to mold myself to him even more closely.
He managed to pull free, then lifted me up effortlessly, one arm behind my knees, the other behind my back. He kissed me again and tenderly laid me back on the bed.
“I had a few things dropped off with the laundry and the faceshields, Cami. Just . . . just in case. Things that will help. Give me a moment.”
He stepped to the door of the bedroom and came back a moment later with a package of condoms and a tube of something. He came back to the bed and sat beside me, excited but still in control. “Lie still now, love.”
As thoroughly as he had massaged and soothed my tense muscles, he now worked to bring every one of my nerve endings to a pitch of intense excitement. He stroked, he squeezed. He caressed. He kissed my arms, my throat, my ears, my belly.
When I couldn’t take any more I cried, “Please Rob! Please!”
Gently, tenderly, he removed my panties, then my padded panty gaff.
It was the moment of truth, but I was too far gone to be embarrassed.
He did not shy away from the evidence that there were, after all, parts of me that remained male, even if unimpressively so. He gave a single soft caress to the front of my penis, then he scooped up my knees with one arm, raising my ass off the bed. After sliding two pillows under my lower back, he gently pulled my knees apart. He looked in my eyes, not breaking contact, as put lube on his fingers and then probed, touched, and found my hole. I whimpered as his finger probed deeper, making circles.
Finally done with foreplay, he rolled between my legs, put protection and gel on his penis, and then set it against the hole he had teased open.
“This will hurt, Cami,” he warned. “At first. I will be slow. But when you’re ready . . . you’ll let me know.”
I looked at him with love, with desire, and wholly without fear. “I’m yours, Rob,” I said simply. “Take me.”
We began to push, and yes, it hurt. And my muscles wanted to fight him, and we had to work at it. But his eyes, like mine, were filled with love, desire, and sorcery.
The mechanics were not, after all, tremendously complicated.
Then he reached a point, a depth, and I felt something ringing within me like a great bell, deep and pure and powerful. I cried out, and I bucked, and the world was fire and beauty and magic. The magic of love, which finds a way.
He pounded in and out, driving my singing nerves to a whole new pitch. Then I felt him explode inside me, felt magma in the core of my being, and we clung together and wept for the pure, unadulterated joy of it.
A few moments later, he slipped out of me, then rolled off, capturing my limp body as he rolled. When his maneuver was complete he was on his back and my head was on his chest. His fingers stroked my hair, my back, my shoulder.
I kissed his chest tenderly, even as I brought up my hand to fondle his other pectoral muscle. “I think,” I said thoughtfully, pausing to take a contemplative nibble, “that you figured it out. Clever man.”
He chuckled but did not answer for quite a while. When he did, his voice was both warm and serious, “I don’t play around, Cami. Ever. I didn’t intend this to happen tonight; I was going to wait until after tomorrow, after you had said your farewells to Iain. I hoped that something might happen later, when you weren't dealing with everything. With your brother and your sister and your mother and grandmother.”
He sighed. “But I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted you too badly. Loved you too much. I’ve wanted you since the first moment I set eyes on you.”
I put both my hands on his chest, palms down, and rested my chin on them so I could get a better look at his remarkable eyes.
“I’ve cross-examined myself mercilessly, you know. Worried that my feelings might be, I don’t know . . . somehow colored by this crazy situation we’re in. Maybe even by hormones, God help me. But I’m certain my feelings are real, are true. If this isn’t love, I don’t know what love is. And I’ll tell you this, Robert Gould Hutchinson: I wouldn’t have missed this moment for anything in the world.”
His eyes were warm, but a twinkle reappeared, softening some of his seriousness. “If you’re going to make a declaration like that, you’ll have to tell me a secret.”
“A secret?” I had my share of secrets. Not all were mine to tell.
“Oh, yes. . . . One you haven’t told me. Or anyone else, as far as I know.” He was smiling fully now, but he wasn’t teasing. “What is your name?”
Rob had always called me Cami, but he wanted the formal as well. Because serious occasions would require it, and he was a serious man.
A memory flashed through my mind. A mall at Christmastime . . . my voice, saying, “Names are powerful . . . . When someone tells you what they want you to call them, they are trying to tell you something about themselves. About who they are . . . .” Was that really just three months ago?
“My name,” I decided, “Is Camryn Elizabeth Campbell.”
He answered back, formal as an attorney appearing at the Supreme Court’s lectern. “Camryn Elizabeth Campbell. . . . I love you.”
White Plains, New York, March 30
Iain was laid out in a box. He was shrunken, smaller and paler than he had been in life. But I would know that face anywhere. Would remember it forever. I placed my hands on his cold, unmoving chest. A chest that would never draw another breath. A final touch.
I nodded to the distant technician, exaggerating the motion so that it would be visible through both mask and face shield, confirming the identity of the remains. Then I stepped back and rejoined Rob, twenty yards away from the conveyor belt.
We had an iPhone facing the furnace, and my iPad was open and facing Rob and me. On the screen, in a series of stacked boxes, were those dear faces. Nicole and Maggie, together in what appeared to be the sound room at Opera House. Liz, standing outside on her deck, sunlight turning her hair to flame. Fiona, wearing her lab coat, in the hospital’s chapel, Henry behind her, holding her shoulders.
The technician threw a switch and the conveyor belt came to life, slowly moving Iain’s remains towards the chamber.
Maggie looked at the camera, raised her head slightly, and began to sing:
“Come to me, all you weary,
With your burdens and pain,
Take my yoke on your shoulders,
And learn from me.
I am gentle and humble,
and your soul will find rest,
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
Nicole joined Maggie in the chorus, their voices joined in a tight harmony:
“We shall rise again, on the last day,
With the faithful, rich and poor,
Coming to the house of Lord Jesus,
We will find an open door there,
We will find an open door.”
My eyes misted over as I listened to them and watched Iain’s final journey. I thought of my brother, always scrapping, fighting, striving . . . bearing the burdens and pains of rejection. So weary, at the end. I prayed that he would, at last, find a home where he was welcomed, cherished. Simply loved.
But it was the next verse, which Nicole sang solo, which brought my tears to full flood.
“At the door there to greet us,
Martyrs, angels and saints,
And our family and loved ones,
Every one freed from their chains.
We shall feel their acceptance,
And the joy of new life.
We shall join in the gathering,
Reunited in God’s light.”
My family. What would they be like, freed from the chains that bent and sometimes broke them? Grim Grandfather Ross, tormented by memories of battle. My parents, freed from whatever had turned the wine of their faith and love into vinegar, making them bitter and angry. Iain, freed from the burden of expectations he was never suited to meet?
Would we all, someday, freed from all that, feel the love and acceptance that had so often eluded us in life? God, I hoped so. Especially for Iain. I looked at Fi, weeping as freely as I was, sharing a communion of understanding with me. I knew that she joined my prayer.
And the doors of the chamber closed, consigning Iain’s remains to the inferno of a Viking’s funeral.
The Refiner’s fire.
Maggie took the final refrain while Nicole’s coloratura floated high above the melody, ethereal and otherworldly, a descant composed of repeated alleluias.
“We shall rise again, on the last day,
With the faithful, rich and poor,
Coming to the house of Lord Jesus,
We will find an open door there,
We will find an open door.”
Through the flood of my tears, I whispered, “Go with God, big brother. Safe home.”
. . . . To be continued
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
Mount Vernon, New York, March 30, immediately following
Rob’s Audi was both quiet and understated and Rob, bless him, was giving me the quiet I needed to process all of the emotions from Iain’s cremation. I cradled the box that held his remains in my hands. So small a box, in the end.
Rob pulled smoothly into the parking lot of our motel and drove around to the back side where our room was. But when he rounded the corner, we saw a police cruiser parked in front of our room. The door of our unit was open, and the motel manager was outside.
“What the hell . . . ?” Rob sounded more puzzled than anything else.
I had thought from the time that I asked Nicole to book me a room that no one would rent to me if they knew I was isolating with someone who had COVID, and I had gone to great lengths not to advertise that fact. But clearly, someone thought something suspicious was going on.
Looking at the manager’s worried face – doubly worried, as he watched us pull up – I thought I could guess who the someone might be. “I wasn’t expecting police or an invasion, but I figured we would get questions at some point,” I said. “Timing sure could have been better.”
“You got that right,” Rob replied. “How do you want to play this?”
I thought about it. “By ear. Cool, if possible. We haven’t done anything wrong. But we’ll have to see how it goes.”
Rob touched my hand. “You’ve got the legal expertise. I’ve got your back.”
I gave him a smile of thanks, carefully set my brother’s remains on the floor in front of me, and stepped out of the car. We were both looking formal and professional. That would help.
Probably.
I paused to put my N-95 firmly in place, and Rob did the same. Then we walked over, stopping a good ten feet from the manager. Using a gentle tone I said, “I’m assuming you’ve got an explanation for this. I’d like to hear it, before deciding whether to take legal action, Mister . . . ?”
He didn’t take the hint and give me his last name. “Look, I gotta protect my customers. Protect the owners. You come here, you never leave, except when an ambulance comes in the middle of the night. A guy coming here every couple days making drops and pick-ups. I don’t know what you’re up to, okay?” He sounded very defensive.
“I see,” I said. “Please ask the officers to join us outside. I don’t want them to catch COVID.”
His eyes bugged out. “WHAT!!! Fuck!!! You goddamned . . . .” He stopped speaking abruptly. Something in Rob’s face, or his stance, made him think twice about whatever he had been about to say.
His pause gave me the opening to say, “Now would be a good time. I don’t want to explain this twice. And you are needlessly exposing those officers, right now.”
He was sweating seriously now, and he had backed up until he bumped into the wall. He just repeated, “Fuck!”
Fortunately, the police didn’t wait for him to call them. An officer came to the door, took in the tableau with a quick scan, and stepped outside. “Are you threatening this man?” he asked us.
I hurried to reassure him. “No, officer. We’re staying in this unit. We just asked the manager to pull you and anyone else out of the room; we’ve been sheltering in place there because we’ve both had COVID.”
“Ah, shit,” he said, then called back, “Kelly, out now. Now!”
Hearing his urgent tone, his partner came out of the room very quickly indeed, her hand on her service weapon. She had not, mercifully, drawn it.
Time to defuse the situation.
“I’m sorry you were called, officers,” I said, soothingly. “If the manager had spoken to me, we could have addressed any concerns. We aren’t engaged in any illegal activity. I’m an attorney from Washington, D.C., and Mr. Hutchinson is an investment banker. We’ve been experiencing COVID symptoms for the past ten days so we’ve been sheltering in place on the advice of a highly qualified doctor. We’ve had supplies dropped off. That’s all.”
“I don’t want no fucking COVID in my place!” The manager’s voice was loud, frightened, and sure to upset every resident within a hundred yards.
Idiot.
“I understand that,” I said patiently, “but, the terms of the month-long contract that I signed in your office don’t say anything about evicting people for reasons related to health or disease. I looked at them very carefully. You might want to do the same.”
He was sputtering.
The first officer – Dwyer, his name plate said – asked, “What about the ambulance, and the guy that was taken away?”
I kept my voice level. “That was my brother. He died in the hospital last week; we’re just returning from cremating his remains. Is there anything else?”
Officer Dwyer still looked uncertain.
The manager was still raging. “I want them out. Right now!!! We got rights!!!”
I kept my attention on Dwyer; he seemed to be the senior officer present. “I assume that you searched the room. And found nothing more interesting than a whole lot of flu and cold remedies, a thermometer, and a log book?”
His partner, Kelly . . . McDonald? . . . said, “I saw the medicine. For sure. And the thermometer. Didn’t see any log book, but I didn’t look at papers. No contraband or anything.”
I nodded. “Again, I’m very sorry. You should probably check in and find out whether you’re required to isolate. If you weren’t in the room long, it might not matter, and we’re masked and keeping our distance. But my sister’s a doctor up at MassGeneral, and I can tell you they don’t have a good handle on exactly how contagious this is.”
Officer Dwyer was no longer looking twitchy. “We’ll do that, thanks.” He sounded resigned. Turning to the manager, he said. “I know you don’t want them here, but if they’ve paid for the room we can’t evict them. You want them out, you’ll need to get a lawyer.”
The manager squawked.
Officer Dwyer was unsympathetic. “I get it. But there’s nothing we can do. There’s no evidence these folks have done anything illegal.” Looking at his partner, he said, “C’mon Kelly, we’d better report in.” He headed back towards the cruiser, ignoring the manager’s increasingly panicked protests.
Officer McDonald gave me a compassionate look. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ma’am. And, thank you for the warning.” She got in the passenger’s seat of the cruiser and they drove off.
“Fucking useless fucking police!!!!” The manager, amazingly, still sputtered like an old and poorly maintained engine.
I had had an emotional day and decided I had been a good girl more than long enough. “You heard Officer Dwyer. We’ve paid for that room, so get away from the door and stop harassing us. Anything else you want to say, I recommend you do it through your lawyer. Now MOVE!”
He didn’t stop cursing, but he moved. Quickly, once we started to approach him. I don’t know whether he was more afraid of Rob, radiating silent menace on my left side, or of catching COVID.
I’d take it, either way.
As I closed the door behind us, Rob chuckled. “Remind me,” he said, “not to piss you off.”
I pulled him into an embrace. “You did a pretty good job without saying a word.” I pulled back just far enough to give him a kiss. “Thank you for backing me up like that. Most guys . . . . “
“ . . . would have felt the need to take charge?” he said, finishing my thought. “That would have been a bad move, for lots of reasons that I mercifully don’t need to explain to you, oh chess master. There was more than enough free-floating testosterone in that encounter to get ugly. And dangerous. I had every confidence that you could handle the situation better than I could, and you did.”
I could only stare at him in wonder. “If I wasn’t already, I think I’d fall in love with you for that. You and Henry . . . my God, why didn’t your parents have twelve kids!”
“Well,” he said with an evil chuckle, “they had Sam, you see . . . .” Sam was the middle brother; I hadn’t met him.
The immediate emergency resolved, Rob went back outside and brought Iain’s remains in; we put them on the bureau in my room. We made some coffee, which I was absolutely positive I could now both smell and taste. Not strongly, but at least some. Some of the shortfall was almost certainly the Keurig.
Rob took off his coat and tie; I slipped out of my pumps, and we settled into the couch. His left arm snaked behind me on the back of the couch, leaving his hand free to play with my hair and my earlobe.
I snuggled into him, enjoying the closeness.
“You roommates have amazing voices,” Rob said, moving back to the really important events of the day. “I’ve been to a lot of funerals. Too many. I’ve never gotten numb to it, but . . . sometimes it just hits harder. Today . . . well. I’m really glad I was able to be there for that.”
I nodded. “Yes, me too. I know we had to do it this way, but I can’t think of any traditional service that would have been more suitable for Iain. And having everyone there made all the difference.”
I looked into those remarkable eyes of his. “Thank you for being there . . . and for thinking to invite people to join us. I know it meant the world to Fi to be able to be there, even if it was just by video.”
He gave me a lingering kiss, then we sat quietly for a few moments. Eventually, he said, “You know, we probably have to isolate another two weeks. But we don’t have to do it here. I don’t doubt you can keep that moronic manager out of our hair, but we do have other options.”
I thought about that. We had been staying close because of Iain – and because, for some significant period of time, we had been too ill to go anywhere. But neither of those reasons applied any longer. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well . . . ” he said carefully, “My apartment is only about three and a half hours from here. I don’t live with anyone else, so we could isolate there as easily as we can here. It’s nothing fancy, but I’m comfortable saying it’s better than this place.”
He was watching me carefully. There was more here than met the eye, so I thought about it before making an easy response. Why was Rob dancing around?
I finally decided there were too many variables, and just decided to ask him. “You seem very cautious about this, Rob. Can you tell me why?”
He smiled. “Always the observant one. It’s really just because I don’t know how you would feel about moving in with me.”
A serious man deserved a thoughtful answer. “If we’re just talking about our two-week isolation period, it certainly doesn’t faze me. At all. I have some very fond memories of this place, but some others will be in my nightmares forever. I’m more than ready to leave, and I’d love to see your place.”
“But . . . ?” he prodded gently.
“But. My life, and my work, aren’t in Boston. I . . . I don’t know where we’re headed, Rob. I have hopes, and dreams, and you’re in them. I want you to be in them. But how we work out life outside of these four walls . . . . I don’t have any answers for that yet.”
His features displayed nothing but calm and understanding. “I don’t either. I’ve enjoyed this moment and I haven’t wanted to think about what happens after. We’ll have to, eventually. But all of that can wait. Right now, we just have to decide where to stay for the next two weeks. If it’s my apartment, there’s no commitment involved.”
I smiled. “My friend Liz told me that I shouldn’t be worried if I couldn’t get everything figured out by lunchtime. I should listen to her.”
“Sounds like a wise woman . . . she was the redhead? The one who was outdoors?”
I nodded, then said, very shyly, “She’s the one who helped me discover who I really am. Who helped me understand that I’m a woman.”
“Then I have a lot to thank her for.” He leaned in and kissed me again. “That’s why you chose Elizabeth as your middle name?”
I nodded, then I kissed him back. And our kisses grew more intense, and our hands began to wander . . . .
Mt. Vernon, New York, later that day
I was naked from the waist down, wearing nothing at all except my bra, snuggled into Rob’s chest and sleeping soundly, when my phone went off. I propped myself up, searching for it. I saw a name I didn’t recognize on the caller ID and answered with a simple, “Hello?”
“This is George Devine from the Cabot law firm. Is this Cameron Savin?”
“Speaking,” I responded in my professional voice.
“Mr. Savin, or Ms. Savin, or whatever you are, I’m calling on behalf of my client, the Westmont Motel, Inc.”
“How can I help you Mr. Devine, or George, or whatever you are,” I answered. Pretty calmly, if I do say so myself.
“You can help me by immediately vacating my client’s premises and paying damages. You rented the room under false pretenses and I will expose your game in a New York minute if you aren’t out of there in one hour.”
One of the partners I’d worked with once said that people tend to hire the lawyers they deserve. Sure enough, this guy was like the manager, but with a law degree.
I was going to enjoy, in a way I probably shouldn’t, taking him apart.
“I rented the apartment in good faith, I gave your idiot manager a valid ID, and nothing in the contract that you probably drew up says anything about evicting guests who have contagious diseases.”
“I checked out your profile on your firm website, ‘Mizz’ Savin,” he said in a tone that could only be described as a sneer. “And I don’t think you’ll want your employers knowing about your double identity.”
I had a sudden image of Rob’s Uncle Cornelius warning me that maintaining my original gender at work would expose me to blackmail. He had been right, but I’d already defanged that threat, so I laughed at him.
“They already know. If you don’t believe me, dig a bit further on the website and find the names of the members of the management committee. Feel free to contact them. All of them.” I was really enjoying myself.
“Bullshit.”
“I encourage you to test that hypothesis, Mr. Devine.” My voice was soft as velvet. “I can promise you that the only thing you’ll get back from Cavandish, Edwards and Gunn is a copy of a letter they will send to the grievance committee of the New York State Bar. Advancing your client’s interest through extortionate means is a sanctionable offense. It might even cost you your law license. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
The line was silent for a moment, so I said, “Your move, ‘Mister’ Devine.”
He decided – wisely, if a bit late – to try a different tack. “Look, my client has a duty to his employees, his customers, his reputation. You have no right to put all of that at risk.”
“If you got around to reading the contract, you know that I do have the right. And your client has a duty to me, because I am one of his customers. If motels, and hotels, and apartments get to evict people just because they’ve caught COVID, just exactly where do you expect all of those people to go? And how is that going to help stop the spread of the disease?”
“That’s not my client’s problem . . . .”
“Yes it is,” I cut in. “Because your client rented me a room, and doesn’t have a right to terminate under the contract, it is your client’s problem.”
He started to say something, but I cut him off again. “But, if you’ll stop making stupid threats and acting like a jackass, we might actually be able to have a conversation about how to solve your client’s problem. So what’s it going to be?”
I could practically feel the anger radiating from the other end of the receiver. He wanted to fight me, but he had to answer to a client who wanted me out and didn’t have a good way to obtain that result. “Fine,” he snarled. “Are you willing to talk about leaving?”
“Of course,” I said, sweetly. “If you fully refund all the money we paid, I will not only vacate the unit tomorrow morning, I will thoroughly clean and disinfect every surface and leave freshly-cleaned linens and towels that haven’t been taken out of plastic.”
“A full refund!!! That’s absurd!!! You’ve been there for weeks!!!” he blustered.
“Mr. Devine,” I said patiently, “you are asking me to surrender my legal right to remain here through April 12, which is the period I’ve paid for. And, not for nothing, but your client had our belongings searched by the police, without any reasonable basis to believe we’d committed any wrongdoing. There are claims I could pursue, and you can bet your license – whatever it might be worth at this point – that Cavendish, Edwards will represent me for free.”
“That’s not remotely reasonable!” he replied hotly.
I was losing patience. ‘I’m not going to debate the reasonableness of my offer. New York’s Rules of Professional Conduct must require that you convey offers of settlement to your client – every jurisdiction does – so stop barking at me and do your job. Ethically, for a change, if you can manage that for a few minutes. Let me know what they have to say when you have an answer.”
I ended the call.
Rob was sitting beside me. “I caught most of that. I like your style, girl!”
I kissed him. “I don’t care about the money . . . Well, I do; it’s not nothing. But mostly it’s the principle of the thing. And, he was acting unethically. Very unethically.” I thought for a minute. “Rob, I think that I need to call Eileen. Right now.”
“Good idea.”
I called her cell and she picked right up. “Cami, I’m glad to hear from you. I was so sorry to hear about your brother. Are you alright?”
“Thank you, Eileen. I’m doing okay. We had a ceremony for Iain today, and it was really, really helpful. My sister was able to be there via a video call, and some friends. And, I’m starting to recover from COVID. I’ve just got a couple lingering symptoms at this point.”
“I’m very glad to hear that. . . . So now it’s just a question of isolating until you aren’t contagious?”
“Yes . . . or, more accurately, until everyone is pretty sure I’m not contagious. Based on what Fiona tells me, there’s a fair bit of guess work in that. But, I think I should be cleared more or less when the firm is scheduled to open back up again. And, of course, I can continue to work remotely until then.”
“I don’t know how likely it is that we’ll reopen right after Easter, but we’re monitoring it. In any event, that’s very good news.”
“I’m actually calling for a different reason though,” I said. “The manager at this motel I’ve been staying at discovered I’ve got COVID and wants me out. I’m going to oblige them – I’ve already made other arrangements – but they had a lawyer call and threaten that if I didn’t clear out, he’d tell the firm that I was passing myself off as a woman.”
“WHAT!!!!” I knew that Eileen’s sense of professional honor would be as outraged as my own, and she was predictably livid.
“I know,” I said. “I told him to go ahead and contact anyone on the Management Committee, but I doubt he will since I also pointed out that attempted extortion was at the very least sanctionable.”
“What’s his name?” Her voice was positively icy.
“He called himself George Devine, from the Cabot law firm.”
“I think I may send Mr. Devine a little love note. On firm stationery, of course.”
“I’m not going to even try to dissuade you,” I chuckled. “But I also think it’s time to just send out that firm-wide blast. And get my name and photo on the firm website changed.”
Eileen took no time at all thinking about that. “Agreed. We should have just done it earlier, anyway. You approved the earlier draft, right?”
“I did. I just needed to give you the name that I wanted to use professionally, but that’s when life got complicated.”
“Great,” she said. “The Committee already approved it, so I can have it sent out tonight. Actually, within the hour.”
She was clearly relishing putting a stake through that toad’s threats. Sometimes I think that the people who give lawyers a bad name vastly outnumber those who don’t.
“So what name should I put on the memo, Cami?”
“Camryn Elizabeth Campbell,” I responded. “The last two spelled just like you would expect; the first spelled C-A-M-R-Y-N.”
“That’s lovely! I didn’t realize you were changing your last name as well?””
“I had a bit of a theological disagreement with my father. It wasn’t about my gender issue; he doesn’t even know about that. But the upshot is, yes. I won’t go by Savin anymore. Campbell is my mother’s mother’s maiden name.”
After a moment, she said, “I’m sorry, Cami. It sounds like this has been a really horrible week for you. Let me get this taken care of. We’ll take down your current picture too. We’ll need a new one eventually, but that can wait.”
I thanked her profusely and we ended the call. “I’m glad to have that taken care of.”
Rob had stayed with me throughout the call. He just gave me a one-armed hug, then helped me get up.
Less than half an hour later, having gotten myself half decent by putting on a nightie and a dressing gown, I got two emails:
TO: All Personnel, All Offices
FROM: Raphael Oliveira, Chairman of the Management Committee and Evan Barksdale, Managing Partner for Personnel
DATE: March 30, 2020
Re: Personnel Matters
One of our litigation associates, Cameron Savin, has decided to make a name change to align with her gender, and is taking the name Camryn Elizabeth Campbell. We are delighted to support Camryn’s decision and wish her all the best as she begins this new chapter of her life.
As many of you know, Camryn has been out on sick leave, having contracted the COVID-19 virus along with her brother. While Camryn is making a full recovery, her brother has been an early casualty of the pandemic. Please join us in extending our most heartfelt condolences to Camryn and her entire family.
They hadn’t run the second paragraph by me, and I was very touched by it. Leave it to Eileen. And speaking of Eileen . . . .
TO: George Devine, The Cabot Law Firm
FROM: Eileen O’Donnell, Cavendish, Edwards and Gunn
DATE: March 30, 2020
Re: Your Recent Communications
Please see the attached correspondence concerning your potential violations of New York’s Rules of Professional Conduct.
The pdf attached to the email would have peeled the hide off of a brontosaurus. Mr. Devine would know, first, that his threat to “out” me had no teeth, and second, that he had exposed himself to serious professional jeopardy, regardless of whether he resolved my issue with his client.
Forty-five minutes later, I had a call from Jacob Cabot, the sole named partner in the Cabot law firm, informing me that their client had accepted my offer. He then apologized for any ‘misunderstanding’ his colleague’s earlier statements might have caused.
“The two issues aren’t connected,” I said bluntly. “If you send me an email containing the terms I discussed with Mr. Devine, I will confirm that agreement and I’ll vacate the premises once the credit is received.
“But with respect to Mr. Devine’s unprofessional conduct, there was no ‘misunderstanding.’ His threat to tell my employer that I am transgendered if I did not vacate this motel room was very clear. Both I and Cavendish Edwards will need to independently evaluate whether we have an affirmative obligation to report his misconduct. The settlement of this other matter won’t, and can’t, affect that determination.”
The line was silent for a minute. Then Mr. Cabot said, “I know. And I appreciate that. . . . We’ll keep the matters separate. But . . . look, I’ve known George for fifteen years. He’s a bulldog, but he’s not a bad guy. If an apology will help . . . ?”
I felt for Cabot, as I hadn’t for his partner. He seemed genuine, and he was clearly distressed at what had happened. I said, gently, “We do have an obligation to evaluate it, Mr. Cabot, to satisfy our own obligations under the rules. But I promise we’ll consider what you said.”
He had to be content with that.
Our belongings were all packed in Rob’s Audi and the motel room was spotless. I was standing at the threshold, my hands still in plastic gloves, my face still masked. I gave it one last look. The place where I had last seen Iain alive. Where I had kept vigil, making sure Rob survived his worst night. Where I had heard the news that Iain had died. Where Rob and I had first made love. Such an ordinary place, to hold love and death, fear and hope, medicine, magic, and faith.
“Will you miss it?” Rob asked, coming up behind me.
“No . . . Not exactly. But there’s just so much history here for me. It feels strange to turn the page.”
He was quiet, and the world seemed to hold its breath. In the momentary stillness, I heard a high, thin cry, far overhead, and looked up to see a raptor soaring against a vault of purest blue, the morning sunlight catching its wing and tail feathers.
I squeezed Rob’s hands, resting on my shoulders. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Boston, Massachusetts, April 1
I woke up in a strange bed, in a strange place, and it didn’t matter at all because I woke up next to Rob. He was sleeping completely naked, which I heartily approved of him doing. I was back in my light green nightie, and I approved of that, too.
It was around 5:00, I could tell that by my internal clock. What’s it going to be, Cami? I thought to myself. Do you lie here and fret about the future, or do you get up and start making it? Put in those terms, I slipped quietly from the bed, snagged my dressing gown and slippers, and left the bedroom.
Rob’s place was perfect for a young executive; nothing about it screamed “trust fund.” It had two smallish bedrooms, the second of which served as his study. A nicely appointed kitchen, open to the combined living room/dining room area, and one (very nice) bathroom. It was extremely tidy. Rob’s taste in furniture ran toward wood, leather, and comfort.
We had parked my things in the closet in the study, so I went there and changed into my yoga pants and a (kind of flirty, truth be told) blue sports bra with complicated string straps in the back. I left my feet bare; today I would only try doing stretches. There was room in front of his couch for that; doing a cheer routine might result in my breaking something. And anyway, I probably wasn’t recovered enough for that.
I felt fine – symptom free – but illness and a couple weeks of inactivity had really set back my physical fitness.
Even twenty minutes of stretches seemed like a lot. My muscles were positively screaming protest when I called a halt. Damn. It felt like I’d be starting from square one. I pulled myself upright and went into the kitchen, muttering all the way. Water to start. Rob had pointed me to the coffee supplies yesterday. I heated the water, got his coffee (tsking at him in absentia for buying it pre-ground), and set up the French Press.
I was focused on my task and did not notice Rob come up behind me until he planted one hand on my ass, while the other played with my flirty bra’s string back. “Good morning, gorgeous,” he said.
I turned and kissed him properly and thoroughly. So he would have no doubt about how I felt. We were both a bit flushed when I came up for air. “Good morning to you, too,” I said, smiling like a daisy at sunrise. “I didn’t expect to see you this early!”
I pushed the plunge on the French Press and brought my face down towards the pot, slowly sniffing the scent. It was real, genuine – this time, there was no doubt. My sense of smell was back. “One of the things that really got me, when my COVID symptoms started, was the thought that I might never smell fresh coffee again. I realized how important it was to me, something that small. I hope I never take it for granted again.”
His hand continued to caress me through the straps of my bra, but there wasn’t anything urgent about it. Just a wordless message that he found me beautiful, sexy, and desirable. All that, with nothing more than a touch.
Something else I hoped I would never take for granted.
His mind was going down a similar track. “We take a whole lot for granted now, and I think everyone of us is going to get a reminder of how precious all of those little things are. And, how vulnerable.”
“I assume you’ve been through that before, in the service.”
He nodded. “Yes . . . but you knew somehow that it was all still there, waiting for you. When I got home, I appreciated everything so much more than I ever had – people especially. But it’s amazing how quickly it all starts to feel normal again. I guess that’s just how humans are.”
We sat in silence for a bit, sharing the morning and drinking our coffee, then he asked whether I was talking to Fi at 6:30.
“I think we’re past the point where it’s necessary. But I’ve kind of gotten used to our morning calls. I’ll see what she says about it.” I drank some more of the rich, beautiful, perfect coffee. “Rob . . . do you mind if I talk to her about us? She will tell Henry. Will this cause issues with your family?”
He gave me a look that was hard to read and shifted a bit uncomfortably. “She already knows. I talked to her.”
I must have looked as astonished as I felt.
Though he was uncomfortable, he didn’t look away. “It was a couple days ago. Before we made love. I knew what I wanted, but I was so afraid that I would hurt you, somehow. Especially because of your issues with PTSD. So I talked to Fiona. She’s your dragon. I figured if she thought there was any likelihood of a problem, she would wave me off. She . . . ah . . . well. She didn’t.” He was blushing, bless the man. “She also wasn’t surprised.”
I wanted to come up with something clever to say, but I couldn’t. “I’m so touched, Rob. You are the most thoughtful person!” I could easily get weepy about this, but I clamped down on my hormones. Estrogen or no estrogen, I thought grimly, I am not a pubescent teenager!
Rob looked relieved. “I wasn’t sure how you would take it, so I didn’t say anything. It’s not that I think of you as some sort of child that needs protection, but . . . .“
“. . . but you knew that was an area that I actually might,” I said. I put my hand over his. “Don’t worry about it. . . . I’m grateful. But . . . that doesn’t answer the other part of my question. What about your family?”
“The only people who I really care about, on this issue anyway, are Mom and Dad. Henry matters, but you already know where he stands. Sam will follow Mom’s lead; he always has. Mom and Dad met you at the party and liked you, and of course they adore Fiona. So I talked to Mom about bringing you ‘round to meet them.”
“WHAT?” I thought, My goodness, Rob moves fast!
He looked at me with those remarkable eyes, eyes that were dark gray but somehow so much more, and dropped his light tone. “I told you, Cami. I don’t play around. I’m serious about you. About us. It may work and it may not; time will tell. But in the meantime I’m not going to hedge my bets. Sure as hell, I’m not going to hide our relationship.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Well, actually, yes I did. “I love you, Rob. And I’m proud to be seen with you, anytime, anywhere. I just don’t want to be the cause of any hurt coming to you. And, plenty of people will be scandalized.”
“The only people whose opinions would cause me any hurt are the ones I mentioned. . . . Which brings me back to bringing you ‘round to meet Mom and Dad.”
“But we’re quarantined,” I said. “We can’t . . . .”
He stopped me with an upraised palm. “Thought of that, actually. We should be clear – barring any relapses – by Easter Sunday. And, based on my conversation – just laying the groundwork, you understand – Mom and Dad have been isolating as well, and will through Easter.”
Rob’s office had also gone to remote work “until further notice,” so his dad would be working from home. “Sam can’t, so he won’t be able to join us. And unfortunately Henry and Fiona can’t join us because Fi is exposed to COVID every day, as you know. So, it’ll just be the four of us.”
“You’re too devious for your own good,” I said, faintly. “Aren’t you supposed to call mate in three, or something?”
He smiled wickedly. “I would, but it’s almost 6:30 and you need to talk to your dragon. So mating will have to wait. Such a shame!” He pulled a face.
I groaned, then went to talk to my dragon.
I had assured Fiona that neither of us had suffered any relapse and turned to what was really on my mind. “So, you knew what Rob was up to?”
“I did. And I approved. Wholeheartedly.” I could practically see the satisfied smile on her face, even though we weren’t doing a video call.
I growled at her.
She giggled in response. “Look, Cami . . . I wasn’t playing matchmaker. Rob was very concerned that he would hurt you – a concern that showed a lot of sensitivity on his part. I gave him an honest answer. I didn’t think your bad experience at Christmas would cause you to have a strong negative reaction if he let you know how he felt, even though I’m sure that trauma left scars.”
She shrugged. “Beyond that, I figured you were capable of saying ‘No’ if you weren’t interested. And I know that Rob’s adult enough to handle a rejection, so I wasn’t worried for you that way, either. What did you want me to say?”
“Something – almost anything – to me? You know? Your little sister? Just maybe?”
But she could tell from my tone that I wasn’t really upset. She giggled again. “What? And spoil the surprise? C’mon, Cami, dish! How’d he do?”
I laughed. “All right, you win. And . . . he was wonderful.” Becoming more serious, I said, “I’m in love, Fi. So much it scares me, especially because it’s come so fast. The last two weeks have been intense. I feel like I’ve lived half a lifetime since I left Baltimore.”
“You kind of have. I mean, sure, you’ve only really known each other a couple of weeks, discounting your brief encounters last Christmas. But it’s not like you’ve just been on a handful of dates. You’ve been living in the same space 24/7, you’ve helped each other recover from a life-threatening illness and you’ve dealt with Iain’s death. I’d think you know each other better than most couples who’ve been dating for months, if not longer.”
“Yeah . . . It’s not that I don’t think we know each other, exactly.” I was trying to articulate what was troubling me, but it wasn’t coming.
“Are you worried that the intensity of your feelings – or Rob’s – is somehow bound up in everything that’s been going on for you both?”
“I’ve been asking myself that for over a week,” I admitted. “And I’m sure the answer is ‘No.’ Positive. But how would I know? It’s like trying to judge your own boat’s speed when you don’t know how the tide is running.”
Fi, thankfully, did not simply laugh off my worries. “That sounds like a good reason not to leap into a long-term commitment tomorrow. Give yourselves time. You’re still planning to go back to DC, aren’t you? Not quitting work to become a kept woman?”
“I have to go,” I said, with extreme reluctance. “And I hate the thought of going. But . . . I think . . . .” I paused, doing just that.
Fiona waited, silently.
Finally I said, “I think this girl stuff is hard, Fi. That’s what I think.”
“That it is.” I could feel her smile in her words. “But you’re doing fine at it. Really. Just . . . don’t wait so long to reach out, okay? I’m here for you.”
“Thanks. I just know how busy you are, and how important what you are doing is. I don’t want to be a distraction. But on the other hand . . . .” I stopped again, this time because I found myself choking up.
I pressed on. “On the other hand, it kills me that you are five frickin’ minutes from where I am right now, and I can’t even see you and give you a hug.” Then I added, “Dammit, I told myself I was not going to cry!”
“I know, Sweetie.” Suddenly she sounded bone-tired, all the late nights and early mornings and weekends and holidays and the long parade of the sick, the scared, and the dying, grinding her down like golden wheat tossed between great, grim millstones. “I know. But talking to you, talking to Henry . . . it’s keeping me alive. Until the day when I can hug you both again. Don’t stop.”
“I won’t Fi,” I said, my voice reduced to a horse whisper. “I won’t.”
We signed off before I remembered that I had meant to ask her about Rob and Henry’s parents.
It was a busy day. I had to get back to my insurance research, and I needed to send off forms to finish my name change petition. I had to give the firm’s IT wizards remote access to my laptop to install additional software (including, I was amused to see, Zoom). And, I needed to respond to emails from work colleagues expressing support and condolences. I received particularly lovely emails from both Daviana and – more surprising still – from David.
But I managed to squeeze in time for a video call to Nicole and Maggie; I hadn’t spoken to them since the cremation. “I can’t begin to tell you how much that meant to me – and to Fiona, too. Where did you find that music?”
“Even Opera singers do weddings and funerals,” Maggie said with a laugh. “We’ve both sung verses of that piece before, but the verse that Nicole sang seemed especially right, given everything you’ve told us about Iain and your family.”
“Oh, it was! It was!” I told them about my temporary relocation to Boston following my issues with the motel in Mt. Vernon.
Nicole was mortified – she had picked the motel – but I was quick to reassure her.
“It was a perfect motel,” I said. “Couldn’t have been better in terms of the rooms, the layout, the location. They freaked out about COVID, but everyone’s doing that right now. It didn’t surprise me. I would have paid up and left quietly – we didn’t need to stay in that area after Iain passed. But they really pissed me off. I’m afraid I took a pound of flesh.”
“You sound like you regret doing that,” Nicole said, puzzled. Not “disappointed” puzzled. Just puzzled.
“I wouldn’t say I regret it, exactly. I don’t react well to bullying, and I don’t like to reward bullies. But I also know that people are scared right now, and they’re lashing out in ways they probably wouldn’t otherwise. It’s an especially good time to cut people a break, and I couldn’t bring myself to. I actually enjoyed roughing up that douchebag lawyer. And . . . well. I guess that’s not being my best self.”
Nicole said, “When you’re good you’re good . . . “
Maggie flawlessly finished the quote, “ . . . and when you’re bad you’re better!” They giggled.
Then I giggled. “All right, you got me,” I said, wiping my eyes.
Maggie said, “Girl, the world’s full of jackals. You shouldn’t lose any sleep over . . . ah . . . thinning the herd, now and then.”
Nicole, perhaps more attuned to the things I wasn’t saying, asked how I was getting along with Rob. “You guys were kind of thrown together. That could’ve gone really badly but obviously didn’t, since you're at his place. Are you guys an item?”
This was kind of tricky ground for me. In part because Nicole and I had been intimate (even though we’re both attracted to men, mostly), and partly because the three of us had made plans concerning getting through the pandemic. But I also wasn’t going to lie.
“We’re an item.” I was pleased to see that both Nicole and Maggie were genuinely thrilled for me.
But when the hubbub died down, I said, “It’s been very intense, these last few weeks. I don’t think I could have made it without Rob. But we haven’t talked about what comes after our quarantine period. I’ve got a life down south. A job, and friends. Ohana. He has a job, and friends, and family, here. People manage long-distance relationships. I’ve done it myself. I don’t know how that’ll work with a pandemic going on, but . . . we’ll figure something out.”
Nicole looked at me with her soft brown eyes – eyes that always seemed to see and understand me. “Cami – promise me. Do what’s right for you this time. Not what you think we want, or Rob wants, or your sister, your firm, or anyone else. You. You have such a big heart, but sometimes, you have to be reminded to show yourself some love, too. So I’m reminding you. Okay?”
“Okay, Nicole. I promise. Pinkie swear, even. God, I love you guys!”
Boston, Massachusetts, April 3
I set up at Rob’s dining room table, a strong, steady light source in front of me. My face made up in a very understated, professional look that nonetheless allowed my blue eyes to pop. Black blazer over a cream-white shell. Liz’s watch. Tear-drop earrings. Hair in my favorite over-the-shoulder loose braid. I had even FaceTimed with Al the previous evening so that he could walk me through the process of thinning and shaping my eyebrows.
It was my debut as Camryn Elizabeth Campbell, Esq. A Zoom debut, but still.
And, it was going to be a doozy, because the only other people on the call would be the members of the Firm’s Management Committee. Which is to say, the people who actually ran the business where I worked, managing over a thousand lawyers in nine different offices. They were naturally focused on finding ways to navigate the pandemic, and were interested in my experience with COVID – with isolation and quarantine, and with the illness itself.
So I had spent a chunk of time the previous day just learning the new technology. What it could do, what it couldn’t, and how to optimize it for work. I had done test calls with Rob and with Liz (who had been stunned when I told her that I had taken the long version of her name as one of my own; I do love surprising Liz!). I had spent some time learning about backgrounds, and Rob had called a local photography shop and gotten a green screen delivered.
Eileen was acting as the “host” for the call, and she had arranged to have the two of us join first, a few minutes before the scheduled meeting. I joined the call and was put in the virtual “waiting room.” But she didn’t know that establishing the waiting room meant that she had to affirmatively let me in, so we had a side call where I explained it.
This was a work call and Eileen was all business. But the twinkle in her eyes and the smile that periodically danced across her lips told me that she was enjoying the chance to finally see the flowering of my female persona. It looked like she was calling in from her house; sunlight was streaming across her face, highlighting the left side and casting the right in shadow.
The other seven members of the committee began to join. All very senior attorneys with storied careers and decades of experience. Highly respected, both in their specialized areas and within the firm.
As a result, it was what Rob might call a Charlie Foxtrot.
Rafe Oliveira, the Chairman of the Management Committee, couldn’t figure out how to turn on his video feed. Three members were so badly backlit that their faces were essentially invisible. Two had audio issues – one couldn’t hear, the other was mute. It took fifteen minutes and some step-by-step instructions – mostly from me – just to get to the point where everyone could see, hear, be heard, and (mostly) be seen.
Oliveira smiled wryly. He had a broad, dark face, hair as dark as Rob’s, and a deep, powerful bass – the kind of voice you would cast to sing the role of a villain in an opera. “I’m sorry, Ms. Campbell,” he said. “You don’t appear to have caught us at our best.”
“Please, call me Camryn,” I responded, adding, “and there’s no need to apologize. This software isn’t intuitive. But it is very good.”
“You seem to be very familiar with it?” His inflection made a question out of the statement, and he raised a bushy black eyebrow to reinforce the query.
“I’ve only used it once before yesterday, but I’ve used Skype and FaceTime quite a bit. I spent several hours really learning how to use it yesterday, and honestly I think it will have a huge impact on the practice of law, even after the pandemic.”
“God, I hope not,” groaned one of the other committee members. William Hoskins. I knew the name from having looked up all of them before the meeting; his square on the screen was one of six that lacked a name identifier.
Trudy Wilson, somewhat more diplomatically, said, “I can see advantages compared to voice-only calls, but it doesn’t seem like a very good substitute for in-person communications. Not sure that’s a revolution.” Since the issue was above my paygrade and wasn’t why they’d asked to speak with me, I decided to keep a demure and respectful silence.
Eileen had other ideas. “Can you explain your thinking, Camryn?” Her face showed nothing but curiosity. Others, not so much.
But Oliveira said, “Yes, I’d like to hear it,” and I assumed he was in charge. At the very least, the primus inter pares.
Fortunately, I had been thinking a lot about this, weaving together insights from Fiona about the likely course of the pandemic and insights from Rob – and Henry – concerning financial and business matters.
Trying to project both humility and confidence – not the easiest of combinations! – I said, “Of course. But, there are a couple of factors that lead me to that conclusion. It may take a few minutes to explain. If you’d prefer, I can write it up; I know you have other things you wanted to discuss.”
The Chairman looked at the images of his colleagues on the screen. “I think we can spare a couple minutes. Please go ahead; we might ask for a write-up later.”
“Thank you. The first factor is savings in cost and time. Calls like this aren’t as good as in-person meetings. But they’re pretty good, and they are much, much cheaper. And more efficient, and logistically simple. You can have a one-hour meeting with people all over the world, and it will take one hour, everyone who has that one hour available will be able to attend, and it’ll cost you around $50 a month. Planning the meeting will take almost no time. And once clients see that those cost savings are available, they will push hard to have them adopted. Certainly by outside contractors, like lawyers.
“Second, the main barrier to widespread adoption of these cheaper technologies is that they aren’t familiar, and everyone has to be trained how to use them. That takes time, and the time it takes feels wasteful, and busy people always have better things to do. People like judges are particularly resistant to spending time that way. They don’t have to worry about how much trouble it is for parties and their lawyers to attend a hearing; they just order them to appear.
“But – and this is the most important point – everyone is going to have to learn the technologies now, whether we want to or not. We’ll have to. These lockdowns are going to be ongoing for some time. Until we get effective vaccines or therapeutics – and that’s going to be months away. Worst case scenario, years away.
“I’m not a doctor, but my sister is. And, she works in the infectious disease department at MassGeneral. This won’t be over by Easter, or Memorial Day, or Labor Day. At the very least, people can’t assume it will be. And that means they’ll have to learn how to operate remotely, including through video conferencing. Once the tech is widespread and understood, there will be no way to go back. The economic reality won’t allow it.”
I stopped talking. No one else started.
They were all looking at each other, a bit shell-shocked. A few looked rebellious; a couple looked sad.
I felt my confidence waiver. Had I been too outspoken? Especially for a very junior associate? But . . . the conclusion seemed almost inevitable to me, almost like a math equation. Or the point in a chess game when the number of good moves becomes vanishingly small.
But of course, there are always bad moves . . . .
Finally, Oliveira shook his head like he was clearing it. “Well, you’ve given this a lot of thought and I think it’s fair to say we haven’t. But it’s pretty clear to me that we need to. Perhaps we can put together an ad hoc committee to look more closely about possible long-term practice impacts and how we can prepare ourselves for them?”
His colleagues were nodding; their looks ranged from intrigued (Eileen) to resigned (including Wilson and Oliveira) to positively sour (Hoskins). But they all saw the need.
The Chairman said, “Eileen, will you set it up? And Camryn, will you be on the committee?”
We both agreed.
He segued easily to the real topic for the meeting. They asked me questions about my recent experiences. They wanted information they could use to help formulate policies on when people should not be in the office, regardless of lockdowns, how long people should be out, what work expectations might be reasonable for people in lockdown or quarantine.
I explained that, of the three cases I was personally familiar with, our experiences had been wildly different.
Iain and I had quickly lost our senses of taste and smell; Rob never had. Rob and Iain each had pretty bad coughs and periods of very high fever. My cough had never gotten as bad, nor had my fever been as high though it had lasted longer. Iain had, of course, gotten progressively weaker and eventually had so much trouble breathing that he had to go on oxygen, then be intubated. Rob alone had experienced severe headaches and sensitivity to light.
Trying to give a sense of work during the illness was hard. “For both myself and Mr. Hutchinson, the fever and muscle aches left us pretty fatigued; we couldn’t work for more than an hour or two at a time before needing a couple of hours of rest. And, even before I was sick myself, looking after my brother was very time-consuming. Just trying to keep his fever down meant he needed medicine throughout the night.”
I explained that the post-sickness quarantine period was a completely different story. “At this point, I can work remotely while in quarantine as much, and almost as efficiently, as I’d be able to do at my desk.”
Mr. Hoskins interjected, “Well, you certainly found a nice place to set up shop.”
I shook my head. “Actually, I haven’t, if you’ll forgive me. I only appear to be working in a big, beautiful library. But that’s only one of the benefits of this technology. The library is just a background photo that I found online; it’s at Princeton, I think. I’m currently in an apartment in Boston.”
I turned off the wallpaper and the greenscreen appeared behind me.
This time their eyes really popped. “Ha!” said Jason Tandy, one of the younger members of the committee (he might be no more than fifty!). “Now that's useful!”
After a few more questions, Oliveira took a silent poll of his colleagues with his eyes and wrapped up this part of their meeting. “Camryn, thank you for your time today. You’ve been through quite an ordeal, and I’m sure you would rather not remember it. And on behalf of all of us, we’re very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, sir. And let me also thank all of you for the firm’s support when I was looking after Iain, and when I was sick. But most of all, for supporting my transition. Lots of places have good diversity policies on paper; you’ve gone way beyond that. I . . . I’m grateful. Of course. But I’m also so very, very proud to be part of this firm.”
I dropped off the call; they had many more things to discuss.
I got an email from Eileen about three hours later asking if I had a moment.
I went back to my impromptu studio and lit it up.
This time Eileen had proper lighting on her face and a non-distracting blank wall behind her. She looked gleeful. “Cami, you were great! Even the people who didn’t like what you were saying had to concede that you made good points!”
“I was pretty worried that I’d overstepped my bounds.” Bill Hoskin’s sour face came to mind.
But Eileen thought not. “No, they didn’t think you were speaking out of turn or too big for your own britches. Or skirt, I suppose.” She grinned. “You didn’t come across as arrogant. More thoughtful, really. It’s just that a number of our members don’t like the thought that they, personally, might have to change. To learn new things, and to learn them from our juniors.”
She shook her head. “Don’t be too hard on them – on ‘us,’ more accurately. We’ve all been successful in the world as it existed before. We know how that world works, and we know our place in it. So it’s natural that we might hope the world would just stop spinning. But it never has.”
One of the things that Eileen was happiest about was that I had demonstrated that it wasn’t enough for the firm to just buy new software and tech. People had to get trained in it.
“Everyone on that committee is bright and capable. But not one of us took the time to actually learn how to use Zoom after IT installed it. We figured we’d just muddle through. And you popped in looking like a TV anchor in a studio, and made us – the best of the best, legends in our own minds – look like the Beverly Hillbillies. The ‘Not-Yet-Ready-for-Primetime-Players.’ It was perfect.”
Smiling broadly, she added, “I guarantee you that the next time we meet, each one of them will have learned how to make that damned program hum, and they’ll insist that everyone they work with will, too.”
“That doesn’t sound like a career-enhancing move on my part,” I said tentatively.
She snorted. “I don’t recommend making a habit of it. Especially not with Rafe; he’s more prickly than you’d think. But – and it’s an important ‘but’ – this time was different. Since COVID hit we’ve consistently been behind the curve, just waiting and reacting, doing the minimum necessary. We need to start managing this crisis. Actively. Finding the opportunities rather than just circling the waggons and hunkering down. We needed a kick in the ass, and we didn’t even realize it.”
“And now that it’s just us girls,” she said, smiling, “You look great! And everything about how you present just seems right. And natural. I’m very happy for you.”
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “I can’t begin to tell you how much it has meant to me, to have you as a mentor. I don’t know how I could have navigated all this. Any of this, really.”
She smiled. “Somehow, I think you’d have managed. But it’s been my privilege, Cami. Really it has.”
Boston, Massachusetts, April 5
“No . . . No!!! Left foot, Cami!” Rob’s right foot stopped just short of my left foot, which was, alas, still in its path. My right foot was behind me, where it wasn’t supposed to be. Rob’s forward motion, and my lack of a truly corresponding backward motion, brought us even more closely together. I leaned forward and fluttered an eyelash against his cheek.
“Sorry,” I said. But I got a kiss out of it, so I wasn’t all that sorry. And anyway, I was in his arms, so it was all good.
His right hand was resting on my back and his left hand held my right. We had pushed the living room furniture back to the walls and he was, at my request, teaching me how to waltz.
We tried again. I wasn’t used to dancing with a partner, or really to dancing at all. I had done a lot of cheer routines as a form of exercise, and those were carefully choreographed and followed set patterns. This felt similar, but it was much more fun to do it with Rob.
“Okay,” he said, “Right leg back . . . left leg back . . . right leg left . . . left foot forward . . . right foot forward . . . left foot right . . . Aaaand again . . . .” He was graceful and coordinated.
I felt the need to rise to the occasion. I don’t know how I looked, but I felt wonderful, just moving together, locked close.
We did the basic box step over and over, banking it into muscle memory. Rob stopped calling out the movements after a bit, and then once we had started to look better, he asked, “Strauss or Chopin?”
“Normally I’d take Chopin any day. But, sorry . . . I’ve got to do this to The Blue Danube!”
He laughed and made the selection. Before, it had felt wonderful; with music, it was magic. I felt positively elegant, and I was only dressed in exercise clothes. But I only had to close my eyes to imagine gliding over a dance floor, wearing something that flowed and moved like a silken banner in a breeze, following the lead of this amazing dancer. That would be heaven!
The music stopped and he bowed.
I dropped a curtsy, lowering my head and holding out my imaginary skirt.
He took my hand and raised me up.
I was lost in those dark eyes again, melting my body against his, running my hands over the strong muscles of his back, his shoulders. Our lips closed together and the world was, once more, just Rob and me and the great, powerful thing that held us together – held us and transformed us. One dance ended, another began.
We needed more practice.
“Good morning, Cami,” Fiona said.
“Good morning to you, too,” I responded. “Now do me a favor: Hang up, put your coat on and meet me out front. I want to see you this morning.”
“Cami, it’s forty degrees out,” she started to say, before blurting, “but forget that! I’ll be right there!” Two minutes later, she was out her front door.
I was out on the sidewalk. Fifteen feet away, masked. We both were. “I just had to see you,” I said through the fabric. “I can’t come in, I can’t hug you. But I wanted to see you, for real. In the flesh.”
Her smile was covered, but it was apparent from her eyes. “Thanks, Cami,” she said. “I appreciate it. I really do. It’s been frustrating with you here, and in some ways as far apart as you were in Baltimore. Though, I didn’t expect to see you on my doorstep at 6:30 in the morning!”
I looked at her carefully. The strain of the past months was evident in every movement, in every line of her face. But still . . . . “Damn, it’s good to see you . . . So good.”
“Fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, a short run is nine and his nobs is ten. And . . . that should do it!” I said, moving my peg into the cribbage board’s end zone. “Gotcha. I mean, gotcha again.” I grinned.
“Witch,” Rob replied. “Mere mortals don’t get those cards. Not three games running!”
“Well, if you can’t cover your bet,” I said, batting my eyelashes, “I think I can come up some acceptable payment alternatives.”
He leered at me. “Hmmm, what did you have in mind, little girl?”
Without taking my eyes off him, I started to slowly unbutton my shirt. “Oh, a little of this,” I sucked on my index finger, pulled it out slowly. “And maybe a little of that.”
He got that hungry look in his eyes, again. I expect mine looked no different. Rob’s continuing interest – his obvious, never hidden desire for my body – mine! – had eroded my doubts, my fears. I couldn’t believe my good fortune, but he gave me ample proof, day after day, that I should.
He had me back in his arms just as I released the last button and gently lifted the shirt from my shoulders, allowing it to slide down my arms and onto the floor. His hands went round to my back and pulled me close . . . closer. His clever fingers made short work of the hooks on the back of my bra and he eased it off, pulling the straps forward so that it, too, could slide down my arms.
To my alarm and mortification, my right breast fell with the bra. I froze, instantly out of the mood, panicked. God, I’m a freak!!!!
Rob caught me before I could flee. His hands were on my shoulders, then his right hand slid behind my neck, keeping me close. Keeping me looking at him. “Cami,” he said softly. “Don’t. Don’t worry. Don’t panic. Don’t run. I appreciate that you want me to see your body at its best. But you don’t need help to be beautiful.”
I was shaking like a leaf, unable to speak. Unable to even move my hands.
He reached down and began to stroke the skin that had just become exposed. He kept speaking, softly, gentling me as a trainer might calm a skittish racehorse. “I love you, Cami. And I want you. This doesn’t change anything.” His fingers glided across my nipple.
I felt something like an electric shock. “OH!” I squeeked, startled.
“Interesting,” he said, savoring the word like a master sommelier sampling a new and intriguing vintage. “Veeerry interesting.”
He stroked the nipple again.
Again I felt like he had found a direct nerve connection to my brain. Stroke, stroke, squeeze . . . . Suddenly, I was breathing heavily and feeling very hot indeed.
“Cami,” he said carefully, “I would really like it if you would remove your other prosthetic.”
I stared at him, still panicked.
He just squeezed my nipple again.
Almost of their own volition, my hands came up and peeled off my artificial left breast.
He gently took it from me and set it on the table beside us. Then both his hands were on my chest – my real chest – and his thumbs were teasing my nipples.
I had never experienced anything like that sensation. I felt like my insides were becoming liquid and warm. My knees felt weak.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” he murmured, channeling Lewis Carroll.
I couldn’t say anything in response.
He led me, unresisting, into the bathroom, where he soaped up his hands and began to clean the residual adhesive from my chest, in the process teasing my sensitive skin and sending me into a frenzy.
I was so aroused I could scarcely see straight, much less think straight. And, without knowing quite how, I found that I had slipped down to my knees, and my hands were engaged in a bit of payback with the hard bulge in his pants.
Before he could do much more than chuckle, I had his pants and underwear off, aided by the fact that he didn’t wear shoes around the house.
“Cami? You don’t have to. . . .”
He didn’t get a chance to finish his thought. Never taking my eyes off of his, I fondled him, then gave him baby kisses. I caressed his balls. By the time I slid the head of his cock into my mouth, he was clutching the countertop and panting even more than I had.
It’s hard to explain why I loved it so much. Many women don’t, so it’s not inextricably linked to my femininity. It did, very much, feel like an act of submission, but I felt no shame in that. It wasn’t the submission of a slave, it was the free surender of ego, an acknowledgement of the power of my lover’s regard.
Most obviously, it was driving him wild, and nothing made me feel happier, or more womanly, or more fulfilled or sexier than the knowledge that I could give him so much pure, unadulterated pleasure.
Finally, though, I simply loved the way he felt. His cock was hard and hot and alive, and for a few precious moments, it was mine. I caressed and kissed and sucked and pumped and watched him thrash in pleasure. I felt his explosion coming and positioned myself to swallow it all. I didn’t love that part, but I loved him, and that was what mattered.
He groaned and slipped to join me on the bathroom floor.
I steadied him and rested my forehead against his. “That’ll teach you. Fondling my nipples!”
He closed his amazing eyes as if he was saying a prayer. “Consider me schooled!”
Later that night, when Rob was sleeping, I went into the bathroom and examined my bare chest. I hadn't noticed any change before, but my nipples definitely looked larger, darker, and puffier than usual. Sure as hell they were more sensitive!
Is it possible that my breasts are beginning to bud?
Boston, Massachusetts, April 8
I was deep into a new project for work when I got the “all hands” memo announcing that remote work would continue until at least May 15. It was late in the workday and well past the close of the markets, so I decided I could legitimately clock off. I made a French Press full of coffee, pausing again to marvel at the aroma. At the door of the study, I knocked lightly and popped my head in.
He had headphones on, but waved me in. I handed him a cup and he blew me a kiss before I left, shutting the door.
He came out a few minutes later and found me in the living room, occupying one of his comfortable leather chairs, my legs tucked on the seat. Leaning down, he gave me a kiss. “Thank you, Sweetie. Just what I needed.” He sat facing me in a matching chair. “You done for the day?”
I nodded. “The firm’s not bringing people back until Mid-May, at earliest. But hard to say. You know Fi’s view: it’ll be longer.”
It was his turn to nod. “Probably time for us to have that talk we’ve been avoiding, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “Stay or go? I certainly can work remotely from here just as easily as I can from Opera House.” I paused, then fell silent.
Rob watched me carefully, then set his mug down. “Cami, we’re dancing around this. I think because we love each other and we don't want to hurt each other. So let me put out a few things, just to be clear about where I’m coming from. How I feel.
“I want to be with you. Right now, I can’t move. I’m needed here too much. I have people who are depending on me. I can do a lot of it remotely, but not for the kind of time frames Fi has been talking about. So I’d be delighted if you stayed. Overjoyed. Thrilled. But I can’t ask you to. I know you have the same sorts of cross-pressures I do.”
“I love you, too, Rob. And I want to be with you, and it’s so tempting to just go on as we have been going. But . . . I also need to get back. It’s not just because I promised. Nicole and Maggie would forgive me. In fact, Nicole made me promise to do what was right for me.” I was having trouble going on. It’s so hard!
But Rob just waited patiently for me to continue.
“I was in a relationship before where I became kind of a social appendage,” I said. “My partner’s friends became my friends; I didn’t have friends of my own. I’ve started to make my own life now, and develop wonderful friendships. I don’t want to lose them, or become just an appendage again.”
“I see that,” Rob said, “though there are probably ways to avoid it.”
I wanted to feel his arms around me so badly. But I needed to get through this first. “I know. And I agree. But it’s more than that. I said I would help Nicole and Maggie get through this pandemic, but this isn’t just about duty. It’s something I want to do too. We have projects we are planning, and activities, and I wanted to help make it all happen. I was excited about it. I still am.”
I took a deep breath and kept going. “And . . . finally, there’s so much I still need to learn about being a woman. It’s more than just how to dress, or use cosmetics, or even how to walk and talk. Or the medical part, though that’s important too, and all my doctors are in Baltimore.
“There’s a poetry to it, a rhythm. It’s just different. When I touch it, when I find myself in that rhythm, it feels natural. Like I’m remembering something I used to know. But I still need to work at it. Too learn, or relearn. And, in all the world, I don’t think I could find better teachers than my roommates.”
Rob stood up and held out his hands.
I gratefully allowed him to pull me up, but he didn’t immediately fold me into his arms.
Instead, he held my hands. “If our love can’t survive a period of being apart, it’s nowhere near as strong as I think it is. We’ll find a way to make it work.”
I was, finally, able to throw myself into his arms. “I love you,” I said through tears that I just couldn’t hold back. “I love you so much it hurts.”
Boston, Massachusetts, April 12
We were finally, officially, out of quarantine. We could, in theory, paint the town, but the town was, to all appearances, empty and unpaintable. The shops were closed. Clubs and bars as well. There was a “voluntary” nighttime curfew and a shelter-in-place order.
There would be no joyous Easter services for us. It was like Narnia at the beginning of the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, except that it felt like it would always be Lent and never Easter.
But we had survived COVID, isolation and quarantine. We had only a little while left to spend together, and we would not squander it. Which brought me, in a dress borrowed from my sister (thus requiring the use of a waist cincher), to the doors of a large brownstone in Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood. Rob’s parents’ house.
Rob gave me a look. “Ready?”
“Ready,” I answered, hoping it was true.
He briefly touched my cheek. “Relax. They’ll like you. You’ll like them. Really.” Then he opened the door, sang out a “Halloo,” and led me inside.
Rob’s mother was the first to greet us. Anne Shaw Hutchinson was several inches shorter than me even in modest heels. Her hair, which was cut full off of her shoulders, was a rich shade of auburn, and her eyes were a warm brown, a bit darker than Nicole’s.
Interestingly, she came to me first, captured both my hands, and said, “Cami! I’m so glad you could come! Then she gave me a gentle, but very sincere, hug of welcome. “Thank you so much for bringing him back safe.”
Rob’s father George had come in after Anne and had given Rob a hug when I was talking with Anne. Seen together, they were very alike. Rob was a smidgen taller – In my pumps, I was just under 6’1”; Rob was still a bit taller but George wasn’t. Same rectangular face, same hair and eyebrows, but George, like me, had blue eyes. Unlike Rob, George wore a short beard that made his face look longer.
He turned to me and smiled warmly. “Welcome, Cami!” I got a hug as well, and George’s hug was firm, conveying nothing but genuine warmth. The butterflies under my waist cincher finally started to settle, though they hadn’t folded their wings yet.
The room immediately to the right of the entrance was a large, octagonal parlor or living room, where the three sides facing the street held large windows set in mahogany sills and frames. The ceiling was probably twelve feet high. I thought it must be a bear to heat it, but it looked stunning. Something out of Way “Better Homes and Gardens.” The room had a large fireplace and a natural wood fire was crackling merrily.
Anne guided us to seats by the fire, where they had laid out some nibbles.
George took our coats. Then he got drink orders, poured some wine, and sat down to join us.
Talking with George and Anne was like getting one of Rob’s massages. The initial touch was feather light, but slowly and surely they slid the conversation around to topics that were deeper, easing any tensions rather than fighting them. And they did it effortlessly, because between the two of them their interests were almost encyclopedic.
We talked about medicine – a topic very much on all of our minds – and Anne was keen to hear Rob’s insights on therapeutics and, in particular, mRNA vaccines. George had apparently gotten that brief from Rob already, in his capacity as Hutchinson Investments’ chief strategist, but he joined the conversation with great interest.
Apparently the firm was contributing to the Governor’s effort to convert the Boston Convention and Exhibition Center into a field hospital. “That was Fiona,” George said. “Henry brought it to us. Hopefully it will make a difference.”
Anne smiled. “I just love your sister, Cami. She is the most amazing, most dedicated woman . . . all of this is taking such a toll on her.”
Well, anyone who loves Fi starts high in my good graces!
We talked about baseball – of course! – and George and I commiserated over the possible loss of the whole season. It was hard to imagine spring without baseball.
Anne was a tennis enthusiast, but COVID had also forced the suspension of ATP tournaments since early March.
We talked about theater, and about music. George and Anne were both very knowledgeable about opera and wanted to know all about my roommates – another subject on which I was always delighted to wax poetic.
Anne was very interested in our idea for an opera-themed podcast. “That would be fabulous!” she said. “We’re all focused on survival, and we should be. But surviving right now means brutally hard work for some people, and home detention for the rest of us. Finding ways to connect, to be able to engage with each other about life and love and beauty and art . . . that can keep us all going. Keep us sane.”
“Civilization?” I said, making it a question and directing it to George. Rob had told me why his father had insisted that his boys become culturally literate.
George immediately understood the reference, and smiled fondly at his son. “I see someone’s been telling tales out of school. But that’s exactly right. We need to save lives, and we need to keep our civilization alive, too. It was already in bad shape even before the pandemic.”
And that, in turn, led us into a conversation about America’s deepening cultural and political divisions.
We had been talking about all manner of things for over two hours when George took Rob off to the kitchen to help him with something he was cooking.
Anne smiled at their retreating backs, still charmed, as I was, by the fact that in this household, the kitchen was not an exclusively female preserve. “I do more cooking than George, but he’s got more talent and usually takes care of special meals. Which gives me more time to talk with people – the thing I really enjoy most.”
She turned those kind brown eyes on me. “And I’ve really wanted to spend some time with you. I can see how close you and Rob have become in such a short time. He’s had such a hard time connecting with people – I mean, really connecting – since he came back from Afghanistan. And I’m his mom, so I worry!”
I decided to address the elephant in the room. “Anne, I have to ask: does it bother you – either of you – that Rob is dating me? I’m not exactly what parents dream about for their children.”
Anne didn’t pretend to misunderstand me, and she was blessedly direct. “What George and I have dreamed about for our boys is that they will find someone to share their lives with, as fully and completely and joyfully as George and I have these past thirty-seven years. That’s all we care about, and I mean that. Rob is pretty obviously very attracted to you. I can’t for the life of me understand why your being trans should bother us, if it doesn’t bother him.”
Clearly she wasn’t seeing conviction in my eyes. She came over and sat by me on the couch, in the place Rob had vacated, and took my hands in hers. “Rob told us that you would be worried we might not accept you. Please don’t be. We aren’t like that, and I’m proud to say that our boys aren’t like that.”
“Thank you. I just didn’t know what to expect, from . . . well. This is all very far removed from my own experience.”
She smiled. “The whole ‘Boston Brahmin’ thing?”
I nodded.
“We’re not all like Chip,” she said with some asperity. My face must have asked a question, and she said, “George told me, second hand, about your conversations with his nibs. I got more from Gooney, of course, she and I have been herding Hutchinsons now for four decades and she’s closer than my own sisters. I guess Chip said he was uncomfortable about your being trans?”
“To be fair, he also offered me a job.”
She smiled again. “That’s Chip. Never waste good talent! But don’t think I’m dumping on him; he’s a wonderful man as well as a doting husband. He just has a black-and-white view of the world, which is part of the reason he’s the right person for his job. He makes quick decisions and doesn’t agonize over nuances. So you make Chip uncomfortable, because you don’t fit neatly into the binary categories he uses to create order out of chaos. But George and I are more comfortable with a color palette that isn’t limited to black and white.”
“Cornelius seems much older than your husband. Is that why they’re so different?”
“Partly. Chip is six years older, and he is the oldest. I think you would agree that makes a difference?”
I nodded fervently, thinking of the dynamics between Fi and me, or for that matter between Iain and Fi, when Iain was still with us.
“Because Chip was the eldest, I think he bore most of the weight of his father’s expectations, and that was a pretty heavy burden,” she said.
“The ‘Tai Pan’?”
She laughed. “Oh, you've heard that one, have you? Yeah, the old man was really something. But impressive, too. Very impressive. Just . . . well, let me just say talking to him was a bit like talking to New Hampshire’s ‘Old Man of the Mountain,’ back before it fell.”
She asked some questions about me, and seemed genuinely interested in my journey into womanhood. When I told her that I had started taking hormones a month ago, she was surprised.
“I assumed you had already gone through hormone therapy. I never picked up anything that would have led me to question whether you were female when we first met. Once I knew, I was able to look. And even then, any ‘tells’ are pretty subtle.”
She was surprisingly familiar with trans-related issues and asked questions about voice therapy that displayed a solid understanding of the mechanics and the challenges. When I asked, she said, “George and Rob do their homework; I do mine. Obviously, I know a bit about your family because of Fiona, but I wanted to know more about you. Who is this person, who finally got through Rob’s very smooth, but very hard shell? You know. Just . . . being a mom.”
I could only shake my head. My own mother was, to put it mildly, not like that. At all.
Rob and George eventually called us in to dinner. George had done a masterful job grilling some New England salmon to perfection, adding olive oil and some delicate herbs to bring out the flavor. With that, we had fingerling potatoes and an asparagus dish that was mouth-watering.
“There were times during my illness when I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to smell or taste anything again,” I told them. “When a wonderful meal like this would just be . . . food. Fuel. And I had never really thought, before then, how important good food is. How much it centers our social interactions. It’s . . . .”
I paused, looking for the word, but Rob and George both said, “Civilized.”
“Yes!” I said, “it is. And, God bless civilization!”
After dinner, George suggested a friendly game of chess, but Anne intervened. “No, you don’t! You’ll be at it until curfew, all three of you! Besides . . . George, you might not have heard, but Rob’s been teaching Cami to waltz . . . .”
George’s face lit up and he eagerly took the bait. “Oh, that’s even better!”
George and Rob pulled the leaves from the table, and put the table and chairs against the wall. The space remaining was easily enough for two couples to dance – even a space-eating waltz.
This will be fun!
George did something with his phone, and the opening strains of Chopin’s Waltz in A-flat Major came through speakers in the ceiling. To my surprise, he came and stood in front of me and held out his left hand. I took it with my right, as Rob had taught me, and he pulled me in, resting his right hand lightly on my back, below the level of my left arm. I placed my left hand on his right shoulder, and he led me into the box step.
Rob, meanwhile, partnered his mother. She laughed and said, “You’re entirely too good at this!”
If I had wanted to arrange a test to see whether I made Rob’s father uncomfortable, I would have had a hard time improving on having him waltz with me. But his dancing was smooth, relaxed, and graceful – exactly how you would expect a mature man to dance with a much younger woman when his wife was in the room. He was almost as good as Rob, and dancing with him was a pleasure.
The music ended, he bowed gracefully and I curtsied deeply. Then we switched partners and I was in Rob’s arms, and life was a fine and wonderful thing. He had the full skirt of my light blue cocktail-length dress swirling as we showed off the fruits of our practice sessions.
But as good as Rob was, and as hard as I had practiced, George and Anne put us to shame. There is no way to match what two good dancers can achieve, when they have been partnering for decades. It was like watching water flowing over river rocks, liquid and graceful and full of life.
As Rob’s arms came around me in a twirl, I leaned back into his chest, lifted my eyes towards his parents and whispered, “I want that, Rob.”
He spun me back out, and when I was facing him he smiled and held me captive with his amazing eyes. “As you wish,” he promised, making me feel like Buttercup.
My rental car was packed, with Iain’s remains on the floor of the passenger seat. We had made love last night, and then, once more, this morning. The last time was as gentle, as tender, as the first time. But now I was outside and the chill of separation was seeping into my bones.
“Don’t be sad, love,” Rob said softly. “We’ll make this work.” He kissed me gently, his lips a sweet promise. “Love finds a way.”
To be continued . . . .
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
Boston, Massachusetts, May 21, 2022
I woke up slowly, emerging almost reluctantly from the dream I had taken across the threshold of consciousness. It had been years since I had seen that dreamscape, but there it was, whole, healed, and perfect: Me, making a graceful dive from a wooden pier into a deep, pristine lake, surrounded by snow-capped mountains, pine forests, and the clearest air in the world. I was wearing a lime-green one-piece and curves that were, finally, all my own.
I smiled, running my hand lightly down my satin negligée. No one would ever describe me as Rubenesque, but the end result of two years of hormone therapy was – in the opinion of the only two people whose views on the subject mattered – entirely satisfactory.
Two years of estrogen and other chemical blockers and stimulants. Two years of blessed healing. Two years of loving discovery.
I had lost two inches in my waist, picked up rather more in the hips and rear end, and even achieved a bust that managed, albeit only just, to fill out the very first bras I had bought to wear with my prosthetics. I jokingly referred to their size as a “gentleman’s C.” My skin was softer, my body hair gone, and the hair on my head was finer, more full. When loose, it came down to the middle of my back.
But I won’t be wearing it loose today! As sleep left me, I jumped out of bed, grabbed my dressing gown and raced upstairs. It was all I could do to stop myself from going straight to the third-floor bedroom, but I knew I would be more welcome if I came bearing the only appropriate gift.
I had fresh coffee ready in minutes, pausing in gratitude – as I tried to do every morning – for the rich, earthy smell. Pouring two cups, I brought them upstairs, held awkwardly in one hand so I could manage the door at the top of the landing. I rapped twice, sharply, and walked in without waiting for an answer. I wasn’t really worried about my welcome.
“Good morning, beautiful!” I said, gazing at the stunning woman who was already sitting up in her bed. She was alone — but only for the one night.
Fiona returned my smile with a look of such joy that it literally took my breath away. “Good morning, Cami.” Her voice was soft, warm, and full of love. She patted the bed. “Come join me!”
I handed her one of the cups, taking the opportunity to bend down and plant a kiss on her forehead, before going around the bed to sit beside her against the pillows. “You ready?”
Fiona smiled, this time fiercely. “Ready? More like over-ripe!”
“Good thing,” I said, “because I’ve got a full day planned for you! You might regret leaving the ‘details’ to me!”
Fiona looked untroubled. Serene, even. “Girl, I have every confidence in you. I’m sure everything will be absolutely perfect.”
I gave her a look of mock horror. “Oh! No pressure!”
She laughed, then turned serious. “I would trust you with my life. I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am of you. How amazed I am at the incredible, accomplished, beautiful woman you’ve become. I’m so glad that you're my sister. And so happy to be sharing this morning with you.”
I choked up, but was just able to say, “God, I love you, Fi. You’ll always be my hero!”
My eyes, like Fiona’s, were bright with tears. But they were, at last, the best kind: Tears of joy, of love, and of thanksgiving.
We had survived.
We had survived as COVID closed the country, as we retreated to our bubbles and hunkered down behind closed doors. As infections soared. As the hospitals had filled . . . and the morgues. As the date that Fi and Henry had announced with such joy came and went, just another day of grueling work for a frontline healthcare professional.
We had survived to see a new spring complete with vaccines. I had hoped, then, that maybe, just maybe, things would get back to normal. But Fiona had warned me that it wouldn’t get better overnight, and as usual she was right.
Baseball returned, but it started with empty stadiums. Stores opened, only to close again as numbers crept back up. Amazingly, there were organized campaigns against getting vaccinated, and in many parts of the country they worked. People Fiona had been trying desperately to save turned around and joined team virus.
So, summer arrived, and a new subvariant came, and we stayed locked in our bubbles.
And we survived.
But Fiona, my hero, had not given up, so I could not give up either. We kept the flame of hope alive as summer turned to fall and the brutal Delta variant took hold. We kept hope alive as Thanksgiving gatherings and Christmas parties turned into super-spreader events, as the death total continued to climb, reaching one million just two weeks ago.
But the Delta variant waned and the less-deadly Omicon variant took its place. And in an act of hope and faith, Fiona and Henry had set a new date. A day in spring, when the flowers would be blooming, even in coastal New England. When the trees would be covered in a light green, and azaleas would blossom.
Today.
“I wish they could be here today, to see you like this. Iain. Gammy Campbell.”
“Me too,” Fiona said. “Though I expect if she was here, Grammy’d have a thing or two to say about our lolling around in bed getting maudlin when there’s work to be done.”
I smiled through my tears. “She would, too.”
Gammy had passed with the turning of the year. She hadn’t died of COVID; she just went to bed one night and, wholly without drama, failed to awaken with the dawn. Maybe she had no Tina in her life, to call her sternly back to duty. But I thought the weight of the years, the fights, the deaths and defeats had been too much for her.
I was proud to carry her name, though she’d ribbed me about it. “Can’t see what good’ll come of changing your name; you’re a Savin whether you like it or not. But I suppose you’re a Campbell too, and there’s no name better.”
It was time. “Let’s get cracking, Doctor Savin,” I said. “Into the shower with you!”
“Not a doctor today,” she said as she slid out of bed. “And not a Savin tomorrow!”
I folded her into a hug before she disappeared into her bathroom. “If you’re not a doctor today, then no giving orders,” I admonished. “It’s all under control!”
I trotted downstairs to get my own shower, reflecting on Fi’s decision to take Henry’s last name. Like me, she no longer had any desire to bear our father’s.
Fi hadn’t spoken to Dad since he’d disowned her. He had caught COVID in late December of 2020, and as a result he wasn’t able to join his friends’ caravan to Washington D.C. to rally in support of President Trump’s efforts to overturn his election loss.
Dad had been doubly blessed: his symptoms were relatively mild and, unlike his friends, he wasn’t facing federal criminal charges for assaulting the Capitol. God’s ways are, indeed, as mysterious as the pathway of the wind.
I hadn’t been in contact with Dad either — not since our mutual denunciations. But I kept in quiet and sporadic communication with Mom, which is the only reason I’d even known about Dad’s COVID episode and his insurrection stupidity. I had met up with Mom twice. The last time, just a few months ago, had been at Gammy’s internment in West Virginia. Dad hadn’t accompanied her.
The time before, Mom and I had each driven six hours to meet in Columbus, Ohio so I could give her Iain’s remains. To my surprise, she already knew about my transition. “Why you thought you could tell a thousand people and not have anyone bring that bit of juicy gossip to your mother’s ears is beyond me.”
I thought about that conversation as I put my hair into a shower cap and turned on the hot water. Our conversation that day had been quite the eye-opener.
We had sat across from each other on park benches, separated by a gravel path, a pandemic, and an unbridgeable chasm of mutual disappointment and unmet expectations. She had looked bitter, brittle, and far older than she had just six months before, when I had seen her at Thanksgiving.
She had asked about Iain’s final days, and I gave her a sanitized version. I left out my final minutes with him, when he was fighting for every breath, and I was straining every nerve to hear the sound of the approaching ambulance. When he had called, in his last distress, not for his mother, but for Fiona. Mom didn’t need to know that.
She had convinced herself that Iain’s death was punishment for her own sins, and she had scornfully rejected my efforts to change her mind. “What do you know about it? Nothing! You sit there, stuffed with all your big-shot schooling and proud as Lucifer, and think you have all the answers? You don’t know shit. It is my fault. My sin! I was like you – so full of myself, so sure I knew better. The rules didn’t apply, not to me. I should ‘follow my heart,’ even when it led to sin. Even when it led to a child, a perfect baby girl, who was mine . . . mine! But not my husband’s.”
Well, that had been a surprise.
By that point she had been crying – bitter, ugly tears. “Because of my sin, God took my Heather, my love child, my perfect baby girl. Took her back. But that wasn’t enough. Didn’t matter that I reformed, that I gave my life over to Him, was ‘born again.’ Didn’t matter that I was a dutiful wife. Oh, no. He wasn’t satisfied. He had to take Iain, too, and leave me with another son who doesn’t even want to be a man.”
She gave me a look then, a mixture of earnestness and sheer ferocity. “So, get this through your pretty little head, child of mine. Don’t waste your time loving God. Just fear Him. Fear Him! You hear me?”
I would never agree with her theology or her willingness to defer to Dad’s bigotry. But, I thought sadly, she should still be here today. Fiona is the only child she has left of whom she could feel unreserved pride, within the narrow confines of her own world view. While I was sorry that she would never accept that I’m a woman, I had no desire to punish her. She had suffered enough.
Fiona, however, had not been so forgiving. “She went right along with Dad when he disowned Iain and had the gall to tell me to get over it. No.” And that was that, as far as she was concerned.
Two years of crisis had distilled Fiona down to her fiery essence. She had never suffered fools gladly; these days, she didn’t suffer them at all. It didn’t matter who they were. She treated the morons, the gadflies, the anti-vaxxers; her Hippocratic oath required no less. But she didn’t coddle them.
I offered a prayer that morning for my mom. A prayer for healing. For forgiveness. I doubted Fiona would forgive her and I knew she would never forgive herself. But I continued to believe in a kind and loving God, and I trusted He would do better.
I didn’t put on makeup because our first stop of the day was at a salon. So as soon as I was dressed, I trotted back upstairs. There was just enough time to make a couple of fresh cups of coffee and pull out the fruit and yogurt before Fi joined me.
“Perfect!” she said, looking at what I had laid out. “I don’t think I could eat any more than that right now!”
“No morning sickness?” I asked.
Fi shook her head. “Not since the first trimester. Knock wood, it’s been pretty easy for the last couple of weeks.”
“You sure you’re in the second trimester?” The question was barely out of my mouth when I realized how stupid it was. This was my sister, the doctor. Of course, she was sure.
She just smiled. “Cami, this child was conceived the night that was supposed to be my first wedding anniversary. Of that, I am one hundred percent positive.”
I gave her a broad smile of complete and total approval. “I can’t imagine you being the slightest bit worried about walking down the aisle pregnant, even if Boston’s high society requires a mountain of smelling salts!”
She sorted. “Are you kidding? After everything we’ve been through, Henry and me? I wasn’t going to wait an instant longer to get pregnant. All the better that I’m big as a house!”
“Fi,” I said fondly, “you’re barely showing and you know it. You look amazing.”
She scooped up the last of her yogurt. “Not yet, I don’t. But you’ve got a couple hours to get me there!”
I laughed, poured the remainder of our coffee into to-go mugs, and pushed her out the door. “Okay, okay! Let’s get moving!”
Twenty minutes later, we were at a salon that I had found after a diligent on-line search. The place Fi had taken me to on Christmas Eve in 2019 had closed, but at least one of the hair stylists had found a new home here. I knew Fi would be delighted to see Charli again.
Anne was already at the salon waiting for us. She gave Fi a beautiful, motherly hug as soon as she came through the door. “Good morning, love,” she said. “How are you feeling? Ready to be a Hutchinson?”
Fi laughed. “I don’t know about that . . . . But I’m past ready to call you ‘Mom!’”
Anne beamed. “You make Henry so happy, Fi. And I can’t begin to tell you how that makes me feel.”
She turned and gave me a big hug, too. “Cami, you’ve been a wonder, getting all of this organized!”
Soon the three of us were sitting side-by-side, Fi in the middle, while beauticians fussed over our nails, our makeup, and most especially our hair.
“How are the boys this morning?” I asked Anne. Henry and Rob had both spent the night at George and Anne’s Back Bay Brownstone.
“Oh, George had them both up early and got us all fed. You know, the usual humor about ‘last meals’ and all that. Guy stuff,” she concluded fondly.
“Even ‘civilized’ men are still men,” Fi said with a touch of asperity.
“Thank goodness!” I added, causing Fi and Anne to giggle.
The stylist was working on Fi’s thick plait of hair, and I took a moment to admire it. However grueling her work had been, she had adamantly refused to simplify her life by cutting it short. “It was a way of keeping faith,” she explained. “A way of telling myself that this day would really come. It felt so impossible, some days.”
“How are your friends doing, Cami?” Anne asked. “The guys who taught you the secrets of hair and makeup?”
“Al and Javi are great,” I responded. “I haven’t seen them in person since they moved back to Bogotá in early 2021, but that almost makes no difference. I mean, during lockdown, we weren’t really seeing anyone in person, even if they lived down the street. We’ve kept in touch by Zoom.”
“It’s such a shame their shop didn’t make it,” Fiona said. “I know you would’ve wanted them to be here today.”
I shook my head. “They were getting by, mostly thanks to government assistance. But Javier’s mother was fighting cancer and they decided it made sense to relocate so they could be nearby.”
“Is she still with them?” Anne asked.
“No, she passed last summer. I gather it was about as gentle a passing as Javi could have hoped for under the circumstances. And he was at least able to be there with her.”
Fiona asked if I thought they might move back at some point.
“I doubt it,” I said. “They both really like Bogotá, and apparently it has a pretty vibrant LGBTQ+ community. Tina’s happier down there, too.”
“That’s the transwoman you told me about?” Fi asked. “The one you represented?”
“I haven’t heard this story,” Anne said.
Where to begin? “Al and Javi took Tina in when she was eighteen and on the run from her family. She stayed with them a couple of years, and they were really close. She was like a daughter. But the family caught up with her, hauled her back to Missouri, and got her committed. . . .”
Anne was shocked. “Oh my God! That’s terrible! What the hell? This isn’t the Middle Ages!”
“In some parts of the country it might as well be,” I said grimly. “Anyhow, she escaped somehow and found her way back to Al and Javi. That’s why I moved in with Nicole and Maggie — so I could vacate Al and Java’s garage apartment for Tina. When I got back from New York and Boston after Iain’s death, I got in touch with Tina . . . .”
Here, I thought, I’m going to need to edit the story; there are parts they don’t need to hear, and parts I can’t tell them.
I had met up with Tina along the banks of Indian Creek in April of 2020 and offered to pay for a health insurance plan that would allow her, finally, to get gender-affirming medical care through Dr. Chun’s office. She had been deeply suspicious of my motives, to the point where I was compelled to admit that I was doing it, in no small measure, because she had come to me in a nightmare and screamed at me for even thinking about giving up.
Her response had been classic Tina: “So you want to help me ’cuz I showed up in your crazy dream, but I’m the one who’s supposed to see a shrink? That’s messed up. You know that, right?”
As I suspected, Dr. Chun had no trouble making a diagnosis of gender dysphoria in Tina’s case, and she soon had her own HRT supply. But perhaps more importantly, Dr. Chun had finally gotten Tina to open up about the abuse that she had suffered and the wholly improper proceedings that had resulted in her being involuntarily committed to an institution for years.
Dr. Chun urged Tina to tell me the story as well, and (with Tina’s somewhat grudging permission) I took the matter to Eileen.
After hearing my summary and doing a Zoom interview with Tina, Eileen personally took the matter to the firm’s pro bono committee. With her endorsement, there was no chance that the committee would not agree to take Tina’s case without charge, especially since Eileen had, with great reluctance, taken over as acting Chair of the Management Committee when Rafe Oliveira developed long COVID.
The facts in Tina’s case were horrific: fanatical parents, a religious zealot with a clinical psychology practice, a corrupt probate judge . . . . But the firm had hired an excellent investigator and, with Tina’s inside knowledge of where to look, had found damning evidence. The path to justice was complicated, however, since it is incredibly difficult to mount a collateral attack on an earlier judgment by a nominally competent tribunal.
We had a theory, though, so I drafted a detailed complaint, backed by the evidence that the investigator uncovered. I thought it looked solid.
“It might not work,” Eileen cautioned Tina and me. “Push comes to shove, it probably won’t. That’s one hell of a conservative court, and we don’t have a choice on where to file. But sometimes you’ve got to play the cards you’ve got.” She got a wolflike gleam in her eye. “And sometimes, people will pay a crapload of money not to have you lay your cards on the table where the whole damned world will see them.”
And that was just what happened. We never had to file the complaint; the named defendants called, blustered, and then made an offer. Which we rejected out of hand, countering with our own pie-in-the-sky demand.
But at the end of the day, Tina got a $1.65 million settlement, the probate judge resigned to “spend time with his family,” and defendants did not get the non-disclosure agreement they so desperately wanted. Tina could spill the beans whenever she wanted to, as could all the rest of us. And would in a heartbeat, if anyone in her benighted family ever caused Tina trouble again.
All that history flashed through my mind as I sat in the beauty parlor, primping like a princess. It was a beautiful world, sure enough, but when you turned over rocks there were a whole lot of slimy worms and venomous snakes.
I summarized, lamely, “My firm was able to get a decent settlement for her. Enough that she and Al and Javi can establish themselves in Bogotá and never have to worry about having a roof over their heads.”
“Her whole family should have been strung up with concertina wire,” Fiona growled.
“Tina would agree with you,” I replied. “Me too, for that matter. But . . . security for herself, and for the only two people in the world she trusts, was even more important than vengeance.”
“She trusts you too, doesn’t she?” asked Anne.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. She’s never going to like me, but she appreciated the work we did for her. She gave me a token that I wear every day. I’d say we parted on pretty good terms.”
Actually, what Tina had said was, “I should show up in your psycho dreams more often.” But that wasn’t a comment I intended to share.
We thoroughly enjoyed our salon time. When you’re in a salon, you can’t really be working or doing all of the things that we normally spend our time doing. You have to pause. To stop, even. It was a blessing for me — the run-up to the wedding had been pretty frenetic — but I think it was even more of a blessing for Fi. She’d basically had no time for such a frivolous, but “civilized,” activity since the pandemic had struck. More than two years.
Fi and I had opted for elaborate updos, while Anne had her hair done up in a net of gold mesh that looked incredibly sophisticated. We thanked the ladies, who fussed and wept and naturally said Fi was the most beautiful bride ever.
She was, too.
Boston, Massachusetts, May 21, 2022, immediately following
We went back to Fi and Henry’s place in Cambridgeport to have some light refreshments and finish getting ready. But we’d barely gotten ourselves upstairs when the doorbell rang.
“That’ll be Liz!” I scurried downstairs to let her in.
And there she was, dressed to the nines in a stunning full-length green dress that matched her emerald eyes. I hadn’t seen her in person in over two years, and instantly I pulled her into a fierce hug. “Oh my God,” I said, struggling to keep myself from crying. The girls had worked hard on my makeup. “I’ve missed you so much!”
“Damn, you look good, Cami!” Her hug was fierce. “You feel good, too!”
I giggled. Not quite the body she remembered! I pulled her inside and toward the stairs. “Come in, come in! Where’s Derek?”
“He’ll catch up at the ceremony. I only need one lens in here. Besides . . . I thought it would be better to keep this part within the sorority, so to speak.”
We got to the main level, and I turned to make introductions. “Fi, Anne, this is Liz; Liz – my sister Fiona and Henry’s mom, Anne Hutchinson.”
Anne was closest, and she greeted Liz warmly. “So glad to meet you, Liz!”
“Likewise, Mrs. Hutchinson,” Liz replied.
“Please, call me Anne – everyone else will, since you’ll see dozens of women who can be called ‘Mrs. Hutchinson’ today! And besides, any friend of Cami’s is a friend of mine.”
“Anne, then.”
Fiona had hung back, but she surprised me by pulling Liz into a warm hug. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for so long. Cami raves about you!”
It was interesting to see Liz and Fi together. They were fairly close in age and coloring, though Fi was a strawberry blond to Liz’s pure, bold redhead. Liz had sharper features altogether, but in both of them, the force of their personalities shone through every line and curve.
“I go a bit over the top when I describe your little sister, too,” Liz said playfully. “For a lawyer, she’s okay. All things considered!”
“Okay, okay!” I said, realizing that this could get embarrassing in a hurry. “Why don’t we have a bite to eat before we get down to business!” I made coffee – of course! – while Fiona pulled out some cheese, fruit, and pastries from one of the many wonderful Italian bakeries in the North End.
“You’re from Pittsburgh?” Anne asked Liz.
“Born and raised there,” Liz replied. “And I’ve been back now for six years. It’s a wonderful city.”
“It’s been years since we visited. George and I spent a few days there one time before going down to tour Fallingwater. The city was, I guess you would say, ‘in transition,’ back then.”
Liz snorted. “Pittsburgh is always in transition, one way or another. But I love it.”
Anne was clearly finding Liz to be fascinating. “How did you meet Cami?”
“Through work – my company hired her firm for an antitrust case, and I got roped into it. Tell the truth, I was really dreading it at the time. You don’t advance your career in a business by working on lawsuits. But . . . turned out there were a few side benefits!”
“Well,” Fiona interjected, “Cami credits you with helping her discover herself. And you have my thanks for that, as well . . . . You saw it, when the rest of us were still fooled.”
I was starting to blush furiously. This conversation could get very embarrassing!
Liz, fortunately, was sensitive to my discomfort. “However she chooses to express herself, Cami has always been a remarkable person. Though, I do think . . . hope? You’re happier now?” This last question was directed at me.
I nodded. “Absolutely. There were things about being a man that were easier, I guess. In some ways. But it’s just not who I am. As soon as I understood it – as soon as you helped me to see it,” – I threw her a grateful look – “I knew I could never go back. And I’ve never regretted it.”
Fiona shook her head. “We weren’t really close as adults, until she came out as trans. I don’t know how much that had to do with how close we’ve become since then. But I think it’s probably a lot. I don’t know . . . as a brother, Cam was kind of distant. But maybe that was me.”
“Me, I think,” I said slowly. “I was so focused on establishing myself as independent. Self-sufficient.”
I snorted at my own pretensions. “As if! One of the things that I’ve learned these past two-plus years, over and over and over again, is just how much I depend on my friends, my family, my mentors at work . . . . everybody! And I’ve learned to embrace that. . . . As long as I can give back, too.”
“That’s definitely an important balance,” Anne observed. “One thing I’ve noticed as I’ve grown older, and as I’ve watched my parents’ generation age, is that the balance point changes at different points in your life. Learning to receive with grace – that’s a hard lesson, especially in our culture.”
Liz chewed that one over. “Yeah . . . I’m not ready to learn that one just yet!”
We laughed.
“You’re recently married, too, aren’t you?” Anne asked Liz.
“Just over a year ago,” Liz said, smiling.
“What was your wedding like? That would have been before vaccines were widely available.” Fi asked.
“Oh, it was pretty much the opposite of what you’ll be doing today. Derek and I just went to City Hall one day, signed the necessary papers and got it all official with the civil authorities.”
“You didn’t want to wait any longer?”
Liz smiled, but her response was serious. “It’s my second marriage, Fiona. I did the big church, the big dress, the big party the first time around. And that was right, for the person I was then. For BethAnn, and for Jack. We wanted that. And . . . those are very, very good memories.”
She shot me a look, full of gratitude.
In my own, small, way I had helped her redeem those memories – a small repayment for the gift of self that she had given me!
Liz returned her attention to Fiona. “For Derek and I, though . . . we’re just different people. And the simple way, no-fuss-no-muss – that just seemed right for us. COVID or no COVID.”
“I still wish I could have been there,” I said. Before Liz could say anything, I added, “But . . . I understand. And I’m so glad that the two of you are happy.”
We were just about done with our brunch, and Fi brought the conversation around to the reason Liz was here this morning. “So . . . Cami showed me some of your photos – they really are amazing! How long have you been doing this?”
“I’ve dabbled for years – My Ex is a Marine, and when we were young, I’d help his friends by doing the photography for their weddings, since none of them could afford a professional.”
“Don’t tell me you aren’t a professional!” Fi laughed.
“I’m a telecom executive,” Liz answered. “This is just a side gig. I was hoping to do something with it, but demand kind of dried up when the pandemic hit. And, work got pretty crazy.”
“Which is to say, oh modest one, that you’re being groomed for a VP slot,” I said.
“That may be the first time anyone’s ever accused me of modesty,” Liz retorted. “But in this case, I’ve actually got a lot to be modest about. The main reason my career has taken off is that so many of our senior people retired rather than adapt. COVID’s pretty much changed the way the whole office operated, starting with selling our building and committing to remote employment.”
“Well, I’m very glad you were able to be here today,” Fi said. “It means so much to Cami that you’ll be doing the photography. And to me as well.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Liz said. “And, it looks like God has smiled on you with perfect weather.”
That was a good thing, I reflected, since Fiona had insisted that the wedding be outdoors. And it would have been, even if the wedding party had had to appear in ponchos!
We spent two minutes clearing up the table and then Fiona, Anne and I started getting dressed. Once we were relatively decent, Liz pulled out her camera and began capturing some memories. Unlike the photoshoots I had done with Liz in the past, she stayed discreetly in the background and simply captured the moment without directing the action.
Fiona had chosen a style that was both simple and classic – a strapless, A-line dress in white satin with a form-fitting bodice and a fuller skirt. If you knew to look, you could definitely see that she was pregnant. Fi, being Fi, was extremely pleased about her baby bump.
Anne was wearing a long, flowing, high-necked dress with lace applique in a deep claret red. She looked beautiful and sophisticated and happy – so very happy!
Fiona had selected a fairytale dress for me in sky blue silk and chiffon. It flattered my curves and showed a fair bit of lilly-white skin above the wide and deep neckline. I was checking the effect in the mirror when Anne came up behind me.
“Missing a little something, I think,” she said. “Rob got this for you.” She was holding a delicate necklace in white gold with a heavy sapphire pendant.
My throat caught. “Oh, that man!” The gem matched my eyes.
“Good value, isn’t he?” his mother said fondly. “Here – let me.” She settled the piece around my neck, with the pendant hanging mid-way between the hollow at the base of my throat and the cleavage – the real, honest-to-God cleavage! – that the dress allowed me to display. A little present from my guy.
I looked in the mirror again, and finally saw the woman I had only been able to see in my mind’s eye for years.
We were all ready, all beautiful, and Liz had all the “primping” photos she could possibly want, when the car arrived. The four of us fit easily into the stretch limo, which took us to the harbor where we transferred to a small boat that would take us to the island where the wedding was being held.
As planned, we were the last to arrive. We were met at the dock by George and Rob, both of whom looked incredibly dashing in morning suits that emphasized the breadth of their shoulders and their trim, athletic builds. The look on George’s face when he saw his wife would melt the hardest heart.
Music played as George walked Anne up to the pavilion where the guests were waiting. At the change of the tune, Rob took my hand and led me up to the pavilion as well, passing by rows and rows of Hutchinsons and friends of both Henry and Fiona. When we reached the ceremonial arch, Rob went to the right to join his brother, and I went left to wait for Fiona.
A hush descended on the crowd as a ruggedly handsome man in the blue mess uniform of a major in the U.S. Army stood and raised a gleaming gold trumpet to his lips. The clear, bracing strains of Jeremiah Clarke’s regal Trumpet Voluntary pierced the morning, and Fiona stepped down onto the dock and made her way to the pavilion. The only person who accompanied her down the aisle was her daughter, who, being still very much in utero, had no choice in the matter.
Fi looked radiant.
She had told me once what her perfect wedding was going to be like. Rob, Iain and I would be groomsmen, her best friend Cassie would be her Matron of Honor, and Dad would walk her down the aisle.
Almost none of it had gone according to Fiona’s plans. Iain had not survived the pandemic. Cassie Johnson had, but at a personal cost that left her a shadow of the fun, vibrant woman who had been Fi Savin’s roommate and confidant.
Day after grinding day of work in an ICU filled to bursting had ruined Cassie’s health, her marriage, and her passion for healing. She had finally resigned and gone home to Birmingham, Alabama. While she had made it to the wedding, she begged off being part of the wedding party. She wished Fiona all the best, but she had no energy for it.
I took Cassie’s place as Maid of Honor. Rob was the only one of us who managed to do his assigned job.
And yet . . . it was perfect.
Just looking at Fi as she walked forward brought tears to my eyes. She had been through so much – endured so much suffering, witnessed so much death. But she had come through, and this day, so long postponed, had finally arrived. Henry, waiting for her, looked like a man who had achieved his heart’s desire.
This was a Hutchinson wedding, so an Episcopal Bishop presided. He did a lovely job, though I couldn’t help but wonder what Sarah would have said about all the smells and bells. She was rigorously low church; I could always appreciate both.
Henry recited his vows with quiet, irrepressible joy. Fi’s voice was firm and clear as the trumpet.
The highlight, for me, was the music – particularly an absolutely breathtaking, inspiring two-part rendition of “The King of Love My Shepherd Is.” The singers, of course, were the stars of the recently concluded, critically acclaimed, podcast “Opera Houseparty,” Nicole Fontaine and Margaret McGregor. My companions and housemates during the worst of the pandemic – my teachers, my partners in craziness, my dearest friends.
My Ohana.
Maggie wore a soft pink dress; Nicole, a pale yellow. As always, they were just gorgeous, but their voices were simply magnificent. There wasn’t a dry eye anywhere in sight.
They rose again to lead the recessional hymn, supported by the major on trumpet, a string quartet, and a tall, spare man with a sensitive face and the eyes of a poet, who conducted the group as he played “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee” on a grand piano. Rob and I followed Henry and Fi just as the girls sang,
“Ever giving and forgiving,
Ever blessing, ever blest,
Well-spring of the joy of living,
Ocean-depth of happy rest!”
The beautiful hymn gave structure to the emotions that were overwhelming me. I felt, indeed, like I was joining “the mighty chorus which the morning stars began.” Affirming, in this beautiful service, that life and love and beauty will endure to the ends of the earth.
Boston, Massachusetts, May 21, 2022, immediately following
The food was served on outdoor tables, with Boston Harbor and the city’s skyline as the backdrop. Henry, who knows a thing or two about food, had suggested the caterer. The wedding party was served first, freeing the bride and groom to make the rounds while people were eating. But that left Rob and me and George and Anne alone, and I had a better idea than that. “Okay,” I said to Rob’s parents, “I want to finally introduce you to my roomies!”
Anne laughed. “I can’t wait! God, I loved that podcast! I miss it so much!”
Since I’d been in charge of the seating, I arranged this in advance. Nicole and Maggie were at a table for eight, but four of the seats were empty – waiting for just this opportunity. The other two seats . . . .
“George, Anne, let me introduce my roommates, Nicole Fontaine and Maggie McGregor, and of course you know Kyle and David.” The last mentioned were, respectively, Kyle Stewart, who had played the trumpet during the ceremony, and David Sinclair, the pianist.
Anne was positively gushing. She gave Nicole and Maggie enthusiastic hugs, then turned to the two men. “Kyle . . . David. I am delighted – so delighted – to see you both again . . . and in such good company!”
George’s greetings were more restrained, but in his own, quiet way no less warm. He smiled shyly at my two lovely roommates and said, “Thank you for your wonderful podcast. It was so very civilized!”
We sat and chatted with them while they ate. Anne wanted to get Nicole and Maggie’s take on the podcast. She already had mine.
“You know it was all Cami’s idea, of course,” Maggie said.
Anne nodded.
“Well, Nickie and I worked on it even while Cami was up in New York looking after Iain. And, more happily, getting acquainted with your reprobate son there.” Maggie smiled at Rob. “We had about fifteen episodes roughed out by the time Cami got home. You know – what the episodes would be, what topics we wanted to explore, and how we wanted to do it.”
Nicole said, “Cami had us focus first on who we thought the target audience should be. Mags and I are professionals – well, Cami calls us geeks! – but an audience of pure opera geeks would be pretty small. She thought we needed to reach more than just professionals. Said we should try to capture people who maybe didn’t know much or anything about opera, but had time on their hands and were willing to learn something new, so long as it was fun.”
“That’s where ‘Opera Houseparty’ came from,” Maggie said. “It sounded fun, and informal. And, we got my dad to take a picture of the three of us on the front steps of the house, sharing a bottle of wine wrapped in a paper bag. After Cami’s friend Liz cleaned it up, it made great cover art for the podcast.”
“I love that picture,” George said. “I would see it, of course, whenever I played the podcast on my phone, and I really felt like I was there, listening to the three of you chatting.”
Nicole took up the story. “Anyhow, as you both know, we had our big launch in early May of 2020.”
Anne and George were well aware of the timing of the launch, since I had brought them both in on it. Anne Shaw Hutchinson is a mover and shaker in the donor community that supports arts in the United States, and her enthusiastic backing for the project had helped ensure its success. Simultaneously, Nicole and Maggie had boosted the podcast through their extensive professional networks, so the launch had gone very well.
“Our scheduled episode plan went out the window almost immediately. The George Floyd murder happened just a couple of weeks after we’d launched, and it just felt like the wrong time for some of the material we had recorded. But we were able to adapt quickly, and that was a real learning experience.”
“I remember those episodes,” Anne said. “The stories that your friends told . . . they were so powerful. Really eye-opening.”
“The arts have a long, long way to go before they are anything like equal opportunity, that’s for sure,” Maggie said. “I was really glad that some of our friends from our time as students – and as singers – were willing to come on the podcast and tell people what it’s like to be Black opera singers.”
“It sounds pretty all-consuming,” George observed. “Was this basically your full-time job?”
“Nicole and Maggie put in a huge amount of time, especially at the beginning,” I said. “It did get easier over time. My job was a lot simpler. I handled the logistical elements that didn’t require any real knowledge of the subject matter. Like figuring out hosting services, recording and editing software, organizing the artwork, theme music . . . stuff like that. Once we were up and running, my job on the podcast was mostly to ask stupid questions and add a bit of comic relief when these two got too serious!”
Nicole smiled fondly. “Cami’s being modest, as usual. She kept us grounded. Effectively acted as the moderator of the show. And her questions were ones that regular people ask all the time. What our broader audience would be asking.”
“Like, ‘why does everyone die in opera!’” Anne giggled. “That was my favorite episode!”
Maggie laughed, hard. “Funny thing, too. That was the first question Cami asked back when she sold us on the idea of the podcast. Even though it’s obviously not the case. There are plenty of silly operas – it was even a specialty. French Opera Bouffe. You could put the whole Gilbert and Sullivan cannon into that category. There are other operas that aren’t just silly but no one dies, like The Marriage of Figaro or The Merry Widow. It’s just a myth.”
“Myths often have a kernel of truth behind them, though, as I recall your colleague observing during that episode,” George said.
Nicole nodded. “It’s true. The operas where people die tragically – especially when it’s the protagonist – they just stick in our memories. They remind us how fragile all of this is – all of it – art, beauty, love . . . even life.”
I could see that truth written on every face at the table. It was a truth we had all lived. We had all survived, but . . . it had been a difficult two years.
“Sometimes words by themselves just don’t seem like they’re enough to convey tragedy,” Nicole added. “And opera gives us a way to bridge that gap, a way to communicate that goes beyond language. When Tosca sings about feeling abandoned by God in Vissi d'Arte, she is touching the heart of human experience.”
David reached out and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “One part of it, anyway, my love. There’s a happier part as well.”
That earned him one of Nicole’s patented, heart-stopping smiles. “There is, indeed.”
Anne smiled at them, then at her son. “Nice bit of matchmaking, Robbie. Never thought you had it in you!”
Rob gave every appearance of innocence. “Me? Oh, no. It was all Cami’s fault!”
I blushed from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, I’m sure. “Rob!” I said, threateningly.
“Ohhhhh, I think there’s a story here!” Anne said gleefully.
“But one that Cami might prefer not to tell,” George murmured.
“Nonsense!” Anne said. “Or rather, I’m sure she’ll get over it!”
I looked sheepish. “Well . . . . See. Here’s the thing. Rob wanted to come down and see me in Baltimore after I went back. He decided that we could each isolate for a couple weeks. Or he could, on the one hand, and the three of us,” – I indicated my roommates and myself – “could on the other. Then he would be able to visit with me for two weeks. And . . . well . . . I really, really wanted to see him. But, ah . . . .”
I couldn’t go on.
Rob decided to help me out. “. . . but my darling girl here was just petrified that I would never look at her again if I set eyes on her beautiful roommates.”
Everyone was laughing and it felt rude not to join in. Churlish, even. But I appealed to George and Anne, “It’s funny, but honestly. Can you blame me?”
“Your roommates are lovely,” Anne said soothingly. “But so are you. Have some confidence, girl!”
“I think I recall saying something along those lines myself,” Nicole said. “I mean, once or twice!”
“Me too,” Maggie said. “Stubborn woman!”
“Okay, okay,” I said. Then, more seriously, “But honestly. I’m a transwoman, I was only just starting my transition, my roommates are, objectively, beautiful in every way, and Rob was – is – not just one of the most eligible bachelors in Boston. He’s also a genuinely wonderful human being.”
“And a good dancer,” his mother said, judiciously.
“Better than average at chess,” his father contributed.
“Getting ready to go in search of the bar,” Rob said, looking almost, but not quite, as embarrassed as I had been. Good!!!
But then Kyle added, “He’s also the best friend a man could ever have. Well, he and David, both.”
“Amen to that,” David said. He raised his glass and said, “A toast, then, to Rob – truly the best Best Man!”
We raised our glasses in salute and Rob buried his head in his hands.
As the laughter subsided, Anne said, “I still don’t understand how Cami’s lack of confidence got the four of you together.”
Rob recovered quickly. “Sometimes one problem can’t be solved, but two problems solve each other. I knew that Kyle and David got an apartment together in Rosslyn after we returned from Afghanistan. And . . . well. I knew they were the finest people in the world. As close to me as Henry. Closer, even, in some ways.”
He looked at them both, his eyes communicating a world of experiences they alone shared. “The three of us used to joke that we’d never find anyone; we’d all had real trouble re-integrating when we came home. And I just thought . . . based on everything that Cami had told me . . . that maybe Nicole and Maggie might draw them out. Like Cami had done for me.”
“And you figured that Cami might calm down if you brought a couple of good-looking guys along with you when you came to visit?” Anne asked.
“Yup,” Rob said, sounding satisfied. “Worked like a charm, too!”
Kyle was looking at Maggie, his expression tender. “It was love at first sight for me, I’ll tell you. She didn’t need to draw me out!”
“But I would have, if I’d had to,” she responded. “I knew that after five minutes.”
George smiled and looked at Nicole. “I’ve been able to read David like a book since Rob first introduced us. I think I can guess how that evening went for him. But how about you?”
“He was so shy when the evening started,” Nicole said, her voice warm.
“To quote Cami,” David said, “‘Can you blame me?’ I mean, first Rob introduced us to the podcast, and Kyle and I listened to every episode they'd put out at that point. So, we already knew they were stars. Then we meet them, and Nicole is just the most beautiful woman in the whole world, and she’s made this incredible seafood risotto, and she has a voice like an angel . . . hell, yeah, I was shy!”
I laughed. Time Nicole got a touch of her own medicine!
But she remained serene. “He was so quiet during the meal, it was hard to get a sense of him. But after dinner . . . we got him to play on our keyboard. I mean, you heard him today, so you have an idea of how good he is.”
She shook her head, smiling at the memory. “But it wasn’t the quality of his music that got me. When he started to play, he just lost himself in his music. The same way I do, I guess. And . . . all of his shyness disappeared. He was somehow focused and peaceful and . . . Oh, I can’t describe it. I realized I had never seen anyone so lovely in my life.”
I had happened to be looking at Nicole that night, at the precise moment that epiphany had struck her. I had seen it in her eyes, in her face . . . the sure, certain understanding, that this was what she had been looking for. This was what she had been waiting for. She had never looked more transcendently beautiful than she did in that instant of understanding.
Naturally, the three of us had talked that night after the guys had left. Nicole and Maggie’s descriptions began with the thing that had first struck me about Rob. Compared to these three, their previous encounters had been with boys. Rob and Kyle and David had a weight and seriousness that marked them as men, even when they were being lighthearted or charming.
And they had treated us with seriousness as well. They saw the grit and determination that Maggie and Nicole had brought to the pursuit of their dreams. They saw their intelligence, their maturity, and it attracted them powerfully. Because they were secure in themselves, in their own manhood, they did not see attractive and accomplished women as a threat.
Both Nicole and Maggie had ample experience with guys who found them physically attractive. But men whose attraction went deeper, went to the very core of who they were as women, as human beings – that was novel. And both of them found it a source of a strong reciprocal attraction.
“Trying to get relationships off the ground during the pandemic must have been a challenge,” George observed. “I mean, we had trouble enough integrating new people that we hired at the office.”
“We found a way,” David said. “Kyle and I were pretty isolated as it was. The think tank where I work had shuttered its offices in April or May of 2020 and we were all working remotely. Kyle had a desk job at the Pentagon and he was encouraged to work remotely, too. So, we were able to basically have both our apartment and the girls’ house as one bubble.”
“The Monastery and the Nunnery,” Maggie said, laughing.
“Really?” Anne asked, archly.
Maggie grinned. “Well, not for long! Plenty of mornings I might be over at the Monastery, or David might join us for breakfast at the Nunnery.”
“I felt so bad for Cami,” Nicole said. “Here she’d gone and found these wonderful guys for us, and we got to see them, and her own boyfriend was stuck up in Boston!”
“We found a way too, Rob and me,” I said. It hadn’t been as frequent, but I had managed a couple of trips to Boston and he had managed a couple of trips to D.C. We had isolated for two weeks before each trip, and had stayed for around two weeks when we got there. At Rob’s apartment in Boston, and at a hotel when he was in the D.C. area (my room at Opera House was pretty tight quarters!).
My body responded well to the hormone treatments, and each time Rob and I met I felt more and more like my body matched what I wanted it to be – for him, and for me. And, dear man, he made sure that I realized just how much he appreciated me throughout my development. Our lovemaking just kept getting better. Practice makes perfect!
“It sounds like a pretty ideal existence,” Anne said. “Not bad, for the middle of a global pandemic!”
David said, “I know. And believe me, I thank God every day that we were all so blessed. So many weren’t.”
Nicole was nodding. “So true. I mean, there were days I would go crazy, cooped up in that house, not able to perform . . . but I still miss Opera House. I think part of me always will. We were so close, Maggie and Cami and I – and then David and Kyle and Rob, too.”
“Never thought I’d hear you regret being in New York,” I joked.
“I don’t regret it. New York is still my city, you know.” She flashed me a grin, an echo of her exultant smile that night, so long ago, near the fog-shrouded Christmas Tree in Rockefeller Center. “And the place David and I are renting is perfect for us. But . . . I miss you guys. I always will.”
I got a bit teary at that; Nicole has that effect on me. But I was moving out too. Rob was taking a leave of absence from the firm to take a position advising the Secretary of Health and Human Services, where his deep understanding of the pharmaceutical industry would be put to good use. We were going to rent a place in D.C.
The end of the podcast and the breakup of our bubble at Opera House was partly due to the end of the pandemic and partly to the success of the podcast itself.
We had put out an episode a week for almost two years, rain or shine. Through donations and sponsorships, the podcast was able to replace Nicole and Maggie’s lost income. But it did more than that: it put their names, faces, and voices in front of every music director in the opera world. So when opera houses finally reopened, Nicole and Maggie both had no difficulty in getting parts. The girls simply did not have the time to do justice to the podcast while actually performing.
While the podcast had taken a huge amount of effort and energy, it did get easier over time and the three of us had time together for other things. “I think I’m going to miss our ballroom dancing lessons the most,” I said. “I wanted to get good enough to partner Rob, but I just loved the time we spent on it.”
“I’ll miss the cheerleading,” Maggie said with a big grin.
“Cheerleading?” Anne was incredulous.
“Oh, yeah,” Maggie said. “Cami was doing cheer routines for exercise every day, first thing in the morning. 5:00 a.m. kind of thing. And I thought it looked cool, so I had her teach me.”
Just my luck that Liz had picked that moment to wander over to our table for some candid shots, her husband Derek trailing behind her with a truly impressive camera bag. She snapped off a few before flashing her wolf’s grin at Maggie and asking, “Cami taught you cheerleading?”
“She did – I’d never done it in school, and now I wish I had!”
“You didn’t join the fun?” George asked Nicole.
She shivered. “5:00 in the morning? Are you kidding? I’m from New York! That’s when people should be going to bed!”
“How was your pupil?” Liz asked me, still smiling like the apex predator she is.
“Better’n me after about three weeks,” I said promptly. “Maggie’s a natural gymnast. She would have made your squad, no problem!”
“You were a cheerleader?” Maggie asked Liz.
“A few years back,” Liz said, her eyes dancing. “Cami may have taught you everything she knows . . . but she didn’t teach you everything I know!”
I stuck my tongue out at her, which Liz caught on camera. Of course!
Liz wandered off to the next table.
“Sounds like you guys kept busy,” Anne said.
I replied, “Oh we did . . . I was working – remotely, of course – but we also had the podcast, and dancing, and cheerleading. Nicole gave us both cooking lessons, and I gave lessons on web design. I studied voice with both Nicole and Maggie since Dottoressa Trelli wasn’t able to do my lessons once the pandemic hit.”
“It was important to keep busy, to keep moving forward,” Nicole said. “Cami saw that, from the very beginning. I mean, Maggie and I were just destroyed when all the opera houses shut down. I don’t think we had any idea how to put one foot in front of the other. If she hadn’t given us both a kick in the butt, I don’t know what we would have done.”
“You’d have figured it out.” My eyes were once again bright with tears as I looked at my roommates. “But if I managed to give something back, it was a fraction of what I received. You two – you taught me how to be a woman. I couldn’t have had better role models. Because you’re the most caring, most genuinely empathetic women in the whole world.”
“Ever giving and forgiving, ever blessing, ever blessed,” Rob said softly.
“Yes,” I said. “That. Exactly that.”
Boston, Massachusetts, May 21, 2022, immediately following
Everyone had finished their meal and people were beginning to wander from table to table, so we got up and began mingling. Rob and I walked arm-in-arm across the lawn, enjoying the feel of the sunshine and the sparkle of the water. It felt like a very long time since the world had been this open.
We ran into Rob’s Uncle Cornelius and Aunt Geraldine during one of the moments when they were not swamped with other family. After we exchanged greetings, Cornelius went straight to the question that interested him.
“I understand you have left your firm,” he said, giving me an appraising look.
“Just last month,” I responded.
“I heard you have found another position. You should have let me make an offer!”
“That is very kind of you, sir.” Rob might call him “Uncle Chip,” but to me, the Tai Pan of Clan Hutchinson would always be “sir.” “But I felt like it was time for me to do something a bit more public spirited. I’ll be joining the Civil Rights Division of the Justice Department in a few weeks – once I’ve recovered from all the festivities here!”
My move had been facilitated by the fact that I was the sole beneficiary of Gammy’s will, and the thrifty Scotswoman had saved over $200,000 on a bookkeeper’s salary. She had consulted my mother prior to Iain’s death, and apparently Mom had told her that Fiona was marrying money and that, contrary to my father’s constant complaints, the two of them were well off financially. So, all of my student loans were paid off.
Eileen herself had advised me to make the move. “Cami,” she had said, “this firm has multiple offices, but we started here, in D.C. Our practice has always been close to the federal government. We’ve had attorneys leave to serve as Cabinet Secretaries, deputies, line attorneys. And we’ve always encouraged it, because they often come back, and they come back with experience we can never duplicate. We do a better job training lawyers than the government ever could, but for where you’re at in your career right now . . . you should be somewhere you can be in court all the time. Don’t worry. We’ll be here when you get tired of it!”
“Remember us, when you and Rob get tired of that den of iniquity,” Cornelius said.
Geraldine just smiled.
We wandered off. Rob greeted friends and family, introducing me. I was content – more than content – to walk with him, proud to be his date on this most perfect of days. To nestle into his arm, or to walk hand-in-hand. To bask in the knowledge that, in his eyes at least, I was a pretty woman, and he was my guy. He had promised, two years ago, that we would make it work, our impossible pairing. That love would, somehow, find a way.
I had placed my trust in his certainty, and he had been right.
We were standing close to the pavilion, looking down toward the water, watching everyone mingling in the later afternoon sun. White clouds scudded against a deep blue sky, and sail boats raced across the harbor. Everyone dressed brightly, looking so at ease, so happy.
Shakespeare said that all the world’s a stage and we are but players, but I thought opera was a better analogy. We were all singing our parts – sometimes together, sometimes apart. Sometimes melody, sometimes harmony. Looking down at the gathered assembly, I thought of all of the people whose voices had joined with mine.
I would not be the woman I was today without the wonderful man at my side. Without Nicole and Maggie, together with their guys down by the shoreline. Without Liz, snapping photos with her usual unique mix of intensity, precision and flair. Without Fiona and Henry, in the center of the activity, effortlessly gathering the attention of everyone there. Without Eileen, without Al and Javi, Sarah and Tina, Gammy Campbell . . . .
But for a brief, intense five-month period from Thanksgiving of 2019 until Easter of 2020, I had stood upon the stage and sung a new song, my own song, in my work and my life and my love. I left parents and friends behind, risking everything on the crazy conviction that my physical body did not cabin, or even describe, the fundamental truth of my being.
I sang my song in Pittsburgh and Boston, in New York and Washington, in Baltimore, College Park, and Morgantown. I sang it through a pandemic, through a wild night in Rockefeller Center, and in a motel in Mount Vernon where I lost my brother and found the love of my life. It was my song, and mine alone.
My aria.
My life flowed on and my song joined with others, sometimes leading, sometimes supporting. But my aria defined me – the brief moment that changed the direction of my life and gave me a new purpose. Even a new name, one I had chosen myself, each part of which had meaning – powerful meaning – for me.
“Alright, my love,” Rob said. “Enough of your wool-gathering. The music is starting!” And there they were, forming up on the dance floor. So many of the people I loved most in all the world, together and in person, gathered around Fiona and Henry.
I ran down the hill, the pale blue chiffon of my dress streaming behind me, and called back to the wonderful man who had stolen my heart.
“Well, come on, then! Let’s dance!”
Finis
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