The Road to Right.
A SHORT STORY BASED ON “HOLDING STILL FOR AS LONG AS POSSIBLE”
By Sydney Odell
“I know,” he said calmly.
I turned to watch him as he checked his blind spot and turned on his signal to change lanes. He looked like he always did, especially when he drove – relaxed and content, like he had all the time in the world and nothing ever pissed him off. Though I knew this to be false, he really did look like that was the case; he was as placid as the most serene lake.
I rubbed my sweaty palms on my jeans and exhaled.
“You know?” My voice was hoarse. I hadn't meant to be so nervous, but I couldn't help it.
“Of course I know, you dolt. I'm your brother. And I've been your brother for all of your 23 years. And you're more obvious than you think.”
“Do you think Mom and Dad know?” I blurted out. I thought I'd done a pretty good job of keeping my secret until I decided to move out. Maybe not.
“I think Dad knows, or at least suspects something. Mom has no clue, or if she does, she's in denial, just like with everything else.” I knew what he was referring to.
I looked down at my hands, pink from cleaning the snow off the windshield, but still sweaty and shaking.
“Are you okay with it?” I asked quietly.
“Obviously. How hypocritical would it be of your gay brother to hate you for wanting to be a dude? We queers have to stick together!” That was my brother. Always straightforward.
I exhaled again. Really exhaled this time. The fear that constricted my chest seemed to evaporate and I was able to inhale again. I choked on the hot, dry air being blown into my face from the radiator in Dave's old pick-up truck and rushed to roll down the window. The cold winter air smacked me in the face and stung, but I was able to breathe in again. My brother laughed, giving me a quick squeeze on my left knee, and I smiled for the first time that day. I'd been foolish. Of course my brother would understand.
And my mother? Well, that was an anxiety-ridden disaster for another day.
**************************************************
I was standing at the kitchen sink, gripping the edge of the counter with white-knuckled hands. My dad came up beside me and rested his hand on my shoulder.
“You know your mother doesn't deal well with change, Dave. She just needs some time to adjust. She'll come around.”
He had always been the more understanding parent. He was the one that gave us the pep talks before hockey tournaments and school presentations, he was the one who asked how our day was and actually wanted to hear the answer, and he was the one who left little notes in our lunchboxes reminding us that he loved us very much, as though we could have forgotten. Our mother was loving, too, of course, but hers was the hard, cold kind of love that was both restrained and respectful and “just wanted the best for us.” My father's love was soft, clear and honest.
“I know,” I replied, letting go of the counter's edge to wipe the tears from my eyes. My hand cramped with the movement. “And I should have known this is how it would happen. But it still hurts.”
“I know, son.” He squeezed my shoulder one last time, then let go and turned to the pantry. He opened the door and grabbed the broom and dust pan. He turned back and bent to sweep up the broken cup of tea off the floor, his knees cracking. “It's just that it's a new concept to her. She's never known any gay people, and she still wishes you were with Janelle. It just needs to sink in. She won't love you any less.”
Janelle was my girlfriend in high school. We'd broken up just after graduation, three years ago. Things had always been awkward between us when we were dating, and the following summer, after spending a weekend at my friend Jeff's cottage without our parents, I knew why. I'd been a little confused afterward, but it felt right, in a way that only someone who has always felt wrong would know. Of course I knew that this realization would break my mother's heart; not only was she old-fashioned and conservative, but she loved Janelle in a way that would have made me jealous if my dad's love hadn't made up for her lack thereof. She had taken Janelle shopping on countless occasions and Janelle spent the better part of senior year sleeping over in our spare bedroom. Janelle was the daughter she'd never had.
In reality, she did have a daughter – my sister, Sam. But Sam, starting at the age of five, preferred to play with G.I. Joes and Transformers figurines and would cut up the clothes for the Barbies my mom bought her and then bury them in the backyard. Our dog, Gizmo, dug them up every time. I think my mom stopped trying after that and finally, begrudgingly, allowed her to dress in boys' clothes and join a hockey team.
I never knew why my parents stayed together. My dad, so loving and nurturing and genuine, a perfect father and a perfect husband – versus my mother, so stern and formal and withholding. I just didn't understand.
“Why are you with her?” I said, meanly and meaningfully.
My dad stood and emptied the dust pan into the garbage can, then turned to look at me.
“She's so...mean,” I added, knowing this was not the word I wanted, but unable to come up with anything more accurate at the time.
“When you're with someone, you can't just pick and choose the things you like about them and expect the things you don't particularly like to change. Honest love is understanding and accepting every part of a person, even their flaws and bad reactions...and even if they're mean. She's been a work-in-progress since I've known her, and I know you may not be able to see it, but she does try.” He reached out and pulled me in to hug him then. “She'll come around,” he repeated. “You're strong enough to give her time.”
I wasn't quite sure I believed this, but I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, and let his reassuring love wash over me.
**************************************************
“Sam, she may be a cold-hearted bitch, but she's not dumb and she's going to notice if you start growing facial hair and sounding like a man. Just tell her already.”
I was having lunch with my friend Siobhan. She was lucky enough to have two loving parents and didn't understand why I was so scared to tell my mom that I was transgendered. I'd been seeing a psychotherapist biweekly for the last six months and I'd recently been psychologically cleared to start receiving testosterone injections and, eventually, get a mastectomy.
“You don't understand,” I said, hating myself for sounding like an angsty 16-year-old. “She dropped a cup of tea when my brother came out to her – she actually dropped it! Who seriously does that? Then she didn't talk to him for a week, and to this day, she refers to his being gay as 'his issue' or 'his secret' even though the entire family knows now. I don't even want to imagine what will happen when she finds out I'm transgendered.” I sighed and took another sip of my iced tea.
“Well, you better figure it out. You get your first injection in three weeks,” Siobhan reminded me.
Half of my heart soared at the mention of my impending journey to really becoming myself – my right self. The other half sunk at the thought of confronting my mom. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes.
Siobhan reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “You can't keep lying to yourself just to protect your mom. You need to live your life the way you want before it's too late.”
Ugh. She was right.
**************************************************
I had felt so free after coming out to my parents, it was like I was a different person. It was hard to believe it had been a year since I told them. My mom still wasn't happy about it, but at least she still treated me like a human being. She avoided the topic of my sexuality like the plague, and it was awkward when family friends and relatives brought it up in front of her, but we managed. I still didn't have the balls to have anyone over, even straight male friends, because I knew it would make my mother uncomfortable and she'd demand that my door be open like I was 14 again and had a girl from school over. On the plus side, this meant that I never had to clean my room and was able to maintain the organized mess that somehow worked for me.
It was about six o'clock and I was in the kitchen making myself dinner. I was mentally preparing myself for my 12-hour shift that started at eight o'clock when Sam walked through the door. She leaned back against the counter and took a piece of broccoli. She sighed heavily before taking a bite of it.
“Is tonight the night?” I asked.
“Ugh,” she groaned. “Can you tell her for me? Please? And I can go hide under a rock somewhere, safe and out of earshot?” She spat her bite of broccoli into the garbage. “Ugh. I can't even eat. I think I'm going to be sick.” She did look kind of green.
“You'll be fine. If I can do it, you can do it. I softened the blow, anyway.”
I heard her exhale loudly and looked at her. She looked like she was relaxing already. I knew she thought her being transgendered would somehow be worse to our mother than my being gay, but I was pretty sure her conversation would happen the same as mine had. She would say it, see the look on my mother's face, try to explain it, justify it, tell her it wasn't her fault and eventually give up after five minutes. My mother would make some sort of throaty sound, probably drop whatever she was holding, and stare in disbelief until Sam's monologue ended. Then she would make an unintelligible sound and storm out of the room, not to be seen for the rest of the night. I shared these predictions with Sam.
“Well, thanks, bro, that makes me feel a whole lot better,” she sighed, rolling her eyes, but I could see that it really was working. She took another piece of broccoli.
“Have you eaten yet?” I asked. “I cooked two pieces of chicken in case you showed up.”
“No, I haven't eaten all day.” She peered over at the stove to see what was there, then started to set two place settings at the table.
**************************************************
I was still shaking when I reached the waterfront after 20 minutes of brisk walking. I was feeling so many emotions – anxious, relieved, afraid, free, angry, thankful. I thought I was going to fall into a coma from furiously cycling through so many emotions in such a short period of time.
The crisp winter air was so refreshing. I had felt so hot in the kitchen with my mom, like my emotions were burning me up physically, too. I focused on breathing in and out and tried to slow my heartbeat. It was over. I'd done it.
It happened pretty much exactly how Dave predicted it would, only my mom wasn't holding anything so she kicked the dishwasher door instead and then limped out of the room. My dad gave me a hug afterwards and said, “Good for you. I'll be lucky to have two amazing sons, though we may have to do some light PhotoShopping to change a few of our family pictures...” I shoved him and he winked at me. He always knew how to make me smile and I had never felt as loved as I felt in that moment.
I began to make my way through the snow towards the bench that had been cleared off by some courteous stranger. I winced at the cold wood as I sat down and leaned back, but I didn't get up. I rolled up my sleeve and wiggled the cotton ball that was stuck to my inner elbow with a piece of medical tape. I inhaled and pulled it off, then stuffed the slightly bloody cotton ball into my coat pocket. I examined at the small, red, slightly bruised dot on my arm for a moment. I licked the tip of my finger and then poked it. The flesh around the small but special wound ached in the most amazing way. I'd only had my first shot of T that morning, but already I felt more like myself than I ever had.
This was it.
This was the beginning.
And boy, did it feel good.