The heavy duvet weighs down on me pleasantly. Airy, translucent fabric drapes from the posts rising from the bed’s four corners. The sound of lapping water drifts in through the open French doors.
My first morning at my grandparents’.
I sit up amidst the numerous pillows, feeling more rested and alert than I have in a long time. Yesterday’s stint on the court was amazing, and dinner last night was delicious. I’d put on the lavender dress before meeting Ruth and William in the dining room at seven; they seemed pleased by that. And the steak was cooked so perfectly that it only took one tentative bite before any guilt I’d felt after spending the weekend at Catherine’s farm sanctuary fled my thoughts.
There are no new email notifications on my phone. I choose to take that as a good sign, that Mellie spent the night actually sleeping. But there’s a part of me that wonders if she’s okay.
I get dressed in practice clothes and go downstairs. Ruth is at the kitchen table with a steaming mug of coffee, reading a book on her tablet.
“Good morning,” I say, pouring myself a glass of water.
“Good morning, Dara. Did you sleep all right?”
“More than all right. That bed is really comfortable.”
“I’m so glad to hear that!”
I open the fridge and take out two eggs, then put a pan on the stove to heat.
“You don’t have to do that,” Ruth says, standing. “Let Penelope fix breakfast for you. She can make anything you like. Penelope!” she calls loudly from the kitchen doorway.
Can she make a bottle of hot sauce appear out of thin air? I like my eggs spicy. “Oh no, that’s all right. I’m used to cooking for myself. I don’t mind at all.”
Ruth’s lips thin, and she watches disapprovingly as I crack and scramble the eggs, but she doesn’t press. “Your grandfather took the boat out early this morning,” she says, “but he asked me to let you know that he’s arranged some meetings with the three tennis pros at the country club beginning at one o’clock this afternoon.”
I blink. “He did?”
She picks up on my confusion. “You said you work with a trainer, correct? Or you need to? There are some very talented people who work at our club. I’ve taken a lesson here and there, and I’m always so impressed by what they can do. We thought maybe you’d like to choose one of them to train with.”
“Wow. That’s so nice. Thank you!”
Ruth steps closer as I push the eggs around the pan. “We meant what we said, Dara. Whatever you need. We want you to be happy here.”
“In that case …” I say.
“Yes?”
“I need to sign up for those tournaments. The deadline for the Virginia one is tomorrow, I think.”
“Let’s do that right now, then!” She snaps into action, opening a new browser window on her tablet, propping up the device so the screen is facing out, and positioning two of the kitchen chairs around it.
I laugh as I plate my eggs and bring them over to the table.
Signing up for this summer’s tournaments in Virginia, South Carolina, and North Carolina takes far less time than I feel like it should. I already have a player identification number from my time on the junior circuit, so with only a few clicks and a few entry forms, I’m registered. After all these years of struggling, striving, it’s all disconcertingly simple. No choruses singing, no parades, no confetti poppers.
But there is a light ignited in my chest. A newfound feeling of rightness. Odds are I won’t win any of these tournaments—you can’t get to your destination without taking the journey first. But at least I’ve finally boarded the train. And Ruth is so excited to help me do this—it feels unspeakably good, having a parent figure get behind my dream.
Later, at the country club, a sprawling place where everyone seems to wear the same crisp white clothes and speak at the same low volume, I meet Keith, Debbie, and Monique, the local tennis pros. I get to do a mini-lesson with each. Ruth says it’s entirely up to me who I go with, and to pick the one I like best.
I rule out Keith right away. He’s an incredible player, and I do think he would be a good coach, but having another male coach in his fifties would remind me too much of Bob. Training with a woman who’s actually played on the women’s circuit would not only open up a whole new view of the game for me, it would be enough of a separation from my years with Bob that it would keep the guilt at bay. I hope, anyway.
Debbie is someone I think I’d like to be friends with. She’s in her midtwenties, and the tight bun she wears her reddish hair in reminds me of Mary. We hit the ball back and forth, and she keeps calling out compliments like “Wow, I didn’t learn to serve like that until I was twenty-three!” or “Great shot!” I get the sense that she’s new at this, and while I’m glad I’m impressing her, I don’t know if she’d challenge me enough.
Monique, on the other hand, is fierce, both in her ability and her instruction. She wears her hair in lots of little braids that she ties back into one thick braid while on the court, and the muscle definition in her arms is goal-worthy. She plays in about fifteen tournaments a year, and is both the highest-ranked player and most businesslike of the three.
“Show me what you’ve most recently been working on with your trainer in New York,” she says when we get on the court.
I demonstrate my two-handed backhand. Bob was right—it’s gotten really good, even after nearly a week of not practicing very much. I expect Monique to at least smile, but she just watches and nods. “Again,” she says in a What did you think? You’d hit one ball and I’d give you a gold star? tone.
I hit the shot several more times, waiting for her next instruction.
Finally, she holds up a hand. “What else?”
“Um. We were actually just about to start focusing more on my backspin lob,” I say.
“Show me.”
I do, and she just nods again. Monique is the complete opposite of Debbie. I wonder if she even knows how to smile.
“Let’s play a set,” she says, taking up position across the net.
She is the toughest opponent I’ve ever faced. I manage a few points, but they’re not easily won.
“Your defensive game needs work,” she says matter-of-factly, echoing what Bob said at our last session.
“I know. And I’m ready to put the work in.”
She assesses me a moment more and then says, “Very well,” apparently pleased at my response.
We set up a schedule: two-hour training sessions, five mornings a week at my grandparents’ home court. It’s a far cry from the measly two shared sessions a week with Bob and Mary, and the commute’s a lot better too.
Monique’s style isn’t exactly warm and fuzzy, but I trust her. She picked up on the same problems in my game that Bob did. That’s worth more to me than any résumé or ranking. I know I’ll be able to learn a lot from her.
When we get back from the club, Ruth and I take a walk along the shore. I give her a hug—the first one I’ve initiated on my own. “Thank you,” I say.
She hugs me back, but far more gingerly than usual, and I realize my sweaty workout clothes are grossing her out. I don’t think I smell, but I end the hug and step back a bit just in case. “You’re very welcome, dear,” she says.
“I … need to make a phone call,” I tell her. “Would you mind giving me a few minutes?”
Her demeanor closes off in a flash. “Who are you calling?” There’s an edge in her voice I haven’t heard before.
She thinks I’m calling Mellie. “I have to call Bob, my tennis coach back home.”
And just like that, she relaxes. “Of course. I’ll give you some privacy.” She goes to dip her feet in the water, and I sit in the sand.
I know I have to make this call, but right now I’d give anything not to. There’s a knot in my stomach again—not the before-a-match nerves, and not quite the anxiety I felt before I met my new family. More like the unsettled feeling I experienced every time I talked to Mellie about tennis, because I knew what I had to say was going to make her unhappy, and I was about to ruin the good thing we had going.
I take a deep breath and dial.
“Back at it tomorrow, yeah?” Bob says upon answering. “You know what they say about idle feet.”
I thought the saying was about idle hands. “Hey, Bob. Actually, that’s what I’m calling about. I know I said I’d be back to training tomorrow, but … I’m going to be staying with my grandparents in South Carolina for a while.”
There’s a pause. “For how long?” All jokiness has vanished.
I watch as Ruth waves to a woman wearing a floppy straw hat. They strike up a friendly conversation. Must be one of the neighbors. “I don’t know,” I tell Bob. “For the foreseeable future.”
“What about tennis?”
“Nothing’s changed,” I assure him. “My grandparents have an incredible court on their property and I found a local pro who’s going to train with me. And I signed up for three tournaments this morning. The first one’s in Charlottesville in a couple weeks.”
Another pause. A longer one this time.
“Bob? You there?”
“Sounds like you’ve got everything figured out.” He sounds hurt. “Call me when you’re back, I guess.”
Guilt gnaws at me. I feel like I cheated on him and then dumped him and made him feel like it was all his fault. But what else am I supposed to do? “I will,” I promise.
I’m going to miss him, but I vow to keep in touch.
Boats float by serenely, like leaves in a pond. One of them is probably William’s, but I haven’t learned how to distinguish his boat from the others yet. Two little kids and their dad dig for mussels, and a seagull swoops down and snatches one right out of the boy’s hands. A dog kicks up sand as he runs in pursuit of a ball.
Sam would love it here. So many scenes perfect for capturing on film.
Ruth waves me over.
“Dara, meet JoBeth Montgomery.” She indicates her hat-wearing friend, a petite, brunette woman a little younger than Ruth but just as put together. “She lives down the beach from us. JoBeth, this is my granddaughter, Dara.”
JoBeth gasps, and gapes at Ruth in disbelief. “Not the Dara?”
Ruth puts her arm around me proudly. Possessively. “The very one.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, and shake her hand.
She unabashedly surveys me from head to toe, like she’s going to go paint my portrait later or something. “Well! What a pretty, polite young woman! You seem to have turned out just fine.” She sounds surprised.
I tilt my head. “Sorry?”
She leans in, like we’re best friends sharing a secret. “You have no idea how worried your grandparents have been, knowing you were out there being raised by … you know.” She shakes her head sadly.
What is this woman getting at? I open my mouth to respond, but Ruth cuts in. “I’m sorry, JoBeth, but we do have to be going. We’ll talk soon.” She places a hand on my arm and guides me away.
“Wonderful to meet you, Dara,” JoBeth calls after us.
“What was that all about?” I ask. Clearly, William and Ruth have told their friends about me. But it’s what they may have been saying about Mellie that I’m more concerned about.
“Oh, she just knows how much we’ve missed you.” She bends down to pick up a seashell but then tosses it when she sees it has a crack. “Now, we’ve got the court and trainer and tournaments sorted. I called our travel agent, and she’s making all the airline and hotel arrangements. What’s next?”
“Um …” I try to shift gears as we turn in the direction of the house. “I actually need to get a passport. Do you think you’d be able to help me with that?”
“You don’t have a passport yet?” she says, almost angry. “Let’s go do that right now, shall we?”
“It might be complicated, though. I know you need to show them your birth certificate, and mine says Dara Hogan, not Dara Baker.”
She purses her lips, thinking. “I suppose you could apply for it under the name Dara Hogan, then?”
I shake my head. “I think my mom legally changed our names to Baker. But I don’t have any of that paperwork. I guess I could ask her for it—”
“No, no, you don’t want to do that,” she says hurriedly. “What if … what if you changed your name legally again? Back to Hogan … or even to Pembroke, if you like.” She looks up at me innocently, as if this idea has just occurred to her. But she says it so easily that I have to wonder. “And then you can apply for the passport with that name.”
“Oh. That could work, maybe.” But what name would I choose? “Let me think about it?”
“Take all the time you need.” She pats my back. “I’ll never forget the first stamp I got in my passport. My mother took me to Paris for a week when I was sixteen.” She sighs wistfully.
“Wow, that sounds amazing.”
“It was the trip of a lifetime.” She smiles. “Perhaps you and I can go together sometime. Depending on your tournament schedule, of course.”
“There are actually tournaments in France,” I say. “Maybe we could do both at once.”
“Well, there you go! Consider it done.”
I have some downtime before dinner, so I take a shower, get dressed in jeans and a T-shirt since I can’t keep wearing that same dress, and check my email. Some spam and information about the tournaments, but nothing else. I was hoping the next chapter of the Celeste story would be waiting for me. I wonder if Sam told Mellie where I am, and if she’s upset.
Ruth lent me one of her books, so I bring it out to my terrace to try to read for a while, but Bob’s disappointed voice, the fact that it’s been over twenty-four hours since Mellie wrote to me, and the uncharacteristic radio silence from Sam keep tripping through my thoughts, distracting me. Why is it that I finally have everything I’ve ever wanted, and everyone’s mad at me for it?
And if Mellie really is unhappy with me for coming to stay with the Pembrokes, is it a healthy, normal kind of unhappy, or is it the I-should-have-Niya-go-check-to-make-sure-she’s-still-breathing kind of unhappy?
I end up just watching the river.
Ten minutes before dinner, the alarm I set on my phone goes off, and I fight my way out of my daze and head downstairs. I’ve learned that in this house, early is on time, and on time is actually late.
“Dara,” William says as we eat, “your grandmother and I were talking, and we’d love it if you’d consider calling us Grandma and Grandpa.”
I swallow my half-chewed bite of baked salmon with toasted almond and summer squash salad. Their faces are expectant, rosy, a little nervous.
It’s a reasonable request, considering they are my grandparents and they’ve taken me under their wing like only two people who really care about you could. But it feels … forced. Names like “Mom,” “Grandma,” and “Grandpa” should only happen one of two ways—you think of the person as that from the very beginning, as if it’s their actual name, or they earn it over a long period of time and trust and comfort. We’re on our way to the latter, but haven’t quite arrived yet.
I can’t say that, though. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll try to remember to.”
They beam. Then Ruth says, “Dara’s thinking of changing her last name to Pembroke, William. Isn’t that wonderful?”
My fork clatters against my plate.
“Really!” he exclaims. “Well, I believe this is cause for a celebration!” He leaves the table, and returns a moment later with a chilled bottle of champagne and three glasses. “To our family,” he toasts after we’ve each taken a glass. “Finally complete once more. May Celeste be watching down on us and smiling.”
I take the tiniest sip possible and try to maintain my smile. They’re so happy; I can’t ruin it.
But in my mind I’m rereading Mellie’s email—the one about Kristen’s sister changing her first name, and how that was such a revelation to Mellie. All the Marcus talk this week, the Grandma/Grandpa stuff, the eagerness of my grandparents to turn me into a Pembroke … I never thought about it before, but names really do have meaning. So you should probably make sure the one you have is one you like.
Ruth and William continue eating their dinner. I push my food around.
I came here to meet my family, learn where I came from. And I’ve done that. I’m still doing that. But could it be possible that where I come from and who I am are two different things? I don’t know if I want to be Dara Pembroke. I don’t think I should have to be, to be part of their world.
And I definitely don’t want to be Dara Hogan, after learning about the Hogans from Mellie’s emails.
“Um,” I begin timidly, and they look up.
“Yes, dear?”
“I’m so sorry, and I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for everything you’ve done for me …”
They wait.
I can’t meet their eyes. “But I think I’m actually going to keep my name. Baker.”
Ruth barely reacts, just rests her fork and knife on the edge of her plate and pats her mouth with her cloth napkin. William, however, doesn’t hide his disappointment. “Oh, I … did we misunderstand something?” he asks, glancing at his wife.
“No,” I say quickly. “Not at all. I did tell Ruth—Grandma—that I’d consider it. She wasn’t wrong. I just decided right now.”
“I see,” he says.
“Dara Baker might not be who I was born as,” I say, trying to find the right words, “but it’s who I am now. I feel comfortable as Dara Baker. I know her.” I like her.
“We understand,” he says, nodding. “We just want you to be happy. Don’t we, darling?”
Ruth nods. “Yes. Of course. That’s the most important thing.”
The atmosphere has changed, though, and I say the first thing I can think of to bring us all back together again: “I was wondering if you had any old videos of Celeste that I could watch.” There are framed photos of her all over the house, but I’d love to be able to get a sense of her demeanor, her movements, the shape her mouth took when she spoke.
That gets Ruth to smile. “As a matter of fact, we had all our home movies transferred to digital files a few years ago. Is there anything in particular you’d like to see?”
“Everything,” I say. “I want to learn as much about her as I can.”
“Ask and you shall receive!” She finishes her champagne, folds her napkin, and places it on the table. “Are you finished with your supper?”
“Yes,” I say, and it’s true, though I didn’t eat much. “It was delicious. Thank you.”
“I’ll have Penelope serve the coffee and dessert in the television room.”
There are dozens of videos. William helps us get set up, then leaves Ruth and me to reminisce on our own, claiming this should be a time for grandmother/granddaughter bonding. I suspect he secretly fears the videos will make him too emotional.
Celeste was the baby of the family, and her parents clearly worshipped her. We start at the beginning, with the grainy recording of Ruth holding wrinkly, newborn Celeste as they’re wheeled to the car outside the hospital. Little Catherine, only two years old, wearing a pale-blue dress, saggy tights, and a crown that says BIG SISTER, toddles beside the wheelchair, peering over the edge at the new baby.
A video from a few years later shows Celeste and Catherine under a pink sheet tent in Celeste’s bedroom, Catherine reading to her sister from a storybook about farm animals. They appear to not know Ruth and her camera are watching them. “Do the piggy voice, Catherine!” Celeste begs in her tiny soprano, and Catherine obliges, puffing out her cheeks and putting on a silly accent.
Another video is of nine-year-old Celeste at a playground. “Mom, look!” she shouts, waving, and the camera zooms in as she zips her way across the monkey bars. Her blonde ponytail swings behind her in the breeze.
“She looks like me at that age,” I murmur.
Ruth pulls her misty gaze from the image of her happy, very much alive daughter on the screen. “You look like her now too.”
I smile sadly, and nod. Catherine had said the same thing. It’s nice to hear from the people who knew and loved Celeste. “The dimple,” I say, pointing under my eye.
She nods. “That’s part of it, yes. And your voices are similar. You sound much more like her than Catherine or I ever did.”
“I never even thought about what her voice sounded like,” I whisper guiltily.
“Oh, my dear girl.” Ruth tucks me in close to her side, so my head is resting in the crook between her shoulder and neck.
My phone, which is on the coffee table in front of us, beeps with a new text. I jump a little at the sound—I haven’t gotten a text in a while. Maybe it’s Sam. My heart beats harder. I sit up and click the screen on. Not Sam. Not Mom. It’s from Mary, of all people.
Bob told me you’re not coming back. Thanks for telling me. He’s not the only one you’re abandoning, you know.
Crap. I did forget all about Mary.
Another text comes in.
I’ll see you in Charlottesville. Get ready to lose.
Mary’s playing in the tournament. Which means Bob will be there too. My stomach squirms. I don’t want to have to face them. She’s right—I did abandon them. I wish I could give them an explanation, tell them what’s been going on. Surely they’d understand then. But who knows who they’d tell. I can’t put Mellie at risk.
Ruth pauses the TV. “Is everything all right?”
I make my phone screen go black without replying to Mary. “Yes. Everything’s fine. Sorry.”
The home movies continue. There are birthday parties and Christmas mornings, school plays and ballet recitals, visits to the zoo and Disney World, graduations. Celeste is happy and smiling in all of them, often hugging her sister or holding hands with her mother or teasing her father. It’s clear she loved her family very much.
By the time we reach the end, I feel a bit closer to my birth mother. I’ll never get the chance to truly know her, but at least now I have a sense of her. A more complete image to hold on to.
“I’m so glad you had these,” I say to Ruth as she turns off the TV and we collect our empty coffee cups. “Thank you for showing them to me.”
“Thank you for asking,” she says. “It’s been a while since I’ve watched them. I think I needed it as much as you did.”
As I make my way to my room, a thought occurs to me: There must be video of Mellie and Celeste’s wedding somewhere too. Now that I know I had two parents who loved each other, who married each other, I can’t help wanting to see what that looked like. The dress, the kiss, the dancing, the cake.
But then I’d also have to hear people calling Mellie Marcus. I’d maybe even have to hear her call herself Marcus in the recitation of her vows.
As I get ready for bed, I decide to ask Ruth about the wedding album—and only the album—soon.
I slip under the expensive duvet and slide my phone off the nightstand so I can write to Mellie and ask her to send me the passport documentation. But just as I do so, it dings with a new email. Finally.
From: [email protected]
June 25 (9:49 PM)
Subject: Coming out
Dear Dara,
Celeste and I fell in love like Serena Williams serves: fast, hard, and with a little bit of magic.
We couldn’t get enough of each other. During the days we were busy—me with training, her with school—but the nights were ours. She slept most nights at my new apartment; her dorm was basically just a storage unit for her stuff now. I cooked for us while she studied, and then after dinner, we’d talk and read to each other and watch movies and play games and do puzzles. We went on long runs together on Saturday and Sunday mornings.
I said “I love you” first. She said it back immediately.
Her friends became my friends. They were interesting, wonderful people. A couple of them were even openly gay.
I went with Celeste to her parents’ house for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Believe it or not, the Pembrokes and I got along well back then. They welcomed me instantly.
She was at all my important matches, cheering me on.
But there were things I still hadn’t told her.
She knew I was driven, and she knew I struggled with depression, and she knew I was estranged from my family. She just didn’t know why. But she stuck by me, and said she knew I’d tell her when it felt right. Which allowed me to breathe easier temporarily, but put a lot more pressure on me long-term. Eventually, I would have to tell her. Either that, or leave her. Both felt impossible.
Celeste urged me to see a therapist, but I resisted. It was the obvious place to try to start to work through things; I knew that. But I knew if I spoke to a therapist I would have to tell them the whole truth—they wouldn’t let me off the hook like Celeste had. And, honestly, it felt wrong to tell anyone without having first told her. She was the most important person in my life. She was part of me. I trusted her. She had to be the first person I told.
I was just so scared.
But the feelings weren’t going away, and no matter how hard I fought, or how much I focused on other things, they were taking over an increasingly more prominent part of my thoughts. I was slipping too—I’d gone into a makeup store and bought a tube of mascara, without ever fully deciding to do so. I’d just been walking by the store and it suddenly felt imperative that I go inside and buy something, anything. And a few times, while Celeste was at class, I’d tried on some of her dresses. I told myself I would stop doing it, but I knew I wouldn’t. It felt too good. And I desperately needed to feel good.
So one night at dinner, about a year and a half into our relationship, I forced the words out.
“Celeste, I have something to tell you.”
“What’s up, babe?” She took a bite of the grilled asparagus I’d made and gave me a thumbs-up.
I cleared my throat. “Can you put the food down for a sec?”
She laughed. “Sorry. I’m famished.”
“This will only take a minute.”
She seemed to realize how nervous I was then, and her expression sobered. “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head. “Nothing’s wrong. I don’t think. Actually, I don’t know. Uh … you’ll have to tell me.”
Her eyebrows pulled together, but she didn’t say anything.
I took a deep breath. “I think—I mean, I know—I’m transgender.” My voice cracked on the word, but I did it. I got it out.
She pursed her lips, pulled inside her own thoughts, and my entire body shut down while I waited—I couldn’t breathe, move, think. The only thing still working was my heart, which was beating even faster now than it had been before I said the words. Finally, she asked, “What is that?”
I expelled the breath I’d been holding. Of course. She hadn’t had the word dancing around her brain, taunting her, for years like I had. And this was before all the TV shows and movies and the celebrities coming out—trans issues weren’t anything close to mainstream. Celeste honestly had no idea what I was talking about. The realization almost made me laugh. But now I had to do something I hadn’t anticipated—I had to explain.
So I did, as best I could. I gave her the textbook stuff, the basic definition, and then I kept it specific to me, my own experience.
She remained perfectly quiet and still. One thing was clear—she definitely hadn’t suspected. Her eyes grew glassy, and they flickered as if she were thinking hard. I imagined she was reworking our entire relationship, past and future, in her mind. I felt like the worst kind of garbage, tearing down her illusions of who I was, what our life together was. I only hoped there would still be a foundation standing when I was done.
I told her about the mascara, and I told her about her clothes. I told her how envious I was of her—of her body, her pronouns, the way she was perceived by the world.
“But … do you …?” she started, then shook her head and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Her dinner was pushed away now, forgotten.
“Do I what?”
“You want to be like me. I get it. I mean, I don’t, but I’m hearing what you’re saying. But … do you still want to be with me?”
My heart broke in half. “Oh my God. Of course I want to be with you.” I grabbed her hands. “That’s why I’m telling you all this. You’re the first person I’ve ever told. I love you, and I trust you, and I needed you to know me—all of me.”
“And this is why you’ve been so down?”
“I think so. Maybe. Yes.” I didn’t tell her, though, about how sometimes I thought about slipping away, leaving the world behind for good. About how it had always felt like a solution, ever since I was a kid. She didn’t need to know that. And the very fact that I was telling her about me now meant I was trying to live, right? I was trying to find a way to be okay.
“And it’s why you don’t talk to your parents?”
“They didn’t know know, but they knew I was different—I think they thought I was gay—and they weren’t okay with it.”
“But you are gay. At least you think you are?”
I blinked. “No, I … what?”
“You said you think you’re a woman … on the inside. And you said you still love me and want to be with me. So that means you think you’re … a lesbian.” She was speaking slowly, clearly trying to make sense of it all as she went.
I hadn’t thought of it that way before. “Oh. Well, I guess so. Yes.” I didn’t like the idea of yet another label, yet another thing to make me different, but if it helped clarify things for Celeste, I was on board.
“But I’m not a lesbian,” she said.
“I know.”
“But … you want to …?”
“Do I want to what?” I asked. I kept my voice soft, as if the room were filled with sleeping babies. “You can say whatever you’re thinking.”
She chewed on her lip. “I don’t know. Become … a woman?”
“Yes,” I said right away, and was sure my own expression was as shocked as Celeste’s was. But now that the truth was out, I felt clearer. I’d opened up space in my mind for even more truth, more possibilities. I did want to present as a woman full-time. I wanted it more than anything. “But I can’t,” I said.
“Because …?” Her tone was almost encouraging now. I could tell there was something she wanted me to say here, but I didn’t know what it was.
“Because it’s hard. And expensive. And because I need to keep playing tennis. I need to make it. I can’t prove my parents right.”
She looked down. “And because of me, right? Because you still want to be with me?”
I nodded profusely. “Yes.” A little twinge of guilt prickled my stomach then, because I hadn’t considered Celeste in my reasoning to keep living as the wrong gender. It had always been about my parents and tennis and not veering from that path. And of course the impossible logistics, and the fact that I didn’t know if I was strong enough, emotionally, to handle what would inevitably come at me. But Celeste and I had always been so solid that I’d started to take her presence in my life for granted.
There was a stretch of silence. Celeste took her hands back and placed them in her lap. Then she got up, poured herself a glass of wine, and took a long sip. She came back to the table, but didn’t sit down. “Listen, Marcus. I love you. I still want to be with you. And if putting on my clothes sometimes, when no one else is around, is going to make you happy, I can live with that. As long as you don’t stretch them out.” She raised an eyebrow.
I laughed at her joke, and felt warm all over. I couldn’t believe it. She was saying it was okay. She was saying she understood.
“But it has to be in private,” she continued. “You can’t even do it around me. If that’s not okay with you, we have to break up. I’m not a lesbian.”
I nodded. “Absolutely.” It made sense, though she didn’t seem to grasp that whether I transitioned or not, I was still a woman.
“Nothing’s going to change.” She was telling me, not asking.
“Nothing’s going to change,” I agreed.
And to the rest of the world, nothing did. I remained a he, as far as Celeste and everyone else were concerned, and life went on. But now that I had permission, I allowed myself to “go there” more than I ever had. I started buying some pretty things of my own to put on at home when she wasn’t around. I started tweezing my eyebrows … just a bit. I grew my hair longer … also just a bit. Celeste saw the new clothes and new underwear in my dresser; she saw the makeup in the bathroom cabinet. She didn’t say a thing about any of it.
It was new, exciting, and enough. For a little while.
Love,
Mom
A wet spot has developed on my pillow, and I realize it’s tears. I wipe my eyes and flip the pillow over. Then I click “reply.”
From: [email protected]
June 25 (10:20 PM)
Subject: Re: Coming out
Thank you for telling me this. Ruth, William, and Catherine have told me a lot about Celeste, but every new story helps bring her a little more into focus for me.
I’m in Hilton Head, at William and Ruth’s house. I’ve signed up for a few tournaments, and Ruth said I could play in one in France, so I’m going to need to get my passport now. Would you mind sending me copies of our name-change documentation?
Thanks.
I add “Love, Dara” but delete it before pressing send.
Five minutes later, another email comes in.
From: [email protected]
June 25 (10:25 PM)
Subject: Re: re: Coming out
Dear Dara,
Everything you should need is attached. I love you.
Love,
Mom