Am I Man or A Girl?

Chapter 16 - My Mother, Myself

The tears didn’t last that long. They never do. It’s not worth it to cry. What is there to cry about anyway? Tonight was a good night. This week, drawing ever closer to its end, had been a good one.

I was the recipient of a personal reality that I could never have imagined before. I woke up halfway to where I wanted to be. A sampler, a teaser of realized daydreams. I get to look cute, I get to feel a thousand little tickles of delight. In practically a hundred percent of situations, I felt welcomed and spiritually fulfilled.

So, why was I crying? It wasn’t Amber. If anything, Amber made me laugh. Against her grain of displeasure, I had been given a mountain of friendship and appreciation. But that tiny piece reminded me of something deeper beneath a façade of strength.

Mom. My mother. A woman both gone and still present. The woman who made me a man. And I still loved her. Not the shadow who warmly greeted me as a girl, made lunch with me, and invited me into her life. No, my real mom.

The mom who felt perfect, an effortless dictator on a three-foot-tall throne. The one who lured me in with perfectly-recounted stories, brutally-efficient rhetoric, and the possibility of kindness. Dad was the designated opposition, the puppet of the Party, the weak knee following the iron wall.

Even this tiny, internal rebellion felt like the affront of the ages to a divine, merciful being. Wrath, in the form of plagues of anger and dust-filled devastation, was sure to follow. Somehow, I had to do something.

Get over my mommy issues? Sure, just take a day trip and talk ‘em out with the best of all possible worlds version of her. Simple. And that felt like a final boss and a single sideways step at the same time.

I had to do something. Otherwise, a thousand beautiful possibilities would just bounce off the walls of my heart. Opened up, I could meet the universe at the halfway point and finish the job with hormones, medicine, and self-love.

It made the halfway point feel like a sheer, rocky storm-blasted cliff with the frail promise that if I just missed the ground, then I can fly.

So, do it. What are you afraid of? Myself and the hardened claws of the past.

Why are you doing shit against yourself when you want things to be better? Because I have the wrong sort of ditch worn while retaining a stump. I'm stuck in a routine. Hang around the house, stay inside. Nothing risked, nothing gleaned. The edict of this decade. The continuation of mom keeping me around for her purposes. Do nothing and get somehow rewarded for it.

I've always been a quiet, nervous rebel. Put it into words, not to actions. The walls are gone. They were never really there. The "mind-forg'd manacles" according to Blake. London was a thousand different horrors wrapped in passive acceptance. What was my excuse?

I settled against the material of the driver's seat. It had uncomfortable holes worn through the stuffing that oftentimes poked me when I tried to relax. Sweat, brushed at by the breeze through the slit in the window, clung to my cheek. I felt so close to actual epiphany. I'd teased at it earlier, but it slipped away like the rarest fog drifting over the desert floor.

I could move. I could buy a new wardrobe. I could take a trip. I could literally do whatever. I could change so much for the better. But no matter where I might go or what I might try, I would still be there with myself. The problem was still and always between the ears.

Okay then, clean that shit out and be a better you. Get on it. Be the cutest fucking girl who makes guys who are cool with it into cute girls and cute girls into happy cute girls and just make things better all around. Do it! You don't need an instruction manual because you are literally the only weirdo taking this route for the strangest reasons.

But what about all the crazy stuff that's happened? Oh, what about it? Consider it a bonus. No one is suffering about what happened, except for you. What if everyone...NO! Don't invoke or tempt it again. Might it already be too late to reconsider? My sweat unleashed a new wave as I merged onto the road.

The wheel creaked and fought as I turned. A memory flashed of when the power steering went out and I had to take dad home while brute-forcing the wheel to move. Nothing like that happened this time but my fingers twitched in their grip. A warning. Toe the line. Don't step out of order or we'll break something you need. Crazy superstitions from my head. All of it.

I needed a drink, probably from the fast food place named like the big blue hedgehog. A huge slushy full enough cold to numb everything that was bothering me. I could just follow the road down the coordinate line by the Hawaiian poke place, through the curve by the mall, and around. I would be back here though, no matter what excuses I might imagine or delays I might orchestrate.

On my way, Camille texted me. "So, what's this 'wild news'?"

Oh, right. It felt like a lifetime ago that I texted her before I hit the mental logjam of texting Calliope and everything that followed.

I cracked my neck and waited till I was parked and willing to type back. "It's okay. It's complicated and even more so now. I'm fine. Just a lot."

Naturally, she wouldn't let me leave it at that, but she did answer that she'd been digging through old swimsuits for something that felt "appropriate". I made all sorts of unnecessary expressions to her provided photos. Blue, with sections like the sea, immediately leapt out to me. She confirmed I had something that would be "comfortable" on me. However, I hadn't tested it for any length of time against the stubbornness of the stump. Some of her options dipped to the thigh and covered the shoulder, but I had a hard time imagining them on me. Her final candidate had a sarong section and just one band at the shoulder with a compromise in coverage. I liked it because it was a pretty combination of blue, black, and silver.

She teased me about that, and I lamented I couldn't share my outfit beyond frazzled recollections from the store. It didn't take long before she returned to nudging about my news.

No way I could think of presenting it didn't feel crazy. So, I just said it, when I was by the ordering microphone. "I daydreamed this guy who works at the suddenly-appearing bookstore was a girl. And when I went before lunch, this girl Calliope was there. She remembered being this guy. I don't think she's screwing with me. And that's not all. I saw people transform live."

Heaven knows how I didn't dissolve into a shivering puddle when I stopped talking. My limeade slushy would be arriving soon. That felt like too many things for my brain to manage a focus on at once. Maybe it helped that I wasn't totally focused on what I was saying. A lot of stuff I would've otherwise overthought slipped through.

Sifting through the audiobooks on my phone from the library provided me a limited distraction short of actually listening to them. Maybe more scary stories for the way back. The drink arrived soon and the slot by the radio was too small for it. I held it instead and sucked down the liquid until it was just lumpy ice sticking in the straw. Shaking helped.

Camille received my message but didn't start composing her reply until I was on the avenue. I visualized a dozen different possible reactions, none of them complimentary to me.

Are you fucking nuts? They totally screwed with you, or you were on drugs. Geez why would I want to hang out with such a fruit loop, I'm removing your contact info. Don't contact me again, weirdo! Was my general expectation. Okay, maybe not expectation, but I thought through the possibility.

"What did it all look like?" Was her initial response.

I had to amend that I was away from home and would follow up soon. But I noted that the entire group and Calliope were headed to the water park too so they could save on a group rate. She shared what felt like a flash of disappointment that it would be more than just us. I clarified that it wasn't going together so much as going to the same place at the same time for cheaper and we could figure out our own things at the park. She liked that, cautiously.

After bringing everything inside and stretching out on the couch, I typed the complicated parts into my phone. My focus was on the sorta...scientific analysis of what may be going on. I mentioned the shimmers and the way the air felt like it was distorted by invisible flames. Recollecting the transformations brought the stump to full presence, despite any efforts of mine to keep the language professional. The experience was seared into my memories. The way it happened felt like it could've been a veil from one possible universe parting to guide me into another. At the same time, that didn't discount other causes.

I loved this shit and I hated that. If you were to give me a camera and a charged finger, like a comic character with too much imagination, then I would just point and zap and change everything in my path. Why? No reason but to see what happens. But living with it was something else.

I omitted details about figures from the account, instead focusing on the librarian nature of Calliope, the mom-like nature of the owner, the connection of the twins, how one of them was a jerk, and lots of them were super friendly. It was easy to tell that she was curious for more, but I told her I was still processing it. I gave her the contact info for Calliope and Ariadne.

Digging deep, I joked about my creative efforts earlier with the camera and I promptly receive more elucidated and thoughtful feedback on how they looked than I'd received online in total in ages. She got what I meant with the ice cave and appreciated the little touches of each. She invited me to be a little more playful with my shots while I metaphorically scuffed my feet in place and felt non-committal. We had a good time texting each other and even joined VOIP for a while before she had to get ready for bed.

A good cap to a mixed day and hopefully a fair sign for my big plans.

=======

The evening cooldown and languid trek across the mirrors by the shower made me feel good in ways that lingered into sleep.

In dreams, I relaxed with Camille and Calliope. Instead of feeling chained to my house, I talked about what hours I wanted to work at the bookstore while I shared anecdotal details with guests and picked out certain ones with a particular feel to transform. Standing there, unaware, they would pick up a book on gender bending, only to immediately get a first-hand experience in the subject. The close-packed cotton of anxiety didn't follow me here. I just imagined without limit. Camille brought her class on a field trip to the bookstore. And then I was back home.

Before I could wonder about where the bookstore went, my mind clotted with concerns. Mom needed her medications, and the caregiver was late in checking back. How long had I left her since she last peed? She was probably a mess by now. Never relax. Never really relax. I picked up a clothes hanger with a tiny bag on the end. What I needed to use when they went to the restroom. Too small and I was in the path of it.

I awoke with sweat tightly clinging to my heavy hair and shivers fighting me despite the early warmth of the day. Still Maggie though. I flopped my locks over my face, a dense curtain from the sun and morning. Behind it, I picked at little flakes of eye grit that I couldn't quite reach.

It was Friday. The end of the week lay before me. Get up and finish it. I made it through so many other things. All I had left were the easiest classes of the week. But, for my reward, I would be dealing with so much I didn't have the first clue how to face.

In the shower, the water flow felt a little weak, at first. So, I visualized the pipe in the wall patching itself up and drawing a straight line from the water heater to my face. Despite it being an intentional act, the results were tepid. Maybe the flow was a little stronger and warmer, but not enough to discount casual happenstance rather than mystical will. I laughed and let any lingering bad bed thoughts flow down the drain.

The routine of breakfast ached with a long gulp of orange juice and a bit of egg that lingered too long in my throat. Class slipped on like a well-worn coat even though the day was not one for coats. No one had been added or subtracted from the girls' or boys' side. Susanna seemed slightly more confident than normal, more open to present questions and stray from the swift answers of others. I appreciated her insights.

I awarded the last points and most of the end of the class was spent on the little decorative fun things they were allowed to do. Independent study filled most of the time and the rest involved writing styles and how to change them according to an audience and need. The handful of students adept enough to turn a tweet into a sonnet and then into a technical document made me smile the rarest of smiles.

After class, I nearly nodded off as I started putting together my lunch. Shaking my head and pushing back the heat with another fan running did little to help. I texted Camille with my happy little thoughts from class. Calliope received the most vague, random notes of encouragement. Mom also got back to me, making sure I was actually okay.

"Yeah, I just want to talk. Can I?"

With fervently reiterated words in her text, she stressed that yes, absolutely, unequivocally, I could talk to her about anything. The text soon escalated to the level of an actual call.

"You're sure it's nothing serious?"

I did my best to defuse her concern, noting that I met up with Camille and she was super nice and everything was fine. She was a good friend and we had dinner together and encouraged one another. Mom casually led me on for more details, but I left it at that. I received confirmation that mom and dad would both be at the retirement community for the evening. It was game night and dad was especially eager for that, she told me. She offered to make us all something again. I had no complaints or expectations. I left dinner in her hands.

The other class of the day presented all the expected challenges of students who could feel that the end of their weekly obligation was in the air. I reminded them that they wanted the treats and benefits of the class portion of the day. That should've been enough, but I had to be tough on them, or at least as tough as video on their screen could be.

It pained me to press them, but I had to be consistent. Penalties added up, carefully spread out. The worst thing a teacher can do is punish too freely. If you leave a student nothing and nothing they can do, then you give up all power. The end of class avatar decoration and free time session brought them back for as much as I could manage. It was exhausting to wrangle their energy, but I made it. Nothing was left, the week was done, and I could immediately head to bed and sleep off the tiredness. But I couldn't do that. Not yet.

My weekly status reports and feedback had to go out first. I also made sure there was nothing that needed my attention. The app had trouble loading the reading sample for next week, but that glitch was easily fixed with a reupload.

I made sure to double-check it a few times, because if I didn’t have this up then I didn’t have a lesson for Monday and that had screwed me over once. It was the same with checking orders or anything I got through a drive-thru. Check twice, scream less.

Sure enough, when I checked to see if it had uploaded, the website timed out in the process of uploading. Only once it had been confirmed and I had waited and gone back to see if it was live did I feel confident it had done it what I wanted. At the same time, I documented that everything was up, and I made sure to do all the remaining paperwork and document that as well. Tedium but necessary.

It was hard for me, but important. The kind of stuff that others still lumped under the umbrella of “adulting”. The only thing that defined adulthood is that every single choice you make falls on your shoulders alone. Consequences, benefits, and responsibilities. Not to dip too deep into my teacher self. It was an ocean and a notion I grappled with. It didn’t mean I was responsible for everything, despite my biggest worries. But I was solely responsible for myself. All the challenging tasks, all the fun ones, all the ones I put off, and all the ones I didn’t want to deal with.

Mom and dad were waiting for me. I had long been an adult, despite what they might have thought of me. I could’ve just shown them my finger and walked out the door, while they literally rotted to death. but I decided to be more of an adult than they were and a total fucking idiot who got used.

I closed my laptop and put it away. A long, quiet moment passed, with nothing but the fans and air conditioner fighting against the never-ending heat of the day. Mom was a never-ending fight too. The mom who lived inside my head, because I let her.

I had to solve it.

Dressing up was a little stressful because I wanted to make a nice impression on the good versions of my mom and dad, but I was more concerned with what felt nice. My feet also felt a little raw since the walk. Some lotion helped.

A long trip to the toilet on my phone with a distracting game helped even more but also furthered my guilt that I was just procrastinating, again. Only when it seemed absolutely certain that nothing else could be done, I grabbed and stuffed my purse and headed out the door. A few minutes after that, I plunged back into the house to make sure that I hadn’t forgotten anything, that the house still existed, and that nothing had spontaneously decided to catch fire. I hated even imagining the possibility, especially when my brain and words seemed like a magnet for mayhem.

After grabbing a water bottle, I nodded to the house and finally left. Despite the fact I thoroughly checked the lock on the door before leaving, my brain still rushed over the possibility I was on autopilot and remembering a previous time locking the house and I had somehow left the door wide open. Swinging around the neighborhood in a loop finally put that fear to rest.

There was nothing else after that, no sudden discovery halfway there that I would have to turn around and resolve. I was going and this was it. Whatever it was.

I decided to take the route through the mountains because it was the most direct but also the silliest considering I would just go straight along the main road until it jagged through an unfinished housing tract, which was still unfinished in this version of reality. From there, I looped around a ranch for cancer kids and bobbed up and around a two-lane highway until it climbed into the hills.

The car had more hesitancy than me as I pushed it around the tight curves. At the end, the westside sprawled out before me. To the right, I could head to that nice poke place or the best pizza parlors in the valley. We could definitely order from them and maybe I could pick it up. But not yet.

Many of the parking spaces closest to the front of the retirement community had already been filled with the obvious handicap spots taken first but a long stretch beyond was covered in vans with wheelchair modifications. I had to slowly creep through and into a second section before I could finally find an opening against a brick wall with nothing but the desert beyond.

It was quite a trek back to the main building, but I wasn’t in any rush. I turned the corner and stared into the lights of a van barreling towards me. I blasted into the air, somersaulting through oblivion, and shot right into another reality of ancient China and flying dragons——

The van slowed, and I carefully crept around it while restraining my inner digits. A bracing, unseasonably chill breeze blasted through my red hair as I made my way to the main door. Inside, the facility looked exactly the same as all these places did. On the wall, the evaluation of three stars from some organization I didn’t know was proudly displayed. I figured it didn’t go by the Michelin or movie rating standard. At least the facility looked tolerable. No hollow husks of humanity wandering around, trying to escape.

I did have to be buzzed in, but that was a given. Nursing islands flanked every few corners. I signed in at the front and soon asked about my parents. After the usual amount of time and another half measure, the wide-eyed worker on the side said it was room 164. They had a paper map for me.

No matter what way I inspected it, the map didn’t seem to make sense with the rooms and corridors before me. The rooms themselves made my eyes linger. They seemed like little lofts. Spacious sections on the lower floor spread out with wood and carpet. Rather than hospital rooms with light adornments, they felt like a chunk of a house transplanted. Instead of regular stairs up to the higher sections, most had chairlifts or ramps.

A spa area was darkened and shuttered but looked similarly luxurious. Beyond, a massive television covered one wall of a dining area. Sections off to the side were smaller and seemed more like what I was expecting.

Room 164 was not quite at the back but branched between the nicer areas and the medical section. It looked decent. I saw a living area with some furniture, a window view at the back, a bed area to the right, and the same little loft further up. It clearly belonged to my parents because of the ocean iconography and breaching whales that mom was so fond of. I heard mom coming down the steps to greet me.

“I have the ingredients to make toltott kaposzta, as well as stuffed bell peppers. There are also some frozen sausages. Your choice.” We exchanged a quick hug as I drew in a slow breath and tried to keep my heart steady.

It didn’t take her long to notice my nervousness. “Something bothering you?” I shook off the question by telling her it was just a busy day and a crazy week with meeting a lot of new folks and challenging lesson plans and whatever else I could sift off the giant electrical ball of confusion that had become my life without touching the actual problem. She squeezed my shoulders and rubbed my back but didn’t say anything.

The senior apartment that was room 164 vaguely reminded me of something out of a television show. Potted plants flanked the large windows and a big screen flat panel TV with speakers filled the far edge to the left, in generally the same position they had left the old television at home. A pair of lounger chairs with more of a curve than the one they each died in pointed towards the television while a large couch sat on the side. In the narrow kitchen underneath the stairs, mom opened a modest, inconspicuous refrigerator to get out ingredients. Behind the kitchen, I could see dad puttering around their bedroom. He smiled at me when he was done and asked similar questions to mom.

I could just continue to pretend that everything was all right. That I didn’t have a massive black spot in my soul and my memory that represented the actual lives of my parents. It would be easy. Just put it off like I did everything. Just ignore and forget it. Just say it’s okay. An intangible illness orbited me.

“…I’m afraid to be myself.”

My words took a moment to be reflected in their responses. Dad had seized upon a crutch that didn’t look like he really needed it for more than a little self-assurance. Mom had everything spread out on the drainboard and turned to look at me with wide eyes.

“What do you mean, sweetie?” Though mom said it, dad could’ve easily said the same.

“I am afraid to be a girl in any substantive way. It’s crazy. Around here, it seems like it’s practically illegal to question gender stuff that people have decided, but then I haven’t decided. I don’t know how I feel and yet I’ve known who I am for decades. I’m a little gay or maybe a lot. I want to be someone else and yet I want to be myself truly. I don’t wanna be crazy and I also want to scream. I hate platitudes and snuggly wuggly widdle hug boxes, yet I need to know that this is alright. I don’t know what to do and yet I hate that indecisiveness will be used against myself by myself and whoever else to show that how I feel is just a passing whim. And that’s probably all too much to lay on either of you right now. I just had…I just had to say something.”

That was a lot of words, too many words with each bearing too much weight and buried together into a pile that minimized their impact. But they were all words I needed to say. And there were more.

Mom and dad appeared puzzled but didn’t interrupt my gusher of words. I thought of all sorts of loquacious ways to refer to it, but the labels sounded like I was sabotaging my thoughts before I even got them out. I needed to stop doing that. My thoughts and words were valid, no matter my own feelings about them. I also knew that this version of my parents would never hunt and hound my feelings like the real ones did.

Time to take the gloves off. “Mom…dad…I need to talk to my parents.”

Of course, they didn’t understand. Innocently, with nervous fear and concern, they asked if I was alright. I would’ve been asking the same in their position and probably calling nurses to make sure. Slowly, I shook my head. With eyes shut, I resolved, “I know who I need to speak to. I’m sorry. I love you both, but I need to do this. I have left so many things unsaid. Please, I need to talk. I have to. Just for a few minutes.”

My words lingered in the air, like a miasma that threatened to drift back and choke my lungs. I waited in the brooding silence with drifting afterimages against my closed eyes.

The metronome of my heart, ever-present, especially in the stifling darkness, picked up a frantic, accelerating pace, thundering from my ears to my toes. When the moment finally came, other noises around me fell away. There was just me and that which I needed to do.

“…Yes?” The word was spoken with mom’s voice. It had a starkly bitter tint. The sound snapped like a mousetrap of anticipated guilt. Hearing her was admission enough. This was mom, before, at the peak of her abilities. And I was terrified.

Opening my eyes was just a confirmation of what I knew from the sound of her voice. Mom sat opposite me at the table as though she were a mafia boss gently perched on a throne. It was old mom. The one I knew so well from my childhood fears. Dad lingered off to the side, as ineffectual as a stuffed creature turning from me to her with a fierce face, not sure which of us he should be mad at.

“Why are you dressed like a girl? Why are you so fat? What did you do to your hair? What’s all this crap?” Though her words were tightened and angry, she didn’t yell. Her eyebrows arched like the expression of some bird of prey, highlighted with charcoal. Her nose plunged into a firm, brutal beak.

“I am a girl.”

“No, you aren’t. You’re my boy, Jacob.”

“I was always a girl.”

“Bullshit. I wanted a boy, I gave birth to a boy, you are a boy. None of this gay fruity faggot nonsense.”

“I know my body.”

“You are a boy, the end. Put on some proper clothes for a boy.”

I firmly shook my head, while gesturing to my body. “These are my clothes. I made the choice to wear them. I am an adult, and this is what I want to wear.” I said that despite the fact I didn’t have a firm love of the clothes. But it was a principle. Same as I didn’t really know my body or the certainty of what gender. But if I wasn’t going to get a choice, then I was going to firmly wrap myself around what choice I felt most.

She glowered at me, as if struck. “You want to hurt me. You want me to die…”

“You wanted the same thing, mom. I know how much you’ve always wanted to die, yet you clung to life for years. I have to believe that, in the end, you didn’t hate me, and I had no reason to hide from you. I had all the power. I could’ve left at any moment. But I didn’t. I’ve more than paid any debt to you several times over.”

The nebulous epiphany of my words was pile driven to earth by mom’s sneering response. “You think you know so much. But you’ll learn. God will know. God will choose and decide.”

“I don’t know how I feel about God. But if it’s any God I want to put my faith in, then they understand me from the moment I was made and every decision I will ever make. If they hate me as much as you, then I have no reason to give them any mind. I would rather believe any true deity would greet me with a smile instead of a glare, no matter my struggles. With kindness and encouragement in my confusion and search for truth rather than hate and denial.”

I never knew such words existed inside me. I felt terrified that the momentum I had established would go careening off a cliff and I’d need to do it over and over and over like the most painful version of Groundhog Day.

Of course, my dad had to chime in like a shrieking harpy with shock that I didn’t have utter and complete and unyielding faith in the Almighty like a perfect Christian freshly minted from heaven without doubt or questions.

There was no way to adequately answer him in a way that would satisfy his fury. Mom turned up the fire in a subtler way to warn me about my immortal soul and the sins I was perpetuating.

“Either I’m made by God and God decided to make a fucked up sort of girl or a man who strangely believes they are a girl or it was never in His hands. Whatever will be, will be, either way. I choose to love people and to be myself, no matter where the journey of understanding takes me. I can’t be what you’ve decided I am going to be, and I have to face that. I was never going to be your avatar for the things you wanted, mom. All you should’ve done is ask me what I wanted without judgment and supported me in whatever way things went…”

I took a deep breath to hold back the feeling of tears before continuing. “It’s on me too though. I never had the bravery to do more than think countless things I might’ve said to you. Things like this. I was afraid of souring what thoughts you had of me. What did it matter what I thought, when I could just let you assume what you thought was true? Just assume I’m some late bloomer not interested in anyone, and I like to come up with weird ideas I keep to myself...”

Every time I stopped, she reiterated the same disappointment that I was imagining myself a girl when I wasn’t one. But it was the same words I heard from imaginary versions of my girl self. You don’t understand. You haven’t suffered like a girl would. You don’t bleed like a girl. You don’t feel like a girl. You could never know what it’s like to give birth and that’s all that matters.

“Same as a woman who has undergone a radical hysterectomy or had their development screwed up. Just because your biology doesn’t let you reproduce, doesn’t annihilate your identity. I don’t know if it’s chemicals in my brain or something from the womb or whatever it could be. But this is how I am. And I’m terrified of it and whether I’ll be any good at how I look and how I feel. But I got a little sampler thanks to some force out there I don’t even understand. I look cute, just a little bit. And I want more.”

She kept raving, and dad assisted like someone on the beach puffing their mouth for a storm. There were so many arguments I could’ve presented in so many ways against her crafty cleverness as I remembered it in my childhood. But the mother who may have treated my response like that was gone. I liked to believe she was at peace, and she wasn’t mad at me for just being who I am.

I held up my hands and, eventually, she stopped. “Mom. It doesn’t matter. It’s on me. The responsibility is on me. I could go on hating myself with a shadow of your anger out of habit or I could just stop. I want to stop. It’s pointless. Truly, it doesn’t matter. I’m an adult. I’ve been one for a long time. The buck stops with me. The choices are mine. And the only winning move is to end this game.”

The darkness at the edges of my vision started to recede. I had no way of knowing if this realization had any depth or lasting strength to it, but I had been fighting myself for so long and it was time to stop.

“I love you mom, even though I also hate you for being a fucked up, whatever-personality-crap-you-have... whether it’s being bipolar or borderline or whatever words a psychologist can throw out. You hurt me and I think you know you did. I forgive you though. Even though I don’t want to. I forgive you because it’s also forgiving myself. I am your daughter in my heart and soul and that’s the truth of me. I don’t know what that translates to for the rest of my life, but I’m gonna work on it. I love you too, dad, even though you sat by and enabled mom. I am your daughter and I love you both. Rest in peace. I promise to do the best for myself…”

I shut my eyes and let an immense psychic weight ease off my shoulders. It was impossible to know if I had gotten rid of it, but it felt like the first step to not carrying it around with me all the time. They were the words I had been practicing for years to get right and ultimately they only mattered to me, because I had never tested them when my parents were really around. They would have to do.

“Are you alright, sweetie? You seem really upset.” The mother I'd been granted, by whatever force, had returned and swiftly stood from the table to wrap me up in her arms. This wonderful father joined her a moment later and stroked my hair.

They didn’t understand why I was so upset. I came up with a reason involving an idea for a play and suddenly rehearsing it. It was pretty clear they didn’t believe it, but they humored me while making sure I was actually alright.

At least they didn’t call for a nurse, but I noticed a few were making their rounds down the hall. My smile and change of mood eventually seemed to convince them. I joined mom with food prep as we decided on cabbage over green peppers. We talked about pizza places as well, but only for the possibility of ordering a side dish. They both missed the little takeout place down the block from home. I spoke at length about the places I knew on this side of the valley. Soon, I freely spoke about the week I’d been having. And, feeling free in my heart, I decided to just let them know about everything on my mind.

How I felt prettier this week, changed. I didn’t go into specific, known details but I alluded to it as feeling like I’d been transformed. They both applauded this as though I’d come to a realization of my own beauty more than being changed literally. Mom gave me clothing tips that I quickly jotted down in my phone with the little wiggly finger motion that had taken me ages to get right. Dad was actually better at it than me.

It didn’t take long before mom and I chatted about my students in the way I remembered she’d chat with other teachers. She had a lot to say about reading theories and where I could do better but without judgement. Ideas for incremental rewards passed back and forth between us. Dad didn’t seem to mind us talking shop even though it was clear he didn’t understand most of it. He also helped with preparing some of the ingredients from the fridge and taking away what we were done with.

My words soon stretched into playful notes about Camille and our chance meeting and supper. Mom wanted all the details I'd left out and I did my best to resurrect the notes of her life as best I could remember them. Eventually, I broadened to mentioning Calliope and gently alluded to the fact she had been through a lot in the last couple of days. But when I finally mentioned the gaming group, I just bluntly said, “And they all turned into girls as I watched.”

Mom gave a quick chuckle and asked if I did it. I had to shrug there and mention that I did toss the idea out to the universe, and it seemed to have listened. She soon made the connection to “things I had written” while praising my “indomitable imagination”. It was far better than I could’ve expected. Coyly, she warned me against playing any tricks around here. Smiling, I assured her there was nothing I would ever want to change in this place.

Putting together the meal took plenty of time with my brain submerged in the consuming calm. I refused to backslide into my usual ways. However, I also understood that what certainty I had worked out might be as ephemeral as a magic feather clenched within a blasting wind. The image of a cliffside also returned to wobble my feet. But I refused to let it take me.

Instead, I doted on the plants along the windows while watering them. Dad mused on a puppy but resigned the fact that only service dogs were allowed. Once dinner was in the stove and an antipasto salad with mixed fried veggies was ordered from the nearest pizza parlor, we gathered around the large television to enjoy a bit of Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. My parents lamented the newest hosts, but we eagerly shared questions with one another.

Dinner was perhaps a little bit much, but I enjoyed the company around the table. Clearly, mom was already scheming to make sure I was laden with as many leftovers as possible. I relaxed as some mystery movie wandered across my vision as I spread out on the couch.

Turned out I wasn’t to rest for very long as my parents soon spied fireflies wandering through the cooling evening. I had never seen them around here, but then I had never seen a massive bookstore on my side of town, or a group of gamers all change sex. Snapping a few shots with my phone as my parents did the same, I was soon to learn this wouldn’t be the only excitement for the evening.

They soon took to me on a walk outside under some eucalyptus trees with the fireflies gathering close. Before it was dark, we’d also joined Game Night with Bingo along with board games. I lingered on the board game. It was like when I was younger. We all played together. It was like our last night as a family when I tried to play a board game with dad and mom didn’t have much time left.

Only, this time we smiled to one another, and dad was keen to play clever. It was a guessing game to see who might be the traitor to the team. A couple from the other side of the retirement community joined us at one point and had really good poker faces.

I didn’t want the night to end. But I was getting tired. Before I left though, dad had a few things to show me. Up in the little loft, mom and dad had split the section between her sewing area and reading nook and his gaming pad with an orthopedic chair and a CRT beside a flat panel.

He had games going back to Atari, which he regarded most affectionately. Those were the ones I remembered, and he had taken care of them. But subsequent generations of Nintendo along with Sony and Microsoft also had their spaces. Whereas before he would only talk about programs where the coding obviously dovetailed with his own work, he heaped appreciation on even the most advanced polygonal works along with independent pieces made recently. He did roll his eyes about retro redos, encouraging the advance of technology. But he had the most gorgeous recent games to show off and ask what I thought about them. Mom smiled and left us to it.

I had plenty to talk about and even more to gape at. Dad spoke about YouTube and certain videos of things he’d seen as though he were me on a bored night before. It was fun to talk and share my own thoughts while he actually listened to me and cared what I said. I didn’t have to couch it, I didn’t have to explain it, and I didn’t have to pair it up with any kind of real-world situation. I could just enjoy the idea of games and sharing it with those I loved.

It was beautiful. I didn’t want to go back home. But it didn’t take long for dad to start nodding off. He had far more energy than I could ever imagine him having, but it still had its limits. My eyes were starting to twitch as well, and a certain blurriness passed over. They soon cozied up together as I gathered up far more leftovers than I could easily eat over the next couple days.

We shared love in small but flowing words. I turned to leave. In the quiet space between the doorway and the hall joining the rest of the facility, I felt ever so slightly cold. Empty. If only for a moment. The space behind me felt wider, like a storeroom without anything stored. That chill brushed me without dust or fear. My muscles relaxed.

Turning slightly, I could still feel my parents sitting there together. And so I left, through the twisting junctures of corridors, stepping between the cozy little apartments, and emerging to the dark evening facing Big Bismuth Hill. And ease lingered with me, unlike what I felt when I usually left my parents in lesser places.

What remained of the heat of the summer was long gone, sublimated away. The breeze, as I felt it briefly amidst the fireflies, firmly twisted past me with air that bordered on chilly. This kind of weather usually only gathered by the ocean. Leaning against the railing, I tipped my head back and glanced at the black expanse of night with only the faintest hint of stars against the broad lights of the edge of the city. Even in the darkness of the twisty road I had taken here, the city was too much, awash upon the night. Still, it felt soothing to pluck those few specks that pushed through.

“Wow.”

I didn’t say the word because I was impressed by the night. Nor did I say it because I could imagine the stars that were secretly there in shocking magnitude behind the glare. I said it because I felt it in the lull and expectation of all things. The week had been wow and wow lay ahead. In this moment, I could feel my senses actually processing that. I took a moment to stop and appreciate, the good and the bad.

That silence wouldn't linger with me for long. My phone soon began chirping out all sorts of sounds both familiar and uncommon. I heard from Camille and from Calliope and from numbers that I hadn’t really come to associate with people yet. It was all about the waterpark. Calliope was freaking out in ways I barely comprehended and which seemed a little too much. Apparently, she was finally starting to be aware of certain aspects of her body. And she wasn’t sure about a one-piece or two-piece and what sort of cover-up she might want as well as other matters, like sunscreen. Camille was similarly indecisive in quieter ways.

I scrunched up my face and considered my reply. Looking up, I held onto the serene calm of the sky above as I leaned against my car before opening it. A peaceful grin crossed my face.

It was fine. Everything will work out. I had no way of knowing that was true, but I trusted it before slipping into my car and calmly riding off into the night.

Whatever will be, will be…

Next Chapter - The Beach Episode