A Proper Young Lady (2 page)

I’m not gonna spend my entire summer worried about her seeing me naked, so I drop my towel, grab PJs out of the dresser, and get ready for bed.

With the lights off, I sit on the mattress, lean against the wall, and draw my knees up close. Five years since Dani left. Five. “So tell me about your beau.”

The girl’s violet eyes glow in the moonlit darkness, triggering faded memories of the time I spent with her family while my mother was doing chemo. Dani kept me from going crazy. Or worse.

The bed shakes as she changes position. “Ethan and I met while I was studying at Oxford.”

“In England?”

“Yes. My junior year of college.”

“Oh.” And I didn’t even finish high school.

“I’ll be a senior at the University of Richmond this fall. Ethan has one more year at Oxford before he finishes his PhD.”

“Is he from the UK?”

“Actually, he’s from Massachusetts. His mother lives in Cambridge.”

“Did you tell him yet?”

“About being intersex? Yes.”

“And?”

“He says he doesn’t care, but I want to make sure. I don’t want any surprises on our wedding night.”

“Yeah. Guess not.”

Chapter 2

Danièle

Sleep eludes me. A restless Melanie turns over every few minutes. Once in a while, an arm or a leg bumps me. It’s been a long while since I’ve had to share a bed with anyone.

Melanie rises early and dresses. I roll over, spread my arms and legs, and press my face into a pillow. After soft-spoken words, the floor creaks and a door shuts. Moments later, a car starts and drives away.

Feet pace in the kitchen. Dishes rattle. A cabinet drawer slams.

The bedroom door squeaks open again, and Melanie sticks her head into the room. “I got some errands to run. I should be back before one.”

I nod acceptance and roll out of bed. While the air’s still cool, I jog around the University of Miami campus. After showering, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. If I delay even once, I’ll never follow through with surgery, so I pull up Dr. Pierson’s contact information on my phone and dial the number.

Dr. Sharon Pierson—I remember her as a friendly old woman who always got me to say more than I intended. Unlike some of my other physicians, she never lied to me, and always asked my permission before examining me. 

“Santa Clara Medical Center. How may I direct your call?”

“I’d like to make an appointment with Dr. Pierson.”

“I’m sorry, but she no longer maintains regular hours. Dr. Villanova handles her patients now.”

“Oh...all right.” I hang up and drop my cell phone on the bed.

Before Mum found Dr. Pierson, I went to pediatric specialists at the hospital. Unpleasant memories of lying naked on a table in front of a dozen medical students send a chill through me. I swore I’d never go back.

The sensation of being trapped pushes me outdoors. A chorus of songbirds greets me there. The Florida sun burns hot across my skin, even as a tropical breeze brings the scent of rain. Another pleasant summer day in Miami—almost enough to make me forget what lies ahead. I sit down on a bench, lean my head back, and relish the warmth on my face. 

An approaching shower drives me back inside. I settle into an overstuffed chair in the Fairbairn living room, gather my legs under me, and close my eyes.

All this surgery to make everyone else happy. Perhaps Melanie’s right about my being daft. Are marriage and children really worth the cost?

Better than being forever alone.

Melanie enters the house with a slam of the screen door and a cheery hello. After a glance my way, she drops her tote on the counter. “Why the sad face?”

“Dr. Pierson no longer takes patients.”

“She turned you down? You were her favorite.”

“I don’t think she was there.”

“Oh...yeah.” Inspiration lights Melanie’s brow. “Let’s go bug her at home then.”

“What? Now?” A wisp of memory tickles the back of my mind. Long ago, Mum took me with her to the Pierson residence.

“She lives on the other side of campus. On Granada Boulevard.”

Yes. Of course. The support group met there. But I can’t let her see me like this.
“Wait right here.” I rush to the bathroom and pop open my cosmetics case. 

Melanie follows, a smirk on her face. “Why can’t you go as yourself?”

“This is serious, Melanie.” I set my lipstick on the counter and frown at her. “If she thinks I have any doubts, she won’t approve the surgery, and I won’t be able to marry Ethan.”

“Oh, and like makeup’s gonna convince her?”

“The psychologists in Virginia analyze every last detail. You can get away with being a slob and a tomboy. I can’t.”

“Slob?” Melanie punches my shoulder with her middle knuckle. Hard.

“Hey! That hurts.”

“Then don’t call me names.”

“Ow. Okay.” I rub at my arm. No doubt it will bruise. I check my face one last time, grab my purse, and head outside.

For several blocks our path leads us beneath flowering trees and sunny skies. We cross San Amaro Drive and stroll across campus. After we turn on Granada Boulevard, Melanie stops in front of a pale yellow house. “I think this is where she lives. Mom used to bring my sister here for the meetings, and I tagged along sometimes.”

Old memories take on a more familiar shape. Melanie’s sister has a condition similar to my own—a more complete form of androgen insensitivity that doesn’t require surgery. 

We walk up the drive and ring the bell.

Nothing. Twice. No answer.

“She’s not home.” I tug on Melanie’s sleeve, but she folds stubborn arms across her chest and plants herself on a bench next to the door. “We can afford a couple more minutes.”

An hour later, a car pulls into the driveway. I fidget while the doctor parks her old Toyota and walks up the brick path toward us. “Why, Danièle! You look fabulous. And Melanie. How are you both?” She opens the front door and waves us inside. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

After she brings us sodas and shortbread cookies, Dr. Pierson sits in a high-back chair across from me. “Last I heard, your family moved north. To Virginia. Am I right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t ma’am me. You’re all grown up now. What brings my favorite patient back here anyway?”

“I’m getting married.”

“Well, congratulations! I don’t suppose you dropped by just to tell me that, though.”

“I was hoping you’d supervise my surgery.”

“Would you prefer to discuss this in private?”

I shoot a glance at Melanie. “She’s my support group now.”

“Very well. What exactly were you planning to have done?”

“I want to be normal between my legs.”

Melanie makes a soft snorting noise. The doctor closes her eyes a moment and breathes out a muffled sigh. “I never suspected you of being unhappy with your body.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why cut up healthy tissue?”

“Most guys want to have intercourse.”

“Granted. You may be able to do that without vaginal surgery, though. Why the rest?”

Because I’m a coward. Half woman and half little boy. Pseudo-hermaphrodite—like I’m not even real.
“I don’t want my husband reminded of what I am every time he sees me naked.” 

“You realize surgery may damage your ability to enjoy sex?”

But everyone else will be happy.
“I thought the procedures had improved.” 

“They have. But the surgeon will cut off most of your clitoris. Do you think the remainder will be as sensitive as what’s there now?”

“No.”
But the world requires it of me to be considered normal.
 

Beyond the picture window lies blue sky and bright sunshine. Across the street, two children frolic under a sprinkler while a young woman watches.
Is a family of my own too much to ask?
 

A deep groan works its way up out of my soul. If I don’t have surgery, Ethan might not marry me. My parents would try to hide their feelings, but they’d be heartbroken. My psychologists all but said that a real woman gets married and raises a family. Our culture provides no place for hermaphrodites—other than as medical oddities or circus freaks. 

Dr. Pierson takes a long sip from her glass before continuing. “Have you and your boyfriend tried to have sexual relations?”

“I’m not—”
Am I so afraid of Ethan seeing my body the way it is?
“No. We haven’t.” 

“Have you experimented with anyone else?”

The blood drains from my face. What might my parents have told her?

Dr. Pierson gets up and walks to the kitchen. She returns with a can of ginger ale and a glass of ice. “I don’t care about your sexual preferences or your gender. What concerns me is whether or not you’re making a well-informed and rational decision. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, then. Have you had sexual contact with anyone?”

Heat blossoms across my face. Why didn’t I come alone? “Yes. When I was young.”

“Did your clitoris play a part in that?”

At the edge of my vision, Melanie gapes at me, her green eyes wide. Mine blink—a slow-motion rejection of reality. “Yes.” My shoulders slump, all my energy gone. 

“Enough for now.” Dr. Pierson’s eyes gleam calm satisfaction.

“Does that mean you’ll help?”

“You’re certain you wish to proceed?”

“I have to do this.”

“Very well. I’ll line up a team. We’ll perform your surgery at the clinic.” She pulls a smart phone from her purse and hits a few buttons. “There’s an opening July 1st. We can always cancel if need be, but I’d like to get you on my calendar.”

Nearly a month away. Time to prepare.

Shouldn’t I be excited? They always promised that surgery would make me like other girls. Yet none of the intersex adults I’ve met are glad to have had their genitals modified—mutilated, some say. Not one. 

Dr. Pierson gathers the empty glasses and carries them to the kitchen. When she returns, she hugs us both goodbye. “Come to the clinic Wednesday at one. We’ll discuss this further. I want to make sure you’re ready.”

Hysterical laughter bounces around inside my skull. I may cut off a bit of flesh that once gave me pleasure. For Ethan. For my parents. But I’ll never be ready.

Melanie

Dark clouds roll across the faded blue sky, threatening an afternoon shower. Palms trees dance a slow ballet in the wind. I grab Dani’s hand and rush down the driveway. The girl doesn’t even notice when we take a different route home.

At Stanford Drive I pause long enough to get her attention. “You’re not the one who’s crazy, you know. It’s all these freaking people who think every girl has to look the same between her legs.”

When Dani’s eyes rest on mine, I flinch at the despair flowing from them. “No one’s forcing me to do this, Melanie.”

I grab the girl’s arms, shake her hard, and try not to scream. “What do you think all the psychologists are for? To help you decide between male and female—so you’ll remove your breasts or cut down your clitoris.” Heart thumping, face hot, I bite my lip to keep from swearing. “Didn’t any of those creeps ever tell you it’s okay to be intersex?” 

Dani runs her fingertips down the side of my face, like she’s calming some hysterical little kid. Her eyes grow tender. “I want to be normal. All right? If that takes surgery, well then...” Pain grows in her eyes till she turns her head away.

There’s gotta be a way to reach you.
“Has Dr. Pierson ever gone back on her word?” 

“No. Why?”

“She promised to arrange your surgery. Isn’t there anything you’d like to do now that the gender police aren’t watching?”

Her lips slow-morph into a smile. “Will you teach me to ride a motorbike?”

I flash her a teasing grin. “Isn’t mine off-limits?”

Some of the old Dani—the high-spirited tomboy I so loved—shines past the barrettes and makeup. “How much does a dirt bike cost?” 

Motocross or not, she’d still have to drive it on the road. “Honda makes a street-legal 250. With a helmet and all—about four grand new.” 

She purses her lips and appears to reconsider. “That’s a lot for something I’d only use for six weeks—ten at the most.” 

“Wouldn’t you keep it?”

Her face turns sullen. “Mum says a proper young lady doesn’t ride motorbikes.”

Guess I’m not one then, huh?
How many other things is Dani giving up in the name of being a woman? 

We walk on in silence. When she turns to me again, the tender concern in her eyes surprises me. “Are you who you want to be?”

Me?
My gut sends a quiet snicker up my throat. Hardly. The stupid bike keeps my hands rough and my nails chipped. All the money I get I spend on parts. Would I rather be a princess like
Danièle
? Well, yeah. Who wouldn’t? 

After the Welles family moved away, rumors about the two of us spread. Without Dani’s friendship and encouragement, I went from wearing flowers in my hair to swearing and having fistfights with the bullies. All the taunts of the past five years sweep over me in an emotional tsunami. I try to hide my tears, but Dani pulls me close and holds me. “It’s all right. Be whoever you want. You’re still my friend.”

I push away and start walking again—as much to flee the memories as to get home. When Dani catches up, she grabs my hand and pulls me to a stop. “Let’s find a used motorbike. All right?” 

“Okay. Yeah. Tommy will know where to get the best deal.” A smile creeps back across my lips. Even if the girl isn’t serious, she distracted me long enough for the emotions to fade. Okay, so she might still be my friend.

“Tommy?”

“Yeah. Some guy I met at a motocross event Dad took me to last year.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Nah. Just somebody I hang out with.”

As we cross San Amaro Drive, a car pulls out of my driveway. The house is still too far away to do more than guess what they wanted. I pick up the pace a little.

“What’s up?” With her longer stride, Dani has no trouble keeping up.

“Dunno. A delivery maybe.”

We’re still a block from my home when I recognize something in our front yard—one of those fancy real estate signs on a wooden post. Selling the house can only mean one thing—Dad’s not coming home. “No!” A wave of adrenaline pushes me into a sprint that leaves my lungs burning and my heart pounding. “I told you not to go.”