A Proper Young Lady (5 page)

A wicked grin splits my face. Surrogacy might mean I could eat chocolate again. I cut myself a healthy slice. “Mom, is it okay if I have Dani’s baby?”

The girl drops her fork, cake and all. It rattles around on the floor.
Sweet.
 

Mom’s eyes do a slow-motion nova, but she smiles, wicked-like. “Why of course, honey. Are you two getting married soon?”

Whoa! You know that’s not what I meant.
“No, Mom. She asked me to be a surrogate mother for her and Ethan.” 

“You’d stay with her parents?”

“Yeah. Maybe they’d help me get my GED.”

Mom walks around the table, wipes some chocolate off my face, and hugs me. “You don’t need my permission, honey, but I’m glad you asked. What you’re doing takes compassion. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Be sure to tell Dr. Pierson you’re taking oral contraceptives.” She pulls us into a group hug. “I am so happy for both of you.”

Dani’s phone chirps. Another text. She excuses herself and steps outside.

My mother and I clear away the dessert dishes.
No way Dad would have agreed to my getting pregnant. You neither when he was alive. What happened?
“Mom, why are you okay with this?” 

She hugs me again, tighter than usual. “Would you marry Tommy someday if he asked?”

Nerd, thrasher, at times a jerk—he’s been my only real friend since high school. “Yeah, I guess.”
If I had to.
 

“You’re not sure? Have you slept with him?”

He’s not my boyfriend.
“Mom. No. He’s—never mind.” The problem isn’t with him, anyhow. My heart never got over the last one. 

Relief calms my mother’s eyes. In spite of what Mom says, she never much liked Tommy. “Is there someone else?”

“No.” I bite my lip and turn my face away, hoping she’s forgotten the boy who loved me so long ago.

My mother’s tenderness pries open my heart. “Was there ever?”

You know there was.
My cheeks grow hot. He promised me his heart. “He’s gone, Mom.” 

“There’s always hope. Perhaps one day he’ll return. What if you could have
his
baby?” 

Tears blur the corners of my vision. “Mom. Just don’t. Okay?”

She pulls me close and holds my head against her breast. “It’s all right to dream, honey.”

Danièle

Melanie and I stay up past three in the morning. We chat like schoolgirls at a pajama party, and sleep past both breakfast and mid-morning tea.

Melanie shakes me awake in a panic. We dress, grab a quick snack, and rush out the door.

On the way to our appointment, I call Mum and leave a short voice-mail. Ethan will let me know when to call. No sense in texting him yet.

My heart continues to bounce from bliss to wondering about my sanity, and back again. What would the psychologists think of such emotional turmoil?

Dr. Pierson greets us and waves us toward the dining room. “Why don’t you both sit on one side of the table? I need to draw some illustrations.”

She sits across from us and opens a medical encyclopedia. “Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome varies in severity, depending on which genetic mutation’s involved. The Quigley Scale provides doctors with a means of grading the effect of AIS on genital shape.” She turns the book around and points at a chart. “Typical male is grade one—female grade six.” 

Melanie flashes me a look of total boredom, no doubt meant to urge me to leave my bits as they are.

Dr. Pierson writes on her notepad. “Clitoral Recession—for genitals toward the feminine end of the scale, the clitoris can be tucked further back into the body.” 

Melanie frowns at me. Her whole face broadcasts her opposition to my having any surgery at all. Beneath the table I grab her hand and squeeze.

The doctor points at the chart again. “The procedure reduces the visual prominence of the organ without removing any tissue. Nerve damage is still possible, and sometimes erections become painful. You’re on the masculine end of grade four—your labia are mostly fused. Although your phallus is shaped like a clitoris, I’m certain it’s too large to recess.” 

She begins to draw again. “Dr. Nguyen will remove the erectile tissue from the shaft and reduce the size of the head. The remaining tissue will then be relocated closer to your pubic bone. You may experience a significant loss of sensitivity.”

Melanie squeezes my hand. Hard. Sympathy and pain flow from her eyes. She might object to my having surgery, but her support will carry me through.

I put on my most reassuring smile. “I’ll be all right.”
As long as I don’t think about the surgery too much.
 

The doctor gets up and brings us all drinks and snacks. After a few minutes, she leans back in her chair. “There’s one additional procedure I’d recommend. With intra-abdominal testes, gonadal cancer’s difficult to detect. An orchiopexy is a procedure for moving a testis down the inguinal canal and fixing it in the scrotum—or in your case, the groin area or labia. Testes are easier to monitor there.” 

Panic sweeps away my composure. They might be the same gonads wherever they live, but having them in my abdomen makes them easier to think of as ovaries. What would Ethan say about my having testes between my legs?

The doctor gathers up her drawings. “Any questions?”

I nod, but wait for my heart to slow enough to let me think again. “Yes. Melanie’s agreed to act as a surrogate for Ethan and me. We’d like you to handle the IVF.”

Dr. Pierson’s good mood fades. “I’d love to, Danièle, but August’s my last month at the clinic. I’m retiring.”

“Once Melanie’s pregnant, wouldn’t an obstetrician be sufficient?”

Surprise and confusion widen her eyes for a few seconds before her face hardens. “How soon did you intend to start?”

Tension bubbles up out of my gut. Talk of moving my gonads left my mind unprepared for debate. “Right away?”

The doctor lets out a groan of disappointment and closes her eyes for a moment. “Having a child is
a serious commitment. Have you all thought this through?” 

Any arguments I might have made slip away. The path I tread has been dictated by psychologists and doctors who abhor sexual ambiguity, parents determined to see me happy, and my own desire for some semblance of a normal life. Surrogacy or adoption—marriage and motherhood is my
condicio sine qua non
—proof that I’m normal rather than some monster. Yet part of me still doubts. 

Melanie’s eyes plead for me not to abandon her. I squeeze her hand tight and nod my encouragement.

Disappointment clouds her face, but she hesitates only a moment. “We’ve wanted to do this forever, doc. I was five the first time I promised Dani I’d have her babies.”

Anger simmers in Dr. Pierson’s eyes. She fixes her doubts on me again. “And I suppose the only thing you ever wanted was to have children.” Regret flashes across her face, but she says nothing more.

Are you happy as a girl? Want to play with trucks instead of dolls? Do you want to be a mommy or a daddy?
Doctors grilled me about my gender a thousand times. Well, they can all buzz off. “I wouldn’t need you if I were female. I’d be home, planning my wedding.” 

All the frustrations of an intersex childhood boil up out of my gut. “If I were male, Melanie and I would get married. If we had reproductive issues, we’d come to you expecting help, not questions about our determination to have a child.”

I stand and lean toward Dr. Pierson, hands clamped on the edge of the table. My arms tremble as I fight to suppress my anger. “I’m well satisfied with my body and my gender, doctor, but since I’m intersex, and no one but Melanie’s capable of accepting that, I’m here for surgery to make the rest of the bleeding world happy with what’s between my legs. If you don’t think that demonstrates my commitment to becoming a mother, then nothing will.”

Melanie grins at my language, stands, and offers me a high five. We’re halfway to the front door before Dr. Pierson speaks again. “Next week we’ll make final arrangements for your procedures.”

Might as well seal my doom.
I pause in the doorway. “No. Not without the surrogacy.” I pull the door closed after me and stumble toward the street. 

What have I done?
My parents’ biggest fear becomes mine—I’ll always be alone. 

Melanie grabs my arm and pulls me to a stop. “Guess that didn’t go so well, huh?”

“I’m sorry.” My foolishness has destroyed her hopes as well as my own.

“For what? Standing up for yourself?”

“For caring more about my pride than my marriage. Or you. Or the baby.”

“Yeah, well, that part definitely sucks.” Melanie slides her arms around my waist. Mischief sparkles in her eyes. “So we’d get hitched if you were a guy?”

Another bit of foolishness, that. “Your mother asked if I’d rather be the donor myself. Of course I would. To father your child, or be pregnant with Ethan’s—is it so bad to dream of what might have been had I been born entirely male or female?” 

Those tender emerald eyes swear that she would have loved me too.

I press my lips against hers—a light caress for what might have been.  My pulse throbs in my temple. If I were male, we’d spend our lives together. 

Melanie Rose turns her crimson face away. “So, what are we gonna do now?”

You sense it, don’t you? I’ve always loved you, but never felt quite like this before.
My shoulders twitch up. “I have no idea.” In a moment of anger, I’ve destroyed my one chance at happiness. 

Chapter 6

Melanie

Dani remains quiet the entire way back across campus. The dark clouds overhead make more noise than she does. I don’t feel much like talking
either, but I’m used to having a life that sucks. Part of me never believed the pregnancy thing would happen anyhow. 

But we still have most of the afternoon free. “Tommy’s off today. Wanna learn to ride?”

The girl stares at me like I’m talking Swahili.

“His motorcycle. Buy him some gas, and he’ll be happy to teach you.”

Eagerness blossoms on Dani’s face. “Sure.”

Tommy agrees to meet us at the house. We’re almost there when Dani’s phone rings. She pulls it out and frowns at the screen. “Dr. Pierson. I should apologize to her.”

I grab her cell and brush the call into voice-mail. “Later. Okay?”

As soon as we get home, I dig out my father’s old racing leathers. They may not fit Dani very well, but they’ll keep her from losing too much skin if she takes a spill. She wrinkles her nose at the stiff leather, but tries on the jacket anyhow.

Dani fills a small cooler with bottled water, fruit juice, and ice. I find some peanuts and apples and shove them into my tote.

A vehicle pulls up outside while I’m searching the coat closet for my hat. I go to the door to greet Tommy, but find my mother there instead. She gives me a quick hug. “How’d your appointment go?”

“Not so good. When we mentioned surrogacy, Dr. Pierson got all snotty, and Dani told her off.”

Mom rolls her eyes, but amusement curls her lips. “You didn’t?”

Dani lowers her head in shame. “I need to call her and apologize.”

My mother approaches the girl and runs her fingertips down the sleeve of Dad’s jacket. She glances over her shoulder at me. “Your father’s leathers. You’re taking her riding?”

“Yeah. Tommy said he’d teach her.”

Warm contentment flows from my mother’s face. “You two be careful.”

A horn sounds. I rush outside, set the cooler and my tote in the back of Tommy’s pickup, and run back inside the house again to grab my helmet.

Dani eases into the cab after me, pulls the door closed, and paws around on the seat for the belt. When she looks up again, her violet eyes burn with excitement. Almost like old times.

Welcome back, Dani.

Danièle

We drive west until suburbs give way to fields divided by canals and fences. Out past Krome Avenue before turning off on a desolate side road. Beyond a steel gate, gravel trails off through palms and pines. A quarter mile further on, our path ends at the edge of an open pasture.

I step out of the cab into the blazing sun and grab a bottle of water from our cooler. Wearing a helmet and a leather jacket will keep the sun’s rays off my skin, but sweat already trickles down the middle of my back. Is learning to ride really worth heat stroke?

After Tommy unloads the motorbike, he waves me over. “You ready?”

The breeze raises dust—a fine grit that clings to me. I take another long drink and glance at the sky.
Maybe if I leave the jacket unzipped...
I ease my leg over the already-too-hot leather seat. 

Tommy places my left hand on the grip. “Clutch. Everything starts here.” My right hand he moves to the other handle. “Throttle.” He gestures toward the clearing. “I want you to drive around the edge of this here field. Real slow. Keep your feet spread apart. Give it a little gas. Let the clutch out. Back off on the throttle. Clutch in and coast to a stop. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

He spits a wad of something vile on the ground. “None of that ‘sir’ crap. You hear?”

“All right.”

“Pull in the clutch.”

When I comply, he starts the engine and steps on the left foot pedal. “That there’s the gear shift. Leave it be for now. The right pedal’s the rear brakes. Don’t press it unless the clutch is in. Always the clutch first.”

I kill the engine the first time. Tommy presses my fingers over the lever and starts the bike again. “Anything goes wrong—the clutch. Always the clutch.” 

Halfway around the field, the motorbike bucks and coughs until I squeeze with my left hand and coast to a stop. In the distance, Tommy yells, “You got it. Just relax.”

A drop of sweat burns my eye. Sun glints off the gas tank. My heart pounds as though I’m risking my life.

I can do this.
The tension melts away and I ride back around to the starting point. 

Tommy sits on the motorbike behind me and places his left hand over mine again. “Clutch first. Always.” With his right, he moves my fingertips over the lever. “Front brakes.” He taps my right foot with his. “Rear brakes.” He repeats it all again, in sequence.