Born That Way (16 page)

Mom snatches her appointment book out of her purse. “Are you absolutely sure we need another specialist? Dr. Destrie seems to think he can manage most things.”

“I'm sure he does,” says Dr. Cleveland. “How about I make the referral myself. No need to bother Dr. Destrie.”

She tells Mom the name of the pediatrician and Mom writes it in her book. She has to write overtop of one of my horse stickers, but doesn't say anything to me about this. Then they make an appointment for me to come back to see Dr. Cleveland in two months. There's a horse sticker on that page too, almost as if I'd known in advance, or it was destiny, or some spiritual thing.

Mom makes Mexican lasagna for dinner, which is my absolute favourite and she doesn't make it very often because she says it's too fussy. Dad has a late client and doesn't get home until Mom and I are at the table and Mom is carving the lasagna into squares. Before he can tell us about his day, I remind him about my appointment.

“Oh, right,” he says. “So, how did it go?”

“She was really nice,” I say. “And also very professional.”

“She? I thought Gelderlander was a guy.”

“We saw his locum, a rather young woman,” says Mom. “Though I wonder if we should request another referral to see Dr. Gelderlander—for a second opinion.” Mom lifts a serving of lasagna onto a plate and passes it to me.

“I don't want a second opinion,” I tell her. Turning to Dad I say, “She says I'm a horse nut.”

“That was her official diagnosis? Can she treat horse nuts?”

“I don't want treatment for that.”

“She also thinks Sylvia may have something called Turner Syndrome,” says Mom, passing a plate to Dad. “She wants her to see a pediatrician. She thinks that's why she's so short.”

“She's a kid. All kids are short.”

“Not this short,” I say, grabbing the salad bowl.

“You mean there's really something wrong with her?” Dad asks Mom.

“And we missed it,” says Mom.

I'm fishing around in the salad bowl for a couple more cherry tomatoes and suddenly it's as though all the tension and uncertainty and confusion I didn't even know I had flows out of me through the top of my head. I totally relax. It doesn't matter if I find another tomato, it doesn't matter if I spill a few lettuce leaves off the edge of my plate. For one glorious moment, everything is perfect and I am galloping unimpeded towards a future which stands open-armed and beckoning before me. This must be what Taylor means about being spiritual because I feel like my life is totally taken care of and everything will be okay, all I have to do is to let things unfold. No divorce, and no one has to move to a new neighbourhood. But the scent of guilt in the air is unmistakable. Along with it comes a sense of power I have never experienced before in my life, though it's not unlike the time that Logan Losino offered to beat someone up for me and I said sure and he said who and I picked some funny-looking boy from grade four and Logan said Who—Tony? And before I could stop him, before I could say oh no that's my dad's name, Logan had dumped Tony in the dirt and I felt sick.

I look up from the depths of the salad bowl.

Mom is cutting a piece of lasagna for herself. She always serves herself last. She is pressing so hard with the metal slicer that she's going to gouge the Corningware, which she's always telling me not to do. I think about reminding her, but then I see her face is going all pink again and I don't think it's from exertion or heat from the kitchen. She's trying not to cry. So I look at Dad. His fork is halfway to his mouth and he has a very stern look on his face, like he's angry with someone, but I can't think who that would be. I thought he would be happy that we didn't have to go to family therapy, but he doesn't look happy at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I wake up to my alarm and I haven't had a dream. I really could have used one because I have this feeling that everything is about to change and maybe things weren't really so bad before and maybe desperately wanting something isn't such a great idea.

Mom is reading Kansas's pamphlet at the breakfast table but she puts it down when I come in the room. “Look what we got in the mail,” she says. She doesn't even try to sound surprised. The skin under her eyes is dark and saggy in a way I haven't seen before. I guess she didn't sleep well after our time spent doing research on the computer last night. When we finished dinner we Googled Turner Syndrome, which maybe wasn't the smartest thing to do because it turns out that some people with this disorder can get serious heart and kidney problems and I said I was positive that didn't apply to me and Mom said surely Dr. Destrie would have picked that up. Dad said only if there'd been big flashing signs pointing towards it and then he asked Mom if her university training was half as good as she said it was then why didn't she know about what was wrong with me. That's when I went to my room, did some stretches and crawled into bed. And thought about the other thing I saw about people with Turner Syndrome, that sometimes they have abnormal Y chromosome material. Sometimes they have testicular tissue that has to be removed by surgery. So I could be a kind of hermaphrodite after all, or a crypt orchid, just like Hambone.

I'm trying not to think about this possibility when I take my seat at the breakfast table. I perch lightly on the edge of my chair because the last thing I want is to notice whatever testicles might feel like if they were hidden up inside me.

Mom slides Kansas's brochure over to the edge of my placemat. I can see it's covered with Dad's handwriting, mostly numbers and dollar signs, so he's obviously done some calculations already.

My plan had been to act surprised and excited when the pamphlet appeared, but now I can't.

“She seems to be well-qualified, your friend Kansas,” says Mom.

Dad is standing over the toaster trying to dislodge something that is thick and smoking. He wiggles the lever, presses it upwards and it snaps off in his hand. “Stupid effing toaster,” he says under his breath, but not so quietly that I can't hear him. I guess he didn't sleep well either.

“Dad, it was a hundred years old, you got it as a wedding present.”

He unplugs the toaster, turns it upside-down over the sink and sticks a table knife up into the slot. He looks like he's trying to stab it to death.

Mom sighs. I know she'd wanted a toaster for Christmas and Dad bought her winter tires instead. They had a big argument on Boxing Day because Mom said it didn't make sense to throw more money into that piece of junk and Dad said it had thousands of miles left in it and Mom said she wanted the tires returned and Dad said he couldn't return them because they weren't actually new, they were re-treads. He found them in the
Buy and Sell.

“We think we can afford a trial series of riding lessons,” Mom says to me.

Half a bagel lands heavily in the sink. Dad scrapes off the burnt bits with the knife and brings it to the table. He loads on the cream cheese so thick that I'm sure Mom's going to say something about his cholesterol levels but she just passes him the strawberry jam.

“So what do you say, Shor . . . ” and he looks at Mom, then looks back at me, and says, “Sylvia.”

I have never been more confused in my life. I should be so happy. Finally they aren't calling me stupid nicknames. Finally they are agreeing that I can take riding lessons. But they are both so unhappy, and I hate it when they're unhappy. I thought victory was supposed to be sweet. And I think, what is the point of being passionate about something if it only makes other people miserable? But I can't say this, I know this would only make things worse, so I say the only thing possible. “Thank you.”

I ride my bike to school, where everything is normal, which is not to say good but at least I'm used to it. This will probably change too because Mom and Dad want a meeting with the principal, Mrs. Tarpan, to discuss my medical condition once it's confirmed by the pediatrician, and to remind her of the school's zero tolerance policy on bullying even though I tell them that I'm not really being bullied, it's more that I'm being picked on, which is really quite normal for kids, it's kind of like herd dynamics for horses. They tell me it's not a matter open for negotiation.

After school I stop in to see Kansas and she's nowhere around. I feel like I'm being left to sort this out completely on my own. I don't want to go home. I leave my bike leaning against the side of the barn and go looking for Hambone. I don't want to ride him now, not after seeing what he did when Kansas rode him, and besides I've promised not to. But I do want to hang out with him. He's not out in the pasture with the mares. I find him in his stall. There's a bandage around his right front leg from his knee to his fetlock, and there's a swelling about the shape of Electra's hind foot on his shoulder. I guess she had enough of his tactics and decided to show him who was really the boss.

I take the carrot sticks I've saved out of my backpack, open his stall door and slide in with him. He drops his head and nuzzles my hand. I feed him these tiny carrot sticks one at a time and he takes each one carefully with the edges of his lips. He never uses his teeth. I reach up and put my arms around his neck and tell him that everything's working out for me but it doesn't feel very good. I put my cheek against his neck and he is warm and smells good and I tell him I'm going to start lessons—not on him right away, but maybe one day. And I have the sense that even though I'm feeling rotten about getting my way and even though I don't know if I'll be brave enough or good enough to ride like Kansas, that if I have the opportunity this is still what I want to do more than anything else. I want to be with horses. I can't imagine my life without them. It's that simple and it's that complicated all at once.

It will be nice to be older one day and understand life better. It will be good to know with certainty what's right and what's wrong, but in the meantime I guess I can muddle through.

That night Mom phones Kansas and finds out what needs to happen before I start my lessons. I'm all excited because the most important thing is that I get my own helmet, which will be my very first piece of new riding equipment. Also Mom and Dad have to sign a release form, which Dad isn't that happy about so he calls her back. When he gets off the phone his eyes are big. He clears his throat, then says to my mom, “Kansas tells me that waivers are standard industry practice and they are required by her insurance agency. So I suppose that will be fine.”

Dad has run into the boss mare.

Then he turns to me. “Kansas tells me that under no circumstances am I to buy you a used helmet off eBay. We have to purchase a new one because that's the only way to be sure there aren't any hair-line fractures. I have the impression that she thinks I'm cheap. Where would she have gotten an idea like that?”

I can tell he's not kidding, and that he's more perplexed than angry. Can he really be the last one to know? “Well, Dad, you are very careful with your money,” I say, trying to be gentle. Mom's looking wary. She finds the box of baking soda again and sets to work in the sink.

“Of course I'm careful with money,” says Dad.

“And you always encourage us to buy used and to keep things going as long as possible . . . like Mom's car.”

Mom pauses in her scouring, then runs some water down the drain.

“There's nothing wrong with your mom's car.”

Mom straightens and stares at Dad. She's standing behind him, though, so he can't see the look of disbelief on her face. I hope she won't say anything, because things have been going pretty well between the two of them this evening and the last thing I want is a fresh dust-up. Besides, maybe this is something that would be better undertaken by me on Mom's behalf. “Dad, everything is wrong with Mom's car.”

“Oh come on,” says Dad. “Not everything. Besides, we'll replace it as soon as Mom's client list fills up and she pays off her student loan.”

Mom shakes her head sadly but stops abruptly when Dad swivels around to bring her into the conversation. “Right, Evie?” he says.

She smiles stiffly. “Right.”

I don't understand. There must be more going on here than I can grasp, kind of like herd dynamics again. It feels so complex I wouldn't even know what to Google to figure it out. And it reminds me of another matter that I don't understand. “Dad, why do you think Grandpa is an interfering old goat just because he says he'll buy me a horse some day?”

Dad frowns. For a second I'm not sure if he's going to be angry with me, but then he says, “Look, Shorty, adult relationships are complicated, there's a lot of history here. It has nothing to do with you.”

I think it has everything to do with me, but Mom walks over and puts her hand on the back of Dad's neck. Her fingers slide through the curls above his collar.

“I shouldn't have said that about Grandpa,” he says. “Or at least not where you could hear.”

And even though this isn't much of an answer and I still don't understand, I have the feeling that I've pushed the matter as far as I can.

A few days later I get to see the pediatrician, Dr. Moyle. He's nice, but not as nice as Dr. Cleveland. He agrees tentatively with her diagnosis but won't say for sure until he sees the results of the blood work. We all go back a week later and he confirms that yes, it seems that I do have Turner Syndrome. I have to ask him explicitly if they found any Y chromosome material and he looks a bit flustered, but then he says no, so I am not a hermaphrodite, which is slightly disappointing because I would have liked to have something special in common with Hambone. But mostly it's a relief.

Because Dr. Moyle says he wants me to have more tests, Mom and Dad get all uptight again and won't let me start my lessons with Kansas. They need to know that my heart and kidneys are okay though apparently it's fine for me to continue to ride my bike to school and take stupid phys ed class. Along with the tests I have referrals to see other medical specialists to check my eyes and my hearing and it looks like this is going to take years. But after a week I'm so unhappy sitting around at home doing nothing that we go back to Dr. Moyle for another discussion and some preliminary results, and he tells my parents that other than having Turner Syndrome I'm as healthy as a horse—no kidding, that's exactly what he says. And then he says something even more wonderful. He says that as well as taking supplements to help my bone strength I need to get lots of exercise. And I ask him if it has to be ballet and he says absolutely not.