If You Could Be Mine (15 page)

“He’s already disappointed my parents. He doesn’t want to have to work for Sima. She won’t let him just sit around all day. He’ll have to cook and clean or start working more at the garage. Do you think he wants that kind of life? I don’t care how he feels about her; he’s never going to make his life harder than it has to be.”

And neither are you. It’s all very clear now.

I excuse myself and go to the bathroom. I wash my face with cool water, trying to calm down after Nasrin’s antics. I stare at myself in the mirror for a long time. I notice the pimple that wants to poke through on my chin. I notice the scar on my eyebrow from roller-skating down a slide at a playground years ago. Nasrin had dared me to do it. It’s a small scar, but at age seven Nasrin had rushed to my side and cried over my cut. I was more shocked and didn’t cry at all. She felt guilty after that, and we didn’t play as much outside. She was protective of me then. That doesn’t seem to be the case anymore.

“Sahar, what are you doing in there? Are you constipated?” Nasrin likes to bring up my past maladies. I open the door, and she looks at me with warmth. “I’m sorry about what I said. You know I love Soraya, and I think Sima . . . Well, I never did like how you two got along so well. So maybe I was happy she didn’t get what she wanted.”

“If I was a man, would you marry me? Even if I wasn’t rich and couldn’t give you everything Reza could right away. I would eventually, but would you marry me?” There isn’t any of the pleading she’s used to in my voice. It’s a clear, determined question, one that I hope she answers honestly.

“Why are you so obsessed with marriage? I hardly want to marry Reza, who is actually so sweet I might go crazy. Do you know what it’s like to be around a perfect person? It’s exhausting. I’m just waiting for some big, dark secret to come out—like he’s from another planet or he’s a robot.” She’s not taking me seriously. She is deflecting my question, and I don’t have time for that anymore. I grab her roughly by her shoulders. She doesn’t look scared. She knows I would never hurt her. Maybe I want her to be a little scared.

“I need an answer from you. Please don’t treat me like I’m some silly girl, because we’re too old for that now. If I were a man, would you be with me? Would you leave him for me?”

Nasrin hesitates, but I’m giving her time to really think about the question. I don’t want her to give me a rushed answer she thinks I want to hear. She shrugs against my hands, and I let go of her. She grazes my cheek with her finger and traces my lips, my chin, and my eyebrows. She twirls a tendril of my hair around her finger. I don’t melt under her touch like I always do. I’m going to remain vigilant.

“You wouldn’t look so bad with a beard.” She grins. It’s all the answer I need.

15

PARVEEN IS WAITING FOR
me in front of the Mirdamad Surgical Centre. She doesn’t see me at first. She is tugging at her sleeves; I thought I was supposed to be the nervous one. A masculine woman with thick glasses and unplucked facial hair walks into the clinic. I am really here. I am really doing this.

“I’m sorry, my taxi got stuck in traffic,” I say, and Parveen launches into my arms, giving me a tight hug.

“This isn’t who you are. Please don’t do this,” she whispers, and I go limp in her arms. I can feel her tears on my neck. The tenderness reminds me of my
maman.
I push away from her.

“You promised you would help me. I have to do this, or I will lose her.” I whisper my plea to her, so that passersby can’t hear us. Parveen wipes at her eyes, which are the greenest they have ever been. She nods and turns to walk into the clinic. I follow her as she checks in at the front desk. The attendant recognizes Parveen and asks how her family is. We get a number, like we are waiting for a kabob order.

There are other patients. A little girl, about three years old with a cleft palate lip and a Hello Kitty bow in her hair. There is a man in his forties, with steely eyes and no legs. He probably served in the war when he was my age. Maman used to tell stories about how she and her family would hide in the basement, waiting for the bombs to come. Sometimes the bombs came, sometimes they didn’t. It was a waiting game.

I haven’t been to a hospital since Maman died. She was hooked up to tubes to help her breathe. I thought she would get better. If she could survive a war unscathed, surely she could survive a mere heart condition. I suppose the heart always betrays us one way or another.

“The doctor is very nice.” Parveen says. “If you have any questions, let him know immediately.” Nasrin was at the hospital with me when Maman passed. She didn’t know what to do, whether she should leave me alone or coo over me. She held my hand the whole time. The sweat on her palm blended with mine. Baba cried while the Mehdis tried to comfort him. Neither Nasrin nor I cried. We were being brave for each other. I am being brave for her now.

“How long ago did you, um . . . did you have your operation?” I ask.

“It’s been five years,” Parveen immediately answers.

“Did it hurt?” I know it did. I don’t know why I’m asking.

“Yes, more than you can imagine,” Parveen says. The little girl with the cleft palette stares at me. I smile at her because somebody should. She does the same back, her gums exposed, her nose flaring more than those of other little girls. The little girl’s mother is in a full
chador,
her black eyes peering out of her tent. Maybe I can pretend Maman is underneath all that cloth, making sure everything will be fine. Though Maman would never wear a full
chador.

Parveen taps her fingers on the arm of her chair. I want to ask her to stop, but that would be rude. This is more her place than mine. So many transsexuals come up to her while we are in the waiting room. She smiles like a beauty queen, and I wonder how many people she has helped with this. I haven’t helped anyone with anything. I’m selfish. Parveen doesn’t introduce me to the patients and their families. I don’t think she wants to admit to herself, or to anyone else, why we are here. A man dressed in women’s clothing approaches us with his mother beside him. He asks Parveen to explain to his mother that this isn’t a choice. Parveen gives the speech that I have heard countless times in meetings. I look over to my left, and the doctor’s office door is open. A man with white hair sits behind a desk. He looks kind. I hope he is my doctor. He’s talking to someone standing next to his desk, a man, but I can’t see his face. The man is wearing a lab coat. He turns around. My nails dig into Parveen’s hand, and she lets out a yelp.

The man in the lab coat is Reza. I have to get out of here. How on Allah’s green earth is this possible? Another cruel joke being thrown my way.

“
Shomare
137, number 137,” comes over the loudspeaker. It’s our number! I’m going to be sick.

“Ow!” Parveen cries, and the women who have been talking to her look at me like I’m crazy. Does Nasrin know he’s this kind of surgeon? Why didn’t she tell me? I tie my head scarf tight around my head, hiding as much of my face as possible. My nose and eyes are all that poke out. Oh god, he’s going to recognize me! The little girl with the cleft palate laughs at me, thinking my erratic behavior is a part of some game. The women nod politely at Parveen and back away slowly.

“Do you have a
hijab
?” I ask Parveen. She opens her purse and pulls out her
chador,
for when she goes to the mosque. I wrap it around myself and hide my face. It’s the only time in my life a
hijab
has come in handy.

“What are you doing?” Parveen asks, but I can’t answer. We both look into the office, and Reza comes into the waiting area, calling out Parveen’s name from his clipboard. I cling to Parveen’s hand.

“That’s Nasrin’s fiancé,” I say. Parveen stiffens and looks with wide eyes at the doctor. Reza doesn’t recognize me; he just gives us a goofy smile. I have to get out of here.

“We can leave,” Parveen says. But this is my time to meet with the doctor. Who knows when I will get another chance? I don’t want the doctor to think I’m not serious about doing this and blacklist me so that I will never get another appointment.

“No. I have to do this. He doesn’t recognize me. But I need to get rid of him.” Dr. Hosseini stands from behind his desk and nods at Parveen and me. Reza closes the door behind us. I’m trapped!

“Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice, Dr. Hosseini,” Parveen says as she sits down. I stay standing. I feel like I am going to hyperventilate. I don’t know what to do.

“My dear, you may sit down, if you please,” Dr. Hosseini says. I am silent, glued to the floor where I am standing, and Parveen looks up at me in embarrassment.

“Is something the matter?” Dr. Hosseini asks. Yes. I really wish the linoleum floor would open up and swallow me whole. I could land in hell in no time, Angry Grandpa scolding me on my way down.

“Dr. Hosseini, my friend . . . She, well, it’s embarrassing, but she’s afraid your young attendant keeps looking at her,” Parveen says, and I blush furiously under my chador.

“Oh no! Dr. Hosseini, I haven’t been! I’m getting married, sir! I would never.” God, he’s even nice when he’s being wrongly accused. Dr. Hosseini just waves his hands at Reza.

“It’s all right, Mahdavi. If it makes the young lady more comfortable, could you wait outside?” It worked! Thank you, Allah, you’re the best!

“Of course, sir. I’m so sorry if she felt that way. I wasn’t, honestly. I’m truly sorry . . .” Reza keeps apologizing as he exits the office. That’s right, Mr. Perfect. No one wants you here. I sit down, across from the doctor.

“Now, how can I help you, my dear?” Dr. Hosseini asks warmly. He doesn’t look like a bad person. I’m still not going to show him my face. He only gets to see my eyes.

“Well, sir, you see, I was hoping you could turn me into a man,” I say. I mean, why else would I be here? I don’t say that bit out loud. Dr. Hosseini leans forward in his leather chair, and I can’t help but lean forward in mine. He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. My
maman
used to do that when she was annoyed.

“Before we get started, I need you to be absolutely sure that this is something you want. So I will say my piece, and I don’t want you to interrupt until I have finished. Okay?” I nod. Parveen inhales deeply. I wonder how many times she has had to hear him give this lecture and whether or not it’s a flashback to her own first time in his office. “This operation, that we are discussing, is from hell. Your friend sitting next to you can attest to that.” He motions to Parveen and her face goes pale. “Do you remember the agony you were in? We ripped your body apart, and stitched you back up, and the week of pain afterward . . . Would you wish that upon your worst enemy?” Parveen shakes her head and begins to cry. Oh no. This is so terribly awkward. Well, I’m doing it. I don’t care what the man has to say.

“After the surgery, you can never conceive a child of your own. You may want to marry someday, and a family will not be an option for you. You may not know it yet, but adoption will be very difficult given your transsexual status. Do you understand?”

I know the basic biology of things. I’m not an idiot. I don’t know if I want children. It isn’t something I have ever thought about. The idea of being a parent scares me, because I know what it’s like when your parents abandon you, unintentionally or not. If I had a child and something ever happened to me, I’d never forgive myself. Mrs. Mehdi’s voice telling me how much Nasrin loves children pops into my head.

“ Now, the chest reconstruction, the way we handle that . . .” Dr. Hosseini says. Immediately my nipples are at full attention, and I’m so glad this
chador
is hiding them. Fine, so my nipples don’t want this to happen, either. But who asked them? “There will probably be some scarring, and your nipples will be grafted on. I have a photograph here of what that might look like.” He shows me the photograph and my nipples are peaking, begging me to call this off. I look over at Parveen, who is still pale and remembering the pain of her own operation. “If you would like your vaginal opening closed, we will perform a vaginectomy, which is the removal of your vagina. You then could consider having a phalloplasty, which is the construction of a penis.” As he keeps talking, I cross my legs. My vagina is not happy with this plan.

Dr. Hosseini continues to discuss skin he can take from various parts of my body to help construct a penis. Skin from my calf will allow me erotic sensation, while skin from my abdominal flap won’t. Then he says that some patients prefer a metoidioplasty. This involves gradually filling my clitoris with testosterone, then releasing the clitoral hood . . . Something about increasing organ length and moving it forward . . . This allows sensation, whereas a phalloplasty . . . Something about lengthening the urethra . . . God, those diagrams are graphic. I clench my thighs tighter together. He goes on about the hormone therapy I will have to undergo, how to inject the drugs, the blood work, the psychiatrist I will have to visit for six months, and I—

I’m on the floor, flat on my back, with Dr. Hosseini and Parveen hovering over me.