The John Varley Reader (82 page)

“I don't know. Why?”

He smiled, a little sheepishly. “I hope you won't take this wrong. I'm so
happy
to see you. Maybe I shouldn't say it . . . but no, I think I'd better. I like Leo. I think I'll miss him, a little.”

She nodded. “I'm not hurt. How could I be?” She drew away and led him to a pillow. “Sit down, Jules. We have to have a talk.” His knees gave way under him and he sat, looking up expectantly.

“Leo isn't gone, and don't you ever think that for a minute. He's right here.” She thumped her chest and looked at him defiantly. “He'll always be here. He'll never go away.”

“I'm sorry, Cleo, I—”

“No, don't talk yet. It was my own fault, but I didn't know any better. I never should have called myself Leo. It gave you an easy out. You didn't have to face Cleo being a male. I'm changing all that. My name is Nile. N-i-l-e. I won't answer to anything else.”

“All right. It's a nice name.”

“I thought of calling myself Lion. For Leo the lion. But I decided to be who I always was, the queen of the Nile, Cleopatra. For old time's sake.”

He said nothing, but his eyes showed his appreciation.

“What you have to understand is that they're both gone, in a sense. You'll never be with Cleo again. I look like her now. I resemble her inside, too, like an adult resembles the child. I have a tremendous amount in common with what she was. But I'm not her.”

He nodded. She sat beside him and took his hand.

“Jules, this isn't going to be easy. There are things I want to do, people I want to meet. We're not going to be able to share the same friends. We could drift apart because of it. I'm going to have to fight resentment because you'll be holding me back. You won't let me explore your female side like I want to. You're going to resent me because I'll be trying to force you into something you think is wrong for you. But I want to try and make it work.”

He let out his breath. “God, Cl . . . Nile. I've never been so scared in my life. I thought you were leading up to leaving me.”

She squeezed his hand. “Not if I can help it. I want each of us to try and accept the other as they are. For me, that includes being male whenever I feel like it. It's all the same to me, but I know it's going to be hard for
you
.”

They embraced, and Jules wiped his tears on her shoulder, then faced her again.

“I'll do anything and everything in my power, up to—”

She put her finger to her lips. “I know. I accept you that way. But I'll keep trying to convince you.”

INTRODUCTION TO
“Just Another Perfect Day”

DON'T WORRY. Everything is under control.

I know how you're feeling. You wake up alone in a strange room, you get up, you look around, you soon discover that both doors are locked from the outside. It's enough to unsettle anybody, especially when you try and try and try to recall how you got here and you just can't do it.

But beyond that . . . there's this feeling. I know you're feeling it right now. I know a lot of things—and I'll reveal them all as we go along.

One of the things I know it this:

If you will sit down, put this message back on the table where you found it, and take slow, deep breaths while counting to one hundred, you'll feel a lot better.

I promise you will.

Do that now.

 
See what I mean? You
do
feel a lot better.

That feeling won't last for long, I'm sorry to say.

I wish there was an easier way to do this, but there isn't, and believe me, many ways have been tried. So here we go:

This is not 1986.

You are not twenty-five years old.

The date is

 
June

 
12

 
2008 
A lot of things have happened in 

twenty-two 
years, and I'll tell you all you need to know about that in good time.

For now . . . Don't Worry.

Slow, deep breaths. Close your eyes. Count to a hundred.

You'll feel better.

I promise.

 
 
If you'll get up now, you'll find that the bathroom door will open. There's a mirror in there. Take a look in it, get to know the 

forty-seven 
-year old who will be in there, looking back at you . . .

And Don't Worry.

Take deep breaths, and so forth.

I'll tell you more when you get back.

 
 
Well.

I know how rough that was. I know you're trembling. I know you're feeling confusion, fear, anger . . . a thousand emotions.

And I know you have a thousand questions. They will all be answered, every one of them, at the proper time.

Here are some ground rules.

I will never lie to you. You can't imagine how much care and anguish has gone into the composition of this letter. For now, you must take my word that things will be revealed to you in the most useful order, and in the easiest way that can be devised. You must appreciate that not all your questions can be answered at once. It may be harder for you to accept that some questions cannot be answered at all until a proper background has been prepared. These answers would mean nothing to you at this point.

You would like someone—
anyone
—to be with you right now, so you could
ask
these questions. That has been tried, and the results were needlessly chaotic and confusing. Trust me; this is the best way.

Any why should you trust me? For a very good reason.

I am you. You wrote—in a manner of speaking—every word in this letter, to help yourself through this agonizing moment.

Deep breaths, please.

Stay seated; it helps a little.

And Don't Worry.

 
So now we're past bombshell #2. There are more to come, but they will be easier to take, simply because your capacity to be surprised is just about at its peak right now. A certain numbness will set in. You should be thankful for that.

And now, back to your questions.

Top of the list: What happened?

Briefly (and it must be brief—more on that later):

In 1989 you had an accident. It involved a motorcycle which you don't remember owning because you didn't buy it until 1988, and a city bus. You had a difference of opinion concerning the right of way, and the bus won.

Feel your scalp with your fingertips. Don't be queasy; it healed long ago—as much as it's going to. Under those great knots of scar tissue are the useless results of the labors of the best neurosurgeons in the country. In the end, they just had to scoop out a lot of gray matter and close you back up, shaking their heads sagely and opining that you would probably feel right at home under glass on a salad bar.

But you fooled them. You woke up, and there was much rejoicing, even though you couldn't remember anything after the summer of '86. You were conscious a few hours, long enough for the doctors to determine that your intelligence didn't seem to be impaired. You could talk, read, speak, see, hear. Then you went back to sleep.

The next day you woke up, and couldn't remember anything after the summer of '86. No one was too worried. They told you again what had happened. You were awake most of the day, and again you fell asleep.

The next day you woke up, and couldn't remember anything after the summer of '86. Some consternation was expressed.

The next day you woke up, and couldn't remember anything after the summer of '86. Professorial heads were scratched, seven-syllable Latin words intoned, and deep mumbles were mumbled.

The next day you woke up, and couldn't remember anything after the summer of '86.