Happy Families (10 page)

“Yes,” Ysabel says, taking control of the conversation again. “Did you know anyone else like you? I mean, in your family?”

“It’s not genetic,” my father says, his gaze flicking to meet mine. I flinch and feel my face get hot. “Being transgender is not something you can inherit or catch.”

“I know that,” I mutter, feeling both insulted and relieved.

“To answer the question,” Dad says, turning to my sister with a slight smile, “no. I never met another adult male in my family who dressed in any nontraditional way. I didn’t meet any males who dressed nontraditionally, period, until I was in college. A bunch of us went to the city to hear a comedian. He was a female impersonator, and there were a lot of transsexual people in the club. It was … quite an experience.”

I move my shoulders uncomfortably, weirded out by the thoughtful tone in my father’s voice. I decide I don’t want to know what “quite an experience” means.

“So, how’d you learn to wear makeup?” Ysabel asks. Mouth open, I turn my head and stare at her. How is she coming up with this stuff? She must have been thinking of all these questions for days, while all I’ve been doing is trying
not
to think.

“Kind of trial and error,” Dad admits, and shrugs, fingering the edge of his water glass. “I visited a lot of how-to sites on the Internet. I bought a lot of makeup by mail order.” He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “It’s a work in progress.”

“Did you wear Mom’s makeup?” I hear the accusation in my voice.

Dad shakes his head immediately. “No. That’s hers. I have my own.”

I shift my weight, feeling sweat prickling in my armpits. I wish he wouldn’t say crap like that. Every time I start to feel like we’re just here, being with Dad, in a restaurant, he keeps reminding me that this whole conversation is crazy, and that he’s … changed.

Ysabel clears her throat. “All right. Moving on,” she continues doggedly, smoothing her hair behind her ears. “Is Christine a different person, or is she … you.” Ysabel looks up.

“Well.” Dad chews his bottom lip, and I realize I am doing the same thing. I stop and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Christine is, let’s say, an aspect of me. She’s both me and more than me. How’s that for confusing?” He smiles.

“So basically you’ve got a split personality,” I say.

Dad barks out a laugh. “You might look at it that way,” he says. “You’d be wrong, but you might look at it that way.”

“Well, what’s right, then?” Ysabel asks, a little braver because Dad seems so unbothered by the question. “I mean, we have
no
idea, Dad. You laugh, but as far as we knew eight months ago, you were just Christopher Nicholas, one guy. Now there’s almost … two of you.”

My father sobers immediately. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make light of this, Belly. It’s just that I’ve had the same questions myself along the way. It’s hard to think of yourself as sane when you feel like you’re two people. When I’m Christine, I am all of who I am. When I’m Christopher, I’m only … half of who I should be.” He says the words with conviction.

“So, Christine is more than half of you.” My smile is twisted. “Which half of you is in love with Mom?”

“Good question.” Ysabel is blinking hard, and her arms are wrapped around her abdomen again. “That’s what I want to know.”

Dad looks visibly startled, though he tries to hide it. “Justin. Belly.” There’s a tenderness in his voice that makes my stomach hurt. He reaches across the table to grab my sister’s hand.

“I said not to call me that.” Ysabel leans out of reach. “Answer the question, Dad. Which one of you is married? Which one of you fell in love with Mom? Which one of you has been with her all this time? Christine can’t be married to Mom.”

My father rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead and looks uncomfortable. “Guys, that’s … I love your mother. That’s what I can tell you. Aside from that, questions about your mom and me are between Mom and me.”

“That’s a cop-out. It’s not a personal question,” I object.

“Actually, it’s—”

“No. If you’re only half of who you are when you’re our father, are you saying you weren’t married to Mom the whole way?” I put down my fork and wrap my arms around my aching middle. “So,
does that mean Christine can have a relationship with someone else who could be with
all
of her? Is that how it goes?”

“Justin.” My father’s voice is thick with hurt. His mouth firms into a line, and he just stares at me for a moment, his expression caught between disbelief and frustration. “You know me better than that. You know I would never hurt your mother like that, never.
Never
.”

“We know you ‘better than that’?” Ysabel’s voice is disbelieving. “Are you serious? Dad,
who
do I know? Half the time you’re this more-than-Christopher
Christine
. Eight months ago, I didn’t even know there
was
a Christine. What makes you think we know you at all?”

“Ysabel, honey, you’re making this way too complicated,” Dad says, and rubs a hand over his face. He gestures, holding out his hands, trying to bridge the distance between us. “I know it’s tough to understand, but I’m part of Christine. Christine is still me. You know me. You know who I am.”

“No, we don’t.” Ysabel and I say the words together, and she shoots a glance at me. I nod. It feels stupid to say to Dad, a man we’ve known all our lives, but it’s true. If he’s Christine, we have no idea who he is.

“
Sopa
Azteca,
señor
?” our waitress chirps. A sizzling sound and billows of fragrant steam suddenly envelop our table. Dad nods, looking dazed, as she sets the large bowl of tortilla soup in front of him. The kitchen lackeys following her present Dad’s chipotle enchilada, my taco platter, and Ysabel’s veggie fajitas. All the while she’s explaining what’s what and setting down the sides and the other waitstaff are refilling our iced tea and bringing more chips, we all just sit there, silent. Ysabel stares fixedly at the tablecloth. My father smiles vaguely at the waitress, leaning
away from the table so she can bustle around him, but there’s a stiffness to his face. The slope of his shoulders telegraphs hurt, and I look down at my plate, wishing I was hungry, wishing that we were just all here for real, being together like before.

But Ysabel has it right—we’re here to say something to each other. And as the waitress bustles away, I decide there’s no time like the present.

“We don’t know you, Dad,” I repeat quietly, looking up at him. “No offense, but … I don’t want to know, either. Not … the Christine part.” I shrug. “I’m sorry, but … it’s how I feel.”

My father tries to smile, but the attempt falls short. His mouth twitches. “Well, that was the risk, wasn’t it?” he says finally, his voice threaded with weariness. “I had hoped that you would never … that we would never be …” He stops, and everything hangs, for a moment, in that silence, which goes on forever. I shift my feet and pick up my fork, drawing away a piece of shredded lettuce from my taco and chasing it around my plate. Dad finally clears his throat. I look up at him, and there is kindness and tiredness and grief in his eyes. “I hope you both get a chance to get to know me again.”

I look away. Dad wants me to understand this and be okay with things, but I can’t. I can’t understand this … thing he’s doing. I don’t want to lose my father in a trade for someone named Christine, but he’s already gone. I don’t know how to take that, or what to do. I don’t know how to deal with this Christine person he’s left behind.

I just want my dad back.

Dad pulls into the garage and shuts off the engine. Justin and I climb out silently, and Justin carefully lifts the paper bag filled with our lunch from where it sat on the floor between his feet.

Unlocking the back door, my father goes inside and drops his keys on the hook next to the door. He pauses in the living room as I turn toward the stairs, and Justin heads for the kitchen to put away the food.

“I appreciated your thoughts today,” Dad says awkwardly. Justin gives a little cough and pauses at the counter. I take a step down into the stairwell, unsure what, if anything, I should say.

“This conversation isn’t over,” Dad continues, making eye contact with both of us. “We can take a break right now and have some downtime, or we can keep on.”

“Break,” Justin blurts. “I need to—I’m going downstairs.”

Dad looks at me. “Ysabel?”

“Break,” I agree heavily. Despite the fact that it’s early afternoon, I’m exhausted.

“All right.” Dad nods. “I think I’m going to drive out to the reservoir for a run, then I’ll come home and we’ll try and eat lunch again.” He smiles wryly. “Can’t let my fancy enchiladas go to waste.”

I nod and start down the stairs again. I have free time now and could set up some torchwork, or at least twist some of the copper wire I brought for earrings. But something about both the trip to Dr. Hoenig’s and the conversation over lunch has burned out any creative juices I had.

“Justin?” Dad’s invitation is tentative. “Want to go for a run with me? The reservoir is beautiful—it’s a four-mile loop through parkland and trees. Some long hills, but nothing you can’t handle.”

“Uh, no. Thanks,” Justin says, and I hear the fridge door close.

“Maybe next time,” Dad says. A moment later, his bedroom door closes.

I pause in the stairwell, waiting for my brother. He comes down the stairs, his face slack with weariness. He looks unsurprised to find me waiting. “I really need a break, Ysabel,” he warns, pushing past me.

“I know,” I say, following him down. I follow him to his room
and barely stop him from closing the door in my face. “Wait. Can I have five minutes?”

“Fine.” Justin kicks his mattress until it aligns with his box spring, then flops down on his back, his arm flung across his face.

I stand in the doorway, watching him, then cross and sit on the edge of the bed, scooting back a little until my hip touches his leg. “So, you’re going to sleep for a while?”

“Maybe.” Justin’s voice is a thread. “I need to shut down.”

I understand how he feels. “Me too,” I say. “I only wanted to be sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” Justin rubs his face. “I just can’t talk anymore.” He rolls to his side, his back to me.

I lean my forehead on his shoulder. “That’s okay. We don’t have to,” I say. I reach around him and find his hand, grasping his clenched fist until his fingers grip mine. We huddle, walled in by our own sadness, together, but on our own.

What if we never get over this? All I can imagine is this loss infecting our happiness for years and years, like an abscess, and nothing making the pain lessen.

I love Dad—more than anything. But right now, I would give anything to make this bad feeling go away.

The crook in my neck wakes me, and I realize I am still in Justin’s room, sprawled awkwardly on the edge of his bed, my arm slung around his shoulders. I straighten stiffly, carefully getting to my feet so I don’t wake him.

The house is still. I walk up the stairs to the front entryway and crack open the door to the garage. No car. The clock on the microwave says it’s almost four, and for a moment, I feel a twinge
of worry. Dad said his run was only four miles. How far away is this reservoir? What if something happened to him?

A note on the fridge makes me breathe a sigh of relief.
Picking up some stuff for breakfast tomorrow. Back in an hour
. —Dad

I wander into the living room and look at the deck, which is now in the shade of the huge live oak tree next to it. I consider setting up my kiln on the table there, but the idea of getting out my case just makes me tired. Instead, I settle for the brain-dead activity of the hour and search the living room for the TV remote.

As usual, there’s nothing decent to watch at this time of day. I stretch out on the couch and consider going back to sleep, but quickly get bored with trying to think restful thoughts. I wander through the tiny dining room, fiddling with the pillow on Dad’s armchair, stacking up the coasters, and peering at the watercolors in their plain black frames. I open the drawers beneath the television cabinet and find them empty except for a whisper of dust. Finding myself in front of Dad’s bedroom door, I take a deep breath and turn the knob.

It’s locked.

I blink, shocked, and twist the knob one way and then the other. Mom and Dad’s door is
never
locked. None of us ever lock our bedroom doors at home. Baffled, I find myself rattling the knob again and stop, slowly releasing the smooth metal sphere. Obviously, things are different now. This isn’t Mom
and
Dad’s door; in this place, it’s Dad’s door. And Dad has something to hide.

I back away to look for my father in his bland beige house. I snoop through the kitchen, opening every cabinet and all of the drawers, counting the silverware and the place settings. In
the drawer beneath the phone, I find a phone book, a pad and pen, a few packets of breath mints, stray rubber bands, and all the mundane detritus of Dad’s austere life. I also see a yellow-handled screwdriver.

The idea strikes like lightning, and I’m across the room almost before I can think it through. I want to find out who Dad’s become. It’s not like I’m looking for something bad; I only want to know. I ignore the whisper in my head, warning me to slow down and think. I want to know something more about Christopher Nicholas, something he can’t filter or decide not to tell. I want to know as much about him as he is holding back.

There are only two cross-marked screws, and they’re tighter than I expected. Probably no one has taken the knob off of this door before. But it’s five minutes’ work, sweating and slipping and nicking my thumb, then my fingers are pressed against the rough hole where the handle once was, and I’m pushing open the door, and—

The air crowds my throat with tears, and I stand in the doorway to my father’s room, staggering under the weight of memory, feeling my chest squeeze.

It smells like him. Like his safe Dad smell of a citrusy cologne, the moisturizer Mom makes him use, his shampoo, and the ink from the pen he always carries in his jacket pocket, all concentrated into one place. The smell of coffee and wood and drafting lead, the smell of security and familiarity and routine. This room smells like home, like everything I’ve been missing for so long.