Happy Families (7 page)

I watch the glass slump into a bead shape at the end of my mandrel and carefully use the graphite paddle and my mashers to flatten it into a square. Quickly I turn a green rod in the flame, pulling a drop of what will be brass-colored glass from its molten tip and turning it onto the flat, square bead.

The colors are all wrong. The glass looks like a crooked, half-sucked lollipop. I pull it out of the fire in disgust.

Justin flops over and lets out a snore. I glance at him and sigh. As easy as it would be to push away the events of the last eight hours, sleep isn’t happening for me tonight. And Justin is grinding his teeth.

After bailing on me when Dad introduced me to his friend—which I still don’t get; she was just someone from work or something—Justin tried to make it up to me all evening. He brought me nachos with extra jalapeños. He tried to buy me a bracelet from a little craft stall, but it was completely overpriced and the beads were crap—there was no way I would let him pay what the guy was charging. And, just after we got home and we called Mom, he dragged his mattress into my room and brought
out a deck of cards. He interrupted my plans to work, but whatever, it was nice to hang out for a change, and I beat him twice playing War.

Justin turns over again, and for a moment, there’s silence.

Not that he’s been doing some kind of bizarre mime thing, but tonight’s been the most Justin’s talked to me in weeks. We used to talk all the time. I’d be making beads at night, and Justin would come to my room with his laptop and surf weird news sites so he could read me the headlines. (
Police arrest woman buying drugs with Monopoly money!
) We’d discuss all the gossip from school, who was getting together or breaking up, and just … hang.

Even with all the attention he got for being the freshman anchor on the debate team, Justin still managed to be just … normal. Until his last debate team event.

Despite the fact that one or the other of them always shows up, somehow, neither Mom nor Dad made it to his final meet. And it was the worst timing ever. He’d had a hugely important semifinal, and he just … choked.

Justin’s girlfriend, Callista, was sitting with a bunch of her friends for the semifinals in the row right in front of me, and she told me she thought Justin was sick. At first, he just sort of swayed, grabbed onto the podium—and then he walked off the stage. By the time I realized he wasn’t just in the bathroom puking, he’d left campus, which is against school policy. Later, Mom and Dad cleared it up and told the school he was sick, but they weren’t positive about that. Since I told them he threw up and he did go straight home and to bed, they bought his story.

They have no clue what happened.

I do.

I came home and found him destroying everything in my parents’ bathroom, his eyes all bloodshot. He’d knocked Dad’s colognes off of his vanity, broken his old-fashioned shaving mug and brush we gave him for Father’s Day one year, shoved his wool suit in the toilet, and smeared Mom’s makeup all over the sink. He’d written LIAR on the mirror over and over again in this really bright shade of lipstick, and when I came in, he was trying to break the mirror above the sink, just
wham! wham! wham!
Punching with his fists.

When he saw me standing in the doorway with my mouth open, he tried to say something and starting crying, making these horrible retching noises.

“What?” I’d practically screamed. “What’s the matter?”

For the longest time, all Justin could say was “Dad.”

By the time my parents got home, their bathroom was scrubbed, Dad’s suit was folded up in a plastic bag, ready for the dry cleaner’s, the mug was mended with epoxy, Justin was tucked in bed with lots of water and orange juice, and we had our stories straight. Dad might have noticed that the floor was wet and there was a big crack in his bottle of
Amour Pour Homme
, but he never said anything. He probably figured he’d bumped it too hard on the sink.

I didn’t believe my brother when he told me, but this is what he said: Dad was at Justin’s debate. Only, he wasn’t really Dad—he was wearing a wig, and a white suit, and high-heeled shoes.

Justin met Christine before any of us.

I turn off my torch and put the still-hot glass on the graphite pads for safekeeping. As I yank off my glasses, my brother turns over and inhales. I turn off the lamp, wait a moment, then cross to his
makeshift bed and look down at him. A few seconds later, Justin breathes out with a little whistling noise and starts grinding his teeth again.

I tug on his pillow.

We had a weirdly good time tonight. Even though Justin bailed on me—the punk—Dad and I met a guy who raises bees, and Dad bought some honey, then he picked out some vegetables, and we bought olive bread and some cheese to take home, and then Justin came back with three big things of nachos, lemonade, and cinnamon churros. We went to the benches at the gazebo on the corner and had a little junk food picnic.

I expected … something else. Some kind of confrontation. Some kind of evidence Dad was going to spring on us that let us know that everything had changed. Even Justin kept looking at Dad out of the corner of his eye, and when we got home, he was just kind of waiting, tense. And nothing happened. We called Mom and talked. Dad puttered around in the kitchen and put the food away, then he sat on the couch with the paper and the news on like he always does. At about ten, he said he’d see us tomorrow at breakfast, and then he went to bed.

And that was all.

I sigh as my brother starts grinding his teeth again. It’s been a long day, my beads suck, I’m in a weird, generic town house in the middle of nowhere, and I want to try and sleep.

“Justin,” I say, poking him on the shoulder.

He’s awake immediately, coming up on his elbows, alert. “Ys? You okay?”

“Where’s your teeth thingy?”

“What? Oh.” Justin wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and sits up, grimacing. “Sorry.”

“It’s no big deal, but Dr. West says you’re screwing up your jaw sleeping without it.”

Justin sighs. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” He scratches his long, skinny arms, then rolls to his feet and stumbles to the door. A few moments later, he’s back, the red plastic case in his hand. He plops down on his makeshift bed and looks up at me, his eyes barely visible in the dimness.

“You okay?”

I shrug. “I guess. It’s kind of quieter here than I’m used to. It didn’t make sense to pack my stereo when we’re only here for a few days.”

“Stereo.” Justin shakes his head. “Would it
kill
you to try something smaller? You’re the last person in America without at least an MP3 player.”

“I can’t sleep with anything in my ears.”

“If you’re asleep, you don’t feel it.”

“
Whatever
, Justin.”

My brother snickers. “Wow, that’s a great comeback, Ysabel. ‘Whatever.’ You should join a debate team, you know that?”

“Shut up.” I lean over the edge of the bed and whack him with my pillow, and he yanks it out of my hands. After a brief struggle, in which we basically beat each other until Justin wimps out and begs for mercy, I lie back, wheezing but victorious.

At least in my version of the fight.

When he’s caught his breath, Justin breaks the silence. “Ys?”

“Yeah?”

“Seriously, though, you’re okay, right?”

I nod, then realize he can’t see me in the dark. “Yeah.” I chew my lower lip, rolling the bedspread between my fingers. “I just …?”

“Hm?”

“Just thinking about Mom at the airport.”

Justin leans against the bed, his head a darker blob against the burgundy spread. “Yeah. She was …” Justin sighs. “This is all so messed up.”

“I know. I think our being here is part of something they’re doing, though. That’s why she was so upset.”

“What do you mean?”

I hesitate. “I don’t know for sure. I mean, I just heard some things.”

Justin slides his arm across the bed until he touches my leg, and then he flicks me hard with his middle finger.

“Ow! Cut it out.”

“Well, stop stalling.”

“Okay, fine,” I blurt, rubbing the sore spot. “I think they’re selling the house.”

There’s a tense little silence, then Justin says, “What makes you think that?”

I roll onto my stomach and lean on my elbows. “Last week, I heard Mom saying something to Grandmama about not waiting, and then, I mean, you saw how upset she was at the airport. I think Dad wants us to live here part-time with him.”

“I’ve been erasing phone messages from Realtors.” Justin’s voice is dull.

“What?” I gasp, feeling chilled. “They’re calling already?”

“
That’s
why Mom was crying, I guess.” Justin sighs. “Maybe she doesn’t want to, but everybody’s got to do what Dad wants now.”

“Justin, that’s ridiculous. Mom has a business; she’s not going to pack it up just because Dad says so. And if they’re selling the
house, it’s probably so Mom can get an apartment or something. If they’re sharing custody, we’ll have half our stuff here.”

“I’m not staying even half-time. Mom can act like Dad’s … clothing thing doesn’t mean anything, but I’m not playing this game. We’ll move in with Grandmama and Poppy. It’s a long commute to Medanos Valley, but at least we wouldn’t have to change schools.”

“You know what Poppy said when this all started,” I remind him. “He said they’re going to keep out of it.”

“Mom and Dad can’t make us stay here,” Justin insists. “It’s not going to happen.”

I shrug helplessly. “I just don’t see that we’ve got any choice.”

When Justin speaks, his words are garbled by his mouth gear. “Don’ worry, Ys,” he lisps tightly. “Just go t’sleep. Nothing’s going t’happen.”

The day Poppy came back, we all sat around the dining room table, Mom in her usual spot closest to the kitchen, Grandmama next to Poppy, their fingers knotted tightly together, and Ysabel and me across from them. I knew what this was about, and all over again I was struggling to breathe. I wanted to hear Poppy say it. At the same time, I wanted him to shove what he knew into a box, drop it to the bottom of the ocean, and never speak of it again. Just saying the words out loud would make them true. If I didn’t let Poppy talk, we could pretend that none of this was happening.

It wasn’t any easier for Mom. I knew Poppy had already told her and Grandmama something, but Mom was holding herself stiffly, her lips pressed together firmly and her back straight. Ysabel was sitting with her arms wrapped around herself the same way Mom was, and I realized that Mom’s tension was for me and Ysabel.

For a moment, I was able to think about someone other than myself, and I felt sick. Ysabel hadn’t believed me before. For her sake, I didn’t want her to believe me now.

“We don’t need to hear this, Poppy,” I blurted, trying to stop him.

For the first time in my life, I heard Poppy stutter. A lawyer, who never asks a question unless he already halfway knows the answer, a smooth-voiced wordsmith, my grandfather looked at me and shook his head. “Justin.” He stopped and started twice before he finally said the words.

“You need to know. Your father is … dressing and living as a woman named Christine right now.” Poppy explained briefly where he’d found Dad, but his first sentence was all that kept ringing through my brain.
Dressing and living as a woman … Christine
.

While Poppy spoke, Ysabel looked at Mom, then at me, then back at Poppy. Grandmama looked at the table, trying to hold on to her composure. Eventually, Poppy’s voice died, and he pressed his palms down on the table. We sat in silence.

After a long moment, Mom reached out a hand to Ysabel and the other to me. “Did you already know?” she asked. “Talk to me,” she said, and her voice sounded ragged.

Ysabel swallowed. She looked at me, as if expecting me to jump in. I couldn’t.

Mom’s words were a rushed jumble, a little high-pitched. “I knew something was wrong.… I thought it was the job. Too much stress, maybe. Are you shocked? I’ve known for a little over a day, and it’s still a shock to me. I still can’t believe—no. Listen, I want us to count our blessings. Each of us is well and strong. We love each other. We will get through this.”

Her positive voice shook so much at the end that it was hard to understand her words. Grandmama gave a little sob, and Poppy put his arm around her as she choked back her sadness. Mom gripped our hands, and Grandmama clung to Poppy, and we all just sat there. Ysabel, still clutching her stomach, had asked, “What do we do now?”

I still don’t have an answer to that. I’ve tried to make lists of concerns and put together scenarios that make sense—
Dad becomes Christine, family becomes …
What? There are no answers.

I flip on my side and take a breath, rubbing my stomach where it feels like a ball of lava has taken up residence in my gut. Right after Poppy had talked to us, we’d taken the first steps toward dealing with things. Mom had told us Dad was staying up north in the little apartment he’d rented for his business trips. Poppy said that nothing was going to change right now, that Dad still was going to take care of things financially, and that we didn’t have to worry.

Once Grandmama stopped crying, she said it wasn’t the end of the world. I guess she was trying to comfort herself. She said that other children have transgender people for parents, that nobody’s died of it. “We can all go on and survive this. All it takes is the right attitude,” Grandmama said, and dragged out one of her usual sayings.
“This too shall pass.”

She may be right, but I can’t imagine how. Nobody tells you how to get from the bad moment you’re in to where you manage to live happily ever after.

I still don’t know how I made the time pass, how I got through those first few days. Did it make me feel less alone to know that now Mom and Ysabel knew? Did it make me feel less crazy? All we did was put one foot in front of the other, go to school, go to work, come home, and exist. It wasn’t enough, but it filled the moments. Until now.

I hold still and listen to Ysabel breathing. I slow my own breath, trying to match hers, feeling myself relaxing into drowsiness. Just when I’m on the edge of sleep, I’m back at school, standing at the podium, facing my opponents from Valley Jewish Day School, and Callista and her friend Geena in the front row. I’m letting them stew, making them wait for my final argument, when I’m distracted by a movement. I glance into the audience to see the woman in the white suit shifting, straightening her skirt. For some reason, Missy’s comment about her being family distracts me. It’s when she turns and looks over her shoulder that I see the resemblance; my father’s profile is so clear that my knees start shaking. It’s obviously Dad, in drag.