Mad Honey: A Novel (42 page)

In the fall I started seventh grade at Marin-Muir, a private elementary school that goes all the way through eighth grade. Mom told the principal about me, and incredibly, the principal was supportive.
Maybe you’d be surprised,
she’d said,
to learn that you’re not the first trans student we’ve had
.

I
was
surprised, actually. You spend your whole life thinking that you’re the only person who feels the way you feel, only to find out
that being trans is not that uncommon, that it is just one more way of being human.

But at the end of that year, I began to feel left behind again as I looked at all of the bodies of my girlfriends, suddenly in flower. It was one thing to be on puberty blockers. It was another to start in on estrogen and spironolactone. Mom had been sanguine about delaying adolescence; but leaping into female puberty seemed, to her, like a whole other can of worms.

But she came around in time. It wasn’t like I was suddenly going to start being a boy at that point anyway.

So I started in on hormones. Puberty hit me the way Hemingway once described people going broke—gradually, and then suddenly. It was delicious. And dramatic. And exciting. And, at times, a little bit scary. I was flat as a board. Then I was an A cup. Then a B. By the time I started ninth grade at Pointcrest, I was a generous C. And that’s not to mention the hips, which weren’t there at all one day, and the next, it seemed, had appeared from nowhere.

It was a miracle, and sometimes just catching a glimpse of myself from the waist up could stop me in my tracks and make me wonder whether I had fallen into a dream.

And yet, at the same time, the sight of myself below the waist was enough to crash me out of that dream in an instant. The secret, which I had, incredibly, been able to keep ever since we fled Seattle, now seemed more dangerous than before.

Because now I was suddenly on the radar of boys and men.

My mother and I spent a lot of time talking about what it means to be a woman, in this world, and at this moment in time, and she was determined that, if her child was going to be female, at the very least she would also be a feminist. I remember being a little irritated by this line of thought. I told Mom it was kind of a hysterical way of defining womanhood—and that there were other identities, too, including nonbinary and gender-fluid ones.

Mom asked me if I knew the origin of the word
hysterical
.

It comes from the Greek and Latin word
hyster,
which means
womb
. In the nineteenth century,
hysteria
was the word men gave to a disease defined as
insanity as a result of being female.
They’d lock women away for it, women who wanted to do things like write books, or study science. Or play music. The prescribed treatment was
rest
—by which they meant having no mental life whatsoever. There’s a whole novella about it, in fact, called “The Yellow Wallpaper,” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. It’s the story of a woman who’s confined to her bed by her husband, a wife who winds up being driven insane by the cure he has inflicted on her.

I told Mom that we didn’t live in the nineteenth century, and that if anybody could prove that it was possible to redefine gender, it was me. Mom just said,
You have to be careful.

Sometimes I wonder if, when she told me that, she was thinking about what might happen to me in the future, or what had already happened to her in the past. What had it been like, being married to Dad, a man who seemed nice enough on the surface, but who turned out to have a heart of stone?

Sometimes I wonder if something bad happened to Mom, maybe when she was young, that made her want to spend her life in the wild, among brown bears and lynx, instead of in civilization, in the teeming world of men.

I MUST HAVE
taken a wrong turn after overhearing the fight in Presidents’ Square between that father and his son. Or maybe it’s just that the flood of memories has got me all mixed up. In any case, now I’m in a part of Adams I’ve never seen before—a line of closed-down row houses, maybe the homes of millworkers from a hundred years ago. Most are boarded up, but there’s a light on in one of them, and one old man sitting on a porch drinking beer.

I can see the river down at the bottom of the street, so I know that I’m going the wrong direction. I turn around and start back the way I came.

From behind me, the man shouts something in a deep, raspy
voice. It takes me a minute to realize he’s speaking in French, although it doesn’t sound like any French I’ve ever heard, and I remember some story about the original workers on the log drives all being French Canadian. I look at my watch, and I see it’s going on seven o’clock. Mom’s going to be wondering where I am.

It’s not long after that I hear footsteps behind me. They’re soft at first, but I hear them. I stop and look back, and there he is—a man in shadow, about half a block behind me. My heart starts to beat faster.

I walk more swiftly now, hoping that this street is going to return me to the center of town, but the houses are boarded up here, too, even as they slowly continue up the hill, away from the river. I come to an intersection and look up and down this other street—it’s old warehouses in one direction, a vacant lot in the other. The footsteps are coming faster now, and I turn around and see the silhouette growing near.

All at once, I know for sure I’m in trouble.

I reach into my purse, pull out my phone, and hit my mother’s number on speed dial—all the while walking faster and faster up this street.

The man behind me is getting closer.

The phone freezes for a second, and then I get the message:
no signal
.

My pursuer starts to whistle a song with no particular tune, and it’s this, more than anything else, that sends me into full-blown panic.

Ahead of me now I see a bar—there’s a neon sign buzzing in the twilight, with the name
Le Chez
. I think about rushing into the bar and asking for help, but there’s no way of knowing whether this is a place of safety.

Now there’s a car with its high beams on coming toward me, and I put my hand over my eyes as it approaches, then passes. It gets about ten feet down the road before I hear it screech to a halt, and then it shifts into reverse and backs up alongside me.

“Excuse me, miss,” says a man’s voice. “Are you okay?”

I’m just about to yell at whoever this is, because I’ve pretty much had all the fuckery I can take for one day, when he says, “It’s okay. I’m a detective.” I don’t believe him at first because he’s not in a car with lights and sirens and he’s wearing normal clothes, but then he holds up a badge with his name on it:
Newcomb
. I see the holster of a gun, too, strapped on his hip.

I look behind me, and here comes the man who’s been following me, a greasy-looking dude with ornate tattoos on each arm, neck to wrist. He looks me in the eye with an expression of what can only be described as pure hatred. “Didn’t you get lucky,” he whispers to me, and then ducks into Le Chez. As the door opens and closes, it briefly displays a room lit by a lightbulb hanging from a wire suspended above a pool table.

The detective is out of his car now. “What’s going on?”

“I’m lost,” I say to him, choking on the words. “I don’t know how I got here.”

Detective Newcomb nods. “How about if I give you a ride home.”

I wipe my eyes. “Thank you,” I say.

Moments later, we’re back on Main Street—it was just a street over this whole time, but because of a bend in the river I’ve been walking parallel to it, instead of toward it.

“You might want to stay off Temple Street after dark,” says the detective. “And stay away from Le Chez, all right?” He pronounces it
La Shay. “
Nothing good happens in there, especially to young women.”

“I got mixed up,” I tell him, “walking home.”

“Easy enough if you don’t know your way around.”

He asks me my address, and I tell him. We drive toward home in silence for a little bit, except for the crackling of static on his police radio. I look out the window at Adams, all the closed-up buildings, the dark river off behind them.

The detective asks me something that I do not hear. “What?” I say.

“I asked you for your name, miss.” He grins. “What do people call you?

I hear a bell chiming from the steeple of a church in town. As I listen to it peal I think about how easy it is to get lost. And how grateful I am at being found.

“I’m Lily,” I tell him. “I’m new.”

OLIVIA
9

MAY 9–13, 2019

Five months after

As soon as Gina Jewett finishes her questions, Jordan stands up. “Your Honor,” he says, through gritted teeth, “perhaps we could take our lunch break.”

Judge Byers agrees to a recess, and the bailiff leads the jury out of the room. Jordan steers me toward a side door. “With me,” he seethes. “Now.”

I know he is going to lay into me because of my testimony—which, instead of being a ringing endorsement of Asher’s innocence, was anything but. Sure enough, when we are in our private conference room, again, with Asher, Jordan spears a hand through his hair and turns on me, wild. “What the
fuck
was that, Olivia? You came across like you were hiding things.”

I was. I always will be.

“I was…in my own head,” I murmur.

“Well, you’re the one who put yourself there!” Jordan rails. “I never told you to bring up your relationship with Braden—”

“I didn’t know how else to—”

“And once you did, you opened up a whole line of questioning about Asher that—”

From the far end of the room, Asher says, “I need to talk.”

But Jordan is in my face, inches away, furious. “You just tanked my defense.”

“I thought it would be better—”

“You pay
me
to think!”

“I’m not
paying you,
” I yell back at him.

“I need to talk,” Asher says more forcefully. He lifts his head from the table, where it has been pillowed on his arms.

“Fine,” Jordan snaps, turning to him. “What?”

“No,” Asher says. “I mean, I have to talk
in there
. I want you to put me on the stand.”

For a moment, we all freeze. “Absolutely not,” Jordan says, recovering.

“Look. That jury thinks my own mother doesn’t believe me,” Asher says.

“Asher,” I stumble. “It’s not—”

“No,” Jordan interrupts.

“Who better to tell them about me and Lily…than me?” Asher asks.

“If you get on the stand, the prosecutor will twist your words and ask you all kinds of questions meant to trip you up. Look at what just happened in there, with your mother.” Jordan folds his arms. “Asher. It could make things way worse.”

“Or,” Asher says evenly, “it could make them better.”

“Trust me. This would be a colossal mistake,” Jordan replies.

“You need to listen to your uncle.” I touch Asher’s sleeve, but he jerks away.

“You said you’re here to advise me,” Asher presses, staring at Jordan, “but that I get to call the shots, right?”

Jordan nods, a tight jerk of his head.

“Either you put me on the stand,” Asher says, “or you’re fired.”

“Asher!” I cry.

Jordan’s spine stiffens. “I vehemently disagree with this.”

For the first time since we have left the courtroom, Asher’s eyes flick over me, like frost. “One other thing,” he says to Jordan. “If I’m in charge? She doesn’t get to be here anymore.”

I remember Jordan telling me, months ago, that I could only be privy to attorney-client meetings as long as Asher wanted me there. “Please. Let me explain—”

“Thanks, but I’ve got it,” he says coolly. “I may be a murderer in your eyes, but I’m not stupid.”

“Your father—”

“
I am not my father,
” Asher roars, standing so fast that his chair topples backward. “And right now, you’re not my mother.” His eyes are dark as wounds. “All you needed to do was trust me. And you couldn’t even fucking get that right.”

While I am still reeling, Jordan ushers me into the hallway. “You heard my client,” he says formally, and he closes the door behind me.

I stare at it, thinking of Asher’s parting sentence.

He may not be his father. But Braden has said the same to me, in nearly identical words.

WHEN COURT RESUMES,
neither Jordan nor Asher makes eye contact with me. Before the jury has returned to the courtroom, Jordan approaches the bailiff. “I need to make a statement on the record, but outside the presence of the jury,” he says, and the prosecutor raises her eyebrows with interest.

The bailiff gets Judge Byers, who takes her seat. “Mr. McAfee,” she says. “You have something you want to note for the record?”

“Yes, Your Honor. My client has decided he would like to testify. I have explained that the State must prove their case in full regardless of whether he testifies or not, and I have advised him it is in his best interests that he
not
testify.” He glances over his shoulder at Asher. “Thus it is against the advice of counsel that he is taking the stand.”

The judge looks at Asher. “Mr. Fields? Is this correct? Do you wish to testify against your attorney’s advice?”

Asher clears his throat. “Yes, ma’am,” he says.

“So noted,” Judge Byers replies.

Five minutes later, the jury is seated and looking with curiosity at Asher. He is sworn in, and as I watch him place his hand on the Bible I think about how we have never really been a religious family—a random Christmas or Easter service, but that’s it. And yet,
I am the cliché, the woman who is praying to a God she hasn’t previously acknowledged to protect my son.

“Asher,” Jordan says, “you’ve heard testimony from others about how you met Lily. Is the evidence of how and when you met accurate?”

“Yes.”

“Can you describe her?”

A smile steals over Asher’s face, like mist, blurring his features. “She could play Bach and Dvo
ř
ák on the cello, but also the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Metallica. The top item on her bucket list was to go on an archaeological dig with Yo-Yo Ma because she once read that anthropology was his favorite subject in college and she thought it would be nice for him to talk about something other than music for once. When she held a foil in her hand she moved so fast I couldn’t even see it.” His eyes look over the gallery, but I know it’s Lily he’s picturing. “She
knew
things—all the lyrics to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody,’ that McDonald’s once made bubble-gum-flavored broccoli for Happy Meals, that the first oranges were actually green, that there’s no state with a
q
in its name. We had so much to talk about and she taught me so much. But there were times when we were quiet together—when we just kind of sat, and it was enough to be with each other, because she filled up every space she was in.” He draws in a breath. “She’s the first girl I ever said
I love you
to.”

“Did you disagree sometimes?” Jordan asks.

“Yeah.”

“What was your last argument about?”

Asher shifts in his seat. “I wanted to do something special for Lily for Christmas, so I arranged for her father to meet with her,” he says. “She hadn’t seen him in a really long time. When you’re missing a parent in your life, and they actually
want
to connect with you, it’s a whole lot better than having an empty space inside you…even if that parent isn’t perfect.” He hesitates. “I understand now that even though that’s how I felt about
my
father, Lily’s experience was different. But I didn’t realize that then.”

“How did she react?”

“When she saw I’d invited her father here—without asking her permission—she was pissed off. I tried to explain where I was coming from, but she told me I didn’t understand.”

“What was your response?”

“I asked her to help me understand. But she…wanted nothing to do with me.”

“What do you mean?” Jordan asks.

Asher lifts a shoulder. “She stopped communicating with me. She wouldn’t see me, even when I begged.”

“So,” Jordan says, “she didn’t confide in you.”

“No.”

“That was sort of a pattern for her, wasn’t it?”

“Objection!” Gina calls.

The judge purses her lips. “Sustained.”

Jordan takes a step closer to the witness stand. “What did she first tell you about her father?”

“That he was dead,” Asher says.

“Although he was in fact alive…and just estranged from her?”

“Yes.”

“When you first saw scars on Lily’s wrists, where did she say they came from?”

“A car accident,” Asher admits.

“Even though they were from a suicide attempt?”

“Yes.”

“And Lily never told you she was trans…?” Jordan presses.

“Actually,” Asher says, “she did.”

Jordan whips toward him, his jaw dropping. The prosecutor looks like she is going to clap her hands together in joy. Time grinds to a stop, as Asher completely and categorically destroys his own defense strategy.

“She told me,” Asher says, oblivious to anything but the chance to speak his truth. “And I didn’t care.”

ASHER COULD NOT
have helped Gina Jewett more if he’d drawn a line between her points with a red marker.

She gets up from her table, prowling toward Asher. “Isn’t it true that what you were really fighting about the night Lily died wasn’t her father…but the fact that she told you she was transgender?”

“No,” Asher says firmly.

“You didn’t like hearing it, and she didn’t want to deal with your anger, and that’s why she avoided you for five days.”

“No,” Asher corrects. “She told me a month earlier. After the first time we had sex.”

“Right after?”

“No,” Asher says. “She was…distant right after. I thought she was having second thoughts about…doing it. I wanted to talk through it, but she was afraid that whatever she said would break us apart.”

“Well, murder’s one way to do that,” Gina says.

“Objection!”

“Withdrawn,” the prosecutor says. “Your first reaction to being told your girlfriend had started her life as a boy was, in fact, negative, wasn’t it?”

Asher carefully picks his way through his words. “I needed time to digest it.”

“You felt betrayed, didn’t you?”

“I felt…blindsided,” Asher amends.

“You were angry, too, I bet,” the prosecutor pushes.

Asher’s face reddens. “I punched a wall in at home. I’m not proud of that. But in the end, Lily was…Lily. I didn’t really care what her chromosomes looked like. She was who I fell in love with.” He struggles, trying to explain. “If your favorite band was the Quarrymen and they decided to call themselves something else, you’d still like their music. Even after they became the Beatles.” He smiles fleetingly. “I didn’t know they changed their name, either, until Lily told me.”

“And after that?”

“Then everything was perfect between us.”

“Until five days before she died, when you got into a fight so big that Lily wouldn’t speak to you again.”

“But that was about her dad.”

“So you’ve said, Asher…but you’ve lied before. You lied about being involved in a cheating scandal, but you got suspended from school. You lied to your mother about spending the night at Lily’s. You told the police you weren’t in Lily’s bedroom, but your DNA was found there. You seem to have a pretty shaky relationship with telling the truth, so why should we believe you now?”

His jaw sets. “I’m telling the truth about
this
.”

“How would we know?” the prosecutor scoffs. “It seems very convenient, in hindsight, for you to be such a progressive and understanding young man. When in reality, you went over to Lily’s house that afternoon because you were still angry—”

“No,” Asher says.

“Because you felt like she had deceived you—”

“Objection!” Jordan shouts.

“Sustained.”

Asher shakes his head. “That’s not—”

“Because you had lost control over the relationship, and you were humiliated and you wanted to teach her a lesson…”

I realize Gina Jewett expects rage to break out of him like lightning arcing from a storm cloud.

“But,” she jabs, “you lost control over yourself when you got to her house, and
you killed her.
”

“You’re wrong,” Asher says earnestly. His palms are flat on his lap. He doesn’t look flustered or cornered. He looks…transcendent. “You were not there.
None
of you were. You know nothing about our relationship.”

I realize that I am breathless, hanging on Asher’s masterful display of self-possession, the same way I used to marvel at Braden’s ability to keep everyone from seeing what actually happened behind the drawn curtain of his restraint. Another word for
self-control,
after all, is
discipline
.

“You’re right about one thing,” the prosecutor muses. “None of us
were
there. Except for Lily, and she’s dead.” She sits down. “Nothing further.”

Jordan is already out of his seat. “A quick redirect, Your Honor?” When the judge nods, he approaches Asher. “After Lily told you she was trans, and you needed some time to absorb that information…did you discuss your feelings with her?”

“Yes,” Asher says.

“What did you say?”

Jordan is sweating profusely. I realize that he has absolutely no idea what is about to come out of Asher’s mouth—a terrible position for any lawyer to be in with a witness.

“I told her it didn’t matter,” Asher says. “I said I loved
who
she was…not
what
she was.”

“Thank you,” Jordan says, and he sits down. Judge Byers dismisses court. Jordan looks at Asher and says, “Not a word. Not till we get to the car.”