If You Could See What I See (8 page)

I got up, sat down next to Lacey, and hugged her as she cried.

“We need to do everything we can to tell him and show him we love him and accept him, because this is going to be a hard, hard road,” I said, even as my mind was trying hard to grasp this one. “We cannot have a suicide. We cannot.”

“I know, I know. I love Hayden. I love him so much.” Lacey put a tissue to her face. “And he is a she. My son will be my daughter. I can hardly get my mind around it. I can hardly get it. It’s not what I wanted, but what else do I do? Punish him? Deny what he’s saying? Try to invalidate his feelings? Yell? Tell him he’s wrong? Take him to a shrink so a shrink can tell him he’s wrong? Make him feel more freaky and lost than he already feels? I saw this. I saw this when he was two. I heard him ask to have ribbons in his hair, pink ones. I saw him reach for his sister’s Mary Jane shoes. I saw his fascination with dolls and glitter and magic wands and princesses. He refused to wear swimming trunks, he insisted on a bikini. He was born like this. He was born a girl, and a penis and balls dropped down.”

She burst into another round of tears, her shoulders shaking.

“Daughter. Son. Niece. Nephew. We love him. We love her,” I said, utterly shaken. “She’s a part of our family, and we’re not going to get lost in all the details.”

“Right. No details.” She blew into her cupped hands, in and out, her face red. “I have to accept it, I know this, that my son wants to be
my daughter
.”

“I love you, Lacey.” I brushed the tears off her cheeks. “And Hayden will look pretty in dresses and high heels. Grandma will probably pick them out for him.”

“Or Tory. She’ll have him in a leopard-print bra in no time.”

“Hopefully Hayden won’t dress slutty.”

Lacey paused in her semihysteria and shook her head, a mixture of disbelief and humor. “Right. I don’t need a
slutty
daughter.”

“Heavens, no.”

“I already have Cassidy, who doesn’t want to keep her skirt down or her jeans up. Can’t have another kid like that.”

“No, never. Long skirts for Hayden. No cleavage. No tight jeans.”

“Modest ladies clothing only.”

“Churchlike.”

For some strange, strange reason we found ourselves hilarious. When we were done laughing, we cried some more.

 

I checked on Mrs. Friendly the Lizard that night, and he was quite quiet in his cage. Perhaps he was enjoying all the moons he saw in the rafters.

I headed to the deck and sat in a yellow Adirondack chair with a jacket on. The maple trees swayed and swished and whispered. I was so glad I had found this house. Being wrapped in a hug by trees is helpful to my precarious and somewhat demented mental state.

I thought of all the pain Hayden had been through, knowing he was a girl in the body of a boy. It didn’t take much to understand. There are millions of things that have to go right in utero for babies to turn into healthy people, complete with eyelashes, elbows, a heart, Grandma’s eyes, Daddy’s chin, Mother’s nose. Estrogen, progesterone, the circulatory and respiratory systems, a liver, and intestines that curve the right way down.

Reproductive systems, too.

It is absolutely understandable that gender would flip now and then. That the body would not turn out like the mind. A girl body, a boy in his head. A boy body, a girl in her head.

I thought of how Hayden said he wanted to die, and my heart clenched tight. How can you even move forward in life, be happy, when a basic, fundamental part of personhood—your gender—is not correct in your own body? How do you get through that psychologically?

I thought of the film I made on the homeless kids. I remembered what the girl told me about being invisible, a bad whisper, and wondering which bridge to jump off so she, too, could die and escape the pain.

In the last year I have been trying to be invisible.

I have been a bad whisper.

I have often wondered if I should jump off a bridge, too.

It’s amazing what we have in common with our fellow humans.

Sometimes it’s euphoria, sometimes it’s tragic.

The most important thing is to see that it’s there.

 

“We’re going to have a fashion show.”

“A fashion show?” Lacey said, aghast. “Those are expensive.”

“Yes they are.” I pushed aside fabrics for nightgowns, a design book, and two pink folders that Lacey, Tory, and I had been working on in our pink conference room. The chandelier above us twinkled, catching the sunlight streaking in the windows. “We’ll strip the costs down as much as we can.”

“Having a fashion show is like planning an invasion, Meggie,” Tory protested. “A fashion invasion. Location. Stage. Models. Clothes. I feel my ovaries shrinking in stress already.”

“We all know they’re a ton of work, stress, trouble. That’s why you and I and Lacey are going to organize it along with a whole gang of our employees.”

“What do you mean that you, Lacey, and I are going to organize it? Not me.” Tory leaned forward. She was wearing a red wrap dress. One of our red, pure lace negligees showed through. She was dressing more seductively ever since she threw her temper tantrum and left Scotty because she didn’t think he paid her enough attention. I understood. She wanted other men to show her they thought she was attractive, since Scotty wouldn’t. “I’m busy.”

I stared right at her. “I am, too. So is Lacey.”

“I have three teenagers, all strange,” Lacey said, her voice pitching. She shoved her red curls back off her face with both hands. “I’m knocked up again. Matt told me he wants the gender of the baby to be a surprise, which will drive me crazy because I like to obsessively plan ahead. Cassidy snuck out again last night and I was up until three making sure she came back in safe so I could scream at her, Regan is crying because he wants me to save all the dogs at the pound, and Hayden’s wearing panties. You think I’m not busy?”

Tory glared at us, fidgeted.

“You want to help save this company or not, Tory?” I asked.

She kept the glare but blinked. She wanted to save it, I knew that. “I suppose I can help some.”

“Not some. We’re all going to have to work till our heads spin. We’ll show off the lines, invite a bunch of people. We have to do something different, though. We have to be fabulous and colorful, but we need depth, human interest, something more than models strutting, which we’ve all seen a thousand times. We need a show that will bring us media attention and increase sales. We have to stay true to our brand, the history of this company, to Grandma and our traditions, yet we have to haul this company up to a higher place. We have to relaunch.”

“We have to sell what’s behind the product,” Tory said. “Steaming hot sex.”

“Seduction,” Lacey said. “Romance.”

“Yes. But more,” I said. “That’s what all lingerie companies sell. Lingerie is a promise. It’s a hope. It’s fun and frilly. But we have to have more than that. We must be more than that.”

“But what?” Tory asked. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know.” I put my feet up on the chair next to me and studied them. My shoes were brown and scuffed. Years ago I would not have worn them if I was running through a mud field. They depressed me. “I don’t know, but I know that that’s what we have to do.”

Lacey climbed on the conference table and lay down, her pregnant belly sticking up.

Tory stared out the window, arms crossed, face set. I was well aware of how difficult my coming back had been for Tory. I felt bad about it.

I climbed up on the conference table with Lacey and lay down beside her.

Tory looked at us and turned away.

I saw stark, harsh hurt in her eyes.

“Tory, come and lay on top of the table,” I said.

“I’m fine.”

“Come on, Tory,” I said.

“No.” She fixed her gaze out the window. My years away had given me a totally new perspective on Tory. Her own family disappeared in one horrific crash. She went to a new family with two sisters. She’d felt left out forever, as if she didn’t belong. It about knocked me over to think about it.

“Please, Tory?” I said. “Be a threesome. The three O’Rourke Musketeers. Or the three O’Rourke Fashioneers.”

“I don’t do threesomes,” Tory quipped.

Lacey reached for my hand and held it.

“We have to have a fashion show that’s more than a fashion show,” I said. “And we need the results to be spectacular, or we can roll this whole place up and call it a day.”

Lacey whimpered.

I saw Tory’s back tighten up.

I thought of Grandma.

Losing the business would kill her.

 

I brought my video camera into work.

Grandma sat behind her desk and I put the camera on a tripod. Her desk was white with gold trim. Her corner office was elegant, with light pink walls, white shelving, the expected pink fainting couch, and pink curtains.

She wore a red suit, red heels, and her signature four strands of pearls.

“Okay, Grandma,” I said quietly. “We’re ready. Talk to me. I want you to start off in Ireland. Tell me about your life there. Your family. Where you lived.”

“This is ridiculous.” She threw a hand in the air. “I’d rather walk naked through the production floor.”

“Please don’t, Grandma. If you did, then all the employees would be clamoring to prance about naked, too, and it would be distracting. I’m ready when you are.”

Her eyes raked me, head to foot. “What are you wearing? Is that a beige T-shirt? You didn’t even iron it, did you? Is it clean?”

“Yes, it’s clean. I haven’t sunk that far into a fashion abyss—”

“You have. And your pants? They’re so big you could have someone else climb in there with you. Maybe a baboon. Are you trying to attract a baboon? I know I taught you about fashion. You neglected my lessons.” She sighed.

I waited.

She turned to the camera. I turned it on.

She opened her mouth to talk, then shut it. “Turn off the camera, Meggie.”

I turned it off. She focused on her chandelier, and I saw her chin tremble, her eyes fill.

“Grandma—” I heard the breathy sound of my voice, my pain for her.

“Stop it, Meggie.”

I didn’t move as I watched her struggle to get control of her emotions.

“Turn it back on. Let’s get this regrettable episode of my life over with.”

I turned it back on.

She said, “I was born in County Cork, Ireland . . .” She closed her mouth. Her lips tightened. She brought a shaky hand to her pearls, as if for comfort. “Turn off that damn camera.”

I turned it off. I waited. I wanted to hug her, I knew I had upset her, that this had upset her, but she would detest the pity.

I visibly saw her square her shoulders, and her emerald eyes became steely, almost frosty. “Turn it on.”

I turned it on.

This time she talked, straight through. When the tears fell, she brusquely, impatiently, swiped them away and kept talking.

When she was done, she said, “That’s it, Meggie. Turn it off.”

I turned it off and clutched my hands together to keep them still. I felt ill. I tried to hide my tears.

“If I wanted your tears, Meggie, I would have asked for them. I’m not telling you about the rainbow, leprechaun, and owl so you can blubber on. I surely haven’t blubbered on.”

“I’m so sorry, Grandma,” I whispered, broken. I shouldn’t have asked her to do this. I’d had no idea about the depths of her misery, her tragedy. Had I known I never would have broached it.

“I never asked for your apology, young woman, or your pity, so get rid of it. This is my life. You wanted to hear it, and there it is.” She tilted her chin up, always proud. “Buck up, Meggie. Bad things happen to everyone. It’s life. No one gets out unscathed. The strong ones deal with it. The weak ones crumble. Don’t you ever be weak.”

I nodded.

She turned to leave, her heels tapping. “And put on some lipstick, for God’s sakes.”

When she left, I crumbled.

 

I offered to take Lacey’s kids all weekend because she looked ripped.

I tried to keep them busy. We went to the movies and pizza on Friday. They all slept in until eleven on Saturday, then we had omelets. They all visited with Mrs. Friendly. I took them to the beach and we decided to spend the night, swim in the hotel’s pool, and jump in the freezing cold Oregon waves. I brought them home on Sunday at six in the evening.

Lacey was so grateful, she cried on my shoulder. She smelled like morning sickness, and milk and chocolate chip cookies—two more things that keep the morning sickness away, she thinks.

The kids thought she was crying because she missed them.

Ah, no.

There was no missing of the teenagers.

Poor Lacey. Three teenagers and a surprise pregnancy.

 

I spent part of Sunday night on the telephone with Tory, who was crying and, alternately, hitting her punching bag as hard as she could, which brought on panting.

“I called Scotty and told him I had a date on Saturday night and he said I’m sorry to hear that and I said why are you sorry and he said because you’re probably going to sleep with him and that’s a bad idea and I said why is it a bad idea you don’t want me anyhow and I can do what I like I’m not living with you anymore and he said that’s right, you’re not, you left me, as if he wasn’t responsible for my leaving and I said are you dating and he said he didn’t have to tell me if he was or wasn’t and I screamed at him and called him a cheating, skinny, too smart, anteater, emotionless bastard and he hung up on me, that asshole.... Now I’m
really
glad I didn’t take his last name when I got married!”

“I’m sorry, Tory.”

“And I even looked at my star sign, the fish, Pisces, and it said that a former problem with a lover would be solved. It was wrong! That makes me even more mad! What’s wrong with these star sign readers!”