A Proper Young Lady (19 page)

We dress, and I drive her home in silence.

Beatrice greets us with an evil grin, “How was the honeymoon?” Fred smiles but leaves the room. Melanie turns crimson protesting our innocence.

Mrs. Fairbairn hovers at the far side of the living room, standing with the help of a walker. Cancer has ravaged her body. Her solemn face drags me back across the years to the night she caught me with her daughter. We weren’t having sex, mind you, but our naked bodies lay intertwined as we slept. The guilt I didn’t feel as a child overwhelms me now. “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t know you were on chemotherapy again. How can I ask anything of you or Melanie?
 

“I’d like a word with you.” She gestures toward the hallway.

Mrs. Fairbairn leads me to one of the back bedrooms and pulls the door closed a bit harder than necessary. “My daughter’s rather fragile just now. She still grieves for a boy who promised her his heart.” The intensity in the woman’s eyes lays bare my soul. “She bears his silver locket once again. To what end?”

My own selfishness.
I returned the heart so mine might one day mend. “Your daughter’s my life. Were I a man, I’d ask for her hand in marriage. But I can’t be Daniel for her.” 

“And what of the babies?”

“I will do whatever necessary to protect my children. And their mother.”

A bit of amusement softens Mrs. Fairbairn’s anger. Her shoulders slump as the emotion bleeds out of her features. Only a tender resignation survives.

She crosses the room then—an eternal voyage—and retrieves a manila envelope from the top drawer of an antique secretary. “When Dr. Pierson retired, she left this in my care. I was to give it to you if—well, this seems the appropriate time.” 

“What is it?”

“Sharon wouldn’t say. Something to do with your fathering my grandchildren, I expect.”

Anger surges at the thought of Dr. Pierson’s betrayal of my trust. “She told you?”

“No. Not directly. I knew such was possible—at least in theory—but only guessed the truth when I deciphered what Sharon had written there.” 

Someone printed
12VAC5-550-450.3
in neat letters and scrawled
per legem terrae
underneath that—by the law of the land. 

Legal papers?
My heart pounds in anticipation. 

The first sheet appears to be an extract from the Virginia Administrative Code dealing with changes in birth certificates. For hermaphrodites.

The South admits I exist? Wow. Just wow.

The second is an affidavit signed by Dr. Sharon Ann Pierson, MD.

The birth record of Danièle Aileana Welles includes an incorrect designation of sex due to congenital pseudo-hermaphroditism, which has since been clarified—Danièle is male, having fathered children via intracytoplasmic sperm injection.
 

Per legem terrae—would that satisfy Randy? Is this my salvation or simply one more person telling me who I should be? Why didn’t Dr. Pierson give these to me earlier? 

The next sheet proves to be an unsigned letter from me to the Registrar of the Commonwealth of Virginia, requesting a change in my birth certificate.

If I were male...
But a physician’s signature doesn’t make it so. Darkness seeps into my heart as I consider what might be required to live as a man. 

Can I really become Daniel?

A single paper remains—a DMV form of some sort—also signed by Dr. Pierson. I replace them all and stick the envelope into my tote. 

A tremor passes through me as I face Mrs. Fairbairn. “I intend to marry your daughter. If she’ll have me.”

Melanie

Mom won. That much is obvious the moment she walks out of the bedroom. A glance my way promises trouble later. But my fate was sealed in that room. Prep school. Or worse. And my babies put up for adoption.

Patrick and Ellie are mine. You hear me? Nobody’s gonna take them away. Nobody.
I scowl at my mother till she frowns back at me. 

Daniel always got real quiet when working out a difficult problem. That same opaqueness now masks Dani’s features, like her mind is caught in some alternate universe.

I ignore her—and everyone else—till my patience dies. Then hand the girl her leather jacket and drag her outside. “So? Tell me what happened in there.” 

Dani’s intensity melts into tenderness. “We’re keeping the babies. You and I will raise them. Together.” Fear blossoms in those violet eyes as a hesitant hand reaches for the locket at my breast. “I told your mother I want to keep the promise I made.”

The babies party—they understand long before my heart does. Till death us do part, he said. A hundred times in play. My heart throbs with yearning for Daniel. For my babies to really be his. For us to marry and raise a family. 

No way you fathered anybody’s kids.
“You’re a lovely young woman,
Danièle
. Don’t mess with that.” 

“And if I were male?”

“You’re not. And I don’t want you cutting off body parts.”

“What if I were
legally
male? 

“I’m not gonna marry a girl, Dani. Not even you.”

Pain burns through her eyes, searing my heart. Her lower lip trembles. So does mine.

If you start bawling, I’m gonna have a breakdown.
“Look, I’ll think about it. Okay?” 

“All right. I’ll come back for you over Christmas.”

Dani’s kiss brings heat to my face and a pretty boy to my imagination.
I’m kissing a girl right here on our front porch.
 

Not a girl. Daniel.

Yeah, right.
I pull him as close as my pregnancy will allow. “What are we gonna do? For real, this time.” 

“Marry. And raise the kids ourselves.” Dani grins at me again, her smile a little off-center. She starts her motorcycle, and rides off down the street.

I wait till she vanishes around the corner before letting go the tears. The bright sunshine the girl brought fades into gloom. I close my hand around a hopeless silver heart.
Better she marry Ethan. And I forget about Daniel.
 

Chapter 21

Danièle

Red stripes painted across my bedroom wall announce the approaching dawn. I hug my pillow tight one last time, roll out of bed, and punch the start button on the coffee maker. One more final exam will mark the end of my first semester—my last, unless I give up the children or marry someone. 

Long ago, I played the groom to Melanie’s bride. After patiently enduring a number of our wedding ceremonies, Mum asked me if I were well and truly a boy. I pulled her close and whispered in her ear, “No, Mum. I’m only pretending. For Melanie.”

With tenderness, she straightened the collar of my natty tuxedo jacket and kissed my forehead. “Well then, your
nom de guerre
should be Dànaidh Ailean Welles. After your grandfather.” 

Not Daniel. But perhaps enough for Melanie. A risk, certainly, and my point of no return. Once declared legally male...

Pursuant to Virginia Administrative Code 12VAC5-550-450.3, please change my
—five minutes later, I print out a formal affidavit, requesting a change of given name and sex marker on my birth certificate. 

After a hot shower, I dress in blue jeans and a nice top. Heavy cotton knee socks. Boots. Fleece vest. Woolen scarf. Leather jacket. Gloves. The outside thermometer says fifty-eight, but I learned early on to dress extra warm for a motorbike ride.

I drive out past the country club and Saint Catherine’s to Grove Avenue to a notary. One of the employees greets me as soon as I walk in the door. “How may I help you?”

“I have an affidavit to sign.”

“Certainly.” She waves me toward a chair next to her desk.

I hand her my driver’s license and my request to the registrar. Dark brown eyes grow large as she peruses my letter. A glance up shows disbelief, but she slides the paper back across her desk and says, “If you’ll sign your full legal name, I’ll notarize the document.”

When she finishes, I fold the letter and seal it in the envelope I’ve already addressed. No looking back now. I thank her and drive to the post office.

Will Melanie accept an intersex boy with breasts? Reason long insisted such impossible. My heart—freed now from its constraints—believes. 

I pull a note card from my box of stationary, and begin writing a letter to Melanie. My phone rings, though, so I set down the pen.
Ethan. Not now. Not after I’ve decided.
 

On the third ring I press connect. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry. Will you let me apologize?”

“Go ahead.”
I’ve certainly no time for an argument.
 

“I shoulda checked with you before canceling the surrogacy.”

“What do you want?”

“Your mother asked me to spend Christmas at your place. I don’t want to unless you’ll give me another chance.”

“We’ll talk.” No doubt Mum trying to help me find happiness as a wife and mother.

“All right, babe. Will you do something for me? Pick out an engagement ring, and I’ll buy it for you.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I understand. See you then.”

“Goodbye.”
Why did I even answer your call? Think I’m daft enough to marry you? To please everyone else rather than follow my heart?
 

As soon as I disconnect, my phone chirps an email from my History professor.

<<
Foster—Excellent work, Danièle. An A+ on your term paper. You’re exempt from taking the final. I’m proud to have had you as one of my students.
 

No more exams.
Thank you, gracious Lord.
My head hurts too much to concentrate anyway. I review what I’ve written to Melanie, but crumple the note and send her a few quick text messages instead. 

Cold air might clear my mind. And rings are a wonderful idea.
I throw on my jacket and ride out to West Broad Street and the chain jewelry stores. Sales people lurk inside the vestibule, primed for a feeding frenzy. “May I help you, miss?” one calls as I walk past. 

“I’d like to look at wedding bands. Fourteen karat. Eighteen if you sell them. Simple or with flowers.”

“Oh, yes. We have the largest selection in the area.” She waves me toward one side of the showroom. “White or yellow gold?”

“Yellow.”

A single glance proves sufficient to reject most of her offerings. I wave off an entire tray of laser-cut rings. “Don’t you have anything a bit more old fashioned? Art Noveau perhaps?”

For an hour my search bears no fruit. As I turn to go, inspiration lights the woman’s face. “We have some Celtic wedding bands in the back room. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll run and get them.”

“All right.”
Why not. I’ve seen everything else.
 

Dragons, interlocking around the middle, and edged by two solid bands—my eyes flick from them to a similar ring with four Chladaigh designs—and another with a traditional swirl of flowering vines. 

“May I see these two?” I press a fingertip to each in turn.

“Certainly.”

Two hands holding a heart, surmounted by a crown—my Irish grandmother would appreciate such a traditional design. I hold the ring closer to the light. Rose gold—almost pink. I slide it on my finger. An acceptable fit. “How much is this one?” 

“It’s on sale this week for $1995.00.”

“May I see—yes—the other?” 

“I think we only have this ring in eighteen karat gold.”

The swirling flowers remind me a bit of French horns. Again, the pattern wraps around the ring between two solid bands. Melanie will love it. “What’s the price?”

“$2840.00.”

“I’ll take them both.”
What will I do if she says no?
 

Outside, I start my Shadow Spirit and tap the shifter into first. Melanie would probably prefer the Honda to a wedding ring. Not sure I want my wife risking her life on a motorbike.
Perhaps I shouldn’t either.
 

Three Chopt Road runs most of the way home, but heavy traffic and red lights keep me shifting gears. With all the loonies about, I pull into the right lane behind a police cruiser and ease off the throttle.

Some fool runs the light at North Parham Road. The officer in front of me locks up all four wheels and slides to a stop. I brake hard to keep from ramming him.

Tires screech behind, and my Honda lurches forward again. The impact wrenches both hands from the controls. My beautiful Shadow Spirit floats up off the pavement—like a heron taking flight—and I drift backwards. 

My poor motorbike crumples in slow motion—caught in an unrelenting vise—until nothing remains but small parts scurrying across the pavement. 

Heavy metal kisses my left thigh and side, and slips an inquisitor’s steel glove under my back. Shoulders land first, and a thousand bits of glass spray across my vision. My head rocks back and meets darkness.

Melanie

I buckle Joey into his car seat and close the door. After my sister finishes with Greg, she gives me a hug. “Would you help Mom take a bath while we’re out?”

“Yeah. Sure. How long will you guys be gone?”

“Two, maybe three hours.”

“Okay.”

Fred starts the engine. I wave at the boys as the car pulls away.

Woo hoo! Two, maybe three hours of quiet. I might even have time to phone Dani.

Mom is resting in her recliner, reading one of her old Jane Austen novels. She’s put on weight since I got home, but she hasn’t fully recovered from chemo yet. “Would you like me to give you a bath?” I say.

“You’re an angel, honey. If you’ll help me to the bathroom, I’ll take a shower.”

Every time Mom stands, she seems a little stronger. But she’s still way too frail and thin. With one arm around her for support, I walk her down the hallway to the master bedroom. She rests on the bed while I adjust the water temperature.

Once in the shower, her face melts into pure joy. After a few minutes, she plops down into the seat, and I shampoo her fuzzy scalp. Then she cleans herself with a washrag, and I help her dry off.

My mother collapses into her recliner again and closes her eyes, but contentment has replaced some of the pain chemo left on her face. I stay by her side and hold her hand till her breathing slows and her head slumps to the side.