He laughed. “How could you forget to breathe?”
“Not regular breathing,” I huffed. “There are techniques to help me relax through the contractions.”
“I’ve got a better idea. It’s called medication.”
“If I’m on drugs, the baby is, too. I don’t want Casey to arrive all doped up. She won’t nurse right.”
I’ve done tons of research, obviously. Jason couldn’t care less, though. “Nurse? You want to breast-feed and wreck those pretty titties?”
“Jason, it’s not like this is the first time I’ve discussed this with you.”
“Guess I wasn’t listening.”
I had to work hard to quell the anger rising up inside of me. I already had the arguments in place, however. “First of all, it might be the only time I ever have big breasts. You’ll enjoy them. And second, formula is expensive. Breast milk is free, not to mention healthier for the baby. It will also help me lose weight more quickly.”
“Well, aren’t we just the expert?” He popped a beer, slurping it loudly for effect.
I chose to lower my voice, and my blood pressure. “I’m no expert, Jason. That’s why I’m asking for your help. You’re all I have here at Fort Hood, and you know that. Please promise you’ll be there for me.”
He got drunk and passed out without promising, but he did go to a couple of Lamaze classes. Together we learned the stages of labor. Practiced relaxed breathing techniques: in through the nose, out through the mouth, pretending to sink into beach sand beneath a blanket of September sunshine. Deeper. Deeper. Relax. Relax. The more you tense, fighting the cramping of contractions, the harder they’ll fight back.
After three sessions, Jason claimed he’d learned all he needed to know. But he never even heard about transition, let alone how to help me push when the doctor tells me it’s time. That’s okay. I’ve managed to make it this far mostly on my own.
Why change anything up now?
Except . . .
What I’m determined to change is family dynamics, at least where my child is concerned. Though I lived in my mother’s house until recently, she’s been missing from my life for years.
I’m not sure what kind of mother I can be, but I swear I’ll never desert my baby, or keep secrets from her.
I bought a new journal today, and I’ll write this one for Casey, so she’ll always know her mommy has nothing to hide.
Ariel
Altered
Changed.
Different.
Transformed.
Irrevocably.
Irreversibly.
Permanently.
Forever.
Trinity.
Troika.
Triad.
Trio.
Triangle.
Monica.
Gabe.
Me.
I’m Desperately Trying
To maneuver this territory—
the landscape of three.
But it doesn’t show up
on a GPS, and there are no
maps, no guidebooks.
Not only that, but the terrain
is uneven, the trail unbroken.
The travel might be smooth
for a while, but eventually
I’ll trip on a half-buried rock
or step in a pothole, and once
in a while a veritable sinkhole
opens up and it’s all I can do
not to get swallowed. The weird
thing is, the longer I journey,
the less important right or left
seems. And that’s what confuses
me. Shouldn’t one path make
more sense than the other?
If I keep walking in separate
directions, won’t I split in two?
It’s not that I can’t accept the fact
that I’m bi. I can. The problem
I keep returning to is commitment.
Shouldn’t that be part of my identity?
Until Recently
Identity wasn’t something
I thought much about, at least
not anything beyond the concept
of a name. I mean, I always felt
like a girl, and not just because
Dad was very clear that’s what I was.
(And not a dyke, like my mother.)
When I was little, he wanted me
to wear dresses, and keep
my hair long, though I hated
brushing through it every
morning and again before bed.
But even after I was old enough
to choose my own wardrobe
and cut my hair if that’s what
I wanted, I felt right in my body.
As for attraction, I thought some
girls were prettier than others,
and ditto for good-looking boys,
but didn’t everyone think that way?
With sexual awareness came new
understanding, but that arrived
relatively late, and not only
because moving so much prevented
any real connection, but there
also seemed to be physiological
reasons for that. I never even had
a period until I was almost fifteen.
When I talked to my health teacher
about it, she suggested I see a doctor.
That took some convincing for Dad
to finally let me go to Planned
Parenthood, which was the only
place we could afford. PP did a whole
workup, and the ob-gyn told me
the delay was probably because of
a lack of early nutrition. Thanks
so much, Father-of-the-Decade.
At least it wasn’t a true hormonal
problem, something my height
and decent breast development
denied. I was ecstatic to know
things were mostly right with
my body. Not like I ever had anyone
I could really talk to about things
like periods. Dad, of course, would
swear otherwise, insist I could discuss
anything with him. Yeah, right.
A Few Years Ago
Just about the time
I first really noticed
there was a difference
between boys and girls,
we were living with
Jewel, the only one
of Dad’s women who
had kids of her own
in the same house.
Debra was younger
than I was, but Shayla
was three years older,
and had a boyfriend
who came over once
in a while, mostly when
Dad and Jewel were out.
One time I made
the mistake of telling
Dad I thought Carlos
was kind of cute.
Cute! he roared. Boys
are not cute, they’re wild
animals, and I’d better
not ever catch you with
a Mexican, understand
me, missy? He shook me
hard for emphasis.
I heard, but even with
the jaw-snapping reminder,
didn’t understand.
What I took away
from the experience
was the message that
I should never bring up
anything about boys
to my dad. Especially
not Mexican boys, or
Mexican anything.
So the time Debra and
I were playing hide-and-
seek, and I burst into
Shayla’s room while
she and Carlos were
doing some naked thing
together, I kept my mouth
sealed. And when she
wound up pregnant at
the tender age of fourteen,
I barely knew enough
to put the two things
together. And only later
did I realize had I said
something sooner, Shayla
might’ve escaped that fate.
So, No
Dad is totally unavailable
to in-need-of-a-confessor,
completely confused me.
Can’t talk to Monica
about Gabe, and
though Gabe claims
an open mind about
my thing with Monica,
in-depth conversation
about it would feel
all wrong. The only other
person I can maybe discuss
it with is Syrah, except
she’s not the most
discreet girl in the world.
For now, I guess,
I’ll keep dissecting
it internally and hope
the process doesn’t
devour me alive,
from the inside out.
Even Beyond the Triad
Something primitive,
feral, really,
has taken possession
of me.
Sometimes
it feels like a superpower.
Sometimes
it feels like an Achilles’ heel.
At school, when I cruise
the hallways,
I view people through
a new lens.
It’s not just are they cute,
or do they smile
at me. It’s how they make
me feel.
Turned off?
Turned on? More and more
it’s the latter.
Guys. Girls. Doesn’t matter.
That both intrigues and scares
the hell out of me.
What’s truly terrifying
is they notice it.
That Transparency
Is beyond my ability to control.
It’s like living inside one of those dreams
where you’re naked in a public place,
except skinned in plastic wrap.
People can see your heartbeat
quicken or the way your breath falls
shallow inside the draw of your lungs,
or the acceleration of your brain’s
electric impulses which signals
an unexpected blush of desire.
Sometimes they look away.
Sometimes they stop and gaze.
Once in a while the person
you catch staring puts you straight
on edge. Yesterday on my way
to the gym, I felt eyes laser in,
and when I glanced around
in search of them, it was Garrett
I found studying me, intently,
as if finding something new.
I expected an ugly remark
or a flipped middle finger, maybe
two. Instead, he smiled, creeping
me out with his undisguised interest.
Today Is Gobbler Day
As Dad likes to call Thanksgiving.
I’ll be spending it with Gabe, doing
most of the cooking at Zelda’s. She has
a big oven and all the pots, pans, and
various utensils we need. Dad and I
have never cooked an actual turkey
ourselves, on our own. In the past
we either went out or relied on whoever
we were living with to provide dinner.
I’m thankful for the chance to try not
to ruin a turkey myself this year. Gabe
swears he’s helped his mom roast one
in the past, and it’s not as hard as people
make it out to be. Last night I went over
to Zelda’s and watched him brine the bird.
He claims it “infuses the white meat with
flavor and juiciness.” I have no clue if it
works or not, but I can’t stand dry turkey,
so I’m hopeful I’ll be thankful about that,
too. Truthfully, I have much to be grateful
for. Friends. Relationships. A decent home.
Good grades. A brilliant basketball team
to be part of. Coach Booker says we’ll kill
the league this year, and she could be right.
We’re hard-core, even without Hillary,
who’ll have to sit the season out.
And, hey, I’ve got a car. Dad decided to let
me keep it, though he still hasn’t agreed
to take me in for the driving test that’ll
net the coveted license. With me behind
the wheel of the Focus this morning,
I figure I’ll give him a nudge. “So, Dad.
I was thinking. Basketball season
starts soon. With practices and games,
transportation could be a problem.
I thought maybe one day
next week we could meet at the DMV
after school and work. Coach’ll let
me take off a little early if I give her
a heads-up. I’ll make the appointment.”
He Grunts
Which is his way of saying
he’s considering it, and
that’s better than a straight
no, so I nudge, “California
is strict about teen drivers,
and I can’t drive with any
of my friends in the car for
a year, you won’t have to
worry about me doing bad
things, especially since if
I do I’ll lose my license
until I turn eighteen, and—”
Okay, I get it. It’s just, kids
die in accidents all the time.
If I lost you it would kill me, too.
Is that what he’s worried
about? “Oh, Dad. I’ll be very
careful. I promise. Please?”
Best I can give you right
now is a definite maybe.
Still better than a straight no.
At Zelda’s
Gabe and I go directly to work
adults disappear, ostensibly to
watch at least most of the Macy’s
Parade. If that’s really what they’re
up to, it’s a definite first for Dad.
Has Zelda domesticated the man?
Gabe attempts to domesticate
me, giving instructions on how
much celery and onion to chop
and sauté for the stuffing while
he rinses the turkey and pats
it dry so the skin will crisp.
His expertise soon becomes evident.
“You’ll make some woman
a very good wife,” I kid. “In fact,
will you marry me? I could use one
of those.” That was totally off
the wall, and he wastes little time
pouncing on the obvious.
Thought you wanted a female wife.
I absorb the remark, consider
its implications. Rather than respond
right away, I watch Gabe lift the stuffed,
trussed bird into the oven, admiring
both his culinary talent and the muscle
required to heft eighteen pounds of poultry.
“I’m not interested in matrimony.”
I realize there’s truth in the statement.
With the rare exception of Monica’s
parents, I’ve never seen marriage work.
I’ve witnessed divorce. Widowhood.
Spinsterhood. Remarriage, and failure
repeated. Oh, and of course, desertion.
“Anyway, what if you flip me straight?”
That almost sounds like a challenge,
doesn’t it? Not surprisingly, he takes
it that
way, and I appreciate that.
He crosses the kitchen in two long
strides, pulls me into his arms, kisses
me in a decisively masculine way.
I’m willing to give it a try if you are.
We’ve Been Borderline
A time or two, but still
haven’t gone all the way,
mostly because I’m scared.
Scared it will hurt.
Scared it will define me.
Scared I might like it too much.
Pressed tightly together,
heart rates rising in sync,
I can feel him grow rigid
against me and it would be
a lie if I said it didn’t excite
me, and in a completely
different way than Monica
did. If we were somewhere
private, I’d give him the chance,
despite my trepidation, to try
and flip me right this minute.
But that isn’t the case, so we
cool things off, mutually satisfied
that a wordless promise was just
exchanged between the two of us.
For Now
We pour eggnogs, discuss
spiking them, decide to wait
until later for alcohol, if we
choose to imbibe at all.
We carry drinks into the living
room, which is empty except
for the giant balloons floating
along a New York City avenue
twenty-five hundred miles away,
yet visible right here in California,
thanks to technology. We sit
to watch the end of the parade
and eventually Dad and Zelda
escape her bedroom, and head
outside for a smoke. I’m not sure
if it’s Gabe’s regular presence here
or mine once in a while, but
Zelda’s house never seems to wear
the intolerable scent of tobacco.
She’s a polite smoker by choice.
Eggnog, huh? Dad stops on
the way by, lifts my glass, and
sniffs. It’s no good without booze.
Pretty sure I’m glad it’s virgin.
Apparently Brining Works
Because the turkey is juicy
and flavorful, and the stuffing
absorbs much deliciousness.
I skip the mashed potatoes,
reach instead for yams, not
candied but simply baked
and dripping melted butter.
“This is the most I’ve ever
eaten in one sitting by far!”