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Connections, by Karin Bishop

Part 4

Chapter 8: Saturday Plans

I awoke with a restless energy. I’d had sufficient sleep; this was the kind of wakeup where I wanted to be up and doing things—and I had made my plans. I dressed in a green t-shirt and jeans and pulled my hair into a ponytail and went to breakfast. Mom looked at me oddly.

“Is dressing like a girl finally out of your system, Michael?”

I counted and said, “Please, Mother, can you begin calling me Melanie? It’s who I am.”

“Dressed like that you look like a Michael. I just thought …”

“I understand, Mom. I’m dressed like Michael because I’m going to go to the library and may have to use Michael’s library card.”

She seemed to be wrestling with something in her mind; finally she nodded. “I see. Very wise.”

“Plus, I thought we’d agreed that I would live as Melanie full-time once school was out, and I just have this last week of pretending to be Michael.”

“Pretending to—honey, I wish you wouldn’t refer to yourself in the third person. It’s off-putting.”

“Mother, not trying to be snide, but would the opposite of ‘off-putting’ be ‘on-putting’, as in ‘putting on’? With two meanings, one being to put on as with an item of clothing, and the second being slang for playing a joke on somebody?”

Hit her with the ol’ grammar, linguistic stuff, I thought.

She pursed her lips, considering, and nodded. “Yes, I accept both interpretations, but what I meant about ‘off-putting’ was—”

“Mom? Sorry, to interrupt, but I’m aware of your meaning and I’m trying to examine it from a different angle.” I waited for her nod to accept my interruption, and then I continued. “Regarding my two meanings: As to the first, I am, indeed, ‘putting on’ Michael, as one would a mask. And as to the second meaning, I am not doing that as a joke, but rather as a misery I must endure until school lets out, as I am registered as Michael at school.”

“I understand that,” she said, nodding to herself.

Which part, I wondered, or all of it? Well, it was a concession of sorts.

“And so, Mom, I truly feel I am ‘putting on’ the mask, the costume, the persona of Michael. For the purposes of going to library today, I mean. And then I will be ‘off-putting’ that persona when I come home, to be myself, your daughter Melanie. But the reason I spoke as I did—I believe I said I was dressed like Michael—was for clarity.”

“Clarity?”

“Of communication. Isn’t it more sensible than trying to keep juggling two people? Certainly, I could say, ‘I used to be Michael and now I’m Melanie,’ but I’ve been Melanie for years while pretending to be Michael. And it’s clearer to say, ‘I’m wearing Michael’s clothes now’ than the truth, which is ‘I’m Melanie wearing my boy clothes’. Don’t you agree?”

My mother’s zeal for proper terminology could be used to box her into intellectual corners, and that’s what I’d done. Reluctantly, she nodded. “Yes—Melanie—I agree.”

I knew how difficult it was for her to name me, but again, I’d take anything I could get at this point.

Mom went on to tell me some small chores she’d like done this weekend; they were minor and easy and I had most of them done by noon. I worked hard on countering Michael’s clothing by thinking and being as feminine as I could, but then realized I’d better cool it because I had to ‘butch it up’ for the library.

After a light lunch I walked to the library. It was tempting to turn my wrists out and add the wiggle to my walk that I knew was there, but I had to keep in my school mindset and tamp the girl down. The library was open but nearly empty; it was a beautiful late spring day and anybody my age was out with friends …which I didn’t have. I thought forlornly of Cheryl Ferguson but resolved to not focus on the sadness of what could have been, but the joy of what could have been—and what might be. We’d parted as girlfriends, and that’s what was important.

My library plan was twofold. I’d been thinking of everything I’d missed not growing up female, things that every girl knew about. There was nothing I could do about Easter dresses and Brownie Scouts and tea parties and boys pulling pigtails and other girlhood rites of passage—things that girls experienced—but I could learn some things of girlhood culture. I knew from reading and listening to girls that there were books and movies and such that were common to most girls, like knowing about Rainbow Brite, for instance. So the first part of my plan was to check out popular girls’ books. I’d start with Anne of Green Gables, The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, and the Sweet Valley High series. I knew I was going to have to enter ‘vampire land’, too, with the Twilight and Vampire Academy books as well as all the paranormal teen books that were so popular now—I’d printed a list of recommendations from Amazon.

I had often visited the teen girls’ fashion sites on the internet, and spent many hours learning about clothing styles, materials, and terms. But I’d recently discovered that many of the sites, as well as the magazine sites, had articles on relationships, pages where girls wrote in with problems, and various advice columns. All of that was an absolute gold mine of information. I learned about the daily ups and downs of girls, and how many girls shared the same highs and lows. I learned about incidents common to girls but unknown in my boys’-world of experiences—the period in white pants incident, for instance. These were things to share and understand when I was finally able to live among girls as another girl. And, finally, I learned—or rather, I reinforced—that my thoughts and feelings were absolutely consistent with other teen girls.

Those fashion websites inspired with the second part of my plan. All night long I’d been thinking about updating Mom’s fashion sense. She lived in a cultured world of great literature, but went from the house to the hospital, where she supervised a computer center of medical records with her assistants and no contact with the public. Her assistants were a mother of three sons, a widow, and a thirty-eight-year-old gay man. Then Mom would drive home. She would watch news programs and perhaps Masterpiece Theatre; no sitcoms or reality programming. When she shopped, it was at a small family-run grocery and she didn’t go to malls. I thought that if you drew Venn Diagrams of my mother’s world, at no point would it intersect with teenaged girls. She was a highly intelligent woman who was almost completely ignorant of teen fashions or even teens themselves—or indeed, a large part of the modern world.

The library had a policy of keeping current magazine issues as Reference and couldn’t be checked out, but back issues could be. I decided to get the most recent back issue of as many teen girl mags as I could, and then one year prior, and two years prior, if available. I was staggered at how the older issues had been eviscerated; girls had cut out pictures of cute boys and bands they liked. I couldn’t fathom how somebody would selfishly cut up these magazines—which were essentially held by the library as a public trust. Just a part of girls’ thinking that I’d have to learn—although, boy or girl, I’d never cut up library materials.

The reason for the previous year issues was that I wanted to make a presentation to Mom about teen fashions. I wanted her to learn that cap sleeves, short skirts, scooped necklines, makeup, nighties …everything that she’d vetoed for me were in fact worn by girls today and were normal and had been for quite a few years; that they weren’t just a temporary aberration of fashion.

If I showed her anything on the internet, she could respond that it was a parody website, or even consider it pornographic. But national magazines that came through the US Mail—that should get her attention!

Most important, it would validate my fashion choices. I knew that nobody in the magazines would be wearing any of the clothes Mom had bought, outside of parochial schools. That reminded me to check the suppliers of parochial school clothing—and I hit a mother lode: None of the three leading sources of school uniforms had girls’ clothing remotely as conservative as the items Mom had brought home. Next, I’d comb the sales flyers in the Sunday paper tomorrow and when the time was right, present my case to Mom that what I wanted to wear—what I could wear in public without drawing attention—was not scandalous or too old or too sexy. The clothes she brought home would draw attention due to their shockingly old-fashioned designs. If we were going to survive in the long run, she’d have to be willing to bend, too.

I also got some movies, DVDs that I could watch on my computer. We didn’t have a DVD player in the house, since Mom wasn’t big into newer movies—‘too frivolous’, she’d say, and then would watch a movie from 1952—and felt any movies could be seen for free on the TV. I was in luck; I guess girls had been returning things before summer, when another wave of girls would be checking them out. I found the movie of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, Slumber Party, What A Girl Wants, and The Princess Diaries. As to books, they were out of Anne of Green Gables but had a lot of the Sweet Valley High series; I got the first one and one called Double Love. There was another series recommended, Beacon Street, and they had the first one, quite dog-eared, Worst Enemies/Best Friends. It looked a little …young to me, but it was something that girls I encountered would have read—based on the dog-earing—so I grabbed it. At the other end of the spectrum, I found two Gossip Girl books. So I was loaded with ‘study materials’ to keep me busy.

Our library has an automated check-out kiosk; you scan the bar code on your library card and then the materials, take the receipt and never have to face a librarian. I thought that it really wouldn’t have mattered how girlish I acted or dressed because I wouldn’t have the embarrassment of handing these materials to the librarian with a card that said ‘Michael’. Which made me think …

I took an application for a new card and filled it out for Melanie Stanwood, with my address, and dropped it in the proper slot. I also thought that I should begin working on my signature and handwriting—Melanie’s handwriting.

I used a recycled plastic bag to carry everything and walked home and didn’t care about how girlish I walked. I’d found that if I didn’t think about it, I just naturally walked with a sway. Mom had left a note that she was out shopping and I put my library things in my room and changed into the black skirt and Rainbow Brite tee. God, I need better clothes! I flopped on my bed with a stack of magazines and began reading, making notes in my laptop and using little Post-Its to mark pages with fashions I wanted to show Mom.

An ad for Bonne Bell products brought me up short; toiletries! I found an article of a good cleaning regimen for girls, and made a list of what I would need and several choices, like the category ‘Astringent’ and then products by Bonne Bell, Noxzema, and Nivea. I combed the magazines to find products that were widely available—no organic designer label things—and formulated for teens, not mature women. I got the list completed and printed out to discreetly and humbly present to Mom.

I guess I got into a list frenzy, including lists that Mom wouldn’t see. I listed types of skirts, tops, dresses, bikinis, nighties, lingerie …and when I went to sites for Claire’s and Icing—two popular mall stores that I discovered were owned by the same company and were basically clones of each other—I began a list of accessories, necklaces, rings, bracelets, scarves, purses, and so on. I began a list of future occupations, possible majors and colleges, because I hadn’t thought about it as Michael—only being in middle school—but Melanie was entering high school so now was the time to start planning.

Mom came home and saw me on my bed, on my tummy with my legs bent and crossed at the ankles, smiled and showed me the nightgown she’d bought for me. It was, predictably, long and high-necked. I thanked her, got off the bed—carefully keeping my legs together as I swung them over the side—and hugged her. She was startled by that, and to cover, asked me about the pile of books and videos on my desk.

“I thought I should familiarize me with current girl culture. They were out of Anne of Green Gables, though,” I said with more sadness than I felt.

“That’s a lovely book, if a tad juvenile,” Mom agreed. “And obviously, still popular. Well, I think you’re on the right track. What would you like for dinner?”

I said ‘anything’ and she nodded.

It was a quiet evening; Mom understood that I wanted to watch the DVDs because they’d be due back to the library, so I put on my nightgown and went to ask Mom if she knew how to give me a sleep braid. That rocked her, but I handed her a brush and sat on the floor in front of her, so she had no choice. She had the TV on to a news channel, and it was kind of mindless background noise as she began brushing my hair and commenting on how pretty and full it was. Judging by her voice, she had startled herself when she said it, as if it had slipped out. I took it as something that her mind registered, anyway, and had slipped past her conservative censor.

I loved the feeling and loved the closeness of the moment. Mom described her own sleep procedure when she was a girl—a long nightgown and guess what? A sleep braid! I truly hadn’t known, and felt the first gentle formation of a mother and daughter bond. I stood before her and said, ‘how do I look?’ and it was worth it for her sad smile.

“You’re lovely, Melanie.”

It was the first time she’d said my name without hesitation.

Chapter 9: Sunday Papers

I loved Sunday mornings; we always had tea and sometimes toast and marmalade and the Sunday papers. I especially loved it this Sunday because I woke up and came to breakfast wearing my nightgown. Mom was in her ‘housecoat’ and slippers and smiled when she saw me.

“The sleep braid held up well. You have marvelously thick hair.”

“Morning, Mom,” I said and leaned over and hugged her, briefly putting my head on her shoulder.

“My, you’re in a good mood,” she smiled.

“Because I’m Melanie, and I’m a happy girl,” I said half-playfully and half-defiantly.

Mom said, “You’re going to need a robe and slippers; I must remember that. Probably some other things, too.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, pretending to be unconcerned, even though I knew it was a major concession that she didn’t question getting me more girls’ clothing.

I poured tea and made toast for me, and sat to read the papers and comics. Then I began going through the flyers casually, screening them for fashions.

“What do you have planned for the day?” Mom asked.

“Nothing really. Oh, I have to finish the laundry.”

“Did you want to see a movie or something?”

She was referring to my habit of ‘going to the movies’ and actually studying girls at the mall. I shouldn’t need to do that anymore, but I had an idea. “Nothing I’m dying to see, but I’d like to go with you if you’d like.”

“I hadn’t thought …I wasn’t planning to go to anything. I thought I’d treat you.”

“If we can find a movie you’d like, would you like to go with me, Mother? Please?”

“Well …certainly.”

“As mother and daughter?”

She wasn’t expecting that. “What would …what would you wear?”

“I thought the blue blouse and denim skirt and those nice new black flats. Any suggestions?”

“Well, that skirt really is large on you, but for sitting in the darkness of the theater, it should suffice, I suppose. And a sweater, perhaps …I have a white one I could loan to you.”

“That would be great!” I grinned. Then, keeping things light, I asked, “I thought my hair up in a ponytail, perhaps. What do you think, Mother?”

“We could …yes, I think that would be fine. But are you sure?”

“Mom, this is going to be the rest of my life. I can’t hide in the house forever, and I won’t be going out as Michael after next week.”

“You’ll need a purse, and …oh, dear; there’s so much I haven’t gotten for you …we can go in the early evening, I suppose.”

“That would be wonderful,” I said. “Um, would it help if I thought about it, I mean the things I might need, maybe make a list?”

“That’s thoughtful; yes, honey. If you can think of things you might need, perhaps we can work together on it.”

“I’d like that, Mom,” I smiled, gathering the flyers to take to my room.

I couldn’t believe how easily that worked! Now it would seem like it was sort of her idea for me to make the lists that I had already made. I marked the flyers and stayed to watch some of The Sisterhood as I dressed in the blouse and skirt. I watched up until Bridget’s mother was buried, and was all confused as to her reactions. Obviously, this movie wasn’t quite as frivolous—Mom’s favorite word—as it had looked. I’d sit and really watch it; I already loved seeing the girls bond and felt that deep, deep sadness that I hadn’t been a little girl, too.

I went back out to find Mom on the phone with Marilyn. She was frowning so I discreetly kept going through to the kitchen for some water . When I knew she’d hung up, I walked back in; she was sitting with her arms crossed, head down.

“Marilyn will be here soon,” Mom said.

“Is everything okay?” I was concerned

“No …I mean, yes; nothing too …no, everything is not okay. Apparently I’m not …doing my job.”

“I don’t understand; how does your job have anything to do with Marilyn?”

“Not my job at the hospital; my …” She looked off in the room. “My job as a mother,” she said in a small voice.

I sat next to her, again on the edge of the couch with my knees and ankles together. “Is there anything …I don’t know …you’re a great mother!”

She looked up with tears in her eyes. “Am I?”

“Yes!” I put a hand on her arm. “I don’t know what’s going on, but …what did Marilyn say?”

“She asked how things were coming; how it was like living with Melanie at last.”

“Okay …”

“And I told her …I really didn’t know; it was all so new …and she asked about your new wardrobe and I told her what I’d purchased and she …couldn’t believe it. She asked about item after item that I didn’t have for you—”

“Because there hasn’t been time!” I defended. “And we’re not made of money!”

“Thank you, dear; you’re very sweet. But I think she was right.”

“Look, Mom, we already talked about things I need, and I made a list like you asked.” I made it sound like it was entirely her idea. “When we get a chance to go shopping, we’ll get those items.”

Mom’s jaw clenched. “When she gets here, I don’t want you to be angry with her. She only has your best at heart, and …I think I really do need her help.”

I thought for a moment. Now was not the time to blindside her with all of my research. I’d have to finesse it. “Mom, I picked up some teen girl magazines at the library, you know, to look through and learn everything I could. They have tips on etiquette, and hygiene—” Both were topics very big with Mom! “—and I could go through them looking for fashions to discuss with you and Marilyn. I won’t be angry with her, but I will stand up for my mother!”

“Thank you so much, Melanie,” Mom said, her eyes brimming. She reached out to hug me. “It really means a great deal to me. Having …having you for my daughter.”

“Oh, Mother!” I started crying as I hugged her.

We’d gotten dry and cleaned up before Marilyn got there. I’d asked Mom if she’d like me to wear anything special, and she suggested the jumper and blue blouse as proper …and suggested the white knee socks. I thought to myself, ‘Gee, how Amish can you get?’ but realized that it was such a conservative and supremely dorky outfit that it might serve my purposes quite well—because nothing would contrast more with the photos in the magazines.

I heard Marilyn enter and left the two of them to talk. Being lifelong friends, they knew how to be mad and still love each other. I let them work it out, and about twenty minutes after I’d heard the doorbell, Mom knocked at my door and asked if I’d like to join them.

Marilyn wore an elegant white pantsuit and was sipping tea when I entered, standing and holding my fingers before me. I thought she was going to do a spit take, or gag. She kind of huffed and put her cup down with a shaking clatter. She frowned and looked at me.

“Hello, Melanie,” she said as calmly as she could.

“Hi, Aunt Marilyn,” I replied. “How are you?”

“I am fine, but …” She turned to Mom. “Alice, did you truly believe this was a good look for her?”

“Yes, I did, Marilyn,” Mom said tiredly, and I thought that she sounded …beaten. Defeated. “I truly thought this was an appropriate outfit.”

“Outfit? Like a uniform? Because it looks even more like a uniform than you’d described.”

“It’s okay, Aunt Marilyn,” I said, to save Mom. “It’s a start, anyway. And there are other clothes, too.”

Marilyn stood. “Show me.”

The three of us went into my room; Mom stood in the doorway as Marilyn deferred to her, and then sat at my desk with the chair turned into the room. I pulled out the white blouse, put it back, the plaid wrap skirt, then the denim and black skirts, put them all back, and then, looking at Mom, who read my mind and nodded, the Rainbow Brite tee and then the first minidress I’d owned. I finished it up with the shirtwaist, but explained that it was mis-sized.

Marilyn nodded, asked about makeup and received a frown and negative head shake from Mom; Marilyn gave a short nod and then asked about jewelry, necklaces, barrettes, and got the same head shake from Mom. Marilyn and my mother looked at each other for a long time. I busied myself with hanging everything up just so, to stall for time.

Marilyn said softly, “Alice, we need to talk. For your daughter’s sake—for your sake—we really need to talk.”

I volunteered, “Mom? We can do a movie another night; it’s okay.”

She gave me a strange look, half relief and half misery. “Alright, dear, thank you.” She sighed deeply. “Would …would you like to go to the movies? See something you like, on your own?”

Marilyn said, “Melanie, you don’t have to leave us. You may if you wish, but it won’t have any bearing on things.”

I nodded and swallowed. “Then if it’s all the same, I’ll stay in my room, unless you want me. But I want to say …well, I just want to say that I love you both.”

“Thank you, dear,” Mom said.

“Thank you, Melanie,” Marilyn said, smiling sadly at me.

I went on. “I love you both and please don’t fight because of me. I know I haven’t made things easy for Mom and …I’m sorry; just don’t be unhappy with each other.”

Mom looked at Marilyn and surprised me by saying, “We’re not unhappy with each other; oh, I suspect Marilyn is unhappy with me, but on your behalf, honey. My …fashion sense. Or lack thereof.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “I almost forgot. While you’re both here,” I fished around gathering my materials. “Here, let me show you.”

On my bed, I laid out the magazines to the first pages with Post-Its, and above them the Sunday flyers turned to the appropriate page.

“Sorry I didn’t have time to make a PowerPoint presentation,” I joked, and didn’t know if either of them were familiar with the software.

Marilyn had gotten off the chair and Mom came in from the doorway and I showed them both the styles in the magazines.

“See, Mom? These aren’t this week’s styles; here they are in variations over the last two years. And today’s sales …see? Here they are again. Colors change, fabric changes, things go and come back, but the same basic styles remain. I just wanted you to see that …well, these are what girls are wearing! Not loose girls, not older girls; just average girls my age all over the country. You should come to the mall with me and we’ll just sit in the food court with some ice tea and watch the girls and you’ll see what I mean. That’s all I wanted to say.” I concluded lamely.

My mother had been staring at the photos as if she was seeing an anthropological exhibit mixed with pornography. Slowly, quietly, she said, “Thank you,” and looked at us, almost pleading. “I really …had no idea this is what they’re wearing.”

“I know, Mom,” I said gently.

“Alice; time to talk,” Marilyn said just as gently, and the two ladies left my room. Before she closed the door, Marilyn gave me that sad smile.

I put in The Princess Diaries and was falling in love with Anne Hathaway. Not as a boy would, but as a girl seeing a wonderful and beautiful actress and her character. Seeing her go from her awkward, ‘ugly duckling’ phase to the beauty she became…I had pangs of envy. If only I could turn into a swan like that! I didn’t get to finish the movie; there was a gentle tap at my door and Marilyn stuck her head in; it was curiously similar to how she’d looked when she’d left.

“Melanie, would you like to join us?” she said softly.

“Yes, Aunt Marilyn, thank you,” I said, still thrilled to hear her use my name so …normally.

Chapter 10: Family Matters

Mom was sitting on the couch and Marilyn had been in the large chair facing it, so I sat next to Mom on the couch. There was a box of tissues on the coffee table in front of her, which explained the wastebasket next to her, and I could see several used tissues in addition to the one she held, wadded.

Marilyn was obviously chairing the session, but all she did was nod to my mother.

Mom began softly. “I’ve done you a disservice, and please know that it was never my intention to belittle you or trivialize what you’re going through …”

“I know, Mother,” I said as warmly as I could.

“It’s just that I …I don’t know anything about teenaged girls!”

“Well, you were a teenaged girl,” I supplied helpfully.

She almost snorted. “Not in my father’s house!”

My grandfather had died long before I was born and I’d only barely known my grandmother, who’d died when I was four. My father’s parents had drifted away when he did, and my mother rarely, if ever, spoke of her childhood. All I knew was that she was from Connecticut, and occasionally she’d refer to a ballet or a play she’d seen, but nothing else.

“She needs to know,” Marilyn said.

Mom nodded but said nothing.

Marilyn waited until it was obvious Mom wasn’t going to speak. Then she said, carefully, “Melanie, I’ve known your mother since college and knew her family—your family—a long while. I truly believe that to understand what’s been happening—and what would or wouldn’t happen in the future—you need to know your mother, you must know her …circumstances.” She paused. “Alice?”

Mom seemed to make a decision and nodded. “I think it might be best if you tell her, Marilyn, and if there’s anything that needs …clarifying …”

In the midst of all this, I hadn’t missed the fact that Mom had referred to me as ‘her’ without hesitating! This was huge to me, and I felt warm inside as Marilyn began the tale.

“It’s not for me to go into your genealogy; your mother will do that someday. But my love for both of you …I feel there are things that need to be said.” She took a sip of the tea next to her and made a face; it was cold.

Mom got up. “We will need a fresh pot; this won’t take long.” She took the tea pot to the kitchen and began puttering.

I looked at Marilyn. “It’s not cold, is it?”

She grinned. “Smart girl! No, lukewarm, maybe, but I wanted her to get a chance to breathe before I begin.”

“Is it really necessary to put her through this?” I asked, unsure.

Her grin softened to a warm smile. “You are such a compassionate girl …yes, I’m afraid so. It’s a chain of causation; to understand how your mother reacts to Melanie, you need to understand your mother’s girlhood.”

I’d never heard Marilyn say things like ‘chain of causation’; I was already seeing surprisingly complicated depths to her, in contrast to the breezy, slightly gushy grande dame that she seemed. Instead, I asked, “That’s a very striking suit, Aunt Marilyn. Were you going somewhere? Did we interrupt something? Because I’m sorry if we did.”

She chuckled. “Thank you for the compliment; it’s a Donna Karan. I met someone this afternoon and my evening was free; so, no, you’re not interrupting anything. And even if you were, it would be my responsibility to come here, because you are my goddaughter and she is my dearest, closest, most …wonderful friend.”

I was surprised to hear Mom described in such glowing terms, and delighted to hear me described as a ‘goddaughter’.

“Aunt Marilyn, you seem very …easy with my transition to Melanie. You don’t hesitate at all using my name, or saying ‘she’ and ‘her’, or calling me your goddaughter. Why?”

She looked at me for a moment, then surprised me. “Because you always were Melanie, my goddaughter. Oh, I didn’t have your proper name—you supplied that—but the unvarnished truth is that I’ve long thought of you as female. At first I thought you were a gay male—I was pretty darned sure of that for years—until you said something …” She searched her memory. “You were nearly ten and you were describing an actress in a movie, and the descriptive terms you used—you’ve always had an advanced vocabulary—and the way you moved your hands as you spoke, and the glow on your face …I have two daughters, and I realized in that instant that you were female. Beyond any shadow of a doubt. And I’ve been worried, as you got older …I’ve been worried that you wouldn’t find out until too late, or be socialized into thinking you must be a homosexual male. You’re not. You’re a girl. So it’s easy to call you ‘Melanie, my pretty goddaughter’!”

I was shocked, flabbergasted, ‘gobsmacked’ as the British say …She’d always known? All my life? I could have discovered this years ago?

Without thinking, I said, “God, I wish you’d told me then. I could have saved four guilty, miserable years.”

“I know, honey,” Marilyn said sadly and gently. “And for that I blame myself. And it’s also one reason that I’m being so …firm about things now.”

“Well, that, and the fact that you don’t know how to not be firm,” Mom chuckled as she entered with a tray with the teapot and a cup for me.

“Yes, I have been accused of that from time to time,” Marilyn winked at me.

There was a brief flurry of tea pouring, the usual ceremony of sipping and ‘ah-ing’ and Mom nodded to Marilyn. “Proceed,” she said, and I knew Marilyn had been right, as usual—Mom was in much better shape than she had been when I first joined them.

Marilyn looked to the ceiling, briefly, then began telling family history that was totally unknown to me. “Your family was wealthy, Congregationalist Connecticut bluebloods. Came over on the Mayflower—I’m surprised she’s never told you that, at least; you could’ve scored points in class by showing your ancestor’s signature on the Mayflower Compact. But then you’ve never needed extra points; you’ve always been top of your class.”

She smiled at me; I blushed and she chuckled. “No false modesty, missy! It’s your heritage, so be proud. Anyway, your family was wealthy going into the 20th Century; not Bill Gates wealthy, of course, but the equivalent net worth of perhaps half a billion today.”

That sent shock waves through me. I glanced at Mom, who was stone-faced. She knew what was coming.

“And they lost it all,” Marilyn said, almost as an anticlimax. “And not from the Stock Market Crash.” She fixed me with a direct look.“Your great-grandfather was insane. Syphilitic insanity, contracted from a prostitute. You must understand the Victorian morality; as a ‘captain of industry’, an ‘empire builder’, there were prescribed and proscribed forms of behavior. Your great-grandfather sired ten children with his blueblood, society wife, although four died in infancy perhaps because her blue blood was too thinned out from other blueblood marriages. The unhappy inheritance of the very wealthy …Anyway, Victorian morality dictated that having properly discharged his duties to his wife and his estate by creating sufficient heirs, he was free to never join her in bed again, and to spend his time with cigars, brandy, and prostitutes. And he contracted syphilis, which is a particularly insidious disease in that the symptoms may not become evident for years.”

“Too long,” Mom murmured.

Marilyn gave her a look of sympathy. “If you want me to stop at any time, Alice, please, please tell me.”

Mom nodded. “You’re doing an excellent job. Better than I could.”

“It’s difficult to speak of one’s own,” Marilyn said. “You’d probably tell a better history of my family than I could.”

“Unlikely, but please continue. Tell her …everything,” Mom said. Her face twisted. “Everything, Marilyn!”

Marilyn gave her a look of such sadness, and such love, that my eyes pricked with tears. Marilyn reached out and squeezed Mom’s hand, then put her hand back in her lap and continued.

“One of the symptoms of syphilis is a form of dementia, usually unremarked at first because it develops slowly over years. Your great-grandfather began exhibiting symptoms prior to the first World War, only nobody knew it. First, because nobody could challenge his decisions—in that society, it simply wasn’t done to question the patriarch—and second, because nobody knew that he was doing some of the things he was doing. Investments in alchemical research, backing wacky inventions, a spectacular inability to pick a winning horse or presidential candidate with substantial sums wagered …All of this was going on without anybody knowing it, with millions going who knew where?”

“The government knew,” Mom said.

“In a moment,” Marilyn said. “Then the crash of 1929 wiped out what was left. So your incredibly wealthy family was reduced to well-to-do middle class. Much better off than most Americans in the Depression, but they were the palest ghost of their past greatness. By this time, your great-grandfather was quite obviously insane, and embarrassing public incidents resulted in him being institutionalized.”

Mom gulped. “My grandfather, your great-grandfather …died …” She swallowed. “He died a raving madman. My father had to see him in his cell in the asylum, screaming and drooling and giggling …”

I put a hand on my mother’s forearm; she placed her other hand over mine and we sat like that as Marilyn continued.

“Your grandfather had been raised believing he was a prince among men, the truly blessed rich elite, and it was an unbelievable shock to realize he was now the middle-class son of a lunatic. His social prospects for marriage were hopelessly wrecked, but by his own code, he was forced to marry. Your grandmother was a middle-class shop owner’s daughter, who’d been working in the store since she was a child. He had hoped together they could rebuild the family fortunes, but he seemed to have inherited his father’s bad business sense and his ventures went nowhere.”

“We moved a lot, had to, really; things always looked better somewhere else,” Mom said quietly.

“But with each move he grew more bitter, resentful. And antagonistic towards women, and sex in general. His marriage had not produced a crop of strong young sons to build an empire, but instead, produced only a single, bright and pretty girl—your mother. Complications during her birth ended any chances for more children.”

I felt my mother tighten; I squeezed her arm and realized a tear was slowly creeping down my cheek. I took some tissue and dabbed. Mom looked at me and gave a teary chuckle and reached out with a tissue and dabbed at my other eye. Our eyes met and there was the most incredible connection of sympathy and love and I knew that Marilyn was absolutely right; we had to talk about all of this.

“This is where it will be painful, Alice,” Marilyn said.

Mom chuckled, perhaps because she felt good and strong from our eye contact. “Yes, it was, Marilyn, and this can’t be any worse.”

Marilyn studied her for a moment and glanced at me. I was surprised to see that her eyes were a little misty. She smiled at me.

“I should say, parenthetically, that your grandfather’s income fluctuated. In a prosperous time, he was able to send his daughter to college, where she roomed with a logger’s daughter—me. I come from an Oregon logging family and know the climb up from hard work, and my family was just knocking on the door of social pretension, even as Alice’s family had plummeted from the social heights. So Alice and I bonded.” She looked at Mom with such love. “And who wouldn’t bond with her?”

“Oh, you just needed somebody to sneak you cigarettes,” Mom joked.

“And reefer, and smack—we’re kidding, Melanie!” She chuckled. “Definitely not ‘Girls Gone Wild’! Not at our school, anyway. So we met and I got to know her and her family—again, your family—very well. So …”

She stared at the ceiling and took a deep breath. “Your grandfather blamed his financial misfortune on many things, but chief among them were women. The female sex. It was his mother’s fault that she didn’t keep his father home; it was her fault that he saw prostitutes. It was the prostitute’s fault that his father was infected. Because of that infection, he had no money. Because of that, he was forced to marry a woman beneath him—and he never, ever let her forget it.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Mom defended weakly.

“It was exactly like that,” Marilyn fired back. “He told me countless times that she ‘really wasn’t his caliber, but he had to make do’ and I quote him and I also heard him say things like that to her, to her face, at Christmas and that one Thanksgiving where the turkey wasn’t fully cooked.”

“He was angry,” Mom tried to explain.

“Yes, he was; angry all the time and at everybody, but especially at women. And he told me several times that all your mother could give him—his exact words, ‘all she could give me’—was a little girl. He never took the time to see that he had a pretty, intelligent, wonderful daughter. No; just another female thwarting his dreams.”

Mom opened her mouth to say something, then closed it and nodded.

Wow, I thought. My granddad was an asshole!

“Your grandmother took it all in stride, doing her daily work hard and without complaint. But she raised her daughter to never run afoul of her father, to be meek and submissive and docile and to never, ever, ever be even remotely sexual.”

I could feel Mom squirm at that and I winced for her.

“That’s the core here; your mother’s girlhood and femininity were suppressed and repressed to placate a tyrant.”

“Marilyn!” Mom exclaimed.

Marilyn looked at her with such sadness. “Can you dispute it, Alice? Truly? If it were not your own father, how would you describe him?”

Mom looked at the floor, choked, and nodded. “Yes. Yes, he was.” She said quietly. Then, stronger, as if discovering the word for the first time, she said, “He was a tyrant ...”

I put an arm around my mother as Marilyn reached for tissues and dabbed her eyes; then she said, “Oh, God, I’m so sorry to hurt you, Alice. I’m so sorry to bring this up, but it has to be; you can see that, can’t you?”

Mom nodded. Her voice was ragged with tears, but she said, “Yes, it has, and I want you to go on. I couldn’t …I wouldn’t have the bravery to. Please, tell my daughter …tell her why …”

I laid my head on her shoulder, my arm around her. “Oh, Mother, I’m so sorry you had this …I had no idea …Oh, God; I love you so much and you …” I couldn’t go on.

After a pause, Marilyn continued in a different tone, almost clinical. “Your mother has always worn very conservative, restrictive clothing. Almost cloistered. Any trace of femininity must never be shown for fear of her father’s wrath. And since it was sex that brought down his father, he twisted the very idea of sex into a malignant cancer and cursed his daughter with a fear of it. But there was one more curse,” she held up a finger, “daughters of abuse often are drawn to men who are abusers. It’s more than the idea of marrying their father; it’s a psychological trait of seeking abuse, somehow validating their existence only through the abuse, often without being conscious of it.”

“Wait a minute,” I cried out to Mom. “Are you saying your father abused you physically?”

“No, but …” Mom ended.

“Psychological abuse can be far more damaging than physical. Your grandfather was a master at psychological abuse. Of himself as well as others around him.”

“And are you saying my father was the same?” I asked; I had to know because I knew nothing about him except the arguments.

There was an appalling silence, neither my mother nor Marilyn willing to speak. My eyes grew wide as I looked from one to the other. I realized Marilyn was waiting for my mother to speak; they both knew the truth and Marilyn was challenging her to voice it.

Then my mother said, simply, “Yes.”

“He psychologically abused you?” I said, angry at the man I barely knew.

“Alice?” Marilyn prompted.

My mother nodded. Then her head came up and she frowned as her mouth began forming words, as if trying them on for size, as if each one was distasteful. I looked at her, glancing at Marilyn, who was studying her intently. Then my mother said, “Psychologically—and physically.”

I froze, and heard Marilyn sigh. She got up and squeezed onto the other side of the couch, putting her arm around Mom. “God, Alice, I’m so sorry; I’m so, so sorry …”

Mom actually chuckled, her voice catching. “You were right, Marilyn. I’ve never faced it. I’ve never said it aloud. And you were right, it feels …better, somehow, to say it. And you’re definitely right; she has to know,” meaning me.

She chuckled weakly, or tried to, and like someone in a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous, she said, “Hello, my name is Alice, and I’m the daughter and wife of an abusive man …” Then her voice broke and she sobbed.

We both consoled her with tissues; I glared at Marilyn over Mom’s back at putting her through this, but instantly stopped when I saw the agony and compassion in her eyes.

As we both patted and hugged Mom, Marilyn said to both of us but directing it to Mom, “You’ve been keeping it bottled up inside for too long, Alice. Your father almost dimmed your light before and after college but I got to know the real you, full of light and love and laughter …and then to watch Frank dim that light again …it was hell for me. You were so much in love, or thought you were, because I don’t for a moment believed he was worthy of your love. But he said all the right things so don’t blame yourself! Your father’s cruelty is not your fault, and Frank’s cruelty is not your fault. Please, please break the chain now. Let your daughter grow in the beauty of your light, not the …oh God, I sound like a bad film narrator …” Her voice caught.

I took it up. “Mom? I know the light and love and laughter she means. I’ve seen it and felt it and …been warmed by it. I can’t believe how strong you’ve been, holding up against that abuse.”

“I’m weak; not strong. If I had been stronger, I could’ve …”

Marilyn said, “No, you couldn’t. Your daughter’s right, Alice, she’s right—only your strength kept you going.”

“But now …” Mom said, then turned to me for the first time. “Oh, God, honey; I want the best for you so much …but I don’t know how!” And she burst into tears and buried her face in her tissue.

I was crying openly, tears down to my chin. I took one hand off of Mom and grabbed some tissues to blot, and then laid my head on her shoulder again. “I love you, Mom. We’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.” I was going to repeat it again, but then gave a silly chuckle. “After all, there are no men here to hurt us!”

We hugged and cried and dabbed and finally, finally we got it together. Marilyn gave an extra tight hug to Mom and moved back to her chair and a sip of tea; I poured more tea for Mom.

Mom tilted her head back—probably draining, I thought irreverently—and sniffed, then looked at me. “You had to know where you came from. You had to know where I came from. Marilyn, as always, was right.”

Marilyn snorted. “If I was always right, why haven’t I stayed married to the right man?”

Mom shot back, “Because you’re picky, picky, picky!” And the two of them giggled—my mother actually giggled!—and I guessed it was an inside joke between them going back over the years—and it gave me a glimpse at the schoolgirls they’d been.

“As hard as that was,” Marilyn said, “in some ways, the next part will be harder.”

“Oh, God,” Mom said. “But …yes. We’ve got to do it.”

I looked from one to the other. “What? What’s going to be harder?”

Mom looked at me strangely, because she was smiling and looking sad. “I’ve got to say goodbye to you.”

I was chilled to the bone instantly. “No! No! What? Why …What are you talking about?” Frantically, I looked back and forth from Mom to Marilyn.

“I said the first part,” Marilyn said to Mom. “This part’s yours.”

“What? What?” I couldn’t think of anything to say; I realized I was nearly shredding the tissue in my hand.

Mom said, “Now you know why I’m the way I am. I can’t help it …or, I couldn’t help it until I faced it—thanks to Marilyn.”

“And because you love your daughter,” Marilyn added.

“And because I love my daughter,” Mom smiled at me, warming me. “But I can’t …get better overnight. I can’t suddenly jump into a …a miniskirt. It just would make me feel …” She shuddered. “Dirty. Unclean. Overt. I’m too …psychologically damaged. And I don’t want you to be as miserable as I am.”

“Have been,” Marilyn added with emphasis.

Mom looked gratefully at her best friend. “Have been, alright. But it’s bad timing. You need to …become yourself. Become the full girl that you are. And not only do I not know how to help you do that, I know I’d only screw it up.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” I said automatically.

“Dutiful and loving but not accurate,” she smiled. “Yes, I would. I already have. Why do you think I overreacted to the lipstick? I had no idea that you were a girl. It was lipstick, the most obvious symbol—the icon—of feminine sexuality.”

“I don’t know if I’d go that far—” Marilyn objected.

Mom shot her a glance. “It’s not your interpretation; it was my automatic response. My automatic response was to repress femininity, and I can’t do that to her. I won’t allow it. So …”

There was a pause and another of my ping-pong glances between them.

Mom said, “We’ve discussed the possibility of you going to live with Marilyn this summer.”

I was shocked, not because it was so earth-shattering, but because it wasn’t. I’d stayed with her from time to time over my life; I was beginning to suspect those stays would coincide with times of trouble between my parents. I’d been to several of Marilyn’s homes, knew both daughters—although the oldest, Linda, was rarely around and Carol was four years older and had no interest in me—and had no problems staying with her.

“I don’t see …what the big deal is,” I said, confused. “I’ve stayed with Aunt Marilyn before.”

“Stayed with,” Mom clarified. “I specifically said, ‘live with’.”

“I don’t see the difference.”

Another look passed between the women. Mom said, “You will move in with your Aunt Marilyn. You will have your own room and she will have full legal guardianship. I am not giving you up; be very clear on that. But you need a mother who will help you blossom into womanhood and I can’t do that! I just don’t know how; please don’t blame me.”

“I don’t, Mom; I don’t.”

“But Marilyn is …a fully-functioning, feminine woman who has raised two lovely, confident daughters. Marilyn knows many, many things, but I think I’ve been most in awe of her ability to raise her girls.”

“Thank you, Alice,” Marilyn said, misty-eyed.

Mom went on. “Linda and Carol are everything I wish I could have been, and everything I would wish for you, Melanie. I want you to be all those women Marilyn described when you told us your name. I want you to be a strong, confident, feminine woman who can wear a miniskirt into a boardroom and win her business deal. I want you to be as happy and feminine as those girls in the magazines you showed me, and I don’t have the first idea how to proceed. Because we’ve lost thirteen years, we don’t have time for my learning curve. But I’ll tell you one thing: I’m glad we lost those thirteen years.”

I frowned and looked at Marilyn, who looked like she was blinking back a tear.

Mom said, “If I’d raised you from birth as a girl …with that man as your father …you’d be a repressed spinster like me, miserably unhappy, and completely unable to see that it could be any other way. You were spared that, and we’ve found out everything now, so we must take advantage of finding it out now, on the edge of your teens. Marilyn is equipped to help you and I am not. Plain and simple.”

“I don’t …I don’t know what to say. We could learn together,” I tried, helpfully, but knew it was futile.

Marilyn softly said, “You don’t have to, Melanie. But I would be honored to have my goddaughter live with me, and I would be honored to help her enter the world of a teenaged girl, and it doesn’t mean saying goodbye to your mother, despite what she said. You can see her any time. She can come over any time. Just like now; we get together all the time, sometimes a couple of times a week. And it’s not like I live in Timbuktu. I’m twenty minutes away—you’d only be twenty minutes apart from each other.”

I nodded and looked at her and simply said, “Thank you, Aunt Marilyn. It would be an honor for me, too …I’d be privileged for you to be …my mentor.” I thought of something and grinned. “To be my ‘girl guide’!”

At that term, we all laughed and the matter was settled.

End of Part 4

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