Real Life Test

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A young woman has everything: a home, a job, a baby, and a husband that brings her flowers.

Real Life Test
By Angela Rasch

My life had become a never-ending supply of dirty laundry, filthy rooms, and grimy dishes. The sink has been jammed with pots and pans with baked-on eggs, dried oatmeal, and ketchup leftovers. I had filled one side of the stainless-steel monster to the brim, with the filth and hot bubbly water.

“Keep the water as hot as you can stand it.”

Who had told me that? Momma maybe, though it could have just as easily been Grams.

I had learned a lot from Mom. She showed me how to stick by your man. Mom had more talent for doing that than I did. She had alternatives, yet she never left Dad.

I have no place to go. Even so -- not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could leave Kirby.

The steam from my water had clouded my view out the kitchen window. I have to be careful. Most of my dresses have stains, even though I always wear an apron. My aprons have become threadbare and offer almost no protection. I had been silly when I bought them, looking for the frilliest and not caring a nit about how long they would last -- or shield my clothing.

The weather had turned colder, not by most peoples’ standards, but still far too cold for my taste. I reached down into the scalding water and began to scrub the plates.

The baby slept in his cradle near the couch. He snored lightly causing me to smile. The snoring seemed to be the only trait my son Matthew had acquired from my side of the family. Dark wisps of hair covered his round, little head, which featured eyes as blue as the sky over Butte.

Butte is the world’s biggest single-word oxymoron.

I reached in the water to pull the plug and then began rinsing the dishes -- setting them in the rack, to dry. The clock above the stove read a quarter past eleven.

Time for me to worry?

Not that it would do me any good. He would get home eventually. He always did.

“Boys Night Out” had been hidden somewhere in the small print -- somewhere long after the vows to love, honor, and cherish. But then, a lot of things in our marriage had been left out, of the contract.

Not that we had really been married. It had been an informal affair, before a liberal minister.

Mom wouldn’t have liked my wedding. She had always wanted me to be like all the others. When I had crazy ideas about doing things, Mom would let me know what seemed realistic to her -- and more vehemently. . .what didn’t. She wanted me to get along with people. Her gospel included doing the little things that people like. So that I could have friends.

Done with my kitchen chores, I looked around for something to break the boredom. Surely I can’t be the only wife home alone on a Friday night.

I ran through the numbers in my cell phone, as I picked up the rattles and plush animals from the living room floor.

When did the carpet get so stained?

I dialed Claire first, my oldest and dearest friend. My oldest and dearest friend -- who apparently isn’t home, on a Friday night.

After four more fruitless calls, I threw the phone down on the couch.

I should paint the living room and brighten things up. Imagine that. Me — painting? I don’t know the first thing about painting. I’d screw it up and make a mess. I learned long ago to stick to those things I know how to do and can afford.

I’ll be sure to teach little Matthew all about flying under the radar. . .where it’s safe.

Kirby doesn’t like it when I teach Matt things. He thinks Matt will end up like me, if I’m not careful. I have to be very cautious about how I dress Matt. I even had to throw out some of the cute outfits that my sister had bought for him, before she died.

I hadn’t taken her number off my phone yet. One time I even dialed it to see who would answer.

I had made dozens of friends since moving to Butte from Cut Bank. Not that Butte is an open-minded, big city. But it does have almost enough people, to allow me the anonymity that I need.

It hardly seems like four years since the car accident that killed Mom and Dad. I could still remember Mom’s voice, and how she would calm me, after some embarrassing episode at school. Luckily, I can forget some of what Dad had said -- and done. I wasn’t all I could be, in his eyes.

I’m not the person I had been in Cut Bank. I had paid a lawyer I found in the yellow pages to change my name, and as much as possible -- my gender. The process had been embarrassing. He had asked the most incredibly personal questions.

I walked back into the freshly-cleaned kitchen and grabbed a Diet Pepsi from the fridge. Popping it open I again found my phone and dialed Sarah, the only one of my friends who doesn’t have caller I.D.

I can count on her to pick up, even though I don’t really consider her to be all that good, of a friend.

Kirby says I’m intolerant. Some of my friends can’t “tolerate” Kirby, but they don’t know him as I do.

I looked at the fresh flowers, in a vase, on the bookshelf. It seemed like Kirby bought me fresh flowers, at least once a week. A guy who buys you pretty things can’t be all bad.

“Hey, girl. I was just wondering about you.” Her voice sounded like a life raft.

“Hi, Sarah. I thought I’d better call and make sure y’all were doing all right.”

“Oh, you know how we are. All work and no play.” She paused a moment.

I could hear her husband in the background.

“Tom says hello. He wants you to bring that sweet little baby over -- next week.”

What he had really said sounded much less friendly.

“Tell him hello. I’ll come over, if the car is running.” The bank and I owned a late eighties’ Toyota Corolla. Originally the paint had been a yellowish-green, but it had morphed over the years to a deep shade of rust and primer.

My house smells like baby, and not a Johnson & Johnson baby. If only, I could afford an air freshener.

“I thought Kirby was going to fix that car for you?”

I could hear a disappointing tinge, in her voice.

I shouldn’t have called her. She always knows how I feel, without my ever having said it.

She just knows.

“He was. . .he will. Eventually, he’ll fix my car.”

“You okay, darling?”

“I’m fine. Matt is waking up,” I lied. “I better get him. Let’s do lunch next week.” I know we won’t. I don’t have the money and neither of us has the time. Wal-Mart doesn’t schedule my hours to facilitate a social life. “I love you, Sarah.”

“Love you more.”

I smiled for a moment before the tears began to streak across my face. I wanted so badly to scream, yell, or cry -- anything that might have made me less miserable. Instead, I set the phone back on its charger, grabbed a blanket, and curled up on the couch.

I hadn’t been feeling too good about myself since I cut my medicine by half, to save money. The hair on my face had gotten darker and seemed coarse. I think the boy who bagged my groceries noticed because he sneered at me the way the boys in Cut Bank did -- way back when.

Kirby gave me enough for a household budget. But I didn’t do a good enough job with coupons and wasted too much.

I turned on the TV. I just can’t think clearly enough to follow the plot.

The lawyers had split the money from Mom and Dad’s estate between my sister, them, and me. It had given me the opportunity of a lifetime. I had been taking my hormone pills, for just over six months, when I first met Kirby, while walking home from work, enjoying the spring sun. A soft breeze flowed through my long hair and under my pink suit’s skirt -- intoxicating me with the wonder of my new womanhood.

Back then, all my things had been new. My job as a receptionist at a law firm required that I wear suits. I’d just been given a raise and an extremely favorable review. My silk, eggshell blouse looked stunning with my cameo broach.

I miss my jewelry. I’ve pawned most of it.

I had interrupted my walk, to watch a softball game, in the park. I had been a pretty good player, at one time.

Kirby saw me sitting in the stands and came over as soon as the game ended. He offered me a beer, and after that -- several more. Then he gave me a ride home.

I had felt no interest in boys before meeting Kirby, never having dated. . .girls or boys.

His attention surprised and excited me.

Kirby seemed so incredibly handsome and so ambitious. He told me all about himself and where he would go in life, once he got his big break. For the moment, he worked at a second-hand sporting equipment store. He would either become the manager -- or would move on to a better opportunity.

Kirby treated me with the utmost respect. It never occurred to me that there might be a problem when he found out my secret.

I knew instinctively what to do for him and I think I did it okay because he never complained. The first time he felt me down there he got really mad and I suppose I deserved it.

I lost my law firm job when I couldn’t come to work, because of the bruises. Jobs like that are hard to find.

It wasn’t all Kirby’s fault. Things had turned sour for me, with the lawyers after a bar association meeting where the lawyer that changed my name gossiped with my bosses.

Most of the money from Mom and Dad’s estate went to pay for minor cosmetic surgery, pills, and doctors’ visits. The breasts operation had been expensive, but Kirby said they’re worth every penny I paid for them. He can be so sweet when he wants to be.

The one thing I did that turned out to be smart was buying our house before the money evaporated. I put enough down so that I could manage the payments.

Even so, we seemed to be forever a month behind, at the bank. Kirby has a genius for handling credit cards. He moves money around, so they don’t know how much we owe, in total. His deviousness keeps us going, although the interest rates and fees seem awfully high.

After our wedding ceremony, Kirby moved in with me and things were good. Every once in while, he would get mad about me not being able to have a baby. Kirby really wanted to be a daddy. He loves kids so much.

God had heard about our problem and responded in a way that both hurt and helped. Had I known what he had up his sleeve -- I never would have prayed so much, for a baby.

My sister died in childbirth — not that God would kill my sister just for my happiness. No one knew who had fathered little Matt, and no one else could help -- so I ended up with him.

I had thought everything would be perfect between Kirby and me, once we had our baby.

The social worker who placed Matt with us has been acting less than cordial. She did something called a “criminal background check” on Kirby and me. Maybe she had found out about some of Kirby’s run-ins, with the law.

He just can’t seem to keep away from drugs. Sometimes he needs a little something because I make him uncomfortable with himself, which I understand -- given how secretive we have to be with everyone about me.

No one knows. Some days I even forgot -- and then Kirby will remind me and I’m startled by my reality.

All of my thinking about the past made me drowsy, or maybe I had consumed one too many toddies waiting for Kirby. When I woke, complete darkness cloaked our house.

The TV had been shut off.

I had slept long enough to put a terrible crick in my neck. I reached a hand to massage the knot while I walked down a darkened hallway.

Kirby had sprawled across both sides of the queen bed we shared.

The smell of alcohol hit me at the doorway. So much for his promise to get up early and finish the yard work.

I flicked the light switch a few times hoping to get a response. Or, at least a piece of the bed to sleep on.

He remained motionless.

I could have covered him. But if I woke him, it would turn bad.

If he found me sleeping on the couch, in the morning, he would feel rejected and accuse me of not loving him.

I don’t have any good options.

I would have considered a can of gasoline, to end it altogether, if not for the baby.

Why do I think thoughts like that? Kirby has a right to scold me if I become lazy and don’t tend to things the way I should. If I didn’t deserve it, he wouldn’t get so mad.

I took the extra blanket from the foot of the bed and settled back onto the couch. I knew from experience the couch provided better comfort and was the far better choice than what I would get -- if I woke him.

Lightning shot across the sky, momentarily filling the living room. Matt’s eyes winked open, at the crack of the thunder.

I stayed still, waiting for him to decide whether, or not, to go back to sleep.

His eyes drooped again.

I shifted my position on the couch and the remote fell to the floor, with a clunk.

Matt’s eyes flashed open, and he let out a screech.

“Shh, baby. Momma’s here.” Please don’t let Kirby wake up. “It’s okay.” I bounced Matt lightly in my arms. Left, middle, middle, right, middle, middle. He likes to be bounced in a specific pattern. Kirby thinks I baby Matt. Not even a steady bounce will calm him when he misses his real Mom and the milk that would have come from her breasts.

“Can’t you shut that frickin’ kid up?” Kirby screamed from the bedroom.

“Shit.” Did I say that out loud, or had I just thought it?

I could see him heading down the dark hallway. I couldn’t make out his expression. But I knew what would come next.

He pushed past me, turned on the TV, and cranked the volume up.

“If we’re all gonna be up anyway, we may as well see what’s on.” His breath could have knocked a buzzard off a manure wagon at forty paces. He turned the remote over in his hands a few times, like he was examining it for some sort of evidence, and then switched his gaze toward me.

The cable company had shut us off a few months back, and he missed his ESPN.

His eyes were gray empty voids. “Shut that damn kid up.” He threw the remote across the room. It crashed into the vase on top of the bookshelf -- sending water, yellow roses, and shards of crystal, around the room.

I shut my eyes and tried not to think about how much I would miss the last of my mom’s leaden crystal.

Kirby can be hard on things.

I set Matt down in his bassinet, even though he still howled. Kirby expects me to clean up the mess left by his little outbursts.

He grabbed me by the wrist and shoved me against the wall. “I told you to shut that kid up. Now, look what he made me do.”

“Just go to bed, Kirby. Everything will look different in the morning.” I tried to pull my arm free.

“Don’t tell me what to do in my own home. ‘Everything’ will never be the same. Not unless there’s some magic pill that can completely change ‘everything’ about you. You should have told me the truth, long before everyone started to think of us as a couple.”

“You should have stayed longer, at the bar.”

The words had barely cleared my mouth before I regretted saying them.

His grip on my arm tightened and from the corner of my eye, I saw his free hand make a ball. The room around me went black, as I fell to the floor, stunned by the blow.

In the morning, roses would wait for me on the counter – maybe he would get me breakfast in bed.

He would say, “I love you, baby. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It will never happen again.”

I had everything I always wanted, plus fresh-cut flowers at least once a week.

The End

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a kudos and a comment. They mean a lot to me.

Thanks to Gabi for the review and help.

I have donated a group of stories to BC to help generate revenue for this site. Erin has said that these stories have raised tens of thousands of dollars in revenue for BC. I don’t receive any of that revenue.

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Stories available through Doppler Press on Amazon:
Shannon’s Course
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Texas Two-Step
All Those Things You Always Pined For
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Swifter, Higher, Stronger
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Baseball Annie
The Girl Who Saved Aunt T’s
Her
She Like Me
How You Play the Game
Hair Soup
Perfectionists
Imperfect Futures
Minnifer
Voices Carry
Andy and Dawn
The Handshake That Hides the Snake

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Comments

Evocative

waif's picture

Excellent and painful story. I admire your ability to provoke the reader into feeling as if she were in the story.

Thank you

waif

Be kind to those who are unkind, tolerant toward those who treat you with intolerance, loving to those who withhold their love, and always smile through the pains of life.

Life Is Full Of Shit

joannebarbarella's picture

Jill, this story is one of those that you can't put down, not because it draws you in but because it repels you.

This poor woman, victim of her own success as a transgendered girl, and then gifted with a baby, but also having a husband totally unable to cope with the situation.

I don't know how you do this. This is one powerful piece of writing and would succeed in this arena and in "straight" fiction I think. Definitely one of your best, even if not one of your most enjoyable.

I can only marvel at your skill,

Joanne

You do like to make us think don't you?

Well written, but it's a wake up call, TG land isn't all frills and lace!
The title says it all "Real Life".

You're a clever writer Angela.

LoL
Rita

Age is an issue of mind over matter.
If you don't mind, it doesn't matter!
(Mark Twain)

LoL
Rita

Something the Rolling Stones said...

Andrea Lena's picture

...you can't always get what you want...but life sometimes finds you not even getting what you need. Sad but real...perhaps too real for some, but what the hell, I'm a survivor, so I guess for once I do have room to talk. Excellent story, dear sister!


She was born for all the wrong reasons but grew up for all the right ones.
Possa Dio riccamente vi benedica, tutto il mio amore, Andrea

  

To be alive is to be vulnerable. Madeleine L'Engle
Love, Andrea Lena

Too horribly real ......

but one comment is about this 'putting you off wanting to become one of the fairer sex' and another refers to wife-beating (and husband beating).

ABUSE CAN HAPPEN TO ANYONE BY ANYONE. And I'm not sorry to shout that.
Abuse can be mental, emotional, physical, sexual, medical, financial, social. ANY attempt to maim or damage or intentionally hurt the soul, mind, body or life of another is ABUSE. Face up to it. Being UNKIND is abuse which means we all do it sometimes.
To my view, (while abuse can be almost unconscious especially if 'institutional' such as with the Church and other less-lovely groups) the real abuse is when it is planned and intentional and deliberate. That to me makes it EVIL.
Like here.
Thanks for the horrid story.
AP

As soon as I saw the title on the front page again

I knew exactly which story this was.

I didn't have to read it again to feel the pain, the frustration, the fear and helplessness, mixed with the self-delusion and self-loathing. This story has stuck with me for years, and likely always will.

I don't remember if I PMed you the first time I read this. It seems I didn't comment, at the least. I'm correcting that now.

It takes a good author to be able to communicate this much pain as well as the joy in some of your other works.

I hope, hope no matter the odds against it, that this young woman learns to respect herself, and the life of the child she's responsible for, enough to be rid of the dead weight that is weighing her down. That is, and will be, my head canon: that despite our main character's flaws, she will find the help she needs, in friends and in her own heart, to truly become the best woman she can.

Melanie E.

Needs Help

Compassion is a quality that is mocked by many today.

Suckers. That's what many think of compassionate people.

A few weeks ago I toured the grounds of a Buddhist temple in Madison WI. Buddhist aren't perfect. But they believe the road to personal happiness is through charitable and compassionate acts.

This protagonist needs someone to show her that acceptance doesn't have to come with a price tag of bruises and abusive language.

What hurts more than anything else in this story are the number of people who have given up on her.

Almost as tragic is the life Kirby has carved out for himself.

The protagonist destroyed her previous identity and has no personal esteem with which to meet daily challenges.

If this story bothers you, please respond by showing compassion to someone in your life -- that needs it. It will make you a happier person.

Jill

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Yow

erin's picture

Excellent writing, rough story. Cold water for someone who might want to become a member of the fairer sex but has idealized the outcome.

- Erin

= Give everyone the benefit of the doubt because certainty is a fragile thing that can be shattered by one overlooked fact.

Balance

Yesterday, I posted the bubblegum story "Bringing Good Cheer."

"Real Life Test" is meant to balance the equation.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Romance

erin's picture

Yeah, TG fiction has some of the same expectations that Romance fiction has; there may be problems but a happy ending is usually assumed.

A story like this or like Angel's "[Where No Boy Has Gone Before]" is needed to keep us all grounded, if not in reality, at least in the nearest acceptable substitute. :)

- Erin

= Give everyone the benefit of the doubt because certainty is a fragile thing that can be shattered by one overlooked fact.

Strawberry Fields Forever

The older I get, the more impressed I am by some of the Beatles' lyrics.

Let me take you down, cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Nothing is real and nothing to get hungabout.
Strawberry fields forever.

Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see.
It's getting hard to be someone but it all works out, it doesn't matter much to me.
Let me take you down, cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Nothing is real and nothing to get hungabout.
Strawberry fields forever.

No one I think is in my tree, I mean it must be high or low.
That is you can't you know tune in but it's all right, that is I think it's not too bad.
Let me take you down, cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Nothing is real and nothing to get hungabout.
Strawberry fields forever.

Always, no sometimes, think it's me, but you know I know when it's a dream.
I think I know I mean, but it's all wrong, that is I think I disagree.
Let me take you down, cause I'm going to strawberry fields.
Nothing is real and nothing to get hungabout.
Strawberry fields forever.
Strawberry fields forever.

At least one of them had to be transgendered to understand that much about duality.

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Real Life Ouch

Tough story.

I'd almost describe it as a scene rather than a story had it not been for the expectations of the protagonist, who is such a lost soul that you didn't even give her a name.

Sad, sad, sad. You left the poor girl in deep doo doo, trapped within her expectations, living with a prime candidate for a burning bed, and no way out.

I will never read another one of your stories gain. (just kidding) ;)

Aardvark

"Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony."

Mahatma Gandhi

Real Life Test

There are a lot of women in this situation, regardless of what genetics they were born with. It is terribly sad that any woman has to live their life like this. We all deserve so much more.

I didnt like the story

Im sorry Angela. This story is about as depressing as they come. I know the situation is very realistic and does happen. I read it i nthe hopes it would turn around. Now I finished it and im very sad. My only hope is that somehow she wakes up and leaves the bastard. Wife beaters like that are pathetic. Same goes to husband beaters too (rarer but does happen). Kirby does NOT deserve her or their baby. The social worker was right.

Angela your writing of this tale is superb. Its the subject matter that upsets me. So please dont take my dislike as personal.

Sephrena Miller