All Rights Reserved.
(Cover image designed by Shauna J. Rousseau and Joyce Melton.)
(Image Source: 193656564 © Parkpoom4 - Dreamstime.com)
I feel terrible as I climb into my Uber. I have an hour to get to my two o’clock appointment with Dr. Greenwell. It’s Friday, and Kim doesn’t work today, so that leaves Mel alone for the last couple of hours.
Sure, the last hour is usually really slow, but it’s just one o’clock, and it was still pretty busy when I came out. Mel had just complained that she can’t drive me and told me that she’s used to being alone all day on Fridays—that she’s just happy to have me.
I arrive at the office about twenty minutes early and check-in with the receptionist. She gives me a ream of paperwork to fill out and says the doctor is running about fifteen minutes behind. I sigh—I could have helped Mel at least another half an hour.
I spend the next ten minutes filling out the paperwork and then sit there for a minute before I tell the receptionist—after I confirm that things are still behind—that I will be right back and I’m just going outside for a few minutes.
I ride the elevator back down and exit to the street, where I pull out my e-cig, turn it on, and inhale deeply. I reflect on how things have been going this week as I feel the tingly calming sensation of the nicotine take effect.
Kim is still mad at me for allowing myself to get hooked, but I made it up to her by making more of an effort to ‘acquire’ the taste of her favorite wine. It still tastes like dirt—but at least not as moldy anymore.
I’m getting better at mastering the basics of the bakery—I have the part behind the counter and the serving piece down pat. I’m still struggling with the kitchen part during breakfast and lunch, but I will get there—it’s just basic sandwiches and not gourmet meals.
It’s the early-morning part that’s going to take the most time, though. I can load and unload baking sheets with the best of them! But getting the mixing of the batters and preparing the doughs—and turning those into something not only edible, but works of edible art is still a long reach for me.
I look at the clock on my phone and sigh. I take one more pull on the device and turn it off. I place it in my purse as I exhale the lung full of vapor and go back inside to enter the elevator.
The receptionist looks up as I enter the suite and smiles. She exclaims, “Perfect timing! Dr. Greenwell just called for you! Please go back through here and just knock on the door at the end of the hall. She’s waiting for you.”
I nervously thank her and follow her instructions. I’m not nervous about seeing a shrink—like I said before, Dr. Wellington has sort of been like a mother to me—but I am a little nervous to bare my soul to a new shrink.
I lightly knock on the door and wait for the invitation to enter. I open the door and walk into an office not dissimilar to Dr. Wellington’s at home. It is a typical office, comfortably furnished—with a feminine flair, but not overly so. It has a seating area with several cushy chairs and a table on the side opposite the desk and bookshelves.
Dr. Greenwell is getting up from behind the desk and smiling at me. She’s nothing like Dr. Wellington, however. Dr. Greenwell is very young, comparatively—she looks to still be in her twenties or early thirties at the most. She certainly can’t have been out of medical school for long, however old she is.
Dr. Wellington, on the other hand, is much older, probably closer to fifty. While she could easily be my mother, Dr. Greenwell would be more of an older sister’s age—or a very young mother had she had me.
She comes over to me with her hand extended and maintaining a bright smile. She says in a gentle voice, “You must be Angelique! Welcome, I’m Vicky. Come in and have a seat!”
I give her a nervous smile as I limply shake her hand—I think that’s what girls do, right? I answer, “Yes, Ma’am. Please call me Angie, Dr. Greenwell.” I take a seat in one of the cushy chairs.
She takes a seat across the coffee table from me and says, “OK, Angie—but only if you call me Vicky. Otherwise, I’m afraid I’ll have to call you Ms. Jennings.” She smiles in a way that lets me know she’s serious but in an easy manner.
I sigh and nod, “OK, Vicky. I’m just not used to calling my doctors by their first names.”
She giggles a little and says, “Well, don’t think of me as your doctor—think of me as your friend and confidant. Now, would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea, soda…?
I say, “Well, maybe just some water?”
She nods and elegantly gets up to go to a refrigerator in the area. There’s a coffee carafe sitting on top of it, and she pours herself a cup—leaving it unadulterated—and opens the refrigerator to take out a bottle of water. I see it is fully stocked with all sorts of soft drinks.
She hands me the water and sits back down. Then she sits back, crosses her long legs, and looks at me silently for a minute through the steam rising from the coffee she is cradling between her hands—as if to warm them.
After she takes a first careful sip, she says, “If you change your mind on the coffee, just let me know—or please just pour your own. Some people complain it’s too strong, so fair warning!”
She uncrosses her legs and crosses her feet at the ankles as she leans forward to put her cup on the table. She grabs a pad and pencil on the table, along with a digital recording device, then explains, “I will take a few notes here and there, but I want to fully focus on our discussion. Do you mind if I record it?”
I open the water bottle and take a small sip, leaving a light ring of lipstick on the mouth of the bottle. I fight a nervous giggle—it looks like the bottle has lipstick of its own. I pull myself together and reply, “No, that’s fine. I don’t mind. I’m used to that with Ging… er… Dr. Wellington.” I blush.
She smiles, and I can see the good-natured ‘gotcha’ in her eyes. She doesn’t pounce on the fact that I have long called Dr. Wellington by her first name, Ginger. She likely knew that from any discussions she had with her about my case, though.
She turns on the device and begins, “So, Angie. I understand that you just came to Chicago to study art. I have some second-hand knowledge about you, but can you fill me in? Give me a little background about yourself, please.”
I sigh and force myself to sit upright and cross my ankles, with my hands folded around the bottle of water in my lap. It’s not easy in these cushy chairs, but she’s doing it! At least I remembered to sweep my skirt when I sat!
I cringe at all of these thoughts running through my head and try to focus on what to tell her about myself. I don’t want to bare my soul—at least not yet. I need to know her better first, too.
I finally open up with, “Well. There isn’t too much to tell, to be honest. I graduated a little early from high school. I’m not a genius or anything—I just planned my credits well, so don’t get the wrong idea. That allowed me to come here early enough to seek a job to pay for my room and board for college after I got my acceptance letter. My parents were killed in a car accident a couple of years ago, and my older brother has been looking out for me. My Dad set up a college fund for me to pay for tuition, but it won’t cover anything else, hence the job search.”
I take another nervous sip of the water and lightly rub my finger on the lipstick ring around the bottle’s mouth. I shrug and look back up at her before I continue, “That’s about it, really. I grew up like most kids that have lost their parents—for whatever reason. Bob, my brother, was great—but no substitute for Mom. So, I learned to lean on Ginger—Dr. Wellington—more.”
She doesn’t say anything, so I continue, “Anyway, I got here on Monday and lucked into a job my first day—along with an awesome studio apartment. Now, I just have to finish registration…and get on with college life.”
She nods and prods, “As Angie?”
I sigh. Now, we’re getting down to business. I nod, “Yes, I hope so. I’m not sure how registration will go… I applied as Greg.”
She sits silently for a moment, then prods some more, “And I believe you came to Chicago as Greg? You’ve told me about his life—or at least some of it. I would like to come back to that later, but can you tell me a little more about Angie?”
I shrug and just stare off into space for a minute. I focus back on her and take a deep breath before admitting, “I don’t know that there is much to say there…yet. After I decided to get over my issues—for now—and give myself the freedom to let Angie come out to play, things have been great! Not only am I learning a whole new profession—only as a side-gig, though—I also now have a girlfriend.”
I blush and add, “Well, we’re taking it slow, but I certainly have two girl friends, one of which is interested in us becoming girlfriends.” I giggle.
Vicky nods as if what I just said made complete sense. I’m glad it did to her because I just confused even myself!
She asks, “So, when you say, ‘After I decided to get over my issues…’, what did you mean by that? Issues?”
I shake my head—now she’s starting to dig into the meat of the matter. I wish I could vape right now…
I sigh and say, “As Greg… Well, I wanted to try living as a girl years ago—back when I first started blockers. Things were different then, though. We had just changed presidents… Things weren’t perfect for…transgendered people like me under our last president, but they seemed to be looking up. Then, well…we quickly backslid—I think to levels much worse than they’ve openly been for a long time. It seems people are getting the idea it’s OK to be male chauvinistic, pompous, pseudo-pious bigots again.”
I take another deep breath and forge on, “I…I…I chickened out.” I don’t tell her the real reason why, “I just didn’t want to become the poster child for a ‘cause’, and then become the stomping ground for another. So, I punted and just went on blockers. When I got here this week, I kind of figured I could start fresh, and no one—or at least a very few—would know my history. It still scares the life out of me, and I can’t say that I’m completely convinced I should do it. I’m still basically a chicken.”
She prompts, “But…?”
I bite my lower lip, “But nothing, really. I can still back out of this, no harm. Mel won’t care if I’m Greg—or Angie. It might complicate things with Kim; I don’t know. The only ‘but’ is that if I register as Angie—and start classes—then I’m stuck. For better or worse. And I need to talk to the powers-that-be there to find out what that would take, if you don’t talk me out of this, altogether.”
She looks surprised and takes a sip of her no-longer steaming coffee. She asks, “And why on Earth do you think I would do that?”
I give her a shallow grin and say, “Well, I don’t know if you would—or should. Frankie—Dr. O’Hara, my new endocrinologist—said she would only move forward long-term with hormones if you are convinced that I’m not crazy.”
I giggle, “She didn’t say it in those words, but she wants your endorsement that you’re convinced that I’m convinced this is what is supposed to happen. So, unless we figure this out today, then you’ve effectively talked me out of it!”
She looks at me thoughtfully and sighs, “Gee! No pressure on a first visit! It’s a good thing we have two hours! So, why does it have to be figured out today, when you’ve had four years to figure it out? What’s the hurry, all of a sudden?”
I shake my head and wish I could go vape to calm my nerves! I sigh and reply as I fidget, “This is the one chance I have to make a break and try this without anyone knowing my history. It scares the bejesus out of me—what if someone figures it out? I really don’t want to get beat up—or worse! I know, I’m a chicken!”
She scowls at me and admonishes, “Angie! Don’t even go there, girl! I know Frankie well, and I’m sure she probably told you that ‘transgendered’ is not a dirty word—and she’s absolutely right! But that doesn’t mean that it’s not a scary world for transgender individuals.”
I nod and fidget some more. This is really getting to me. I never told Ginger the truth… No one knows the truth…
She gives me a hard look. I almost think she’s on to me! She finally says, “You seem a little on edge, Angie. Is there something…you need?”
I sigh and admit, “I…ummm… Well, I sort of got hooked on vaping this week…”
She nods and says, “OK. And now you’re craving the nicotine to soothe your nerves—which means that you’re nervous about something. So, spill!”
I know I’m caught, but I’m not ready to talk. I mean—how do I know I can trust her? I didn’t even tell Ginger, and I’ve known her for years!
She gives me another hard look and says, “Come with me, Angie.” Surprised, I follow her out to the elevator and wonder what’s going on as she pushes the button for the top floor. We exit, and she takes me to a door that has stairs behind it—leading up.
We go up the stairs and exit on the roof. There is a gazebo and a roof-top garden with several benches. It’s hot, but not too bad in the shade of the gazebo. She sits down on one of the benches and pats the space next to her for me to sit.
Then she surprises me as she takes out a cigarette and lights it. She looks at me as she inhales deeply, then blows out her smoke and says, “OK, so…vape. But tell me, Ange. Why did you let yourself get hooked? What are you compensating for? Ginger told me that she has long suspected that you were holding something back. Can you please tell me what you’re so afraid of?”
I sigh and take out my device and inhale deeply after turning it on. I let the nicotine soothe my nerves and consider how to answer her question. Finally, I decide there’s no sense burying this anymore.
I breathe in another lung full and hold it for longer than usual, then let it out as I say, “I…I…I witnessed something. Back when I first decided to try living as a girl… I knew someone else that was transgendered. She was open about it—people seemed to be getting to be more accepting of the idea of transitioning. So, she decided she was going to live her life and be happy. We became best friends, and I talked to her a lot about my wish to transition—and she had almost talked me into it. I wasn’t going to be open about it or anything—and that was my struggle. How was I going to do that without changing schools—or even neighborhoods, for that matter.”
I pause to try and pull myself together, and then cry, “I let her down! One day, outside of school, they…beat her. I thought they were going to kill her! It was awful! I started to run for help, but someone called 911, and it was nearly too late. She lived but was broken after that—her will to live was beaten out of her. The bastards that did it to her—they got off! Since everyone was under-aged, the records are sealed, and I don’t know how—but they got off.”
I break down and cry. I blubber, “She…she…she nearly ended things after that. And I…distanced myself from her—I told myself it was to protect her. It…was just me being chicken! That’s when I decided to just…wait…”
I take a shaky breath and whisper, “I never told anyone about it—not even my parents. It terrified me—and I never trusted anyone after that about even thinking of transitioning.”
She takes another drag on her cigarette and asks, “Do you know what happened to your friend?”
I shake my head and hang it in shame. I admit, “I don’t. She moved away with her family after that… She had no friends left—and no one seemed to care about her. I mean, I did—I just didn’t know how to relate to her anymore.” I take another deep lung full of the numbing nicotine and let it out as I say, “I’m so ashamed of what I did back then! I was just so scared—I still am! Especially now that things are getting so out-of-hand with this president and the dark forces he’s stirring up! I mean, I’m just waiting for white hoods and burning crosses to be normal on the streets again!”
She nods silently as she blows out her smoke and puts out her cigarette. She says, “I first started smoking when I figured out that I was a lesbian, and it freaked me out. I rarely smoke anymore, but I will when the situation calls for it. It’s a coping mechanism that I don’t need anymore since I’m at peace with myself. Let’s see if we can get you there, too.”
She takes me back down to her office and says, “Angie, I want you to know that you’re not to blame for what happened to your friend. You know that, right? You’re smart, so I know you do. That won’t lessen your guilt—but talking about it will help. Do you want to find out what happened to your friend? I have some sources that might be able to help.”
I sit back down in one of the chairs and fold my hands in my lap. I think about that for a minute, then reply, “I would like to know what happened to her. She was such a bright spirit before she was attacked. I just don’t know how I would ever be able to reconnect to her—how she would ever forgive me?”
She makes a few notes on her pad and then says, “OK. Let me see what I can do. We’ll put that on our long-term list of things to conquer. Now that we have that out in the open, though…” She pauses before continuing, “It seems your biggest impediment is still your fear of being found out. Is that right?”
I nod with my eyes downcast.
She asks, “So, if you didn’t have to worry about what others think—or might do—what would stop you from being Angelique? The main question is, who are you?”
I sigh and think about that. Finally, I respond, “If I didn’t have to worry about anything else—what others think or would do, the cost, the fear of not knowing how to be the girl that I know I am, then…well, there is no question. I am Angelique!”
She smiles and nods, “And I believe that, too. Now, we can work on some of those fears. You have two wonderful friends, it seems—one of which is your girlfriend—that can help you figure out how ‘to be a girl.’ Although I have to say, there’s not really a secret to that. Sure, you’ll have to practice some things to be more feminine, maybe—but that’s what the girls can help you do. And I’m pretty sure Frankie has the cost thing covered.”
I nod and sigh. When she puts it that way…
She continues, “So, shall I fill out the rest of the paperwork for your registration? I think you already have some of it from Ginger?” I slowly nod and say, “Yes, I have a letter from Ginger that states that I’m under a psychiatrist’s care and that I’m transgendered and transitioning. What else would I need from you?”
She smiles and says, “Well, I will confirm that you’ve transferred your care to me and that I support Dr. Wellington’s diagnosis. I will also state that I support your transition. Is that what you want? Like you said, if you start as Angie, it will become much more difficult for you to go back—if you are worried about people knowing, that is. Something that I think may be less of an issue at your arts college than you may think.”
I hesitate, not sure what to do. Finally, she says, “Why don’t you go back up to the roof for a little bit while I write out the letter. Come back in about fifteen minutes, and we’ll finish up today’s session. Sound good?”
I nod and go back up to the roof, where I sit back in the shade of the gazebo and fall into deep thought. I don’t even realize that I’m vaping until I let out my final lung full. The cartridge is empty, and I don’t have anymore.
I take that as a sign that I need to make a decision. I look at my phone and see that I’ve been up here for over ten minutes. I pull myself together and go back to the elevator, still on the fence about what to do.
As I enter her office and she looks up, I make the choice that I need to…woman…up. I can’t let these idiots and their fear tactics rule my life. I just hope I’m not being naïve and don’t wind up regretting it if someone does find out!
I take a deep breath and ask, “May I have that letter, Vicky?”
She just smiles and comes to give me a hug. She hands me the signed letter and two copies. She says, “You should also seriously consider getting your gender and name officially changed. Since you haven’t been here in Illinois long enough—plus you aren’t of legal age yet—you need to have your brother take care of things in Omaha. I talked to Ginger, and she’s happy to help walk him through what needs to be done. It will take a few weeks, but you can let the school know that you’re working on it. Once your name change is official, you will have to decide whether you want to make Chicago your primary residence and get a driver’s license here with your new name and gender—or go back to Omaha to get a new one there.”
I nod. In for a penny, in for a pound… I say, “If you talk to Ginger, please let her know I’ll talk to my brother to get going on this ASAP. Thanks, Vicky. I’m still scared senseless—but I feel better about my choice. I just hope I don’t wind up regretting it!”
She smiles and says, “Welcome to adulthood, Angie!”
We set up weekly appointments for me on Thursdays at four to better work with the bakery schedule, and I go back outside to wait on my Uber, still unsure that I made the right choice. But at least I feel better that I confirmed a choice!
I lay back on my bed after hanging up with Bob. He promised to get with Ginger tomorrow to find out what he has to do to get things rolling for my official name change to ‘Angelique Marie Jennings’—Marie after Mom. We decided that depending on whether I have to come back to Omaha for a court appearance or not, would decide on what to do with my driver’s license—either change residence and get it here or do it when back in Omaha for court.
Kim comes in through the outside door and rushes over to give me a kiss. She opens a bottle of wine and pours us a glass as I tell her about my session with Vicky and what the next steps are.
She promises to support me in any way she can—and to prove it, we spend the next hour making out. After we eat, I don’t want her to go, but she has to study, and I have to get ready for bed since I have to be at work at the usual three a.m.
She gives me a goodnight kiss and leaves me with a tantalizing promise, “If you’re a good girl—and you want—I could spend the night here, tomorrow. Would you like that?”
I feel like I just won the Mega-Trillionaire’s Lottery as I respond, “I would love that, Kim! Are you sure…” She kisses me and says, “If you are. I don’t want to pressure…”
I shake my head and say, “No pressure! I can’t wait! Go study so that we can be together tomorrow! I’ll see you downstairs at six! I…I…I love you!”
She looks taken aback, then kisses me and says, “I love you, too, Sweetie!”
And she hurries down the stairs and around the corner out of sight.
Comments
Frightened into Indecision
No one wants to be beat to death for putting on a skirt. To watch as a dear friend had that happen to her could be a great big roadblock and result in pushing everything back into the vault and spinning the lock on the door. Fear is a huge motivator to do or not do a lot of things.
Shauna's writing skills are finally starting to blossom again in this story as she brings the story to life with her unique talent. Although not another Irina story this one is finding it's own way. Just as every girl born is not a beauty queen except in her own mother's eyes, not all stories, even from an exceptional writer, is going to have an emotional bite for every reader.
Shauna, sweety, your story has finally found traction.
Hugs hon
Barb
Life is meant to be lived, not worn until it's worn out.
Oklahoma born and raised cowgirl
Like a good Diesel...
Some stories just get off to a slow start... ;)
I know I took some extra time setting the stage on this one, but the next chapter will be pivotal--and lead to a more exciting end.
Thanks, Barb--as always!
HUGS!
S
Not much to say
except I'm loving this story.
It wasn't Angie's fault
How many people let guilt freeze them from doing something they want to do? How much of that guilt is made up and how much is deserved?
Right now Angie is doing the could, should, would replay with herself. Believing she should have done something to help the friend who was beaten.
What could she have done? How many were involved in the beating? Did she have the skill to stop the attackers? Did she tell the boys to attack her friend?
Many look bad and kick themselves for this or that, but it does no good. The event occurred, it can't be changed. It's just a memory they refuse to take control of. As a result, they dwell on the memory to punish themselves for thinking they should have done this or that at the time.
Others have feelings too.