~o~O~o~

CHAPTER FIVE
“Non vado sempre a messa, ma prego assai il Signore”
– Puccini, La Bohème, Sì. Mi chiamano Mimì (Aria)

Beltsville Maryland, January 4

The clerk behind the desk had a studiously neutral expression on his face. “Just step over to station three and they’ll take your photo.” He had reviewed all of my papers, including the certified copy of my birth certificate. Everything was in order, naturally.

But the birth certificate indicated that Cameron Ross Savin was born male and the person in front of the clerk did not look especially male. My application for a Maryland Driver’s License allowed me not to identify a gender, and I had chosen not to do so.

Maybe the clerk didn’t approve; certainly he seemed stiff and formal. But, I told myself, he also works for the DMV. Warm and fuzzy isn’t in their mission statement.

I walked over to station three, my pumps click-click-clicking on the drab linoleum. Following my doctor’s appointment in the morning, I had gone home and changed before running this particular errand. Javier and Al, my landlords, had left me their car to use while they went visiting Javi’s family in Colombia.

My favorite red skirt and a white dress shirt made a statement, but one that wouldn’t show in the official photo. A portrait shot would capture the collar and just the beginning of the shoulders, but wouldn’t reach either my (prosthetic) breasts or the bra straps that could be seen through the light fabric of the shirt.

I wore only the very lightest makeup – foundation, nearly invisible blush, a touch of lip gloss roughly the same color as my natural lips – and my hair was in a ponytail that was gathered mid-way between the low and tight setting I used when dressed as Cam and the high point where I would wear it to affect a pert, “girl next door” vibe.

The photo needed to be ambiguous, because I wanted to be able to use it whether I was dressed naturally or was wearing my Cam-o-flage.

I longed to be able to proudly list my gender as “F” and take a picture that reflected what I knew inside. Part of me felt that what I was doing was an act of betrayal. But I was where I was in my life, caught between being my old self at work, and my new self outside of it. Like most half-measures, it was unsatisfactory.

The woman taking the photos showed me my image. I looked calm and cool and completely sexless. I hated it.

Perfect.

~o~O~o~
Greenbelt, Maryland, 45 minutes later

The bells over the door jingled as I entered the boutique, and Sarah looked up from her reading. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she said, giving me her usual once-over. As I walked up to her stool behind the check-out counter, she said, “Cami, either you’re up to something nefarious or you’ve lost your touch. You looked better the first time I saw you. What gives?”

“Let me guess,” I said, “they didn’t teach diplomacy in nun school, either.”

She grinned. “I skipped that class.”

I grinned back. “Really? Well, I knew you’d chew me out for looking like this, but I had to get a Maryland driver’s license since I moved out of the District, and I decided I needed one that I could use regardless of how I’m dressed. I’ll fix my hair and my face before I go. Honest!”

Sarah wasn’t giving me a hard time for aesthetic reasons. She preached the importance of safety for trans people, and especially for transwomen. And in her view, nothing provided more safety than blending in. If people would only see a woman when they looked at me, they wouldn’t give me trouble for being trans.

It was good advice and I had taken it very much to heart. Blending in is easier for me, since I have a build and features that are not overtly masculine. But it still required constant mindfulness and significant effort; Sarah was entirely correct that my current look fell short of my capabilities.

She nodded. “Huh. Let me see the photo.”

I showed her the new ID.

“Yeah, okay. I guess that’s mission accomplished. Definitely ugly enough for a driver’s license.” She handed the photo back. “How long are you going to keep it up? All this jumping back and forth has got to be wearing on you.”

“I’m hoping I only have to make it through the very beginning of April. Three months.”

She made a noncommittal noise, but she followed it with a mischievous smile. “I’ve got a present for you, then. Well, a treat, anyway. Seeing as how you’re a lawyer and all, you can pay for it.”

She walked me down an aisle, stopped, and pulled a garment off a rack. It appeared to be a smallish white tank top with wide shoulder straps and a high U neck, but it was designed as a body suit, with the bottom looking like a leotard. The front had what was clearly recognizable as a men’s fly.

I gave her a sideways look. “Okaaaay . . .”

She laughed. “You don’t get it, do you? It looks small because it’s a Rayon-spandex blend. Stretchy. Under a dress shirt, it’ll look just like a men’s undershirt. But it’ll feel like you’re still a girly girl. How’s that for clever?”

I busted a gut. “Okay, you got me. Gotta have it. Make it two. I don’t know which is more funny – that you thought of me when you saw this, or that a nun shops for kinky underwear!”

She grinned. “I can get you a good bargain on vibrators while you’re here, too. After Christmas special, just for you!”

I giggled. A lot. “You kill me!”

We went back to the counter and she rang up my new underwear. When she was finished, she said, “So what brings you here today? Since you didn’t come to take advantage of my latest sales.”

“Mostly just to see you. I had my first appointment with Dr. Chun this morning. It went well. I’ve got stuff to read, and they need to take some blood work and such. But I’m making a start.”

“Good!”

We chatted about transitioning for a bit. What she had seen, what she thought I might expect.

I managed to get her to talk a bit about how she was doing as well. I’d been in the shop for half an hour and there weren’t any other customers.

“It’s a niche market. I sell enough to keep the doors open and pay a few bills of my own, and I don’t need more than that. Most of my sales are online these days. I get by.”

She asked me about Christmas, and I told her about how I had prevailed upon my sister and brother-in-law to come with me to a midnight service at Boston's Episcopal Cathedral. “I don’t know if it’s the right place for me, but it was sure right that night. I really needed it. I do miss belonging to a faith community.”

“I assume you’ve belonged to one before?” When I nodded, she said, “Let me guess . . . . Evangelical; some variation of Reformed. Right?”

“Yes . . . what, is it tattooed on my forehead, or something?”

“Or something,” she said dryly. “Cami, I’m a professional, or I was. You’d be amazed at the tells everyone has with respect to their religious background. But anyway, you said you miss it. Why not go back?”

“Well, they aren’t wild about LGBTQ+ folks, so there’s that. But I left a long time ago.” I thought for a minute. “I know you were – are? Catholic. So maybe you haven’t been taught that God elects a few for salvation, and the rest are destined for damnation from before they were even born?”

She rattled off the catch-phrases. “Double predestination; unconditional election and reprobation. You’re right. Not in our catechism, but comparative theology was covered in nun school. Amazingly enough.” But then she just looked at me, not giving me any help.

“Well, that is what I was taught,” I explained. “But once I was old enough to really understand the idea . . . I just couldn’t accept it. I can’t. It’s like God is this mad potter who makes a million plates that he fully intends to smash, except for ten that he’ll pull out completely at random.”

I paused and added, quietly, “Except it’s worse than that. Because we’re not talking about ceramics. We’re talking about people. Billions and billions of people. Each made in God's own image. What kind of God would do that?”

Sarah cocked her head. “I do believe I have witnessed a miracle. Somebody left a church because they don’t agree with its theology? I was starting to wonder if anybody took theology seriously anymore.” She was being funny, in a Sarah sort of way, but it was clear she wasn’t making fun of what I had said.

I asked, a bit uncertainly, “You think I shouldn’t?”

“I didn’t say that. I just said almost no one does. Not here, anyway. They choose their church based on whether it’s close to their home, or if they have friends there, or if they like the preacher. Or maybe the choir. Maybe if they have good parking, for all I know.

“And it’s not just Protestants, so don’t think I’m finding fault. If you want to see real ignorance, ask Catholics what the feast of the Immaculate Conception celebrates. Virtually none of them know. Or care.”

“You take it seriously.”

“Sure. But again, I’m a professional. You probably take pleadings and writs and all that seriously; doesn’t mean plain Jane Sarah needs to. But look, if theology matters to you, it matters. If you want a faith community that agrees with your personal theology up and down the line, though, you might have a long hunt.”

I thought about that for a minute. “No, I don’t think I need that. But, I don’t want a faith community that’s built around an idea of God, or of people, that just seems wrong to me.” I was speaking slowly, feeling my way.

Sarah just waited, watching me.

I tried to bring some order to the thoughts swirling in my head. “When I was younger, I was sure I had all the answers. And I wanted everyone to know it, too. But when I got older, I decided I wanted to be the type of person who was quicker to ask questions. More willing to listen. Less likely to force my views on others.”

I smiled ruefully. “Some days I manage better than others, but I do work at it. I guess I’d like to find a community that’s more like that. Less like the way I used to be. Does that make any sense?”

She looked skeptical. “Sounds like a debating society, not a church. Though, there are denominations that exist to have rip-roaring debates about the nature of God, if that’s your jam.”

I shook my head. “Not debating, no. I don’t need more of that. Just . . .” I paused, thought, and came up dry, ending with a sound of disgust. “Gaaaaah! I don’t know.”

Sarah gave me a long, measuring look. “How about a community that gathers to pray together, for each other and for this broken world. Where they share their stories and their struggles, put each other back together and lift each other up. Would that be what you’re looking for?”

“YES!!! Where do I sign up?”

“Don’t be so quick, Cami,” she warned. “I’m talking about a group of transwomen who gather for prayer every month. When I suggested you should talk with other women like you, you didn’t exactly leap on the idea. I didn’t press it. Not my place. I know you want to be seen as just another woman, without any modifier. I get that a hundred percent. Maybe they aren’t your people.”

I’ll confess that I was conflicted, and for exactly the reason Sarah had identified. But I knew that these were Sarah’s people. The flock she poured her heart and soul and vocation out for, every day. Sarah had said she went where the wounded and broken people were, and that few people were as hard-pressed today as the trangendered community.

I knew myself to be privileged in many, many ways. And, I didn’t like to think of myself as “broken.” I’m strong. I’m independent.

I’m arrogant.

I thought of my night terrors. Of my feelings of inadequacy. Of how much it hurt when I was rejected by old friends. By family.

And I’m not broken? I don’t need prayers, and healing? I don’t need the support, the wisdom, of women – of transwomen, dammit! -- who had walked this crazy path before me?

Who do I think I am?

My throat was tight when I tried to give an answer. I managed to husk out, “I would love to join them, Sarah. If they’d have me.”

Sarah dropped her pose of ironic detachment and said softly, “Good. Good. Because no one else can really understand what you’re going through, Cami, even if they’re in your corner. Not family, not friends. Not me. And you can understand what they are going through like no one else. You have a unique ability to lift each other up. Don’t waste it.”

I got myself back under control and thanked her. We talked some more, and I pressed her on details so that I would have some idea what to expect. There were seven transwomen in the group, all with faith backgrounds that were different flavors of Christianity.

Each no longer felt welcome in their “home” church, for a variety of reasons (Though none, according to Sarah, had done anything so bizarre as to leave over a theological dispute!). But, like Sarah herself, their faith had survived the loss of their religious affiliation. They met in a private home belonging to one of the older members.

I asked lots of questions and got answers to some.

Finally, Sarah stopped me. “Christ, Cami, you think too much! Just come and meet them. Be yourself. You’ll figure it out.”

A customer wandered in, and I left so that Sarah could get back to her secular work.

~o~O~o~
Baltimore-Washington International Airport, January 4, late evening

There are few better places to people watch than an airport. Almost everyone is there because they are either going somewhere, coming from somewhere, or dropping off or meeting one of the above. There is a feeling of movement, of purpose.

There are eager people, tired people, bewildered people. There are people making hard good-byes. There are joyous reunions. Brisk men and women of affairs, striding confidently. Wide-eyed children, watching jets take off and land. Overworked flight crews. Every size, race, ethnicity, and style of dress.

The flight from Bogotá had landed minutes ago, and I was in a throng of people waiting for the newly arrived passengers. A college-age girl I had chatted with briefly was standing nearby, waiting for her boyfriend to arrive. Nice girl; very pleasant.

Suddenly she looked radiant, and so did the dark young man who was pushing his way toward her. I felt a lump in my throat as they reunited, joyous, tender, passionate, all rolled together.

“That,” said a humorous voice near my ear, “is why you need to find a Colombian man!”

I spun around, having been distracted from my task. “Javi!!!” I gave him a big hug then gave Al one too. “Welcome back, you two!” I cheerfully took each man by an arm, and, steering toward baggage claim, peppered them with questions about their holiday.

When we got to the car I said, “Let me chauffeur; you’ve been traveling all day. Besides, I’m all legal now.” I told them about my new license, and my meeting with Doctor Chun.

They asked about my own holiday, and I said it had been eventful. We arrived back at the homestead. “I got some staples for your fridge for the morning. Now go get some sleep!”

They laughed, and Al said, “I don’t remember when we had such a nice homecoming. It’s good to see you!”

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER SIX
“Ma raison et mon coeur”
– Donizetti, La Fille du Régiment, Ah! mes amis (Aria)

Washington, D.C., January 6-10

“Good morning,” Eileen said warmly as she walked into the conference room. Unusually, she was the last person to arrive, though she was still right on time.

David, Daviana, Greg, and I were already sitting, the sensible among us (me, Daviana) with a cup of coffee. We all said our good mornings and Eileen got down to business.

“Okay,” she said. “We’ve got just over ten weeks before jury selection. So, we’re going to need folders for each witness – ours and theirs – with outlines of questions, the documents that we’re planning to get in through that witness and the other documents that we want to ask them about. For direct, I’m going to take Jacoby. Dave, can you take Dr. Silverman?”

David Parr nodded; Sam Jacoby was the principal witness for the company and Dr. Richard Silverman was our liability expert.

Eileen continued, “Daviana, I’d like you to handle our damages witnesses, Marcuccio and Wilensky.”

Daviana looked enthusiastic, nodding with a smile.

“Cam, ready to take a witness?” Eileen asked with a grin.

“Absolutely!” I said, matching Daviana’s enthusiasm.

“Great,” she responded. “Thune and Sanchez for you.”

I nodded. These were fairly minor fact witnesses whose testimony was limited – perfect assignments for a second-year associate. I was thrilled.

Eileen divided up the five people on Defendant’s witness list as well so that we could start preparing for cross examination. “I’ve prepared an annotated outline of what I anticipate the closing argument will look like. You’ll see the documents and witnesses I’m using to make the case. Use this as your road-map when you’re preparing your outlines and your folders. If you see something that should be in the outline but isn’t, or is in the outline but lacks support, flag it.”

She next explained that we were using a jury consultant to do a mock trial exercise in mid-February, where we would present summaries of our case to a “panel” of regular people, paid to act as mock jurors for the day. It was an opportunity to shop arguments and see what worked and what didn’t.

It was also a very expensive exercise; the client had to pay for the lawyers’ time, including travel, the consultant’s time, the mock jurors’ time, not to mention all the preparation. But when a case involves a lot of money, clients with the resources understand that there aren’t too many better ways to prepare for trial.

Eileen made the assignments. “David and Cam, I want you to present our case in the exercise; Daviana and I will be the ‘red team.’ We’ll get more details when we meet with the consultant on Thursday.” The team breakdown made sense; David and Daviana had been working on the case from the beginning; Eileen and I were the trial reserves.

The meeting went on in this vein for some time. I watched Eileen with keen interest. She’s like a master craftsman, I thought.

She exuded the sense that she knew her business and took real joy in it. Our questions, comments, and concerns didn't distract her. Rather, she viewed them as teaching opportunities (here’s why we need to do this thing, or do it this way rather than that), and also as opportunities for her to look at issues with a different perspective. She made each of us feel valued and all of us feel like a team.

It was one of our longer meetings. As I walked back to my office, I reflected, bemused, on how I had just stumbled into this job. I went to a big firm because I had a pile of debt and I didn’t want to be paying it off forever. But it had been such a great fit for me. I was learning so much, and had such great people to work with.

I felt a shiver of apprehension. Would it be such a perfect fit, I wondered, when they find out I’m Cami? Will I still feel welcome here? Or will I feel, instead, grudging acceptance? Will I see stiffness and formality, I thought, remembering the face of the DMV clerk, rather than Daviana’s warm cheerfulness, or Eileen’s approval?

I didn’t think so, but then, I had also thought better of Curt, who had been both a good friend and something of an intellectual sparring-partner when we were in law school.

Sitting down at my desk, my pinpoint Oxford shirt slid over the rayon and spandex of Sarah’s hysterical present, and the bottom stretched and tugged against my crotch. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, I decided.
In heels.

~o~O~o~
The remainder of the week passed in a complete blur. I was wholly absorbed in my work and had almost no time to think about anything else. I tried to be in bed by 11:00 and mostly succeeded; invariably I was up by 5:00 and doing my workout.

Each day, I was getting a little bit closer to a challenge that I had set for myself: I wanted to be able to do splits. I worked on this during the stretching phases of my exercises, and generally got closer after the aerobic portion than before. I could get my pelvis as close as three inches from the floor, but I hadn’t achieved my goal . . . yet.

I was at work by 7:30 and often stayed until 9:00 or 10:00. But I didn’t have an instant when I thought I was wasting time or engaged in make-work, which made each day pass very quickly.

I had a call during the week on my “Cami App,” and I took it behind closed doors.

“Good morning, Cami,” an unfamiliar female voice said. “I’m Jill Lavery from Dr. Chun’s office. The doctor asked me to give you a call to let you know that the results of your bloodwork came in. After looking them over, she’d like you to get a physical examination as well. If you have a GP you prefer that’s fine, or we can get you an appointment with one of our affiliates.”

I was a bit surprised and asked if anything was wrong.

“No,” she quickly reassured me. “The doctor just wants a more complete baseline picture. She told me you really preferred Saturdays when possible, and we do have an affiliate who is open and has a cancellation this Saturday – Doctor Sheppard up here in Baltimore. Will that work?”

“I hate to ask this, Jill. But . . . is Dr. Sheppard a man or a woman?”

“It’s Doctor Theresa Sheppard.”

I exhaled, thinking that I really don’t want to have a man examine me anymore. If anyone has to see me in my current, in-between state, let it be a woman. “Okay,” I agreed, and we set it up.

I sat for a moment, thought about what I had going on, and sent a text to my friend Nicole, a very New York City girl who was living in exile in the Baltimore area. “Hey crazy girl. I’ve got a doctors’ appointment in Baltimore Saturday AM. Want to get together after?”

A minute later I got back an enthusiastic “Hell Yeah!”

I was working on a response when I got another text.

“Do U know how to ice skate?”

I had to send back a regretful “No,” but what I got back was “Ha!!! Mags doesn’t either! You girls are getting a lesson!!!”

I could only laugh. Nicole is such a fireball. “Sounds great,” I wrote. “Call you later to coordinate?”

She responded, “I’m home. Call whenev. Love ya!”

I sent her a text hug in return and went back to work, feeling much better.

~o~O~o~
Baltimore, Maryland, January 11

Another morning, another doctor’s office. This one came with linoleum. More paperwork. More signatures. “C.R. Savin,” equivocal.

A nurse taking my blood pressure (110 over 75) and pulse (52); numbers meaningless to me. Height (still 5’10,” just), weight (only 136 pounds – yikes!). An examination room. “Please remove all your clothes and put on this gown, opening to the back. Dr. Sheppard will be in in just a few minutes.”

I removed my sweater, skirt, shoes, panties, and tights. My camisole. Each item came off more slowly as my reluctance increased. I stood for a moment in my bra and panty gaff, then finally sighed and got on with it. I had simply placed my prosthetic breasts into the cups of my bra without attaching them, and as I unhooked myself I felt strangely naked. Finally, I pulled off my panty gaff and freed my penis.

I folded my clothes like they were treasures and carefully set them on a chair. Within sight. Within reach. Here I am, I thought. No disguise, no defense. Except a stupid hospital gown that tied in the back.

It would have to do.

Dr. Sheppard was a willowy woman, about my height, with medium-brown shoulder-length permed hair, hazel eyes, and a clipboard. I thanked her for fitting me in on a Saturday.

She smiled and explained that shifting to a Tuesday-Saturday schedule had allowed her to expand her practice, while giving her staff a weekday off when more things were open.

She went through the usual examination. I hadn’t had all that many; growing up, you went to the doctor when you were sick, not when you were well. But I knew the drill. Tapping the chest, the back. Looking into eyes and down the throat. Reflex tests. The usual.

When she was done with those, she said, “Doctor Chun asked for a set of baseline measurements, so let me do that.” Out came a tape measure. The good doctor was very thorough. My skull, my neck; shoulders, arms, chest, waist, hips, legs, hands, feet. Testicles. Penis. I felt like a prize heifer.

As she was doing her tests and measurements, she kept up a stream of questions covering my medical history, some family history. She asked me about my siblings and my parents. Asked me, as had Dr. Chun, about puberty. She asked about my diet and exercise. How much sleep I was getting. Medications and allergies. Alcohol and drugs. Was I sexually active? What were my work habits?

Answering questions kept me occupied while I was being poked, prodded, and measured.

She wrapped up. “Great. Well, Cami, you seem to be in very good shape from a general health perspective. You need to be better about eating and sleeping. I know, I know. You are super busy. And I get that. I really do; doctors don’t tend to be good at practicing what they preach, especially when it comes to sleep habits.”

She talked a bit about my bloodwork – various markers were low or on the low end of normal – again, the numbers meant nothing to me. She wanted me to start taking a multivitamin every day.

“And,” she said, looking at me sternly, “I know you want to appear more feminine, too. But you can’t starve yourself into the right shape.”

At that, I looked a bit guilty.

“I’m serious, Cami. I’m not saying you need to gain weight, though it wouldn’t hurt you. But I don’t want to see any more weight loss. And I would be interested in knowing what amount of variability you are seeing, so get a scale and track your results daily.”

I asked her whether anything in what she had seen might be an impediment to hormone therapy.

She shook her head. “No, from a general health perspective you’re in good shape. I don’t see any issues that would cause me concerns that way.” Then she was off.

I let out a deep breath. Dr. Sheppard had been very pleasant, very professional and very thorough. But I felt an intense desire to be somewhere else.

I pulled off the hospital gown and, before I proceeded further, pulled the necessary vials from my purse and re-attached my prosthetic breasts, sighing as their familiar weight once again pulled at the skin of my chest and caused me to arch my back slightly, adjusting my posture to compensate for the additional weight. I applied makeup to the seams and hooked myself into my bra, nesting each breast in its lacy bed.

Feeling much more presentable, I tucked, slipped into my panty gaff, and then got dressed again.

Praise be!

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Ed assaporo allor la bramosia”
– Puccini, La Bohème, Quando m'en vo (Aria)

Baltimore, Maryland, January 11, afternoon

“Cami!! Over here!”

I had just entered a restaurant that was one of the surviving bastions of Baltimore’s old Greektown, and immediately saw Nicole enthusiastically waving to me from further inside. She was sitting next to another woman who I assumed was her roommate Maggie.

I returned Nicole’s wave with equal enthusiasm, a huge smile breaking across my face just at the sight of her, and quickly worked my way back to her table.

She jumped up and gave me a quick hug. “Cami, this is Maggie; Maggie, Cami.”

Maggie was blonde and blue, average height, and had a warm smile. “Just want you to know I’m officially jealous about your New York adventures, Cami – I’m so bummed I wasn’t there!”

I laughed as we all sat down. “It was a riot, that’s for sure. I don’t think I’ve ever had that much fun! But wait – isn’t it like that every night at your place?”

Maggie pulled a face. “Not hardly; it’s work, work, work at ‘Opera House.’”

Nicole giggled and explained. “That’s what we call the row house we live in, because it’s where we do our vocal exercises and our practices, study scores, learn our parts. Give voice lessons. We sleep there, too, but it’s kind of secondary, you know?”

I shook my head. “No place to get away from work?”

They were both wearing the same goofy smile, but Maggie was the one that answered, “Crazy, right? But . . . it’s hard to describe. Nicole said you’re a lawyer?”

I nodded.

She flashed a smile. “Awesome! But . . . is law what you do, or is it what you live for?”

I had to think about that a moment before responding. “I really love what I do, but . . . I guess I’d still say it’s what I do. It’s my craft. It’s not who I am.”

Nicole broke in. “Yeah, that’s a good way to put it. Mags and I talk about this. We really do live for music, for singing. Doesn’t mean I don’t like to go out and have fun.” She shot me a smile full of shared memory. “But I’d just be lost without music.”

Maggie nodded in firm agreement and added, “Yeah. So I bitch and moan about the hours and all – but I have to do it. Can’t stop myself.”

She looked at me shyly. “Nickie told me about that song you sang in Rockefeller Center. ‘How Can I Keep from Singing?’ I know I can’t. I know she can’t. It’s how we both feel – who we are. So it’s work, work, work at ‘Opera House,’ but we’re a happy workforce.”

“Hi ho, hi ho!” Nicole sang, smiling like Happy.

We talked about where they had met and how they came to be roommates, what they thought of Baltimore (“It ain’t New York,” was Nicole’s short take), where they were singing next. Maggie made me feel very comfortable by asking how I was dealing with my transition, in a way that made it completely clear that it was a non-issue for her.

I decided to treat it with the same nonchalance, mentioning that I was now working with a team of medical professionals and hoped to begin hormone treatment in a couple of months.

“Are you excited? Or, is it scary?” she asked, curious.

“Excited. Thrilled. I’m really looking forward to it.”

“You know,” Nicole said, “our voice coach might be able to help you. A lot of what we do in our exercises has to do with learning better vocal control, working to expand our range – that’s pitch control – and learning how to properly support the voice and keep from straining it. If you had a broader vocal range, you could work to reset the pitch where you center your speaking voice.”

I asked who their voice coach was, and chuckled when they told me. “She’s one of the people my medical group uses; I was going over materials they wanted me to study just yesterday. I suppose it’s not surprising since they’re based in Baltimore. You’d recommend her, then?”

They both did, with their signature enthusiasm.

It was a great lunch. So refreshing to be treated as “just folks.” But Nicole, bless her, nixed dessert. “Okay, you two. No more stalling. Let’s find some ice!!!”

So we piled into Nicole’s car and she drove us to a rink. “Mags said she’s done some in-line skating,” Nicole said. “You?”

I had done some rollerblading, though it had been some years. Like, fourteen. Gulp!

“No problem, then!” she said. “It’s the same thing, mostly. It’ll be a blast.”

I was sure that Nicole’s boundless enthusiasm was papering over an entire host of potentially lethal problems, but I was very pleased to discover that she was actually right on the money.

I was still pretty shaky at first, and Maggie was a bit more so.

But Nicole patiently worked us through our initial wobbliness. The main difference is how you stop, and again, Nicole’s instructions were clear and simple, she gave easy to understand demos and displayed no impatience. Within a half an hour we were skating comfortably and having fun, though we were keeping it very simple.

I skated over to Nicole. “Woman, you have a real gift for teaching!”

She grinned. “I’d better; it’s part of how we make a living!”

She said they give voice lessons. Evidently teaching skills are pretty transferable.

Around ten minutes later, the rink’s sound system had a hiccup and cut out. A voice came over the intercom. “Sorry folks. Technical issue. We’ve made a call but it’ll be silent skate for a bit.”

Nicole got her crazy grin on. “Oh, no it won’t!!”

Maggie skated to the other side of Nicole and looked across her. “Right, Cami. Nickie says you’ve got a nice voice. Pick a song – a show tune – and lead us off with the melody. We’ll improvise!”

If I wasn’t skating, I might have been paralyzed. I’m supposed to sing with THESE two! But I had sung with Nicole, and it had been perfect. And the chance that I knew a piece of music these two didn’t was essentially nil.

On a sudden inspiration, a show tune from my youth jumped to the front of my mind, and I sang, “Meet me in St. Louie, Louie, meet me at the fair!”

Nicole linked arms with me on her left and Maggie on her right, and began improvising a high harmony on “Don’t tell me the lights are shining, anywhere but there.”

Maggie figured out where Nicole was going and joined another harmony for, “We will dance the Hoochee Koochee, I will be your tootsie wootsie; Meet me in St. Louie, I’ll be waiting there!” Maggie’s voice was lower than Nicole’s, but I didn’t have the background to know if she was a second soprano or an alto, or possibly something else I hadn’t heard of. But, like Nicole, she was superb.

People were applauding and shouting, “More, more!!!”

We laughed, and Nicole said, “Pick another one,” and we sang, and we skated, and other skaters clapped along, laughing and smiling. As we finished our third, we glided off the ice, faces cherry-red from the chill of the ice, the exertion, and the sheer fun of it. The girls laughed and took a bow to acknowledge the cheers, and we clumped off to grab a seat and catch our breath.

A middle-aged guy came over and gave each of us a cup of hot cider. “Thanks, ladies. That was awesome! I think we’ll have the music back in a couple minutes, but that was really special. Like a flash mob or something. Anyhow, thanks!” Clearly he worked there.

Some younger guys who had been on the ice came over to say how much they enjoyed it. We were seated, so they seemed to loom over us, but I was pretty sure they were big guys, anyway.

We chatted for a couple minutes, but were interrupted by the sound of our benefactor’s voice over the intercom announcing that their sound system was fixed and apologizing for the issue. The music resumed, and one of the guys invited us to couples’ skate.

Nicole looked at me and Maggie and said, “Nothing to it – no different than what we were just doing together.” So we agreed.

I found myself partnered with a guy who must have been 6’4” and outweighed me by a hundred pounds – I felt tiny beside him, which was actually kind of nice. I said, “Hi, I’m Cami. I haven’t ice skated before, so I’m afraid I’ll have to keep it pretty basic.”

He smiled. “I’m Tom. Don’t worry, Cami. I’ve been skating since I was six – Bruce, Trey, and I used to have hockey practice right here when we were kids. I won’t let anything happen to you. And, I’ll walk you through it as we go, okay?”

“Sounds good,” I said, working hard to keep any hint of nervousness out of my voice.

He took us out onto the ice smoothly, first just holding my right hand in his left. “So, here’s what we’re going to do. I want you to match my leg movements, okay? So our right legs move together then our left legs move together. Ready?”

I nodded and focused on the slow, powerful thrusts of his legs, then matched my own to them.

Once we had completed a circuit that way, he said, “Okay, now, we’re going to keep doing exactly the same thing, but I’m going to shift your hand from my left to my right hand, and put my left hand behind you. On three – one, two three.”

He effortlessly made the exchange, and I found that we were now skating much closer together, more like a pair, and his left palm rested lightly below my shoulder blades, just over the clasp of my bra.

“That feel okay?” he asked.

In fact, it felt wonderful, but he was asking if I was feeling wobbly. I shot him a grin. “Let’s go!”

We skated like that for a while. He would say, “Okay, on three, let’s do six hard kicks, then just glide for a bit. One, two, three,” and I would follow his lead. He used his hand on my back to provide a bit of guidance.

It was really an amazing feeling, sailing over the ice, blades of my skates in a perfect line, feeling completely secure in Tom’s very competent hands. With his help I was going much faster, and much more smoothly, than I had gone before.

The music wasn’t so loud that we couldn’t hear each other, so we were able to talk in between his giving directions. Apparently the three guys had known each other for almost twenty years. They had all played hockey together through high school and Bruce – the one who was skating with Nicole – had even played in college on a scholarship until he had gotten injured one too many times.

“Now,” Tom said, “we just come down here from time to time to play around on the ice.” He added, with a cheerful grin, “And, check out the pretty girls, of course!”

I laughed.

Given that I hadn’t skated in almost fifteen years and I’d never skated on ice, I thought I did very well. We didn’t do anything complicated – nothing like the intricate maneuvers that Nicole and Bruce were executing – and I only got wobbly once, when one of my skates caught a bit.

But Tom just got a little lower and brought his left hand down to my hip to pull me back in and steady me. We skated through three songs, then headed for the sidelines.

I saw that Maggie and . . . “Trey,” was it? . . . were already off the ice as well. We joined them and watched Bruce and Nicole do one more song. There were only a couple of people on the ice, and they used the freedom to really cut loose.

They made an impressive pair. Nicole is, in any setting, absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. On the ice, she looked fluid and graceful – practically serene. While Bruce lacked her natural grace and . . . presence, for lack of a better word . . . like Tom, he was a strong, powerful skater and his impressive hockey player’s physique was striking.

They both looked like they were enjoying the chance to skate with someone who really knew what they were doing. On their last pass, Bruce provided extra locomotion while Nicole balanced on one skate, her left leg high behind her, her back arched and her arms extended.

They were still on the ice when Tom said, “Guys, I’m sorry to be a party pooper, but I’ve got a shift tonight. It’s been a lot of fun!”

Maggie and I told him how much we had enjoyed ourselves, and said our farewells. So it was just Trey, Maggie, and me waiting when Nicole and Bruce glided off the ice. Maggie and I gave them hearty applause as they came up to us.

“You guys looked fabulous!” I enthused.

“Wow,” Maggie said, “You said you knew how to skate, Nicole, but I had no idea you were that good!”

Nicole laughed. “Mom had Olympic fantasies for me when I was little. Before I got better ideas!”

We were all skated out, so we got back into street footwear and Maggie and I returned our rented skates. Bruce suggested that we all go out to dinner.

The rest of the crew were enthusiastic, but I begged off. “I’ve got an early day tomorrow, too,” I said with regret. “You guys have fun. Nicole, this was a great idea! And Maggie, it was so good to meet you!”

Nicole said, “Oh, do you have to?” and Maggie pulled a face. When I said I really did, Nicole said, “You’re taking the MARC train back, right? Let us drop you off at the station, at least.” Since the station was close to where they were going for dinner, I accepted with thanks.

Maggie and I piled into Nicole’s car and got underway; Bruce and Trey had come in separate cars and were going to the restaurant to get a table.

When we were underway, Nicole said, “Is everything okay, Cami? I didn’t know you had to get back?” She’s a sensitive soul.

“I’m fine,” I assured her. “I had a great time. That was incredible – I had no idea what I was missing.”

I quizzed Maggie, who thought it was much better than she had expected, but was not as enthusiastic as I was. We got to the MARC station and I hopped out, stopping by the driver's window to stoop down and give Nicole a kiss on the cheek. “You have the best ideas, girlfriend!” To both of them, I said, “Have fun!!!”

Soon I was on the platform waiting for the train that would take me back to College Park. It really had been a wonderful time, though I could not hide from the touch of sadness I had felt when Tom departed. I had seen the brief look of surprise on Trey’s face when Tom said he had to work, and I was fairly certain Tom was just giving an excuse.

I was likewise pretty sure I knew the reason for it. If I had felt Tom’s steadying hand on my hip when I wobbled, then Tom had certainly felt the padding there that gave me some shape. It looked convincing under a skirt, but it didn’t feel like a woman’s hip.

He had, I thought, handled it very well. No fuss, no accusations, no sudden coldness. We had even continued to skate for another song. Had we been maybe a touch less close? Had he talked a bit less? Maybe. But also, maybe not. Any pulling away, any distancing, had been so subtle that I might well have been imagining things.

My gut, however, told me that I wasn’t.

Certainly, he had not asked for my number, or shown any interest in getting together again. I expected that would not happen with Maggie and Nicole. Of course, I thought with a smile, if Bruce didn’t try to get Nicole’s number he was either blind or insane.

But that’s different. Any girl, trans or cis, who wanted to hang out with Nicole would have to be able to deal with being overshadowed. It would be annoying, if Nicole weren’t such an amazingly decent person.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Oh! quante volte”
– Bellini, I Capuletti ed I Montecchi, Oh! quante volte (Aria)

College Park, Maryland, January 12

Following my morning exercises – still not quite there on the splits! – and my shower, I got dressed and went to join Al and Javier for breakfast in their apartment above the salon.

Their work was picking back up; the holiday rush to look perfect giving way to the post-holiday lull, followed by a return to normality. Al said, “We actually did a brisk business in Bogotá – would have made a pile, too, if they weren’t all family!”

Javi laughed. “My nieces all wanted to look perfect for Three Kings’ Day. We left on the fourth, so I couldn’t do their makeup for them. But Al here was a popular man with the scissors!”

We talked about Javi’s family a bit. He was one of seven and had seventeen nieces and nephews – so far. I asked, cautiously, about how accepting his family had been when he came out. We have the kind of relationship where we can ask each other those questions, thankfully.

“It was hard. Colombia is not a bad place to be gay. Same-sex couples have had legal protections longer than they have here, and Bogotá has a great gay community. But that doesn’t mean coming out is easy. You lose some friends. Sometimes even family.

“My father was the kindest, gentlest man. He never said a bad word about my decision, but I knew – I could tell – he was hurt. Momma rules the roost back home, and so none of the family ever gave me grief. I’m closer to some of them than I was before. I think Al had more trouble than I did, coming from Michigan.”

Al related his experience, which sounded closer to mine. Uncompromising parents, better luck with siblings. Friendships that survived. Others that didn’t. He agreed with Javi that Bogotá had probably been more welcoming than Roseville.

“I met Javi in Bogotá,” he said. “I wanted to get away, far away, from where I grew up. Everything that was hemming me in. I knew I was gay, and I wanted to explore that far from the eyes of my family.”

“Everyone back home thought I was nuts, thinking I was going down to some third-world slum where I’d get killed by drug lords.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Almost like they’d never even been to Detroit. But I loved it. And,” he looked fondly at Javier, “it worked out well for us.”

I always love talking to my landlords, and we kept going well after we had finished eating. But I had work to do, so I finally got up, stretched, and got ready to face the day.

Al stopped me. “Cami, I almost forgot. We got a letter in the mail for you; looks like it was forwarded from your place in DC. Let me go get it.”

It was a card-sized envelope, addressed by a familiar hand that I generally saw only twice a year, at Christmas and my birthday. The sender was identified in the upper left corner as “CC Campbell.”

“Gammy Campbell!” I said. “My mom’s mother. This must be her annual Christmas card. I’m glad they forwarded it. Gammy was always my favorite. And seeing her on Christmas Eve was part of what made the season complete!”

Javi asked, “Does she know about your transition?”

I shook my head. “No, I’ve only told Fi and Iain. Fi wouldn’t tell anyone. Neither would Iain, since he doesn’t talk to anyone. And he didn’t believe me, anyway.”

I took the letter back to my apartment and opened it. The front of the card was a stylized image of the Magi bearing gifts, and the inside had the usual Christmas greetings.

But on the facing side, Gammy wrote, “Dear Cameron – I hope you are well and keeping out of trouble. Especially given where you live. Anyhow, your mother told me she is no longer speaking to any of you and doesn’t intend to ever, ever. I’d like to blame her pig-headedness on her Ross blood, but God knows the Campbells have their share.

“Anyhow, my daughter, who drives me crazy even if I love her, won’t tell me what all of this is about. I was hoping you might. Maybe – who knows? – I can help. She’s miserable, so I’d like to. Even if it is her own fault.” It was simply signed “Gammy.”

Oh my, I thought. Where to even begin? I can tell her the proximate cause of Mom’s outburst, but that wouldn’t really be honest. The real reason that reconciliation isn’t possible isn’t Iain, as probably even my parents believed. It’s me. Should I tell Gammy?

I made myself a cup of tea and put on some think music – in this case, a collection of Chopin’s piano etudes. I sat at my desk, staring at my blank screen. What should I say? Anything? Yes, I owe Gammy that. The truth? Do I owe her that? Or, is she happier not knowing?

I thought about my grandmother. What did I know about her – /em>really know? I smiled, recalling my exhortation to a young man shopping for a Christmas present. Stop thinking of her as the nice old lady who helped make Christmases special. Think of her as a person, as a woman. What would Catriona Cameron Campbell want?

I decided I didn’t really know her all that well – at least, I didn’t know her nearly as well as I’d always assumed I did. She had grown up in Morgantown, West Virginia during the great depression and World War II, the youngest of three daughters.

Her father, the Campbell, was from Scotland, but even her mother was of solid Scots-American stock. Her Cameron ancestors were among the flood of refugees who had come to Appalachia during the Highland clearings that followed the Stewart’s defeat at Culloden.

She had divorced Grandpa Ross before I was born, I wasn’t sure when, and had lived in an apartment in St. Louis so that she could still be part of her daughter’s life. She had done a lot of babysitting for Mom when Fi and Iain were young; less when I was (after all, I did have older siblings to look after me).

When I was in high school, she moved back to Morgantown to be near her sister (who was ill), as well as her mother’s family. Some years ago, she had moved into an assisted living facility there, firmly declining Mom’s offer to move back to St. Louis where her daughter could look after her properly.

So, what did I know, really? She was stubborn, for certain (as her letter acknowledged). She had grown up in tough times, knew the reality of a hardscrabble existence. She had lived for decades with Grampa Ross, who I recalled as being pretty grim.

Would she have any frame of reference for understanding who I was and what I was doing? Would she see me as simply a frivolous child of privilege, acting out on a whim?

I just didn’t know.
But in my memory, she had been a kind woman. I didn’t recall a single instance when she had given me anything but love and acceptance. She had been warm and generous, and her apartment at Christmas had always been filled with music (“Mister Bing Croooooosby . . . !”) and the enticing smells of baked cinnamon. I owed her a response, at the least.

No, I decided. I owed her the truth. And a woman who had grown up West Virginia poor during the great depression would be able to handle it, if anyone could. Even if she didn’t understand.

Then another thought occurred to me. Morgantown isn’t all that far from Pittsburgh, where I was going next weekend. Rather than sending a letter, I could actually talk to her. Try to get her to see me as I am, accept me for what I had become.

She could be no help with Mom; she would know that. But our relationship wasn’t entirely derivative. Perhaps it would survive, even though my relationship with her daughter was beyond repair.

I would need to think about it some more. But I decided I’d get some work done while that idea percolated in the back of my mind.

~o~O~o~
It was after 2:00 and I was watching a videotape of our liability expert’s deposition testimony, taking notes as I went. My “Cami App” started ringing so I hit pause on the computer and found my phone.

“Hey Nicole!” I said, happy for the interruption. “How was dinner?”

“It was fantastic!” she gushed. “We had such a good time; I just wish you could have been there with us!”

With very little prompting, she launched into a discussion of all things Bruce. His virtues apparently extended well beyond being handsome and knowing how to ice skate, and Nicole was positively bubbly. It was, in all honesty, adorable.

When she was done extolling the wonders of Bruce, she said, “He asked if we all wanted to get together Friday night for a movie. Maggie dragged her feet a bit, but I’ve talked her into it. Can you come? I’m . . . . Well. It’s . . . .”

She stopped, then tried again. “I think it might be a bit soon for a one-on-one, you know? I think he’s trying to keep this from being too much like a ‘first date,’ and I kind of think that’s right. Will you come?”

“Of course I will, silly. But . . . you should let them know I’m trans.”

“Why?” She sounded surprised. “We’re not hauling them back to our lair to jump their bones!”

I laughed. “I get that. But I think Tom already knows, or suspects. Best to get it out of the way. If it’s an issue, I won’t go, that’s all.”

Nicole was indignant. “If it’s an issue, I've got a problem! What did Tom do?”

“He didn’t do anything, and he couldn’t have been nicer. But he kept me from falling at one point, and in the process touched some padding. He didn’t say anything or give a hint that anything was wrong, but he left quickly after we got off the ice, and I suspect he was uncomfortable with the situation.”

“That’s so stupid!” she said, still indignant. “You were just skating!”

“Not really, Nicole. I mean, yes, we were just skating. But guys don’t skate together like that. Girls, maybe. Guys, no. And . . . you know what it felt like, out there on the ice, skating in sync with a strong, good-looking guy?”

“Yeah,” she said, drawing out the word.

“Well, I felt that too – that sexual frisson that made it more than just skating. And I suspect Tom did too. When he discovered that the woman he was skating with might not be what she seemed, I think it disturbed him. And that’s perfectly normal. Something I have to deal with.”

She tried one more time. “Cami, I swear! You’re as much a woman as I am!”

“Sweetie, no one is as much a woman as you are! But thank you. It means a lot to me. . . . Still, much as I don’t like to admit it, physically, I’m missing some parts that cis women have, and those parts tend to be very interesting to men. That’s just part of my reality. I can’t blame guys who aren’t attracted to me for how they feel – or don’t feel. Attraction doesn’t work that way.”

Nicole was quiet for a minute, then she sighed. “You’re being a lot more mature about it than I would be.”

And that was likely true. Unlike me, Nicole had probably never faced rejection. “Just talk to Bruce, tell him that you would love for me to come, but that I asked you to raise this issue to make sure it wasn’t going to freak anyone out. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said quietly. “I’ll do it. But I still think it sucks. Big time.”

I got her on to happier topics, and by the time we ended our call, ten or fifteen minutes later, she was her usual bubbly self.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER NINE
“la mia preghiera ai santi tabernacoli salì”
– Puccini, Tosca, Vissi d’Arte, Vissi d’Amore (Aria)

Suburban Maryland, Later that Day

“Here we are,” Sarah said, as she parked her 2004 Corolla in front of a nondescript ranch house on a quiet street. I got out, keeping my head down and my coat loose. Sarah joined me and we walked to the front door.

“Nervous?” she asked.

“Scared,” I admitted.

“Huh. I think you’ll manage. Never seen them bite.”

But I was scared. My nervousness had manifested in third- or fourth-order issues, like what I should wear. Did the women try to look their best? Or, would that be rude? Formal? Not formal? The only thing Sarah had said that might even theoretically be useful was, “Be yourself.”

But what, for me, did that even mean? Was I the woman I aspired to be? Or, was I something else, something unformed, unfinished?

“Fake it ’til you make it” was practically my mantra. Feeling like I might not be good enough at work? Fake it. Assume it’ll come. Recovering from a break-up? Don’t let ‘em see you cry.

I had been pursuing my gender identity the same way. I knew I was a woman where it mattered, and as far as my nonconforming body was concerned, I would just fake it. Use padding and prosthetics and cosmetics as a bridge, hoping that someday my body would look feminine without such assistance.

And I had been pleased with how well I had managed. How good I was at looking and acting like the woman I knew myself to be. Liz, Al, Javier, Sarah, Fiona, even Dr. Chun – everyone told me so. I had patted myself on the back about it. I could just be a woman.

But Tom had demonstrated that it wasn’t that simple.

And I knew what Dr. Sheppard saw, when I had to set aside my prosthetics and my padding. When she got out a tape and took my measurements, piece by piece.

A pale, thin, male body.

And however much I might wish it were otherwise, that, too, was a part of who I am. I could fool the outside world, usually – the eye is easily fooled; the ear, the sense of touch, less so. But it was past time that I was honest with myself, at least.

And, I decided, I should also be honest with Sarah’s flock. If I couldn’t show them who I am, warts and all, could I show anyone? Would I need to keep the world at a distance until I “made it,” whatever that might mean?

What if I never did?

Sarah had said nothing about my outfit when she picked me up, but she was sharp enough to understand. I was wearing a skirt and blouse over a plain white bra and panty set, but for once I had left my prosthetic breasts and my padded panty gaff at home. I wore no jewelry. No makeup. It was just me, naked and vulnerable once more.

Sarah rang the bell and an older woman opened it. Probably mid-fifties to mid-sixties. She was around six feet tall and possessed strong features and a calm expression. She was wearing a plain, but nice, calf-length dress with a crew neck and long sleeves; she showed a full figure, but no one who saw her would think she was born female. If that still bothered her, she hid it well.

She greeted me with a warm smile. “I’m so glad to meet you, Cami. Any friend of Sarah’s is always welcome here.”

To my surprise, Sarah said, “Jacqui, you’ll introduce her?”

Our hostess smiled. “Of course.”

“Then I’ll go get to work.” Sarah turned to walk away.

I was a bit panicked at the thought of navigating the evening without anyone I knew, and blurted out, “You're not staying?”

Sarah turned back. “I told you, this community is run by transwomen, for transwomen. I’ll be around afterwards for fellowship, but I have to make the potstickers.”

I hid my dismay with a quip – “Saints in heaven preserve us, you’ve become the frying nun!” – then waved Sally Field off.

I don’t know how much of my inner turmoil was evident to Jacqui as I watched Sarah walk away. But she touched my shoulder lightly in sympathy. “It’s okay. Everyone here has walked in that door with the same stomach full of butterflies. But I can promise, this is a safe place for you. For all of us. Let me introduce you to the others.”

She gently drew me in and took me into the living room, where a grouping of chairs was arranged in a broken circle. I must have been the last to arrive, since there were already seven women in the room.

Jacqui was clearly the oldest, but three were my age or younger, and the remaining three looked like they were in their mid-thirties to their late forties. Some would easily pass as cis-gendered women, others would not.

Interestingly, I was not the only one there who wore no makeup. Everyone else had feminine curves, but I had no way of knowing how far each had gone in the transition process.

After spending a few minutes introducing me to the other women (oldest to youngest, Jacqui, Angela, Jenny, Sam, Traci, Steph, and Marta), we all sat. Jacqui lit a single candle, then offered her hands to the women on her right and left.

As we all held hands, Jacqui said, “Sisters, will you pray with me?”

I bowed my head and thought, “Hello, God. I’ve missed you!”

To be continued. . . .