Beast(39)

“Sweetie, look. It’s not that you two aren’t perfectly fine people, it’s just that I don’t think you need that level of complication right now.”

I lump the ingredients into little patties and lay them on the tray.

“Did you hear me?”

Don’t worry, Mom. I heard you. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“You’re not attracted to her, are you?”

There’s no way I can tell her the truth that yes, I was. A lot. That it still tears me down the middle. How at night I stare at the ceiling I painted blue and wish that Jamie were with me. I miss her so much.

“No,” I say.

She sips and sighs. “You met in therapy. And if you were sent there, that means she had a reason to be there too. Keep a distance, is all I ask. Cordial. Hello, how are you, that kind of thing.”

I grunt. What Mom doesn’t know is I’m going to tell Jamie my plan and then we will finagle the details over crab cakes.

“She is very pretty,” Mom says. “But I knew, had that sixth sense. Her voice, her feet, the intangible tangibles. I put two and two together.”

My mom, the gender whisperer.

“All I’m getting at is that this is a big change for Jamie, and she’s struggling. And so are you. So keep it light.”

“Okay, I heard you a million times now.” I don’t need to be reminded how I was stupid and everyone else knew immediately. “I’m just trying to be a good person.” Except I feel anything but.

The crab cakes slide into the oven and I set the timer. Mom helped with nothing. She refused. I wish she’d helped, just like I wish she’d forgive me and start caring again. If the crab cakes taste like ass, that’s all on me, but there’s not enough time to dwell because the doorbell rings. “That must be Jamie.”

Mom heads for the door, but I chase after her on my cane. “I’ll get it.” I brush past her, my shoulder knocking crooked some dead great-aunt’s stupid painting of a fat bunny under a gerber daisy.

Mom fixes it for me—she can’t help herself. “Bull in a china shop,” she mutters like old times. Maybe she’s done being mad at me.

Seeing Jamie is like opening a door in an old cartoon to all the dancing trees and sunlight. Even with her scowling death glare, she’s as stunning as always. I want to hug her, but I can’t. Tonight I have a job to do.

New Jamie still looks like Old Jamie, the one I remember. The one I felt every scrap of happy with. Except now there’s a major something different that I can’t get over. I know this is Portland, I know she’s not even the first trans person I’ve met—there’s a librarian at our local branch who went from a he to a she and no one batted an eye—but that wasn’t the same. That librarian was a snippet from someone else’s book. A book you could put down and leave on a park bench because you didn’t care. Jamie was a chapter in the one I was just beginning to write.

No matter how much I lie awake at night and think of all our wonderful horrible minutes together, it’s like there’s this object Jamie’s carrying around now, and it’s shiny and distracting and it doesn’t matter what she says or does. It’s the only thing I can think about. Underneath the skirt, she’s got guy parts and I fell for it.

Jamie stands there in her coat, arms crossed, with I’m assuming her equally pissed-off mother. “You must be Dylan,” her mom drags out with a sneer.

“Please come in!” my mom chirps, arms outstretched and full of hospitality and joy. The very picture of bullshit. “I’m Anna. May I take your coats?”

“Jessica,” Jamie’s mother says. She is tall. Just like Jamie said. “Thank you for offering, but I’m afraid I won’t be staying. I’ve been informed I need to wait in the car.”

Jamie’s jaw grinds so loud I can hear it. “Mom,” she says sharply.

“Teenagers,” my mom says, and both moms roll their eyes.

“Mom,” Jamie says again.

“I know, I know—I’m leaving.” Jamie’s mom plants a kiss on her cheek. “See you soon.”

Our front door shuts and we idle awkwardly in the hallway.

“I made crab cakes,” I throw out. “Because they’re your favorite.”

“That was nice of you.” Jamie and I lock eyes.

“They’re in the kitchen. For eating.” Oh god.

She looks down and slips her coat off. My mom stands there, an eager beaver, hands ready to receive Jamie’s coat and hang it up. “I got it,” Jamie says, and drapes it on an open hook. “So…” She wanders down the hall toward the light, stepping over the threshold and standing next to the refrigerator. “I’m assuming this is where we do the eating?”

“Offer her some water,” Mom whispers up at me as she skates by.

“Do you want some water?” I ask once I join them.

Jamie shakes her head, her hair dancing like she’s in a commercial. “No thanks.”

The oven hums. I hope that means it’s busy burning the crab cakes and we can hurry up and throw them in the trash and order replacement pizza as soon as possible.

“So, Jamie…Do you have a favorite holiday?” Mom asks, cracking through the silence.