If I Was Your Girl(61)

“I guess not,” I said.

“I’ve just been thinking,” Dad said. “You know I went in the navy after high school, don’t you?” I nodded and threw the ball so it rolled between his legs. “I thought I was tough. A lot of guys thought they were even tougher.” He threw the ball. I yelped, closed my eyes, and by some miracle actually caught it. “I don’t think we held a candle to you.”

“I’m not brave,” I said, smiling despite myself. “Bravery implies I had a choice. I’m just me, you know?” I threw the ball into the palm of my glove over and over while I spoke, staring at the floodlight until blotches danced in my eyes. I had sent my application in to NYU, and in a few months I would find out whether I got in. I imagined falling off the face of the earth again, drifting out of Layla, Anna, and Chloe’s lives, being mostly forgotten by my classmates except as an occasional story trotted out at parties. Grant was gone, which hurt but was also kind of a relief—he was one less complication when it came time to pack my things and head up north. Everything about that plan was fine except for one thing: I didn’t want to disappear anymore.

I looked up at my father. “What if I told you I wanted to go back to Lambertville?” I saw him staring at me. Was his face white from the chill, or from fear? “Would that be a brave thing to do, or would it be stupid?”

“Both?” Dad said, running a hand over his moist hair and blowing out a long breath. “But that’s what being young is, really. I think I’ve been so afraid for you all this time that I forgot that.”

“Since I moved in, you mean?” I said, throwing the ball so that he only had to jump a little bit to catch it.

“Oh no,” he said, “longer than that. Since you were just a baby.”

“I thought you were embarrassed of me.”

“I was,” he said, chewing his lip. “I pray the Lord forgives me one day but I was. More than that, though, so much more than that, I was terrified for you.” I looked down and flexed my glove. “I had to drink just to let your mother teach you how to walk; I kept seeing visions of you falling and cracking your head open.”

“I think I get that from you,” I said, smiling. He chuckled darkly.

“I couldn’t stand the idea of you hurting. I couldn’t stand the idea of anything taking away your happiness.” He shrugged and sighed. “But everything that made you happy, from the way you wanted to walk to the toys you wanted to the way you wanted to dress … it put you in danger. So what could I do?”

“You ran away,” I said.

“I ran away.” He walked over to me, taking his glove off and slipping it under his armpit. “Or I let you run away and chose not to follow. Either way…” He put his hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. “You are brave,” he said. “You get that from your mother.” He removed his hands and stared off at the dark, empty park. “After homecoming, when you walked in that door—I was furious. So mad I felt like I could kill someone. Mad at you, mad at myself, mad at whoever had done that to you. But then when you were gone and I was all alone in that apartment, thinking about everything you went through … I wanted another chance to get it right.” He took a deep breath and looked back at me. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you want to come back to Lambertville, well, I’d be real happy to have my daughter back.”

I nodded, a lump in my throat. I had been waiting my whole life for my father to want me, for him to want his daughter. I blinked back tears, but this time, they were tears of joy.

We walked back to the house, a different kind of silence falling between us. I caught his eye and he put his arm around my shoulder, pulling me in close. When we got to the house he opened the trash-can lid and tossed the baseball mitts inside.

“Bye, Andrew,” I said softly.

“Bye, son,” Dad agreed, as we went inside.



APRIL, TWO YEARS AGO

“Hardy?” the nurse said. “Andrew Hardy?”

I stood and took a few steps toward the door. The horrible twisting in my gut that normally accompanied the sound of that name was barely present. I was too excited about what was about to happen.

“Andr— Amanda?” Mom said. I turned and saw her standing with her hands clasped, a look on her face like she was afraid this was the last time she would ever see me. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, thank you,” I said. I hugged her and backed away again. “I think I need to do this by myself.”

I turned back to the nurse and followed her into a bright, white hallway. She had me stand on a scale and clucked reproachfully when she saw how underweight I was. Then she had me sit on the paper-covered exam bed and took my blood pressure, which was normal, and asked me the usual questions. Did I have any allergies? No. What medications was I taking? Wellbutrin and Lexapro. Did I have any ongoing medical problems? Not really.

“So what brings you to us today?” the nurse said finally.

“My therapist referred me,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I hesitated in saying the rest. “I have, um, gender identity disorder. I’m … I’m transgender.” I tore absentmindedly at the paper seat cover and took a deep breath. “I need to start hormones.”

“Okie dokie,” the nurse said, scribbling one last note before smiling and closing my file. “You just sit tight and Dr. Howard will be with you shortly.”