None of the Above(49)

Had she brought the pillow in as a conversation starter? Was anything in a therapist’s office ever put there without deliberation? A little voice in my head told me not to trust her, that she would use the information to . . . do what? What could she possibly do to me that would make things worse?

Then I looked up, met Dr. LaForte’s gaze. Her eyes were green, like my mother’s.

I told her about Homecoming. How it led to one doctor, and then more doctors. Then I told her about Vee and Sam, and before I realized it I’d told her about my locker and Facebook, too. Two things I didn’t tell her about: Nearly stepping in front of the SUV. Making out with Josh. Before I knew it, half an hour had passed. I hadn’t known that my story took so long to tell.

“That must have been so hard for you,” Dr. LaForte said when I was done. “To have your whole world turned upside down.”

It was such an understatement that I didn’t bother to answer.

“What concerns you the most about your intersex diagnosis?”

“It’s hard to pick just one thing. But . . .” Stay Away. “I hate it that people don’t understand what intersex is. That they think that I’m some sort of transsexual,” I blurted. Even as I said it out loud, I realized how petulant and closed-minded I must sound.

“I mean, it’s not like there’s anything wrong with being a transsexual . . . ,” I backpedaled, then sighed. Who was I kidding? “I know that getting upset about their calling me a tranny makes me just as judgmental as the people making fun of me. But it hurts anyway. It’s so ignorant.”

“Of course it is,” Dr. LaForte said. “There are whole swaths of the country that don’t understand what it means to be transgender, let alone know what intersex is. So it’s not surprising that your classmates’ transphobia came out.”

“Their trans what?”

“Transphobia. Fear and hostility toward transgender people. And anyone who doesn’t fit into the typical gender binary, really.”

Dr. LaForte shifted in her chair, and leaned in closer to me. “So, Kristin, tell me about your support system. Have you talked to anyone about what you’re going through?”

I shook my head.

“May I ask why?”

“I just didn’t think anyone would understand.”

There was silence. Dr. LaForte’s office was in such a quiet part of town that I could hear the ticking of the old-fashioned cuckoo clock on the wall.

Finally she spoke. “It’s hard feeling different, Kristin. I know it’s a cliché, but only you could ever truly understand what you’re going through. At the same time, there are people who care about you. And you are truly not alone. Have you tried reaching out to any other people with your condition?”

“Once.”

“I’m so glad. Because no one is going to relate to you better than someone who has lived through your diagnosis.”

I liked that she used the phrase lived through. As if AIS was some sort of passing storm. I took a deep breath, and let it out through pursed lips. “So, what’s the verdict?”

“Excuse me?”

“Am I crazy?”

Dr. LaForte smiled. A real one this time, with a touch of mischief. “We’re all crazy, Kristin. There’s no such thing as normal. That said, I do think you may be depressed.”

When she said it, I felt kind of stupid that I hadn’t realized it before. Suddenly, I was relieved, because they could treat depression. I looked up at Dr. LaForte hopefully. “Does that mean I have to go on Prozac or something?”

“It’s certainly an option, and it’s a discussion that you should have with Dr. Cheng or your primary doctor, but I think that you’ll do well with therapy. For now, we can focus on the lifestyle changes you can make to improve your mood. Healthy eating and exercise, for example. I can give you literature with some of the basics.”

As Dr. LaForte walked to her filing cabinet to rustle up a handout, I took a deep breath and looked out into the next-door garden. There were still some tomato cages standing up in broken rows, protecting nothing but air. An empty birdbath.

We sat quietly for a little while as I read the brochure she gave me, until Dr. LaForte glanced at the clock. “Well, our time is almost up,” she said. “For our next session, I have some homework for you. First, I really encourage you to contact the support group again. You won’t regret it, truly. Second, I want you to ask yourself: Who are you?”


“What do you mean?” I asked. “Like what I want to be known for? Or what I identify myself as? Or are you talking about what my hopes and dreams are, or something like that?”

“I don’t know,” Dr. LaForte said, smiling. “All of the above.”





CHAPTER 28


When I straggled into the kitchen for breakfast the next morning, my dad surprised me with freshly made blueberry whole wheat pancakes. Back when she was alive, my mom spent most Sunday mornings volunteering at some church event or another, so brunch was always Dad’s chance to shine. He’d make pancakes from scratch and top them with fresh fruit or stuff them with ricotta. He became the king of the perfect crepe flip. And his omelets were works of art.

After Mom died, we didn’t need to cook for months—Aunt Carla and the other members of Mom’s women’s group saw to that. But even after we’d worked through all the casseroles, and thawed the last frozen lasagna, Dad’s brunches never came back. I missed that Mr. Mom part of my dad, which was a side of him that few people saw.