. . . I have more desirable men chasing me than you have shoes!”

. . . It’s all been about how you look . . . and that’s just not enough.”

. . . I am not a bimbo!”

Chapter XII

“Honey, are you okay?”

Someone was stroking my shoulder.

I was awake, jumping slightly at her touch.

She looked squarely at me as I tried to straighten out my robe and pull the hair out of my mouth. “What are you doing here?” She sat next to me and turned to look me in the eye. “I thought we had a really good time last night.”

“Oh, we did,” I exclaimed, grabbing both her hands and sort of shaking them for emphasis.

“Then what?”

A sob caught in my throat, and I had to clear it before I could look at her. “We did, we really did, and it made me realize how much I love you, a…and then how much I must be hurting you. I hate myself for what I’m doing to you. I just can’t bear it.” Tears poured freely from my eyes.

Rebecca let me go for twenty seconds or so, and then pulled my hands sharply. “You narcissistic little twit,” she hissed at me. “It’s just as if I’m not here at all. You think you’re the center of the universe and everyone else just revolves around you. I got news for you hon; you’re wrong.”

I was so startled, she might as well have slapped me in the face. “But I…”

“Exactly . . . you, you, you. You are so self-absorbed you’ve forgotten who you’re married to. Do you think I can’t take care of myself? Do you think I can’t analyze what’s going on and figure out what’s best for me? Do you think I can’t make sound decisions? Frankly, my dear, you’re the one we need to look out for!”

She stood up, shaking her head angrily, as she stalked around in a small circle until she came back to stand in front of me. I looked up at her, while nervously tucking my hair behind my ear. I was afraid to say anything. I pulled the peignoir around my legs.

She put her hands on her hips and laid it out for me. “You forgot, didn’t you, that I’m the one who kept you at a distance after you moved out. Hell,” she snorted, “I had to get you into treatment for your depression. I’m the one who invited you here. And it’s not your call whether we stay together or not, it’s mine. You, my dear, are the weak one in this relationship, and you are the one everyone else is worried will crash and burn. I’m worried about you, your family is worried about you, our staff is worried about you, and Phillip is so concerned he has just about given up his social life to make sure he’s there for you.”

I blinked rapidly, trying to absorb what she was telling me.

She slowly shook her head and closed her eyes for a second before continuing. “If I didn’t love you so much or had decided I wanted you out of my life, you would have been gone long ago. I have more desirable men chasing me than you have shoes. So don’t worry about me and work on getting your own act together.”

Her anger seemingly spent, her face lost its edge, and she smiled at me the way an indulgent mom smiles at a kid who is really proud of the crayon drawing she just made on the wall. Then she squatted in front of me, placed her hand on my cheek and leaned forward to kiss me softly but briefly on the lips. “Go start the coffee and lay out the things for breakfast, then come join me in the shower. We’re both covered with stuff we need to wash off.”

I didn’t move for a few moments after she left. It wasn’t that I was trying to understand what she had, said, I was so startled that my mind was blank. Eventually I got up, quickly started the coffee and set out everything else, and headed for the bedroom, a little worried about what would happen next. When I got there, however, it was as if our conversation had never happened. Rebecca was warm and funny, just like the day before. Not wanting to spoil the mood, I didn’t say anything either, content just to wait for Rebecca to bring it up again.

Sure enough, right after breakfast, she did. “Did you understand what I said before?” She patted her lips with her napkin.

“Not really. And I’m sure I don’t know why you got so angry.”

She pursed her lips and shook her head. “I’m sorry about that; I guess I was holding it in a little too long. But really, you have been so totally clueless. Sure you’ve worked hard to become a lovely woman. . .”

I looked away, feeling my cheeks warm.

“. . .but aside from your job, the rest of your life is in shambles. You’ve been living in the city for over a year. Have made any new friends? Have you visited any of our old friends? Do you have any friends at all? Do you have any hobbies? Have you been to temple? Have you spoken to Rabbi Strauss? Have you spoken to your folks . . . to Leah?”

I had to shake my head no, repeatedly. I was pretty much a hermit.

“No, of course not. You spend all your time alone. Frankly, my little Miss Sara, you’re not yet healthy enough to be a partner to me. You’re not complete enough; you’re more like a teenager. All you’ve done in all this time is learn how to present yourself as a woman. It’s all been about how you look - little feminine gestures, inflections, a wardrobe . . . and that’s just not enough.”

She hesitated for a moment, stood up straight, put her hands on her hips, and then stared down at me. “You’re plenty cute, but I don’t need a trophy wife. I need a life partner. You’re really a sweet woman, but you’re nowhere near the person Michael was. There was so much more to him than just good looks and a nice dick!”

When she stopped, I realized I had been holding my breath, so I let it out in a big sigh. Rebecca had nailed me. Aside from work, I had put all my efforts into developing Sara’s look. I hadn’t reached out to anyone, and hadn’t even been good at letting people reach out to me. Now, I was beginning to see how that self-centeredness might even cost me Rebecca. With her I was like a puppy dog, submissive, constantly seeking approval and doing whatever it took to get it. Sara wasn’t really like Michael at all. Michael wasn’t tentative or submissive; he was assertive. He used his intellect to get things done; he was creative and didn’t back down from challenges. Looking at it like that, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Sara, as she now was couldn’t ever be enough for Rebecca, unless perhaps she wanted to hire me as her maid, and that didn’t look likely. I had a long way to go before Sara became the woman who could match Michael as a human being.

And in that moment, I had a little revelation. It was my fear, my old cross-dresser’s fear, of being humiliated that held me back. If I was to become the kind of woman Rebecca wanted, a strong one like herself, I would have to overcome that fear and just start to deal with people, no matter how uncomfortable, or even fearful, it made me.

“I see,” I finally managed to get out. “You’re right. I’ve been totally focused on myself and how I look to other people. I’ve been so focused on how I appear that I haven’t worked on anything else.”

“So there is a brain in that pretty little head,” she said a little too sweetly, making me wince.

“Yes, but with all the . . . uh . . . shortcomings you spelled out, it sounds more like you want to get rid of me than anything else. If you want, I’ll just leave.”

She frowned and scolded me as if I was her teenage daughter who had just thrown a little tantrum. “Don’t get petulant with me. You’re behaving like a child. I want to know what you’re going to do next. Since the time you started ‘courting’ me, as you put it, you’ve proved you can be a good and attentive maid, and that you’re totally afraid of me.”

“I’m not.”

“Of course you are. You’re afraid to do anything you imagine might offend me. You were even scared to kiss me, for God’s sakes!”

“I. . . .”

“You’ve been more tentative than a thirteen-year old boy on his first date. I want you to be an adult, and I’m willing to let you be a woman. That means you have to be an adult woman. I know we have a history together, and I do love you, but all I know about this Sara person is that she’s cute and attentive, and scared to death to be herself, whoever that might be. Why in the world would I want to be married to someone like that?”

“Rebecca. . . .” I started, my voice rising in frustration.

But she wouldn’t be stopped. “Don’t you Rebecca me you . . . you bimbo!”

“Rebecca!” I nearly screamed, jumping up from my seat. “I am not a bimbo!”

She paused for a second and seemed to deflate. Then she giggled and looked straight at me. “No, I guess you’re not,” she said clearly but quietly. Then raising her voice to a more commanding level, she went on, “A bimbo wouldn’t just think about her clothes and makeup, she’d think more about sex. You haven’t even tried to come on to me. Until last night, I was beginning to fear you didn’t find me attractive anymore.”

“Is that what this is about? Sex?”

Her pupils dilated, and for a moment she was speechless, so I just kept going. “Cause if it is, you made it perfectly clear that wasn’t going to happen — until yesterday.” I was so frustrated my voice broke down into a lower register, which left me feeling mortified. I was instantly reminded of who and what I really was. My hands flew up to my mouth, and I could feel my face redden.

We both glared at each other for a moment, our eyes wide and my hands over my mouth. I didn’t know what to think. I couldn’t believe I had yelled at her, and given all she’d said, I feared I had completely ruined my chance to get back with her.

Then she giggled, and smiled, the small creases she hated formed at the corners of her eyes. I wanted to stay angry, but I giggled too. And then we were both laughing. A few moments later she threw her arms around my shoulders and pulled me to her.

“No, it’s not about sex,” she told me while holding me close. “It’s about the kind of a person you’re going to be.” Then pushing me away to arms length, she said, “Do you have any idea?”

“I. . . . I. . . I thought Sara would be just like Michael.”

“Well then, why doesn’t she start acting that way?” She cocked her eyebrow and tilted her head.

“I thought I was,” I whispered because it hadn’t been obvious to me I wasn’t. “I didn’t know.” Which was true.

“So now you do, what are you going to do about it? I want to know the authentic Sara Cohen, not some clothes horse by the same name.”