~o~O~o~
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Tu fis avec l’amour épanouir la femme”
– Gounod, Faust, Salut demeure chaste et pure (Aria)

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, January 20

Liz and I sat in the comfortable chairs by her fire, watching as snowflakes swirled around her back deck, where they settled briefly before disappearing. It was quiet and beautiful and peaceful, even if the weather would somewhat lengthen my drive home.

We finally had a bit of time to relax – the first calm moments since I had arrived Saturday evening. It had been two months since I had been here last, at Thanksgiving. Half a year since Liz had broken up with Cameron, in these very chairs. Almost a year since our first date. Such a short amount of time!

We had both been up early. Normal for me; less so for Liz. She knew I would have to leave well before noon, and wanted to squeeze in as much time as possible before I did. So we had showered and dressed, had a bite, and were settled in, warmed and cheered by her gas fire, having thirds on coffee.

I finally told her the full story behind my Christmas in Boston, including the attack that I was still reliving in nightmares. I told her about shopping with, and getting kissed by, Steve; about skating with Tom. About Nicole and Maggie, about Fiona and Henry. About Sarah and the faith community she built and nourished.

We talked about the prior evening. “Tim took a shot at you, didn’t he?” Liz asked.

I looked at her cautiously. Tim was her friend, and I didn’t want to cause any issues.

She correctly interpreted my look and waved it off. “I saw him follow you out on the patio. Was tempted to intervene, but I decided you were more than capable of handling Tim. Besides,” she said, watching me, “I didn’t know whether you might be interested.”

I shook my head. “It’s nothing against Tim. But I don’t really know him. Haven’t ever felt anything for him.”

“Yeah, that’s not the sort of thing that would worry Tim,” Liz agreed. “He made a pass at me when we first met, too. But I don’t screw around at work, literally, and told him so. He backed off. I assume he did yesterday, too?”

“He did.” I fell silent.

Liz looked at me with a degree of compassion she rarely shows the world. “You’re wondering if there’s someone out there for you, someone who will treat you right?”

I looked into my coffee. “Sure, of course. I mean, I know life’s not fair that way. And I knew in my head I might have to give up on romantic relationships if I wanted to live my life as the woman I know I am. If that’s the price – even if it’s just part of the price – I’ll pay it. But it does hurt, Liz. I try not to let it, but it does.”

She was quiet in response, finally stirring to say, “I wish I could tell you it'll all work out. That just because you’re a wonderful person – and you are, Cami, the best I know – you’ll live happily ever after. But it would sound pretty stupid coming from me, since I let you go myself. Still, I hope you find what you’re looking for. Who you’re looking for. And that he turns out to be right for you.”

We talked about my work, and hers. How she was finally getting her team to work together properly, after she had to bring a couple engineers to heel. We talked about her plans for doing side gigs as a photographer.

We talked about her old friends and her new ones, so much a part of the life she had woven for herself when she came back to Pittsburgh. When we had first started dating, I really didn’t have a life of my own, living in a new city myself, fresh out of law school. I had eagerly latched on to Liz’ friends, just as I had adapted myself to her interests and hobbies.

I was building my own life, now.

We talked about Derek, and the budding romance that was slowly, carefully, adding color and texture to the vibrant sexual relationship they already enjoyed. She was finally taking him seriously, and it seemed he was treating her like a serious prospect as well.

One stone, one brick at a time, she was dismantling the moat and glacis, the bastions and batteries and hardened defenses that she had constructed since the end of her marriage to stand guard over her inmost thoughts and feelings. An open and vulnerable heart, protected by nothing more than trust in its own resilience, nurtures and husbands a different kind of strength.

We talked about our shared archive of eye-popping images and video, and decided it was time to delete all of the compromising material. We had the memories, and they would be enough.

We talked for hours. Memories, hopes, fears . . . a fitting bookend to our first magical conversation in an Ethiopian restaurant in Adams Morgan. And through it all, unspoken, I felt a shared realization that I was finally letting Liz go. We would remain friends forever, I was sure of it. But the duet we had sung together this past year was finally resolved, the last notes of the diminuendo fading into memory.

It was time to leave. I loaded up my rental car, closed the trunk and moved to give Liz a farewell hug. Instead, one last time, she pulled me in and kissed me deeply, gloss-red lips to gloss red lips, a passionate and lingering kiss suffused with love and longing, gratitude and grace.

The fingers of my right hand brushed her cheek, light as the falling snow, a wordless parting. God go with you, dear one.

As I turned at the end of her street, I saw her in my rear-view mirror, small but as vivid as my first memory of her, always and forever a cardinal in a field of dusty heather. She raised her arm in farewell and was lost to my sight.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Che risolvi, o turbata anima mia?”
– Verdi, La Traviata, E strano! e strano! (Aria)

College Park, Maryland, January 21

“Hi Henry,” I said to the image of Fiona’s husband-to-be on my computer screen. “I don’t suppose my sister is home?”

He shook his head. “Sorry Cami. I’d say your timing was unlucky, but she’s barely had a moment since you left after Christmas.”

“I saw articles in the Times this morning, about the Coronavirus case in Washington state, and what that Chinese doctor was saying about person-to-person transmission. That’s what she’s been working on, isn’t it?” Fiona worked at the infectious disease division of MassGeneral.

Henry nodded. “Yeah, pretty much non-stop, around her normal clinical duties. Conference calls to discuss logistics, preparing protocols. Trying to make sure they have supplies where they need them. Just in case.”

“So it's bad?”

Henry waggled his fingers. “Probably too soon to tell. Could be like SARS; lots of localized problems, but nothing that gets out of control. But it also could be worse. A lot worse. Right now, there’s too many unknowns to make good predictions.”

“That must make your job hell, too.”

“It hasn’t yet. But I think it will. We’ve been quietly taking profits for the past week, ten days, just to reduce exposure. And making some hedges in the pharma sector, naturally; Robbo’s been busy. It’s a delicate balancing act. No one wants to spook the markets, but no one wants to be left holding the bag if this breaks the wrong way, either.”

I thought, this is one of the few times when I’m happy that I have no assets to invest. One less thing to worry about.

I told him to let Fi know that I had visited our maternal grandmother and had what I described as a “full and frank exchange of views,” but that we parted on good terms. I said I had also learned a few things about my family that I hadn’t known, and that I would talk with Fi about them sometime when she wasn’t saving the planet. It could all wait.

He promised to pass on my message and we signed off.

~o~O~o~
Washington, D.C., January 23

“Hey Cam, did you hear this?”

I was in Daviana Narvaez’ office, going over some inconsistencies in the exhibit labels for the documents we planned to introduce at trial. The senior associate on our trial team, she could teach a nuclear engineer a thing or two about being detail oriented.

A news alert had just popped up on her screen. “China just placed all of Wuhan under quarantine. That’s . . . .” she paused a moment to run a quick search, then looked ill. “Dios. That’s like twelve million people!”

Daviana and I finished what we were working on, but attempting to concentrate on something as trivial as exhibit labels was difficult.

I thought, What does this mean? Who even knows?

~o~O~o~

Baltimore, Maryland, January 24

“Please come in, Cami. I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Karpedian, our endocrinologist.” Dr. Chun, my clinical psychiatrist, walked me into her office where a middle-aged man with a high forehead, intelligent eyes, and silver at his temples rose to greet me.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “May I call you ‘Cami?’”

“Please do, Doctor. I’m glad to meet you.”

We sat in comfortable chairs around a small, round coffee table.

Dr. Chun started the conversation. “We’ve gone through the results of your bloodwork and the report from Dr. Sheppard.” Dr. Theresa Sheppard was the GP who had poked, prodded, and measured every conceivable appendage of mine a couple of weeks ago. “We wanted to discuss the results with you and let you know what we’re seeing.”

What they were seeing, apparently, was a condition called “hypogonadism.”

Dr. Karpedian said, “You don’t meet every criterion, but you meet enough of them. Your testosterone level is abnormally low for a man. And, based on the experience of puberty that you described to Doctor Chun and Doctor Sheppard, coupled with the measurements that Dr. Sheppard took, it appears likely that you had the condition at least as early as your teens.

“It would explain why your secondary sex characteristics – things like upper body muscle mass, face and body hair, the depth of your voice, and your Adam’s apple – are less pronounced then in most adult males. And, as you reported to Doctor Chun, and Doctor Sheppard confirmed, your testes and penis are also smaller than we would expect to see in a post-pubescent male.”

They waited while I took that in.

“So, my physical appearance was pretty significantly affected by this condition?”

“That’s what the evidence points toward, yes,” Dr. Karpedian answered.

“I just assumed I was small.”

“Do you know if you had any testing done when you were going through puberty?” he asked. “It would provide us with a lot of useful information.”

I shook my head. “I’m positive I didn’t. We really only went to the doctors’ office if we were seriously ill. We didn’t do wellness visits. And I was pretty healthy.”

“I see.” He sounded both disappointed and disapproving.

While I could definitely see his point, I pulled the conversation back to the present. “I suppose it’s nice to know how I got the way I am. And I’ll need to process that a bit, I expect. But what does this mean for me now, today?”

“A lot of that’s up to you,” Dr. Chun said. “But we’ll tell you what we think the options are, at least.”

Doctor Karpedian took the lead. “In the ordinary course, once we developed a better understanding of the type of hypogonadism you have, we would recommend testosterone replacement treatment. If you’d received this treatment in your teens it might have kick-started puberty and you might have developed in a way that is more consistent with the male average.

“But even today, testosterone replacement therapy can help you develop more typically male secondary sex characteristics. That wouldn’t be the only reason we would recommend it, though. Hypogonadism can result in additional negative symptoms if it isn’t treated. Put another way, the treatment would fall under the category of ‘medically necessary,’ rather than merely elective or cosmetic. Which typically matters for insurance purposes.”

“You said ‘in the ordinary course?’” I asked.

Dr. Chun answered, “Right. Because that may not be what you want, if you want to pursue treatments to assist in gender affirmation.”

"I see,” I said. “Will this diagnosis preclude the estrogen treatments that we discussed in our last session?”

“I don’t think so,” Dr. Karpedian replied. “Not if that’s what you want to do. But I’d like to run a couple of additional tests to determine the nature and source of the underproduction of testosterone before clearing you for any hormone treatment – whether estrogen or testosterone.”

“Would the hypogonadism have an effect on my body’s response to estrogen therapy?”

Dr. Karpedian made a noncommittal gesture. “Possibly. You might see a more pronounced effect from the treatment. Not as much as someone who has never experienced male puberty. But possibly more. Hard to say for sure.”

Dr. Chun added, “What I recommend right now is that you do the additional tests that Dr. Karpedian mentioned, just so we have a better sense of what’s going on. Assuming the tests come back clear, you will need to make a choice. Do you want hormone therapy that will make you appear more masculine . . . or more feminine?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but Dr. Chun held up her hand. “You absolutely don’t have to decide today, and even if you’re positive I would recommend that you take some time to think it over. It’ll take a week for the additional test results to come in. We can talk about it then, and you can decide what you want to do.”

Reluctantly, I nodded.

She continued, “You don’t need a diagnosis of gender dysphoria to begin hormone treatments, but the diagnosis is usually required if the treatment is going to be considered ‘medically necessary’ for insurance purposes. You meet all six of the recognized characteristics to one degree or another, and only two are required for me to make the diagnosis.”

“However,” she said, “the symptoms must have persisted for at least six months. Based on what you’ve told me I’m only comfortable saying two months, though I could stretch the point to three.”

“So hormone treatment to make me more male would be considered ‘medically necessary,’ but treatment to make me appear more female would be ‘elective?’”

“That’s about the size of it,” Dr. Chun confirmed, “although obviously that changes if your dysphoria continues.”

My heart ached for all the transwomen who lacked my financial options. The quirkiness of our healthcare delivery system bordered on institutionalized cruelty in this circumstance – and so many others besides.

I took the tests.

~o~O~o~
I walked out of the lab buildings and found a coffee shop. So many thoughts were whirling through my mind.

My condition was a blessing. I was able to pass as a woman much more easily precisely because my “secondary sex characteristics” were “underdeveloped.” I knew it, and I truly was grateful for it. There were transwomen in my faith community who would have thanked God for my condition.

I also had no doubts about my choice. The absolute last thing I wanted was to have testosterone coursing through my blood, coarsening my skin, making me hairy, bulky. Deepening my voice.

No! I wanted just the opposite. I was not even tempted by the chance to be a “normal” guy. Like Tom, Steve, Tim, or Curt. Or Iain. Or my father. I didn’t even want to be a wonderful guy like Henry. Not anymore.

And yet, part of me was grieving for the boy I had been, for everything he had endured. All the pain, the anguish. The bullying. So many memories.

I remembered myself in middle school, watching Iain working out, wondering if I would be as strong as he was when I got my growth. The growth that never happened. I remembered the taunts of the jocks in high school.

I remembered Liz, sitting on her back deck in the morning sunshine, trying to explain, in a way that didn’t tear me apart, that I wasn’t able to satisfy her during sex, and wondered whether my underdeveloped penis played a role in that. All because my body had failed to produce sufficient quantities of a hormone.

Blessings notwithstanding, the force of my memories left me with an overwhelming desire to weep. And a wish – stupid, selfish – for a shoulder to weep on.

I shook my head, angrily. Gammy Campbell was right; I am self-indulgent. I needed to stop my wallowing. Maybe I would have had an easier time in life if I’d developed more in puberty. But maybe having an easier time would have made me less patient, less able to feel empathy for friends who were hurting. More callous.

Those bad years had left scars, and they were smarting right at the moment. But they had also driven internal growth, made me who I am. Everything happens for a reason.

Do I really want to be someone else? Seriously?

I put my phone back in my purse, surprised to find it in my hand. I won’t mourn for Cameron Savin, but if I do, I’ll do it alone.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Je le veux!”
– Bizet, Carmen, La fleur que tu m'avais jetée (Aria)

College Park, Maryland, January 25

I took special pleasure in my exercises, making a point of doing my cheer routines – something I did because it was both fun and a great aerobic workout – wearing the cheerleader outfit I had bought for my challenge with Liz the prior weekend. I should, I thought fiercely, get myself some pom poms.

No, I’m not going to take testosterone!

I Naired and treated myself to a long and sensual shower, sliding the creamy moisturizing soap down the long, smooth length of my legs, feeling the hot water sluice over my skin, massaging sweet-smelling conditioner into my scalp.

Emerging refreshed, I reapplied my prosthetic breasts, tucked and slipped into a clean panty gaff, and went about making myself pretty, for no one but myself and no reason but whimsy. I had to work today, but it was a Saturday and Cami was going to work from home.

I made myself a light breakfast and opened my iPad to catch up on the headlines. In the normal course, the upcoming Iowa caucuses would be the focus of all news coverage, but the impeachment trial in the Senate, now underway, had pushed it to the second rank.

More ominously, the Coronavirus was all over the news. A second case in Washington State. Spooked investors were starting to exit the market, causing broad declines. More bad news out of China.

I felt a chill deep in my bones that had nothing to do with the winter outside. How bad would it get? Nobody knew. And there wasn’t anything I, or almost anyone, could do about it, other than to get on with life, and hope for the best.

And, there was a lot of work in my in box.

~o~O~o~
Baltimore, Maryland, January 31

It was the end of a long week, but once again I had to leave work early for a medical appointment.

Eileen had asked, casually, “Is everything all right?”

I told her that some issues had come up during my physical; I had to do some follow-up tests but it wasn’t anything serious. Which was truthful enough after a fashion, if incomplete. And the issues, while very serious to me personally, would not interfere with my work on the fast-approaching trial.

I was back in Dr. Chun’s waiting room, reading about the declaration of a world health emergency by the WHO, when her assistant brought me back to her office. Dr. Karpedian was not with her; he had sent us both copies of the test results, his analysis, and a green light to begin hormone therapy late yesterday. Either testosterone replacement therapy or estrogen therapy.

My choice.

Dr. Chun smiled as she came to the door. “Cami, given the care you have taken with your appearance, I assume you have made your decision?”

I laughed. It was a fair point. I had bought myself a jewel-toned red dress with a crew neck, three quarter sleeves, a tight bodice and a full, flaring skirt that fell to just below my knees in a heavy material that looked like velvet but wasn’t.

It was dramatic – not something a woman would wear to either the office or a doctor’s appointment – and I had done both my hair and makeup to match. Oh, yes, I was making a statement, from the flowing curls on my head to the tips of my three-inch heels!

“I’m dressed up because I’m meeting some friends for dinner. But yeah, it’s also my answer. This is who I am. Who I’m meant to be.”

She gave my arm a squeeze and led me to her chairs. “Tell me about it.”

So I did.

When I was done relating my thought processes and how I had reached my decision, she talked to me about her treatment recommendations, what to expect at each stage and an idea of the timeline.

Although I was cleared for the hormone treatment and eager to begin it, I would need to hold off on it until the trial was done. While changes in appearance would be gradual, they might be noticeable by the two-month mark. Moreover, the possibility that hormonal changes would lead to mood swings at the beginning of treatment meant that they would be a bad fit for a time of high stress when I would need to be functioning at my absolute best.

Nonetheless, I asked if she would write the prescription now.

She raised an eyebrow. “Why, Cami?”

“I can’t take them yet, but I want to have them. It’s like, one step closer. Something I can touch. A token, or a promise.”

She smiled again. “Okay. But I want you to let me know before you start taking them. We’ll need to monitor your progress.”

We discussed laser hair removal, but decided to hold off on that until the hormone therapy was well underway. I didn’t have all that much face and body hair, and the estrogen therapy might make it even less of an issue.

What I would be able to start immediately was the voice therapy. “Especially at the beginning,” Dr. Chun explained, “the therapy is really about expanding your vocal range, giving you access to a more convincing high register and more control over your pitch. No reason to delay any of that.”

I was excited by the prospect of taking concrete action, and happy to have an opportunity to work with the voice coach who trained both Nicole and Maggie. Whether I would take steps beyond these was something I could, and should, decide later.

Dr. Chun recommended taking things slowly, waiting until we saw the results of the hormone treatments before deciding about additional steps.

I left her office on cloud nine, overjoyed to be moving forward. I was going to take an Uber to the restaurant where I would be meeting Nicole and Maggie, but first I got a ride to a CVS.

I had a prescription to fill.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Ah! mes amis, quel jour de fête!”
Donizetti, La Fille du Régiment, Ah! mes amis (Aria)

Baltimore, Maryland, January 31, later that evening

The Uber dropped me off at Tio Pepe’s in downtown Baltimore. I had reserved a nice table, both because I wanted to splurge on a celebration and because I wanted to give my friends a bit of a treat.

They lived pretty frugally. Like me, they had student loans to pay off, but the arts don’t pay as well as BigLaw, especially when you’re starting out.

Tio Pepe’s is a Spanish restaurant with low ceilings and painted brick walls, providing a warm and cozy space in the middle of a Baltimore winter. I was a couple minutes early, so I ordered a pitcher of their apparently famous and authentic sangria and a couple of apps. The drinks and starters arrived just as Nicole and Maggie swept in from the cold.

Maggie’s dress was a medium blue that highlighted her blonde hair and blue eyes, a flowing design with trumpet sleeves, an asymmetrical hem and a plunging neckline. Nicole, of course, was stunning in a long-sleeved bodycon dress in hunter green, her waist-length hair cascading down the back. They drew every eye in the restaurant as they entered.

Opera singers know how to make an entrance!

I gave them both big hugs and we sat, deep in conversation before I had even poured the sangria.

“So,” Nicole said, “dish, girl! What’s going on?”

I had told them I was celebrating, but I said I’d tell them why when I saw them. Instead, I pulled the prescription bottle from my purse and rattled it enticingly. “I got it! I was cleared!”

They knew immediately what I was talking about, and why it was so important to me. They were beaming.

The conversation flowed, burbled; it eddied when the waiter came by to take orders and again when he delivered our seafood paella, but found its flow again immediately. I told them about the photoshoot and I shared a couple of the images Liz had finished working on and had sent off to me to look at.

“Oh my God!” Maggie said. “That’s you?” It was a picture of me in bridal splendor, laughing with Liz’s friend Tish, who was dressed as a bridesmaid.

“Yes, but it doesn't look that way by design.” The dramatic makeup and long, curly blonde hair definitely changed my appearance radically. “I don’t really want pictures of me looking like this while I’m not out at work. And, I guess I want to earn a picture in a wedding dress.”

I also shared another shot Liz had sent, a picture of me in her comfy chair, head bent over her niece, a perfect and adorable infant, as I held her close and gave her a bottle.

“Your bridal shot looks very professional,” Nicole said, “but I like this one better. That is just so you.”

It was, in obvious ways: I wasn’t wearing a wig, my hair was in my usual loose over-the-shoulder braid, and I was wearing my standard makeup. But it was more like me in deeper ways too.

I had felt an immediate connection to that little girl, so tiny, so vulnerable. I had wanted to hold her and shower her with love, and felt incredible peace when she snuggled in to me and drew warmth from my body. I had never felt anything like it, and my joy and wonder shone through in the photo Liz had taken.

We talked, of course, about opera; Nicole and Maggie live and breathe it. Nicole’s favorite opera, as I knew, was Tosca; Maggie really liked Carmen, which was appropriate to our current setting.

“Carmen is a great mezzo soprano part,” she said. “And, she’s fierce and mercurial, very much her own person. ‘Libre elle est née et libre elle mourra’ – she was born free and will die free. Of course, she does die. It’s opera. But she has a good run! And, I like singing French.”

“You sing Carmen!!!” An older man with the sharp and distinguished features of a hidalgo had overheard her remark, just as he was coming up to the table. “Excuse me, ladies. I was just coming to ask if everything was perfect for you this evening. I couldn’t help but overhear your remark.

“I was privileged to hear Doña Teresa Berganza sing the role at the Teatro de la Maestranza in Seville, almost thirty years ago. She was older then, but still . . . the voice! The passion!!!”
Maggie put both hands to her mouth. “You did! Oh my God!! When Carreras played Don Jose?!!”

“Yes!!! Such an evening! Such magic!! I will remember it always!”

They geeked out a bit more, and Maggie had to explain that she was not presently scheduled to be part of any performance of Carmen, though she would love to one day.

When he left, I said, “You know, I just go places and have dinner. Regular gal. Simple, quiet. But when I’m with you two, anything can happen. People just connect with you, with what you do. It’s amazing!”

After dinner, we took an Uber back to “Opera House,” the row house where they lived. I had a small overnight bag with me because we had arranged in advance that I would sleep over.

They had taken an Uber to the restaurant because they wanted to feel free to drink; I had taken one mostly because I didn’t have a car. I was beginning to think it might be useful to get one.

Back at their house, we changed out of our finery and into something more comfortable. I had actually bought something for this purpose as well. On my own, I loved the sensual feeling of a sexy nightie under my dark green silk dressing gown, but that wasn’t appropriate for hanging out with Nicole and Maggie. So I had purchased a flannel nightgown and a heavy fleece bathrobe in a warm red color.

We made ourselves some green tea and trooped into the living room, where Maggie and Nicole gave me, with great enthusiasm, an introduction to opera. They would play a favorite piece – Maggie insisted on including Carmen, of course – maybe two or three renditions, pointing out the differences in interpretation.

We discussed how the artists were using their voices. Nicole and Maggie debated their favorite composers and librettists.

It sounds dull and technical, but it wasn’t at all. These two women might be young, but they had studied the subject for years with passion and intensity. They were sharing the thing they knew best and loved most in the whole world, the spark that gave their lives meaning. That allowed them to stand up in a crowd of complete strangers and sing.

I was captivated.

We turned in late and I slept deeply and dreamlessly.

~o~O~o~
Baltimore, Maryland, February 1

I woke early as usual, despite the late night. I’m sure Dr. Sheppard would scold me for my bad sleep habits, but I love the early morning. It was quiet and I was seldom interrupted by the demands of the outside world. Besides, while I had been in bed a shorter amount of time than normal, I had definitely slept better.

I put my fuzzy new robe over my nightgown, added some slippers, and padded downstairs from the spare bedroom where I had spent the night. Maggie had explained that the house was part of her parents’ retirement plan. They had bought three separate properties in Baltimore over the years, fixed them up and rented them out, using the rent to pay off the mortgages.

Opera House had been their first purchase and was already paid off. When Maggie and Nicole were ready to move on, it would become a rental once more. Her parents were both still working, so they were willing to let Maggie live there rent-free for now.

The living room was not suited for my morning exercise routine, which in any event tended to be a bit noisy. But there was space enough for me to do my stretches, so I concentrated on that. I went for fifteen minutes, took a short break to make some tea, then went for fifteen minutes more.

I was getting locked in on my splits now, able to do them consistently and without quite so much obvious strain. Though I felt a bit silly doing them in my nightgown, which had to be hitched over my hips to complete the maneuver.

When the girls wandered down, forty-five minutes or so later, I had tea ready and had cut up some fruits and berries and added them to vanilla yogurt for our breakfast.

“You’re up early,” Nicole said through a smile of greeting. “What’re you up to?”

“Just reading a piece about the impeachment proceedings.”

“Politics,” she said with distaste. “I can’t listen to all that stuff. Drives me crazy.”

I shook my head. “It’s always fascinated me. But now, as a transwoman, ignoring ‘politics’ would be like . . . .” I grasped for an analogy, then smiled and said, “it would be like going into a bar in a bad part of town without an escape plan.”

She grimaced at the reminder. “Is it really so bad?”

“Nicole, there are states where it's illegal for me to use the ladies’ room. Wouldn’t matter what I felt inside, or how many happy hormone pills I had taken. Wouldn’t even matter if I had all my male parts surgically removed. Plenty of people in America, right now, today, think that what I am doing isn’t just unnatural, it’s immoral and evil. And, they think I’m a threat. The ‘why’ doesn’t really matter. What matters is the fear – and the hate.”

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “I know we get tunnel vision here; we’re absorbed in our art, our music. When I think about it, I know how lucky we are. But mostly we just take it for granted, I guess. I heard about the bathroom bills, even if Nickie missed that. But . . . I just dismissed it as something stupid, like bad performance art. It didn’t touch me . . . I didn’t feel it, like you do. I should have.”

Nicole looked thoughtful. “Maggie’s right. We’re so privileged. Lucky. And I don’t think about what’s going on in the real world nearly as much as I should. But still . . . politics!”

I laughed, and the moment passed. Like most Americans, they loved their country, loved freedom and democracy, but took all of it completely for granted. Their world was more fragile than they dared to admit; democracy and civil rights, freedom and the rule of law, can be swept away unless they’re defended.

But part of me was glad that, at least for now, these two women lived in a moment where they could focus on their art, could explore their great passion and give such incredible beauty to the world. Not everyone is well-suited to the barricades. Though the time might come when they are called to defend them, nonetheless, I was grateful that it was not today.

Nicole and Maggie had one more treat for me before I left. They brought me down into the basement, an open space that was as large as the footprint of the whole house.

Had I known, it had ample space for my full exercise routine. But a section of it had been turned into a sound-proofed room for making recordings. The enclosure had a large glass partition on one wall, on the other side of which was a lot of professional looking audio equipment, including a synthesizer.

Nicole demonstrated, going in the room, closing the door, going to the microphone and singing. I couldn’t hear anything.

Then Maggie handed me a set of headphones, and I heard Nicole doing vocal exercises, as clear as if she was standing in front of me. I gave a big thumbs-up and she came back out.

“We do most of our work down here,” Maggie explained. "Our voice exercises, our recordings. We make demo tapes to send out for potential gigs. Having this space really allows us to focus.”

I was impressed, and said so.

Then Nicole said, “But we didn’t bring you down here to admire the hardware. You’re here for a workout – our kind of workout!”

I looked stupid I suppose, because Nicole looked mischievous and added, “You’re going to be working with Francesca Trelli; we can get you started before you meet her.” This was their voice coach, whom I would be using as a speech-language pathologist to develop a more feminine voice.

So Maggie and Nicole had me join them in doing vocal exercises, simply singing notes, or a series of notes, without words. They practiced some very basic warm-up routines with me, after first working on posture, breathing and good abdominal support for the voice.

Each of the exercises typically began in a low register and worked up and up. I had to switch to a falsetto before either of them were barely into the heart of their range, and had to stop altogether long before they topped out. But I definitely felt stretched, and they assured me that I could learn how to expand the top end of my present range.

A bit like learning the splits, I thought.

I really felt like I did after a workout when we went back upstairs. Nicole insisted on driving me home, so I got seriously pampered. When we arrived, she said that she wanted to see my apartment.

I felt a bit shy about it, strangely enough. It’s not that it was messy; I keep it neat (if not quite to Nicole and Maggie’s high standards). But I had actually never had anyone over. Other than my landlords, Al and Javier, no one else had ever seen my little refuge.

She spun around in the middle of the floor, taking it all in. “It’s . . . it feels just like you, Cami. It’s warm and friendly; organized. Peaceful . . . .”

One of the sliders to my closets was open, revealing my purchases from over the past months; she stepped close, ran a finger down the sheer fabric of my red slip dress and added, “And, so very feminine.”

She appeared to be thinking hard. “I don’t know politics and I don’t want to. But anyone who can’t see who you are is blind. Anyone who thinks you’re evil, or some kind of threat, is nuts. And if that’s what’s going on in this country, it’s time I got my head out of my ass and started paying attention. If there’s anything I can do to help, I’m here for you.”

I cry so easily now. I never cried at all, before. Nicole, bless her, could make stones weep. “You have got to stop doing that to me,” I said through my tears. “But thank you. I am so glad I sat down next to you on that train!” I cleared my tears and walked her back out to her car.

We ran into Al, who was popping out for an errand, and I introduced them.

Al said, “Oh. My. God! That hair – that hair I would do for free!”

Nicole laughed, we said our good-byes, and she drove away.

“Such a lovely young woman. Cami, it’s good to see you with friends. Especially women your own age.”

I couldn’t agree more, though I responded, “My old, guy friends are pretty good, too!”

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“l'ombra mostrarsi a me”
– Donizetti, Lucia di Lammermoor, Regnava nel silenzio (Aria)

College Park, Maryland, February 2

It was 9:30 in the evening. I had worked hard over the past day and a half, but the number of things to be done was inexhaustible. After a break for a late supper, I had gotten myself dressed for bed in my light green nightie.

But I had covered it with my dark green dressing gown and sat back at my computer to get another hour or two in before calling it a night. My hair fell loose and full over my shoulders.

Unexpectedly, my screen lit up with an incoming Skype call. Not work; it was, finally, Fiona. I eagerly clicked on accept, looked at my sister’s exhausted face, and said, “Oh my God, Fi! It’s that bad?”

Her smile in response was tired. “I’m just gonna pretend those weren’t the first words out of your mouth, little sister!”

“I’m sorry!” I was truly contrite. “But it really looks like you haven’t slept since the last time I saw you. Are you okay?”

She waved it off. “It’s been intense. Not a lot of sleep, but I’ll be fine. I know you called a couple of times. I’m sorry I’ve been so out of touch.”

I told her not to be silly; that I knew what she was doing was incredibly important. Then I asked if she had any better sense of how bad the coronavirus outbreak was likely to be, compared to what had been in the news.

“I know more, I expect. But not about the things that really matter. We know it can spread from person to person. We don’t know how transmission is occurring, the actual mechanism. We don’t know how infectious it is, and we don’t know how deadly it is.”

“So you’re preparing for the worst case?”

She shook her head. “In my line of work, there’s no way to prepare for the worst case. The worst case is Stephen King, end of the world stuff. But we’re doing what we can to be as prepared as we can be for whatever might happen.”

We talked a bit more about the nuts and bolts of what she was doing, and talked in general terms about what Henry and Hutchinson Financial were doing. It was clearly an all-hands-on-deck time.

But after a bit she said, “Now, sister mine. Do me a favor and talk to me about something, anything, besides coronavirus.”

I gave her the family news first.

“You know,” she said after I described my conversation with Gammy Campbell, “I don’t have any memory of another sibling, or of Mom being pregnant between Iain and you. I was little, and self absorbed. Had quite the ‘Daddy’s little princess’ syndrome. But I do have a clear recollection of living with Gammy for a while. I’d never really given any thought to why that happened. I can see how that might have really hit Mom. Dad too, for that matter.”

She was less surprised at my description of Gammy herself. “I knew her better, of course; she was part of my life until I left for college. And, I think she was willing to show her steel a bit more to me – because she figured I could take it – and to Iain, because she knew he needed it. You,” she said with a note of fondness, “I think she figured you just needed some love. You got plenty of discipline.”

She thought Gammy’s acceptance of my transition was a reasonable outcome. “She disagreed with what you’re doing and told you so, but she made it clear that she respects and loves you regardless.”

It wasn’t as emotionally uplifting as Fiona’s own embrace of my choice, but I agreed that it was the best I could expect from someone of her generation and background. For sure, I’d take it.

I also described my sessions with Dr. Chun, and Dr. Karpedian’s diagnosis of hypogonadism.

She was surprised, then thoughtful. “Not really my specialty. I always assumed you weren’t big like Iain because he took after the Savins and you were more like me and Mom’s family. But thinking about it, Grandpa Ross wasn’t small. I don’t really know about the male Camerons.”

We talked a bit about the next steps in my transition. I told her how excited I was to have the estrogen pills, even if I wouldn’t be able to start them for two months.

She smiled. “You know, I already have a hard time seeing anything male when I look at you. You look downright sultry all ready for bed!”

I blushed.

As we wrapped up the call she said, “I’m probably going to be hard to get in touch with while we’re working through this coronavirus issue. I wish I could be more present for you right now, with all the changes you’re going through. If I’m still buried in a month – which hopefully I won’t be – can you look after Iain’s discharge from rehab and his criminal stuff?”

I assured her that I would.

I sat for a bit after she signed off. She had been very cautious in what she had said to stress the tight limits of what was known about the new virus. But from the sounds of it, what little we did know was all bad.

As before, however, there was nothing I could do about it. Might as well get back to work.

~o~O~o~
Washington. D.C., February 5

I had spent much of the day on logistical issues. Our whole trial team was going up to Connecticut for all of the following week to prepare our witnesses for their trial testimony.

We would be staying in Hartford, where the client’s headquarters were located, but we would go down to New Haven Tuesday morning for a court hearing (David Parr’s argument, not mine), then again on Friday for the presentations to mock jurors that our jury consultant was organizing.

I was taking a brief break to listen to Senator Romney’s speech supporting conviction of the President on the charge of abuse of power, impressed despite myself by Romney’s obvious intelligence and sincerity. He had not presented himself nearly so well the two times he ran for president, I thought. What ambition can do to even the best of people!

Just as he was concluding his remarks, my “Cami App” chirped at me, and I saw that I was getting a call from Javier. I quickly got up, closed my door and took the call. “Hey Javi, what’s up?”

He replied in a voice I could barely recognize, “Cami . . . Cami you won’t believe it! Tina’s come back! She’s come back to us!” He was clearly weeping, uncontrollably. Tears of joy, of relief.

I had never met Tina, but in many ways I felt I was in her debt. She was a young transgender girl Al and Javier had taken in at eighteen at Sarah’s request. She had run away from her family years before, living by her wits on the street. They fixed up their garage so she could live in it, cared for her while she got her feet underneath her, and treated her like the daughter they never had.

But she had disappeared a few years later, leaving them, leaving her job and the life she had created, running once again. They thought her family had caught up with her.

Because they had loved her so much, they opened their hearts to me when I came to their salon, still uncertain of who I was or what I was doing, wanting to learn how to look like a woman. Al and Javi had figured out that I was transgendered before I was willing to own it myself. And, they had rented me her old apartment, convinced she would never return to them.

All of that passed through my mind in an instant when I heard the news. My first reaction was simple joy for my friends. “Oh my God, Javi!!! That’s amazing news!! How is she??”

His voice was still choked with emotion. “She’s good; she sounded good. We haven’t seen her but we’re going to the bus station to pick her up.”

“Does she need a place to stay? I’m happy to have her over at the apartment tonight. I won’t be home until late, but she’s welcome to crash. I can pick up an air mattress, if I need one.”

“Thank-you, Cami! I don’t know what her story is, but we may take you up on that. We’ll call later, okay?”

I agreed. “Oh, Javi. I’m so happy for you. For both – for all of you!”

He signed off.

Although I wasn’t really eager to share my sanctuary, I knew it was the least I could do. Al and Javi had no place in their apartment for their friend to sleep; their couch was really just a love-seat. And, I really was happy for all of them.

It was probably 9:30 before I heard from Javi again. He sounded more subdued; cried out and drained. He said that Tina did need somewhere to stay, and if my offer was still good they would take me up on it.

I assured him it was.

He told me not to worry about an air mattress. “We got one on the way home. We’ll get it set up and get her settled. Unless you’re leaving soon, she’ll probably be sleeping when you get home. She looks beat!”

It was almost midnight before I got home, and I worked to mute the clump clump of my wing-tipped oxfords as I came through the back gate. I eased open my door and used the light on my phone so that I wouldn’t have to turn on the overhead light.

An air mattress was on the floor near my desk; someone had used it but it was now unoccupied. I looked around, wondering where my guest might be, and was surprised to find a small, mouse-haired person asleep in my own bed.

Not the best of beginnings. Still, it had been her bed, once. And dealing with it would have to wait.

I pulled together my clothes for the next day, hung my suit and tie, and put the rest of today’s Cam-o-flage in the hamper. Then I fished out my flannel nightgown and crawled into the abandoned air mattress.

College Park, Maryland, February 6

I woke in the middle of the night, badly. The fear, the cold sweats. The racing pulse and ragged breath of my night terrors. I didn’t know whether I had made any noise. I lay still, trying to bring my body back under my mind’s control. To remember where I was.

When I was a teenager, a neighbor had asked me to look after her cats while she went on vacation for a week. They were beautiful creatures with long, smokey gray fur. But they were wary — very wary. They had been born in the wild and she had tamed them and cared for them. Around anyone else, they were skittish and mistrustful.

As I tried to get comfortable, tried to quell my terrors, I felt wary eyes on me. Looking to my bed, I saw I was indeed being watched by eyes that reminded me, frighteningly, of those feral cats. When I made a move, the eyes narrowed to slits, then very deliberately closed.

It was a long and sleepless night.

In the early morning, I got up quietly, got dressed and slipped out into the cold of the February morning. My usual routine – exercise, shower, coffee – was entirely out of the question. I would need to actually meet Tina, and when I did, things might be more comfortable. But my workweek was packed, and I didn’t know when I might have the time.

Before I left, I went to my desk and picked up my estrogen prescription from the prominent place where I had put it, a talisman and promise. Feeling both small and foolish, I put it in my pocket.

To be continued . . . .

IMPORTANT AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am not a medical doctor of any sort. Hypogonadism is a real syndrome that does affect the development of both primary and secondary sex characteristics, and it is normally treated through testosterone replacement therapy. However, readers should assume that all of it is more complicated than anything described in this chapter and remember that this is a work of fiction.