~o~O~o~

CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Il tuo bel cielo vorrei redarti”
Verdi, Aïda, Celeste Aïda (Aria)

College Park, Maryland, February 8

I was tired, short on sleep, shaken by night terrors, and grumpy.

It was Saturday morning. Normally, one of my favorite times, because I could spend the day, and the next day too, being myself rather than pretending to still be Cameron Savin, a male attorney at Cavendish, Edwards and Gunn. I would still be working, more often than not, but I would be doing it from my own apartment. But with Tina ensconced there, that was going to be hard.

I still hadn’t even spoken to her, because she had been sleeping – rather pointedly, in my bed – both when I left for work and when I got home. I had crashed on the air mattress, generally trying to squeeze a full night’s sleep out of the hours between midnight and 6:00 am. Which might have worked, but I had night terrors every night since Tina had arrived.

I grabbed my phone and checked the time. 5:53 a.m. Normally I would have been finishing my morning exercises. Not possible. Hitting the shower, however, had not awakened my visitor yesterday, or if it had she had hidden that fact. So I pulled myself upright, got untangled from the sheets, and got to my feet.

Still no motion from the bed.

I went to my dresser and pulled out my breast forms, a panty gaff, and bra and panty set, my stretch jeans and a white cotton shirt. Unwilling to get dressed in front of a complete stranger, I brought everything with me into the bathroom and piled it on top of the sink. I started the shower and went into my beginning of the weekend routine.

Forty-five minutes later I was at my desk working, a cup of coffee close to hand. Tina remained, to all appearances, asleep, and I decided I was just going to ignore her until she woke up.

I had been at it for almost two hours when a voice behind me said, “Are you gonna be here all freakin’ day?”

I suppressed a quick snap-back, turned around and said, very deliberately, “Good morning. I’m Cami. I’m glad I’ve finally had a chance to meet you.”

Tina was still sprawled on the bed, a sour expression on her face.

I waited.

After she had given me her best basilisk stare for almost a minute, she said, “I don’t give a flying fuck who you are. I asked whether you’re gonna be here all day.”

I don’t always respond to direct challenges with sweetness and light; expecting it after the kind of sleep I had gotten the last three nights was asking too much. I cocked my head to one side and said in a calm tone, “I’m happy to have a conversation, Tina, but if you want to have an argument you’ll have to pay me. I don’t work for free.”

I turned back to my computer and went back to what I was doing.

After five minutes or so of silence, she started pounding the table by the bed and saying, over and over, “GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!!!!”

I got up, walked over to the bed, where she was at least now sitting up, and interrupted her. “Tina, I live here. And I’ve got work to do. Can you please tell me what this is all about? We haven’t even met!”

She glared at me. “I don’t fucking want to meet you. I sure as fuck don’t want to share a room with you. This is my place! Mine!”

“No, I’ve been renting it for months. You can’t disappear for years and expect that the world won’t change.” I was keeping my voice reasonable – the tone you might take with a toddler throwing a tantrum – because she didn’t appear to be stable. My tone didn't seem to calm her.

“No, YOU'RE the one that’s wrong! This is my place,” she snarled. “They made it for ME! They bought this furniture for ME! I’m finally able to come back and they’ve turned it over to some dick who plays dress-up and has the guap to drip. Dresses. Undies. Pretty little things to wear at night. Jewelry. Falsies. You think that makes you TRANS?”

I looked at her, nonplussed. “Suppose you tell me what it takes to be trans, Tina.”

She finally stood up to face me, standing only a foot away. “When they hunt you down, and get some sick judge to say you’re cray, and they lock you up and try to force you to give up – try for YEARS!!! – and you spit in their face, because you CAN’T, you fucking CAN’T even PRETEND you’re male. Then maybe I’ll think you’re serious.

“But you? You go out every morning, wearing a suit. Look like the man to me. Probably to everyone you see. Then you prance around behind closed doors in your pretty panties and think it matters?!! You’re a sick joke!”

I took a long breath, fighting down my rising instinct to bite her head off. “I haven’t faced what you’ve had to face. But I’m not your enemy! I want to help. Why are you attacking me?”

“You’re in my way, dickhead. I need this place. No. I don’t have the guap – the scratch – like you. I can’t take out some fucking ‘lease with an option to buy.’ I got nowhere left to go. I’ve got these two guys. That’s it. And. You’re. In. My. Fucking. Way. Can you wrap your head around that, or is it too much for you?”

She threw up her hands. “You want to help? Fine. Get the fuck out of my life.”

This was . . . not going to work. And, unfortunately, I really didn’t have the time to deal with it. “We’ll talk later.” I went back to my desk, shut down my laptop, put it and my iPad in my bag, and walked out, grabbing my winter coat on the way.

She looked triumphant.

My emotions were roiling. First, I was boiling mad. I had offered her hospitality and she had rifled through my drawers and closets and then verbally assaulted me.

But . . . she had also been horribly abused. I remembered Al and Javier describing Tina as the sweetest, kindest person they knew, like a daughter to them. She had lived in this apartment for something like three years; Al and Javi had known her well. No way she had fooled them for that long.

No. Tina had come back, but she was a bitter, broken shell of the young woman they had known . . . and loved.

It was 9:30 in the morning, and I was in a bind. I was walking aimlessly around the streets of my neighborhood when I had work I had to get done. I had to be on a plane to Hartford tomorrow afternoon. There was no time to deal with this. Any of it.
I crossed Baltimore Avenue and sat on a park bench on the outskirts of the campus that gives the town its name. It was forty degrees and I couldn’t sit long, but I needed a safe, quiet space. Then I called Sarah.

“Hey, Cami,” said the familiar voice. “I thought I might be hearing from you.”

“You guessed I might be having roommate problems?”

“Yeah.” It was almost a sigh. I knew she had come to see Tina during the day while I was at work.

“Sarah, I don’t know the whole story. I know she’s been abused; sounds like they found a way to institutionalize her. But . . . she sees me as her enemy. An obstacle to resuming her old life. I don’t know what to do.”

She had me tell her the whole story, and was quiet for a minute after I had finished. “What options are you seeing, Cami?”

“Wellllll . . . ,” I said slowly, “I can try to stick it out. Make it work. Al called yesterday, asking me to do that ‘just for a while, maybe a couple months, while she gets back on her feet.’ I said yes then – what else could I say? And I want to help; I really do! For her sake; for Al and Javi’s sake. But I don’t see how I can. Not when she resents me. Thinks I’ve replaced her.

“And . . . . God, Sarah! I hate to say this, but she’s going to make my life miserable and I just don’t have the bandwidth to deal with it right now. I’m working eighteen-hour days! I can’t come home to a war zone every night!”

“Cami,” Sarah said sternly, “You are not required to solve everyone’s problems. You can only do what you can do. What’s option two?”

“I leave. Throw in the towel. It feels like quitting, running away. Letting Al and Javi down. But if I can’t make it work – and I don’t see how I can, right now – I’ve got to get out. Now, not later. But . . . I don’t have time to hunt for a new apartment. I’ve got to be on a flight tomorrow.”

I thought for a moment. “Maybe I could ask Nicole and Maggie if I could crash at their place for a few weeks . . . They are wonderful people, though I hate to impose . . . .” I ran out of steam.

“Any other options?” Sarah asked.

“I can’t see any,” I said glumly. “I suppose I could ask Al or Javi to talk to her, but that just seems like calling in parents. It only works when they're actually in the room. Once they aren't, the situation’s just worse than before.”

I’d been the youngest of three, and my older brother had been hard to deal with on occasion. I learned early not to bring our frequent disputes to our parents’ attention. Moreover, if Al and Javi were the only people she trusted, I had to make sure that I didn’t do anything that might shake her faith in them.

“You have a lease. You could tell Al and Javi that it won’t work. You could also tell them what you told me this morning.” Her tone was carefully neutral. Sarah doesn’t like to give advice.

“That’s just what I can't do. Al and Javi are my friends. This matters to them, more than anything. I can't do that to them. I just can’t.”

“They love you, too,” she said carefully. “Whether you go or she goes, it will hurt them. Like parents with daughters who can’t get along.”

“I know. But I’ve got options and Tina doesn’t. She’s being vicious, but she’s not wrong. I am in her way. So, I should be the one to go. And I would, except . . . .”

I didn’t want to finish the sentence, but Sarah wasn’t going to finish it for me. “Except . . . ?” she prodded.

“Except I worry about what she’ll do to them. She’s desperate, and she’s wounded. She is not the beautiful girl they remember. She’s going to tear them apart!”

The line was silent, then Sarah said, “I can’t tell you what to do. And wouldn’t, you know that. But for whatever it’s worth . . . . I think you’re probably right. She may be too far gone to pull her back. I know I can’t do it, not right now. I know Javi and Al hoped you might be able to help, but they had no idea how she reacted to you. Given her hostility, it’s pretty clear you can’t."

"Do you think they can?"

"I don't know. Honestly, I doubt it. But, they’re the only people who might be able to pull it off. The only people she even half trusts.”

I thought about that for a minute. “I need to talk with Al or Javi. Both, preferably, but one of them’s got the shop this morning. Will you come, too? I need them to know what I’m doing, and why, but I also need to make sure they know the risks. Maybe they won’t want to take Tina on, though I doubt it. But it should be their choice. If it’s just me, they might think I was trying to manipulate them into kicking her out.”

“Even I know you better than that,” she replied. “But yes, I’ll help. Let me call Al and see if we can’t meet some place this morning. Things are quiet here; I’ll close up for a bit.”

The better part of an hour later, Al, Sarah and I were all sitting at a table in the back of a local diner. Al was the last to arrive; he looked exhausted and his handsome face was etched with worry. And guilt. Sarah had filled him in when she called.

“Cami!!!” he said, “I’m so sorry! I had no idea it would be this bad!”

I jumped up and gave him a long, daughterly hug. Then I sat him down and stopped him before he could say anything more.

“Al, it’s okay. Really. I understand. I know how much Tina means to you both. I know you want to help her. And I want to help her too. Maybe down the road I’ll be able to. But right now, given where she’s at, the only way for me to help her is to give her space. She made that clear this morning. . . . And, I guess I need some space too, even if it’s just a room.”

Al broke in. “It’s your apartment, and this isn’t your problem . . . . we’ll . . . .” But he ran out of words because he ran out of ideas. There just wasn’t space for a third person in the apartment Al and Javi shared.

I covered his balled hands with my own. “Thank you. Really. But I’m not going to be responsible for putting Tina back on the street. I won’t do it to her, and I won’t do it to you two. Like I said to Sarah earlier, I’ve got options and she doesn’t.

“I’ll go somewhere else, but . . . I need to make sure that you actually want to have Tina in the apartment. She’s not who she was, Al. You know that. I’m worried for you both. So’s Sarah.”

Sarah didn’t say anything, but she didn’t challenge my statement.

Al stared out the window, looking tired and grim. Then he sighed. “We have to try. Even if we can’t rescue her. We couldn’t live with ourselves, if we didn’t try. We loved her so much . . . . we still do.”

I gave his hands a squeeze and then released them. “Then that’s decided.”

We talked some more, but the rest was just detail. Al filled me in on what he and Javier had learned about the years Tina had been gone. Sarah talked about strategies for dealing with Tina’s trauma and red flags Al and Javi should watch for.

We discussed the possibility that either Sarah or I could be more help down the road, if and when Tina got to the point where she felt secure in her living situation and in the primacy of her relationship with Al and Javi.

Finally, we talked about logistics. I didn’t have a lot of stuff. My computer table and chair were the only furniture I possessed; the rest was mostly clothes – Cam’s and mine. I wouldn’t be able to clear everything out until I got back from Connecticut, but I would need to take everything I needed for the week.

Al said he would get Tina away so I could take care of that, and he would let me borrow his car.

He wanted to know where I was going to go, and I told him that I was going to stay with friends in Baltimore. I hoped that was the case, but I didn’t know it. There had been no time to ask. If Nicole and Maggie couldn’t take me, I would just have to come up with something else. Fast.

We got up, said our good-byes to Sarah, and he drove me back. Alone with me in the car, he said, “I’m so very sorry. And we’re going to miss you so much!”

I assured him that he was losing a tenant, not a friend. But I also knew that, unless and until Tina stopped feeling threatened by my relationship with the two men, I would need to be conspicuous by my absence.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Nehmt sie in euren Wohnsitz auf”
– Mozart, Die Zauberflöte, O Isis und Osiris (Aria)

College Park, Maryland, February 8, ten minutes later

Al texted to tell me that Tina was over at the salon, so I slipped back into the apartment that had been my sanctuary for these incredible months of change, and suddenly, so very suddenly, wasn’t. Life was coming at me too quickly.

But I had no time for wallowing. I made a call to Nicole and got a message. I called Maggie.

“Hey, Cami! What’s shakin’?” she asked, answering her phone.

“Hi Maggie,” I said. “I’m calling to ask a huge favor. I’m losing my apartment, basically right now. Can I stay with you for a bit until I can get another place, or at least store my stuff there?”

“Oh my God, Cami, what happened? Of course you can stay here!”

“I tried calling Nicole but got a message. Do you have a way to check with her?”

“She’s at a voice lesson this morning, but don’t be silly. She would insist,” Maggie said.

I promised to fill her in when I got there; we ended the call and I quickly started to pack. What I would need for the Connecticut trip went into my large suitcase with the wrap-around garment bag. Everything from the bathroom – shampoo, conditioner, toiletries, cosmetics, hairdryer, brushes, razor – into a recyclable shopping bag. Another bag for Cam’s shoes. A third for mine. Underwear, socks, hosiery, sleepwear into a fourth bag.

The important clothes from my dresser went into my carryon bag. I grabbed my small wooden jewelry box and added it to the bag as well. Then I stopped and, again feeling small, opened it.

My watch was missing.

It was obvious, since it was the largest item I owned. It was also the only valuable piece, both intrinsically and sentimentally. Liz had given it to me at Christmas. I wanted to storm into the salon and sweat it out of that nasty piece of work, but I forced myself to think first.

Was I sure I had put it back in the box?

Yes, I was sure. I had it with me last weekend in Baltimore and had put it in its safe spot before starting the week. I hadn’t had an opportunity to dress as myself since then. So, yes. It had been stolen.

Was it possible someone else took it?

No. From what Al had told me, Tina had been in the apartment the whole time, except when she was right next door.

But that also meant that it was probably still here. She hadn’t gone anywhere; she hadn’t had a chance to fence it. Maybe she had it with her, but I thought not. She wouldn’t want to get caught like that.

I checked under the mattress. Nothing. Patted down the sheets. Nope. Checked the pillow cases. And, bingo. There it was, along with three twenty dollar bills and a baggie that held six pills. I pulled my prescription container out of my purse and opened it up. Sure enough. Same pills.

She was sneaky, but clearly not as smart as she thought. I put the pills and watch back where they belonged, put the jewelry box back in my carryon and closed it. I loaded what I had packed into the car.

Plenty of space still, and I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my skirts and dresses for Tina to paw over. It seemed like each item came with a host of memories, from the A-Line dress with the floral motif that was my very first purchase, to the red slip-dress that had shocked Liz, to the beautiful party dress Fiona had given me for Christmas . . . .

I put down a towel over the other items in the car and just lay my nicer clothes on top of it, still attached to their hangers.

That was all I needed to take. I went back into the apartment and made sure I wasn’t forgetting anything important. But I wasn’t. I had eighty percent of my clothes, all of my toiletries and all of my valuables. I would need to get the desk and chair later. The food in the cupboards and the fridge I would leave, with one important exception.

I paused a moment, grabbed a piece of paper, and wrote Tina a note. “I told you that I’m not your enemy. But if you steal from Al or Javi, or if you do them any harm, I promise you that I will be. Do you really need more enemies?”

I left the note, unsigned, in the plastic bag that had held the estrogen pills she had stolen, and put it back in the pillow case. I also put the $60 back. I didn’t recall having left money around, so it might actually be hers.

I left the apartment and went to get the car. Javi was standing beside it, looking miserable. “Let me drive you, Cami. I’ve got things I want to say. And I can’t, here.”

I remembered how happy he had looked, those few weeks ago, when I had picked them up at BWI after they spent Christmas in Colombia. I thought, “Damn Tina!” But I dismissed the thought, damning instead the world, and the people, who had chosen to break her rather than accept her as she was, as God in His infinite wisdom had chosen to create her.

I got in and gave Javi directions.

He put the car in gear and started driving, remaining silent until we got on the highway. “You have been such a light in our lives. We don’t want to lose you. But Tina needs us so much. I’ve never seen anyone so tormented. We . . . .” He stopped speaking, his voice completely choked up.

“I know, Javi. I know. And it’s alright. I know you have to try. And I want to help you. What happened to her . . . but, this is the only way I really can help. At least right now.”

Javi nodded, looking forward, still unable to speak.

“Javi, you need to be careful. Both of you. Okay? I think she still loves you, and I hope that will make a difference. But she’s desperate.” I told him about the watch, and the pills.

He looked even more bleak.

“I wouldn’t have said anything,” I told him. “I didn’t want to; I know how much that will hurt you both. But you need to be careful. Okay?”

He nodded again, and drove for a while in silence. As we got close to the city, he said, “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have to pay the price for our love.”

“After all you both did for me, this is nothing. And Tina’s right, I have been blessed in so many ways. Friends. My sister. A good job. Health insurance and great healthcare. I can’t begin to pay any of that back. Let me pay it forward, okay? This isn’t on you. You aren’t taking the apartment. I’m giving it.”

When we arrived at “Opera House,” Maggie came rushing down the steps and gave me a big hug. I looked at Javi, standing behind her, and said, “You see? I’m so very blessed.”

He helped me unload the car, and Maggie had me bring my stuff up to the spare bedroom.

I gave Javier a fierce hug. “Now you be careful, both of you. Do what you need to do. And God bless you both!”

Too full of emotion for words, he hugged me back, then kissed me on each cheek, and walked back to his car.

I watched him drive away, following his car with my eyes as it made its slow way past the arts and crafts houses, past the parked cars and the ornamental trees, then turned at the corner and disappeared.

Maggie stood behind me. As Javi’s car drove out of my view, she said softly, “Welcome home. Come on in and tell me what’s happened.”

I was just about to go in when Nicole pulled up, stopped smartly and jumped out. “Cami!” She ran up the stairs. “I called Mags just as I was about to come home. What happened?”

So they both pulled me in, we made some of their ubiquitous tea, and I told them about the last three days.

When I was finished, Maggie said, “Damn, Cami, you need to find your inner bitch! She’s a complete shit to you and steals from you, and she wins? That just seems so wrong!”

But Nicole looked at me and smiled fondly. “You chose love again, didn’t you? Just like with that little dick at the Christmas party.”

“I had to give Javi and Al the chance to help her. For her sake,” I said, looking at Maggie, “since nothing in that sad life looks much like a win. But,” I said, looking at Nicole, “mostly for theirs. She means so much to them.”

“I get that,” Maggie said, “but I’m not sure you did them any favors. Sounds like she’s going to make them miserable.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I know. And so do they. But that needs to be their choice. I won’t block them from trying to save someone they love, not even to protect them.”

Nicole shook her head. “Some day you’re going to need to fight for yourself. But . . . . for today, what’s the plan, and how can we help?”

“Here's my problem. I’m flying to Connecticut tomorrow for work and I won’t be back until Friday night. I can’t start looking for an apartment until I’m back.

“And, honestly . . . I’ve been working really long hours. Nights and weekends too. I don’t know whether I’ll have any time to look until the trial I’m working on wraps up, which should be in six or seven weeks. Can I stay until then? I won’t be around most of the time, and I’ll make sure I don’t interfere with your work.”

“Of course you can,” Maggie said. “Stay as long as you like.”

Nicole added, “We’d love having you. I wish you could just move in with us, but I know it’s a bit of a commute for you.”

I looked back and forth from one to the other, dumbfounded by their spontaneous generosity.

My expression made Nicole laugh. “Honestly, girl, it’s no imposition. Besides the fact that we’re all friends – which settles the matter as far as Mags and I are concerned – we’re both in and out during opera season.”

Maggie nodded. “I’m leaving for Sarasota in just over a week to start rehearsals for Catalini’s La Wally. By the time that run is over, Nickie’ll be in Chicago doing Wagner. I’m guessing there won’t be too many times that we’re all here at the same time until next fall.”

I thanked them profusely, managing just this once to keep myself from bursting into tears. After some pushback, I got them to agree that I could contribute to the household expenses the same amount I had been paying Al and Javi for rent.

With that out of the way, I said, “Now, I really hate to do this, but I have some work I absolutely have to get done today, and I’ve already lost the whole morning and part of the afternoon. Let me go upstairs and get to it, and I’ll let you two get back to your own plans.”

“Sure thing.” Nicole said. “I’ve got a student coming for voice lessons at 3:00, and Mags has one at 4:00. We use this room for that. It’s not too bad upstairs during lessons, but you will hear us. If you’d be more comfortable, you can work at the table in the basement. The synthesizer only takes about half of it.”

That’s what I ended up doing. I heard the sounds of their students, but from the basement they barely registered. Around 6:30 Nicole came downstairs. “We’ve got a bit of supper ready. Will you come upstairs and join us?”

Grateful for the break, and still more grateful for the food, I followed her upstairs.

Maggie had made a wild mushroom soup and Nicole had added a simple salad. It was heavenly.

I insisted on doing the clean-up, in the process learning where everything went in the kitchen. Then I went back downstairs and was soon plunged back into my work.

A light touch on my shoulder woke me up. I had just intended to rest my eyes a moment!

Nicole said, “Cami, honey, you aren’t going to be good for anything tomorrow if you don’t get some sleep.” She was already dressed for bed, a flannel robe over her nightgown and her waist-length hair gathered into a long, thick plait.

I looked at her. “What time?”

She just smiled. “Bedtime.”

I followed her up to my new bedroom and found that my roommates had removed everything that wasn’t either mine or furniture, put away or stacked my things, and made the couch as bed-like as possible. Someone had even laid out my blue nightie on the couch for me.

This time I couldn’t hold back the tears. “What did I ever do to deserve you two?”

Nicole wrapped me into a hug. “You would do anything to help your friends, the people you love. Well . . . so would we. Now get some sleep, and don’t you dare set an alarm. You’re a wreck.” She gave my shoulder a final squeeze and went off to her own bed.

I got out of my clothes and into my nightie – how nice to be able to wear it again! – then went into the bathroom, removed my makeup, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. I went back to my new room, closed the door, and prepared myself for sleep.

It had been a long and emotionally draining day. But I had been right. I had options, and the love and care of good friends. Amazing that I had only known Nicole for six weeks, and Maggie for even less time. So if life was coming at me quickly, it was doing so in good ways, too.

I said a prayer for Tina, that tortured soul, and for Al and Javi as well. And a final prayer, one of thanksgiving, for the blessing of good friends and open hearts.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Va tacito e nascosto”
– Handel, Giulio Cesare, Va tacito e nascosto (Aria)

Baltimore, Maryland, February 9

I slept the entire night without interruption, and didn’t wake up until 7:30 – two and a half hours late for me. Given how much I still had to get done, I was going to have to forgo my daily exercises for the fourth straight day. Ughhh.

I got up to use the shared facilities and bumped into Maggie as she was on her way out. I hadn’t thought to put on my robe and I blushed as she gave my scantily-clad self a quick once-over.

“Damn, Gina! Look at you!” She giggled at my embarrassment, gave me a hug and said, “You look good, Cami. I couldn’t resist laying that out for you when we were putting away your things. Sometimes you’re like a commando. But other times you are just such a girly-girl!”

I laughed along. “Guilty, I’m afraid. I just . . . well. Yeah. I am,” I ended a bit lamely.

She laughed and trotted downstairs. “All yours, girly!”

Nicole was still sleeping – apparently she was not a morning person by choice, which I suppose wasn’t too surprising since she grew up in New York. I took a quick shower and got dressed in a skirt, tights, and a knit top. I didn’t do much with my hair and kept my makeup minimal.

I had hemmed and hawed. But in the end, I decided I couldn’t risk traveling without changing into male attire. Unlike my colleagues, I was flying into and out of BWI, and I was scheduled to arrive in Connecticut an hour and a half before they were.

My drivers’ license no longer listed me as a male, so it no longer qualified as a “Real ID.” But the TSA wasn’t scheduled to begin requiring Real-ID compliant ID’s until later in the year. I could try to fly dressed to conform to my real gender. However, wearing breast forms might trigger anomalies at some of the TSA checkpoints, and I simply didn’t want to have to answer questions from security personnel about the inorganic material filling out the size C cups of my bra.

Moreover, flights got delayed; luggage got misplaced. These things happened often enough that I could not count on getting to the hotel without one of my colleagues spotting me. Dressed as Cami, I looked very different than when I dressed for work. But not so different that people who saw me every day wouldn’t know me.

I wrapped up everything I needed to finish for work and asked Nicole and Maggie if they would let me buy them lunch. We walked to a local deli and got sandwiches to bring back to the house.

Over lunch, I raised a point that had been bothering me since I made my decision about the flight. “Neither of you has seen me dress up as Cameron Savin. And . . . well . . . I’d honestly prefer that you didn’t.”

“Why?” Nicole simply sounded curious.

“It’s me, mostly. I guess. I mean, this is who I am,” I said, waving generally to indicate my feminine look. “And when I get dressed as Cameron now, I feel like a fraud. I don’t want you guys to see me that way.

“But I guess it’s us, too. You’re letting me stay here, and it’s wonderful. And it’s comfortable, because we’re three women. I worry you might not be so comfortable if you think of it as having . . . well. If you think of me as male.”

Nicole and Maggie looked at each other for a second, as if communicating silently. Then Nicole said, “We know that you’re trans, and that you haven’t transitioned. We know what that means physically, and we don’t care. I’ve said it over and over. You’re as much a woman as I am. Wearing men’s clothes won’t make you a man in our eyes.”

“It’s not just today, anyway,” Maggie said, practically. “You’re going to be going to work and coming home dressed like a guy. We’re going to see you that way sooner or later. Like Nickie said, it doesn’t matter. Not to us.”

They were right and I knew it. But I was still not happy about it. A little after lunch I went upstairs, got undressed, removed my makeup and nail polish. Removed my breast forms.

This was always the hardest moment for me, when I felt most vulnerable. Clothes and hairstyle could make me look more masculine or feminine, but without anything to hide me I felt unformed and ugly, a bug caught half-way between caterpillar and butterfly.

I pulled on Cam’s travel clothes – a button down oxford shirt, khaki pants, a Navy blazer. The heavy shoes and belt. Then I pulled back my hair, tied it back in the severe Cam pony tail, and clubbed the end to hide both its length and its curl. My breast forms went in a drawer; I wouldn’t need them on this trip.

I ordered an Uber. Ahmed, driving a silver Camry. Arriving in six minutes. When he was one minute out, I picked up my suitcase and went downstairs. Nicole was reviewing music in the front room. She looked up, gave me a completely natural smile and said, “See you in a couple days, Cami. Safe trip!”

As I made my way to the car I thought, once again, that I really didn’t deserve either of them.

~o~O~o~
On the flight to Hartford, a few hours later

I was stuck in a middle seat on an American Airlines flight. To my right, an older woman, her eyes glued to a mystery novel on her lap.

The woman to my left was younger, probably mid-twenties. She had earplugs in her ears, no doubt playing music, but nothing I could hear over the roar of the engines. Her eyes were shut, but her posture and expression indicated she was very much awake. She was simply flashing a “do not disturb” sign.

I wondered whether, if I had flown as Cami, I would be having a conversation with one or both of my neighbors. I might be meeting new friends, as I had on the Amtrak to Boston that had brought Nicole – and later, Maggie – into my life. I might be learning new things, hearing about people I would never meet and places I might never visit.

But Cameron would meet a more wary reception. And, anticipating it, he would not reach out in the first place.

“Good evening folks, this is your Captain from the flightdeck. In preparation for our landing at Hartford/Springfield, please bring your seats and tray tables into the full, upright and locked position, and store any of those larger electronic devices you might have taken out . . . .”

The familiar drone of the landing instructions washed over me and I smiled. I was going to be glad to get off the plane.

~o~O~o~
Hartford, Connecticut, later that night

I caught a cab from the airport to our hotel, located right in the middle of Hartford’s downtown, checked in, and got myself settled.

The four of us – Eileen, David, Daviana and I – met for dinner. We didn’t talk much about the case since we were ready for what we had set for the week.

Instead, the conversation was about the now completed impeachment proceedings, the messed up Iowa Caucus, the upcoming New Hampshire primary, and the Coronavirus. Over 10,000 cases had been confirmed worldwide; the President had declared a public health emergency and countries, including the U.S., were shutting down flights from China.

“I don’t really understand how shutting down travel from China is going to help,” David said. “People can travel from China to other countries, cause infections there, and there’s no restriction on those people coming here.”

I suggested that maybe the idea was simply to slow things down, give us more time to get prepared.

“Your sister works in epidemiology, doesn’t she?” Daviana asked.

“Close; she works on the clinical side on infectious diseases.”

“What are you hearing from her?”

“We haven’t talked much since the beginning of the year because she’s been working on this night and day. But last time we spoke, she said they still didn’t have answers to a lot of very important questions. So they’re just trying to be as prepared as possible for whatever comes down the pike.”

Our discussion of politics was interesting – and in many ways telling. For starters, all of us were Democrats. When all the lawyers are in one corner, it’s a fair bet that the greater number of people will be in the other. When it came to the Democrats who were running, we were all over the map.

David liked Mayor Pete. “He thinks clearly. Communicates complex ideas clearly. He’s been in the service. I like all that.”

Daviana was undecided. “No one's really made me sit up and take notice.”

I made the case for Senator Warren. “I don’t know how we got to a place in this country where people were so mad that they were willing to elect Trump. So maybe we need to do more than tinker at the margins like we’ve been doing for forty years.”

Eileen said, “Biden. Because he can win.”

Eileen and I talked about baseball. She was sold on the Nationals; they had won her over with their charmed season last year. I was, as always, big on the Cardinals, though they had come up short. We talked about the NLDS game we had seen.

I said, “If you really want to see baseball, you should catch a game at Busch Stadium.”

She looked skeptical.

“I’m serious,” I said. “The best fans – the most educated fans – in baseball. When someone hits a ball high and hard, the people don’t get out of their seats unless it’s actually going to be a homer, and they know it at the crack of the bat.”

But, I thought to myself, I doubt I’ll ever see it again. I had no desire, and no intention, to return to St. Louis. I’ll have to watch the redbirds play in other, lesser ballparks.

It was a pleasant evening, an opportunity to unwind a bit in the midst of our furious preparations. Eileen was always careful to make sure such events occurred; all part of the task of keeping a good team running well.

We said goodnight and I went upstairs and into my room. Once the door was shut and secured, I stripped, slithered into my silky green nightie, and slipped into bed.

I had my good dream once again – the one where I am running down a dock, wearing a lime-green one-piece swimsuit, beckoning someone to follow me. As always, in the dream, my hair is long and flowing and my curves are real and perfect.

But this time the sky was cloudy and the water had some distinct chop.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Dissimulando scoprir potrò”
– Mozart, Le Nozze di Figaro, Se vuol ballare (Aria)

Hartford, Connecticut, February 10

Eileen and I met with Theo Jacoby, the corporate VP who was going to be our principal witness for the trial, while David and Daviana did some final preparations for the argument David would be presenting on Tuesday. Jacoby was a large man in all dimensions – tall, broad, heavy without being fat. His gray hair was short and tightly curled; his wire-rimmed glasses framed hazel-colored eyes.

Eileen looked small, sitting across the table from him. She also looked, and was, very much in charge.

“First,” she explained, “while the substance of your trial testimony is going to more-or-less track your deposition testimony from last year, the structure and format will be completely different. So, last time opposing counsel asked almost all the questions, and then David just asked a couple of clean-up questions to protect the pre-trial record. This time, you’re going to tell your story to the jury first.

“I’ll ask the questions, but they will be big, fat open-ended questions. What happened? Why? What did you do? Then, and only then, defendants’ lawyers will cross examine you. And, you won’t need to argue with them, because I’ll ask you re-direct questions that will allow you to expand on the answers you provided during cross.”

She continued her instructions, pausing to take his questions and stopping the explanation to give examples of what she was describing. Then she started asking him questions from her outline and working to perfect the responses.

Occasionally, Eileen would ask me to chime in on whether an answer could be improved, but this was an occasion to largely stay silent. It’s important for the witness and the attorney who will be handling the examination to coordinate very closely, without distractions. With very few exceptions, leading questions are not permitted in a direct examination, so advanced preparation is essential.

It was a very instructive session. Because he was our principal witness, preparation went all day, with only a short break for lunch. Eileen spent the last two hours going over questions that might be asked during cross examination. She also played snippets from Jacoby’s deposition testimony and we discussed which answers worked well and how others could be improved.

By the end of the prep session, he was much more relaxed, comfortable with his testimony and confident that he knew what he needed to know.

The key, I could tell, was that he ended the session secure in the knowledge that Eileen knew what she was doing and would have his back when he was on the witness stand. That would be harder for me to pull off with my own witnesses, since unlike Eileen I was not a veteran trial lawyer.

I asked Eileen about that when we were walking back to the hotel.

She grinned. “Fake it ‘till you make it, Cam. Never let them see you sweat!”

I could only laugh. Eileen was playing my song!

~o~O~o~
Hartford, Connecticut, February 11

We were back at the clients’ offices, entering another conference room. David’s argument before the judge had gone well, although the judge reserved decision on most of the substantive issues being discussed. We had expected that.

Daviana and David were in a different conference room preparing one of the two witnesses Daviana would be handling at trial. Eileen was backing me up, but this was my show.

I looked across the table at the first of my two witnesses, Astrid Thune. Early thirties, with pale, pale hair in a thick braid and eyes the color of glacial ice — she would be a cool beauty, if she were not looking so nervous. Very likely she had never seen the inside of a courtroom.

I followed my gut instinct, walking around to her side of the table, giving her a warm smile and shaking her hand as she got to her feet. “Astrid, I’m Cam Savin. This is our lead trial lawyer, Eileen O’Donnel. How are you?” I sat at the end of the table and let Eileen sit across from Astrid.

Eileen offered a friendly “Good afternoon,” as she sat down.

Astrid looked at me, then Eileen, then back to me, before saying, “I’m good, though I don’t mind telling you I’d be better if I didn’t have to do this.”

“Never had to testify at trial before?” I asked.

She shook her head, still looking uncomfortable.

“There is nothing for you to worry about.” I kept my voice calm and light. “You did a great job at your deposition, and in some ways this will be easier. We’re going to walk you through every step, and by the time we’ve finished you’ll be ready for whatever might happen. You’ve got this. Promise.”

Finally, she started to look a little less stressed. “Well . . . good. I really like being prepared for things, and I didn’t know how to prepare for this.”

“That’s why we’re here,” I assured her. “So, first off, let me talk to you about how what happens at trial will be like your deposition testimony, and how it will be different . . . .”

I launched into my description, following more or less the same points Eileen had made in her preparation of Theo Jacoby. But both Eileen and Jacoby were older, more seasoned. Less nervous. It was clear that I needed to calm Astrid and give her some confidence. I worked hard to do that, communicating my own confidence that she knew her subjects and could communicate them clearly and effectively.

It took a while, but eventually she began to relax. And once she did, as I expected, she did fine. I started going through my outline of questions.

From time to time, I brought Eileen into the conversation, just as she had brought me in the prior day. But since this was my witness she was acting as a resource.

I didn’t want to rely on her too much, or it might lessen Astrid’s confidence in my ability to take care of her when she was on the stand. At trial, only one attorney for each party may examine the witness; since I could get no assistance then, I had to minimize the assistance I needed now.

By the time we were finished, Astrid and I had developed a good rapport, and she was no longer defensive when I suggested ways to make her answers more complete or understandable. We wrapped up, and I assured her we would have plenty of additional opportunities to go over her testimony, so she would be completely prepared when the time came for her to take the stand.

Eileen and I thanked her for her time and we started walking back to the hotel. It was only a couple of blocks, and Eileen would not let forty-degree weather deter her. That was practically balmy as far as she was concerned.

She was quiet as we started our walk. I was starting to worry that I had forgotten something when she said, “That was very well done, Cam. I don’t know if you were nervous, but you certainly didn’t show it. And, you were remarkably sensitive to her discomfort and did a nice job getting her past it.”

“I was nervous walking in. But once I saw how nervous she was I kind of forgot about it. I was surprised at how easy it was.”

Eileen thought about that for half a block or so. “Treat the jury the same way. Once the trial starts, just focus on them. Make sure you have a sense of when a witness is connecting with them. We can’t leave any jurors behind. It’s the same skill you just demonstrated, but the focus is different.”

I nodded.

As we got to the hotel, Eileen said, “We don’t hire people who aren’t smart and hard-working, but in my experience the kind of emotional maturity you demonstrated today is impossible to gauge and nearly impossible to teach. I wish we could.”

I thought about Steve, the clueless shopper, and smiled. Maybe empathy, at least, could be taught. It might not be instinctual, but in the end, it’s a habit of thought, a conscious decision to put yourself into someone else’s shoes. I suggested that to Eileen.

She chewed it over. “Maybe.”

Dinner that evening was more work-oriented, as the two teams shared how their respective witness prep sessions had gone. Then we called it a night.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Aspetti, signorina”
– Puccini, La Bohème, Che gelida manina (Aria)

Hartford, Connecticut, February 11, immediately following

Rather than heading straight for my room, I followed a whim, went to the hotel bar and got an Oban, neat.

It was a relatively slow night, and there were only a few people at the bar – a group of three and two couples. From where I sat, alone, I could see them interacting but could not hear their actual words. Observing their non-verbal communications, I challenged myself to guess what they were saying.

One couple was in their forties. She still looked good – very good – while he looked like an athlete who hadn't quite been able to adjust his diet as his body aged and his metabolism slowed. Still powerful, but heavier. His eyes lingered a bit too long on the younger women in the bar.

His companion was clearly aware, and looked both pained and annoyed.

The other couple was younger, both in age and in years together. The woman, in her early twenties, short and curvy, had hands that wandered, touched, promised. The man, a bit older, tall and well-built, was captivated. They laughed; their foreheads touched, then she came in for a light kiss. His hand rose to stroke her hair.

There was no need to hear what they were saying to know what they were thinking.

The group of three was more of a challenge. They – two women and a guy, all around my age, were talking together quietly like a group of old friends. But there was something about the way they were interacting that suggested that the guy and the girl further from me were an item, and the other was the odd gal out.

It wasn’t clear that she knew it. Something about the way they sat; about the way two sets of eyes met, and met again, while the other looked on.

The young couple left, no longer able to control the fire in their hearts.

The older man’s eye’s followed the young woman as she departed, snuggled into her boyfriend’s arm. The older woman abruptly rose, said something to her companion, and headed toward the lobby. He stayed, nursing his drink.

“Have another?” The bartender had wandered over.

I looked at my drink and smiled. “No, thanks. Slow night?”

“Mid-week in February, with no convention, this is about what we get.”

“That can’t make your life easier.”

She shrugged. “It’s a livin’, Hon. What do you do? Law, or insurance?”

I laughed. “No one else wearing suits?”

“Not in this town. Except maybe politicians, and even they don’t, mostly. If you’re not a lawyer, it’s either Travelers, Aetna, or The Hartford.” She wandered over to the forty-something wolf.

Two of the threesome – the two I thought were a couple – were getting up, and appeared to be urging the third to come with them. She waved them off, saying something humorous. They all laughed, but there was a tension to it.

The couple walked into the hotel, leaving their friend behind, looking at her almost-empty wine glass like it held some answers.

A few minutes later, the bartender handed her another glass of the same and said something to her. The woman looked at the wolf, speculatively. After a moment, she picked up her glass and made her way carefully to where he was sitting.

I thought, Oh, honey, you are SO going to regret that.

The bartender and I exchanged a look and a shrug, as if to say, what can you do?

I decided it was time to turn in, and headed upstairs. I wondered whether, a year ago, I would have bought the woman a drink, and laughed at the notion. Picking up women in bars was something that took more self-confidence than Cam ever had. She might have preferred Cam to the wolf. But who knows? Some women like the wolves.

But Cam was really just a disguise now, and one that was wearing thin. I divested myself of my Cam-o-flage, put my arms inside my green nightie and allowed it to slide teasingly down my body, thrilling, as I always did, at the sensual, transformational feel of the silky fabric.

I tucked myself into a pair of panties, slid into my cold bed, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

My dream was bizarre. I was back in the bar, but this time the bartender was giving me the wine glass, and I was the one walking over to the wolf, glass held lightly between thumb and two fingers. When I stood before him he snapped his fingers and I bent to kiss him.

Then I set my glass on the bar and began removing my tie and my suit jacket, letting them fall to the ground at my feet. He watched with dark eyes as I slowly unbuttoned my dress shirt and let it drop, exposing not the t-shirt I had worn, but a camisole and bra, daintily laced, pretty and feminine.

I reached back with both hands, displaying slender, milk-white arms, as I pulled my hair free. It billowed around my face like a smoky cloud and the wolf pulled me in, unresisting, for a deeper, more disturbing kiss.

My hands began to move without volition, echoing the caresses, the touches, of the young woman who had left the bar with her boyfriend. I felt . . . powerless. A loud siren began to wail as his tongue thrust between my welcoming lips.

I woke with a start, sweaty, tangled in my nightie. Which is when I realized that the siren was not part of a dream. It was, instead, the sound of the hotel’s fire alarm.

I froze, but only for an instant. Mercifully, through the aftershock of the dream that had left me disoriented and distressed, my normal reaction to emergencies kicked in.

I threw off the sheets and covers and rolled out of bed. One of my long lingerie straps had already slipped down; the other immediately followed and I got out of my nightie.

I had a pair of Cam’s sweats with me, since I had made some use of the hotel’s exercise equipment. They went on quickly. I stuck my feet in Cam’s sneakers, grabbed my room key and was out the door, making my way towards the stairwell with a stream of people.

My room was on the seventh floor, and progress down was slow as people on lower floors joined the exodus. But we did eventually come out in the lobby, where we were directed outdoors. It was freezing outside – literally – and people were not happy.

I looked around and didn’t see any of my crew; people were not all being directed to the same waiting areas. But I did see a face I recognized – the young woman who had decided to test the wolf. No one looked happy just at the moment, but she looked . . . truly awful. Shell-shocked. Hurt.

Unable to help myself, I was at her side without even thinking about it. I touched her arm lightly, very lightly, and asked, “Are you all right?” I kept my voice pitched so that only she would hear the question.

Her eyes came up, but she seemed to have trouble focusing on me. “Wha . . . oh. I’m . . . fine. I’m fine. Just . . . was surprised. By the alarm.”

“I don’t mean to intrude. But you look like something’s happened to you. Do you need help? Did the man from the bar last night hurt you?”

This time her eyes seemed to focus on me. “You saw . . . ?”

“I was in the bar when he bought you a drink, that’s all . . . . Did he hurt you?”

She closed her eyes for a moment and seemed to steady herself. Then she looked at me and said, “He didn’t do anything I didn’t ask for. No one’s fault but my own.” Her voice was low, and filled with self-loathing.

Just then an announcement came over the intercom inside, telling everyone that we could return to our rooms. The woman started to straighten up and I touched her arm lightly one more time. “You made a bad choice in a bad moment. That doesn’t make you a bad person. Okay?”

She looked at me again, almost puzzled, then reached up and gave my arm a squeeze. “Thank you.”

“There’s a CVS three blocks from here. If you need it.”

Her eyes widened fractionally, then she gave a quick nod, said “Thanks,” again, and walked to the stairs.

There was a large group of people waiting at the elevator banks, but I was only seven floors up. I took the stairs myself and spent the climb thinking about the poor woman. Although I had blithely assumed I would never do anything so foolish, my dream mocked my self-assurance.

How could even my subconscious be so stupid? And when I had been been startled awake, my body had been overwhelmed by sexual tension and excitement. I was only glad I didn’t have even a dream memory of going further. Saved by the bell!

~o~O~o~

On the walk to the client’s office the next morning, Eileen fell in beside me. “Quite the excitement last night. I saw you from the lobby, but you looked like you were helping someone. Everything okay?”

“Just a woman who was a bit shaken by the alarm. She’s okay.” I hoped it was true.

Eileen added, conversationally, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your hair down before. Almost didn’t recognize you.”

To be continued . . .