~o~O~o~

CHAPTER ONE

“fra dubbiezza e disìo tutta sospesa”
– Cilèa, Adriana Lecouvreur, Acerba voluttà (Aria)

Hartford, Connecticut, February 12

So, Eileen had seen me with my hair down. That had been so careless on my part. I had been flustered by my disturbing and erotic dream, surprised by the sudden wake-up by the hotel’s fire alarm, and so intent in changing from my nightie into male clothes that I hadn’t thought about my hair. Yikes!

However, I still had the ability to put on a poker face when I needed it. Keeping my voice unconcerned, I said, “I know! I keep meaning to get it trimmed, but I guess I’ve gotten superstitious about it. I’ve had a lot of success since I started letting it grow out in law school. I don’t want to jinx it!”

Eileen chuckled. “‘The rose goes in the front,’ right?”

I laughed, hard. “Exactly!”

Our conversation shifted easily to the schedule for the day. Both Daviana and I were prepping our second witnesses, and since David was the honcho on our damages case, he was backing up Daviana. Eileen was again my backup.

We talked about Joe Sanchez, my witness for the day. I said, “He sounded too defensive in his deposition. He’s got a great resume, based on his LinkedIn profile. I want to spend some time at the beginning of direct, building him up for the jury, making sure they know he knows what he’s talking about. Does that make sense?”

Eileen nodded. “The judge will give you some leeway on that, even though we aren’t offering him as an expert. Don’t let it go on too long, though.”

As we approached the client’s massive brick pile of an office, Eileen said, “Cam, I may be wrong, but I’ve had the sense you’ve had a lot going on these past few weeks. I don’t mean to pry and I won’t. But, as your supervisor, is there anything I need to know? And, purely as a friend, is there anything I can do to help?” Her tone was warm and her voice friendly.

I thought carefully about the nature of the dual questions she had asked. I felt certain that I could rely on her friendship. But, as she pointed out, she is also my supervisor, and a senior partner, not to mention a member of the firm’s management committee. Partners have fiduciary duties to each other as well as to clients. She would need to alert her partners if I confirmed her suspicions, if only because doing so would trigger application of the firm’s non-discrimination policies.

And she would need to be dealing with all that might entail just as we were rolling into trial.

If, on the other hand, I didn’t spill the beans, she would probably keep her suspicions to herself for the time being. And yet! I didn’t want to spurn an offer of help that I would certainly need. So I chose my words with extreme care.

“Thanks, Eileen,” I said, matching her warmth. “I really appreciate it. You’re right; I have had a couple things come up. But there’s nothing that can’t wait until after the trial, and I’m making sure that it does. I would absolutely let you know about anything that could affect my work. But, once the trial is done, I would really appreciate a chance to talk to you – as both a friend and a mentor.”

Eileen had chosen to make her offer while we were walking, so that neither of us would have to look at the other while we talked. It was a very useful tactic for delicate conversations; I decided I might use it myself sometime. Still, I glanced sideways at Eileen to see what I could gauge from her reaction. She appeared to be . . . serene?

Yes; that was a fair description. Serene.

“Well, I’ve got absolutely no complaints about your work,” she said. “And if you tell me there’s nothing I need to know about right now I’ll trust you. But my door’s open anytime. I hope you know that.”

I assured her that I did, and told her how much I appreciated it. And, with that, we went inside and went to work.

~o~O~o~
30,000 feet above the Mid-Atlantic states, and Baltimore, Maryland, February 14

It was 8:00 pm, and I was headed back to BWI. It had been an intense, productive, and professionally satisfying week. Our mock-trial exercise had been incredibly instructive – enough to where I had no doubt that the client would consider the exercise to have been well worth the considerable expense. We would be ten times better prepared when we presented our case to the real jury in a month’s time.

Our panel of mock jurors, hired by our consultant for a one-day exercise, were drawn from the New Haven area and were representative of the people who might be selected for our jury. Three men, three women, diverse racial, ethnic, economic, and work backgrounds. Two retired; two union members; one academic, one contractor.

They had listened as David summarized our liability case, I laid out our damages case, then Eileen and Daviana laid out the opposing case for the Defendant, followed by a brief rebuttal by David and me. The “jurors” were told that their reactions to the presentations would be the basis for a subsequent mediation; they were not told that we were actually all working for the Plaintiff’s side.

Our presentations were mostly oral, but each side showed the most critical pieces of evidence for their respective cases, including excerpts of documents and video from witness depositions. As Eileen had suggested, I kept my attention focused like a laser on the “jurors.” David’s presentation, which we had both worked on, was logically tight and compelling, but David is a somewhat didactic speaker and I could tell that he was losing some of the jurors.

I tried to be more energetic in my presentation, to vary the pitch and volume of my voice more, to be physically expressive and to use analogies to explain some of the more esoteric concepts. Damages models are usually not simple things, but they have to be made simple in trial testimony.

Unfortunately, Eileen had stacked the deck by putting herself on the “Red Team.” In twenty-five brutal minutes, she calmly and methodically eviscerated our liability case, effortlessly tying together the best pieces of evidence for the Defendant’s side and casting doubt on the evidence we had presented. Daviana’s excellent presentation attacking our damages model was largely beside the point; without liability, damages are irrelevant.

David and I, having anticipated the content of the attacks (if not their potency), gave brief rebuttals. Then the moderator asked the mock jurors questions that we had worked out with him in advance.

On the whole, the responses suggested that the Plaintiff’s team had done better than I had feared. Two jurors found our claims persuasive and believed our damages expert. Eileen had wholly convinced two jurors that Defendant was not liable, and the remaining jurors were uncertain.

But plaintiffs have to convince everyone.

The moderator probed which pieces of evidence had been effective, which had failed to connect, and why. The “juror’s” responses were very enlightening.

After they left, Eileen said, “Okay, that was helpful. Don’t be too concerned that our side ‘lost’ today. We practice so that we get better, and now we know where we need to focus our work over the next month. The issues that were confusing or troubling to the jurors today can be fixed through good preparation of our trial witnesses. So I want us all to think about how we’re going to do that, and discuss it Monday morning.” She actually looked very pleased with the exercise, which certainly made me feel better about it.

I don’t like losing!

I was making notes on the topic Eileen told us to think about as the flight sped home. I was in a window seat, and able to screen my notes from other passengers. Not that it mattered; my neighbors had again ignored me. This time, I was happy about that.

I had a lot to think about. About the trial, mostly. But I was also thinking about the fact that my cover wasn’t holding as well any more. Eileen, I felt sure, knew or strongly suspected what was going on. Also, when I had gone into the gift shop in the lobby Thursday night to buy some Advil, I bumped into the woman I had seen in the bar, and later during the fire drill.

I hadn’t seen her in the back of the store, but as I was leaving I heard a hesitant voice behind me say, “It was you, wasn’t it? The other morning?”

I turned and recognized her immediately; my recognition was sufficiently obvious that she didn’t wait for a response. “I wasn’t sure, because . . . well. I mean, don’t take this wrong . . .” She was blushing furiously, having clearly gone out on a limb before her brain was engaged, but feeling compelled to finish her thought. “I, ah, thought you were a woman. I mean, that’s stupid, but . . . .”

I stopped her with a light touch, taking the opportunity to move us both out of the shop. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s a compliment. Anyway, you were dealing with other things. Are you okay?”
She assured me that she was, and thanked me again, and that was that.

But I knew why she had mistaken me for a woman. The hair had been part of it, of course, but during the entire fire drill encounter I hadn’t even thought about presenting as male. I had acted instinctively; naturally. And my “natural” communications, both in style and substance, had strongly signaled “woman.”

I thought to myself, we start picking the jury in just over a month. I only have to hold things together a little while longer. I’ve got to manage it!

Forty-five minutes later I was on the ground and had picked up my bags. I was so preoccupied that I started to head towards the MARC station before I pulled myself out of autopilot and remembered that I no longer lived in College Park.

But I was very happy to be heading to “Opera House.” Maggie had a part in the Sarasota Opera’s upcoming production of La Wally, and she was flying down to begin in-person rehearsals in just two days. I wouldn’t see her until after the trial – by which time Nicole would be in Chicago rehearsing for a production of Wagner’s Götterdämmerung. During the brief time I had spent with my roommates the prior weekend, I had come to appreciate what their lives were like during the season.

I got an Uber and then texted the girls to let them know I was on my way. When I came through the door, Maggie popped out of the kitchen. She gave me a smile and steered me to the stairs.

“Go dump your bag. We got a bath ready for you, so soak as long as you like, then come down and we’ll have some soup. Nicole’s just finishing some rehearsing in the sound room.”

“You two are amazing.” I gently pressed her steering hand on my arm, gave her a grateful smile, and headed upstairs.

I dropped my bag in my bedroom, found a few essentials, as well as my flannel nightgown, fleece robe and fuzzy slippers, and headed to the bathroom. A bubble bath! Oh, Maggie deserves a place in heaven! I pulled my hair loose from its bands and sank down to bring the water all the way up the back of my head. The stress of the week began to melt away as I closed my eyes and simply relaxed.

Eventually I sat up and shampooed my mop, then massaged conditioner into my scalp and down the growing length of my mane. I pulled the lot forward to rest on my chest, then sank back down and began shaving my legs. There’s not all that much to shave – undoubtedly a function of the hypogonadism that had muted the development of all of my masculine sexual characteristics during puberty – but I like my skin to be completely smooth.

I particularly enjoy the sensual exercise of shaving my legs – the tingle of the foam, the caress of the sharp blade over sensitive skin, the visual image of the razor’s tracks effortlessly skimming the soap away in long, straight lines.

When I had finished, I pulled the plug, then patted myself dry and took a blowdryer to my hair. I would normally have put in some mousse and curlers, but I didn’t want to keep Maggie and Nicole waiting. I simply left it loose, only pulling back the hair from my temples and securing it behind the crown of my head. After attaching my breast forms and applying the concealing makeup to the seams, I slipped on a padded panty gaff and then got into my nightgown and robe.

Finally, I shaved my face (mostly a prophylactic exercise), used cleanser and moisturizer, and put on some lipstick and just a hint of blush and eyeshadow. Maggie and – God knows! – Nicole needed no makeup to present as female; I preferred to have a little help!

I padded downstairs in my fuzzy slippers, finally feeling like myself again, and bumped into Nicole at the bottom of the stairs.

She smiled hugely and gave me a big hug. “Hey girl! Welcome home!”

I gave her an equally big hug in return, overwhelmed once again at my good fortune at having found such a fabulous friend. Then we joined Maggie in the kitchen and served some tomato basil soup with fresh toasted sourdough bread.

I told them a bit about my week. They thought the mock jury exercise sounded really cool. “You never see anything like that on TV,” Nicole said.

“What people generally don’t realize is just how much planning goes into every minute of a trial,” I said. “You spend hours perfecting ten minutes of testimony. And if a juror falls asleep for five minutes, literally hours of work are wasted. It makes it pretty intense for the lawyers.”

They were most interested in my exchange with Eileen on the walk to the client’s headquarters. They both wondered whether it wouldn’t have been better just to tell her.

“I don’t think so,” I said, “though I’m really just guessing. I think it would be disruptive for me to come out just before we start the trial. I think it will make Eileen’s life easier if I wait, and her reaction to what I said makes me more confident I’m right about that. I think the jury is less likely to think anything about my gender if I’m presenting as male; I do have more experience doing that, and in a work setting I don’t have any experience presenting as a woman. But I could be wrong about all of those things.”

Nicole nodded. “I guess I can see your point,” she said. “Though I have to tell you, I really get a very female vibe from you. I’ve only seen you presenting as male once, though, and we didn’t really talk. Obviously the physical presentation helped, but I didn’t have any trouble seeing Cami through your suit. I can’t exactly say why.”

“I thought the same thing,” Maggie said. “Maybe it’s just how expressive your face is. Or how you move? But, the jury will never have seen you present as female, so maybe they won’t see it like we do.”

“Let’s hope so, anyway,” I said. “I think I present differently as a male. Although it feels more natural to me now, I really worked hard to develop more feminine ways of appearing, moving, interacting . . . now I seem to apply those lessons in reverse. I consciously use my older mannerisms when I’m presenting as male. I mean, it’s funny that you mention my face being expressive; as Cameron, people joked about my having a permanent poker face."

"Seriously?" asked Maggie.

"Yeah, really!" I said. "Anyway, other than Eileen, who probably wouldn’t have thought about it if she hadn’t caught me with my hair down, I don’t have a sense that anyone at work is seeing anything odd in my behavior, and they’ve only known me as male. So I should be able to pull it off for a jury for two weeks.”

We called it a night a bit later. As I prepared for bed, I thought some more about our conversation. And about how the woman in the hotel had thought I was female even though I didn’t have my artificial curves, or the benefit of makeup or female clothing. I hope that my confidence in my ability to stay balanced on the tightrope isn’t misplaced.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER TWO
“Sous le rhythme de la chanson”
– Bizet, Carmen, Les tringles des sistres tintaient (Aria)

Baltimore, Maryland, February 15

For the first time in over ten days, I was able to get up and do my full early morning routine. I rolled out of “bed” – a couch, but comfortable – got dressed in a sports bra and yoga pants, put my hair in a high ponytail, and slipped down to the basement for a full aerobic workout: Fifteen minutes of stretches, thirty minutes of vigorous cheer routines, and ten more minutes of stretches. I had at least been able to do some of my stretches in the hotel room in Hartford, and I had gotten down to the hotel gym twice and used exercycles, so I hadn’t lost too much. Still, I felt quite winded when I was done.

I trotted upstairs, hot and sweaty, and was in and out of the shower before 6:15. This time, I did apply mousse and curlers in my hair, then I put nail polish on my fingernails and went back to my bedroom to let it set. By 7:00 am I was downstairs again.

Having observed Nicole and Maggie last weekend, I decided I needed a few more casual clothes, if I was going to fit in properly. For the moment, I went with black tights and an oversized hoodie that had – for some reason – been part of my male wardrobe. It looked better on me as Cami, covering just enough at the bottom to be acceptable and accentuating my (unfortunately artificial) breasts. The thing must have fit my male self better when I weighed fifteen to twenty pounds more. At my current weight, it made me look practically petite. I wore a pair of flats and put my hair in my almost-signature over-the-shoulder loose braid.

I was looking around the kitchen for something I could make for everyone to eat for breakfast when Maggie popped into the kitchen wearing a knee-length flannel nightgown in a Royal Stewart plaid with a wide neckline that emphasized her bird-like collar bones. Her blonde hair, about the same length as mine, was still mussed from sleep, but her sky-blue eyes were wide awake.

“Good morning, Cami!” she said warmly. “I’m used to being the early bird around here. Do you always get up in the middle of the night?”

I gave her a spontaneous hug. “5:00, when I can manage it. I hope I didn’t wake you!”

She smiled and stretched like a cat. “No, I’m up early ‘cuz I’m excited about tomorrow, I guess. But then I heard you downstairs and thought I’d investigate.”

I asked her what she would like for breakfast, convinced her that it was okay to let me make her something, and shortly afterward served her an egg over easy, sliced tomato, and a piece of yesterday’s sourdough bread, toasted and buttered. She got green tea and I made myself coffee – the only thing I had brought from my kitchen last weekend.

Once she had done her morning vocal exercises, she planned to spend most of the day packing, though she had two students coming in that afternoon for lessons. She told me I should feel free to sleep in her room while she was gone, since her bed was undoubtedly more comfortable than the couch.

I told her that I had some calls to make, but would spend most of the day working. However, I had my first meeting with my voice coach, Dr. Trelli, at 1:00.

Maggie was excited. “You’ll love her – she is absolutely the best voice coach. She’s half the reason Nickie was willing to come live with me in Baltimore. . . . You’re welcome to join our morning voice exercises once Nick’s awake; it’ll definitely help wake up your voice.”

Before we got up to get started on our respective tasks, I said, a bit shyly, “I’d really like to do something nice for you as a send off. Do you have a favorite dinner? A favorite place to eat? Even a favorite dessert?”

She grinned at me. “Damn, I could get used to this! This time of year, I mostly eat soups of one sort or another. If you have a good soup recipe I’m game!”

“Deal!” I didn’t actually have a good soup recipe, but I would by-God get one!

We got to work. I went downstairs and opened up my laptop while Maggie went upstairs to get her shower and pull together her laundry.

Around 9:30 Maggie and Nicole both came down to the basement; by this point even Nicole was showered, dressed. and ready for voice exercises. These followed the same sets of patterns we had used the previous week. After thirty minutes or so we stopped, and I had to agree that my voice felt much more “awake.” It struck me as a strange description, but accurate. I felt like I could go to any point in my normal pitch range without feeling any strain – no sensation of “forcing” the higher notes of my register.

After our exercises, Maggie went upstairs again. Nicole was going to use the sound enclosure to work on Götterdämmerung. Before she went in, I told Nicole about my idea of making a nice dinner for Maggie.

She clapped her hands gleefully – I’d never actually seen someone do that. “That’s perfect! What were you thinking of making?”

I explained that Maggie had expressed a preference for soup, and I didn’t have a particular soup in mind.

“Oh!” she replied, “I have a fabulous fish soup recipe I’ve been dying to try – Mags would love it. Hows about I do the shopping this afternoon while you’re doing your lesson, then we can cook dinner together?”

That sounded perfect and I said so.

She flashed me a big smile. “Great idea, Cami!” then went into the sound booth. When I looked up from my computer screen I could see her at the microphone, headphones on and a look of intense concentration on her face as she sang.

At a bit before noon I shut down my laptop. Before I went back upstairs, I picked up the headphones to listen to Nicole. I could hear her voice blending with a recording that she played through the synthesizer. I closed my eyes for a moment and just listened.

Whatever piece she was singing, it did not have the beauty, the pathos of the aria she had sung from Tosca during our romp through Rockefeller Center, or the sheer sensuality of Maggie’s favorite aria from Carmen. But it had incredible power – an overwhelming sense of strength, of force. From a technical standpoint, it demonstrated Nicole’s virtuosity. I didn’t love the music, but . . . I found I could respect it.

After a few minutes of listening intently, I opened my eyes and saw that Nicole was watching me, a look of amusement and mischief in her eyes even as her voice rose higher and increased in power. I smiled back, waved, then removed the headphones and went upstairs.

Maggie was in the kitchen when I emerged onto the main floor. “Want some chicken salad?” she asked.

“Sounds perfect.”

She spilt the container between the two of us. “Nicole eats breakfast so late she generally skips lunch, or just has an apple or something in the early afternoon. So this is all ours!”

I finished and was cleaning the dishes when Nicole came up from the basement.

She said, “Why don’t I drop you off at Dottoressa Trelli’s studio and I’ll go to the grocery store from there?”

So, I hopped into Nicole’s car and we sped off. The studio was only five or so minutes away by car; I could easily have walked, but this saved time. Nicole dropped me off and I walked up the steps of another private residence which, like “Opera House,” was also being used as a studio. Unusually, the house had a stucco exterior, brightly painted trim, and colorful tiles on the risers of the stairs leading to an ornate front door.

I rang the bell, which generated a seven-note scale. This left me smiling just as the door opened, revealing a very large woman – at least my height, and substantially larger in all other dimensions – with blue-black hair and eyes so dark they might as well have been black too. She was wearing slacks and a loose-fitting top, and looked like she was in her early- to mid- forties. Her face was feathered with smile lines, and she used them to good effect.

“You must be Cami! Come in, come in!” She had me sit down. “Now. I’ve heard about you from Dr. Chun. And I’ve heard about you from those fine young women you are living with. But before we start, I’d like to hear about you from you. Tell me about yourself. Tell me what brings you to my studio.”

So, I gave her an edited version: the biographical details, education, work. Then I talked about my growing realization last fall that I was misgendered as a male, and my resolution to do something about it. The fact that, outside of work, I was now spending all of my time as a woman. My desire to make my presentation match my internal understanding of my gender.

Her intense eyes never left my face, but I felt like she was somehow in constant motion. She was nodding, or smiling. Her hands were moving. Clearly and visibly, she was completely engaged in what I was saying.

When I was finished she said, “Buono. With this, I can help. I am already getting a sense of your voice, your manner of speaking, of communicating. But, I have some exercises that will help more.” She handed me a sheet of paper.

I giggled as I saw it was a print of the Lewis Carroll poem, Jabberwocky.

“You know this poem? That is good,” she said. “Ecco. Here is what I want you to do. First, I want you to read this poem to me as if you were sitting at a conference table in your office, dressed for work, and I were one of your co-workers. In other words, use your ‘male’ voice.’ Then, I’ll have you repeat it in your ‘female’ voice. Please begin.”

This was unexpected. I closed my eyes for a moment and conjured the scene she had described. Cameron Ross Savin, Esq. Suit and tie. Wingtips. Hair strictly tied back and clubbed. Conference room. Reading. My eyes opened, and I read, “‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves . . . .’” The poem’s familiar cadences, in my male high tenor, inflection carefully cabined; stress indicated through changes in volume and pacing. Facial expression controlled; body and hands, still.

I finished the poem.

The Dottoressa again said, “Buono. Now, let me hear you, Cami.”

I smiled and began again. My voice was higher, lighter. Softer. I modulated my pitch more than my volume to provide emphasis, and allowed both my face and my body more range of expression.

As I read the father’s lines – “Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” my eyes shone with pride, my smile echoed my rising voice and my arms swept out, as if to embrace the conquering hero son. I finished the reprise of the first stanza more softly, on a lower pitch.

Dottoressa Trelli was smiling and nodding. “Yes! You have been paying attention, haven’t you? You are a good student of the best school – the observation of people. But!!! But!!! There is much room to improve, and that is what we shall do!” She was, as Lewis Carroll might have said, beamish.

In a quieter voice, she said, “In what you just showed me, I would say you have made a good beginning in a couple of critical areas. Intonation – the rise and fall of pitch in your speech – is noticeably more fluid in your female voice. Similarly, your volume is lower and more consistent. I would say your greatest strength, where you show the most difference between your ‘voices,’ is in nonverbal communication. Your face is very expressive as Cami, you make good eye contact, and your body is loose and free to speak along with your voice. This is all good.” She beamed again.

“Where I think you need the most help, and where we will focus most of our attention to begin with, is pitch and resonance. You are largely using your ‘head’ voice when you talk as a woman. That allows you to somewhat hide the depth of your voice and cuts out the deeper resonances that come from the larger sound chambers of a man’s throat and mouth. It’s a decent short-cut, and I see why you use it. Given the relatively high pitch of your natural male voice, it’s also reasonably convincing.

“It is not, however, desirable or sustainable. You need to be able to increase the effective range of your voice – the range that you can access using your full voice, your properly supported chest voice. This will be vastly more convincing – no one speaks in their head voice most of the time, and if you want to continue in your current profession you will especially wish to avoid doing so. A head voice is too soft to convey authority. And an unsupported throat voice that is pushed to a higher register sounds inauthentic. That will also damage your vocal cords over time.”

She nodded her head emphatically, to stress the point. “No! What you need to do is to increase your effective range. There are exercises for that, and you will do them every day, without fail. Yes?”

“Yes, Dottoressa,” I said obediently. I added, “Nicole and Maggie have had me join their morning warm-up exercises on a couple of occasions. Will that help?”

She was back to beaming. “Intelligent young women! Inspired! You are greatly blessed to work with them! Yes, it will help tremendously. They will be able to keep you doing the exercises correctly, without strain to the voice, but also push you where and how you need to be pushed – just as they push each other. There are some additional exercises that I will assign you as well; these have more to do with enunciation and articulation. In general, women tend to articulate more clearly, with crisper consonants. Yet, nonetheless, they tend to speak more quickly.”

With that, she sat down at her piano and walked me through a set of exercises. The first were, recognizably, the same ones I had practiced earlier in the day. She wanted to hear how I did with them, and what the current limits of my range were – the point at which I would go into falsetto. She stopped me periodically, giving me tips on posture and breathing to ensure that the notes were properly supported.

After that, she had me go through a different set of exercises than the ones I had done with Nicole and Maggie, aimed at articulation and speed. These were fun – almost tongue-twisters. Each time I went through them, she increased the tempo on her metronome. By the end, I was completely tongue-tied, but grinning like a springer spaniel.

She stopped me, and the metronome, and returned my grin. “Buono. Buono! You, I will enjoy training!”

She gave me several worksheets with the exercises on them, stressing once again that I was to do my exercises every day and without fail. I was very much afraid that I would have to at least curtail my normal physical workout if I was going to have time, but this was a priority. We set a time to meet the following weekend.

As I got ready to go, she said, “Dottoressa McGregor is leaving tomorrow, yes?”

“You mean Maggie? I didn’t know she had a doctorate!”

She responded, “We Italians are not so stingy with honorifics as you Anglo-Americans. She has a Master of Music degree from a prestigious school; it is enough, and more than enough! If you can prevail upon her to do so, ask the Dottoressa if she would do a recording of the second set of exercises for you before she goes. She is quite familiar with them. Her articulation at high speeds is exemplary, and her pitch, while substantially higher than yours, is still closer to it than Dottoressa Fontaine’s. Record your own sessions and compare your articulation to hers. You will see immediately what I am getting at. Your goal is to emulate her admirable clarity. Yes?”

With that, she shooed me out and I found to my surprise that it was already 3:30. The time with THE Dottoressa – I now understood why Maggie and Nicole both seemed to use verbal capital letters when they referred to her – had passed incredibly quickly.

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER THREE
“Merce dilette amiche”
– Verdi, Les vêpres siciliennes, Merce dilette amiche (Aria)

Baltimore, Maryland, February 15, immediately following

The day was warm enough (I had changed into sturdier shoes and donned my winter coat), so I decided to walk back to Opera House. It took me about twenty-five minutes, walking through neighborhoods of modest houses, most dating from the early Twentieth Century, when Baltimore was more prosperous and fine craftsmanship could be had for less.

The smell of woodsmoke carried in the cool, dry winter air, and the sounds of a city – voices, traffic, equipment – combined in an intricate harmony. I thrilled to the cool touch of the wind as it swirled old leaves at my feet, bringing a feather of cold up legs sheathed only in tights.

A car approached and, as it drew level, I briefly saw a man’s face, grinning, followed by the sound of a high, appreciative whistle as he continued on his way.

I laughed. Oh, it could have been a problem, and in some circumstances it would have been. But he hadn’t paused or hassled me otherwise, and I was more than inclined to simply stick the compliment in my purse and enjoy it. It is, I thought, very good to be alive.

I was back at Opera House at almost 4:00. Maggie was working with a student in the front room, so I went around and came up the back stairs to the kitchen. There was no sign of Nicole, but I saw a covered bowl on the counter and, peaking, discovered that it held rising dough. I went in search of Nicole and found her downstairs, once again rehearsing in the sound enclosure.

I let her know I had arrived and sat at the table. Procrastinating a bit, I sent a text to Al and Javier asking how they were doing and whether I could come by tomorrow to get the rest of my stuff. After that, I sent a text to Liz just to let her know I was thinking about her, and a final text to Fiona. “Hey Fi – keeping you in my thoughts and prayers. Hope all is well. Are you getting answers?” Then I opened my laptop and got to work.

After a few minutes I got a call from Javier. He sounded better than he had a week before. “Hey, Cami! How was your trip?”

I said it had gone well, and asked how he, Al and Tina were doing.

“I think we’re making progress. It’s slow, but we’ll take it. We, uh . . . well. After what you told me about your watch, I went and gathered up the rest of your stuff when I got back from Baltimore last week. It’s in a bin in our apartment. The table and chair are still in the garage, but that won’t be any trouble.” He paused for a moment. “Would it be okay if I just drove it all out to where you are staying tomorrow?”

That spoke volumes; Al and Javi clearly thought it would be counterproductive to have me either encounter Tina again, or enter what was once again her apartment.

While on one level I was sorry to hear it, I didn’t have any great desire to run into Tina either – at least not in her current condition. In any event, there was only one answer. “Of course, Javi. How’s 1:00 sound?”

He agreed, clearly grateful I had accepted his offer, and we ended the call.

I had a short and cheerful text back from Liz, but nothing from Fiona. Another Saturday at work for her, I thought. I got back to it myself.

Nicole emerged from her session around 4:45. “Ready when you are!”

I shut down my computer and we went back to the kitchen. Maggie had apparently finished with her students and had gone back upstairs. I asked Nicole to give me a minute, then went up to Maggie’s room, where she was carefully folding freshly-washed clothes.

“Hey, Dottoressa McGregor!" I said with a big smile. “What’s shakin’?”

That got a laugh from her. “Don’t you start! She’s earned the title; I certainly haven’t!”

“Maybe not, but THE Dottoressa said I should ask you, and very specifically you, if you would do a recording of the exercises she just gave me, so that your humble acolyte could learn the secrets of your ‘exemplary articulation at high speed!’”

She laughed again. “Articulation exercises? Sure! I know exactly the ones she gave you. Let me just finish folding these and I’ll record it right now.”

“Better still, let me help you with the laundry. Least I can do.” We finished the folding in four minutes, and I was back down in the kitchen.

Nicole had started pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator. She had put on a floral apron, already powdered with some flour, and she handed me a matching one. “So, here’s the recipe!” she said, excited, as she handed me an iPad.

I looked it over and grinned. “Oh, you like challenges!” Nicole wasn’t just proposing we make “fish soup;” she wanted to make a genuine Marseille Bouillabaisse!

She grinned back. “Game on, girlfriend!”

While Nicole pummeled her bread dough, I started chopping onions, garlic and leeks and zesting some orange peel. I sauteed it all together with sprigs of fresh thyme and fennel seeds, then added tomato paste and a fresh tomato, diced fine.

Meantime, Nicole was preparing the “waste fish” that we would add to the broth – truly awful looking stuff like fish heads and bones, together with another fish she described as red mullet, singing a little ditty in French as she worked. The tune was a real earworm; it stuck in my head for weeks. She had me sing the chorus with her, a task somewhat complicated by the fact that I don’t speak French.

I got it eventually, but caused her some real chuckles before I did.

“I think you just said you like to eat Germans!” she giggled.

“Who doesn’t?”

Nicole layered her ugly waste fish into my pretty broth, then deglazed with some white wine and a splash of Ouzo. With a twinkle of mischief in her eye, she took a swig from the wine bottle then handed it to me.

“Merci,” I said – even I know that much French! – and followed suit. I quick-boiled some water in their electric kettle and added it to the pot, covering the fish, then we took the mixture to a full boil for several minutes before lowering the temperature to a simmer.

“Now,” Nicole said, “if you take care of the rouille, I’ll get this bread ready to bake.”

Even the rouille was complicated – very complicated, in comparison to my usual meals – but cooking with Nicole was fun. She was beating up on her bread dough, scolding it in a mixture of what sounded like Italian and German, while I put an egg yolk, garlic, leftover bread, red pepper, and a touch of saffron into the blender. Once everything was mixed together, I drizzled in some olive oil and a bit of the hot broth from the pot. I looked up to see Nicole rolling her dough into long ropes.

“Can you give me some more rolls this thickness?” she asked.

I moved to her side to lend a hand.

Once she had three ropes of her desired length, she started braiding them together. We made three loaves – “More than we need, but it’s as easy to make three loaves as it is to make one,” she said. “I’ll give the extras to our neighbors.”

The broth was still simmering away as we slipped the braided loaves onto a broad pizza stone and put it in the oven. Nicole sniffed the broth. “Let’s give that a couple of minutes. I need to powder my nose.”

I laughed. “But you already have!” She must have scratched her nose when her hands were dusted with flour, since there was a noticeable spray of powder on the upturned tip of her celestial nose.

She stuck out her tongue at me and then headed upstairs.

I used the time to clean up the growing mess of cutting boards, blender, knives, spoons, and miscellaneous implements.

When Nicole returned, she checked the bread, then came back to the simmering broth. Satisfied, she said, “Alright, time to grind it up.”

We ran a batch of the broth into the blender, fish bones and all, then put the resulting mixture through a fine mesh strainer and into a second large pot. It took three pours before all the broth was mixed and strained, at which point we put the fresh pot on low heat and stirred everything together.

While Nicole pulled her loaves from the oven, I poached the “good” fish – filets of red snapper, sea bass, monkfish and sole – in the broth, removing them as they were done. Finally, I added steamers to the mix and pulled them out just as they were opening.

The smells in the kitchen at this point were heavenly, and Maggie could no longer resist. “What are you two doing in here,” she said as she came through the doors. “It smells incredible!”

“Ah, ah, ah, ma petite cherie!” Nicole teased, “no spoiling our surprise! Be off with you! But,” she relented, as she gave Maggie a cup of the rich white burgundy, “Take zees to zee living room and relax yourself until we are ready for you!”

Maggie laughed, took the cup, and retreated.

We were just about ready. Nicole had me set the table while she cut one of the braided loaves into fine slices, then cut the slices in half and toasted them on a baking sheet.

I put out bowls and silverware, glasses of water for everyone and wine cups for Nicole and me. Candles were next, then cloth napkins fetched from where Nicole said they could be found (normally, we used paper towels!). Then I helped Nicole spread the rouille onto the toasted bread and brought it, the broth and the poached fish and steamers out to the table.

I was about to get Maggie when Nicole hooked my apron string with her finger. “Not for the table, Cami!” We laughed, removed our protective gear, checked each other’s appearance, then went and got the guest of honor.

Too often, these two women had brought me to tears with their generosity and kindness. Now it was Maggie’s turn. Her blue eyes glittered in the candlelight as she threw both arms wide. “I’m in heaven. I live in heaven!”

“That may be the very first time anyone — anyone ever — has said that about Baltimore,” Nicole quipped.

Nicole and I gave Maggie a communal hug, then we sat to eat. In each bowl, we ladeled broth, added some of the toasted bread, and then put in the poached fish and steamers.

I raised my cup. “Safe travels, Maggie – and good luck!” We clinked cups and Nicole and I drank.

Maggie toasted the best roommates ever, and we all drank to that.

Amazingly, the bouillabaisse tasted as good as it smelled. The broth was rich and complex, and both the fish and the shellfish were perfect.

Maggie said, “That is not the first time you’ve made that!”

“Don’t look at me!” I said.

“When I was a girl,” Nicole explained, “we sometimes visited Grandmère in Aix-en-Provence. She made bouillabaisse, but I never learned how she did it. I wish I had asked her to show me.”

“Is she still alive?” I asked.

She shook her head, ruefully. “No, we lost her, oh, ten years ago or so. She was not so old. But my Grandpère, he was much older. And after he died, she just seemed to die with him. It took a bit longer, but not too much.”

I touched her arm in sympathy; the memory clearly still pained her. “I am so sorry. You must miss her.”

“Yes. She was a wonderful woman. Full of life. Loved cooking, and music, and flowers . . . . I wanted to grow up to be just like her.”

“I think she would be very proud of you, Nick,” Maggie said.

Lightening the mood, Nicole responded, “Well, I think she would have liked this bouillabaisse, certainly. I’m pretty sure this is close – very close – to what she used to make!”

I asked, “Did she teach your mom her recipes?”

“Ah, no. They were Dad’s parents, not Mom’s.” Nicole smiled. “I swear Dad couldn’t cook a hot dog.”

Maggie said, “All Irish and – don’t say anything – English in my family, so no great cooking traditions. What about you, Cami?”

I shook my head. “Mom’s family are all Scots – her Dad was Highland Scots, her Mom was – is – Appalachian Scots. So they know how to cook to survive, and how to make sure you don’t enjoy doing it. My Dad’s family – well, no one knows. Family legend is that they were Huguenots who fled to the New World after the fall of La Rochelle, but I’ve never seen any proof. Far as I know it’s just a story. For sure, no good recipes ever got handed down!”

We talked, and had seconds, and opened another bottle. We talked some more. Eventually, I asked Maggie if she was all ready to go for tomorrow.

“Yep,” she replied. “All packed and ready to roll. I’ve got to be at BWI by 9:00, but I can just shower and go at this point.”

I gave her a big hug. “Go get some sleep. I’ve got the mess.”

But neither she nor Nicole would let me do that, so we traipsed into the kitchen, slightly tipsy, somewhat giggly, and started washing, drying, and getting everything back to Opera House immaculate. We were bumping into each other and tittering like teenagers, but we got the job done without breaking anything.

At Maggie’s insistence we all had ten ounces of water before turning in – “No hangovers tomorrow!” Then we went upstairs and off to our respective rooms.

I was beat. It had been a busy, but wonderful, day, and I was more than ready for sleep. I brushed my teeth, removed my makeup, moisturized, and got into my flannel nightgown. Back in my room, I grabbed my phone to charge it overnight. It was then that I noticed that Fiona had finally responded to my text.

Her text sobered me immediately. “I’ll call tomorrow. It’s a pandemic.”

Sleep was long in coming, and my night terrors returned. The specifics of the incident that triggered my terrors – the attack by that jackass at the Christmas party – no longer resurfaced. All that remained was the feeling the attack had engendered: the terrible, overwhelming sense that my sister was in danger. My mind screamed in silent, frantic fear.

Fiona!!! Be safe!!!

~o~O~o~
CHAPTER FOUR
“levarsi un fil di fumo sull'estremo confin del mare”
– Puccini, Madama Butterfly, Un bel di vedremo (Aria)

Baltimore, Maryland, February 16

5:00 a.m., and my phone alarm was softly buzzing. Normally I leaped up; this morning I suppressed a groan and the urge to hit the snooze button. Or, to just turn the damned thing off. But I threw off the covers, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, changed, and went downstairs.

The morning exercise session required a fair bit of grim determination at the beginning. I pushed myself harder than usual on all of the stretches. If I was going to go through this, I was, by God, going to get some bang for the buck. Then I went into the cheer routines. As usual, I repeated the same routine, which I had worked up to seven minutes, four times.

Through the first and second routines, I pushed, determined to kick higher, prance more brightly, manage the split with greater ease. But by the third round, the exercise began to have its normal salutary effect on my mental, emotional, and even spiritual, state. I began to smile as I continued to push, and push some more.

By the final round I was nearly “beamish.” Whatever the future might bring, I was healthy today and would celebrate it.

I finished with the final element, dropping down to do the splits, raising my arms in a “Ta da!” maneuver, arching my back and raising my head high. I held the pose for a moment, then reached down, breathing hard, to turn off the music on my phone.

“You do that every day!?” Maggie was at the bottom of the stairs, an incredulous look on her face. I could only nod, chest heaving, as I got my breath back.

“When did you learn to be a cheerleader? I can’t believe you did that in school.”

I grinned. “Long story,” I said, thinking to myself, “and one I ABSOLUTELY don’t intend to share!”

Maggie shook her head. “You just keep amazing me, Cami. I think I know you, and then!”

I laughed. “But really, I haven’t known either of you very long. It just feels like we’ve been friends forever.”

She smiled at that. “Yeah, it does. And I’m really, really glad about that. . . . You want the first shower?”

I shook my head. “You go ahead. I’ve still got to stretch for ten minutes.”

She smiled, shook her head again and headed upstairs.

We were all showered, dressed and ready for the day by 7:45 – barbarically early as far as Nicole was concerned. But she looked more rested than I felt. Or perhaps I was extrapolating from the fact that she looked fabulous. That didn’t really signify, though. Nicole always looks fabulous.

I made omelets for everyone, using some of the extra chopped onions and spices from the prior night’s dinner and toasting some of Nicole’s braided bread to go with them. As we finished and settled back with our hot drinks of choice – coffee for me, tea for my roomies – I told them about Fiona’s message.

“What does it mean?” Nicole asked. “I mean, I understand that a pandemic is a world-wide epidemic, but, how will that affect our lives?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. They shut down all of Wuhan – put it in lockdown. It’s bigger – way bigger – than New York City. They quarantined that cruise ship – the Diamond Princess – and wouldn’t let people off. But I don’t know whether we’ll be talking about local flare-ups here and there, or something else. Fiona might know, but she probably won’t. Hopefully I’ll be able to talk to her today.”

We sat silently for a few minutes, sipping our drinks, lost in our own thoughts. None of which were very cheerful, judging by appearances. But Maggie finally sighed, stretched, and got up.

“Well, whatever’s going to happen, the show must go on. So I’d better get going.”

We all got to our feet and helped her carry her three bags down to the car. It would be a tight fit for the three of us, but neither Nicole nor I would stay behind. When we got to the airport, we all jumped out.

I pulled the bags from the back while Nicole gave Maggie a big hug, kissed her on the forehead, and said something softly that I didn’t catch. Then she got back into the car to circle while I helped Maggie get her bags to baggage check.

Once we had dropped her two large bags, now tagged, with airport security for screening, I gave her my own hug and a squeeze and, thinking of Fi, said fiercely, “Be safe, Maggie!! Be safe!!”

“You too. And take care of Nickie for me, will you?”

She let me go, and went to catch her flight. I went back outside and hopped into the passenger’s seat as Nicole came around the loop.

“You look blue, Cami.”

My smile was a bit lopsided. “Crazy, right? But Opera House certainly won’t feel the same without her there.”

“That’s our life, though,” she said. “The chance to do what Maggie is off to do right now – that’s what we spend hours training for every day. It’s a crazy-assed way to live, I guess, from any normal person’s perspective. But we wouldn’t have it any other way.”

I chewed on that while we made our way back home.

When we got back, Nicole said, “Okay, now I promised Mags I would make sure that you did all of your voice exercises. Let’s start with the warm-ups since we both need to do them. You can do your articulation exercises later – Maggie left you the recording – but you must do them. Or I’ll be in trouble with The Dottoressa, not just you!”

So we went downstairs and did our vocal stretches, after which Nicole disappeared into the sound enclosure to work on her opera and I opened my laptop to work on the trial.

I got a ping from my computer’s Skype app around 11:30 and was delighted to see that it was from Fiona. It had been two weeks since I spoke with her last and she still looked exhausted.

I decided I wasn’t going to comment on that. “Hey, big sister! I wish I could give you a hug; you look like you could use one.”

Her smile was tired, but genuine. “Hey, Cami. How are you? For that matter, where are you? I don’t recognize the space. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

I responded, “I’m fine, and I’m home – my current home, anyway. Long story, but I’m staying with friends until my trial’s finished. Now, tell me how you are doing. And what. Your message last night was pretty bad.”

“I’m okay, just . . . working. Too long. Too hard. And, nothing’s enough. It’s going to be bad, Cami, we just don’t know how bad. The evidence from the Diamond Princess is that this coronavirus spreads pretty easily, and infected people can spread it even before they show any symptoms. That makes it really, really hard to stop the spread.

“The death toll in China is already higher than it was during SARS. So, the disease – COVID-19 – can cause severe illness and death, the virus spreads from person to person, including through asymptomatic people. And, it’s starting to show up in different countries around the world.”

“Okay,” I said. “I mean . . . not okay, obviously. But . . . is there anything that we should be doing to prepare? Anything we should be doing differently? I assume closing the borders to flights – assuming we could even do it – would just slow things down?”

Fiona nodded. “Right. Buying time, which I hope to God we use. But now hospitals are scrambling for scarce resources and it’s a zero sum game. And until we see where it’s going to hit first, it’s impossible to know where the most resources should be directed.”

Pragmatically, I asked, “Is there anything that the public should be doing to prepare? Anything I should tell my roommates, or work colleagues?”

She shook her head. “Good hygiene, generally. Wash your hands regularly – REALLY wash them, with hot water and soap. Cover your sneezes – and don’t sneeze into your hand! Don’t, for God’s sake, go into work or go out if you are feeling sick. That sort of thing. Beyond that . . . . It’s harder to say. It’s not clear whether it's spreading through the air – aerosol transmission – and if so, how far.”

“I’ve seen some buzz about maybe wearing face masks?”

She shrugged. “Wearing masks may be helpful. Probably helpful, I’d guess. But there aren’t enough of them. Hospitals are fighting each other to get proper supplies of N95s and surgical masks right now. And, there’s no evidence yet that general mask wearing would be useful or effective even if everyone was doing it, which they can’t because we don’t have them.”

“I see why you look so tired,” I said. “This sounds really frustrating.”

Surprisingly, Fi shook her head. “It’s scary, and it’s frustrating, but this is what we trained for. I’m where I’m supposed to be, Cami. All of us here wouldn’t be anywhere else, doing anything else. It will be bad. But I promise you this, little sister. We’ll get through it.”

I smiled a bit wistfully, thousands of childhood memories of my heroic sister coming into my head all at once. “Reach for the stars, Fi.”

With quiet warmth, she finished the line: “And when I catch them, I’ll bring ‘em home just for you.”

After a moment, she sat a bit straighter. “I don’t have anything else on that particular subject, but there was one more thing I wanted to talk about, before I get back to work.”

I raised an eyebrow in question; she was definitely in “Dr. Savin” mode.

“Did you talk to your medical team about whether you wanted to preserve any of your sperm before you started hormone treatment?”

“Yes, Dr. Chun raised it with me. She said the effects of the hormone treatment would make it very unlikely I could have children later if I didn’t.”

“And, you decided . . . ?”

“Not to do it. No offense to you, Fi, but I’m not so enamored of my gene pool. If I want to raise a child at some point, there are lots of children who need good homes.” Trying to make light of it, I said, “Besides, you’re there to preserve whatever good genes we’ve got, and strong, virile Iain can always sow some oats if the world really needs more Savins.”

She bit her lip, not falling for my attempt at light-heartedness. “It’s your decision, of course. You do what you think makes sense. But . . . you probably shouldn’t count on me. I’ll be thirty-six before I’m even married, you know. It doesn’t get any easier. Tick-tock.”

She paused for a moment, but she was clearly searching for a way to say something else, so I didn’t interrupt. Finally, she said, “Cami . . . I don’t know what your thought process is. But I want you to know, for whatever it’s worth, that I think your genes are worth preserving. I think you’re wonderful. The world may or may not need any more Savins, but it could sure use more people like you.”

She was fighting tears.

“Thank you for that,” I said gently. “You know I love you too. But if you’re worried that I don’t want to reproduce because I think there’s something wrong with me, that’s not it. I’m fine. Really. But I can’t see spending thousands of dollars to preserve my DNA when there are so many babies out there without a good home. It just seems wrong.”

Fi nodded, still looking sad. “Okay. You’re a big girl, so I’ll butt out. But I wanted to make sure you’ve thought it through.”

We talked about a couple more things, inconsequential mostly, then Fiona had to get back to work.

And so did I. I said, “Thanks so much for calling. I know you’re incredibly busy, and I suspect you’re going to stay incredibly busy. Just know that you are in my thoughts, every day. I’ll keep you in my prayers too. And if there’s anything I can do to help . . . anything at all . . . just let me know, okay?”

“I’ll do that. Love you, girl.”

“I love you too,” I responded.

I signed off, and sat still for a moment, processing.

Nicole stuck her head out of the sound booth. “That looked intense. You okay?”

“Yes . . . It was Fiona. She didn’t have a lot of practical advice, but the news on the COVID-19 front is all pretty bad. And, she’s starting to worry about our mortality, I think.” I told her about Fi’s sudden concern with preserving my sperm.

Nicole looked thoughtful. “I’m with her, I think you’re pretty special. But I have no opinion on whether that’s genetic. Anyhow, you think she’s worried about it because she’s concerned about this pandemic?”

I shrugged. “Don’t know. But she never raised it before, and she seemed pretty serious about it.”

We talked a bit more, but once again, there wasn’t really anything we could do about the pandemic, other than continue on with our lives and see how things panned out. So Nicole went back to work and, after a moment, so did I.

I went upstairs at about 12:45 and made sandwiches for Nicole, Javier, and myself. Javi was a couple minutes late, but not much. I popped out to meet him as soon as he arrived, gave him a hug and helped him get first the bin, then the dis-assembled desk and the chair, into the house. The bin went up to my room and the furniture went into the basement for storage.

Once we had that stored against the far wall, I caught Nicole’s attention through the glass window of the sound enclosure and made a motion indicating eating.

She nodded, held up a hand indicating four minutes, and continued singing.

I brought Javier upstairs.

Nicole joined us just about when I got glasses of water poured and the sandwiches set out on plates. I introduced the two of them.

Nicole said, “Cami has told us so much about you and Al. All of it good!”

“Likewise,” Javi responded. “I’m so glad you were able to take Cami in on such short notice; we feel terrible about it.”

“Eh,” Nicole said, then, indicating her sandwich, she added, “She manages to be useful from time to time.”

We all laughed at that.

Javier said that Tina was settling in. She was still staying tight inside the apartment and only getting out to go over to the salon or to Al and Javi’s upstairs apartment. But their conversations seemed to be easier and she appeared to be less hostile, less prickly, than she had been when she first arrived. “No real breakthroughs yet,” he concluded, “but no breakdowns either. So, we keep at it.”

It was a good lunch, though Javier was more subdued than his usual cheerful self.

Nicole went out of her way to be charming, and that helped tremendously.

By the time he left, Javier appeared to be feeling less guilty about my abrupt departure a week before. He knew I was in good hands.

~o~O~o~
Suburban Maryland, later that evening

“Sisters, will you pray with me?”

I was back in Jacqui’s house, meeting for the second time with the small faith community of transwomen that Sarah had brought together. Unlike last time, I was wearing all of my padding as well as light makeup.

Sarah had picked me up at the College Park metro station rather than my new home, and I knew better than to appear in public places dressed like a woman but not trying my absolute best to look and act like one. Like the other transwomen present, I bent my head and concentrated on Jacqui’s prayer of invocation.

Later in the service, when it was my turn, I said, “Sisters, will you pray with me? I have so many things to pray for tonight. So many! I would like to pray for Tina, a transwoman, my age, who was badly hurt and terrorized by her family. Join me in praying for healing for her, for her mind, her heart, her soul. I would like to pray for my sister Fiona, who is working hard to combat this new disease, and for all of those, all over the world, who are dealing with COVID-19. Join me in praying for courage, for strength, for healing.”

I took a breath. “Finally, I would like to offer a prayer of thanks. For each of you. For my wonderful roommates. For my friends, my colleagues. For the doctors and specialists who are helping me. I am so very, very fortunate. So blessed. Please pray with me, sisters.”

And my sisters joined my heartfelt prayers.

To be continued . . . .