I managed to slam on the brakes just in time. Not only was the light red as a fire truck, but a family had just stepped into the intersection. The woman and her daughter looked petrified; the man looked furious. There was probably an infant in the stroller, too.

The man flipped me off, vigorously, but fortunately took no further steps to vent his entirely justified rage. I wasn’t in uniform and I was driving a beat-up Subaru Forester, so the man’s restraint had nothing to do with fear of the police. He’s probably just a decent guy who loves his family, I thought.

Oddly enough, the thought only left me more unsettled. It’s so easy, so natural, when they’re little. I wish it stayed that way! I snorted as my grammy's old saying ran through my head: If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

The family was well out of the intersection when the light turned. I eased the Forester forward, forcing myself to be hyper aware of the speed limit. I had no destination in mind; had been driving blindly, so lost in my own thoughts that I didn’t even know where I was going.

It was the beach road, of course. That’s where my mind would take me when I put it on autopilot. The diner where I’d first met Ginny was only three blocks from here. Well . . . that’s where it had been, anyway. Long gone now; another big block of condos had replaced it. Naturally. Filled with more insufferable young professionals, no doubt. The whole effing world is going to shit, I snarled silently.

The long pier was still there. I’d taken Nate there when he was a kid. Early mornings and late evenings, when the fish were biting. Some father-son time, just like I used to have with my old man. Had still had with my old man, right up until last year. The Chief hadn’t recovered his mobility after the stroke, though.

I pulled into the parking lot carefully and backed into a spot. Clear exit to the road. Never knew when I might have to leave in a hurry. I sat for a minute, debating whether I should turn around and head home. But my near-accident convinced me that I should clear my head before driving any further. I shut off the engine and got out, locking the door carefully behind me. On duty or off, I have a weapon in the car, and I’m careful with it.

The pier was all lit up. I headed that way, thinking it might be nice to go to the end, sit on one of the benches, and listen to the surf for a bit. But a group of twenty-something’s started heading that way, too, and they were enough to change my mind. The girls wore flirty cocktail dresses and platform shoes; the guys were styling in pricy blue jeans, collared shirts and coiffed hair no doubt fluffed with “product.” Their laughter was too loud; the jokes probably what passed for witty. I felt a strong desire to be somewhere else.

There was a sandy path down to the beach and I took it, lured by the crash of waves and the cry of gulls. Closer to the water I stopped, knelt down, and removed my ratty sneakers. The night was early, and the beach still retained enough of the day’s heat that I was comfortable in my basketball shorts and hoodie.

The sand felt good. Moist and crumbly. I angled closer to the surf, wanting to feel the caress of waves across the top of my feet. Remembering the times Ginny and I had walked along this beach. We used to talk for hours; I couldn’t remember what all we’d actually said. It hadn’t mattered, the words. The message was always the same. I love you.

I still loved her, of course. But damn, she made it hard, some days. Always after me to be understanding of Nate — of my son, dammit! To accept him “as he is.”

To accept her.

Well, screw that! Nate was twenty-two now. He had a job behind a desk somewhere, and his own place. He could wear dresses all he liked, and no-one could tell him not to. But that didn’t change facts, did it? You can call yourself the Queen of Sheba, but don’t go expecting people to bow and scrape.

It’s not like I screamed at him, or told him he wasn’t welcome at my house, or anything like that, though the guys on the force would have done that at a minimum. But I’m the bad guy, just because I won’t call him “Shellie” or use female pronouns? I was there, dammit! Changed his stinky diapers a million times. I frickin’ know what’s under the hood!

But it just killed me, how this thing was driving a wedge between me and my family. Not my parents; they were as baffled as me, and the Chief had given me plenty of advice about taking a razor to Nate’s abundant hair. No, they got it. But Ginny was downright icy, and Nate . . . .

Nate was hurt.

He didn’t fight back. He never made a scene when I called him by his birth name, or referred to him by a male pronoun. He was always polite and respectful. But I’d known him all his young life. Had held him when he was banged up; comforted him when other boys were cruel, in the way that boys are, sometimes. He couldn’t fool me. Nate was wounded, hurting. Hurting bad. Ginny thought he’d feel better if I played along with his fantasy, but I just didn’t see it.

Pain shot up my right leg as my foot landed wrong on something hard and I hopped, cursing. Some fucker couldn’t be bothered to pick up their beer bottle. Good thing it wasn’t broken! I bent down and picked it up. What do you want to bet it’s some frickin’ pricey craft IPA. I wonder who mighta left this here? I rubbed some sand off it so I could read the label.

A warm, very feminine voice spoke, practically in my ear. “Ahhhh . . . Much better! Thanks.”

I practically jumped out of my skin and spun around. I’m both a veteran and a police officer, and I pride myself on situational awareness. I even teach it, for Chrissake! Lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t had a clue that anyone was nearby.

The woman made quite the appearance. Long, wavy black hair, deep, dark eyes, curves that were only highlighted by a bikini and the gauzy beach wrap that she wore over it. Her full lips curled in a smile. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

Despite my sloppy appearance, I retreated into the familiarity and formality of my official persona. “Not at all, Ma’am. I’m just normally more alert than that.”

“Hmmm?” Her inquiry sounded amused. “Well, I for one am glad you stepped on my bottle and picked it up.”

“This is yours?”

“Sure. Yes.”

“Well, you’re welcome to it, but I’ll pitch in the recycling if you want.”

She laughed, free and amused. “Really? And let someone else get the three wishes? That’s magnanimous of you!”

Her manner, and her humor, made me laugh as well. “Good one, Miss . . . ?”

“Just call me Jeannie.”

The woman was quick, that was for sure. If I’d been a couple decades younger and unattached, I might stay to match wits and see where it might lead. As it was . . . . “Fair enough, Jeannie. But seriously, I’ll drop this off if you like; there’s a bin by my car.”

She shook her head, still smiling, and her dark hair swirled around her face in a cloud. “A man of a skeptical world, I see. Well, Sergeant Byron McAlistair, I am not kidding. I am who I say I am, and I have powers beyond what your experience can imagine. I can’t change the things that have been, but I can alter many things that are. Is your life really so perfect, that you scorn my help?”

My defenses went up with a snap. “How do you know my name?”

“How could I not know it, and more besides? You have opened my prison, for a time.”

Alright, this was taking a joke too far. “The beer bottle?” I let my skepticism color my tone. “Doesn’t seem real authentic.”

“Would you prefer a lamp? An urn? Perhaps an amphora?” As she spoke, the bottle in my hands changed shape. I dropped it with a startled cry when it became a large clay vessel, but it resumed the form of a beer bottle when it hit the soft sand, making hardly a sound.

Jeannie shrugged. “The world changes.” She spread her arms, causing her gauzy wrap to surge over her curves in eye-catching ways. “Attire changes. Forms must change as well.”

I looked at the beer bottle, lying there so innocently. But I had been holding it. The change hadn’t been an optical illusion; I’d felt it too. “Holy shit!” My voice was barely a whisper. “You’re for real?”

“What is ‘real?’” she countered. “But I don’t propose to debate my existence, not even with the famous 'Big Mac.'”

I flinched as she employed the nickname that only other sergeants dared to use to my face.

“You have done me a service.” Her voice was soft, and surprisingly compassionate. “By custom, I will grant you three wishes. For yourself; perhaps, for your loved ones. Beyond that, I cannot go.”

“So, world peace and an end to hunger are right out?”

“I’m afraid so,” she said gravely. “I am but a power of this world; not The Power.”

“Not even a World Series pennant for the A’s?”

“Nope. And, sorry, but after their last season, world peace would be easier. Just sayin’.”

Ouch! But her all-too-accurate insult to the tattered honor of my favorite baseball team went unanswered. My mind turned immediately to the problem that had brought me to this peaceful beach, alone, without the woman who should be here with me. As she had been, years before. “Nate!”

“Your child,” Jeannie said, matter-of-factly. “What is your wish?” I opened my mouth, but she laid a warming finger across it, silencing me. “Think before you answer. Be certain of what you want, and precise in your wording. The adage, ‘be careful what you wish for’ most definitely applies.”

I digested that. She was right, of course. I wanted Nate to stop his nonsense and go back to living as the man he was. But how much of the Nate I knew was wrapped up with his crazy gender nonsense? To use his own terms, where did “Shellie” end and Nate begin? Assuming Jeannie was for real — and I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe that — would I even recognize Nate, if she granted that particular wish?

But . . . but . . . I couldn’t just leave it! I could ask for a million bucks, or to win the billion-dollar Powerball, or whatever. But without my family, it wouldn’t be worth the contents of a septic tank.

I couldn’t think straight with Jeannie there, looking like a supermodel. I turned toward the ocean, placid under a bright silver moon. What do I want? Really want?

“Byron,” she said behind me, her voice soft. “You must choose.”

An old Bible story came to mind, causing me to smile. Without turning around, I whispered, “I want to understand him, Jeannie. I want to understand my son. Can you do that?”

She was silent. Maybe she was a hallucination. I turned around, half expecting to find no-one there, but she hadn’t moved. She was just completely still, her expression unreadable.

“Can you?” I repeated.

“Is that truly your wish? Be certain.”

“Yes. Yes, absolutely.”

She nodded sadly. “So be it. Byron . . . I’m so very sorry.”

I was puzzled. Why was she sorry? It seemed a shame that my wish had caused her such distress. Though, even shadowed, her features were perfect. Flawless. Just like her hair, her body . . . Everything about her was perfect.

It occurred to me, really for the first time in my life, that I am tremendously ugly. My hair is wiry, grizzled, with the start of a tonsure at the crown. My skin is rough and my features rougher. A heavy jaw, a nose like a beak, a thick neck and big, ungainly shoulders. God, what had Ginny ever seen in me?

I looked down at my hands. All I could see was that they are huge. Big palms, fat fingers. Age had thickened my gut. And then . . . between my legs, hanging there like some awful, rotting fruit, my “manhood.” I shuddered.

A feeling of revulsion overwhelmed me like a rogue wave. I had never felt anything like it, and I was completely unable to resist. Dropping to my knees, overcome by horror, I thought, I’m a monster! I want . . . I want . . . ! Jeannie was gazing at me, my distress echoed in her eyes. Her perfect eyes. I want to look like her! Or at least, not like ME! I want to be a woman! I’ve never wanted anything so much in my whole life!

The thought was new, alien. Overpowering. I knew, with complete certainty, that despite the clear evidence of my own senses, I not only wanted to be a woman, I was one, where it mattered most. Only my body was wrong. And not just slightly wrong, either. I know what I look like, sound like, feel like. Even smell like, God help me. All of it was terribly, hideously, catastrophically wrong.

It’s not real . . . it can’t be! I struggled, trying to subdue my supercharged emotions with futile wisps of logic. I’ve never felt like this before! I’ve never had any issue with being a . . . a . . . . My mind rebelled, not wanting to finish the thought. To accept the label “man” felt too wrong to contemplate.

I didn’t feel like this yesterday, or last week. Or ever. Frantically, I pulled at my memories to try to ground my sense of self and confirm the wrongness of my present feelings.

But my memories simply served up another debilitating shock. I was suddenly painfully aware of the many times I hadn’t been there for Ginny — or had been physically present, but emotionally distant. When her mother had her health issues, and Ginny’d been squeezed between her mom, Nate and her job . . . and I hadn’t stepped in to help out. When she’d been passed over for promotion and needed a shoulder to cry on, and I’d gone off to help my friends brew beer, reasoning that I had promised to be there.

The memories came lightning fast; it was like boulders were being piled on top of me, squeezing the air from my lungs. The emotional overload was too much. I began to sob, tears flowing freely over cheeks that had been dry for decades. I couldn’t even remain upright on my knees. My hands were buried in the moist, gritty sand as I bawled like a baby, completely unable to contain my grief and pain, or even lift my head. I was so ashamed.

I felt a hand on the back of my neck, soft, cool, and gentle. “I am so sorry,” Jeannie repeated. “Do you understand Shellie now?”

No!!! “It can’t be like this for him! It can’t!”

“But it is,” she said softly. “Every day.”

She couldn’t be right, could she? But . . . If she was! “Oh, God! What have I done?”

“What most parents do, Byron. What most people do. Some good, some bad.”

Sure as hell, I couldn’t see the good. Only that my child had needed me, like my wife had needed me. And I had failed them both. If Nate — if Shellie — felt as bad as I did now, how could she have even survived? Grasping at straws, I said, “At least Shellie has nothing to feel guilty about. Not . . . not like me.”

Jeannie squeezed my shoulder, both a comfort and a warning. “And yet she does feel guilty. For the hurt she causes you, just by being herself. For the rift in your marriage. For Ginny’s drinking, and your high blood pressure. She thinks it's her fault. All of it.”

The truth of Jeannie’s words hit home, a final, fatal boulder on top of the pile that was crushing me. None of it was Shellie’s fault. None of it! I cried out, “I wish I’d never even been born!”

“I can’t change what has been,” she reminded me, before adding gently, “and, would you really want me to?”

Despite her tone, her words were like a bucket of ice water. I suddenly remembered who I was speaking to — and the potential dangers of figures of speech. “No,” I said quickly. “No. Without me, Shellie wouldn’t have been born. I’m a complete fuck-up, but . . . but she deserves to live.”

Just like that, an inspiration hit me. “Not just live. That’s it! You can’t change the past. But Shellie can have a real life, starting right now. You can do that, right?” I twisted myself to face her and my hands — my massive, ugly, hairy hands — grabbed her upper arms fiercely as we knelt in the sand.

“What are you asking?” Her tone, again, was precise.

“If what I’m feeling now is what Shellie feels, you can stop it, right? You can give her the body of her dreams. She can be a woman, inside and out. Have a full life.” My mind whirled at the possibilities — at the life Shellie could have. As Shellie, she could even carry children in her womb; nurse them at her own breast. I was stunned to discover that the idea of my child nursing an infant brought, not shock, but jealousy.

Jeannie’s compassionate gaze held me for a long moment before she answered. “Yes, I can do that. If it is your wish.”

My first wish had produced consequences I hadn’t even contemplated, so I took a moment to consider this new idea carefully. Trying to see potential flaws. “You’re sure? This is really how Shellie feels? This . . . .” I searched for words to describe what was tearing me apart. “This longing? Heartache? And . . . and feeling like being stuffed in some monster’s skin?”

“Yes.”

I searched her beautiful features, trying to see a sign of falsehood or trickery. But however much she looked like a human female, I knew now that she was definitely something else. I couldn’t simply rely on her words, or trust my perception of her. Closing my eyes, I reached out with my heart, trying to pierce the distance — physical, emotional, and spiritual — between me and my child. Is this what Shellie had always felt? Would this be her desire?

And, like that, I knew. I understood, completely and without doubt. Between the raw emotion of my new and very feminine heart, and my clear recollection of my child, I was certain of what Shellie would want. Opening my eyes again, I said, “That’s my wish. I’m sure.”

This time, Jeannie smiled. “Tonight, while she sleeps. It will be done.”

In the midst of the internal agony I was desperately trying to fight, I felt a touch of something else. Relief, maybe? A sense of rightness in a sea of wrong. Noticing for the first time the vice-like grip of my monstrous hands, I released Jeannie and sagged with relief. “Oh, thank God. I did something right.”

She got to her feet and extended a graceful hand. After a moment, I took it and rose heavily, extremely conscious of my rough and ungainly shape, compared to her exquisite and so-very-enviable form. It came to me, suddenly, that I had one wish left.

I can become a woman too!

God, I wanted it. Yearned for it. Imagined carrying a child in my womb, my full breasts swelling to meet its coming need. Longed for soft and delicate features, luscious hair, smooth skin caressed by silky fabric . . . . I could have it all.

Ironically, though, my woman’s heart would not countenance such selfishness. Unlike Shellie, I’m neither young nor unattached. And I had hurt Ginny more than enough already. I imagined trying to explain to her that she was married to a young woman. She’s as heterosexual as I am . . . or, at least, as heterosexual as I was. I’m still attracted to women — my reaction to Jeannie is ample proof of that! — but does that make me a lesbian, since I’m female inside? God, what a headache!

Was there, instead, something I could do for Ginny? Or, should I find a way to ease Shellie’s transition to her new life? Her spontaneous sex change would certainly blow the minds of bureaucrats, public and private.

Jeannie’s chuckle broke my reverie. “The last wish is always the hardest.”

I shrugged. “I suppose so. I want to do something for my wife and . . . daughter!” The novelty, the perfect fit, of that word brought a real smile to my lips despite my internal turmoil. “Something to make up for everything I’ve screwed up.”

“Nothing for yourself?”

I barked a harsh laugh. “I’ve spent thirty years looking after myself. Enough of that.”

She surprised me by resting her hand lightly on my chest, just over my heart. “Byron. I know the weight of what I put on you, when I granted your first wish. Believe me when I say there was no other way for you to understand what your daughter was enduring. I can give you a woman’s body; I could also reverse what I did to you.”

The offer was there, right there, out in the open. I could have it! It took more willpower than I even knew I possessed to close the door on the wish that I longed, so desperately, to shout to the heavens. No. And, as far as reversing the first wish, my mind rebelled at the idea. “I can’t just do something for me. I can’t! Not after I’ve screwed up so badly, for so long!”

“Do you really think you can go on like this?”

I gritted my teeth. “Shellie did it. She was just a kid, and she did it. I’ve got to be able to manage. I’ve got to try.”

“You may fail. Shellie almost did, more times than you can imagine. Do you really think there is something you can give them, that would make up for losing you?”

“Me? What fucking good have I been? Why should they care? Ginny could do a million times better, and she should. Jesus, I look like an orc and I don’t act much better!”

“That’s your dysphoria speaking. And your guilt. Don’t think about how you feel about you. Think how they feel. What would Ginny say?”

“That I’m a pig-headed jackass!”

She gave me a lopsided smile. “I’m sure she’s said that on plenty of occasions. But I’m not talking about what she’d say in the heat of an argument. What would she say, if your life were threatened? Because it is, Byron. You need to understand that. I know you are strong. Maybe even stronger than you know. But Shellie had years to find ways to cope with dysphoria. You have no defenses.”

I forced myself to face the possibility that she was right. In the short time I’d endured it, the dysphoria had sapped my strength and demolished any sense that my life was worthwhile. Even if I found a way to live with it, to keep going, what kind of husband could I be, crippled by self-loathing? Again I tried to reach out with my aching, wounded heart, to imagine what Ginny would really say. What she would want.

A winning lotto ticket might assuage a lot of their grief. But as tempting as that thought was, I dismissed it. Ginny wasn’t like that; never had been. And however sure I was that she could do better, I knew in my heart that wouldn’t be her choice.

Should I really use my last wish to reverse the first? The part of my mind that was still processing in a linear fashion thought the notion wasteful as all hell. My heart, meanwhile . . . well, it didn’t want to be restored to its default settings; it just wanted a beautiful, female body to be complete. No help there.

Or . . . maybe that was helpful. I didn’t want to go back to who he had been.

“My time is almost up,” Jeannie said. “You must choose.”

I looked into her dark eyes, torn, uncertain, tormented. “I can’t be the woman I want to be. I can’t. But I don’t want to be the man I was. I feel like my heart’s been cracked open and it hurts like hell, but for the first time in forever, I can come close to understanding my wife and my child. I don’t want to lose that.”

Jeannie nodded slowly. “You’re a good person, Byron. I know you can’t see that right now, but you are. Shellie’s dysphoria was especially strong. I can dial it back quite a bit, while still leaving you a strong connection with your feminine side.”

I wasn’t sure that would work. “Before today, I didn’t even have a feminine side.”

She laughed. “Of course you did! The manliest man has a feminine side, just like the most feminine woman has a masculine side. You just spent decades burying it. Denying it. Pretending it didn’t exist.” She shook her head. “Time, Byron.”

As she said that, I noticed that her body seemed less solid — like she was fading, becoming translucent. I had no more time to weigh the pros and cons, and had to take it on faith. “Yes. Do that. That’s my wish.”

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed me lightly, a sweet kiss that nonetheless confirmed that I was still very much attracted to women. “Done, then. Good luck!” Before I had time to say anything, or even react, she was gone.

The first thing I noticed, naturally, was the absence of pain, like my heart had been freed from the iron jaws of a bear trap. I took a long breath and let it out, almost afraid that I might do something that would cause the pain to come back. It didn’t, so I took another.

Then, of course, I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to feel at all — that the tenderness which had filled me would have gone with the pain. But my mind turned to Shellie, sound asleep, and to Ginny, who was sitting at home, alone and worried, and I knew that fear, at least, was groundless. I still ached for their hurts and longed with all my heart to heal them.

That would require a different sort of miracle, of course. One of time and persistence and love. But as I stood alone on that deserted beach, I vowed to myself, and to the strange spirit that had visited me, that I would do what it took, for as long as it took.

Finally, like a patient waking from surgery, anxious but afraid to see what had been done, I took stock of how I felt about myself. My body no longer filled me with revulsion. It was what it was. Despite that, I still wished I were female. I longed for the beauty of it; the grace. It ached, but it was a dull ache. A manageable ache. And, I thought, a small price to pay.

A gull landed on the sand, not ten feet away, and eyed me quizzically.

Oddly, I felt a bit apologetic. “Got nothing for you, scamp.”

Somewhere over my head, lost in the moonlight, its mate called. The gull squawked in response, beat its wings, and took to the air.

“Alright,” I laughed. “I get it, Jeannie. I get it!” Turning toward the pier I could barely see in the distance, I began the journey home.

The end.

~o~O~o~
Author's note: I would like to thank the amazing Andrea Lena DiMaggio for giving me her thoughts on an earlier draft of this story. Love ya, 'Drea!

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.