---

 
Fear made my stomach clinch. I hadn't had anything to eat all day and now all I could taste at the back of my mouth was acrid bile. The smell of fabric softener sheets made me almost gag as I folded the last of the dried clothes while I waited for my father to arrive home from work. I tried to rationalize myself into calm.

"He's never hit you, Chris." I nodded a conformation to myself. "What makes this time any different?"

I lied, even to myself, but luckily I knew it. "Because you're about to tell your father that you're a freak, that's why." I couldn't lie to myself. "Because mom is dead and he's had a hard enough time making things normal for you."

Dad made sure that I wanted for virtually nothing. He didn't spoil me; instead of giving me everything that I asked for, he explained to me why I couldn't have something. Sure, it didn't make sense most of the time, but I could see he tried. It was more than I see most of my friends dads doing. Well, they had moms to help; moms and dads. He made sure I was up, fed, and off to school. He made sure I had somewhere safe to do my homework and play afterward, at least until he picked me up when he got off from work. He always cooked me dinner; once a week we'd go out to eat or order pizza. He always asked off work when I had a special event at school, and I could see the pain on his face when he told me I couldn't join the Cub Scouts. It was just too time consuming. I was upset, but I understood.

I helped where I could, begging him to let me do something. So occasionally I learned to wash clothes. I dusted Mom's knickknacks from the curio cabinet. I windexed the glass of all the picture frames, and I vacuumed the house.

There was nothing like seeing the look on his face when I did something extra that he didn't have time for. He'd smile at me and give me an extra strong hug.

When I first became a teenager he gave me a key to the house and let me come home straight after school. He'd said that I'd earned his trust and knew I wouldn't do anything that would disappoint him. As long as I had my homework completed and didn't get into any trouble I would be allowed to do as I wished during the afternoon.

School let out at 2:30. I was home fifteen minutes later and my homework was done an hour after. To show him I could be responsible I took on a room of the house and cleaned it as best I could, going the extra mile, making sure that it was perfect before I moved to the next. Dad was so proud of me, and his acceptance and pride in me was like a drug, I suppose. I craved it, wanting it more and more. I guess that was the beginning of the end for me.

The downstairs was just as clean as I remembered Mom having it before she died. I didn't remember much about her, but I did remember her satisfaction at being a homemaker. I kind of knew what she felt while I stood at the middle of the stairs and looked down at my hard work. Dad always came home tired. He didn't need the added pressure of working through the night to keep a nice home. It made me feel good to take that worry from him.

He done so much for me. He was my dad. He was my hero. That's why I felt the sickness in my stomach for betraying him.

It was six months ago when I worked my way to my mother's room, where she spent her free time working on making a quilt, crocheting an afghan, listening to music, or having 'mother time'. I remember sitting in the middle of the room coloring while she painted her nails, or messed with her hair. It was her private room, like Dad had his private room, but she shared it with me. I know now that she couldn't just let me run around the house getting into whatever as she tried to relax, but I still felt that she shared it with me all the same.

Mom's room wound up being the place where we stored all of her stuff after she died. The closet was extra wide with stacked boxes of her belongings. The room itself was almost the same as the last time she used it. The rocking chair she often sat in had the remnants of her last crocheted work. I could never figure out what it was she was making, but it was green.

I remember having the worst feeling then. I could barely bring Mom's face to mind. It was a horrible feeling knowing that you loved someone so much and you couldn't even remember what they looked like. I could bring back things that she'd do for me: putting a bandage on my skinned knee, taking the water hose to me when I'd been standing in an ant bed unknowingly for too long, the ice cream store where we shared many a cone, but I couldn't remember her face.

The ache I felt in my chest drifted to my eyes, and they leaked all over as I stood there staring at her room. That's when I moved to the closet. I had a single goal: to find something that would remind me of her, that would bring back her face so that I would never forget. After sliding open the louvered doors I took down box after box and opened them. The first was her bathroom stuff. I grabbed her brush and smelled at the small amount of hair still there, but came across the scent of hairspray which was no help.

The second box was her sewing materials. The third was her shirts. I pulled one out and wadded it up against my face, breathing in deep. There she was. Her shoulder length hair brushing against my face and me turning my head away to snuggle into her shoulder. The feel of the soft shirt rubbing against my cheek. "Mom," I sobbed.

Before I even had time to think about it, I tore off my t-shirt and put on hers. Seconds were going by and I could almost feel her returning to me. I dug into the box and pulled out all the shirts, setting them to the side. A fever ran through me when I couldn't find what I was looking for, so I grabbed another box and opened it with a manic smile when I found a long skirt sitting on top.

Just seeing it reminded me of when we were at the park and she was pushing me in a swing. I remembered turning around and making the swing go off course. Mom laughed and scolded me playfully as the wind whipped the skirt around her lower legs. As before, I pulled down my denim shorts and stepped into the colorful skirt, fumbling around until I found the zipper on the side, securing it snug to my waist.

I dropped to my knees then, relishing the fond memories, feeling the soft and light clothes she wore. More tears fell from my eyes then, except they were finally tears of hope and joy that she hadn't left me, that I hadn't forgotten the love that she showered upon me everyday.

Yeah, that was the beginning of the end.

It was like that for about two weeks. Each day after school I would come home and pull out something new, dressing in Mom's clothes and then go about my homework and housekeeping. It was almost like Mom was back, in my head anyway. The problem was that it was 'almost', not quite enough. I wanted to feel closer to her. I wanted to bring her back even more. That meant that I had to do things that a mom would do.

I remembered how nice her smooth skin felt when I would hang on her legs, hiding from Julie Haverton, a girl my age that would never leave me alone. Mom would protect me, let me hide until the annoying girl left. The morning I came to that little revelation, it was before I got in the shower. Dad was down in the kitchen and I sneaked into Mom's room and pulled out the wide-handled razor and the spare cartridge base that it was attached to, along with some shaving gel.

I had my doubts whether it would work, being so old, but the razor was sharp, much to my annoyance. The gel was kind of slimy at first but I spayed enough out to clear out the bad stuff and got to work. I didn't have a lot of hair. Maturity hadn't hit me too hard like it did the other boys my age. For that I was grateful. Two bandages later I slid my new smooth legs into a pair of my jeans and set off to school. I was distracted for the rest of the day. The feelings that smooth skin and denim exude are quite different than what I was used to, but I persevered.

That afternoon I wanted to go as far as I could dressing like Mom. I found her underwear. It was not what I was used to. The cotton panties and incomprehensible bra had me stymied at first but I figured them out eventually. I retrieved a knee length skirt and a billowy top that I thought matched. Upon reflection I had no taste at the time, but for now it was perfect. Locating the box where her shoes were stored I pulled out a pair of sandals that were a little big for me. Apparently Mom and I shared similar body sizes, but she had bigger feet than I did. When I was done I moved her yarn from the rocking chair and sat down.

Looking down at my legs I frowned and then crossed them like I remembered Mom doing and felt a little better.

That was six months ago. I kept it up every day. Mom was fully entrenched in my mind and I was happy again. Except I was happy for a different reason. I really enjoyed being a girl in the afternoon, and came to dread Dad coming home because that meant the girl that I was coming to know had to go back into Mom's closet every night. I didn't want her to.

It had gone beyond remembering my mother. That's how it started, I know, but it was like I became a different person than I did when I first broke down and rifled through her things. I knew who I was now. The internet helped. Talking with the school counselor helped. I braved that conversation just this day. She told me that I had a decision to make. Either talk to my dad about how I felt or put my mother's things away and leave them be. She told me that I needed to see a special doctor who could help me deal with my issue. I was smart enough to realize that my problem wasn't an issue, it was who I was now.

So, now I sit here, in my mother's pink sundress, my hair in a neat high pony tail, my mom's sandals, and very light make up. A couple of bangles hung from my right wrist and a dainty watch from my left. My fingernails and toes were painted a matching pink and mom's only pair of clip on earrings hung from my lobes. It was a turning point for me. My hands were shaking as I heard Dad's car pull into the driveway and I fought the urge to run into my room and deny who was inside me. I even made it to my feet and a couple of steps away from the coffee table, but I stopped and turned around resolutely facing the door.

The noise of jangling keys sounded at the door and I watched as the lock turned and the door opened. Dad was looking down. He'd gotten his briefcase tangled with his overcoat and dropped his keys in the process.

My eyes fluttered closed and then I blinked them open to see him staring at me. Breath caught in my tight chest and I felt like I was going to throw up. I could see the surprise on his face. He was pale, all of the color had ran out and his mouth fell slightly open.

Mustering all the courage in my soul I stuttered, "Hi D…Dad. I wanted to talk to you ab….about s…something."

His briefcase and coat dropped to the floor suddenly and I jumped from the sharp noise. Dad looked down at the stuff he dropped and then back up at me. I still couldn't tell from his reaction whether he was mad or just sick at seeing me dressed like I was.

Dad nudged the items out of the way and closed the door. He took his time walking over to me, taking me in. It was like he was memorizing everything about me, but that wasn't quite it. When he stopped about two feet in front of me his hand came up and covered his still open mouth. I couldn't meet his gaze any longer and looked to the side. Heat welled up in my cheeks and my eyes started to burn. I was a freak, I stole my mother's clothes and turned into a freak, but worst of all I disappointed my Dad, my hero. I knew he could never trust me again. I betrayed him, and…

… and he hugged me.

"I knew you were getting into your mother's things, Chris. I thought it was something that you needed to work out on your own."

My held breath rushed out and I gasped, sucking in the scent of my father. The same scent that reminded me of my mother and being loved.

"I'm a girl Dad." His arms tightened around me. "I mean… I want to be a girl. I don't know what I mean. I'm just scared."

We stood like that for the longest time. I didn't care. If he was going to throw me out or ground me forever I just wanted to remember this hug from him.

His arms finally loosened and he drew back, taking me in again. "I'm sorry. You just look so much like your mother…" He swallowed. "I thought I was seeing a ghost."

One hand released my shoulder and the other slid down my arm to my hand. He tugged lightly on it toward the couch. "Maybe we should have that talk you suggested."

Tears fell from my eyes as my chest released the tension I had been feeling all afternoon. Hope had blossomed in its place.

He was my hero for a reason. He was my dad.

---