This one's not for the faint of heart. Over the course of the story there will be death, suicide attempts, a fair amount of physical and mental abuse, some egregious torture and a hefty dollop of foul language, but hopefully a happy ending. Actually, the last bit's a given since it's me doing the writing, but between here and the end is a rocky road, so please if any of the above is likely to be triggering for you, please, please think twice about reading.

Chapter 3

When we weren’t actually sleeping I used a lot of the time to quiz Max on my dreams. This involved a lot of cringing from him – mental cringing, of course – before admitting that each dream has been a genuine memory.

I made a rough count of them and put together a list of the choicest for when the authorities came to call.

That took two days, by which time my bruising had passed through some psychedelic horror show spectrum of colours and had started to clear up. The nurses had put together an album of photographs detailing my injuries at their worst and at various points during my recovery.

They were two days in which I received no visitors. My dad’s absence was easiest to explain since my doctor had succeeded in putting a temporary injunction on him, and he wasn’t allowed within a hundred yards of me.

It still felt a little odd to think of him as my dad, but I was slowly accepting that I was now a part of Abrielle, and Mike was her father. Gerald was, to all intents and purposes, dead. Intestate – or so my brother would think. He’d have a nasty surprise waiting for him when my solicitors read my obituary. Mind you, I had to wonder what he’d have done with my wardrobe full of frillies.

The rest of the family’s absence was less easy to justify, though I suppose making funeral arrangements for my former self could be keeping them busy. More likely, Dad had ranted at Mum and the rest and, either out of solidarity or fear, they’d chosen to stay away.

I moved onto solid food. Well more solid at least. Spaghetti didn’t take much chewing, which was as well since my teeth and jaw ached.

I was pronounced well enough to get out of bed, which meant I could take a bath, wash my hair – Max didn’t have much of a clue, nor was she particularly interested, but sixty years of short back and sides had me luxuriating in the length and weight of our hair, and desperate to improve it.

It took three soap and rinses before I get up much of a lather, then the fourth left it feeling clean at last. After that, I asked one of the nurses if she could arrange for a hairdresser to visit me. I figured a hospital this size with long term patients ought to have access to one somewhere.

She came and did for me exactly as I asked, leaving me with shoulder length wavy hair and a fringe. Bangs, I think the Americans call it though I’ve no idea why.

The new look caused my doctor’s eyebrows to shoot up, but he followed his surprise with a very genuine smile.

“You look very pretty, Abrielle. I can ask the nurses if one of them can provide some makeup to cover your, er...” he pointed at our bruise, now very much out in the open for everyone to see.

“Thank you doctor,” I said while Max was busy blushing for us both. I have to admit, being called pretty was new for me and quite a bit more special than I could have anticipated.

“The main reason for my visit is to inform you that your mother is on her way to collect you since there’s this little legal matter that needs sorting.”

“Oh. Then perhaps it would be better if I didn’t hide the bruise.”

“Possibly, though I will be present too, and I’ll be bringing this.” He picked up the album showing off my bruises in their various stages of progression. “You may find it a little more dramatic if you keep the real thing hidden and only show it if asked. It’ll say to the judge that your appearance matters to you.”

Which it did, of course, so I allowed myself to be led by him.

I also enjoyed my first experience of makeup – except that it brought up memories of Max’s experiments with the stuff – courtesy of a pretty nurse who was young enough to be my daughter and old enough to be Max’s mother. Our prepubescent body had no hormonal confusion to add to the mix, for which I was grateful because it was already confusing enough.

We’d about finished when Mum appeared in the doorway.

“Oh!” she said.

I looked up at my brother’s youngest daughter, a young woman I’d known since she was a baby, and said with a shy smile, “Hello Mum.”

I didn’t belong in that moment, so withdrew to the back of our shared mind, letting Max take the lead.

“You... You look so different,” Lisa said.

A variety of snide responses rose to mind – my mind that is. I fought to keep them to myself.

“I’m still me, Mum. Only kind of more so.”

“Whatever do you mean, Max?”

“Erm... I er, I... Could we... Could you call me Abrielle? Max never really... I never really liked... er...”

“Abrielle? Do you mean Gabriel?”

“No, at least I don’t think...”

Max was getting flustered, and I was there to give her my strength. I eased forward and took gentle control.

“Gabriel’s a boy’s name, Mum, like Max. Gabrielle would be closer, but it’s still a bit like taking a boy’s name and kind of making it sound girly. Like Maxine. Abrielle is... Well it feels more me.”

“But you are a boy, Max.”

“Only on the outside, Mummy. It’s something I’ve been trying to tell you for a long time, only Dad doesn’t want to listen, and I guess he’s so loud about it, it makes it impossible for anyone else to hear. Where is Dad, by the way?”

“He went home, sweetheart. He thought it would be better if he went back to work.”

Rather than face his issues with his own son. Sounded about right.

‘He’s not a bad man,’ Max murmured in my part of our brain.

‘I saw all the ways he’s abused you last night in my dreams, so I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree, Max.’

‘He doesn’t know how to cope with me being like this.’

‘So he’s convinced you you’re the one who’s wrong.’

‘No. I mean you’ve convinced me there’s nothing wrong with me being like this.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re not the only one who had dreams last night. I dreamed of all the things you went through in your life, and I know I definitely don’t want that.

‘But I don’t want to lose my dad either, so now we have to convince him that this is okay. You have to help me Uncle Gerald. If you don’t believe we can help him, I’m scared we’re going to lose him.’

I could feel my natural dislike of Mike and of everyone like him. Like my brother, my parents, even misandrists like Mandy and her girls who’d written off half the human race and most likely saw people like Max and me as worse than the men they hated, choosing to believe we didn’t even have the self-respect to be what we obviously – to them – were.

I could feel his gentler side too though. His youthful optimism that things could be made right, and maybe he was right. I was in danger of becoming like the people I despised, polarised in my thinking to the extent I wasn’t ready to accept that their side of the divide had its relevant arguments, its valid reasons for anger.

I made an effort to open myself to Max and felt his hopeful, wholesome, heartfelt feelings for his father fill me. I felt all the calcification in my own attitudes dissolve away.

The weight of the stone Floyd had called it. It fell away, leaving me feeling lighter and more hopeful.

‘See, it’s better, isn’t it?’

It felt like Max speaking, but me also. It felt like we were closer, more in synch.

‘Do you think this was what he meant about how marriage should be? Two becoming one?’

‘It feels like it. When you give up things you don’t agree on and hold onto the things you do.’

‘You gave up on the idea of not facing up to your dad, I gave up on hating him and people like him. We have a mix of our two opposing feelings and that seems better.

‘I remember reading something somewhere that love isn’t so much two people looking at each other but looking together in the same direction.’

‘Whatever are you saying, Uncle Gerald?’ There was a hint of a titter behind the thought.

‘There are many different types of love, Max, and please can you drop the Uncle? It makes me feel like the old man I used to be.’

Mum had just said something I’d missed and was running her fingers through my hair.

“What?” I asked.

“Pardon is more polite dear. I was saying we’re going to have to do something about your hair.”

“Why? This is how I want to look.”

“You look like a girl.”

“That’s kind of what I was going for.”

“But... I don’t understand.”

I sighed and looked at the doctor, asking for help with my eyes.

“Mrs Baxter, I think it highly likely that your son – or I should prefer to say daughter – has a condition known as gender dysphoria.”

“Oh, you mean this nonsense where he dresses up in women’s clothes? His father and I are dealing with that.”

“Actually, you’re not. It’s not nonsense. Current understanding suggests it has a genuine genetic cause, which means that regardless of what you see on the surface, Max’s brain has very likely developed with mainly female physical characteristics. You’ve heard the phrase, ‘a woman trapped in a man’s body?’ This is likely very much Max’s experience.”

“You’re speaking nonsense.”

“I assure you, Mrs Baxter, I’m not. I can show you a number of medical papers that support this conclusion, and I’d be happy to introduce you to any number of my colleagues who’ll tell you exactly the same thing.”

“And how many of your colleagues might I find who’d tell me something different if I went looking for them by myself?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“There you are, Max. That’s being polite. I was saying, doctor, that if I went looking for my own second opinion, what would be my chances of my finding someone who disagreed with you? I mean, isn’t there a big argument over the issue at present?”

“Yes, well I suppose you have me there, except the disagreement isn’t about the nature of gender dysphoria and what causes it. Very few doctors I know would attempt to refute the existing data.”

“Then what...?”

“There has been a large increase in the number of young children presenting as gender dysphoric recently, leading, many of us think, to a large number being misdiagnosed and prescribed drugs they don’t need.”

“What sort of drugs?”

“Nothing serious at this stage. Puberty blockers are most common. They prevent the onset of puberty until the children are considered mature enough to make informed decisions about their futures.

“The issue isn’t so much whether or not this condition exists – it does – but whether or not an individual has it. It’s difficult to diagnose, and with the number of referrals coming through, the existing system has become overwhelmed.”

“Well, I hope you’re not going to make an issue of it today, sweetheart,” Mum said to me – us.

“I can’t promise anything, Mum. I mean the whole reason we’re going to court today is because Dad hit me.”

“Allegedly.”

“No Mum. He hit me, and this would be about the fiftieth time he’s done it...”

“Oh, come on.”

“I could give you dates, although if we’re limiting it to times when he hit me as hard as he did a few days ago – hard enough to bruise like this.” Pointing at my face wasn’t that effective with the damage hidden under a layer of concealer. “I could easily describe about twenty incidents like that, and they were all about him objecting to my wanting to be a girl.”

“Well, if you think I’m going to buy you a dress for this little charade of yours, you’ve another think coming. I brought you some smart things to wear, and you’ll wear them. Let that be an end to it.”

Trousers and a white button down shirt with a v neck pullover. More or less my school uniform without the blazer. Nowhere near my first choice or Max’s for that matter, but between the way they hung off my almost anorexic frame and the hairstyle, I still looked more like a girl than a boy.

Between Max and myself we managed to add some pretty girly mannerisms too. Mum wasn’t impressed, but Max and I felt good about it all.

Why is it that hospitals insist on delivering discharged patients to the door via wheelchair? I mean, we’d proven that we could walk about unaided.

We reached the main entrance without difficulty and climbed into a waiting car. The hair and the smell of makeup helped immensely and I had no difficulty embracing the girl made to dress up as a boy persona. It was more truth than fiction in any case.

We made our way into the courtroom which was large and imposing, from my perspective at least. The judge came in, complete with red robe and white wig, and we all had to stand up until he’d settled. There were a number of formalities which Max didn’t follow, many of which I missed because I was explaining other bits to him. Eventually I was asked to stand up.

“You’re Max Baxter?” the judge asked.

“Yes sir,” my twelve year old voice could as easily be mistaken for a girl’s as a boy’s.

“Max?”

“Yes sir, though I prefer Abrielle.”

“Abrielle. That’s a...”

“Girl’s name. Yes sir. I am a girl. At least on the inside.”

“I thought this was about physical abuse to a minor.” I’m not sure who the judge was addressing, only that it wasn’t me. I answered him anyway.

“My father doesn’t like when I try to tell him I’m a girl. He hit’s me. Sometimes really hard.”

The doctor stood with the photographic evidence.

“When was this?” The judge was interested again.

“Just before Christmas. I put on one of Mummy’s dresses and some of her makeup, and I took most of a bottle of sleeping pills. I locked myself in the bathroom and went to sleep. I didn’t really expect to wake up, only when I did, I looked like that.”

“You’re saying your father hit you while you were unconscious?”

“He didn’t do it while I was awake, so I suppose so.”

“My husband thinks he may have fallen and hit his face on something,” Mum said.

“Do you have anything in your bathroom that looks this much like a hand?” The judge offered up a photograph.

“My father’s bathroom.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My father’s bathroom, your honour. We were staying with my parents at Christmas, but no. He doesn’t have anything that shaped, at least that I can think of. Perhaps Mike was trying to revive him “

The judge looked at her incredulously and held up the photograph. Mum didn’t respond.

“Has your father hit you before?” the judge asked me.

I began to recite off the worst of the instances from the most recent backwards, giving dates and reasons for the incident. The judge let me get through about a dozen, covering most of the previous year before he held up a hand.

“Are there many more of these?” he asked.

“About the same amount again over the two or three years before the last thing I said. More if you include gentler times.”

“Evidence?”

“No sir. I was scared of my dad and didn’t want to make trouble.”

“What changed this time?”

“I nearly died. Afterwards I figured there had to be a better way, even if it meant saying all this.

“Daddy’s not a bad man sir, but he can’t cope with this about me.” I gestured at my face and hair with a very girly wave.

“I’m surprised you’re not wearing a dress.”

“Mummy wouldn’t allow it either. I think she’s on Daddy’s side.”

“And the reason you chose to try and end your life?”

“I decided if I couldn’t be this me, then I didn’t want to be any other version. If I couldn’t be the person I feel inside, I thought being dead would be better than being who they said I should be.”

“You could have waited a few years.”

“And gone through puberty and become physically like my dad or my granddad. How could I be girl then?”

“This really means that much to you?”

“I think about it all the time.”

“Oh come on!” Mum exclaimed.

“All the time, Mum. When I think of how it might be after I’ve changed...”

“Your honour,” my doctor picked up where I was trailing off. “I would like to recommend that the court seeks specific advice from a gender specialist in this matter. Despite it not being my field of expertise, I feel quite strongly that it may be crucial in Abrielle’s wellbeing.”

“Max,” the judge said. “The boy’s name is Max, and we’re here to ensure his safety, specifically from his father’s violent tendencies.”

“Yes your honour, but surely we’ve shown evidence that both the father’s violent tendencies and the child’s suicide attempt are linked to this matter of gender dysphoria.”

“Doctor, I don’t much like being ambushed in my own courtroom.”

“Not my intent, your honour. My only concern is Abrielle’s wellbeing. If we can address the issue of gender, I’m certain it will lead to our resolving the other matters too.’

“Doctor, is... Abrielle a suicide risk?”

“Not at present, I believe.”

“If I can’t live as a girl, I can’t guarantee that, sir,” I said, possibly a little rashly.

“That’s a matter for your parents...”

“Neither of whom are supportive on the matter, sir. I’ve already told you my father has struck me repeatedly over this issue.”

“So how do you suggest we stop him from doing so?”

“I don’t really know, sir. What I do know is that if I can’t be a girl, I don’t see much point in living.”

“You’re telling me that you might still consider suicide?”

“I’d rather not, sir, but I am a girl. In my heart and in my mind I am a girl. I have the soul of a girl. I hate even the idea of living my life as anything other than a girl.

“I imagine you feel just as strongly about being a man, so my question to you is how would you feel if you were told that starting tomorrow, you had to live the rest of your life as a woman with all that implied?”

“Yes, but the difference is I am a man.”

“I realise that sir. Most people are born with a man’s mind in a man’s body or a woman’s mind in a woman’s body. I wasn’t so lucky and living with the difference is... Well perhaps it isn’t impossible, my uncle Gerald showed me that, but it’s harder than I think I can bear. He tried changing who he was inside and it ruined his life. I’d rather change what I am on the outside, which will become next to impossible after my body starts to grow up “

“When did you ever talk to your uncle Gerald?” Mum asked.

I shook my head – our head, except Max was deep inside us.

“Sir, all I’m asking is a chance to see if this will work for me before it’s too late. I know there are drugs that will stop my body from changing for a while. I know with all that’s in me I’d be happier as a girl. I just need a chance to show everyone, except I can’t do it while my parents won’t let me. They won’t agree to the drugs and they won’t agree to me living as a girl...”

“That’s because your not a girl,” Mum said.

“I’m sure as shit not a boy!” I spat at her

“I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in my courtroom.”

“Sorry sir, but can you not see how that makes my point for me?”

“I’m sure your parents have your best interests at heart.”

“Are you?” I could feel tears flooding my eyes. They were Max’s more than mine. I was angry, but I could feel the despair welling up inside my young companion. As the first tear escaped, I wiped it down the side of my face, removing as much of the concealer as I could. “Are you really?”

It undid him completely. He stared at me with a complex mix of emotions fighting for dominance on his face. It took him a few minutes, but he regained his composure.

“What would you like me to do, Max?” he asked with just the slightest hint of a catch in his voice.

“If it’s not too much to ask, sir, I’d like you to call me Abrielle.”

He nodded. “Abrielle. I’m sorry.”

“I’d like for it to be possible for me to take these pills that will stop my body from maturing, or at least talk to an doctor who knows about my condition so he can tell me if I should be taking them.”

“You’re not sure about this?”

“Oh, I’m absolutely sure. I just need some way of showing everyone else that it’s true. I also want my mum and dad to stop fighting me on this.”

“They are your parents M...Abrielle. They get to decide what’s best for you.”

“And if what they decide is best for them? What then? They hate the idea of having a, what was it Dad called me a few days ago Mum? A namby-pamby poofta in the family. They think I embarrass them through doing this. They’re not thinking about what’s best for me, so how can they decide what’s best for me?

“I want my dad to stop doing things like this to me.” I pointed at the bruises now peaking out from beneath my streaked makeup. “I want both my mum and dad to learn about what my condition really involves, and if they can’t accept me and support me in being who I am...” this was the big bit, what Max wanted to avoid and what I’d promised him I’d try to avoid. “If they can’t do that, I want to live with people who can.”

I could feel the shock effect of my words inside and out. Max awoke within us, radiating horror at my betrayal, his feelings mirrored in the expression both Mum and the judge turned my way. Even the doctor looked stunned.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I continued. “I love my parents and I’d prefer to stay with them if I can, but they have to appreciate how important this is to me. They have to understand it’s not the nonsense they’d prefer to believe. Their son is really their daughter, and if they can’t see that then they’re only going to cause me more harm.”

“Max?” Mum said.

“Abrielle, Mum.”

“I can’t believe you’d really ask for something like this.”

“Why not, Mum. I was prepared to take my own life to get away from you a week ago. Do you really think this is much different? Do you think I’m suddenly ready to go back to the way things were?

“I need my life to be different starting now, which means either you and Dad have to accept you have a daughter, or you go back to not having a child at all. I mean, from your point of view, it wouldn’t be a lot different if I’d actually succeeded in killing myself, would it?”

“I can’t believe you’d be so cruel.”

“Who’s being cruel here, Mum? Dad wants to keep on hitting me until I stop ‘this nonsense’, which really means he’ll keep on hitting me until I give in to him, and you’re going to stand by and let him. Do you even care how I feel, or are you just as embarrassed by me?”

“Of course I’m not embarrassed, darling. But this notion of yours, it’s just nonsense.”

“Doctor? Sorry your honour, I mean if it’s alright with you.”

“Doctor, you said you’re not a specialist in this area.”

“No, your honour, but I know as much as any doctor about the condition, which is to say I’m familiar with the current research that shows it to be a genetic issue. If a person has it, then it is a real issue and not a nonsensical notion.

“I also know it’s difficult to diagnose, especially at a young age, although there are some individuals who are more obviously affected than others. I’m also aware that if the condition is identified prior to puberty, treatment is quite considerably more effective.”

“Mum, I need your support now. And Dad’s if he can be persuaded. I don’t know if you saw Uncle Gerald, but you know what the police said and you can imagine what he looked like. I don’t want to end up looking like a man, like he did, because then it’ll be so much harder to be the real me.”

“Oh, that’s right. The police came to see you didn’t they. They’d have told you... Is this what this is all about?”

“No Mum!” I couldn’t keep the frustration out of my voice. “This is about how I’ve felt for as long as I can remember. This is about why I put on your dress on Christmas Eve. This is about the desperate way I’ve been feeling because of the way you and Dad – Dad especially – have been reacting to me whenever I’ve tried to talk to you about the way I feel. This is about the girl inside me who wants to become a girl on the outside too. This is because the way I feel inside feels horribly wrong. All the time.”

“And as a non specialist, your honour,” the doctor picked up from where I ran out of breath, “I believe that Abrielle fits into the relatively small group of individuals who would be fairly easy to diagnose, and who would be most adversely affected if they weren’t to receive treatment.”

“Mrs Baxter,” the judge said gently. “I believe the doctor may have a point.”

“His dad will never agree to it,” Mum said distractedly.

It’s her, Mum, but maybe work on that later.

“Then you have a choice to make, Mrs Baxter. Will you go against your husband’s wishes, or your son’s. Quite possibly your daughter’s.”

Mum looked at me, a hint of a smile poking through the doubt and confusion. “I do like the idea of a daughter. But... Is this real? I mean really real?”

I desperately wanted to tell her, but I knew nothing I could say would help change her mind. I looked at the doctor, imploring him.

“Only a specialist will be able to tell you for certain, Mrs Baxter,” he said, “but I suspect so. Normally it would be your GP who would decide whether to refer you, but as Abrielle’s current doctor, I can do so as well. We have a gender dysphoria clinic in the hospital and I’m sure I could arrange for... your child to be seen in the next day or two, but the request has to come from you.”

I turned my face to Mum. If an expression could ever say please.

The thing is, Mum’s always been a bit of a pushover. Part of the dynamic of Mum and Dad’s marriage. He’s opinionated and forceful and she’s always been inclined to go with everything he says. With the weight of opinion in the room swinging my way, I could see her teetering on the brink, ready to follow the majority opinion. It meant I’d get my appointment with the dysphoria clinic and most likely a prescription of testosterone blockers, or at least their recommendation of one, but the real challenge still lay ahead when Dad stuck his nose in.

“All right, I suppose. If you all think it’s for the best.” She smiled magnanimously, as if granting me a special boon.

I smiled too, though a little weakly.

“Well, it seems we’re all done here,” the judge said, rearranging his robes.

“Er, there is one more thing, sir,” I said. “My father.”

“Yes,” the doctor said. “I was awarded a temporary injunction against him since I was concerned for Abri’s safety.” – Abri. I liked that. – “I suspect he’ll object to anything that’s decided in his absence.”

“Well, that’s his hard luck then. If he wanted a say he should have been here today. Where is he, by the way?”

“Working, your honour,” Mum said. “We don’t live around here. We spent Christmas with my parents then stayed on after Max – er, Abri – was admitted to hospital. We live about seventy miles away?” it came out as a question because she wasn’t sure. Not the sort of detail that bothered Mum much. “He went home after the injunction was put on him. No sense in hanging about if he wasn’t even going to be allowed to see his own son, I think he said.”

“Yes, well. Ma... Abrielle, what would you like me to do about him?”

“I don’t know sir. I mean, he is my dad and I do want him in my life, but... Is there some way you can make sure he doesn’t hit me like he did, and make it so he can’t stop me from, you know, changing? He’s made no secret that he’s totally against me being... this.” I pointed at my hair more than anything.

“I’m not sure what I can do, er, Abrielle. I intend to instruct both your parents to attend sessions to educate them about your condition, but that has the potential to be no more effective than speed awareness courses are in changing the approach to driving of habitual speeders.”

“Maybe you could fit my dad with a black box,” I shrugged and smiled to indicate I wasn’t being serious.

He smiled back. “We could probably solve a good number of society’s ills if we were able to do that, but not without bringing into question the rights of us all.

“The best I can do is make it very clear to him that his responsibility where you’re concerned is your wellbeing, and that both the law and the medical profession consider this to include your mental health regarding transgender issues. I will make it clear to him that he is not to strike you again for any reason, neither is he to interfere with your exploration of your girly self, shall we say. If he does either of these things, he will risk further legal action in which his fitness to act as your parent will be brought into question. Will that satisfy you?”

“Thank you sir. It’s more than I hoped for.”

“Mrs Baxter, can I trust you to listen to your child’s needs now, and accept the judgement of professionals in matters concerning his, or perhaps her, condition?”

Mum nodded though not with any degree of enthusiasm.

“Even if that judgement clashes with your beliefs or those of your husband?”

She nodded again, still without conviction.

“Abrielle, I’m going to give you a phone number.” He scrawled on the back of a business card. “This is for you alone, not your parents nor anyone else. It’s to be used if you feel you have no other choice, because I want you to feel you always have a choice, alright?”

“Does that mean that if I use it I won’t much like what happens?”

He smiled. “You know, you have surprised me from the moment you set foot in my courtroom. You have a lot of maturity for your years.

“In a way you’re right. If you call this number, what follows won’t be very pleasant. If you use it only as I have directed though, the outcome will be preferable to what would happen if you didn’t use it.”

“Thank you sir.” The card was passed to a bailiff and from his hands to mine. I read the number and committed it to memory, suggesting that Max do the same, then slipped it into my trousers pocket.

We were done. No banging of gavels, but a declaration from the judge that proceedings were done and we should go. I still hadn’t been discharged from the hospital, so where we were to go was pretty much decided for us. The doctor stayed with us to make sure Mum took us where we were supposed to go.

Back in my room I retrieved the card and checked it to make sure I had remembered the number properly then dropped it on the counter before stripping off my clothes and letting the nurse help me back into one of the pink gowns.

“Next time I come, I’ll bring you a pretty dress, shall I?” Mum asked, retrieving my clothes from the pile I’d left on the chair. I’d thought about dumping them on the ground, but we hadn’t quite reached that age yet.

I gave her a bright smile. “That would be really nice, thank you, Mum.”

Evidently not the reaction she’d expected. I could feel Max’s nervousness inside me, but it was just the normal paranoia any newly emergent trans girl might feel at the prospect of going out in public in a dress.

To be fair, I’d never dared do the same in all my sixty something years, but for most of that time I’d not had Max’s slender body or the pretty haircut we now shared. I imagined myself in a dress and couldn’t think of any reason not to smile.

“I’ll book her in for an appointment with the dysphoria clinic then,” the doctor said. “As I mentioned, it may take a day or two.”

“You do what you like doctor. I’ll be discharging my son tomorrow. And if you don’t do something about that hair, I’ll be bringing a pair of scissors with me.”

She picked up the card I’d left on the bedside cabinet and tore it in two, giving me a smug self-satisfied grin as she did so.

I read her the digits from memory and the grin faded.

“You wouldn’t dare. The judge said only as a last resort, so what’s he going to say when you call him so soon after?”

“The judge said only use it if you feel you have no choice. What would you call it when your mother decides to do the opposite of what she promised the judge she’d do.”

“There was no promise.”

“Oh what? Did you have your fingers crossed behind your back? Honestly, I have to wonder which of us is the child here. ‘Mrs Baxter, can I trust you?’ Do you honestly think he intended for you to lie to his face?”

“He should have thought of that, shouldn’t he? Made me swear an oath or something.”

“He did though, didn’t he? I mean, not the oath, but definitely the or something.” I recited the phone number again, as much to fix it in my memory as to make the point.

‘She really had no intention of doing what she said, did she?’ Max asked as we watched her walk stiffly towards the lifts.

‘I really thought she was on our side for a minute there, Max. I’m sorry.’

‘No, she wasn’t. Not the way she answered the judge. She does it with Dad too. Agrees with him to his face then does the exact opposite when he’s gone. What are we going to do?’

I read the numbers to him, but in our mind, I ended with a rising inflection, asking his permission.

‘We really don’t have a choice, do we?

“Might I have a phone, doctor?” I asked. Max’s question didn’t need me to answer it.

“Abrielle.” It had taken several minutes to transfer me through to the judge. To be honest, I hadn’t expected to hear his voice. “Is this really your only choice?”

“Can I let the doctor answer that?” I handed the phone across.

“Yes sir. I suggested trying to get Abri an appointment with the gender specialist and the mother told me not to bother, that she would be coming back for her son tomorrow and if we didn’t do something about her hair... No, Abrielle’s hair... No that’s fine. Anyway, she said she’d bring a pair of scissors with her. Yes sir, I’ll hand you back.”

“I’m sorry, Abri, I really hoped for better from her. You were right to call. The question is, what are we going to do? What would you like to do?”

“Er,” I hadn’t discussed this with Max yet, but... “I have an uncle. Uncle Peter. Could you arrange for me to stay with him, and his, er, boyfriend?”

“It’s certainly worth asking if he’d be prepared to look after you for a while.” I could hear the smile in the judge’s voice. “I don’t suppose you have a way to contact him, do you?”

I could have run off his phone number as easily as the one the judge had given me, but explaining how I knew it several years after my granddad had kicked him out of the house, that might have been difficult.

“Er, his full name Peter Lassiter and I think I heard my parents say he lived near my uncle Gerald.”

“Another uncle. How many do you have?”

“Uncle Gerald’s really my great uncle – my granddad’s brother. He died on Christmas Eve.”

“Ah yes, I recall you mentioned him earlier. The man in the, er...”

“Nightdress, yes.”

“It rather seems to run in your family, doesn’t it?”

“Didn’t the doctor say it had a genetic cause?”

“Hah! My word, you’re right. Well, I can find your uncle’s name and...”

“It’s Lassiter.”

“What? Oh yes, I suppose it would be the same, wouldn’t it? Well, I’ll be able to find your uncle’s address from the police report, and if your uncle Peter lives anywhere nearby, we should be able to find him.”

“What if my mum comes back?”

“Don’t worry. As of this moment, the hospital and your Doctor Paresh have temporary custody of you. Your own parents’ guardianship has been suspended pending an investigation.”

Not what Max or I had wanted, but no less than they deserved, along with any consequences from the investigation.

It took half an hour to locate Uncle Peter. The judge called me back.

“Your uncle will be with you as soon as he can, Abri. He can’t come immediately because of work commitments, then there’s also the issue of finding somewhere to stay around here since, as you mentioned, his father disowned him. Certainly he’ll be with you no later than tomorrow morning.

“I’ve also pulled a few strings of my own and arranged an appointment for you with the gender specialist later today. I hope it brings you all you hope for the future.

“The last thing to mention is that I’ve contacted both your parents to let them know they are to keep away from you. If either of them turns up today or tomorrow, the hospital knows to call the police. I realise this isn’t an ideal outcome for you, but it is the best we could have hoped for under the circumstances. Are you alright?”

“I expect I will be sir. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

“No less than is your due, Abri. I hope your future unfolds without further need of my assistance.”

He hung up before I had a chance to say anything else. I put the phone on the cabinet and settled into the bed. I wasn’t tired, but there was nothing else to do. Nothing to read, nothing to play, no-one to talk to...

Well, that was hardly true, was it. I reached for the other consciousness inside me.

‘Max?’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry Max.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Can you think of any other way that could have gone?’

‘No, but...’

‘But what?’

‘But we’ll never know now, will we?’

‘On the other hand, we’ll get to see how this goes.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you know what happened to your uncle Peter?’

‘What do you mean? He’s coming to help us, isn’t he?’

I could feel the curiosity rousing in him. It reminded me of when Colin and Amy’s kids were a lot younger, on one of the rare days when I hadn’t been so far gone myself. The easiest way to stop a kid from being upset was to distract him or her. Eventually they’d reach an age when they realised they were being handled, but for a few innocent years...

‘Are you handling me?’

Quickest way to the death of innocence. Share a mind with a young child.

‘I’m not a child.’

‘No, I suppose you aren’t. What you’ve been through in the past few days is enough to make anybody grow up. As to the rest, no I’m not handling you.’

‘But...’

‘You only reminded me of the way things were when your mum was your age. I may have tried to handle her sometimes, but all I’m trying to be with you is honest and open. We don’t have a choice to be anything else. I mean I can’t sense what you’re thinking right now, but I suspect that’s because you’re not thinking anything. What you’re feeling though... I was trying to help you stop feeling so upset, but I wasn’t trying to distract you. It just worked out that way.

‘But Peter, unless you’re not interested anymore.’

‘No, I... Dad said he did a horrible thing.’

‘Sure. About as horrible as what you did. Well, maybe not quite as bad.’

‘You think I did a bad thing?’

‘Can you image ne how everyone would have felt if you’d succeeded in killing yourself?’

‘Nobody would have cared.’

‘Well, if that’s true, why are you so upset about what we’ve just done to your mum and dad? What I’ve done to them.’

‘I don’t know. It’s... They’re my mum and dad. You wouldn’t understand.’

‘I may surprise you there. Family’s family, even when they’re being dicks. I never stopped loving my parents or my brother, even when they kept saying how wrong it was for me to be different. You know, in the same way you’re different.

‘As for Peter, well...’

I let him into the my memory of the day Peter had turned up on my doorstep.

‘That’s horrible ‘

‘Yeah. Didn’t stop Peter loving his dad though. Didn’t stop me from wanting to punch your grandfather’s lights out either.’

‘You? Take on granddad?’ Complete with incredulous laugh.

‘What? You don’t think I could have taken him?’

‘I think you’d have a better chance as you are now.’

‘You’re probably right. Not that it matters. Peter persuaded me not to do anything rash, and we both ended up getting our revenge by sorting out Peter’s life the way he wanted it, and not the way your granddad would have liked.

‘Not that it was about revenge. It’s just that sometimes the worst thing you can do to the people who hate the way you are is get on and live your best life.

‘The best is pretty much the same, only once you’ve done it, you go back to those people and try to show them how little there is to hate.’

‘Is that what we’re doing then?’

‘I’d like to think so. Family is family after all, and it’s up to us to make the effort when people like your mum and dad can’t.’

‘But...’

‘Right now there’s no way we can become our best self with them in our life. We need to get away from them, sort ourselves out, then when they can’t hurt us anymore, when we’re all the way transformed into the person they can’t see yet, that’s when we go back to them and show them.’

‘And what if they still don’t accept us?’

‘Then we very sadly go and make ourselves a family elsewhere. We’d have to do that if they were dead, wouldn’t we? It’s what they’d have had to do about you if you’d succeeded on Christmas Eve.’

‘I’m glad I didn’t. I’m glad I met you, Uncle Gerald.’

‘So am I, Max.’

Do you know what a hug is like when there’s no body to get in the way? Skin limits how close you can get to one another. This felt like merging with one another, overlaying one another. There was more of me – not because I had been taller and fatter, but because I’d lived five times as long – and he had a greater intensity. There were bits where we were different – the way we felt about his, or perhaps more correctly our, parents – and there were others where we slotted together like pieces of a puzzle – like our feelings on being a girl.

The areas where we differed, I tried to embrace his point of view. He picked up on what I was doing and did his best to reciprocate. We made progress, reaching something close to a compromise. It was tiring though and before long we were asleep, sharing each other’s dreams.