Trick of the Mind — 39 & 40 by Maeryn Lamonte Melanie Ezell's big closet ultimate writer's challenge — Written From The Heart Thanks to Wren Erendae Phoenix for editing/proofing. “Alice is fine with us helping for the moment. We were just off to the shops so we need to dash if we're going to get the bus. Is there anything you need?” “From the shops? No I don't think so, thank-you.” And with a wave we were away to the bus stop.

The next few weeks passed in something of a routine. Following the conversation with Mrs Taylor, I'd pretty much committed myself to being Rachael while I stayed at home, which was good in a way since it looked like I would have to be Rachael a lot of the time once Jen and I went back to uni.

Alice visited Mum every other weekday and twice on weekends. The plan was that she would drop the weekday visits once she went back to school, and pick them up during half terms and holidays. She wasn't improving that rapidly, which meant that any visit I made any time soon would upset her. I resolved to write to her at least once a week, with Jen resolving to keep me to it. Alice checked with Mum's doctor and he agreed that it would be a good thing as long as I steered away from the subject that had brought on her crisis. That was something she had to deal with when she was ready. Any attempt to push it on my part would most likely result in backward steps.

We both of us wanted visit Dad, but the place he was being held was a long way out in the countryside. There was no public transport that went anywhere near and, even if Alice and I had been so much as vaguely athletic, it would have taken us hours by bicycle. I hadn't considered the cost of driving lessons worthwhile and, with tuition fees and everything, it looked like it would be some time before I could afford the luxury of a car.

We sat around discussing options. Jen suggested her parents, but given that they lived the best part of half a day’s drive away, we quickly dismissed it as impractical. Alice and I tried to think of friends and family who lived reasonably close by, who might be prepared to help. I even tried calling Dad's old partners, but they were reluctant to talk to me, and less so to help out. I guess it wasn't personal, it was just business.

We'd pretty much run out of ideas and decided that the only way we would be able to keep in touch was by mail, when we received a surprise phone call. Alice was out visiting Mum at the time, so I picked up.

“Baxter residence, hello.”

A short pause, then, “Richard?”

I dropped my voice out of Rachael's softer, slightly higher register. “Yes this is Richard.”

Another pause. “This is awkward. I was hoping Alice would answer.”

“Uncle Stan?” I couldn't be sure. It had been a lot of years since he had spoken to me with a civil tone.

“Yes Richard. Er, I was wondering if Evie and I could pay you a visit. We — that is I in particular — we would like to straighten things out. To, er... Well, apologise seems like too small a word, but we...”

It was like a machine that had slipped a gear and was straining against itself, trying to tear itself apart. There was a part of me that took a vindictive pleasure in listening to this man who had caused me so many years of grief, a part that wanted to listen to him suffering as he struggled to find his inadequate words. There was another part, though, that remembered the broken man in the courtroom, admitting, as much to himself as to everyone else, that he was like me.

“When would you like to come?” Was that the Rachael in me who was so forgiving, so understanding? If Rachael could forgive this man for despising her, for driving her into hiding, then perhaps Richard should try too.

“Well, whenever it's convenient, I suppose.” It seemed my question had eased his stuttering speech, and replaced it with surprised disbelief.

An idea occurred to me.

“Would this Saturday work?”

“I don't see why not. What sort of time?” Banal details; so much less embarrassing to talk about.

“I don't know. I was wondering if you might be able to help us out.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Well, Alice and I haven't been able to visit Dad since the end of the court case. I was wondering if you would mind driving us out to where he's being held. Visiting times are usually between mid and late afternoon, so you could either come for lunch beforehand or dinner afterwards. If you're agreeable that is.”

“I should think we could do that. How long does it take to get to the prison from where you are?”

“I think it's about an hour's drive.”

“Ok, shall we say we'll call for you about three then stay for dinner afterwards?”

“Sure. Thank-you.”

“No Richard, it's me who should be thanking you. You have every reason to resent us for the past four years. It's very good of you to agree to seeing us.”

I hung up and looked over at a quizzical Jen. “Uncle Stan and Aunt Evie, looking to make peace. They're taking us to see Dad on Saturday afternoon, then coming back here for a meal.”

She came over and hugged me.

“What's that for?”

“For not harbouring a grudge.”

“There's too much shit in life as it is without manufacturing and distributing your own.”

“Will you introduce them to Rachael?”

I smiled at the thought. “Not this time I don't think. For one thing, I'm not sure Dad's ready for me to turn up in a dress just yet, for another, you don't rebuild bridges with a sledgehammer.”

She kissed me and held her head against my chest, or at least as close as she could get with two pieces of silicon rubber in the way. “Wise and gentle. Two things I love about you. If your uncle is anything to go by, two things you probably wouldn't have if you were fighting Rachael.”

“Is that why you accept her so readily?”

“That and I love the way you smell whenever you dress up fully.” I was still experimenting with perfumes, trying something different every time I went shopping as Rachael, but I was getting closer to the scent I liked. Evidently Jen approved as well.

I called through to the prison and was told the visits could be arranged online. The web page they directed me to was helpful and fairly simple to follow. Date of visit, prisoner to visit, number of people visiting along with names and ages, request to extend the visit if an infrequent visitor, intended gifts for the prisoner — alongside a list of disallowed items. It was comprehensive, and I filled it in as best I could leaving blanks for Uncle Stan and Aunt Evie's ages as well as the gifts slot. I couldn't think of anything for the last, but Alice might.

She arrived back about an hour later. She took the news about Uncle Stan and Aunt Evie coming to visit with mixed feelings. On the one hand, she was glad of the chance to visit Dad. On the other she was less inclined to forgive than I had been. I guess she had her own right to be angry, having been stuck in the middle of as she had been. It took a while to get her onto my side, but eventually she agreed that if we could end the bitterness it would be best for everyone.

She called them back and suggested they could come earlier and visit Mum too, which committed us to providing lunch as well as dinner. Oh well. At least she was able to tell them to bring identification for the visit, as well as provide us with their ages for the visiting order. Alice suggested something we might take and I added it to the form before submitting it.

Saturday came round all too soon. I'd stopped with the scent a couple of days before and worked hard to wash any signs of body from my hair and makeup from my face. It wasn't Sunday, but I figured a smart turnout would show willing, so had settled on a grey shirt and my usual chinos as a concession to neatness. My brain turned it all into a long, floral print hippy style dress with tiered skirt and sleeves. It reached to mid calf, with boots that reached to just under my knees when I got round to putting my shoes on.

Uncle Stan and Aunt Evie arrived around mid morning and whisked Alice off on her regular trip to Mum's hospital. Jen and I put a lasagne together for dinner and prepared sandwiches for lunch. There was something niggling at my mind which I couldn't quite get, enough that Jen noticed.

“Penny for them?”

“What?”

“You're so quiet and thoughtful this morning, I was wondering what was going on in the head of yours.”

“I'm not sure. Something's different, but I can't put my finger on it.”

“Well it is the first time in a couple of weeks that you've not actually dressed as Rachael.”

“Yeah, it's not that, or not entirely.”

“What are you wearing?”

I told her.

“Not your usual slinky, short skirts then?”

“That's it! I mean it's pretty enough, but it's sort of safe. The same as when I went to court. Long close fitting knotted dress the first day and Mum's red dress the second. I mean that was a little bit shorter in the hem, but still decidedly respectable.”

“Do you think your brain is reacting to your experiences? Now that you've been through... Well best not to think about it, but now that you've been through that, do you think that you're more attracted to more subdued looks?”

“Well, I'd hardly call what I'm wearing breath taking, so I'd say something has changed.”

“So the original suggestion has been modified. Mysterio did say that it's become a part of you, so maybe as you change through your experiences, especially the more traumatic ones, perhaps the suggestion changes to be more what you want it to be.”

“How does that help us?”

“I don't know, but it's something else to add to the pot.” She saw that the glint of hope in my eyes was dimming. “Patience Richard, the best stews take a while to cook. We'll get there.”

Once we'd finished in the kitchen, we took a couple of mugs of tea into the lounge and tried to watch tv for a bit. It wasn't that we were restless or distracted, but have you seen what there is to watch on a Saturday morning? In the end we snuggled down together on the sofa and enjoyed the peace and quiet.

“Don't be angry,” Jen said after a few minutes.

“Why should I be angry?”

“It's just that I've only just realised, I've missed Richard.”

She earned herself a good tickle for that.

Lunch consisted of strained silences and studiously munched sandwiches. Alice tried to lighten things by describing Mum's condition — improving, and better for having seen Stan and Evie (thank goodness she hadn't imagined him in a dress) — asking after Susan — still happily married — and Emily — still unhappily single, and carrying a little more weight than she was happy with. All contributions from my uncle and aunt were short and stilted. They had, it seemed, decided that what they had come to say would wait until this evening, and until they got that off their chest, they couldn't help but feel uncomfortable.

As it was, Alice and I climbed into the car with Uncle Stan and Aunt Evie at closer to two o'clock than the earlier planned three. Jen stayed behind to look after the house and make sure dinner was ready for when we got back. She was right to of course; visiting Dad was a family thing.

At first sight, the prison didn't look too bad. There was a high brick wall around the outside with, no doubt, broken glass or some such cemented into the top, but inside it was spacious enough, with a fair amount of open space. We handed over the visiting order at the main entrance and allowed ourselves and our belongings to be subject to a cursory search. The proposed gift was inspected and approved, as were our passports, and we were duly shown through to the visiting room. Our early arrival caused a slight insertion of spanner into the bureaucratic machine, but only delayed us about fifteen minutes and earned us a gentle slap on the wrists for flaunting procedure. We got away with saying we had misjudged how long it would take us to get here.

Saturday afternoon was evidently a popular time for visitors. We were shown into a large room filled with tables, almost all of which had a prisoner and a group of visitors around it. The guard escorting us pointed out a lone figure reading a book in the far corner, and we approached slowly.

It was hard to believe this shrunken, shrivelled little man was my father. He'd always been larger than life before now, brash, brazen and always so confident. Sitting there in his grey prison overalls, he seemed to have collapsed in on himself. Poor foundations when the earthquake struck, I thought and a memory of a song drifted across my mind from Sunday School days. 'The foolish man built his house upon the sand.'

He saw us before we reached the table and stood in time to be ready for Alice's tearful embrace. Handshakes and tearful hugs all round and we settled into our seats. He seemed almost pathetically grateful for the visit, and his appreciation of Uncle Stan for bringing us. Alice pushed a large tome across the table.

“I thought you'd prefer your own,” she said.

It was true Dad enjoyed his own Bible. It was of a size to show off at church, and I think there was a degree of one-upmanship involved in his choosing it, but it was also well used and annotated; sort of a personal documentation of his personal journey into belief. He received it from Alice with genuine tears in his eyes.

“You couldn't have brought me anything I would have treasured more, Alice. Thank-you.”

He was so different from the man I knew. Not so much a new person, but still the old person with all his pomp and pride punctured and deflated. There was an uncertainty about him that had never existed before, a deep seated doubt in himself and all he had trusted.

“I also brought you this,” Alice said sliding a few folded sheets of paper across the table. Prisoners had a letter allowance, so this passed without more than a cursory glance from a nearby guard. “It's a list of verses I think you should read.”

“More of your summer camp heresy?” he asked, but there was gentleness and, surprisingly, humour in his words.

“Yes Daddy.” Alice smiled a very private smile. She always had been the one with the God-bothering bug. Mum and Dad were Sunday Christians — well perhaps a little more to be fair. Dad did read his Bible, and both my parents tried to live by what they believed to be its teachings, but they didn't get involved in any of the church's activities outside of the main Sunday morning service. Me, I went along to keep the peace, preferring a couple of hours' boredom each week to an otherwise constant stream of remarks about my immortal soul and my future, should I be run over by a bus tomorrow. Why does it always have to be a bus? Why can't it be something more interesting like a fire engine, or a tank transporter?

The visit was long enough that we ran out of things to say, but Dad begged us not to leave early. He was content to sit in silence with us nearby, and it seemed cruel to deny him something he seemed to so desperately need. After a while he called a guard over and asked if it would be possible to speak to us individually, and for the rest of us to wait somewhere while he did so. There were a few tables standing empty by this time, so the guard agreed for most of us to move to one, while Dad did his one on one thing.

He spoke to Uncle Stan and Aunt Evie first. Not for long, though I could see that it took a lot out of my uncle and aunt to respond to Dad. Things seemed to end on a lighter note though, with smiles and nods, handshakes and hugs. Then it was my turn.

“Richard...”

I waited. There was a degree of resentment running under the surface that had me wanting to make things as difficult for him as I could. I mean I know he was my dad, but what he had tried to do to me, even without realising — probably more because he hadn't cared enough to make sure I'd be safe — I found an anger simmering inside, threatening to boil over at the least provocation. I didn't trust myself to say the right thing, so I waited to see if Dad would.

“I was wrong, Richard. I don't know how or why yet, but I was wrong. When I think about what I nearly put you through, I feel the most crushing shame. I'm still trying to figure out why I did what I did, why I thought it was alright, but I do know that nothing justifies the way I treated you.

“I don't expect you to forgive me now or any time soon. I hope that that day will come someday, and I want you to know that I will be waiting, and hoping and praying, until it does. Whatever happens, things are going to be different now, and not just because the law is protecting you.

“I'm glad you're alright, and I'm proud of the way you're dealing with this whole mess of a situation. Thank-you for coming to visit today. I can't imagine how you feel about me right now, but I'm grateful that you were prepared to come.

“I know you'll be going back to university soon, and it may be a few months before I we have a chance to see each other again, but I would appreciate it if we could keep in touch. I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but I shall still ask.”

His smile was hopeful. His words had poured oil on the troubled waters of my soul, and I found myself feeling angry that he had denied me my outburst. I still couldn't believe that this apologetic little man in front of me was my dad. I swallowed down my feelings of resentment.

“I'll try Dad. This year's going to be quite busy though.”

“I'll be glad of anything you send me, Richard. Would you consent to letting me have your address for next year, so I can write to you?”

“We could use e-mail if you have computer access here. It'll be quicker and cheaper.”

“I'll look into it. I'll tell Alice if there are complications.”

“Dad,” I needed to say something, push him, get some reaction out of him other than this gentle, submissiveness. “Does it still bother you that I'm dressing as a girl?”

His eyes changed, became, if possible, even more hooded.

“If I'm honest, Richard, yes it does. I don't even begin to understand it, even after talking to Stan just now. He assures me that it's not something you can help entirely, and if the consequences of denying it are that you end up like he was, well I guess it's something we're just going to have to try and accept.”

“How would you feel if the next time I came to visit you, I wore a dress?” I was trying hurt him now. I wasn't that proud of it, but I felt I was owed a little comeback.

He bowed his head for a moment. When he looked up at me again, his lips were pursed.

“I would be glad to see you, however you were dressed, Richard. I won't pretend that I would feel comfortable seeing you dressed as a woman, but if you feel the need to, I think I could handle it. If my advise counts for anything with you anymore, then I would ask you to be careful. I know it seems hypocritical, given what I did, but I would hate to see you hurt.”

I couldn't keep it up. Even after all he had done, I didn't hate him. I scribbled my email address on a piece of paper, and slid it across the table to him.

“I'm sorry, Dad, I'm finding it hard not to be angry. Send me a message sometime and I'll reply when I can. I guess we have to play it by ear for now.”

“I can't expect any more. Thank-you son, for not shutting me out completely.”

I stood and turned away from him, not wishing to see the tears in his eyes, not wishing to show mine.

Alice went next and spent a lot of time with Dad, showing him different passages in his Bible and talking earnestly in a low voice. I didn't pay much attention, lost as I was in a world of my own. Uncle Stan asked me something I didn't quite hear, then chose not to repeat it when I didn't respond. Alice was still talking when the guards told us our time was up.

On the way home, Uncle Stan announced that Dad had asked him to drive over once a month and take us, or Alice at least, on a prison visit. He'd agreed readily and negotiated a date for the next trip with my sister. I wasn't sure I'd be around for that trip, but said I'd fit in with whatever they decided if I hadn't already headed up to Jen's place.

Which reminded me. I put a call through to Jen to say we were on our way back and to give her an ETA. Six o'clock was a bit early for dinner, so we agreed on six thirty in case there was any traffic to slow us down.

As it was we made it back home at the expected time, which gave me time to sort out drinks for everyone before Jen called us to the table. As with earlier in the day, there was a nervous awkwardness about my uncle and aunt, and we ate in silence for the first part of the meal. It was time to push the issue.

“Uncle Stan, you asked to visit us today. You said there was something you wanted to say.”

A look of panic swept over him, calmed only by Aunt Evie's hand on his arm. It was something I always found laughably hypocritical about churches like the one my parents and my uncle and aunt attended. They made their declarations about the submissiveness of women, and the women dutifully kept quietly to the background, but when it came to important matters, the odd prod or poke was all that was necessary to see who was really in charge.

Uncle Stan calmed his nerves and collected his thoughts, before putting down his knife and fork, and looking across the table at me.