Grief

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Middlesex (2002)

  and three days laterhe startedcooinglike ababyandthenexthe started soilinghimself.Atthatpoint, whentherewasalmostnothing left of him,God allowed LeftyStephanides toremainanotherthree months, untilthe winter of1970. Intheendhe becameas fragmen- taryas the poemsofSappho henever succeededinrestoring,andfi- nallyone morninghelooked upintothefaceofthe womanwho'd beenthe greatest loveof hislifeandfailed torecognizeher.And then therewas anotherkindof blowinsidehishead;blood pooledinhis brainfor thelasttime,washingeven thelastfragmentsof hisself away. Fromthe beginningthereexisted astrangebalance betweenmy grandfatherandme.AsIcriedmyfirstcry, Leftywassilenced;and as hegraduallylosttheabilitytosee,totaste,tohear, to think oreven remember, Ibeganto see,taste,andremembereverything,even stuff I hadn't seen,eaten,ordone.Alreadylatentinside me,likethefuture 120mphserveof a tennisprodigy,wastheability tocommunicate betweenthegenders,toseenotwiththemonovisionofonesexbut in thestereoscopeofboth.Sothat atthe makaria afterthefuneral,I lookedaroundthetable at theGrecianGardens andknewwhat everyonewasfeeling.Miltonwasbesetbyastormofemotionhere- fusedtoacknowledge.He worried that if hespokehemightstartto cry, andsosaidnothing throughoutthemeal,and plugged his mouthwith bread.Tessiewas seizedwithadesperateloveforChap- ter Eleven andmeand kept hugging usand smoothing ourhair,be- causechildren werethe onlybalmagainstdeath.Sourmelinawas remembering thedayat GrandTrunkwhenshe'dtoldLeftythatshe would know hisnose anywhere. PeterTatakiswaslamentingthefact thathe wouldneverhavea widowtomournhisdeath. FatherMike was favorably reviewing the eulogyhe'dgivenearlierthat morning, while AuntZo was wishing shehadmarriedsomeone likeherfather. Theonly onewhose emotionsIcouldn'tplumbwas Desdemona. Silentiy, in the widow's positionofhonoratthe headofthetable, she picked atherwhitefish and drankherglassof Mavrodaphne,buther thoughts were as obscured tomeasher face behindherblackveil. Lacking any clairvoyance intomy grandmother'sstate ofmind that day, I'll just tellyou what happened next.Afterthe rnakaria, my parents, grandmother, brother, and I got intomyfather'sFleetwood. 269 Withapurplefuneralpennantflyingfrom theantenna, weleft: Greektown andheadeddown Jefferson. TheCadillac wasthree years oldnow,the oldestoneMiltonever had.Aswewerepassing theold Medusa Cementfactory,Iheard a long hissandthought thatmyyia yia,sittingnexttome,was sighing overhermisfortunes. ButthenI noticedthattheseatwastilting.Desdemonawassinking down.She whohadalwaysfearedautomobiles was being swallowed bythe backseat. ItwastheAir-Ride.Youweren'tsupposed to turnit onunlessyou weregoing at leastthirtymilesperhour.Distracted bygrief,Milton hadbeengoingonly twenty-five. Thehydraulicsystemruptured.The passengersideofthecarslopeddownandstayedlikethatfromthen on.(Andmy fatherbegantradinginhiscarsin everyyear.) Limping,dragging,wereturnedhome.MymotherhelpedDes- demonaout ofthecarandledher to the guesthouseoutback. It tooksometime.Desdemonakeptleaningonhercanetorest.Finally, outsideherdoor, sheannounced,"Tessie,Iamgoingto bed now." "Okay,^jyz#,"m y mothersaid."Youtakearest." "I amgoing tobed," Desdemonasaidagain.Sheturnedandwent inside.Besidethe bed, hersilkwormboxwasstillopen.Thatmorn- ing, she hadtaken out Lefty'sweddingcrown,cuttingitawayfrom herown so hecouldbeburiedwithit.Shelooked intotheboxfora momentnowbeforeclosingit.Thensheundressed.Shetook offher black dressandhungitinthe garment bag fullofmothballs.Shere- turnedhershoestotheboxfromPenney's. Afterputtingonher nightgown,she rinsedout herpantyhoseinthe bathroom and hung them over theshowerrod.Andthen, eventhoughitwasonlythree intheafternoon, shegot into bed. Forthenext tenyears, exceptfor a batheveryFriday,shenever gotout again. 270 THE IHEDITERRAHEAI1 DIET rpihe didn'tlikebeingleft onearth. Shedidn'tlike beingleft in L=7| America. Shewastiredofliving. She washavingaharder and Q^J hardertime climbingstairs.A woman'slife wasoveronceher husbanddied. Somebodyhadgivenherthe evileye. Suchwere theanswersFatherMikebrought backtousthe third day afterDesdemonarefusedto getoutofbed.Mymother asked himtotalk toherandhereturnedfromthe guesthousewithhis FraAngelico eyebrowsliftedintenderexasperation. "Don'tworry, it'll pass,"hesaid."I see thiskindofthingwith widowsallthe time." Webelieved him.Butas theweekswentby,Desdemona onlybe- came more depressedand withdrawn. A habitual earlyriser, shebe- gan to sleeplate.Whenmy motherbroughtin a breakfast tray, Desdemona openedone eye andgesturedforher to leave it.Eggs gotcold. Coffeefilmed over.Theonlythingthatrousedherwasher daily lineup ofsoap operas.She watchedthecheatinghusbands and scheming wives as faithfullyas ever, but shedidn'treprimand them anymore, asifshe'd givenup correctingtheerrorsoftheworld. Propped up against the headboard, herhairnetcinchedonherfore- head like adiadem, Desdemona lookedasancientandindomitable as theelderly Queen Victoria. Aqueenofa scepteredislethatconsisted only of abird-filled bedroom. Aqueen inexile,withonlytwo atten- dants remaining,Tessieandme. 271

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  That was the worst day.” Lara was laughing. “I’m sorry, Miles.” “All good,” I said. “Just tell me yours so I can laugh at your pain,” and I smiled, and we laughed together. “My worst day was probably the same day as my best. Because I left everytheeng. I mean, eet sounds dumb, but my childhood, too, because most twelve-year-olds do not, you know, have to feegure out W-2 forms.” “What’s a W-2 form?” I asked. “That’s my point. Eet’s for taxes. So. Same day.” Lara had always needed to talk for her parents, I thought, and so maybe she never learned how to talk for herself. And I wasn’t great at talking for myself either. We had something important in common, then, a personality quirk I didn’t share with Alaska or anybody else, although almost by definition Lara and I couldn’t express it to each other. So maybe it was just the way the not-yet-setting sun shone against her lazy dark curls, but at that moment, I wanted to kiss her, and we did not need to talk in order to kiss, and the puking on her jeans and the months of mutual avoidance melted away. “Eet’s your turn, Takumi.” “Worst day of my life,” Takumi said. “June 9, 2000. My grandmother died in Japan. She died in a car accident, and I was supposed to leave to go see her two days later. I was going to spend the whole summer with her and my grandfather, but instead I flew over for her funeral, and the only time I really saw what she looked like, I mean other than in pictures, was at her funeral. She had a Buddhist funeral, and they cremated her, but before they did she was on this, like—well, it’s not really Buddhist. I mean, religion is complicated there, so it’s a little Buddhist and a little Shinto, but y’all don’t care—point being that she was on this, like, funeral pyre or whatever. And that’s the only time I ever saw her, was just before they burned her up. That was the worst day.” The Colonel lit a cigarette, threw it to me, and lit one of his own. It was eerie, that he could tell when I wanted a cigarette. We were like an old married couple. For a moment, I thought, It’s massively unwise to throw lit cigarettes around a barn full of hay , but then the moment of caution passed, and I just made a sincere effort not to flick ash onto any hay. “No clear winner yet,” the Colonel said. “The field is wide open. Your turn, buddy.” Alaska lay on her back, her hands locked behind her head. She spoke softly and quickly, but the quiet day was becoming a quieter night—the bugs gone now with the arrival of winter—and we could hear her clearly.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  She’s just gone,” and I said, “Oh God, Alaska, I love you. I love you,” and the Colonel whispered, “I’m so sorry, Pudge. I know you did,” and I said, “No. Not past tense.” She wasn’t even a person anymore, just flesh rotting, but I loved her present tense. The Colonel knelt down beside me and put his lips to the coffin and whispered, “I am sorry, Alaska. You deserved a better friend.” Is it so hard to die, Mr. Lewis? Is that labyrinth really worse than this one? seven days after I SPENT THE NEXT DAY in our room, playing football on mute, at once unable to do nothing and unable to do anything much. It was Martin Luther King Day, our last day before classes started again, and I could think of nothing but having killed her. The Colonel spent the morning with me, but then he decided to go to the cafeteria for meat loaf. “Let’s go,” he said. “Not hungry.” “You have to eat.” “Wanna bet?” I asked without looking up from the game. “Christ. Fine.” He sighed and left, slamming the door behind him. He’s still very angry, I found myself thinking with a bit of pity. No reason to be angry. Anger just distracts from the all-encompassing sadness, the frank knowledge that you killed her and robbed her of a future and a life. Getting pissed wouldn’t fix it. Damn it. — “How’s the meat loaf?” I asked the Colonel when he returned. “About as you remember it. Neither meaty nor loafy.” The Colonel sat down next to me. “The Eagle ate with me. He wanted to know if we set off the fireworks.” I paused the game and turned to him. With one hand, he picked at one of the last remaining pieces of blue vinyl on our foam couch. “And you said?” I asked. “I didn’t rat. Anyway, he said her aunt or something is coming tomorrow to clean out her room. So if there’s anything that’s ours, or anything her aunt wouldn’t want to find…” I turned back to the game and said, “I’m not up for it today.” “Then I’ll do it alone,” he answered. He turned and walked outside, leaving the door open, and the bitter remnants of the cold snap quickly overwhelmed the radiator, so I paused the game and stood up to close the door, and when I peeked around the corner to see if the Colonel had entered her room, he was standing there, just outside our door, and he grabbed onto my sweatshirt, smiled, and said, “I knew you wouldn’t make me do that alone. I knew it.” I shook my head and rolled my eyes but followed him down the sidewalk, past the pay phone, and into her room. — I hadn’t thought of her smell since she died.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "No bathing?" "Not unless you doa Zorba dance." "Where didIput that bouzoukiofmine,anyway?"Iwastrying to keep up the banter. Iwas alsotakingoff my clothes.Sowas Julie. It was like jumpinginto coldwater.Youhad to doitwithoutthinking too much. Wegot under thecoversand heldeach other,petrified, happy. "Imight be yourlaststop,too," I said,clingingtoher."Didyou ever thinkof that?" And Julie Kikuchi answered, "It crossedmymind." Chapter ElevenflewtoSan Francisco to collectmefromjail.My motherhadto sign a letterrequestingthatthepolicereleasemeinto mybrother'scustody.Atrialdate would besetinthe nearfuture but, asajuvenileandfirst-timeoffender, I waslikely toreceiveonlypro- bation. (Theoffensecameoffmyrecord,neverinterferingwithmy subsequentjobprospectsattheState Department. Not thatI con- cerned myselfwiththesedetailsatthetime. Iwastoostunned,sick with griefpoisons,andwanted to gohome.) When Icameoutintotheouterpolice station,mybrother was sitting aloneon a longwoodenbench.Helookedupatmewith no expression, blinking.That was Chapter Eleven'sway.Everything went onin himinternally.Insidehisbraincasesensationswerebeing reviewed, evaluated, beforeanyofficial reactionwasgiven.Iwasused tothis, of course. What ismore naturalthan thetics andhabits of one's close relatives? Yearsago,Chapter Elevenhadmademepull down my underpants sothat he couldlook at me. Nowhis eyes were raised but noless riveted.He wastaking inmy deforested head.He was getting a load ofthe funerealsuit.Itwas aluckythingthatmy brother had taken asmuch LSD as hehad. ChapterElevenhadgone inearly for mind expansion. Hecontemplated theveilofMaya,the existence of various planes of being. For a personalitythusprepared, it was somewhat easier todealwithyour sister becoming your brother.There have been hermaphroditeslikeme since the worldbe- gan. ButasI came out from myholdingpenitwas possible that no generationother than mybrother's wasas welldisposed to accept 514 me. Still, itwasnot nothingto witnessmeso changed.Chapter Eleven'seyes widened. We hadn't seeneachother forover a year.Chapter Eleven had changed, too. Hishairwas shorter.Ithadreceded farther.His friend's girlfriendhad givenhim a homeperm.Chapter Eleven'spre- viously lankhairwas nowleonineinback,whilethe frontretreated. He didn't looklike John Lennonanymore.Gonewere hisfadedbell- bottoms, his grannyglasses. Now heworebrown hip-huggers.His wide-lapel shirt shimmeredunderthefluorescentlights. Thesixties have neverreally come to anend.They'restillgoingonrightnow in Goa.Butby 1975the sixties had finallyendedformybrother. At anyother time, wewould havelingeredoverthese details. But we didn'thavetheluxuryforthat. Icameacrosstheroom. Chapter Elevenstoodup andthenwewere hugging,swaying."Dad'sdead," my brotherrepeatedinmyear."He'sdead." Iasked himwhathadhappenedandhetoldme. Miltonhad charged throughcustoms.FatherMikehadalsobeenonthe bridge. Hewasnow inthehospital.Milton'soldbriefcasehadbeenfound in the wreckageoftheGremlin,fullofmoney.FatherMikehadcon- fessedeverythingto thepolice,thekidnappingruse, the ransom. When thishad sunkin,I asked, "How's Mom?" "She's all right.She's holding up.She'spissedatMilt." "Pissed?" "Forgoing out there.Fornottelling her.She'sgladyou're com- inghome.That's what she'sfocusing on. You comingbackforthe fu- neral.Sothat's good." Wewerescheduledtotakethered-eye outthatnight.The funeral was thenextmorning.ChapterElevenhad beendealingwiththebu- reaucratic sideofthings, getting thedeath certificatesandplacing the obituaries. Heaskedme nothing aboutmy timeinSanFranciscoor at Sixty-Niners. Onlywhenwewereonthe planeandChapter Eleven had had afewbeersdidheallude tomycondition."So,I guessI can'tcall you Callieanymore." "Call me whateveryouwant." "How about'bro'?" "Finewith me." Hewas quiet,blinking.There wastheusuallagtime whilehe thought. "Inever heard much aboutwhat happenedout thereatthat 515

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  I could hear the Colonel still screaming, and I could feel hands on my back as I hunched forward, but I could only see her lying naked on a metal table, a small trickle of blood falling out of her half-teardrop nose, her green eyes open, staring off into the distance, her mouth turned up just enough to suggest the idea of a smile, and she had felt so warm against me, her mouth soft and warm on mine. — The Colonel and I are walking back to our dorm room in silence. I am staring at the ground beneath me. I cannot stop thinking that she is dead, and I cannot stop thinking that she cannot possibly be dead. People do not just die. I can’t catch my breath. I feel afraid, like someone has told me they’re going to kick my ass after school and now it’s sixth period and I know full well what’s coming. It is so cold today—literally freezing—and I imagine running to the creek and diving in headfirst, the creek so shallow that my hands scrape against the rocks, and my body slides into the cold water, the shock of the cold giving way to numbness, and I would stay there, float down with that water first to the Cahaba River, then to the Alabama River, then to Mobile Bay and the Gulf of Mexico. I want to melt into the brown, crunchy grass that the Colonel and I step on as we silently make our way back to our room. His feet are so large, too large for his short body, and the new generic tennis shoes he wears since his old ones were pissed in look almost like clown shoes. I think of Alaska’s flip-flops clinging to her blue toes as we swung on the swing down by the lake. Will the casket be open? Can a mortician re-create her smile? I could still hear her saying it: “This is so fun, but I’m so sleepy. To be continued?” — Nineteenth-century preacher Henry Ward Beecher’s last words were “Now comes the mystery.” The poet Dylan Thomas, who liked a good drink at least as much as Alaska, said, “I’ve had eighteen straight whiskeys. I do believe that’s a record,” before dying. Alaska’s favorite was playwright Eugene O’Neill: “Born in a hotel room, and—God damn it—died in a hotel room.” Even car-accident victims sometimes have time for last words. Princess Diana said, “Oh God. What’s happened?” Movie star James Dean said, “They’ve got to see us,” just before slamming his Porsche into another car. I know so many last words. But I will never know hers. — I am several steps in front of him before I realize that the Colonel has fallen down. I turn around, and he is lying on his face. “We have to get up, Chip. We have to get up.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Major Arthur Maxwelllowers hisbinoculars.Atriangularknotof muscle tenses inhisjaw and disappears. "Have alook at her,sir." "We mustn'tbe swayedby emotions here,Phillips.Thereare greater things atstake." "Havea lookather, sir." The wings ofMajor Maxwell'snose flare as helooksatCaptain Phillips. Then, slappingonehandagainsthisthigh,hemoves to the sideof theship. The searchlightsweepsacrossthewater,lightingupitsowncircle of vision.The waterlooksoddunderthebeam, a colorlessbroth lit- tered with a varietyofobjects:a brightorange; aman'sfedorawitha brimof excrement;bitsofpaperliketornletters.Andthen,amidthis inertmatter,sheappears, holdingon totheship'sline,agirlinapink dressthe waterdarkenstored,hairplasteredtohersmallskull.Her eyes makenoappeal,staringup. Her sharpfeetkickeverysooften, likefins. Riflefirefromshorehitsthewater around her.Shepaysnoatten- tion. "Turnoff thesearchlight." Thelight goesoffandthefiringstops.MajorMaxwelllooks at his watch."Itis now2115hours.Iamgoingtomy cabin,Phillips. I will staythereuntil 0700hours.Should a refugeebetakenaboardduring thatperiod, itwould notcometomy attention.Isthatunderstood?" "Understood, sir." Itdidn'toccur to Dr.Philobosianthatthe twistedbodyhestepped overinthe street belonged to hisyoungerson. Henoticed only that hisfrontdoor was open.In thefoyer, hestoppedto listen.There was only silence. Slowly, still holdinghis doctor'sbag,heclimbedthe stairs.Allthelamps wereonnow.The livingroomwasbright. Toukhiewas sitting on thesofa,waitingfor him.Herheadhadfallen backward as thoughin hilarity, theangle openingthewoundsothat asection of windpipe gleamed. Stepansat slumpedatthedining table,hisright hand, which heldthe letter of protection, naileddown with asteak knife. Dr. Philobosian tookastep and slipped, thenno- ticed a trailofblood leading down thehallway. He followedthetrail into themaster bedroom, where hefoundhis two daughters.They 60 were both naked, lyingontheirbacks.Threeoftheir fourbreastshad beencut off. Rose'shandreachedouttowardhersisteras thoughto adjust the silverribbonacrossherforehead. The linewas longand moved slowly.Leftyhadtimetogoover his vocabulary. He reviewedhisgrammar, takingquickpeeksatthe phrase book.He studied"Lesson1 : Greetings,"and bythetimehe reached the official at thetable,he wasready. "Name?" "Eleutherios Stephanides." "Placeof birth?" "Paris." The officiallookedup."Passport." "Everythingwas destroyedin thefire!Ilostallmypapers!"Lefty puckered hislipsandexpelledair, ashe'dseenFrenchmendo."Look at whatI'mwearing.Ilostall mygoodsuits." Theofficialsmiledwryly andstampedthepapers."Pass." "Ihavemywifewith me." "I supposeshewasborninParis,too." "Of course." "Hername?" "Desdemona." "Desdemona Stephanides?" "That's right. Sameasmine." When hereturned withthevisas,Desdemonawasn'talone.A mansat besideheron the suitcase. "Hetriedtothrowhimselfin the water. Icaught him justin time."Dazed, bloody,ashiningbandage wrapping onehand,themankeptrepeating, "They couldn'tread. They wereilliterate!" Leftycheckedtoseewherethemanwasbleed- ing but couldn'tfind awound.Heunwrappedtheman'sbandage,a silver ribbon, and tosseditaway."Theycouldn'treadmy letter,"the man said, looking atLefty,whorecognizedhisface. "You again?" theFrenchofficialsaid. "My cousin," saidLefty, inexecrable French.The manstamped a visa and handed it to him. Amotor launch took them outtotheship. Lefty kept hold ofDr. Philobosian, who was stillthreatening todrownhimself.Desdemona 61 opened her silkwormbox andunwrapped the whiteclothtocheck on hereggs. Inthe hideouswater,bodiesfloated past. Somewere alive, callingout. Asearchlightrevealed aboy halfway up theanchor chainofa battleship.Sailorsdumpedoilonhimandheslippedback intothe water. Onthedeckofthe Jean Bart^thethree new Frenchcitizens looked backattheburningcity,ablazefrom endtoend. Thefire wouldcontinueforthenextthree days,theflamesvisibleforfifty miles.Atsea,sailorswouldmistaketherising smokeforagigantic mountainrange.Inthecountrytheywere headingfor,America,the burningofSmyrna madethe front pagesfor adayor two,before be- ingbumpedoff bythe Hall-Mills murder case(thebodyofHall, a Protestant minister,hadbeenfoundwith thatofMissMills,an attractivechoirmember)andthe openingoftheWorldSeries.Ad- miralMarkBristolofthe U.S.Navy,concernedaboutdamage to American-Turkish relations,cabledapressreleasein whichhestated that"itis impossibletoestimatethenumber ofdeaths dueto killings, fire, and execution,butthetotalprobably doesnotexceed 2,000." The Americanconsul, GeorgeHorton,had a larger estimate.Ofthe 400,000OttomanChristiansinSmyrna beforethefire, 190,000 wereunaccounted for by October 1.Hortonhalvedthatnumberand estimated thedead at 100,000. The anchors surgedupoutofthewater.The deck rumbled un- derfoot asthe destroyer'sengineswerethrownintoreverse. Desde- monaand Lefty watched AsiaMinorrecede. Asthey passedthe IronDuke^theBritish military serviceband startedinto a waltz. 62

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Reese sighs and gazes at the street passing by. Shadows cast by telephone poles and streetlights swing over her face as the car moves. “T was really sad. It was this exercise for numbing grief that I heard about. A real exercise. A method by this guy Wim Hof. Don’t ask me to explain him. I already had to explain him to the doctor.” “Grief?” Ames asks. “Yes, grief. The loss of a baby.” Up front, Katrina glances briefly at Ames, a moment of sadness, or alarm, but Reese doesn’t seem to notice. Katrina just grips the wheel as Reese keeps talking. “I haven’t memorized the stages of grief but isn’t acceptance one of them? ’m trying to accept that I won’t be a mother to this baby I’ve grown attached to. That I won’t be part of your family. But I am trying to see good things. It was nice seeing you two holding hands in the waiting room. That baby is going to have really caring parents, the kind that show up. And I’m trying to accept that’s good enough. Even for me.” Ames knows how much Reese is giving up to speak like this. But still, Katrina doesn’t say anything, and Ames hesitates, torn. He wants to console Reese—but the decision as to their future parenthood belongs to Katrina. He owes it to her to let Katrina speak as she wants or not at all. When Katrina does finally speak, it is only to ask whether the best way to Reese’s at this time of night is via the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. After work on Monday, Katrina and Ames walk to the subway arm in arm, linked at the elbow with their hands in their jacket pockets. Heavy clouds have begun to blow over Brooklyn and above them, building tops move in and out of the peachy sunlight. At street level, dusk has come to stay. “Just after lunch I got a phone call,” Katrina says. “It was a nurse- midwife from my doctor’s office. She said that by now they had expected me to call and initiate care. Like to direct them about what kind of experience I wanted for my pregnancy.” Ames doesn’t understand the question that well. “Did she say what your options are?” “Like, do I plan to have a doula? A nurse-midwife? Do I have a hospital in mind or am I going to give birth at home? They don’t really initiate care too early in the pregnancy, she said, unless a woman is having a hard first trimester, but I’m approaching the second trimester, I’m older, and at risk; and they hadn’t heard from me, so she followed up.” “What did you say?” “Well, she was very chipper. It was sort of like she was welcoming me to the official part of my pregnancy. She suggested that I still needed to schedule a Doppler to hear the baby’s heartbeat.”

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  “No,” Katrina corrected him. “It is the opposite of generous. Misery loves company. I don’t want to be alone in losing a baby today.” “Are you being ironic?” Irritation flashed on her face when she responded. “Do you think I have the energy for irony, Ames? Just invite her. She can come if she wants, and not if she doesn’t.” Reese declined the invitation at first. In her mind, she had given the baby up to Katrina, and now, it was with dismay—perhaps even horror—that she had to acquiesce that the baby’s mother had the right to abort. That another woman could end the existence of a baby that she had come to imagine, softly, tentatively, at the center of her future life. She had found her emotions and, in the two days since Ames told her about the abortion, had veered in the direction of pro- life politics. Never before had she found her thoughts trending to the personhood of an unborn child. And thus, she declined the invitation. Out of confusion, and a distrust of herself and the self-service of her own motivations. And above all out of grief. But after thinking about the invite for a few hours Reese called Ames again. “Why would she invite me?” she wondered aloud to him. “Is it possible she wants us to talk her out of it? I tried to imagine myself as her, and that was the only motivation I could imagine. Maybe she invited me because some part of her wants to change her mind, but feels either too proud or too scared, and can’t admit it to herself. So she has invited someone who will do it for her.” Even as she spoke, Reese could again hear the twisted conservatism of her position. She’d told other women to fuck off with their opinions about her body, her hormones. They meant almost nothing to her, her readiness as thoughtless as slapping away a mosquito. But what if it was never about politics? Maybe she just always wanted what she wanted: hormones then and a baby now. A nimble mind can always uncover the politics to justify its own selfishness. “T don’t know,” Ames said. “But Katrina is not you. I do best with her when I believe she means what she says. But you always do whatever you want. Even Katrina must realize that by now. You'll say what you want to her, regardless of what I think, and some part of her must have known that when she invited you.” Katrina has turned off the heat for the season, but the weather is cold and drab, so the air in the apartment carries a damp chill. Kindly, she offers Reese a blanket, and wraps one around herself. Reese accepts and covers her bare shoulders with the scratchy wool. “Please, Katrina,” Reese says, at length, and somewhat without segue from the small talk they had been making. “Please can’t you wait?”

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  “Tl'm coming,” Patrick had said, breaking the silence and loosening Amy’s grip on the place she had gone, so that it slipped away from her as when you let go of a ledge; and she fell careening back through the wormhole, through time and space, back to Patrick’s bed, where she opened her eyes, and saw him on top of her thrusting, then one last hard thrust, with his eyes locked on the television. She didn’t say anything. Not like with Delia. No encouragement. No pretending that she had ever been present. Wordlessly, she and Patrick both understood the rules—rules that she would henceforth employ for all sexual encounters with men: Neither of them would actually be there for the sex. They would take from each other what they could, each from their own places. They would use what they could of each other’s bodies. But encouragement, or solace, or care—no, neither of them wanted any of that. Just give me enough of yourself to put me in touch with the part of me that can believe I’m a girl, and beyond that, you can go fuck yourself, in whatever theoretical dimension you need to be in to do that. “Baby, why are you crying?” Reese had asked. Because some combination of hormones and poppers had made possible the sex that Amy had given up on. The poppers made her too dumb to flee into herself, to send herself somewhere. So there she was with Reese. Not off elsewhere working to see herself as a woman when she lay on top of a woman, or replacing a man with someone else while he lay on top of her. She simply was a woman present with a woman. It felt like some kind of healing, some kind of redemption. And all she could do was cry. Later that night, Reese stroked her hair and whispered to her, “Tm sorry you've been in so much pain for so long.” Any night before that one, Amy would have denied it, would have told Reese about all the privileges she had, about how lucky she had been compared to other trans women, how many advantages she’d been granted. How few of the readily nameable traumas she ever suffered. And without legible traumas to point to, what would pain make her? At best, a trans version of those Didion-worshipping bourgeois white girls who subscribed to a Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain, those minor-wound-dwelling brooders with no particular difficulties but for an inchoate sense of their own wronged-ness, a wronged-ness that fell apart when put into words but nonetheless justified all manner of petulance and self-pity. In pain? No, not Amy.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  clinic. Iwas up in Marquette.I wasn'ttalking to Mom and Dad that much." "Iran away." "Why? "They were goingtocut me up." I couldfeel himstaringatme,withthatouter glaze thatcon- cealed considerable mentalactivity."It's alittle bitweird forme,"he said. "It's weirdforme,too." Amomentlater he let out a laugh."Hah!Weird!Pretty fucking weird." I was shakingmyheadin comic despair."Youcansaythatagain. Bro." Confronted withtheimpossible,therewasnooption but totreat it as normal.Wedidn'thaveanupper register, sotospeak,butonly the middle rangeofourshared experience andways ofbehaving, of joking around.Butitgotus through. "OnegoodthingaboutthisgeneIhave,though,"Isaid. "What?" "I'll nevergobald." "Whynot?" "Youhave tohaveDHTtogobald." "Huh," saidChapter Eleven, feelinghisscalp. "I guessI'malittle heavy onthe DHT.I guess I'mwhatthey'd callDHT-rich." We reached Detroitalittleaftersix inthe morning. Thesmashed- up Eldorado had been towedto apolice yard.Waitingintheairport parking lot was our mother'scar,the "Florida Special." Thelemon- colored Cadillac was allwe hadleft of Milton.Itwasalreadybegin- ningto take on the attributes ofa relic.The driver'sseat was sunken from the weight of his body.Youcouldsee the impression ofMil- ton's cloven backside intheleather upholstery.Tessiefilledthishol- lowwith throw pillows inordertosee overthesteeringwheel. Chapter Eleven had tossed the pillows intothe backseat. In the unseasonal car, withitspowerful air-conditioning switched off andsunroof closed, we started forhome.We passed thegiant Uniroyaltireand the thready woods ofInkster. "Whattime'sthe funeral?" I asked. "Eleven." 516 Itwas just getting light.Thesunwas rising fromwherever it rose, behind the distant factoriesmaybe,or overtheblind river.The grow- ing lightwas likea leakageorflood, seepingintothe ground. "Go through downtown,"I toldmybrother. "It'lltaketoo long." "We've gottime.I want tosee it." Chapter Eleven obliged me.Wetook 1-94 pastRiverRougeand Olympia Stadiumandthencurledin towardtheriverontheLodge Freeway andentered the city from the north. Growup inDetroitandyou understandthe way ofallthings. Earlyon,you areputoncloserelations withentropy.As we roseout ofthe highwaytrough,wecouldseethe condemnedhouses,many burned,as well as thestarkbeautyofallthe vacantlots,grayand frozen. Once-elegantapartmentbuildingsstoodnextto scrapyards, and wheretherehadbeenfurriersandmovie palacestherewerenow blood banksandmethadoneclinicsandMotherWaddles Perpetual Mission. Returning to Detroitfrombrightclimesusuallydepressed me.But nowIwelcomedit.Theblighteasedthepainofmyfather's death, makingit seem like a generalstateofaffairs.Atleastthecity didn't mockmy griefby beingsparklingorwinsome. Downtown looked thesame,onlyemptier.Youcouldn'tknock downthe skyscrapers whenthetenantsleft;soinsteadboardswent overthewindows and doors,andthegreatshellsofcommercewere putincoldstorage.OntheriverfronttheRenaissanceCenterwas be- ingbuilt,inaugurating a renaissancethathasneverarrived."Let's go through Greektown,"Isaid.Againmybrotherhumoredme.Soon we came downtheblockofrestaurantsandsouvenirstores.Amidthe ethnickitsch, therewerestill a fewauthenticcoffee houses,patron- ized byold menintheirseventiesandeighties.Somewere alreadyup this morning, drinking coffee, playingbackgammon,andreading the Greek newspapers.Whentheseold mendied, the coffee houses would suffer andfinallyclose.Little bylittle,therestaurants on the block would suffer,too,theirawnings gettingripped,thebig yellow lightbulbs ontheLaikon marqueeburning out,theGreek bakeryon the corner being takenover by South Yemenisfrom Dearborn. But allthat hadn't happened yet.OnMonroe Street,we passedtheGre- cian Gardens, where wehadheldLefty's makaria. "Are wehaving amakaria forDad?" Iasked. 517

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Andsoitwas I who, upholdinganoldGreekcustomno onere- membered anymore, stayed behindon Middlesex,blocking the door, so that Milton's spirit wouldn't reenterthehouse. Itwasalways a manwho didthis, andnowI qualified. Inmy blacksuit,with my dirty Wallabees,I stoodinthe doorway, which wasopentothe win- ter wind.The weepingwillows werebarebut still massiveandthrew up theirtwisted armslikewomen ingrief. Thepastelyellow cubeof our modernhousesat cleanly on thewhite snow.Middlesex wasnow almost seventyyears old.Thoughwehad ruineditwithourcolonial furniture,itwasstillthebeacon itwas intended tobe,a placewith few interiorwalls, divested ofthe formalitiesofbourgeoislife, a place designedforanewtypeof humanbeing,who wouldinhabit a new world.Icouldn'thelp feeling,ofcourse,thatthat personwasme,me andalltheotherslike me. Afterthefuneralservice, everyone got backintothe carsforthe drivetothecemetery. Purplepennants flew fromtheantennasasthe processiondroveslowlythroughthestreets oftheoldEastSide wheremyfather had grown up, where he hadonceserenadedmy motherfrom hisbedroomwindow.The motorcadecamedown MackAvenue and when theypassedHurlbut, Tessie lookedout the limousinewindow toseethe oldhouse. Butshecouldn'tfindit. Busheshadgrown upallaround,theyardswerelittered,andthede- crepit housesnow all lookedthe sametoher.Alittlelater,thehearse andlimousines encountered a lineof motorcyclesandmymotherno- ticedthatthe driverswereallwearingfezzes. TheywereShriners,in townfor aconvention.Respectfully,they pulledovertolet the fu- neral procession pass. OnMiddlesex, Iremainedinthefront doorway. Itookmyduty seriously anddidn't budge,despitethefreezing wind.Milton,the child apostate, wouldhave beenconfirmedin hisskepticism,because hisspirit never returnedthat day, trying to getpastme.The mulberry tree had noleaves. Thewind sweptoverthe crustedsnow intomy Byzantine face, whichwas the face ofmy grandfather andofthe American girl Ihad oncebeen.I stoodinthedoorforan hour, maybe two.I losttrack after a while, happy tobehome, weepingfor my father, and thinking aboutwhat wasnext. 529 FICTION THE INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLER II "Part Tristram Shandy, part Ishmael, part HoldenCaulfield,Cal is a ;ingnarrator. ...A deeply affecting portraitofonefamily's tumultuous engagement withthe American twentieth century." —The New York Times IDDLESEXTELLS THE BREATHTAKING STORYOF CALLIOPE StEPHANIDES andthree generations ofthe Greek- American Stephanides family,who travelfrom a tiny villageoverlooking Mount Olympus inAsia Minor to Prohibition-era Detroit, witnessingits glory daysasthe MotorCity,and theraceriots of 1967, beforethey move out to the tree-linedstreets of suburban Grosse Pointe, Michigan.To understand whyCalliope is notlike othergirls,she hasto uncovera guilty familysecret, andthe astonishing genetic history thatturns Callieinto Cal,oneof themost audaciousand wondrous narratorsin contemporary fiction.Lvrical and thrilling:,Middlesex isan exhilarating; reinvention ofthe American epic. slv American, Atoweringachievement ... Hehas emerged suspectedhimofbeing." — LosAngeles TimesBook Review(cover review) asthegreatAmericanwriterthat manv of us surprising Abig, cheeky, splendid novel ... - lyricaland fine." — The BostonGlobe Anepic. .. Thisfeast of a novelis thrilling in thescope of its imaginationand surorising inits tenderness." — Peoble Unprecedented, astounding." — San Francisco Chronicle BookReview JEFFREY EUGENIDES was bornin Detroit and attended Brownand Stanforduniversities. Hisfirst novel.TheVirgin Suicides, waspublishedby great acclaim in 1993, andhe COVERDESIGNBY HENRY SENEYEE • COVER ILLUSTRATION BYOLGA GRL COVER CONCEPT ANDAUTHORPHOTOBYKAREN YAMAUCHI WWW.PICAD0RUSA.COM JJiJJliJ iJJlDISTRIBUTED BY HOLTZBRINCKPUBLISHERS 175FIFTH AVENUE, NEWYORK, N.Y.10010 RINTED INTHE UOFAMERICA ISBN-13: 978-0-312-42773- >BN-10: 0-312-42773-5 '780312"427733'

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  (In the case of the Coosa Liquors trip, Pudge never even gets out of the car.) This is totally destroyed with Alaska’s death. She doesn’t even die among them: She dies off campus, away from this insular, highly integrated world, and so what follows feels like a disintegration. Pudge later uses the phrase “falling apart” to describe the general condition of things in the universe, but in that intensely personal moment, it doesn’t feel like a general falling apart. It feels like his specific world has disintegrated. Were the theological aspects of Looking for Alaska influenced by your background in religious studies? Definitely. I could never have written this book without the religion classes I took in college, and the theology/philosophy/worldview/whatever at the core of the book comes directly from conversations I had with Don Rogan, my mentor and professor at Kenyon. Even in private conversations, I was never quite sure what Rogan believed, but he was very interested in formulations of what is called radical hope—the belief that hope is available to all people at all times—possibly even including the dead. And the argument that Pudge makes at the very end of the book, that he believes Alaska forgives him, is a rather theistic thing for Pudge to say. (Of course, this isn’t the only viewpoint presented in the novel. There is also the Colonel’s, “The labyrinth sucks but I choose it,” which is not necessarily a theistic point of view, although I’d argue it’s still a very hopeful thing to say.) Basically, I wanted to think about all kinds of different ways that young people respond thoughtfully to loss and grief, and show a bunch of different ways that people can prove resilient. Dr. Hyde tells Pudge to “be present.” What does that mean to you? It means listening. Listening is a rare skill, and in these noisy times, it is more and more valuable. Pudge writes, “Teenagers think they are invincible.” Did you when you were a teen? Do you, now, as an adult? I was aware as a teenager of the fact that I might die, and it scared me a little. But I never felt like dying would affect my overall invincibility, if that makes sense. It’s a little like what Muhammad Ali said after his third fight with Joe Frazier. After the fight, which Ali won, Ali said that he thought at times that Frazier might kill him. “If he had killed me,” Ali said, “I would have gotten back up and won the fight. I would have been the first dead heavyweight champion of the world.” I felt like that as a teenager. I feel a little more fragile now. I still think people are invincible, but I’d rather not find out for sure. Can you please explain the significance of the last few sentences? The quote of Edison’s last words? It is an invocation of hope in the life of the world to come.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  When I opened my eyes, I knew Brother Terrell had prayed for me, but I didn’t know the content of the prayer. It didn’t matter because the sores, fevers, and lethargy that had plagued me for months disappeared that night. The healing increased the dissonance between what I believed and what I thought. I believed Brother Terrell was a prophet and a healer. I knew he was a liar and an adulterer. I did not know how to reconcile the two. I also believed the Terrellites were right about what God required—complete withdrawal from the world and sacrifice in every aspect of life—and I knew I was not capable of that. I was seventeen when I left Brother Terrell’s ministry for what would be the last time. There were no epiphanies, only a sense of regret and failure. I pushed these feelings away when they surfaced, and over time they turned to anger and then, to my relief, something that felt like indifference, only heavier. It was well after midnight. The bars had closed and my friends and I had taken the party to someone’s house in the country. Bodies packed every room. We were smoking and drinking and hovering over the pile of cocaine on the coffee table. Musicians ran up and down guitar scales, and somewhere in the back of the house, someone pounded out the drum solo from “Wipe Out.” We talked and talked about terribly important things. Out of that din, a clear, mellifluous voice sang:Though God slay me I will trust him I shall then come forth as gold.Everything fell away but the song. It was “Job’s God Is True,” a song Brother Terrell often sang under the tent.For I know that he is living I can feel him in my soul.I followed the sound to the front porch. A young blond woman who fronted a local band and who minutes earlier had bent over the cocaine with me sat on the porch swing, strumming her guitar and singing. I asked where she had learned the song and she told me she had attended Pentecostal churches, even tent revivals, as a kid.“There’s power there. Can’t deny that.” She looked up and smiled.I nodded and walked back inside. Over the next five years Brother Terrell and my mother drifted further apart, but she didn’t seem to realize it. After a while, only the preacher woman and her family accompanied him to the ranch, but Mama maintained he was working everything out. Eventually a grand jury convened to examine the IRS evidence against him. It came out in the hearing that my mother had made a down payment on a property with thirty thousand dollars in cash. The attorney who handled the transaction remembered it ten years later as one of the strangest moments of his career.“This woman hands me all this money in a bag. A brown paper bag!

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  That night, however, she gaped at Reese, shocked at how easily Reese had named what she’d gone through. She remembered Ricky telling her about Reese’s uncanny ability to say what you need. Whether she could trust Reese or not, no one had ever said such a thing to her. No one had so casually seen through her hollow stoicism to the accumulated disdain and disgust she harbored within. No one had ever implied that Amy might be wounded or suffering too, least of all Amy. She didn’t know she needed that kind of permission until that moment. She opened her mouth to protest, gulped once, and collapsed into tears all over again, sobbing onto Reese’s chest at all she had done to herself for years, at the hurt she’d inflicted upon herself and on the people she’d been with, while Reese gripped her and didn’t tell her to stop. CHAPTER FIVE Seven weeks after conception () N ONE HAND, Reese figures that the best strategy might be to get any crying out of her system before she meets Katrina at the GLAAD Media Awards gala where Ames has contrived for the two women in his life to first encounter each other. That way, when Reese is called upon to make a first impression, she will have so depleted her emotional energy that she'll be incapable of anything other than somnambulistic agreeableness. Which is why she has spent the last few minutes unpleasantly blerping out sobs on the floor of Ames’s closet. Ames had invited her to meet at his apartment and then take a car together to the awards at the Hilton Midtown. Waiting for him to get ready, she wandered around the apartment and, indulging a nostalgic temptation, opened the closet door. The left side of the closet had once been hers, a fact that was suddenly and viscerally recalled to her by its faded odor of cedar flakes, wool, detergent, and old paint, all of which wafted into her face the moment she opened the door. She swooned backward, the smells forcing her to relive in her mind the day that she’d moved into Amy’s apartment: how she’d grinned impishly at her lover and swept all of Amy’s hanging clothing to the right, declaring the left side conquered. She’d been so full of hope that day. So sure that her crush on Amy meant something new for her. Today, what? Seven? Eight years later, she crumples under the force of memory, her face pressed to the polyurethaned bamboo floorboards. It hurts to remember that first day. It hurts to remember hope like that. It hurts to think that such hope was the naiveté and stupidity of youth, of a person she would never be again.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Sometime when Katrina was in college, Ames knew, her father had fallen off a ladder. The fall resulted in a traumatic brain injury. He spent three weeks in a coma, then awoke an angrier, more impulsive man. Maya nursed him through a year that Katrina winced to describe, then left him, though the two never officially divorced. In singledom, Maya bloomed, moving to the Bay Area, where in the first housing bubble, she built a niche as an interior designer providing, as with the bear-print couch, unexpected home décor touches. Her reputation survived the crash, and as tech millionaires bought up and down the bay, her name made its way to one of the prominent Mrs. Googles, who wanted to remodel her vacation home in Montana. After that job, Maya had all the work she could take. When she called Katrina, it was usually on the pretext of showing her some item she’d found, asking her daughter if maybe this time it was too weird, if she’d gone too far. On the first phone call Ames overheard, it was a set of antique dresses, which Maya had repurposed as wall hangings, and he was so curious as to how exactly this was to work that he nearly blundered into the line of the camera’s sight and revealed himself as an incorrigible eavesdropper. Katrina’s hair has gotten caught in her lip gloss again. This time, she pulls an elastic from her wrist and ties her hair back, as she continues to speak. Katrina has only met her grandmother once, she tells him. Her grandma had never grown comfortable speaking intimately in English. She was not pleased to have a granddaughter who looked more like the American parent and spoke only like that American parent. “I don’t know what she said to my mom,” Katrina says, “that one time we visited, but I know it was a short visit.” When Katrina told her mother she was pregnant this past weekend, Maya had begun to cry, and at first Katrina thought that Maya was upset with Katrina’s situation. But that was not it. Maya was crying because she couldn’t help recalling the things her own mother had said to her when Maya herself had become pregnant with Katrina. Maya’s unborn child with this suspicious man, Isaac, Maya’s mother had intimated, would not be welcomed into the family. The coldness and distaste that Maya’s mother had shown for Isaac would be shown as well to his child. “You know, my mom has never pressured me about having children,” Katrina says. “But on the phone this time, she said she wanted to be a grandma. That she has always felt guilty about how much I missed out on by not having a grandmother, and how often she fantasized about being the good grandmother that I never had. I didn’t realize she had wanted it that badly. I’m impressed that she only badgered me a little about it all through my marriage with Danny.”

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  I noticed a long scuff across the toe of my right boot.“I know there are others out there who have stories of how Brother Randall’s testimony blessed and changed your lives. I invite you to come on up.”Pam’s husband walked up the prayer ramp and took the microphone. “Randall taught me a lot, and some of it was about what not to do. I remember the time he convinced me we could make extra money by charging people who came to the tent twenty-five cents to park. The money was nothing compared to the whipping Brother Terrell gave us. Randall also taught me the rules of fasting; if you can get it through a straw, it ain’t cheatin’.”Only the family laughed. We were not here to testify for Brother Randall. We were here to say good-bye, or hello, depending on how things went, to the boy Randall. My sisters approached the front of the church next. There were those who thought it wrong that these girls, women now, never publicly acknowledged by Brother Terrell, should speak in his church, but this was not their day. Without rehashing or explaining anything, my sister Carol said Randall was the first to welcome them into the family and had treated them as sisters from the beginning. Lisa spoke of how Randall loved to fish and how he had taken them fishing with his daughter. Laura recounted the time Randall took them to their first circus.When the family remembrances were finished, someone introduced Brother Terrell. The door at the back of the platform opened, and a small, silver-haired man with hunched shoulders stepped forward. He looked like an old man, not the fiery prophet I remembered. He wandered aimlessly about, crying into the microphone. He walked down the prayer ramp and peered into the casket. Family members cast worried looks at one another. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his suit jacket and wiped at his eyes. He tried to speak and sobbed instead. At another funeral someone would have led the grieving father away. But this was Brother Terrell, and no one was going to lead him anywhere. After a few minutes, he pulled himself together and began to speak. His speech was slow and halting as he recalled the many times death had tried to take Randall from him. He said no matter where he was in the world, he had always sensed when his son was sick. He talked about the times he had called Randall and urged him to fight the most recent death sentence the doctors had given him. He talked about calling his son from Haiti, India, and Africa and praying for him, and how Randall always got better. He paused in front of the open casket where his son lay.The crowd called out encouragement. “Help him, Jesus. Strengthen him, Lord.”He drew strength from their responses and was gradually transformed from grieving father to who he really was, who he had always been.

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Jon selects a thirty-five-inch bat, gigantic by the standards of today’s major-league players, who finesse their bat speeds and swing paths with smaller, lighter bats. But Jon bats as he always has, in the way of the old players, using his heavy frame to club the ball whenever it gets near him. When Amy transitioned, she lost her dog. There was just her. She and her body were one and the same. Every sensation simply belonged to her, unmediated. It was supposed to be good. Sometimes it was. She didn’t have to guess what was going on from her dog’s behavior. But without a dog to hurt for her, on her behalf, her life as a woman arrived with pain; pain that had to be endured, withstood, pain that was the same as being alive, and so was without end. As Jon bats, Ames tries to listen to his body. He has not thought about his dog in a long time. Does he still have a dog? In his detransition, he supposed he’d get his dog back, but he didn’t. He has simply lost the vibrancy of both pain and pleasure. The world has receded to a tolerable distance, the colors unsaturated, while the dog stayed dead. In a certain cowardly way, he supposes that he has avoided thinking about it, hoping that this is enough. But of course, he has lived the last three years of his life in a way that requires so little of him—an office job of moderate ambition; a relationship that, as much as he really believes he loves Katrina, came to him without quite searching for it; friends who know him well, but not too well. Only now, with this baby, this work of his traitorous, animal body, does he need an inclination of his truest feelings. When Jon wears himself out, Ames takes a second turn. The bat goes round and round, and each time it is a prayer, beseeching the dead to speak. When he goes over to Katrina’s that evening, he throws himself to his knees and presses himself against her, kissing her belly, her inner thighs, cultivating his want, sussing out his edges, feeling for a way to let it speak to him, even as his hands are all over her, and he’s murmuring over and over how much he wants her, how hungry he is for her. It has been in moments of desire with her that he’s felt the most vibrant these past years, sweet moments when the distance between his body and his self narrows. At first she protests, but then he feels her body release, give in to him, and she laughs softly. “Easy, easy, all right. ’'ve missed seeing this in you.”

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  The presentation went on, but after that exchange, the enthusiasm in the room wilted. Everyone wanted a cute pristine baby, not some child with insurmountable baggage. Amy knew this to be true about herself, she wanted a kid who might somehow be mystically hers, who would imprint on her. It was selfish, she knew, but when is the impulse to create a little person in your image not selfish? Most of the people she knew with kids didn’t conceive for the kid, they conceived for themselves, to accord with some notion of family, or purpose, or life stages that the child would bring them. Insert whatever worn-down cliché about life not having meaning until one becomes a parent. But whatever, she could get over that. No kid turns out as the parents had hoped. She sure hadn’t. Toward the end of the presentation slides, another woman entered and joined Consuela at the front of the room. “T think that’s Omar’s sister,” Amy whispered to Reese. Reese appeared to ignore her. When the presentation ended, Amy took Reese’s hand. Her skin felt cold and clammy. “Should we go introduce ourselves?” she asked Reese gently. Reese didn’t respond, but her head drooped. “Reese? Do you want to talk to her now?” Tears welled in Reese’s eyes. “I can’t do this right now. You do it without me.” “Tm nervous already! I’m not going alone.” Reese dropped Amy’s hand. She gathered up her jacket, draped it over her purse, then headed to the front of the room. Instead of stopping in the line to ask Consuela and Omar’s sister a question, she sailed by, right out the door. Amy had to scramble to gather her own stuff, and only as Reese’s heels clicked down the church hallway did she catch up. Reese was fully but silently crying. “God, Reese! What is the matter?” Reese waved a hand in front of her face. “Not here, okay? Not here, just take me outside.” But they didn’t make it outside. Instead, Reese saw a dark little alcove furnished with a heavy bench, and darted into it. She mushed her jacket into her face. After a few minutes she dropped the jacket, and although her mascara had smudged and her eyes shone, the tears had ceased. “It’s intense,” Amy said, flailing verbally at whatever had caused this outburst. “The idea of us being a family. Doing it like this. It’s intense for me too. It’s okay to have doubts.” Reese pulled her hair in front of her face and, as Amy had seen her do before in times of anxiety, began flicking the brushy tip against her lips. Reese inhaled the breath, and spoke on the exhale, her tone abruptly calm and flat. “I don’t have doubts. I know what I want. I want to be a mother.”

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Afterward, the mourners will all file out and then break into little clusters, trading solemn hugs, some shoulders shaking, while others dart suddenly apart due to a just-glimpsed ex, so that the macro effect is like watching sperm wriggle under a microscope. Everyone will dress themselves in some shade of goth—in goth apparel you can look sad while also showing off fishnets and boobs. A few queer microcelebrities (as opposed to microcelebrities who are queer) will grace the funeral; they will barely know the deceased, and to assuage a slight guilt over this, their names will be subsequently found on the attendant GoFundMe campaigns and memorial funds. Reese goes to the funerals. Pretty much every single one. She attends for three reasons. The first reason: not to miss out on the aforementioned social importance of the gathering. The second reason: Funerals remind Reese not to kill herself. Not because she so badly wants to live, but because suicide as a trans girl leads to a mortifying posthumous stripping of all that you cherished by friends and strangers alike. If you are not there to stop them, the loudest, brashest, and clumsiest of your semi-acquaintances will scoop up all that was once you and simmer it down to a single mawkish narrative, plucking out all that is inconveniently irreducible, and inserting in its place all that is trite and politically serviceable. The word “mortifying”—as in existentially embarrassing —has as its root the Latin for “death,” so if Reese seeks to avoid mortification, she cannot kill herself: She simply must not die. The third reason: Reese needs to know she is not a psychopath. Because whenever she hears the news that another trans girl has died, she is exasperated. Oh goddammit, not again. This reaction, of course, causes her guilt. What’s wrong with her? Everyone else rends garments and keens. But look at Reese: There she is, at the apartment where a cadre of the bereaved has gathered; she’s brewing coffee and refilling mugs, scrubbing dishes, setting out chips, so that in her domestic utility no one will notice that she’s a total psychopath unaffected by grief. Attending the funeral is necessary for Reese to experience an emotion beyond irritation at the dead girl. Funeral after funeral has taught her to sit in the pews awaiting a moment of puncture: when some tiny detail pierces the smooth carapace of her indifference. Once, that detail was when the deceased-by-suicide’s girlfriend stood trembling in front of the crowd and finally conceded, “I am humiliated that she is gone and left me here.” Another time, it was a song, high-pitched and echoing off the stone walls of the church. Whatever that detail happens to be, when it finally penetrates Reese’s jaded and chitinous exoskeleton, for whole minutes at a time, the rage, self-pity, and lacerating frustration toward the thwarted, victimized nature of trans lives sears her directly, so that she twists and wracks her body, her emotions pedaling like the legs of an

• From Detransition, Baby (2021)

  Of course, her first trans daughter—Ames—had also been her lesbian lover. Amy. A daughter whom Reese had raised to love Reese well as a wife, with all the strange dynamics in power that entails, the dynamics that are so confusingly sexy and painful and satisfying and awkward that the rest of society has an incest taboo to avoid them. When her daughter/lover detransitioned into her son, he weirdly put her through all the stages of anger, rage, and betrayal that Reese had heard from countless other parents when their daughters transitioned for the first time. So was it any wonder that when Ames popped back in her life, he did so with the intention of making her a mother? Reese had caught Amy so young in her womanhood, in early pliancy, and motherhood had always been a code to their love. Not just two women in love, but mother and daughter. Thalia sways slightly on her DJ pedestal. A little dance that both mocks and gives in to the cheesy chill of the vapor-wave song she’s just put on. All Reese’s children, and here she is, still alone. How can Reese not feel kinship with Thalia’s parents? These nice middle-class people—he a doctor and she a teacher—who ache with worry for their daughter and who have no idea Reese exists? Who can’t know there is a shadow mother, plotting and worrying alongside them? She wants to hug Thalia’s parents. To tell them it will be okay. Suddenly Reese has to get out of the bar. She has the awful fear that she might begin to cry—pity from the early-twenties trans girls among whom she sits would be the final mortification. Grabbing her purse, she slips out. No one notices. Behind her, Thalia, charismatic as always, tosses back at the audience the slips of papers on which they have written their questions, then slides up the volume on another breezy dubstep mix in a show of huffiness that may or may not all be part of the act. On the sidewalk outside the bar, Reese attempts to bum a cigarette from a handsome guy who looks to her like a slightly femme Vin Diesel, but who doesn’t register her until she speaks directly to him, because he’s fixated on two slim boys leaning against each other in the doorway. Distracted, he gives her a cigarette, and then coming to himself, chivalrously lights it for her. “That’s my daughter in there,” Reese tells Femme Vin Diesel. He peers through the darkened glass windows at Thalia, then back at Reese. “You must be very proud,” he says gamely. The two slim boys move back inside and Femme Vin Diesel glances at them with an expression of loss, unsure how he has committed himself to a supporting part in some transsexual neurotic-mother role-play.