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  "Lunch?"

  "It's the meal we eat between breakfast and dinner," my father said.

  "Though meal isn't exactly the right word for Mom's midday fare these days," Isabel added. "I'd say it's more of a drink: eleven fruits and vegetables in a juicer."

  "Sometimes I add yogurt, sweetheart."

  "You asked to look at me, and you haven't rendered any opinion!" I said. I tried to make it sound as if my indignation was a joke, but I was still hurt that my mother hadn't told me what she thought.

  "You've lost a lot of weight," my father said. "Too much, I think. You're as bad as your--"

  "Mother?" I said, wondering whether I was trying to be helpful or throw a bomb.

  "Yes."

  "You're a big man, Father," I said. "I don't want to be either."

  "Either?"

  "Big. Man."

  "I get it."

  Olivia climbed down from his arms and started petting Coconut, one of the two springer spaniels my mother had brought home from the animal shelter a few years earlier. As usual, Coconut--like her sister--had a buzz cut. Springers are hairy little pups, and my mother hated pulling tufts of fur from the rattan, or finding matted hair on her white upholstery.

  "You don't want to get sick," my mother said.

  "I won't get sick!"

  "Are you getting exercise?"

  Isabel--a woman who, clearly, should be raising her sweet child in some embassy overseas because she is indeed a born diplomat--took my hand and squeezed it. "I'll tell you what I think," she said to me. "I think you'll have to tell me where you got those leggings. And you'll have to tell me what you do to make your skin look so damn healthy!"

  Before I could answer, my father said it was officially Friday afternoon and he was going to go get a beer. Clearly, however, it wasn't that he wanted that beer or he needed a drink. It was the going part that mattered, it was his need to leave the hallway where we were standing. I looked at my watch: His urge to flee around me had kicked in barely two minutes after my arrival--conceivably a record, I thought.

  "So, Mother, tell me: Do you like my new look? Is it better or worse than you feared? I want to know. Honestly."

  My mother looked down at her granddaughter and then back at me. She sighed, and then her eyes started to water: big drops meandering down a face that looked elderly but wrinkle-free. The face-lift visage.

  "You look fine, honey," she whispered, her words partly lost in her throat. "So fine I don't think you need to do the rest."

  "The rest?"

  "You know," she mumbled, wiping her face with her fingers. "The operation. I don't think you need it. Please don't. Please. Don't."

  Olivia looked up from Coconut and asked her mother, "Is Aunt Dana sick?"

  And though my sister quickly smiled at her little girl and shook her head no; though my mother turned away from us, hiding her face in the painting of a spiky cockscomb shrub by the stairs; though my father was in the kitchen, taking as long as he could to pop the top of a can of beer; I knew that if any one of them had been asked the question alone--even my truly dear younger sister--they would have said, with varying degrees of sympathy and support, "Yes, Olivia. Your aunt Dana is sick."

  Though my father would not have used the word aunt.

  The closest thing my mother has to an office is the terrace by the cafe at Viscaya--the massive "villa" James Deering built on Biscayne Bay almost a century ago. It isn't quite as jaw-dropping opulent as Hearst Castle, but it isn't shabby: thirty-four rooms, tons of marble, and ten acres of formal gardens and fountains. It's now a museum, which is why my mother lunches there with some frequency: She's on the board.

  That, I imagine, and the fact that she likes to watch the fashion photographers do their clothing shoots. It keeps her a season or two ahead.

  When my parents took me there Saturday morning, a group of young things were preening in gauzy lingerie in a roped-off corner of one of the white marble balconies overlooking the ocean. It wasn't the sort of fashion shoot that was going to interest my mother, but I was happy for my dad. Though he had to have breakfast in public with me, he at least had the pleasure of watching young girls in tiny panties pretend they were harlots.

  Truth be told, it wasn't bad for me either. As usual, I lusted. I learned. I coveted.

  But my father was all business and may actually have paid less attention to the models than even my mother. He was hoping he could talk me out of my surgery, and he was going to play what he thought was his last card. Not necessarily what he believed was his best or even his second-best card--he'd played those the night before, asking me first if I understood the physical complications that were possible after the surgery, and then whether I'd really and truly digested its finality.

  He ordered a ham and cheese croissant, asking--as only my father can--for extra ham and mustard. My mother and I had the tomatoes stuffed with tuna salad.

  "I know you think you have to do this," my father began, "and I know you think your mother and I are opposed to it simply because we view you as our son."

  "Uh-huh."

  "There's more to it than that."

  "Okay." A new model appeared in a white camisole and a very demure pair of white cotton panties. As the stylist, a man, was adjusting them, I realized that the woman was actually wearing two briefs so there wouldn't be any bulges or bumps from her pubic hair. It made for an almost preternaturally smooth presentation. I wondered if the transgendered had discovered that little trick. I knew I hadn't.

  "You have to understand that there are some things you're going to experience that you can't possibly have endured. Things your mother and sister have had to go through. Things no person should have to tolerate."

  I considered placing my hand on my father's and saying something flippant: Father, don't worry. I won't start getting a period at thirty-five.

  Father, don't fret. I'll live if a construction worker pats me on the ass.

  But he was so sincere that I held my tongue. My father may not approve of me--he may think I'm completely insane--but I don't believe he has ever stopped loving me. And his delivery was so earnest that a part of me actually feared that something profoundly horrible had indeed happened to my sister and my mother. A mugging, perhaps. Maybe they'd been victimized by a pervert in a trench coat.

  Perhaps it had been something much, much worse.

  Based on my father's tone, it was certainly possible. Yet I assumed I would have heard if such a thing had occurred. One would have thought that someone would have gotten on the phone and told even me, the transsexual disappointment in northern Vermont.

  "I'm a businessman," my father continued, "and I'm in a business where I see a lot of men and women. I see a lot of men and women working together. And I know a little bit about what goes on at the TV station where your sister works. I know people there."

  My mother watched her tuna and her tomato, instead of looking at either my father or me. I realized we were all wearing sunglasses, and I wondered if we looked like a family of drug dealers to the tourists who were at Viscaya to see the house and the gardens and the scantily clad models. Mid-morning, we were the only people on the terrace who were actually eating.

  "I hope you're not about to tell me something hideous has happened to Isabel," I said. "Or to you, Mother."

  My father finished his orange juice and sat back in his deck chair. "I'm talking discrimination, Dana. In business. In life. I can tell you flat-out as a businessman that discrimination remains a fact of life in the workplace. In the world! There's a producer at Isabel's station who must earn seven or eight thousand dollars a year more than she does, even though he isn't half as good. Know why?"

  "Let me guess: because he's male?"

  "Damn straight. And while I try to make sure that the women in my firm are on the exact same pay scale as the men, I know how the companies we work with behave. I know how they treat their women."

  "Most of the businesses you work with are construction companies--a group no
t exactly known for their forward-thinking personnel practices."

  "They work with banks, too," my mother said softly.

  "Look, I know the statistics," I said, careful to keep my voice even. "I know women earn less than men. I know the numbers."

  "And they're not treated as equals. Ever. And you can't know what that's like, having been born a man and treated as a man. Do you have any idea how difficult it is for your mom to be heard in some of her committee meetings? Sometimes the men don't let her get a word in edgewise."

  "So no one's been mugged?" I asked. "No one's been attacked?"

  "Attacked? Why would you think such a thing?"

  "For a moment I'd been afraid that was where this conversation was going. I'm very relieved."

  "Dana, we just don't think you have the foggiest idea what it's going to be like to simply conduct your life nine to five. The business world--"

  "I'm not in the business world, Father. I'm a tenured professor at a fine university."

  "Must you interrupt me?" my father said.

  I sat back and folded my hands in my lap. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

  "If you go through with this, it's going to be much harder than you realize to do almost everything," he said. "I can't wait till you try and get your next car loan. Or a mortgage."

  My mother pushed her sunglasses back against the bridge of her nose and turned to face me. "And just watch what happens the first time you bring your car in for a tune-up," she said. "They'll find things wrong with parts of the engine that you didn't even know existed."

  "Let me make sure I understand this: You two think I shouldn't have my reassignment because an auto mechanic might charge me for some gasket I don't need?"

  "That's an oversimplification," my father said.

  "And it may be a small thing," my mother added, growing animated for the first time that morning, "but most of the time, life is nothing but small things. Getting the oil changed in your car. Convincing the plumber to come and fix a leaky shower. And it's harder when you're a woman. A lot harder. I know. I've been doing it for almost sixty-one years."

  My father glanced at the models and then back at me. Then he took a deep breath and said, "Will you do me a favor? One small thing?"

  I knew exactly what was coming, and so I lied: "Of course I will."

  "Think about this some more. Think about how hard your life is going to be. How difficult. Would you at least reconsider your plan?"

  I knew I had forty-eight hours to go in scenic South Florida, two more days with my parents. And so in the interest of making the visit as pleasurable for them as possible, perhaps even keeping the peace for the remainder of my stay, I pursed my lips and tried to look thoughtful. Pensive. Sincere.

  "Okay," I repeated. "For you two I will."

  But, of course, I didn't.

  I strolled up and down the streets of South Beach Saturday afternoon, and I was blissfully invisible. Perhaps there were people who knew or suspected what I was, but on South Beach they saw such things all the time. I loved the warmth from the sun on my shoulders and my arms. I loved to have my toes naked but for my finely woven sandals. I loved the whoosh my dress made against my legs as I walked.

  My parents were so relieved by the notion that I would reconsider my plans that I began to fear lying to them had been a mistake. I probably shouldn't have gotten their hopes up, since I'd be dashing them again so very soon: In only six days I would be getting on an airplane for Colorado.

  Briefly I wondered what would happen if I didn't tell them. In theory, they'd never have to know I'd had the reassignment. After all, I wouldn't exactly be wandering around their house naked when I next returned, I wouldn't be flaunting my new vagina. They hadn't seen me without my clothes on since I was seven or eight years old, and there was no reason to believe they would ever see me that way again.

  And withholding the truth would certainly make my lifestyle less frightening to them. It would certainly make them happy. Well, happier. They could always tell themselves that at some point I might return to my senses, that someday I might climb back into my clothes as a man.

  "And Allison really doesn't mind?" my father had asked me Friday night as he'd stared at the pictures of her I had brought.

  "She isn't sure if she minds or not," I had answered. "She just knows what I'm going to do."

  "She's so feminine," my mother had said, unable to mask her surprise. I have no idea what she had imagined Allison would look like, but I have a feeling she was still expecting me to bring south photographs of a man. "She's so pretty."

  "I'll tell her you said so."

  "And if you go through with this, she's going with you?"

  "When I have the operation? Indeed she is," I had said, and--to be completely honest--I know there was pride in my voice. Unattractive, I realize. Downright manly.

  But it wasn't simply the idea that I was involved with or possessed a beautiful woman. It was the idea that I was involved with a beautiful woman who had volunteered to stand beside me through my operation.

  That was more than my parents had offered to do.

  I stopped into one of the faux deco bars across the street from the ocean and sat down at a small table by the window. I ordered a cranberry juice and club soda, and watched the people go by. In six days, Allison and I would be in Trinidad, and four days after that I would have my reassignment. Ten days. At that exact moment in ten days, I would in fact be flat on my back in a hospital bed, woozy from anesthetics and painkillers, my body just starting its road back from the knife.

  I decided I had to tell my parents the hard truth. Here I was having the procedure because I was tired of denying who I was. What I was. It certainly didn't make sense now to encourage my parents' continued denial, or to place myself in the position of having to lie to them for the rest of my life. It wouldn't be fair to Isabel, who would certainly know what I had done, and it wouldn't be fair to Allison. If she could be brave, so could my mother and father.

  I decided I would tell them Monday morning. Over breakfast I would tell them that I'd thought long and hard about my decision for almost forty-eight hours, and I hadn't changed my mind. There wasn't a single lingering doubt anywhere inside my gray matter. I was going to live what I hoped would be the rest of a long and healthy life as a woman.

  And then, after telling them, I would hug them.

  I looked at the polish I'd applied to my nails. I sipped my drink. And I think I glowed.

  NATIONAL PUBLIC RADIO TRANSCRIPT

  All Things Considered

  Tuesday, September 25

  DR. THOMAS MEEHAN: The bed nucleus is a tiny region in the part of the brain called the hypothalamus. It's no bigger than a BB, really. But here's what's so interesting. The study found that in men--gay, straight, it didn't matter--the bed nucleus was two-point-six cubic millimeters. In women, it was around one-point-seven cubic millimeters.

  And in male-to-female transsexuals? One-point-three.

  Imagine, half the size. That's telling.

  Of course, we're not sure whether those differences are the result of something that occurs in fetal development, or something that occurs years later. At least I'm not.

  Moreover, there's a problem with the study. It only included six transsexual brains. And it took the researchers eleven years to track down even that many.

  Chapter 15.

  carly

  "THERE WAS A VERY WEALTHY WOMAN IN PHILADELPHIA who wanted to look like a cat. And they did it. The doctors, that is. It took three or four operations--maybe more--and Lord knows how much it all cost. And how much it hurt. But she looks a bit like a cat now," my grandmother said, shaking her head.

  "Whiskers, too?" Dana asked.

  "Very funny. Mostly they worked on her eyes and her cheekbones."

  "Would you like more sweet potatoes, Mother?" my mom asked, clearly hoping to change the subject.

  "Oh, why not. They're delicious, Dana."

  "Thank you."

&nb
sp; "Isn't Dana an awesome cook?" I said.

  "Very good," my grandmother said. Unlike the rest of us, she was still wearing a dress. After the Christmas Eve service--the early one, the one that began at seven o'clock--my mother and Dana and I had all climbed into slacks or, in my case, blue jeans.

  "I guess you can see my point," she went on.

  "I can," Dana said. "But, honestly, Mrs. Cronin, I'm not doing this simply because it can be done."

  My grandmother has always been very sporty, perhaps because she'd been a surgical nurse until age forced her to retire. Nothing in the world, it seems, can faze her. The Christmas before my mother met Dana, my mom's friend Nancy Keenan spent Christmas Eve at our house. After drinking a little too much eggnog, Nancy told all of us--including my grandmother--about her brother's car accident the month before. He was going to be fine, but he'd had to be cut out of the car by the rescue squad, and so everyone saw exactly why he'd wrapped his Subaru around a telephone pole and broken both of his arms: He was using this thing called an Auto Suck, and he'd lost control of his car when he came. Very stupid, it seemed to me. And I couldn't believe that Nancy was telling us the story in front of my grandmother.