The Body Farm, page 8
Last night, Carl spent hours scouring websites for parents of LGBTQ teens rather than getting much-needed sleep. He brushed up on the terminology and read lists of FAQs. Eventually he and Eden will talk, and he is determined to handle it well. His private bewilderment has not diminished; the mournful ache in his chest remains. His child is changing, changed, a changeling—but he knows better than to burden Eden with these thoughts. She has been through enough at the hands of her mother. Carl will box up his confusion and grief and hide them away at the back of his mind, storing them for some other season.
The sun rises as they cross into Nebraska. The car brims with light, triggering a stirring from the back seat. Eden sits up, her hair matted in the rearview mirror. Her bruises are even riper and more shocking. She looks like a boxer after a particularly savage match.
“I stink,” she says, sniffing her armpit. “I don’t have any clothes to change into, do I? We didn’t think to pack anything. We’re morons.”
“My fault,” Carl says. “I decided not to stop by the house on our way out. I just wanted to get you away from there. We’ll buy you a whole new wardrobe in Vegas.”
“And a phone.” She climbs into the passenger seat, stepping on Carl’s thigh.
“What happened to your phone?”
“Mom smashed it,” Eden says in an expressionless voice, settling beside him. “She said it was how the devil got into me. Through my phone. And my friends.”
Carl tightens his grip on the wheel. It is the closest Eden has come to discussing what happened. This is one of those moments, he knows. A milestone. A turning point. He has missed too many; he needs to handle this one right.
But before he can gather his wits, Eden turns on the radio, scrolling through stations with jarring rapidity. She settles on a tinkly pop song Carl has never heard before and begins to dance in her seat. She has always loved to dance, even as a baby.
“I need to pee,” she sings along with the melody. “Please stop soon before I burst.”
Carl takes the exit for Omaha, vowing to seize the opportunity more decisively next time.
Over the years, he has done his best to contravene June’s religious influence. Each summer, he and Eden would watch irreverent movies and discuss evolution and history. He made sure that his daughter was exposed to other viewpoints. Having been raised Taoist-Buddhist-spiritualist-agnostic, he could see with the clear-eyed perspective of an outsider how bizarre Christianity could be. An omnipotent deity impregnating a human woman? A faithful flock eating and drinking the simulated blood and flesh of a demigod? The absolute racket of tithing? Carl believed that the only difference between a cult and organized religion was scale.
Still, he never criticized June to Eden. Her religion, yes, but not June herself. That was the one ironclad rule of a well-behaved divorce—a rule he and June both agreed upon, despite their differences. She never spoke ill of him either. Even now, Eden remains unaware of his adultery and its role in the breakup of their marriage. June withheld the shameful truth, not for Carl’s sake but for Eden’s.
A good woman, a good mother, or so he thought. Until the events of the past few days, he would have trusted June’s moral compass above his own, without question. How long has this hateful thing been coiled inside her? For a moment, navigating across a two-lane road patched with snow, Carl is almost too angry to breathe.
They get breakfast at a fast-food place and eat leaning against the side of the car in the parking lot. Despite the bitter wind, they both need to stretch their legs. The snow has stopped, though the roiling clouds look ready to unleash another torrent at any moment. Omaha appears to be one big strip mall. Eden points to the next parking lot, where an enormous Target stands behind a billboard for a strip club.
“Please?” she says. “Pretty please? Clean clothes? New phone?”
Carl checks his watch. “We can’t stay that long, honey.”
Eden sticks out her arms like a zombie in an old-timey film. “Newwww phone,” she drones, lurching toward the Target.
“Oh Jesus.” He laughs. “Fine, come on.”
Energetic music plays as they enter the monolithic store, the aisles stretching as far as the eye can see. People turn and gape as Eden passes by with her plethora of bruises. Then they look at Carl with suspicion and dislike.
It wasn’t me, it was her asshole mother, he wants to announce, but Eden seems intent on pretending that nothing out of the ordinary is happening, no gasps, no stares, no little kids pointing at her face. Carl does the same.
They visit the electronics section first, where things prove more difficult than anticipated. Eden is still on her mother’s cell phone plan. She’ll need a new number on Carl’s plan, which Target can’t do, according to the bored teenage boy behind the counter, scarcely older than Eden. She takes it fairly well, running her fingers over the locked cabinet where the phones glitter like jewels in a display case at a museum, then turning away.
“My friends probably think I’m dead,” she says. “It’s been a million jillion years since they’ve heard from me.”
On their way back out to the car, they pass the clothing section. Eden pauses to stroke a T-shirt with a picture of a robot on it. Carl notes that they’re in the boys’ area. He clears his throat, thinking quickly.
“It’s always bothered me that they separate the clothes into a binary,” he says, parroting the websites he googled the night before. “Boys on one side, girls on the other. I mean, what’s up with that? People come in all genders, you know?”
Eden freezes in place, as still as the mannequin behind her. She does not appear to be breathing. Nearly a minute passes in agonizing silence.
At last, without looking at him, she says, “Mom told you?”
“She did.”
Eden’s hands begin to shake, still holding the T-shirt. But she maintains that poker face, saying in a casual tone, “You’re the king of subtlety, Dad. I mean, that was a master class in segues.”
“Smart ass,” he says, matching her nonchalant manner. “Do you want to try anything on?”
“No, I don’t need anything.”
“Are you sure? You were just saying—”
“No,” she yells, hurrying toward the front doors with her head down.
○
For the remainder of Nebraska, all six hours of it, Eden sits in the back seat, staring out the window. Carl tries not to glance too often in the rearview mirror, though she seems unaware of him, lost in some inner world. Shocks of wind pulse over the snow-tipped grass. An occasional butte rises lonely from the prairie.
Gradually Carl becomes aware of something moving up ahead. Dark shapes dot the plains at the edge of the horizon. He can’t make out what they are—big as boulders, yet they keep shifting position. After another five miles, he realizes it’s a buffalo herd. They are grazing along the south side of the highway, bulky creatures, larger than the rental car, with fur the color of burnt umber. Their cumbersome heads froth with curls. There are babies in the group, adorable and dangerous at the same time, like child-sized tanks. They skip gaily around the mountainous masses of their parents, all of whom are strolling in the same direction with their mouths in the grass.
Carl pulls over. There’s no one on the road behind him or in front of him; he hasn’t seen another car in twenty minutes. Thank goodness he thought to fill up the tank at the last oasis. Gas stations are few and far between in Nebraska.
Eden glances around curiously as the car comes to a halt. She hasn’t noticed the buffalo. She hasn’t been aware of anything outside herself.
“Look,” Carl says, pointing.
Eden squeals and claps her hands. “Beautiful monsters!” she says. “I’ve never seen them in real life.”
“A transcontinental drive brings many wonders.”
One of the beasts lifts its head, crowned with horns, and stares in the direction of the car. Carl isn’t certain whether it’s male or female, since all the adults seem to have the same curved prongs. The creature snorts—Carl can’t hear it at this distance, but he sees a puff of steam leave its nostrils—and resumes grazing.
“Are they buffalo or bison?” Eden asks. “Is there a difference? Can we get closer to them?”
“No, no,” he says, answering her last question first. “We shouldn’t even leave the car. They could crush you like a bug if they felt like it.”
There is a click as Eden unbuckles her seat belt and climbs, once more, into the passenger seat.
“I like them,” she says. “They’re good buffaloes. Or bison.”
Carl puts the car into drive again. The sign for Colorado appears up ahead, shadowed against the sky. Eden wins easily, lurching forward at the border with her arm outstretched; Carl does not even try to beat her.
“I’m the champion,” she says.
“You’ve got skill, I admit.”
At the next oasis, while Eden is in the bathroom, Carl takes his cell phone from his pocket and blocks June’s number. She hasn’t called since yesterday, but it’s just a matter of time. She can contact his lawyer if she needs to get in touch. He doesn’t want to hear her voice again.
Then, staring at the little screen, he googles the word trans. Last night, he packed his brain with information about gender identity and presentation and coming out and deadnaming. In this moment, however, he feels compelled to know exactly how trans is defined, not as a stand-in for transgender but in and of itself.
His phone informs him that it’s a prefix meaning across, beyond, through. Carl grins, taken with this idea. Across the United States in a rental car. Beyond a simple understanding of who his child might be. Through this traumatic period together, side by side.
○
Back on the road, fortified by snacks and soda, Eden folds her hands in her lap. “When are we going to see mountains?” she asks.
“Soon,” Carl says. “Watch the horizon.”
She nods. Her hands twist, fingers white at the knuckles.
“So what did Mom tell you?” she asks.
He considers how to answer. June said a lot of things, most of them horrifying and unconscionable. Eventually he and Eden will unpack all that nonsense about God-given bodies and the devil, probably with a therapist. June’s assault was as violent as an earthquake, and there will be aftershocks, fallout, and damage, both seen and unseen—marked on Eden’s face and hidden beneath the surface.
For now, Carl decides that a simple answer is the way to go.
“Mom said you’re a boy,” he says. “You might be a boy,” he corrects himself.
“She did?” Eden whispers.
“Not in those words. She said you’ve been using a binder and dressing in a more masculine way. She said you’ve mentioned not feeling like a girl. I didn’t mean to put a label on you. Maybe you’re feeling more nonbinary or agender. It’s okay if you don’t know right now. I know there are a lot of permutations of how a person’s identity—”
“Dad. Stop.” Eden shakes her head, her cheeks flushing pink. “I get it. You did some googling.”
“Well, I might have scanned a few articles last night. What is the internet for if not to educate old fogies like me?”
“Porn,” Eden says. “That’s what the internet is for.”
Carl groans. “Jesus, I’m not ready for that conversation. You’ve never seen porn, right? Not even one time?”
She draws an X on her chest with her forefinger. “Not even at Maddie Riley’s birthday sleepover when I was ten. Definitely not then.”
A few jagged chunks of stone jut up through the prairie, the first suggestion that the Rocky Mountains are approaching. Along the horizon, larger foothills stand in rows, purpling as they fade into the distance.
“Demiboy,” Eden says. “That’s what I am right now, anyway.”
Carl doesn’t know the term. It didn’t come up in his research.
“It means sometimes boy, sometimes nonbinary,” Eden says, correctly interpreting his silence.
“Got it,” he says. “And your pronouns?”
“He/him mostly,” Eden says, all business now. “I’ll let you know if I’m ever feeling more like they/them, but I really like he/him at the moment. That’s what all my friends call me. I really like it.” The words are coming out in a rush, a dam breaking. “Eventually I might be male. Not demiboy, but fully male. I felt like I was agender for most of the fall, but things seem to be changing lately. Like with the binder. And the boxers. My friends have been great about all of it. Really great.”
They are not looking at each other. That seems to be what Eden wants, both of them staring straight at the horizon. Matching poker faces.
“Do you have another name I should know?” Carl asks.
“Eden’s fine. For now. Maybe eventually Ethan. It means ‘strong and safe’ in Hebrew. And it’s close enough to Eden that I’ll respond to it sort of naturally, you know?”
Grief swells inside Carl, but he crushes it back down. There is no room for it here. He remembers flipping through a book of baby names with June, nestled on the couch, their foreheads touching. They argued playfully and vetoed one another’s suggestions until they came upon Eden, which both of them loved—June for its meaning, Carl for its sound.
“Ethan is a great name,” he says softly. “If you end up choosing it.”
The websites all said to celebrate a child’s coming out. Cakes and balloons and congratulations. But Carl isn’t sure how to summon that kind of jubilation. Besides, Eden’s first attempt was met by such savagery that it doesn’t seem right to cheer and clap now, while the bruises and concussion are still fresh.
He/him. Carl will start there. He glances across the passenger seat at this demiboy, his son, his sometimes-son, sometimes-nonbinary child.
Eden wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “Are you mad?” he asks. “It’s okay if you’re disappointed. Mom was so . . .” His voice hitches in his throat, and a strangled sound escapes him as he tries to hold back tears.
“Oh, honey.” Carl begins to reach across the space between them, then thinks better of it and withdraws his hand. He will let Eden decide when they next make physical contact. “I couldn’t be prouder,” he says. It’s a line borrowed from one of the websites, but in this moment, Carl means every word.
Eden begins to shake again, his whole body juddering. Carl worries for a second that his son is having a seizure, but then the sobs come, wrenching and wracking, torn from his throat. Eden leans forward in his seat, arms wrapped around his head, screaming as each sob leaves him. Tears spatter the floor mat and the dashboard. Carl has never seen anyone cry like this. He parks on the shoulder, letting the storm pass through his son’s body. He wants to pull Eden into his lap—he would have done it before without a second thought.
“I’m here,” he repeats instead. “I’m right here.”
Eden throws open the car door and vomits onto the packed earth. Carl hurries around the vehicle to gather his son’s hair off his nape. Eden voids the contents of his stomach and keeps gagging after there’s nothing left to come up. He collapses into a crouch, leaning against the front wheel, his face a mess of snot and tears and blood from his split lip, which has reopened into a raw gash.
Carl sits on the ground beside him. The sun is high, and a cold wind stirs the prairie into silken waves. Eden’s breathing slows to a normal rhythm. Carl fishes in his pocket and finds a handkerchief, passing it over. Eden dabs his eyes and nose and mouth, staining the fabric crimson.
“Wow, I’m hemorrhaging,” he says.
“Head wounds bleed,” Carl says. “Put pressure on it.”
“I know.”
A high, crystalline call shivers the air. A hawk soars overhead, flicking its shadow across their bodies.
“I feel dizzy,” Eden says. “Everything’s kind of spinning.”
Carl leans forward to examine his son’s pupils. No dilation. No slurred speech. None of the dangerous concussion symptoms the doctors mentioned.
“It’s your ear, I bet,” Carl says. “That was a big cry. Your sinuses are inflamed. Come on, let’s get you into the back seat.”
He tucks his son in, hoodie balled under the head, coat over the body. Eden mumbles something as he dozes off, but Carl can’t catch what it is.
○
Eden is asleep when the mountains appear. First they are faint, edgeless shadows, then cloudlike blobs, and finally solid peaks glinting with snow.
Carl has not been looking forward to this part of the trip. The road zigzags up steep slopes. So many narrow switchbacks. The engine whines, complaining about the angle of the incline. Then comes a ridge with a sharp drop-off on one side. There are no barricades to stop the car from careening right into the valley. Carl knows that the lack of a guardrail is an intentional choice by the highway administration to keep drivers from feeling overconfident and pushing their luck. But still, the inky shadows in the chasm below make his extremities tingle.
A pronghorn bounds across the road thirty feet in front of the vehicle, moving with such swiftness and surety that it is gone almost before Carl registers its presence. A flash of auburn fur. A lattice of horns. He grips the steering wheel at ten and two, as he was taught in driving school. A cliff on the left side, then a cliff on the right. For a short stretch the road is bordered by empty space. The mountains are beautiful, but Carl can’t take his eyes off the road long enough to enjoy the view, and Eden is still asleep. The air seems rarified as they ascend into higher altitudes.
He wants to wake Eden when they reach the continental divide, then thinks better of it. Rest is essential to recovery. The body heals only during REM sleep, he once read. Still, Carl stops the car and climbs out to look at the big yellow sign marking the moment of transition. They have been climbing toward this point for hours. Now they will begin to descend on the other side.
Darkness comes earlier here, the sun setting behind the mountains long before it reaches the horizon. In the back seat, Eden has begun to snore like a pack-a-day smoker. A natural aftereffect of such powerful weeping.
