My husband left me for another woman. So? Well, not so.
He is the other woman.

Five years ago, my husband announced he planned to undergo a sex change operation, or as he called it, Sex Reassignment Surgery.

His proclamation reassigned all our lives.
Today, I'm meeting him for brunch, or maybe I should say her.

Inside my tiny closet, I'm not sure what to wear to brunch. I don't want to be dressed in anything he would compliment me on. Yellow, he had said, "Crissy you looked like sunshine." I'm not sure what the opposite is, but if white and black are opposing, I think brown is yellow's rival. Drab brown. He can tell me I resemble a lunch bag. Because that's how I feel, like a disposable container—crumple me up, and throw me away.

In my effort to cleanse him away, I refused alimony and child support. I've survived from the sale of our house. Cleaning became an obsession. I live in a lemony-scented apartment that mimics my sour expression and bitter attitude.

God, the word ex-husband has a different connotation for me, because I really do have an ex-husband. If he took care of the children would he be a housewife?

Stupid question, I know.

~*~
I push the preset radio buttons in my car. News. Weather. Hard Rock. I turn the sound off, still afraid to be alone in my silence. I haven't seen Richie since the twins' fifth birthday party. He told me after the party. My son, Zach, was crazy about Transformers. It's a moment burned into a slow motion movie in my mind. My husband held a Transformer and switched the toy figure from robot to a car, and a car to a robot. I can still hear the theme song, "Transformers, more than meets the eye."

He never pursued custody or even visitation. I don't think a judge would have forced my kindergarteners to deal with an adult's gender identity disorder. They were busy trying to decide whether to be a pilgrim or an Indian for the Thanksgiving Feast at school, and what to bring in for Show and Tell.

~*~
Arriving at the out-of-the-way diner, my stomach knots, as though someone lassoed my internal organs and is reeling me in. I realize I may not recognize him. Her.
Eighteen wheelers are parked side by side in the back of the lot.

The incident of his operation had hit the local newspapers. It was scandalous at the time, because he was a policeman. Returning to the department as a policewoman, he became the victim of harassment; he sued the department. I heard they settled out of court for six figures.

I moved away.

He even changed his name. It's all in the name. He was a man named Richard. I only called him Richie, but some of the cops did call him Dick. He's dickless now, after his penectomy.

The diner smells of eggs and bacon. And burnt toast. Men sit at the counter; they appear to be the operators of those giant vehicles parked outside. A cash register greets me on my left, paper bills stuck onto a needle. I don't see anyone who looks like they've had a sex change.

"Table for one?" the waitress asks.

"Two," I say. "I'm meeting my...friend."

"Right this way."

She leads me to a table in the middle of the room. I hate sitting in the center. I need a cocoon. "Could I have that booth?" I point to the back.

"Sure thing, sweetie. Coffee to start you off?"

I nod. I don't need caffeine. I need Valium. Or a shot of tequila.
The booth's red leather is soft and frosty. An old time jukebox hangs on the wall. It reminds me of the show, "Happy Days," and I can't remember that last happy day that I had.

The waitress returns with a smile. She has too much red lipstick on; it's bleeding onto her teeth. She sets my coffee in front of me. A cup and saucer. The coffee gets cold quickly in those petite cups. With shaking hands, my first sip dribbles onto the saucer. I take a few paper napkins from the silver dispenser and place them under the cup. The spill absorbs. The mistake erased.

I'm desperate to leave, but I need financial help. Zach is doing well; he's excelling at soccer. Zoe is making the gymnastic world flip. She's as flexible as a rubber band. Olympic hopeful, they say. I can't afford the added training expenses, and I don't want to squash her dreams. They're her dreams, not mine. I'm not the mother who sits in the stands and gauges the competition, instead I watch her smile when she nails a new stunt, and she lights up the mat when she sticks a landing. She has a true gift and loves the sport.

As much as this is killing me to meet him, I have to do it for the kids. Although, my protective maternal instincts have been on a red alert since this happened. I feel as though I'm on perpetual amphetamines. I can't sleep, I can't relax. My thoughts run as a video on fast forward. If people knew, our children would be teased or bullied. They'd be friendless. How can your dad be your dad if he's a girl? How could Zach see the man he wrestled with wearing a bra? Or Zoe admire his new pumps and floral dress. I am going to tell the children the truth—when I think they're able to handle it. If there is such a time, because I can't rationalize any of it. When they asked where he was, I had told them Dad was undercover. How pathetic. As they've gotten older, they've fired off more questions. I did give them the impression their dad had a mental illness; I even alluded to him being in a hospital. I know better. I'm a damn psychologist. I'm deliberately lying to my children. I can't think clearly about this whole thing. God, I wish I could.

~*~
A woman stands at the entry; my heart catapults into my throat. She's tall and thin, with long red hair. I can't believe I'm sitting here trying to guess if this is my ex-husband.

She waves.

I'm going to throw up.

She walks past me, and joins a man in another booth.

The waitress passes with a tray. A quarter-pound burger is on the top, the king of the serving dish, crowned by a toothpick with royal blue squiggly cellophane on the tip. Its devoted subjects surround the burger: French fries, coleslaw, and pickles. Dishes clank so loud it's piercing. Sizzles of steam sound like sirens colliding with the searing grill. The low drone of conversation reminds me of bees flying inside my ears. Someone makes a familiar jukebox selection, Billy Joel, I think. Until, he sings, "She's Always a Woman to Me."

The diner spins.

I can't breathe.

~*~
Dashing through the parking lot, I race to the car. The cold air slaps me in the face—a wake-up call. I turn on the ignition. I'll leave him a voicemail to say I wasn't feeling well. It's true. I do feel ill. And I still can't catch my breath. My lungs have collapsed. I'm not surprised, because my heart was ripped out five years ago. I'm dying from the inside out..

The passenger door opens. I startle. She slides in, smelling of Dream Angels Heavenly perfume from Victoria's Secret. Her hair is a creamy fawn, the color of tea with way too much milk added. The amber eyes are the same, with the exception of his well-plucked eyebrows and a swipe of mascara. Her make-up is understated, her skin smooth. There are no hints of his well-known five o'clock shadow. Her clothes are baggy, yet stylish. She places a bag on the car floor.

When she smiles; the curve and dimples are familiar; the shade of lipstick is foreign, but also appalling. I don't know what to call her.

"Cristina," she begins. "How are you?"

Her voice is higher, much higher.

"Fine, how are you?"

"I'm good now, Crissy. I'm finally good."

There's something inside there, an old friend maybe. We were so close. He actually liked shopping and chick flicks. I thought he was sensitive.

There is a part of me aching to cry, mourn who I lost. I hadn't grieved.
My garbage taker-outer, my exterminator, my flat tire changer...
Snow blowing, grass mowing...
Friend, confidante—my husband. My precious husband. He's dead, but he's not.

"What should I call you?" I ask her. Offensive names scroll through my mind, similar to a weather warning on the television.

"Richie, you can still call me Richie."

"Richie," I murmur. I haven't said it aloud in five years. There is a strange relief in her name. Coming home to a remodeled space, but still home. People rebuild after fires and floods, but I can't. The contents of his building are permanently evicted, and someone else has taken occupancy.

"Cristina, what's wrong, why did you call? Are the kids okay? You're not sick, are you?"

He's worried about us. I mean, she's worried about us. The diner window boasted a Help Wanted sign. I could waitress and pick up some shifts to cover Zoe's lessons. Maybe it's shallow to have asked Richie to meet me so I could solicit money. If I can't accept him, I shouldn't use him. He can't be my on-call bank, unless I'm willing to allow him into our lives. Her. And I'm not.

I inhale deeply. I am teetering on an emotional cliff. I want to step backwards; I need to. Yet, there is a part of me that wants his words to push me off this ledge, encourage my fury. I'm brokenhearted my husband is dressed up like a Barbie doll. Loving who he was and hating who he is, equally. Those feelings don't cancel each other out; they struggle for who will be the victor. Hate wins.

"Are the kids okay, am I sick? What the fuck do you think, Richie?"
Richie—it rolls off my tongue like commonplace.

"You couldn't have known, Crissy. When we first met, I told you I was in my police uniform because of a noise complaint. I wasn't. I had come to check out the group therapy session you were conducting. I saw you, we talked, and I decided who better to 'cure' me, than a psychologist. This is why I asked you out, proposed, and rushed the wedding. You have to know I loved you, as much as I was capable."

"Capable? You used me?" My tone is a cross between shock and rage. I squeak out the words. "You ruined my life and the kids, the poor kids. How could they ever see you like this? You murdered their father—with a scalpel. Like my profession, sliced away. You saved yourself at our expense."

"You're not practicing?" she asks.

"Practicing? You're not serious. I questioned every single word I said to my patients. How can I live with someone and not know...this." I open both hands and point to his groin. "Some psychologist I am. I'm like a malpractice suit waiting to happen."

She grabs onto the door handle. There is a small part of me mentally whispering for her to stay and make sense of this, and another part silently screaming to get the hell out of my car. Her ears are pierced; her boobs are bigger than mine. Somewhere inside is my Richie, too deeply buried to ever be exhumed.

"You're a damn good psychologist. You didn't miss the signs. I hid it well. My undercover experience prepared me to play a role. I've been in and out of drive-thru therapy my whole life. I made my decision when the kids were born, and started serious sessions. By the twins fourth birthday I had begun hormone replacement."

God, I thought he was losing weight.

"On the day I told you, Crissy, I began my RLE."

My eyebrows rise.

"RLE—real life experience. The person considering surgery has to live in that gender for a full year. I took a leave of absence from the force. I know it seemed harsh when I told you, but there's no lead-in to news like that. I couldn't cushion it. I didn't expound, because it added up to so much deceit."

I want to slap her face. Or pull her hair. Scratch her. With this primal reaction, I understand she's a woman. This how women fight.

"And tell me, why don't you..." I pause, because this is the question that has bothered me the most. "How could you have been so good in bed? When your mouth was all over my body, were you thinking you wished it was your body?"

She turns to me with a faint jingle of her necklace. "Yes," she replies. Tears slip onto her cheeks.

I open the car door. And vomit my coffee onto the asphalt. Did the nausea come from her answer or because she actually shed tears. Crying wasn't something Richie did. Withdrawing a tissue, I wipe my mouth. I was done. Done throwing up, done with Richie, and his deception, which no woman should ever have to deal with.

After a few minutes of silence the future path is clear. "Zachary is the leading scorer on the soccer team, and Zoe is an accomplished gymnast." I pick up my purse and open my wallet, extracting their fifth grade school pictures. I hand them to her. "I will send you photos in email of the children, but I want you to legally give up all your parental rights."

She examines them as though I've handed her photographs of her missing children—kidnapped by me, and held captive to preserve their innocence. Sadness and loss slips over her face like a translucent veil. Her French manicured nails hold onto the photos.

"Richie, picture the future. Would you dance with Zach when he's the groom, at his wedding? Would you be the mother of the bride for Zoe? Should we both co-ordinate our gowns, or match colors? Someday, I'll tell them, and as adults they can decide. But not now."

She nods. "I've thought about all of it. I settled with the police department, and I started a college fund for the kids. I know I can never be a father to them. Contact me whenever you need it. Take care of yourself, Cristina. Be happy."

"We don't need your money, Richie."

"It's for college, Cristina. It is the last thing I can do for them. Consider my parental rights voluntarily terminated. "

~*~
Inside my apartment, I place the bag Richie left in the car on top of the table. Inside, there is a medical chart. Richie signed a record release; photocopied the therapy documents including the therapist's notes, and medications.

I open the folder. At one point, Richie had suicidal tendencies.
A doctor's note reads:
On completion of the surgery, Richard shall now be referred to as Claire.

Claire? Why Claire?

Then it strikes me. Claire=Clear.

An hour later, I close the manila folder.

Suicide. Would it have been easier for me if Richie had killed himself? Do I value his right to live as he must, or wish he didn't exist?

I can't say for certain. But I'd rather have my ex-husband alive as an anatomically correct woman, than dead in the wrong body of a man, as long as nobody knows. As long as I don't have to explain him to anyone. There are no introductions to cover this situation.

The hurt is too deep. Forgiveness along with acceptance is towering above, like a floating balloon. I simply can't grasp the string.
Not yet.
Possibly never.
Perhaps someday.

I wonder how long it will take for my practice to become successful.



About the author:
Catherine DiCairano resides in Connecticut with her husband, five children, three chinchillas, two cats, and a one-footed parrot (that's a long story). Her work has appeared in The Shine Journal, Bewildering Stories, and a forthcoming piece in On the Brighter Side.

© 2009 Word Riot