Packaged Women

Staring in her bedroom mirror, Babe grabbed her stomach with the left hand, and with the right one she smacked the roll several times: this image seared on my psyche at age five. She was convinced her stomach had fattened itself and for its defiance she would publicly humiliate it. Chastising it in the car after strapping her belt and especially when trying on new clothes. As our grandmother, she’d take us clothing shopping at one of those stores that sell groceries, tires, and furniture. All the women in our family are indistinct, but with a bit of flare added through differing hairstyles. Uniform and humdrum—like fortune cookies—uninteresting until cracked open.

Babe is a quirky lady and it’s familial. She passed her babe-isms all the way down to her two granddaughters—cousin Tay and me. Quirks like cutting out tags from all articles of clothing, while griping, “this damn thang is scratching, here sis, give it a try,” bending out the tag and handing over a seam ripper. Like drinking all beverages from a lipstick stained mug, including wine. She gave me her wavy auburn hair and her ski slope nose, which is our “so dainty” defining feature people say. Which, as a child, felt like an achievement, because nothing else about me was dainty. Also because I rationalized dainty meant pretty, pretty was good, and good girls could grab from the candy jar. Tay on the other hand is dainty like Babe, but with one robust feature. She has long hair that hits mid-back when wet and then recoils in to the tightest curls when dry, bouncing like a powerful hazel mane. Babe gave rise to generations of women teetering on the edge of plainness and peculiarity. Reconfirming that fact, as I once witnessed her in the dementia unit, wearing a cream velour zip-up nightgown, tapping her feet, while singing Buddy Holly’s “Everyday, it's a-gettin' closer goin' faster than a roller coaster… A-hey, A-hey, hey…”

As kids, Tay and I would skulk quietly around Babe’s house on spy missions, while Tay meticulously jotted down her findings in a journal. My favorite mission was spying on Milly and Babe. They’d tuck themselves away in the den and close the wood veneer bi-fold doors behind them. We’d then position ourselves in little balls in front of the slits that were big enough to peek through. Watching and mimicking as they drank ice tea, taking up space with their arms, telling stories, and playing cards. Milly is Babe’s sister by choice and they’d return to the freedom of their youth every Friday evening.

Tay and I also grew up as sister and this meant, where one went, the other followed. So last year, on an invite by Milly, we moved from our small mountain town in Oregon, and into a small flat in a quiet borough of London. The story goes: at age 19 Milly came in to a small inheritance when her parents died, which included this flat. Before she listed it for sale, she asked if we’d like to rent it for pennies on the dollar. Encouraging us, “young ladies should travel, get in trouble, and figure it out, building confidence at least once in their lives.” She never married or had children; so the two of us girls filled the vacancy, gobbling up her advice, which was often radical, compared to Babes.

* * *

Saturday morning froze with a thick layer of ice atop inches of snow. “Tay come here!” I holler from in the hallway outside the laundry closet. She hurries from the kitchen, shlop, shlop, shlop, her slippers sound off as they scuffle across the wood floor. She’s pleased to find me plopped in the middle of a laundry nest looking pathetic. Lifting her brows, she mutters, “you better be hurt.” I point to my left foot, blue, swollen, and my big toenail falling off, “I can’t find my compression socks and—” She cuts me off, now standing over me, and in a lecturing tone says, “ and this is for saying yes to everyone.” She’s right: without hesitation I had accepted an invite from my crush at work. It was the annual 5K Virgin Money London Marathon! But I don’t run, or train, or have proper shoes and I don’t think my floundering run impressed him. “Come on, grab my arm,” she hustles me from the ground and into her room. I flamingo style hop onto her bed and she settles me in, properly fluffing a pillow for under my ankle. Like a mother hen she tells me, “I’m going to finish making us snacks—and we’re going to ice that,” poking near my injury.

Afternoon comes while we recline in Tay’s bed, eating stacks of snicker doodle cookies, and drinking ice tea. Meanwhile, I wrestle with how to break the news. Just spit it out fast, I tell myself. It’s hard to talk about since Tay’s Ma died, but, now that we are warm, fed, and unable to leave the flat, I take a deep breath, “so—I got a call from my Ma this morning—she told me Milly passed away.” She leans forward stung with the news, looking confused, but also knowing it was around the corner. Seeing her shocked causes my throat to suddenly clench tight. I scan the room, as if others were eavesdropping and choke out, “Ma also shared,” but my throat doesn’t loosen, so I take a drink of ice tea and go in fast, “Milly was legally born as Mr. Jenkins Miller and I don’t know more.”

After a long silence, except for the sound of a leaf blower, we lay staring up at the colored spines packed together on the shelves. Over the years Tay’s journal collection has become extensive. Her bedroom shelves house the childhood journals with floral prints and ones with tiny locks, which stand next to the teenage and adult ones in chronological order. Desperately wanting to move us out of the deep, I inquire, “anything new up there?” She looks at me from the side of her eye, “eh, I don’t feel like it.” Silence again, “Ha!” leaps out of my mouth, “I just remembered, I once asked Milly when I was like six, why her throat had a big lump. She answered, ‘woman’s bodies and minds come in shapes and colors you’ve never seen, you’ll know what I’m talking about one day.’” Tay just nods, still aching with loss; I let another long silence take over.

Grumbling about how many cookies we’ve eaten, Tay breaks the last one in half and we share it for dinner. As I brush the crumbs off my stomach, Babe flashes to mind, and she’s smacking and shaming herself. I wonder, what did Milly think about that? Tay speaks up, “what a pair Babe and Milly: Babe loathing her female form and Milly, fortunately passing as female, so that others do not loathe her.” That conjures up an image of Milly and Babe holding hands at the bedroom mirror, both disappointed with their bodies. Not much unlike Tay and me. “Huh yea” I respond as I grab my phone to search, history of transgender women. Tay huffs out of bed and takes a blue journal from the adult section. After she scribbles down pages of words, she sets it on the nightstand, claps twice, and the lights go dark.

* * *

Sunday morning, still feeling melancholic, we bundle up on the couch, sipping coffee, while Tay reads to me from an assortment of journals. She stiffens her neck and pats my legs for attention when Babe or Milly show up. She picks up a shiny plastic pastel purple one that reads Secrets in scroll lettering. The combo code is 212 for her birthday and it pops open. Right then my Ma calls and after a few minutes my eyes show surprise. Tay, feeling entitled to know what’s going on, motions for me to put it on speakerphone, I do, “…I mailed it out a few weeks back, watch for it kiddo.” “Thanks ma, I’ll let her know.” Immediately after I hang up Tay asks, “mailed what? for me?” I look at her pleased, grab her hand, and tell her, “a birthday gift from Boss Lady Milly.” Her jaw dropped open, stunned—Milly never forgot our birthdays, she even planned for after life. On that note, I hobble to the fridge for some bubbles. “Lets pop a bottle to commemorate Milly.” Without dispute I pull out two mugs, POP! There went the morning. POP! There went the afternoon. Twist, POP, glug. There went Sunday.

* * *

By Monday morning the ice had melted away and a pile of packages were waiting at the front door. Tay held her head while stooping to pick up the heap and there she found her package, a large padded envelope. In it was another package wrapped in brown craft paper with teal yarn wound around it. Tay unwinds the yarn with care and then unfolds the brown paper to reveal a little black book. She takes it to her nose, then chest, and sighs, “Boss Lady Milly knows.” She cracks it open hoping for an inscription and with a huge smile she reads aloud:

“Happy 25th Birthday darling girl!

I have a birthday story to share with you that hasn’t been told yet. Babe’s memory was eaten away long before your grandfather died and so the story rested with him. But before I die, I intend for you to know your roots. My hope is it gives you direction and strength.

When Babe and I were 16 we were inseparable, raising each other in the absence of our own parents. We explored each other and through that, your mother was conceived. Babe’s parents decided that she’d better marry quickly and that’s the man you know as your grandpa. I imagine your confusion now, but please stay with me.

I was born as Jenkins Miller. I never saw myself as my parents did, the doctors did, my peers did, and strangers did. I lived with a discrepancy: the inside not quite matching the outside. This became clear at age 17 as I wait for the phone call with the news, boy or girl. I contemplated the importance of this news. I thought of how fraudulent it felt to care about the gender of my child, while not living in the truth of my own. I continued to live as Jenkins until my parents passed. I grieved them and the parts of Jenkins that were loved by them. Then, in equal parts pain and liberation, I tore off the old skin, I cut out the untruths and the ideals others held for me.

Your mother never got to know me as her father Jenkins, but I, Milly, loved her fiercely. I pour this out of a cracked open heart, unwilling to leave this world without you knowing too.

I dare ask for a favor after this flash flood of information. If you make a birthday wish, would you place an extra candle for me? I’d like to wish a few things for you, which took all of my womanhood to learn. My wish for you: When you look in the mirror, speak out beautiful words that squash any criticisms. Be vulnerable with those who deserve it, because you can become braver and truer through it. Realize that gratefulness is not a prerequisite for women, because you were not born in debt to anyone. Love yourself unapologetically and only apologize when you’re wrong and then mean it. Take the space you need and be small for no one. Find your truths and live them day-by-day.

I love you for eternity, Milly

P.S. Check the back pocket.”

Tay flopped the pages over to reveal a paper pocket in the back. Inside were a check and a single candle.

PAY TO THE ORDER OF: Tally May Emmerson

Twenty Thousand Dollars

MEMO: Happy birthday granddaughter