miles to go

It had been three years to the day since his mother passed. He was making the nearly two-hundred-mile trip back to his childhood home to spread her ashes with his family, and he was running late. The sun had risen several hours ago, and now he felt some distance from the task of driving. Now that he could see clearly in the morning light, the road stretched out before him, open and inviting. He allowed his mind to wander and muscle memory to take over. He had made this drive hundreds of times before; living in Southeast Michigan for the past eight years had provided ample opportunity for him to return to his parent’s home and visit while still affording him the space and distance he needed to flourish on his own. The drive was long, but he knew it well, and hours flew by like minutes.

He was now less than fifteen miles away from his exit and had been driving for almost three hours. His pace was slower than usual; he felt no rush despite the circumstances and allowed himself several stops for food and rest, even though he usually never gave himself such luxuries on this drive. Today was different, though. Today was new, and he was busying himself with figuring out why. He considered how this trip felt foreign, yet safe, to him. How he no longer felt the deep pull into dread as he neared his family home. How the guilt he once felt about moving away was now assuaged.

Most importantly, how he now felt comfortable enough to face his family authentically and transparently without fear of their opinions. Mother had a hold on his mind that now, for better or worse, was releasing its death grip. He heard her voice less and less as the days turned into weeks and months since her passing. There was relief with this but also grief. As the voice quieted, he forgot how it sounded. Even things that once filled him with joy to hear, like the smile that shone through her words and the infectious laugh she shared with friends, were leaving his memory, and he grieved.

He had spent some time the night before listening to old voicemails from his mother, and he thought about them now. Awed by how he could track her illness through her voice's shifting tone and strength. It was a relief to listen to her earlier messages when the sickness hadn’t ravaged her health and taken the songfulness from her timbre, but when the time came to hear the later missives, it pained him. They were much slower, groggier, and full of vocal fry, as if speaking was the thing killing her. She often ended her thoughts with a penetrating and elongated ‘I love you,’ but even that deflated as her pain increased and her time diminished. Flat was not how he wanted to remember his mother, so he carefully picked through the memories of those voicemails, clinging to the few left of her in total health.

Even those messages did not prevent him from forgetting her voice. He didn’t listen to them every day, and his mind had become more like a sieve regarding matters of his mother. As time passed, he remembered more about how she had made him feel and less about what she said or did, but he would never forget her face, before and after the sickness had taken its toll on her.

His mother spent much of her life swinging rapidly from mood to mood, and while this did not weigh easily on him as a child, he came to appreciate the candor and clemency with which she lived her life. ‘Full of grace,’ he would come to tell himself after a year or so with her gone. She lived full of grace and forgiveness for both herself and other people.

His phone rang for some time before he noticed the sound.

“Hello?” He said after finally picking up.

“Where you at now?” A gruff voice asked on the other end of the line.

“Hey bro, I’m about three minutes from the exit and ten from the house. I’ll see you soon.”

“Can you stop and grab something to drink? Dad forgot.” Stephen felt uncomfortable with this request. It weighed heavily on him that drinking had not necessarily killed his mother but was undoubtedly the final few nails in her proverbial coffin. He had always enabled his family and decided this time would be no different.

“Yeah, any preference?”

“Labatt for dad and me. Whatever you want for yourself. I can send some money for the beer.”

“Don’t worry about it. My gift to you.”

“Great. See you soon.” He hung up without replying and began to set the phone back on its precarious perch on the dash. He didn’t have a clip, so he usually put it in front of the backup camera screen and hoped for the best. Any sharp turns or sudden stops usually sent it crashing to the floor, but this time clumsy fingers were the culprit. As the phone fell, he jerked slightly to catch it. The vehicle swerved from the right lane for a brief moment before he corrected, but it was too late by then. The damage had been done. An officer sitting at the bend just before his off-ramp noticed the erratic maneuvering and pulled out behind him as he turned on his blinker to exit. He didn’t see the lights at first, so he continued to attempt to grab his phone from the floor of his vehicle, doing his best to keep his eyeline above the steering wheel so he could still see and control the car. Feeling around on the dirty carpeted footwell, he finally felt the smooth glass of his phone screen and worked the edge to his fingertips to get a grip. He had slowed significantly by this point and was halfway down the ramp when he finally glanced in his rearview mirror and saw the lights flashing close behind him.

“Shit.” He whispered as he pulled off to the right and parked his car. He grabbed his wallet and the envelope that held his important documents, then rolled down his window and waited for the officer to approach.

“License, registration, and proof of insurance.” The police officer was a tall, dark-haired man with fair skin and a slightly bulging gut. He passed the stack of documents to the officer and sat back in his seat, waiting for his following directive. The officer looked closely at the license he had been handed. His brow furrowed, and he looked back up slowly before speaking.

“Stephanie?”

“Yes?” He replied.

“You’re Stephanie?”

“Yes.”

“Stephanie Yarrow. Female. Five foot eight inches tall. Blue eyes.” The officer eyed him skeptically, “what’s your date of birth?”

“October fifth, nineteen-eighty-seven, sir. I’m trans. I just haven’t changed my ID yet.”

“Trans. Huh.” He grew quiet and contemplative before asking his next question. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“I think I swerved a little back there, sorry.”

“Yes, can you tell me what you were doing?”

“Just dropped my phone, and it startled me.”

“Ma’am, have you been drinking?”

“This morning? It’s a little early for that.” He laughed, but the officer didn’t. “No. Sorry, no, I haven’t been drinking.”

“I’m going to let you go with a warning, but keep your eyes on the road from now on. I don’t want to respond to a call about your accident.”

“Thank you, officer. I will keep my focus from now on.”

The officer handed his license and envelope back to him and walked to his car. He rolled his window back up and observed as the officer closed his door.

“It’s Stephen, prick.” He muttered as he turned his car back on and checked the mirrors for oncoming traffic. The police officer followed him off the ramp before proceeding back to the on-ramp for the highway. Stephen was careful to use his blinkers and stay precisely at the speed limit until the officer was safely out of sight. “Brilliant fucker.” He muttered again as he turned onto the backcountry road leading to his childhood home.

Stephen dealt with misgendering quite a bit, but it had been a while since anyone dared do it to his face. Not since hormone replacement therapy (HRT) started working its magic had anyone intentionally or unintentionally called him a ‘her,’ and even longer since he had been referred to as ‘ma’am.’ He felt the remnants of a rage he thought had long been resolved by his gender-affirming medical care. He passed as a man now, but the relief and peace this supplied to his dysphoric mind were disrupted by the resentment now bubbling below the surface for this police officer who had slighted him.

“All cops are bastards.” He repeated to himself as he passed the sweeping pines and draping oaks lining the road. He admired this part of the state solely for its nature. More trees and undeveloped land up north made for a far more scenic drive than most of the trips he made in the lower half of Michigan. However, the people in the Northern reaches left much to be desired. His family was no exception to this rule: Trump-supporting, bigoted, anti-maskers, the lot of them. Stephen had worked for years on his immediate family members, conditioning their tolerance and acceptance of differences, but to little avail. Stephen’s father still used the n-word, his brother still called Stephen his sister, and his mother went to her grave insisting Stephen would always be her little girl. His mother’s words and critiques, in particular, had kept him from pursuing gender-affirming care, but when she died, he felt released from this scrutiny and liberated to choose for himself. She never knew him as Stephen, and it seemed now the remaining family members fought to preserve the memory she had of him instead of honoring the person he was now.

Only minutes from his family home, Stephen did his best to forget the disrespect he had just endured and prepared himself for the slights he was about to receive. His family never intentionally hurt him, but it felt as though they did, and he worked hard to remind himself that they simply didn’t know better. However, this may have been too generous of a read for them because, as mentioned before, Stephen had tried for years to get them to be more understanding and kind with little success. It helped ease his frustration to think of them as small children navigating a world that is unknown and new to them. And, just like small children, they would learn and grow to be better humans by virtue of their surroundings. If Stephen was their only exposure to a different narrative than white supremacist, heteronormative thinking, it would be challenging to change what they considered normal, good, or moral. To them, Stephen was hellbound. A lost soul that was deserving of only their patience and tolerance. Loved ‘despite’ the sin, not unconditionally loved for who he is. His family actively ignored the reality of Stephen’s transition, goading him with comments near the beginning of his HRT like ‘you still look like a girl.' Once he was further in his treatments, they told him that his body hair was ‘unattractive’ and reminded him he still had to pee sitting down. They would ask him how far he intended on going with ‘this stuff’ and grimaced when he tried to tell them about the surgeries he intended to have soon. They weren’t interested; they were worried and expressed it as hastily and inconsiderately as one might if they cared only for their sense of comfort.

When Stephen pulled into the drive at his old home, he felt a great chasm was fixed between him and the life he once had here. He would walk into his childhood home, a stranger to the people, traditions, and beliefs his family seemed to share. The spring weather fooled him into relaxing, and the budding lilacs in the backyard, releasing their sickly sweet aroma, triggered a sense memory in Stephen that almost reduced him to tears. He remembered hiding in the lilac bushes late at night, playing flashlight tag or variations on a whodunit mystery game. He became engrossed in this memory and stood outside his vehicle for some time, taking in the smells and the breeze.

“S!” cried a soft voice from the backyard, “S, we’re back here!”

Stephen moved to the back of the house and found his family and friends sitting or standing around a large glass patio table. His sister-in-law was the one calling to him. She abbreviated his name to a single letter. She found it more tolerable than using his chosen name and slightly more respectful than his dead name.

“Hey, girly, good to see you!” His brother’s friend, Ben, was the first to say hello when he sat at the table with them. Stephen’s brother had several friends that were kind and loving but did not respect Stephen’s identity. To them, he would always be Daniel’s little sister.

“Hey, Ben. Glad I could make it.” Stephen answered heartily. “Who are we still waiting for?” he was excellent at ignoring microaggressions and making people feel good about themselves.

“Harold and Marge are coming from Evart, but they will be here this afternoon. They said we could start without them and they would join us for dinner later. Matt and Amy are driving over and should be here soon. We’ll spread the ashes once they get here.”

This was the usual crew, from what Stephen could remember. His brother, sister-in-law, dad, and his brother’s softball buddies with their wives all gathered for one last hurrah with his mother—a day filled with stories, laughter, and lots of alcohol. Inebriated already, his brother, Dan, picked up the urn from the patio table and raised it to the sky like a large glass of champagne.

“I’d like to propose a toast. Honey, would you pour some mini beers for us to take?” Dan’s wife, Sheila, nodded and began preparing shots, one for each of them. Licor 43 and heavy whipping cream to top it all off, his mother’s favorite drink. “To Momma Yarrow,” Dan hesitated, and Ben took the opportunity to interject.

“She was the best of us.” He said, revealing either the superficiality with which he knew her or his inability to be a present and sober parent. Where did that leave him if Stephen’s mother was the best of them?

“I remember when I first met Diane. It was the playoffs for our league, and Havoc had made it to the semi-finals. It was the bottom of the seventh; we were down by three and needed four runs in our final at-bat to pull off the win. Diane sat outside our dugout and gave each of us a pep talk before we stepped into the batter’s box. I don’t know what she said to everyone else, but she told me exactly what I needed to hear. I’ll never forget: ‘you either make this your moment, or you go home and explain to your kids why you blew it.’”

“Well, that hardly sounds encouraging,” muttered Stephen.

“It was encouraging, actually. I do everything for my kids and perform better when things are on the line for them. I can’t explain it. Something about having children makes you a superhero.” Ben gave Stephen a moment to respond, but when he said nothing, Ben continued, “I don’t know what she said to everyone else, but reminding me why I work so hard was all it took to get that home run out of me!”

“I remember that!” Mark, Dan’s best friend and best man in his wedding, chimed in next. “She told me something similar, except I didn’t have kids at the time, so she told me I needed to impress Ange.” He laughed, “And it worked for me, too.”

“You’ve always been motivated by the ladies.” Offered Stephen’s dad.

“Diane told us about you before you met her. Talk about motivation! You almost moved out of the country for some broad you met in the Navy.”

“I never heard that story before,” Stephen said, already feeling like a stranger in his home.

“Mom never told you about how we were almost never born?” Dan chuckled to himself and began the tale. “She was dating some dude, and dad here was dating some chick in Yugoslavia or some shit like that.”

“Uruguay, son. If you’re going to tell the story, please, get it right.” Ted interjected.

“Uruguay, right. So he's seeing some chick from Uruguay when he meets mom in a bar. She’s out with the dude she’s dating, takes one look at dad, and decides he is the man she is going to marry. Dad doesn’t know any of this, so he’s still going about his business like nothing happened. Making small talk and trying to make friends. Mom starts attaching herself to him and going out of her way to talk to him, so her boyfriend flips his shit and tries to attack dad. Dad, having just gotten out of the service, handles him easily. I mean, he handles him so well that mom never sees or hears from him again.”

“Is that true, Poppa Yarrow?” Theresa sat her drink down and asked. Ben reached over and tapped her gently as he spoke.

“Of course, it’s true. Dan isn’t out here spinning yarns.”

“It’s mostly true.” Corrected Ted, “It wasn’t quite all that dramatic. He didn’t attack me, he just mouthed off, and when he said the wrong thing about your mother, I ‘handled’ him. As you so delicately put it.”

“Hey, I tell it like I was told, and mom told me you laid the guy out. He didn’t get back up while y’all were there.”

“We stayed less than five minutes after I hit him. The bouncer threw us out.”

“Well, then you knocked him out for at least five minutes. That’s still something.” Stephen was about to recoil into the shot Sheila had just prepared and passed to him when his brother caught him. “You’re not taking that without the rest of us.” He paused and looked around. “Where’s the beer?”

“Oh shit,” began Stephen, “I forgot to pick it up. I got pulled over on the ramp, and it threw me off.”

“That’s ok, S. I’ll have Matt and Amy stop before they get here.” Ted pulled out his phone and began to text his nephew.

“Shots all around!” Sheila finished passing out the mini beers. “To mom.” She said as she raised her glass.

“To Momma Yarrow!” Repeated Ben, Theresa, and the others. Stephen and his brother clinked their glasses together first, then Stephen gently tapped his glass against the table and raised it to the sky again before throwing the drink to the back of his throat.

“What was that for?” Asked Dan.

“What was what for?” Stephen was playing dumb for the sake of conversation. His brother tended to ask questions out of context under the assumption that people knew what he was talking about. Stephen enjoyed making him explain himself.

“The tap.”

“Tap?” Shrugged Stephen.

“The tap!” Exclaimed Dan, “The fucking tippy tap thing you just did on the table! What is that?”

“Oh—” Stephen drew in a long breath and explained briefly, “It’s for my dead friends.” Everyone waited for more, but it never came.

“You have a lot of those, do you?” Angie, Mark’s wife, finally spoke. Stephen looked up at her and responded flatly.

“I do.” No one spoke for a moment. Mark broke the silence. He had never been particularly fond of Stephen, even less so now that he had started HRT.

“You just had to go and make this about you, didn’t you?” He sneered under his breath.

“I don’t think tapping the table an extra time was stealing my mother’s thunder.”

“You didn’t have to say anything.”

“Y’all asked! I wouldn’t have said shit if it had been left alone.”

“Whatever.” Mark was not going to concede the point.

“Hey, it doesn’t matter. Mark, leave her alone.” Dan came to his brother’s defense the only way he knew how: dropping the matter entirely.

“Her. That’s fucking hilarious,” Mark muttered. Stephen set his glass down and stood. They made eye contact for several tense seconds before Stephen broke the silence.

“I’m going for a walk.” He finally said.

“Don’t go too far.” Ted offered, “Matt and Amy will be here any minute.”

“Yeah, fine.” Stephen stuck a finger up at Mark and turned to leave.

“Yeah, fuck you, too,” Mark whispered back. Stephen walked around to the front of his childhood home and recalled the times he would stroll around the yard with the family dog while growing up. A beautiful pure-bred collie that would carefully herd Stephen and his brother around the yard and to the house when it was time to go inside. He remembered this time in his life so fondly that he almost wished he could return to those days when familial relations were easier to navigate. Emotions didn’t feel quite as complicated or loaded as they did now.

Stephen stopped at the mailbox, checking it for letters like he used to do when he was young. He had been responsible for walking the short path to the edge of the street every day except Sunday to bring the mail inside. This simple task had brought him so much joy and a sense of responsibility that carried over to his adult life. He checked his mail daily now, although the walk was further than when he was a kid. His apartment complex sprawled across the bay, with the mailboxes on the opposite side of the street. The longer walk gave him more time for himself, and he appreciated the opportunity to spend time with his thoughts. Now though, his thoughts were almost entirely consumed by the exchange with Mark.

As he walked, he pulled a joint out of his breast pocket and lit it in his mouth. He took two long deep drags before coughing up smoke and sputum. Years of inhaling both weed and cigarettes had ensured every hack was productive, his lungs attempting to clear the constant barrage of noxious fumes. His cilia, caked with tar and particles, struggled to move debris from his airway, and he coughed relentlessly.

He took a few more hits before gently placing the remainder of the joint back in the glass tube and twisting the cap on tight. He put this back in his pocket before continuing to the patio again. He didn’t need much during the day. He smoked significantly less than before his mother passed and wouldn’t have smoked if not for Mark. You see, Stephen had never really learned how to handle conflict. Being the family's baby, he was raised to please those around him before considering his needs.

For this reason, when the time came to speak up, he found it especially difficult to advocate for himself. He mulled over some potential comebacks should Mark try to get under his skin again but ultimately came up empty on replies. He moved slowly toward the backyard. ‘Say something about his fragile masculinity,’ he thought as he walked.

A large white truck was approaching the house, and he stopped to see if it was his cousin and his cousin’s wife. Amy pulled the truck into their yard and climbed out of the front seat. She was short, no more than five feet and a couple of inches, so getting out of the truck looked like an event. She gracelessly slid down from the driver’s seat and hurried to the back of the truck. Popping the tailgate open, she slid Matt’s wheelchair out and unfolded it on the ground.

“Hi, Stephen!” Amy called out to him as he approached. She was the only one who acknowledged his name and respected it wholly.

“Hi, Amy. Good to see you,” he replied, “Matt, how’s it going?”

“Oh, you know. A little of this, a little of that. Nothing new.” Amy chuckled at Matt’s answer.

“He’s being modest. This week, Matt graduated from physical therapy and is cleared to be on his own again.”

“Whoa!” Stephen exclaimed, “that’s great news! Congratulations, Matt. I’m so happy for you.” Matt huffed slightly as he lifted his body into his chair. He had had diabetes most of his life and no longer had legs. His wife, Amy, had been his caregiver up until recently, when Matt’s health took a turn for the worse. He had to stay in the hospital for a few weeks for intensive treatment and physical therapy, leaving Amy without any income for that period and Matt without his familial support.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Matt balked, “I couldn’t handle being in that hell hole any longer. I had no choice but to do what they said if I wanted a prayer of getting out of there.”

“He’s being modest again,” Amy cooed, “he was their favorite patient and made it through treatment with flying colors.”

“I’m such a fucking charmer.” Matt joked, laughing at himself heartily.

“Where is everybody?” Amy asked, changing the subject.

“Out back. I was smoking, but I’m headed there now.” Stephen gestured towards the backyard, welcoming them and indicating his desire for them to lead the way. Amy turned Matt’s chair and started pushing him toward the patio.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” said Matt as Amy guided his chair toward the group. Stephen followed closely behind.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” He exclaimed as they rounded the corner of the house.

“Hey now, does that make me the cat?” Amy pressed.

Ted and Dan stood to hug Amy and Matt, welcoming them warmly to the gathering. Stephen couldn’t help but notice his greeting was not nearly so familiar.

“We ready to do this?” Matt seemed restless, anxious to begin.

“Absolutely,” replied Ted, “we were just waiting for you.”

“Where are we doing this?” Stephen asked carefully. He felt awkward that he didn’t know the answer to his question.

“Around the fire pit,” Ted answered without noticing his son’s discomfort.

“Of course. Mom loved a good bonfire.” Stephen grabbed a beer from the stash and an extra for his brother, “let’s go then,” he said, throwing the second beer to Dan. The group reached the center of the acre and a half yard where the fire pit waited.

“Does anyone want to say anything?” Dan asked unassumingly.

“I do,” Ted continued, “my wife, Diane, is why I’m alive today. Without meeting her or marrying her, I would have been lost. I probably would have re-enlisted or just offed myself when I had the chance. Everyone here knows how good of a mom she was, but I doubt everyone knows how good of a woman she was. Caring, attentive, and passionate about her family. A beautiful Christian with the sense of a saint. I know we all miss her and think about her every day.”

“Here, here,” called Mark, “Dan, you should go next.”

“All right, well… I don’t have much to add. Dad said it best, she was a saint of a woman, and we’ll never be the same without her.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Matt chimed in again. Ted and Dan each took a handful of cremains and tossed them into the fire pit.

“Anyone else?” Dan asked as he walked back to Sheila’s side.

“Do you want to say anything, Stephen?” Amy spoke now, despite everyone else’s silence. No one else had considered Stephen, and he struggled now to find the words he had been hoping to share.

“Uh–” he stammered, “yeah, I suppose I do.” He walked to his dad, took a handful of ashes from the urn, and looked at them in his hand. They felt smooth, with small rough grains dispersed throughout. He ran his thumb along the cremains, carefully studying them and considering his following words. “Mom wasn’t perfect like you all think. At least, not to me. To me, she was challenging, if not at times downright cruel.” There was a deafening silence as Stephen spoke. No one dared argue, despite the looks of disgust or disbelief on some of their faces. “She loved me, though. I know that’s true. Even if she didn’t show it well. I’m not sure how she would have responded to me taking testosterone, but I know she would have worked to understand me. Probably more than any of you have. That was the thing about mom; she cared. For better or worse, she cared deeply and showed that in a disturbing way. I never thought mom was disinterested, though. She could be angry, sad, and scared but never bored. Never uninterested. She gave everything to Dan and me, even when she had nothing left or didn’t know what to give. She gave me critiques, baggage, and years of therapy, but she ensured we both had the love and encouragement needed to do better for ourselves. It took time to see that, but it’s clear to me now. I miss her. I miss her more than I ever thought I would. She drove me up the fucking wall, but since she has been gone, I haven’t known who to call or ask for help. I’ve been lonely. We all have been, and it kills me that we don’t turn to each other to relieve those feelings as she would want us. I’ve tried hard to honor her memory and do what she wanted, but I believe I’ve reached a crossroads. I’ve tolerated being the outcast of this family long enough, and it’s time for me to focus on the life I have built by myself. Today, I came to show love and respect for the woman who gave me life and raised me, to grieve, and to let go.” He opened his palm and turned it toward the ground, releasing the ash to the wind. Some particles landed in the pit, but a good portion blew away with the breeze. Nobody spoke. “That’s all I have to say.”

“Good fucking riddance,” muttered Mark.

“Shut the fuck up, man.” Dan silenced his best friend and turned to look at his brother, “we do love you, Stephen.” He approached him slowly, extending his arms with uncertainty, and scooped Stephen into a tight hold. He had used Stephen’s name for the first time, and Stephen had no words for this exchange. He hugged his brother back and reached a hand out to his dad. Ted joined them without speaking. They held each other close for several seconds before releasing and sheepishly backing away from the embrace.

“I love you both so much,” Ted began to cry, “I miss your mom, but having you two here is more than enough for me. She would be so proud of everything you both have done. And Stephen–” he hesitated, getting caught up on the name he had never used before, “she knew this is what you wanted for yourself, she just didn’t know how to talk to you about it. She loved you, though. You’re right; nothing would have gotten in the way of that.” Stephen returned to his spot in the circle gathered around the fire pit. Dan followed him, then continued to the patio to retrieve yet another beer.

“Anyone need another drink?” He asked.

“I’ll take a natty if you have it,” replied Mark.

“And I’ll have a High Noon,” added Angie.

“Sheila, honey, wanna prep another round of mini beers?” She stood, signaling her willingness to comply, and busied herself with the measuring and pouring of Licor 43. A cycle to be warped and weft into this family’s every meeting.