Trigger Warning: This article contains mention of familial transphobia and suic*dal thoughts.
Every time I spit blood into the sink, I curse myself for not taking better care of my teeth. Blood is thicker than water, or whatever, and the viscous gobs of saliva are streaked with heavy scarlet swirls. The sight of red splattered across the porcelain only makes me hate brushing more. I do it periodically, mostly before dates, and on the occasions where the taste of morning breath happens to be worse than the taste of pennies and regret. Today I’m doing it to rid my mouth of all evidence of pre-holiday chain smoking. When I was younger, I would spend several minutes carefully rinsing out the mouthwash, making sure I swallowed absolutely none of the alcohol. Now I drink ciders on the way to Christmas dinner.
Every once in a while, my mom has to get another tooth pulled. ‘Brush twice a day,’ she pleads. ‘And don't forget to floss! I don't want you to end up like me.’ But I don't believe in ending up. I'm like my mom in a lot of ways – many that I'm grateful for, and some that would make her cry if she knew. She once told me she'd kill herself if she lost enough of her smile. I never planned to live long enough for mine to fall out.
* * *
Polished antiques line every flat surface, save those for eating. Dozens, if not hundreds, of uranium glass vases sit empty, encased in protective cabinets older than I am. Flowers have not bloomed from them in decades. An army of porcelain angels peer inward from all directions, awaiting the Day of Judgment with a cold tranquillity. The carpets, upholstery, and wood-panelled walls are the colour of the dust that is utterly absent from the shelves.
Half of my Christmas gifts are labelled with my name and half are not. My grandfather picks up a box labelled Brooke, looks me in the eye, or close to it, and says flatly, ‘This one’s for Sebastian.’ His thick glasses seem to put a world between us but enlarge his probing eyes such that they appear to be mere inches from mine. His signature toothpick, which I have never known to leave his mouth, but always seems fresh, wiggles at the end of his teeth. I once saw this as a charming quirk, but it now sits poised to pierce through me like his gaze.
I adorn my face with a ceramic smile, which cracks slowly into a scowl with every backhanded gift. I hold back tears so as not to stain the couch. I don’t know if anyone else is uncomfortable, because I can’t tear my eyes from my sneakers. The laces, once white, almost match the carpet. There are holes along the seams from a life of wear. The shoes are held together by sheer force of will, their worn-down soles planted firmly on the floor. A dreadful silence lingers the air until I am wrenched from my frigid isolation by the sound of wrapping paper – ripped apart in a frenzy, crumbled, and thrown into a pile in the corner.
My mother, smiling unconvincingly, pulls me aside. ‘That went well!’
"I adorn my face with a ceramic smile, which cracks slowly into a scowl with every backhanded gift."
* * *
The other one, the one called Sebastian, was here first. I know his name from the paperwork. Mine follows shortly after, caged in parentheses. I get his emails, and he signs my invoices. When he left home for college, he never came back, so I get to open his Christmas presents. Half the family acts like he’s still around, and the other half pretends not to notice.
On occasion, I hear his footsteps slightly out of step behind mine, as I shuffle through the streets of Manhattan. When I do, I hasten my pace, but I can never stay more than a few steps ahead. He wears big, heavy boots, but my high-heeled footsteps are louder. His baggy jeans rustle with every stride. He never had clothes that fit quite right.
"He wears big, heavy boots, but my high-heeled footsteps are louder."
Sometimes I catch a glimpse of him from the corner of my eye, in the reflection of the storefront windows, standing between me and that frilly dress. I used to see him more clearly, but I’ve learned to focus beyond the glass. Now, his face is but a spectre, ethereal and fleeting, a fading image superimposed over mine. I remember it well. He has my father’s nose, but everyone always said he looks more like my mother.
There are times when someone seems to recognize me on the street, but as I get closer, I notice that they are looking straight through me. Looking at him. I stop to let them catch up. When he talks, I bite my tongue. His voice seems muffled and distant, as though behind a cheap plastic mask. My gaze drifts away while he drones on, brushing gently against the harsh concrete edges of the city blocks. He blends into the bustling New York crowds as the cars and sirens drown him out.
* * *
Several chimes of the grandfather clock later, and the holiday dinner has turned to dust and ashes in my mouth. I’m the butt of the joke. My grandmother tells me, as I hug her goodbye, not to ‘come back as a zebra or something’ next year. I hope against hope that I can work up the courage not to come back at all. But I feel a nagging sense of duty, not to them, but to my mother. To protect her when I can and comfort her when I can’t.
"I feel a nagging sense of duty...to my mother. To protect her when I can and comfort her when I can't."
Mom’s purple bangs hang low over her eyes, brushing against the glasses she’s always pushing up her nose. She sheds the hoodie she’s been wearing since we arrived to reveal an intricate patchwork of tattoos covering her arms and torso. Two swallows fly outward from her chest. Hearts on her bicep bear the names she picked for her children. A palm tree bends in the wind on her forearm – I have one in the same place. Emblazoned on the edges of her hands are the words 'Never Alone'. You can only read them when she joins her palms in prayer. She grips the steering wheel tightly to keep her inked fists from shaking.
We barely make it out of the neighbourhood before she pulls the car over for a cigarette break. My sister has her headphones on in the back seat while I sit on the hood of the car and my mother paces anxiously on the pavement. With heavy sobs, smoke sputters out of her mouth like a worn-out engine. For as long as I can remember, she’s always cried on the way home from Grandma’s house.
Article Written By Brooke Alexandria Paine
(She/Her)