By Joannebarbarella

“Do I really look all right?” I asked her anxiously. “I’m not over the top, am I?”

She looked at me with a critical eye, taking in my carefully coiffed, lightly moussed dirty blonde hair,loosely pulled up and styled to make me look waif-like, delicately arched eyebrows, mascara coated lashes and blended shades of eye-shadow; the pillow lips which I had joyfully had plumped up with collagen, now highlighted with a warm pink lip-gloss. A pair of dangling, shimmering crystal ear-rings and a crystal necklace set off my face.

Continuing her inspection downwards past the modest white back-buttoned blouse with pirate sleeves, through which the lines of my bra could just be seen, she took in the gold Rolex on my left wrist, the plain gold bangle on my right and the professionally shaped nails in the same colour as my lips.

A wide red belt cinched my waist between blouse and black flared layered knee-length skirt, which swirled pleasingly when I walked. Ecru sheer nylons pointed the way to my red sandals with two-inch heels. I would have liked a higher heel but she had told me not to be too tarty.

She brought her eyes back up to mine just as I was starting to feel like a slab of meat and smiled.

“You look lovely, just perfect. We want her to see that you really are a girl, but we don’t want you looking like a street-walker. The only problem I can see is that she won’t see any Tommy at all. We’re the only ones who know that there’s only one tiny bit of him still functioning, aren’t we?”

We both burst out laughing, but mine was an expression of relief.

“I’m not sure I can do this.” I said.

“Actually, darling, you don’t really have a choice. You have to do it some time.”

I whimpered, “Yes, but does it have to be today?”

“It’s been five weeks. We can’t hide things much longer, can we? She’s been getting more and more insistent, asking about Tom. I think she thinks I’ve done away with him; got him buried in the garden or something. Besides, if we don’t move soon, you’ll have my mum spilling the beans. Do you think that will be a better solution?”

As apprehensive as I was that made me giggle. We had flown to Sydney a week ago and confronted her mum and sister with the change in me. Perhaps because they had known of her previous (lesbian) entanglements they had just about yawned and ho-hummed at the news and evidence that I was now showing my true colours as a girl. I don’t think they thought Tommy was much of a man anyway and, of course, as women always are, they were right.

Cathy had extracted a promise that they would not spill the beans to my mum before two weeks were up, but we did not totally trust her mum, who could talk under water and at great length too. That was why we were where we were now.

“Well, in a way she’s right and we’re partners in crime, but what if mum doesn’t accept me like this?”

“One thing’s for sure, my sweet, we won’t ever know if you don’t try. I think she’ll be all right with you, but if she’s not you’ve still got me, and we’ll handle things together.”

I turned away from the mirror and moved to embrace her, so thankful for her support and acceptance, my heart overflowing with love, but she grabbed my wrists and stopped me from giving her a full-blown hug.

“Not now, my love. We didn’t spend all that time getting you ready so we could go and ruin your make-up now. OK, let’s go. Are you going to take a jacket?”

“It’s warm enough not to,” as I grabbed the bag that matched my shoes and belt, checking that all my necessities were in it. I do love shoes and bags. After inspecting myself in the mirror one final time I supposed I would have to do.

I admired her as she preceded me down the stairs, thinking again how lucky I was. She looked a little dykish in black low-heeled ankle-boots, black tights and a loose black boat-necked sleeveless top hanging past her bum, but then in a way she was a dyke.....my dyke. If I thought about it I suppose I could be classified as a lipstick lesbian. A frisson of anticipation passed through my body. How could I even think of sex at a time like this?

“You drive. You need the practice. Heels and a skirt make it different.”

We took the Lexus, which had been Tommy’s before I inherited it. Changing my driving licence had been one of our early priorities, and had turned into a sort of surreal experience. We had got our solicitor to do a lot of the necessary paperwork for disposing of my old identity but a new driver’s licence was one of those things you had to do yourself in person.

We had gone to the city branch of the Department of Transport in Elizabeth Street, where I produced the letters backing up my request for a new licence, filled in the necessary forms and handed in Tommy’s old licence. We went and sat down while the clerical work proceeded and all of a sudden the space behind the counters was a major traffic artery with personnel going backwards and forwards and looking at me without looking at me, the women with their better peripheral vision less obvious than the men.

I was called to have my picture taken and then sat down again waiting for the precious new plastic-coated card. A lady came out and called my name.“Tanya Catherine Thompson” and I went to the counter to collect it.

As she handed it to me she leaned over conspiratorially and in a loud stage whisper said, “Good luck, my dear. I think you’re so brave to change your sex. Drive safely.”

Half of the people seated waiting were looking at me with expressions ranging from fascination through naked curiosity to disgust and horror. Cathy and I fled. I didn’t even examine the licence until we were outside. My picture was surprisingly good and I had that vital “F” where it said what sex I was. While I always drive carefully it’s nice to know I wouldn’t have any unnecessary aggravation if stopped by the law, and, of course, a Driver’s Licence is the most common item of normal I.D.

Most other documents were surprisingly easy to change. Credit cards, bank accounts, utility company details; all handled at arm’s length by the lawyer, who didn’t even bat an eyelid at the change in me. A bit of legalese works wonders with bureaucracy. Even a new passport wasn’t a problem. So it was now “Tommy who?”.....as if he had never existed. Well, he hadn’t really.

However, back to the present. We set off to mum’s place with me driving. She’s only fifteen minutes away in normal traffic and it wasn’t rush hour. Cathy had rung and made sure she would be home when we got there. I kind of wished she hadn’t and then I would have had an excuse to turn around and drive away if she had gone shopping or something.

Mum’s place is a nice three-bedroom brick in Taringa. We had been left pretty well-off through my dad’s insurance and the settlement after his untimely death on a construction site in Papua-New Guinea. When it came to investments my mum wasn’t silly either, so to say she was comfortable was a slight understatement.

She was at home as promised. My stomach was performing loop-the-loops and Immelmann Turns as that moment approached. Cathy had to practically drag me from the car, prising my fingers from the steering wheel.

“Don’t be a wuss,” she said.

“I can’t help it. I am a wuss. I’ve always been a wuss.”

She took my hand and towed me to the door and rang the bell.

Don’t get me wrong in all of this. I really love my mum and I admire her no end. She brought me up on her own so she’s not a weak woman even if she has her foibles, like the vanity that prevents her from wearing her glasses.

Me being her only child she had a tendency to spoil me and was somewhat over-protective. That was one reason I had left to live on my own at eighteen, along with the REAL reason that I could relax and dress in proper clothes when the occasion allowed. Even so, when she came to visit me I made sure all my female attire and accoutrements were well hidden.

My mum answered in thirty seconds or a lifetime, whichever you prefer. Einstein hadn’t included intervals like this in his Theory of Relativity.

“Oh, hello Cathy, and..... er......Tanya. How nice to see you. Come in and have some coffee. You said you had some news about Tommy. Nothing bad I hope?”

“No, of course not, Marie. I wouldn’t do that to you. Let’s have that coffee and we’ll talk about it.”

Mum wasn’t wearing her glasses so she was operating on a combination of blur and sonar, but she knew her way around well enough to make coffee, and we put the cups, milk jug and sugar on a tray and carried the whole set into the living room.

“Shall I pour?” said Cathy, and mum smiled her assent. She did know her limitations. When three cups were in front of us Cathy said;

“Marie, I know you don’t like to wear them when you don’t have to, but this is important. Will you please put your glasses on. There’s something you have to be able to see clearly.”

I took a quick swig of my coffee while mum was fumbling for her glasses, because I thought I wouldn’t be able to hold the cup without spilling it when we told her.

She put them on and peered expectantly at the two of us, her gaze seeming to linger on me with a slight look of puzzlement.

“Go on then,” said my lovely wife to me....the bitch.... combing her auburn hair through her fingers. “This is your show now.”

“Thanks a million, darling,” I thought, glaring at her, hoping her brain would fry....well....only a little....at least get a bit warm.

I cleared my throat and took a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves.

“Mum, look at me closely. Do I look familiar?”

She peered at me.....owl-like through those thick lenses.

“Why are you calling me mum? I’m not your mum.”

“Yes, you are actually. It’s just that you thought you had a son called Tommy when you really had a daughter. I was the one who everybody insisted was Tommy and I just went with the flow because I was too frightened to do anything else. Now the time has come for me to face the truth and to let you see me as I am meant to be.”

Her eyes almost popped behind those pebble lenses and I twisted my fingers nervously together waiting for her reaction. This time she really gave me the once-over.

“T-T-Tommy? You’re not my Tommy.”

“I am and I’m not, mum. You must get used to calling me Tanya from now on. I was the person you thought of as Tommy, but he’s gone now and he won’t be back. I am who he really was but was afraid to let out.”

She continued to inspect me, bug-eyed, and then, all of a sudden, she burst into tears, raising her hands to her face and knocking her glasses off as she covered her eyes. Cathy and I both reached to embrace her, one on each side, and she didn’t resist as she sobbed, shoulders shaking.

We held her and shushed her for a couple of minutes, until she gradually lapsed into tearlessness and dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled tissue. She fumbled around, looking for her glasses, until I picked them up off the carpet and handed them to her. She wiped her eyes one more time and put the specs back on and resumed examining me.

I started to get that slab-of-meat feeling again, until she leaned forward and patted my cheek.

“Yes, you are, aren’t you? I should have seen it before. Well, it’s my own fault I suppose.”

“What do you mean, mum? Your fault?”

“The easiest way is to show you. Just wait a minute. I’ll be right back.”

She got up and went up the stairs towards her bedroom.

Cathy and I looked at each other non-plussed and shrugged. Cathy gave me an encouraging smile.

“It’s going to be OK, I’m sure.”

A few seconds later mum came back into the lounge, carrying one of those old-fashioned photo-album scrap-books. You don’t see them these days because we keep our snaps on memory sticks.

She went to the dining table.

“Come over here girls, so we can all see.”

My heart gave a little jump. She had said “girls” so naturally. Cathy and I went to the table and sat either side of her as she opened the scrapbook.

The pictures on the first two pages were of my father and her; bride and groom; happy young couple, the two of them on their own; mum with tiny bundle in her arms. She was beautiful and radiant in those days. The fashions of the mid-eighties were not so different from today. My dad was a handsome young man in his mid-twenties, obviously ready to take on the world.

Unfortunately the world had taken up the challenge.

“I loved him so much,” said mum. “I still miss him so badly, but I’m afraid I had a kind of a breakdown when he died. I would have killed myself if it wasn’t for you To.......I mean Tanya. I still went kind of insane afterwards.”

She turned the page and there were pictures of the baby.....me, I guess.......growing through the first months of its life. She turned the page again and the child began to grow into a little person, but.....

“I hated everything macho and male....not men as such.....but all the trappings of manhood, the competitiveness, the pissing contests. I made my mind up that I was not going to let my child grow up to be trapped into that world, so I set to work to make my son into a gentle, caring person and the only way I could think of doing it with my mind in that state was to raise him as a girl.”

While she had been explaining, I had been goggling open-mouthed as the pretty little girl in the photos grew from one year old to two and then older, wearing typically small-girl clothes, brightly-coloured dresses, a pink fairy-costume in one picture, complete with tiara and wand. Long light brown hair fell past her shoulders and she looked happily out of every shot. She was me.

We turned another page. Cathy was smiling a smug “told-you-so” smile as we carried on looking at the album. Then, at I guessed about four years old, the little girl disappeared and there was Tommy. He seemed subdued, not so happy as the girl or as comfortable.

“When you were three and a half, I came to my senses....or so I thought until today.....and realised that I could not continue to raise you as my daughter. I was coming out of my total grief stage and some men were becoming interested in me and I thought I might get interested in one of them. If that happened I didn’t want to try explaining why my baby girl was a boy.

“In any case the secret would be out as soon as you started kindergarten. People always find these things out, particularly mothers who are protecting their children, so I began to put you into boys’ clothes and train you to join the outside world. I told you it was a game we had to play and we had to make sure everybody thought you were a boy.

“You were a bit reluctant at first but I tried to make it fun for you, telling you that being a tom-boy was a good thing, and you gradually seemed to accept it. By the time you were four-and-a-half you seemed to have totally forgotten about being a girl. I don’t suppose you remember any of this and I can only say how sorry I am for messing up your life. Forgive me, my darling.”

I was still trying to absorb the images of me as a little girl. I was so obviously happy. I turned to mum and took her hand.

“Mum, there’s nothing to forgive. You were alone in the world and you tried to do your best for me. Who knows what would have happened if you had kept on bringing me up as a girl? Perhaps you affected my perception of myself, but I think things would have turned out the same way. The main thing is...do you accept me as I am now?”

She squeezed my hand back. “Of course I do, darling. I only ever wanted you to be happy. If a girl is what you are, then I’m happy for you.”

I sagged in relief and put out my other hand to Cathy, but she got up and came around my mother and gave me a great big hug from behind and kissed me on the neck.

Mum blushed scarlet. “I’m going to have to get used to seeing two girls canoodling, I guess,” she said.

“What about you, Cathy? Are you all right with having a girl for your husband?”

“Marie, I can’t begin to tell you just how all right I am. She’s lovely, as you can see, and she is so much happier with herself in the last few weeks. I’m like you. If she’s happy, then I’m happy.”

“Hello-o-o-o, you two. I’m right here.” Mum joined Cathy in a three way hug and I burst into tears seconds before they did.

When we all dried our eyes and had gone to the bathroom to repair panda eyes we sat down again with fresh coffees. I was still rapt in the album and the pictures of myself.

“What did you call me, mum? It couldn’t have been Tommy.”

She laughed. “You are not going to believe this. It’s almost like predestination. I called you Tanya, so it was all meant to be.”

I wondered if there was some hidden memory lurking in my mind, but it was Cathy who had picked my name. I looked at her and she was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. She raised a hand to her mouth and breathed onto it and then buffed her nails on her chest.

“OK, smartarse,” I couldn’t help grinning too.

“Tanya! Is that any way to talk to your wife?”

“Yes, mum. It is, otherwise she’ll get unbearable.”

“One thing I suppose I’ll have to give up on is the thought of grandchildren. Never mind. There’s always adoption.”

“We thought of that. We both wanted kids, so Tommy has left a bequest in the sperm bank.”

Cathy again looked like the cat who got the cream. She gave a little cough.

“What’s up with you?” I asked.

“Well. Surprise! Surprise! Tommy left more than a sample. I’m preggers!”

Mum and I both shrieked at the same time.

“Why didn’t you say?”

“I’ve only just missed my period. I figure it happened the day I came home and found Tanya had moved in full-time instead of a part-time Tommy, so we’ve got something to thank the airlines for. Much more fun that way too. If it’s a girl we can call her Dolly.”

My love for my wife was almost too much to bear.

“You’re a rotten bitch.”

“No insults please. You have to take good care of us expecting mothers, you know. Do you want to be a daddy or a mummy or a maddy or a dummy?”

“I suppose Dummy suits me best. You won't miss....?"

She grinned, "No, I think we have all we need from Tommy."

We all laughed and cried at the same time.

There might be a reader (possibly even two) who remembers a story I did a couple of years ago titled "Not What You Expected". Tanya and Cathy are the girls from that story. This is not exactly a sequel and I hope stands on its own.

However, if you're a masochist, and want to boost my ratings, that story will give you the context for this one.
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