Page 25 of Saving Graces
Rosalie rushed to her sister, wrapping her arms around Rachel’s shaking shoulders. “Don’t you see what you’re doing to her?' You’re fucking killing her.”
“Look at what you’ve done to this family.” Their mother looked past Rosalie to Rachel, her voice high and trembling. “You’ve wrapped your little sister up in your fantasy world too. You’re bringing her into this.”
“You’re the one in the fantasy world!” Rosalie cried. “You know who she is; I know who she is! To pretend otherwise is torture-”
“Stop this nonsense at once!” her father bellowed. “I won’t have either of you speaking to your parents like this. We’ve been putting up with the two of you treating us like we’re the bad guys for far too long. It’s tearing this family apart. It’s tearing your mother apart.” He gestured to his wife who was covering her face and weeping like a professional mourner at a funeral. He got within a foot of Rachel and Rosalie clutched her tighter. “Either you behave like a man or we’re getting you professional help.”
Rachel sagged in Rosalie’s arm, a whimper escaping her lips.
“Help?” Rosalie cried. Her stomach cramped, the punch from prom night roiling in her stomach.“Help would be supporting her! Help would be letting her be who she is in her own fucking home-”
“Rosalie,” her father thundered. “You are the child in this situation and I am the parent. For the love of god, shut your mouth for once.” He glared at them both. Then his gaze switched to Rachel. “Your mother and I love you very much,” he said. “And we want you to be happy. There’s a clinic in Alabama that we’ve looked into. Think of it like a summer camp, except it’ll help you to accept who you are and manage your confusion in a healthy way.”
“A conversion center,” Rachel whispered, her voice cracking. Tears brimmed her waterline, her eyes glassy. Rosalie gripped her hand.
“Call it what you like,” her father said. “But given this-” he screwed up his face, glaring at her outfit, “we’re giving them a call in the morning.”
“No fucking way,” Rosalie hissed.
Rachel turned to her. Her warm brown eyes were bloodshot from crying and her hand gripping Rosalie’s was sweating. Rachel leaned down and kissed her cheek and Rosalie could smell the vanilla of her favorite body spray.
“Love you little sis,” Rachel said. Then she ripped open her window and leaped down onto the grass. She ran without looking back.
“No!” Rosalie cried, poised on the sill to follow. “Wait!”
She stopped herself. She’d only slow her down and god knows Rachel was better off with her friends tonight than she was here at home. She turned back to face down her parents.
“Let him go,” her father said calmly, though his face was flaming red. “He’ll come back.”
Rosalie squared up, her whole body trembling.
“You have no fucking idea what you’ve done,” she said. Her mother reached for her and Rosalie slapped her hands away. “No,” she spat. “Leave me the fuck alone. I hate you both.”
She ran for the door, tumbling blindly down the hall to wrench her own bedroom door open, slamming it closed behind her. Heart pounding, she flicked the lock, sealing herself inside the room, nothing but the sound of her ragged breathing. The window was closed and the room was empty. Savannah must have heard the shouting and fled. She gasped out a single shocked sob.
Her closet door creaked open. Savannah stepped out, her face pale, her eyes round with fear. Rosalie crumpled when she saw her.
Savannah reached for her and pulled her into her arms and Rosalie wept.
Chapter Nine
Rosalie was doing great. She really was. She’d caught up with some old friends for dinner on Wednesday night and they’d all shared stories reminiscing about their wild twenties, before both sets of couples at the table left early, citing small children who’d be restless in the night and babysitters to relieve. She’d felt smug as she finished her glass of wine at the empty table, and then went home to her silent house. Her peaceful house, that was.
She’d impressed Shelby by announcing that on Saturday afternoons she’d started going to an indoor rock wall to learn how to climb, her arm muscles shaking and sore as she lazed in the bath that night. Then, that Sunday she’d found a new vintage market, buying on a whim, an old set of drawers she imagined figuring out how to restore. She was doing interesting stuff. Being spontaneous. Leaving the house. Maybe she’d learn French or how to throw clay or something. Then young Rosalie could stop nagging her about her not fully taking advantage of her adult freedoms. Honestly, what the hell did her sixteen year old self know about the world anyway? She’d eaten strawberry pop tarts for breakfast every day.
Lately the memories seemed to be slamming her harder than usual. It was the Republicans, she was pretty sure, because who’d have thought that things could have gotten worse for trans kids than they’d been back in 2002? That and the phone call she kept declining: her mother calling again. Not a chance, mom, she thought.
She attended a round table of state-level lobby groups, everyone exhausted but ready to fight. She presented arguments before the state legislature, a woman screaming at her that she was a pedophile kiddy groomer on her way out the door. She spoke to Savannah and got their security upgraded to around the clock after a man walked in off the street with a placard saying Save Our Children on it and shouted conspiracy theory garbage at Rosalie while she neatly closed the door to the office before he could spot Shelby. They had to temporarily shut down their phone lines after a “feminist” organization began to target them with abusive calls, because nothing says feminism like death threats from women who associated with Nazis.
She pulled her staff into a meeting, from Shelby to the receptionist, the youth workers who staffed the emergency housing and all the regular volunteers to check in.
The small boardroom at the back of the centre quickly filled with humanity and despair. Every seat at the table was taken, some with shoulders back, ready for a call to action, others propping themselves against the walls, shoulders slumped. Rosalie’s heart cracked when she saw Lane, their eyes blazing with hope as Rosalie stepped to the front of the room.
“Times are rough,” she said simply, then cast her eyes at the ceiling, acknowledging the understatement. “I want you to know that I see all of you, and the work you’re doing under immense pressure is incredible. They see it,” she gestured out to the center and all the kids they supported, “which matters even more.”
She heard a sniff and saw that one of the volunteers was crying. Cracks were showing left, right and centre. She watched as one of her youth workers slipped an arm around the volunteer’s shoulders, bolstering their colleague.
“These things move in cycles,” she took a deep breath, trying to ground herself, “and progress is never linear. The cycle will move on eventually and everyone will be able to breathe a little easier. This won’t last forever. But I’m not prepared to lose anyone. If you need a breather, you can tell me. If you need to quit, you can tell me. If you need someone to talk to, I’ve secured a psychologist from within the community and who specializes in burn out. I’d encourage you all to speak with her, in fact. We’ve got security who will escort you to and from your car if anyone feels unsafe and I’d encourage you to use that service too. Above all,” she said, “you matter. Your safety, your mental health, your ability to thrive, all of it matters. So please know I’m available any time, day or night.”
