Chapter 20 – Fixing Mistakes
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I awoke before dawn, as I had every morning for the past four and a half months at Belmont House. Every morning except on Saturdays, that is, when a night at Flanagan’s meant that I rarely retired before dawn.

The air was cold outside the covers, and I remained beneath them, enjoying the heavy pressure of the comforter and the afghan atop it. I yawned once, stretched and arched my back, and decided that yes, I would go ahead and get up.

My feet swung over the side of the bed and into the fuzzy red slippers I had bought, The bare floorboards of my apartment were attractive enough, but too cold on a winter morning. I took my robe from its peg, a dark purple that clashed abominably with my hair, and wrapped the soft fabric around me.

Yawning, I shuffled into the living room. I had learned to bank the coals so that they would remain lit overnight, and with only a little effort I had the fireplace crackling again. While it was heating up the room, I stepped over to my little kitchenette. It was far better stocked now than when I had first arrived. I hit the brew button on the coffeemaker, and the grounds I had readied the night before soon began to steep with hot water.

By the time I had toasted two slices of bread, scooped some yogurt into a bowl, and topped it with sliced strawberries, the coffee was ready. Lately I had taken to drinking it with honey instead of sugar. I squeezed the bear into the bottom of the mug, then stirred as I poured the coffee atop it to get just the right mix.

I took my simple breakfast to the sofa in front of the fireplace and ate as I watched the flames. When I had finished, I kicked off my slippers and curled up, cradling my honey-sweet coffee. It was a moment of perfect contentment, but as was all too common in such moments, I felt the scars of times that had come before.

Four and a half months I had lived at Belmont House. Twenty weeks, give or take a day, since I had put on the necklace in front of my old apartment on Long Island. One hundred and forty-odd days that I had spent as a woman.

I took mental stock of my body. Bare feet curled up under me in a posture that I would not have found comfortable as a man. This body was built to curl up, flexible where I had once been rigid, soft where I had once been hard. My pajamas were silk, and the fabric slid across legs shaved to a texture almost as smooth.

I appreciated soft things now in a way I had not before. The textures of cloth, the sheets of my bed, the pads with which I removed my makeup. I appreciated things that smelled nice — lavender was a particular favorite. I appreciated little creams and scrubs and oils that stimulated my body and made cleanliness a pleasure.

I did not deceive myself — it was not the change in my body that had caused me to like the these things. The change had only given me an excuse to express an enjoyment of things that I would never have tried as a male.

Painting my nails, for example. Aubrey had given me a few bottles of polish for Christmas, along with some stamps and other little patterning tools. This was not just polish; it was nail art, a little creative endeavor that I did not to sell, but to appreciate myself. the layers of base coat and top coat strengthened the nails so that they broke less often, and so they grew long, long enough that I now had to trim them instead of just waiting until they broke off of their own accord. When I broke a nail now, it represented a smaller canvas for my hobby, the loss of weeks of effort.

It was certain that my body now required a higher level of care. My vagina, for example, needed tending like some sort of exotic succulent. It had moods, and not just the obvious monthly gripe sessions that had still not quite become routine. It might decide to start leaking lubrication for no good reason, leaving cold little slime trails in my panties. Other days it was dry as a bone, and might even experience a bit of chafing depending on how I was dressed. If I got too sweaty for too long, it would start stinking like a swamp. But I had I quickly learned how to deal with most of the surprises it threw my way, and most of the time I hardly even realized it was there. In fact, I could hardly remember what it had been like to have something sticking out there, getting in the way all the time. My new genitals just felt somehow... tidier.

I leaned forward a little to deposit my now-empty mug on the coffee table, and felt my breasts press against my thighs. If anything surprised me, it was how unremarkable that felt. I touched my boobs all the time — not in a sexual manner, but in dozens, hundreds of casual ways, and usually for no more reason than that they were there.

I felt them against my upper arms when I reached for something. I scratched them when they itched, if I could do so discreetly. When I sat at a table, they pressed into the edge of the table, unless I had an arm in front of me, in which case they pressed on the arm. When I jogged, they bounced, although a sports bra kept that movement to a vertical axis. Otherwise, they slewed about wildly and painfully. When I went upstairs or downstairs, they bounced. When I walked, they bounced. Their movement was so frequent, so common, than it became a sort of anatomical white noise. Only when I went braless did they really intrude into my thoughts, and then it was because their movement was different, and not because they moved at all.

The fascination of breasts may have faded into mundanity for me personally, but I was perpetually aware of their effect on men. How many times had I observed one of the guests at the gallery, eyes drifting down as I spoke? I got checked out a lot at Flanagan’s, which given the setting and my mode of dress might be understood. But I also got long, lingering looks while grocery shopping in a ratty, paint-stained T-shirt, or slathered in sweat after a jog in the park. Everyone, men and women alike, felt permitted to observe my body, and boobs were just a focus of that attention.

Still, it wasn’t as if I didn’t appreciate them at all myself. I had truly grown to love my figure, the way that clothes hung on my body, or clung to it. Fashion was just another expression of art, after all. Through it, I could choose who I wanted to be every day. Oh, I was always Cayley, always a woman, but was I a trim, sleek businesswoman? A Bohemian artist, covered in a panoply of colors and dangly bracelets? A tightly-wrapped party girl? Or one of my favorites, the slim and elegant woman who looked like she ought to be Irish, who sometimes sang or played the flute at the weekly ceilidh?

It had taken two months before Darren had convinced me to come on stage. It was just to sing backup with him on a song I had heard him perform many times, on stage or during his occasional practice sessions at home. That night he had sung it in the car on the way, and I chimed in, and before I knew it, I was standing in front of hundreds of people in my burgundy dress and opening my mouth and actually singing. The crowd was too much for me to handle, so I kept my eyes on Darren. I felt my voice blend with his, and suddenly the song was over, I was bowing to applause before realizing I should probably curtsy, and trying not to rush off the stage so fast that my embarrassment showed.

The next was easier, though, and the time after that easier still, until I found myself practicing with the flute I had not touched in more than a decade. Darren heard me, and that led to playing together, and pretty soon we were almost a double act.

The log shifted in the fireplace, bringing my thoughts back to the present, though not away from Darren. What did he want, and what did I want?

Twenty times we had been to Flanagan’s together, in groups or simply together. But we always dined before, just he and I, and pretty soon I could no longer maintain the illusion that it was not a date. He certainly showed me unique attention that he did not extend to any of the other Fellows, or anyone else in our lives. We often painted together, in the public or private workspaces, and in the fall when the weather had been pleasant, we took several hikes around the grounds.

And yet, we had never progressed beyond that sort of friendly chasteness. We had not kissed. We had not so much as held hands, unless you counted taking a bow together on stage. Everyone at Flanagan’s naturally assumed that we were together, but because of that assumption, they never actually asked, and thus there was never an opportunity to see what Darren would say if someone mistook me for this girlfriend.

But did I want to be his girlfriend? That was easy in a way — yes, of course I did. I fantasized about what it would be like, talked often to Aubrey about the possibility. Something always held me back, however; the image of this body as worn by Audrey, wearing one of my old button-down shirts, attempting to seduce me.

The necklace had affected my sexuality. I had no romantic interest in women anymore, but that had even been fading during the earlier part of my life. I had been developing a romantic attraction to men, however. Romantic and, I admitted, sexual.

It started out so simply. Aubrey and I were out shopping, and we noticed each other checking out the same butt in line in front of us. I watched a movie in which the lead actor was depicted shirtless, and I felt a little flutter, as if I was seeing something I’d like to explore further. When the shirtless scene turned into a sex scene, I was disappointed at how little of the man I saw, although based on the naked actress’s reactions, she was certainly enjoying herself. I wondered how it would feel to have my own back caressed like that, large strong hands stroking down my side to grip my ass.

I felt all of these things, and they felt genuine, but I could not trust that they were. I had no intention of returning to my male body, but it still felt wrong to base my actions on emotions and urges that were coming from outside of me. So I initiated nothing with Darren, and he had initiated nothing with me, and thus we had settled into a close friendship that had the perpetual promise of something more, without that promise ever being fulfilled.

The log had nearly burned down. I thought about throwing another on, but on reflection, decided that I would rather get the day started. I had no obligations in the gallery, which meant that I could dedicate the entire day to my own projects.

I poured the rest of the coffee into a Thermos, belatedly sweetened it, and then began to get myself ready for the outside world. I didn’t shower — I had discovered that too much showering was really unnecessary, especially now that my sweat did not stink quite so much. It wasn’t that I lacked body odor, but it no longer had the tang of testosterone.

Instead, I brushed out my hair and worked it into a quick braid, which I curled up and pinned on the back of my head. I had been doing a lot of braids lately, from simple ones that just hung down my back, to complex twists that incorporated ribbons. I loved the look of wearing my hair down, but not when I had hands covered in paint and couldn’t easily push it out of the way. The braided bun looked nice and kept it anchored in place quite effectively.

I wore minimal makeup too, just a bit around my eyes. I saw myself with makeup so often that it almost felt like my default appearance, while my unadorned eyes looked tired and unappealing. I avoided any lipstick or foundation, though. They were for going out, not a comfortable day in the workspace.

I returned to the bedroom to dress. My eyes strayed to where the wall met the ceiling in the corner. A crack had recently begun to develop, probably just the house settling. I kept expecting it to stop, but it only continued to extend, like slow-motion lightning. It was the only fault I could find in the room, though. I dressed in comfortable clothing: a pair of stained yoga pants that had seen considerable creative action; my comfiest bra, under a thin-strapped, sleeveless white camisole; and a sweatshirt with a torn off collar. It had been one of Aubrey’s, already too big for her, and when she cut out the collar it started falling off her shoulders. But it was perfect for me.

A pair of pink socks and some boots finished me off, for inside attire at least. It was a cold walk to the workspace, though. All my outerwear was by the back door.

I made the bed, straightened up a few odds and ends, and took a gander around the room. Everything was in place, straight and cozy. I had grown to love this little room, with all the little decorator touches. It could have been a photo from a bed and breakfast advertisement, although someone would have had to photoshop out the crack in the wall. I sort of fixed it in my mind, a happy place that I could take with me no matter how cold it got outside.

The residence was dark and quiet. Only Nicholas was up at this hour, sitting in the kitchen and sipping on his morning coffee. We exchanged a pleasant word, but he did not detain me. I went to the vestibule, donned my gray and black winter coat, earmuffs, scarf, and gloves. That was another thing to note about my body now — it certainly did get cold quicker. Less mass, more surface area. And maybe something to do with my metabolism? I had not read up on the science. It was enough to know that even for a walk of less than a quarter mile, in twenty degree weather, I needed to bundle up like I was racing in the Iditarod.

I crunched through the remains of last week’s snow. The path had mostly turned to mud in yesterday’s warmer weather, but then frozen overnight. We had more snow in the forecast, but that was nothing new. I didn’t mind being snowed in. Where else on the planet did I want to go?

A blast of warmth greeted me as I entered the workspace, stomping my shoes to dislodge the ice. I hung my scarf and coat on the nearby hook, and stuck the earmuffs and gloves in the coat pocket.

The workspace was deserted, except for me. Only the small lights in the entryway were on, but by now I knew my way to the big breaker box. I flipped the switch, swearing only once when Sasha rubbed against my legs unexpectedly. Slowly the big overhead lights came on, bathing the former warehouse in an uncertain half-light until they had fully warmed up.

I checked Sasha’s food and water — both were fine — and began to assemble my supplies. For the last few months, I had been finishing up my old paintings, doing sketches, trying out old ideas and collaborating with the others. It had been wonderful, tremendous fun and totally inspiring. But over the past weeks, I had felt a growing urge to do something new, something completely my own. I wanted to take an idea that wasn’t from my life before, but represented the me that was here now.

I found a canvas in the storeroom. I took a selection of paints, brushes, knives, palettes, all the sundries that I would need. I had been using the old supplies I brought with me, but I wanted this to be completely new.

It took an hour, but I fully outfitted my workspace. Everything I needed was close to hand. I put some music on my Bluetooth headphones and stood in front of the canvas, staring.

I had no fucking idea what to do.

My faculty advisor, Brent Pendergast, had given me a lecture once how how to get out of this moment. “Don’t try to see a finished product in a blank canvas,” he told me. “That’s too big. Find the next brushstroke. You can do that. Anybody can do that. Squirt out some paint and stick your brush on it and pop the canvas’s cherry.”

I felt retroactively disapproving of his choice of language, but the advice was good. I pooled a bit of paint on my palette, mixed a few up, and then attacked the canvas with my brush.

Ten minutes later, I realized that everything I had done up until that point was wrong. Believe it or not, that’s a great feeling. When you know something is going the wrong way, that means you’ve got a better sense of what the right way is.

I adjusted course, started seeing patterns in what I was doing, and honed in on them. Yes, that one streak at the top could be the line between wall and ceiling. Over on the left, that sort of indentation, was a dormer window. I realized suddenly that with a few alterations, I could be looking at the inside of my bedroom up at the residence.

With that clarity, I knew more what to do. Here was a problem I knew how to solve, taking something that was formless and giving it shape. I sketched in the bed, the nightstand, the little baubles on the shelves. There was the other window, the curtains. My robe was on the hook by the bed, right where I left it, a red patch of slipper just below. With the edge of a knife, I sketched out the crack on the wall, jagged and jarring.

I don’t know how long I worked, the little details taking shape. The picture was coming into focus, built out of memory and invention and tiny twists of my wrist. It all hung together beautifully, except for that crack.

I kept worrying at the spot. It never seemed to fit with the rest. It wasn’t the imperfection that ruined the composition; on the contrary, little flaws were often the best thing to paint. They gave the finished work character. But the crack just didn’t jive. If I had to put it into words, it felt like the room didn’t want it there, like it was a wound to be healed.

Well, this was my painting. I could do whatever I wanted with it.

It didn’t feel right to just paint over the crack. If I did that, I reasoned, it would still be there, just covered up. It needed to be fixed. And so I stripped it down to the plaster, joined up the slats with fresh wood, spackled over the whole thing, and then painted the wall color over all of that. I don’t know why I went to all the effort, painstakingly creating detail and then immediately covering it. But it just felt right, sort of like the way that I would paint over the taped portions of my earlier works, even though the tape was going to be removed.

There were other parts of the painting to finish. I gave the floor a glossy sheen, made feather-light wisps on the fuzzy parts of my robe and slippers, let the light play on the little knots and twists of the crocheted afghan on the bed. Pretty soon, though, my brush was just hovering over the canvas, trying to find something to do and failing.

Instead, I quickly brushed out a signature in the lower right corner. Cayley... not a name I would have chosen, but then again, none of us ever get to choose our names, do we? It was mine, and more and more it felt right to claim it.

I removed my headphones, and was surprised to hear movement in the space. I scanned around the room, and found that Josephine was there. She was at a small work table, with a stack of old clock radios on one side, and a giant pile of pieces on the other.

With a rag, I rubbed the most egregious stains off my hands. I felt weary and drained, but a glance up at the wall clock told me that I had worked away all of the morning and a good part of the afternoon. My belly rumbled with hunger, reminding me of the meal I had skipped and the length of time since breakfast.

“Hey, Jo,” I called out, drifting over to her area. I knew that when she was scavenging, she didn’t mind an interruption. “How long have you been here? I seriously had no idea.”

She pulled out a little circuit board, and after some consideration, popped a few resistors off and put them into a smaller pile. “About two hours. You were deep in the art.”

“That’s a good way of putting it.” I stretched again, cracking my back and trying to work some kinks out of my neck. “Is that from your last trip to Conway?”

Josephine nodded. “I love all the little variations. Different factories make the same sort of thing, it does the same thing, but they are all different inside. But the same.” She frowned. “That sounded better in French.”

“Everything does.”

She chuckled. “No, I mean that I have better words, but not in English.“

“I think I get it. They’re like lines that converge and diverge, all going the same direction and crossing each other, taking different paths to the same place.”

“Yes!” she beamed. “I am stealing these words.”

My stomach rumbled, and I excused myself. There was a small lounge area in the workspace, which was great for taking a break between sessions, but I was done for the day. In fact, at that moment I wanted nothing more than a meal and a long soaking bath. Maybe a nap.

I swaddled myself again before going outside, but the air had warmed up since the pre-dawn hours. I was sweating a bit when I got back to the house, stomped the slush off, and walked wearily into the kitchen. No one was about — they were all up at the gallery, I wagered, or else out on errands of their own. I scooped a leftover slice of pizza in each hand, and munched them as I made my way up to my apartment.

I began to draw the bath, letting the water warm before inserting the plug, and then tipping in a generous measure of bath salts. While it filled, I went to the bedroom to peel off my stained clothing.

I had stripped down to my necklace, and was reaching for the robe, when I saw it. Or rather, when I didn’t see it. At the top of the wall, right where the ceiling met, was a plain and unbroken space of painted plaster. That morning there had been a crack, growing larger every day, and now that crack was gone.

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