Prose by Hawthorne Nyberg
Art by Nicole Ma
(A Bending of the Metamorphoses after Ali Smith)
I. Iphis woke late Wednesday, cast her eye around for her glasses, found them on the floor between the nightstand and the Durex box, laid back down.
Bed was a tangle of blanket, legs, a discarded sweater scrawled over with cig burns. Sometimes when alone – like this morning now that Ianthe’s gone to work – Iphis thought that the floral bedsheets could swell to fill the far corners of her vision. A headache thrummed like Vulcan’s forges and a gods-awful bitch of a hangover. And she’d forgotten to untuck last night. Iphis groaned. Sometimes she thought the space from bed to door trembled like a mirage and stretched to some unimaginable distance.
Morning fog still hung thick and humid in the yard when Iphis made it to the kitchen. A dull orange light throbbed over the East Bay. Ianthe had left a notepad on the counter next to twenty dollars and a pack of menthols:
Didn’t want to wake you.
Sorry last night was hard.
Sometimes I lose my temper.
I’ll pick you up at four.
Have a decent day.
Iphis turned the booklet over. On the tough cardboard backing she began a list of what she was not:
Not boy
Not for touching
Not to hold
Not too close
Not girl
(she slashed this out and a drop of blue ink speckled from the ballpoint onto the countertop, flashing slightly in the late morning sun)
Not boy
Not boy
Sometimes when alone, Iphis thought of follicles, the quiet violence of hair puncturing skin. Sometimes she wondered at the peculiar shape of hands, how they seem to reveal so much to some people. She wondered whether dogs who fear men might fear her too. She thought of the waves that beat the Pacific shore ceaselessly, the minute particles of glass and earth they scrape and grind into strange and magnificent shapes. Iphis shut her eyes and dreamt of something bigger.
II. A few traces of fog still clung to the ground when Iphis heard the crunch of gravel under Ianthe’s tires at 3:57. Iphis didn’t wait, was out the door before Ianthe switched off the ignition. The Centaur next door gave her a little wave, fluttered his brindle tail, and went back to washing his Cadillac Cimarron as he did most Wednesdays.
They didn’t talk much on the drive into Oakland, but on the way through Berkeley, Ianthe reached across, placed her hand on Iphis’ knee. Iphis lay her hand atop Ianthe’s, felt Ianthe gently massage her leg. She wondered if she should feel more excited, or more nervous. The streets whisked past, green blurs of cedars and red terracotta rooftops swirled in and out of vision until Ianthe brought the car to a halt outside a low building shaded by cypress trees. Redwood-shingled and altogether pleasant, it looked more like any home in the East Bay than a clinic, but a small bronze plaque on the door read Leucippus Center for Gender Affirming Care. Ianthe got out and opened the passenger door for Iphis.
You want me to come in with you, right?
Iphis nodded. Ianthe settled her arm on her shoulder as they walked up the steps. Iphis leaned into her slightly, felt her weight up against her.
The Satyr at reception smiled up at them as they entered.
You must be Iphis…
(he glanced between the two of them as if unsure who he should be addressing. Iphis
stepped forward slightly)
I’ll let Dr Galen know you’re here. They will be with you shortly. Please take a seat.
He flurried off down the hall. Ianthe smiled encouragingly at Iphis, squeezed her shoulder slightly, but neither of them moved to sit. Abruptly, Iphis was aware of her heart pounding in her ears. The deserted waiting room seemed suddenly dim as a cold, dry ache throbbed though her chest and up her spine. She grabbed Ianthe’s arm.
I’m scared of making the wrong decision.
You don’t have to commit to anything now, Ianthe said, we’re just here for possibilities.
(she held both of Iphis’ hands, looked her in the eye. The ache was less desperate now)
If you don’t want to be here, we can go…
Iphis thought for a moment of long red roads, of the possibility of disappearing and the prospect of never finding her way back. She thought of the doctor’s office, age eighteen, all frowns and faux-sympathy, the syllables of Esᴛʀᴏɢᴇɴ hanging heavy in the air alongside Blood Clot / Mood Swing / Infertility / Too Risky A Decision, Such An Impressionable Age…
Then she thought of Ianthe’s raucous laughter, her black hair caught in the corners of her mouth. She thought of the gentle curves of garden paths and breasts and Pacific pebbles. The ache was less desperate now. She was keenly aware of Ianthe’s hand in hers, the pliant bumps of her knuckles, the irregular smoothness of her palms, her heartbeat slow and even beneath her fingers. The ache was less desperate now.
No. No, I should stay.
Just then, a side door opened to reveal a short figure with a shock of frizzy grey hair, a Dead Kennedys t-shirt showing through their lab coat. They extended their hand and Iphis shook it.
Pleasure to meet you in person, Iphis. I’m Dr Galen. Would you join me in my office when you’re ready?
(a round purple button on their lapel read You’re Safe Here in bold yellow)
Ianthe whispered, I’ll wait by the car. Good luck.
I love you.
I love you.
She squeezed her hand, and Iphis followed Dr Galen into their office.
III. Iphis left the building at 5:34, half-ran across the tarmac. Ianthe leaned on the hood of her car, cigarette caught between her lips, and stood up as Iphis approached. Iphis unfolded into her, scattering prescription papers, sperm bank referrals, longhand doctors’ scrawl of prayers to Isis, Apollo, Dionysus.
Driving home, the road seemed to curl up towards the roof of the sky, high above the red tiled towers of Berkeley and the harbour and the indolent red-brown twists of the estuaries until the whole of California glimmered red and brilliant below them.
Sometimes when alone Iphis thought the San Francisco Bay could rise and sweep her kicking and biting into the Pacific. Sometimes she felt a valve burst deep inside her, soak her lungs in cold blue ink, gnaw like acid at her throat. Some synapses broadcast their exhortations through the very marrow of our being until we learn to fear our subversive bodies.
But, sat beside Ianthe on that long drive home, Iphis felt the corners of her dread give way as something ignited within her. Perhaps a beam of laughter might escape her lips in joyous, shameless, heady peals. From her eyes, perhaps, a pale flame might flare across the heavens, proclaim
Nᴏᴛ ʙᴏʏ
Nᴏᴛ ʙᴏʏ
And perhaps the strange and monstrous love of seven million strangers might blaze across the Bay to coax and claw those threatening waters back down below all harm or notice.
And perhaps she was safe.
When they pulled in, the centaur was still washing his Cimarron. The evening was autumnal and cool. A dry wind blew in from Fresno, bit the last wisps of fog back out to Golden Gate. Iphis got out, hugged her arms around herself, stood for a moment in the soft glory of dusk and watched the sun set behind the Berkeley hills.
She heard Ianthe’s footfalls behind her, felt her wrap her arms around her waist and rest her chin in the crook of her collarbone.
Ow, said Iphis, Stop that.
Ianthe kissed her where her chin had been, then her neck. She leaned in close to her ear.
Will you marry me?