Golden Boy (23 page)

‘We’re so sorry to drag you away from your usual patients,’ Karen says, in a smooth but firm voice.

‘It’s OK. We actually have a drop-in session on Saturday afternoons, for post-natal mothers and babies.’

A flash of something close to anger tears across Karen’s face and then disappears. ‘Oh,’ she says politely.

Max rubs his nose, not listening.

‘So . . .’ Steve begins. ‘We wanted to see you because we know Max came to see you a few months ago.’

I look over at Max, surprised. He is staring blankly at the floor.

‘We are concerned, firstly, that this doesn’t become . . . public knowledge.’

‘Public?’ I ask, confused.

Steve and Karen share a look and Steve sighs, minutely. Karen gives him a quick nod. Neither give anything away. I am starting to realise this is not about Max’s condition, but I cannot think what else it could be.

‘We’re just worried for Max that this doesn’t get out,’ Steve says.

‘This is about the campaign?’ I ask, confused.

Steve clears his throat. ‘Not exactly. Max is in trouble. The contraception you gave him didn’t work. Not –’ he says on my look, holding up a hand. ‘– that I’m saying there was anything wrong with the pill. Max just thinks he might have been sick and the pill may not have been digested first.’

I nod, understanding.

‘We are here because we want to deal with this situation quickly and privately, and to find out what Max’s options are,’ Steve adds, patting Max on the knee.

Karen leans in and adds, ‘I want to know how this could have happened, with Max’s condition.’

I frown. ‘I’m sorry, to clarify – Max is pregnant?’

‘Yes.’ Steve nods.

We all watch Max for a moment. He looks exhausted and uncomfortable, fidgeting slowly and dreamily, his eyes wandering around the room.

‘How could this happen?’ asks Karen.

I lean forward. ‘Being intersex doesn’t mean you’re infertile. In fact, intersex people are more likely to become infertile if they have surgery to “correct” their genitals. Surgery is a lot more common now than it was in the past, so you’re likely to hear of a lot fewer people with Max’s condition being able to bear children.’

‘We should have had the procedure,’ Karen says immediately, addressing her lap with a little note of self-admonishment.

‘Well,’ I say. ‘Not necessarily.’

I look over at Max, but he doesn’t appear to be listening as Karen asks me how long it will take to schedule an abortion.

‘About two weeks,’ I reply, my eyes still on Max. ‘No one should have to wait over three.’

‘It could be three?’

‘It . . .’ I focus on Karen and Steve. ‘It might be, but with Max, the doctors will probably decide to do it sooner rather than later.’

Karen nods. ‘Good.’

Max rubs his eyes. His dad looks at him expectantly but he shrugs, his lips firmly closed. It is as if he has shut down the part of himself that cares to speak.

‘Do you think it would be better to go through his specialists in London?’ Karen asks. ‘Will the doctors who do the abortion be specialists?’

‘In general, doctors in the UK don’t have much training in working with intersex people, but doctors who perform abortions will have lots of experience dealing with varied anatomical configurations. Having been over Max’s files and researched his condition, I think they should be able to cope. If, however, it would make you feel more comfortable—’

‘We’re not working with the specialists anymore,’ Steve interrupts.

Karen and Steve share a look over Max’s head. He notices and glances at both of them questioningly.

‘Well . . .’ Karen murmurs, glancing at Steve. I detect a small frown on Steve’s face.

‘Approaches have changed a lot since Max was born, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ I add. ‘Corrective surgery is no longer advocated in all cases. They won’t push anything more than an abortion.’

I notice the corners of Max’s mouth twitch. He chews on his fingernail nervously.

Steve shakes his head. ‘Thank you, but no. We don’t want specialists. We didn’t like the way they worked with Max. Their ideology was different to ours.’

Max finally raises his head in surprise. ‘How?’

‘We’ll talk about it at home, honey,’ Karen says.

Max flashes a quick look at me before focusing on picking his nails again.

‘OK. So I’ll contact both the clinics in Oxford and see which one can take Max.’

‘Why can’t I have it here?’ Max asks quietly.

Karen shakes her head.

‘I’m afraid,’ I reply, looking directly at Max, ‘we don’t have the resources to do this safely in Hemingway, so it would be at either John Radcliffe or The Manor Hospital in Oxford.’

‘Is there a possibility of having one operation to perform both an abortion and a hysterectomy?’ Karen asks.

‘That’s not usually done together,’ I say, as Steve says, ‘We haven’t talked about that.’

‘We probably should have a long time ago,’ Karen replies quietly.

‘It’s not necessary right now.’

‘Right now? It’s relevant.’

Steve makes a small humming sound, a warning note, with his mouth.

‘So he can have a normal life,’ mutters Karen.

‘Whether or not you want to consider a hysterectomy, you should probably discuss this with Max in detail at home.’ I attempt to catch Max’s eye, to no avail. ‘Do some research on the net, read some books.’

Karen shakes her head.

‘Max,’ I say. He finally looks me in the eye. ‘You should know that there is, within the medical community and society as a whole, a lack of understanding for issues of gender and sexuality, and in a case like yours, doctors might be too willing to force surgeries rather than help you decide on a gender without surgery. You need to be prepared.’

‘Why does he have to decide on a gender?’ Steve offers.

‘Or not decide, whichever,’ I agree, with a small smile.

Max seems to have zoned out again.

‘That seems like good advice, Max,’ Steve says, turning to him. ‘Should we talk about this when we’re home?’

Max nods weakly.

‘When are we going to have time to talk about this?’ Karen says, almost to herself, before turning to me. ‘As you said, the doctors will probably be much better about that now, in any case, and they won’t want to study him like an ape, hopefully,’ she adds.

‘
Mum
,’ Max whines softly.

I purse my lips but press on. ‘Policy has changed a lot since the nineties. I’ve been doing some research. It’s hard to find information that relates to intersexuality. It usually gets buried in information about transsexuals. I’ve been looking for support groups in the area as well, but I’m only finding groups that cater to LGBT young people.’

Max clears his throat. ‘LGBT?’

‘Lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender,’ I reply.

‘Yeah, I know, just . . .’ Max looks at his feet. ‘That’s not me.’

‘I know,’ I say. He looks up at me and smiles slightly, for the first time. It’s good to see.

‘Do you want to see a psychiatrist?’ Karen asks Max.

‘Why?’

‘To discuss things like sexuality, if you’re confused.’

I bite my lip and look down at my files. One quick glance at Max’s blank expression tells me he hasn’t had the courage to tell them the sex wasn’t consensual.

‘I’m not confused,’ murmurs Max.

‘I always thought you liked girls but—’

Max cuts Karen off. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘You could see one on the NHS.’

‘No!’

‘Karen,’ says Steve. ‘He doesn’t want to talk about it.’

‘Fine.’ Karen nods calmly, smiling at me as if to say, ‘Nothing wrong here’.

‘So,’ she says. ‘We’ll have the surgery in Oxford and we’ll think about a hysterectomy.’

Steve nods. ‘Yes, alright Max?’

Max bites his lip. ‘OK.’

T
here is a pause while Archie Verma types something into her computer and the whoosh of an email crackles through the nineties-looking speakers.

‘So they’ll get back to me about dates,’ she says casually, like it’s no big deal. I am so grateful to her right now. She’s totally nonchalant about it. So calm. I feel like yelling at her, ‘Take me home! Take me with you!’

Beside me I can feel Mum and Dad, starched like shirts, upright; Mum angry but deadly calm, Dad busily dealing with it, getting it done, shuffling the problem like paperwork. They argue it like a case, back and forth. It’s so embarrassing.

I feel myself getting redder as I think about the hospital and everybody looking at me, reenacting this scene again, more questions, more explanations, the group of people knowing getting wider, getting easier to leak out, to end up on a blog somewhere like the last MP’s kid with the Nazi outfit. Max Walker, cute teen son of the eminent Stephen Walker, a knocked-up he-she.
Lock up your sons and daughters, Oxfordshire, this kid is freaky, indiscriminate and, apparently, virile
.

I watch Archie typing and wish she could do the abortion. I wish we could just keep it between us. She’s the only one that knows how it happened.

‘I always wanted to ask this, but if Max did have a child, would it be likely to inherit his intersex condition?’ my dad asks, out of the blue.

‘What?’ Mum and I say simultaneously.

‘Just . . .’ He looks at us both, as if he forgot for a second that we were here. ‘Wondered.’

It’s like this is
interesting
for him. I’d forgotten how shitty it was to be in a doctor’s office with people talking about me. Everybody finds it so
interesting
. I look over at my dad, wondering if genetic engineering had been available then, would they have changed me. Or maybe if they’d found out before I was born, they would have got rid of me. I want to say to him, ‘If you’d known I was like this, Dad, would you have had me?’

But this is just one in a long list of things during the appointment and in fact, now I think about it, over the years, that I don’t say out loud. Because it would rock the boat of our perfect life.

‘What does that matter?’ Mum hisses. ‘It’s being aborted.’

It
. A sexless, blank thing that is neither he nor she. I guess me and my child have that in common. Wow. My child. Shit.

‘How likely is it that this would happen again?’ Mum says to Archie.

‘Why?’ asks Dad.

‘Because if it’s likely, he’ll probably need a hysterectomy.’

‘Why?’ asks Dad darkly.

‘To be realistic –’ Archie leans forward, thankfully butting in – ‘Max has one fully-functioning ovary. There’s no reason at all why he would be infertile.’

‘Woh,’ I whisper. ‘Seriously?’

‘Max,’ Mum says firmly, meaning ‘stop talking’.

I look down at my nails again and push the cuticles back.

Archie ignores Mum and answers me. ‘Yes, Max. The big surprise is that we don’t hear about this more often, but that’s because babies with your type of intersexuality are often operated on at birth. Because they present as male physically, doctors try to turn them into boys, which would mean that the ovaries and uterus get taken out.’

I think about this and feel sick.

‘As I explained earlier, quite often your intersex type is infertile, but not as a side effect of the condition, more as a side effect of surgery.’

I look up. ‘What type am I?’

‘Not now, Max, let’s not get into that.’ Mum shakes her head.

‘Wait, but . . . am I like a normal type?’

‘Max! Of course you’re normal!’ Dad lies, more to himself than me.

‘How many types are there?’

‘
Max
,’ Dad says firmly, meaning
Enough
. ‘This is something we can talk about at home.’

‘What?’ I feel my voice louder in the room. ‘Why can’t we talk about it now? I wanna know!’

Archie Verma’s almond-shaped eyes move from me to Dad, to Mum, then back to me. We catch each other looking and I look away, blushing.

I feel like shit. ‘Sorry,’ I apologise.

‘You know –’ Archie says, leaning her elbow on the desk – ‘I can talk about this at more length with Max another time, if he wants to.’

Mum and Dad look at each other doubtfully.

Archie tries again. ‘It’s important, as people get older, for them to know about their genitalia, for reasons of hygiene, and also to prevent accidents like this. Max needs the right contraception, perhaps some advice.’

Mum picks imaginary fluff off her skirt and looks at Dad. I feel Dad staring at me, and I busy myself looking at the wall charts and funny medical advice posters and imagining new ones. ‘If you are experiencing the menopause, don’t get in a hot flush – talk to your doctor . . .’; ‘Feeling itchy and scratchy downstairs? Don’t get your knickers in a twist – we can help . . .’; ‘Getting older? Urinary dysfunction? Fill your underwear with something else – our deluxe new incontinence pads . . .’.

We are simultaneously pretending it’s not happening, shirking the blame and avoiding responsibility. I wonder if I look more like Dad or Mum.

‘I collect those posters,’ Archie says with a smile. I look up at her and smile back. ‘Max, would you like to come in one day after school and I’ll explain about your condition?’

I nod. ‘Yeah, OK.’

‘OK, we’ll check in the diary and sort something out for next week. Before the assessment.’