Golden Boy (29 page)

‘I want a brother!’ I howl.

‘I’m sorry! I am your brother, I’m not going to be a sister. Ow, stop fucking kicking me, Daniel! OW!’

Max lets go of me and goes over to the telly-wall. I turn around and pick up a book and throw it at him and it hits him in the forehead but he is holding his stomach.

When the book hits his head he puts an arm over his head as well and crouches down. His eyebrow has a scratch on it that I made with the controller. There is a bit of blood but not a lot.

‘I told you my tummy was hurt,’ Max says quietly, with a scratchy voice, like he is catching his breath. ‘I told you the other day. Why did you kick me?’

I stop screaming and even though my chest is heaving, I get really quiet, really quickly.

‘I can’t fucking handle you when you’re like this,’ Max says.

‘Yes you can,’ I say.

‘You really hurt me.’

‘Well . . .’ I frown. ‘You’re big.’

‘I’m not that big, Daniel.’

‘You’re as big as Mum and Dad.’

‘No . . .’

‘Yes you are.’

‘I am almost, size-wise, but I’m way, way younger than them. You can’t yell at me like that and shove and kick me. It hurts, and I’m not old enough to deal with it,’ he says really quietly, like he is totally, completely tired. ‘I just don’t have the energy to fight you. And you can’t ask me to do that. I’m not your parent.’

I shrug. ‘You’re old enough to be one.’

‘No!’ And then it’s Max’s turn to shout at me. ‘I’M NOT.’

I’m still angry at him, but he seems to be very upset so I walk over to him and crouch down next to him and put my arm over his shoulder.

‘OK, Max, you’re not,’ I say to comfort him, but it does the opposite because he cries once, loudly, under his arm. Then he gets up and walks out of my room, and I have no one to play
Deadland 2
with anymore.

I sigh, very deeply, like Max did earlier, and notice how our sighs sound very much the same, and I think this is probably because we are brothers, and we are the closest people to each other genetically in the world, and so even our sighs sound the same, and I think this is a very profound realisation, so I write it down in my notebook.

‘
I
want to know,’ I hear as I walk in my office on Friday morning, and I jump, realising Max is standing next to my examining table.

‘Max! You scared me.’ I heave my files carefully onto the desk. Max steps forward to help me balance the pile, picking up several that slip off the tabletop. ‘What are you doing here? We have an appointment next week.’

‘I want to know now,’ he says, almost petulantly.

I sigh and glance at the clock on the wall. ‘Look, you have to schedule an appointment. I have so many patients to see today and they all need my help too. I know what’s going on in your life is overwhelming, but—’

‘Archie! Please! I want to know!’ Max can’t look me in the eye. He puts his hands over his face and speaks quickly. ‘Please, Archie. This is so embarrassing. I don’t know anything about myself, and I’ve
never
asked anyone, I’ve
never
made an issue out of it, I just want . . . I want to know. Please.’

He takes his hands off his face, as if he needed them there just to speak.

I think, and then feel ashamed of myself, embarrassed for being in such a rush. I shut my door and sit down at my desk. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘I want to know . . . whether I’m a boy or a girl.’

He looks wrecked, as if he hasn’t slept in weeks.
Somebody should have told him the truth
, I think. I sigh and decide to address the issue simply. ‘You’re neither.’

‘No.’ Max shakes his head. ‘I Googled it. Being intersex means that you don’t look like one or the other to a doctor. It doesn’t mean you aren’t one.’

‘That’s . . .’ I rub my lips together, trying to find the right words. ‘Not always true. Sit down,’ I say, nodding to the chair opposite me. Max is standing rigidly, his arms crossed. He swallows, looks around and then moves to the patient’s chair.

‘Sorry for busting in,’ he mutters.

‘That’s alright,’ I reply. ‘How are things at home?’

He looks up at me, like it’s a stupid question.

‘I see,’ I say, nodding. ‘Max, before we talk about this, I wanted to ask. The boy who assaulted you . . .’ I falter. ‘Has it happened again? Do you think it will?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

I nod.

Max looks around the room and chews the top layer of skin off his lip.

‘OK,’ I begin. ‘If a doctor can’t decide whether a newborn is a boy or girl, they can check three things: the sex chromosomes, meaning whether you’re genetically a boy or a girl; the gonads, meaning whether you have testes or ovaries; and how the body responds to hormones. Sometimes they do gender assignment surgery straight away. Sometimes it’s necessary, sometimes it’s . . . not.’

Max clears his throat.

‘Do you want to ask a question?’

‘No. Sorry,’ he looks down at his knees and wriggles uncomfortably. ‘Keep going.’

‘In instances where intersex people have surgery at birth, some people aren’t happy with their assigned sex, some people say surgery is genital mutilation, some experience reduced sensitivity, and many people require further surgery later in life.’

‘But I didn’t have surgery.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘Why not?’

I pause. ‘Your father didn’t want you to have it.’

‘Dad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not Mum?’

‘It just says your dad in your file.’

‘So . . . did Dad not want me to have it because they would make me a girl?’

‘I don’t know, Max.’

‘I can’t imagine my dad wanting me to stay like this,’ Max says, more to himself than me. ‘He’s such a, like, family values person.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know. He always seemed the more traditional one. He’s the one who wanted to get the big house and to have the two kids and stuff. That’s what Mum said.’

‘Do you and your mum talk a lot?’

Max’s eyes slip to the side. ‘We used to. I don’t know. We haven’t recently.’

‘So,’ I continue, but Max interrupts me.

‘What sex did the doctor want to assign me?’

‘A girl when you were born, then they suggested that you be assigned to a male sex at nine, and again pressure was applied to do this at thirteen.’

‘Why?’

‘A lot of the surgery is done based on what you have on the outside, which is why many intersex people lose their ability to have babies. When you were born, in the mid-nineties, surgery was getting more refined, and so doctors still wanted you to have surgery, but instead of wanting to assign you a male gender based on your outward appearance, they advised assigning you a female gender based on your sex organs. When you were born, you had a vagina. Inside your body you had two gonads. One was an ovotestis, meaning half ovarian tissue and half testicular. As far as I can understand, ovotestes very rarely work, and are thought to be prone to certain tumours, so many doctors choose to remove them. Yours, like many people’s, was removed shortly after birth. You
also
had a uterus and an ovary, but you had no testicles at all. Are you following?’

Max is groaning. ‘Yes.’

‘Max?’ He looks up.

‘I know you are a little embarrassed, but remember I am a doctor. I deal with all sorts of embarrassing things, mucus and pimples and warts and I also run an after-hours clinic here where I talk to many young people about these issues. So, for me, this is not really an awkward conversation. OK?’

He nods shyly. ‘Thanks, Archie. Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise, please.’

He makes an effort to smile.

Poor kid
, I involuntarily think. Then,
Don’t get emotionally involved
.

I clear my throat. ‘When you were born, you also had a small phallus, and couldn’t immediately be assigned a gender. Your father wouldn’t allow you to be operated on, except to have the ovotestis removed. It says in your file that your parents chose the name Max because they felt it would be gender-neutral. Then you grew up and you acted like a little boy and everyone treated you like a boy. This is all according to your notes. So, at nine, the doctors suggested you have the surgery to turn you into a boy.’

‘Why at nine?’

‘Well, firstly, the phallus looked more male by then.’

Max blushes. ‘Oh.’

‘They knew because—’

‘Because of the photographs.’

‘You remember that?’

Max rolls his eyes unhappily and shrugs.

I continue. ‘You were relating to boys, acting like a boy and, crucially, you weren’t growing like a girl. You weren’t showing any signs of breasts, your penis was bigger, so a specialist suggested surgery to remove all your internal female organs at nine, and then again at thirteen. Then when your parents wouldn’t consent, a course of male hormones was suggested, which they agreed to.’

‘Yeah, I remember that. Why did my parents agree to the hormones if they didn’t agree to the surgery?’

I think back. ‘I don’t know. It didn’t say in your file. Perhaps it was a compromise.’

Max nods, and we sit in silence for a moment as he thinks. Then he looks up at me through his hair and lets out a long breath. ‘So,’ he asks, ‘what am I?’

He watches me nervously, his green eyes marred with turbulent thoughts.

‘Firstly, I just want you to know that I think your parents haven’t told you this because they didn’t want to overwhelm you. Because intersexuality is rare, parents can often feel isolated and confused themselves, and I think they didn’t want you to feel like that, growing up. Also, Max, maybe the reason your parents didn’t do the surgery when you were younger is because sometimes when parents pick the baby’s sex, the baby grows up and feels like the other sex. Or they don’t feel comfortable being either. A lot of doctors and parents get it wrong.’

‘Archie,’ Max interrupts me. ‘Tell me what I am.’

I pause a moment, then nod.

‘I can’t tell you why you are what you are, but you are what is known as a true hermaphrodite, born with both ovarian and testicular tissue. People with true hermaphroditism can have three different karyotypes, meaning the combination of chromosomes. The sex chromosomes, X and Y, define whether you’re chromosomally male or female or both. For true hermaphrodites, possible karyotypes are 47,XXY, 46,XX/46,XY or 46,XX/47,XXY. Intersex people, just like people of male or female sex, are born in all shapes and sizes, so even a similar diagnosis to another person could mean you look fairly different.’

‘Wait . . .’ Max begins, then falters, holding the sides of his head with his hands as if he cannot concentrate. ‘So, is female XX?’

‘Yes, and male is XY.’

‘Can you please,’ Max lowers his head miserably, ‘just tell me if I’m a boy or a girl?’

‘Max, I told you, you’re neither. Your karyotype is 46,XX/46,XY.’

He puts a shaking hand up to his lips and looks at me. He lets out a choking noise.

‘My personal opinion is that your parents held out on surgery, not because they couldn’t decide whether you should be a boy or a girl, but because they knew you didn’t have to choose either.’

‘Fuck.’ Max leans over his knees and puts his hands to his face. ‘Fuck,’ I hear, mumbled, coming through tears. ‘Shit. Sorry.’

‘Are you going to be sick?’ I ask.

‘I . . . I don’t know.’

I get my sick bucket from the corner of my room and hold it on the floor underneath him. I crouch down and touch his hair awkwardly. He shakes beneath my fingers. Tears fall off his face and pat the metal bucket like rain.

‘Max,’ I whisper. ‘This is a good thing. You don’t have to make choices, you don’t have to have surgery, you can just be you.’

‘I don’t want . . .’ he whispers, then his voice fades away and he shakes his head. He sits up, and his cheeks are streams of water. ‘I don’t want to be me.’

‘Oh, Max.’ I struggle to find words to comfort him. ‘I’m sorry. Look, I shouldn’t have told you this way, I should have let your parents do it, but I thought you should know, particularly with the baby.’

‘Oh shit, the baby,’ he sobs.

‘Max—’ I take hold of his hand and he grips mine fiercely.

‘Jesus, I was so sure I could just come in here and solve all the problems and have the surgeries and just be a normal brother, you know?’ He rubs his eyes with his other palm and I notice how pale he looks, how red they look. ‘I looked intersex up on the internet last night, and I saw how girls could look like boys and boys could look like girls, and I was just so fucking sure I’d come in and you’d tell me yes, I was a boy, and everything else was just a mistake that I could ignore and get rid of. I want to get rid of it.’

‘The baby?’

He wipes his arm across his face. ‘No. I don’t know. I mean everything. I want to get rid of everything that makes me a complete freak.’

‘You’re not a freak, Max! Don’t say that.’

‘Archie . . .’ he cries, and I put my arms around his head.

‘Alright, OK . . .’ I say soothingly. ‘Please don’t cry.’

‘Is my appointment scheduled for the abortion?’ Max asks quietly, wiping away his tears, calming himself down. ‘Sorry about the crying,’ he mutters.