“Yes, I understand you believe you’re transgender, but it is my professional opinion that you’re suffering from identity confusion—”
“I’m not confused about anything,” Sam said. “This has been something I’ve struggled with and kept hidden since I was a child. I don’t think you understand how hard it was to come here and tell someone about it. I came here for advice on what to do next and how to tell my loved ones, not to be treated like I’m crazy.”
Dr. Sherman took off his glasses and set his notes aside. The next two words that came out of his mouth made Sam realize the psychologist would never understand and he had made a grave mistake in coming to see him.
“Young lady,” the psychologist said. “I have studied the human mind for more than four decades. I understand the appeal of joining the transgender community, but I promise you, the transgender movement is nothing short of a trend for nonconformists. In fact, it is still considered a mental illness by the World Health Organization. I would very much like to help you, but mutilating your body is not something I will recommend when your issues can be worked out through counseling.”
Sam was at a loss for words but with an abundance of emotion. He felt his whole life had been spent in a straitjacket, and the first person he had asked to loosen it only made it tighter.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Dr. Sherman said. “Go home and look up the unemployment rate, the poverty rate, the harassment rate, and the victims-of-violence rate of transgender Americans. If you are still confident that it is the lifestyle you’d like to lead, I’ll be happy to recommend another psychologist. But until then, I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do for you.”
Sam had expected to leave Dr. Sherman’s office feeling liberated, confident, and enthusiastic to pursue the life he was meant to lead. Instead, as Sam walked home he felt more depleted, scared, and isolated than ever before. If he couldn’t get support from a clinical psychologist, could he find it in his friends and family? Could he make the transition without them? Could he find the strength to transition all by himself?
The only thing that could help him answer his latest batch of questions was time and time alone.
Every night since his awful visit with Dr. Sherman, Sam watched his favorite episode of Wiz Kids to cheer himself up before falling asleep. Episode 313, “Prisoners of the Asteroid Belt,” followed Dr. Bumfuzzle as he chiseled through hundreds of asteroids and freed an alien species imprisoned inside them. The Celestial Angels, as they were called, were a beautiful race with pale transparent bodies and wide holographic wings. Once freed, the angels happily fluttered off into space, eager to rejoin their families in their home galaxy across the universe.
“Prisoners of the Asteroid Belt” resonated with Sam more than any other episode of Wiz Kids. At times he felt just like a Celestial Angel trapped inside an asteroid, but Dr. Bumfuzzle wasn’t going to appear and save him. If Sam wanted to be freed, he would have to free himself—he just needed to find the courage to start. Even if he had to make the transition on his own, finally feeling at home in his own body and finally being acknowledged as the person he truly was would make the journey worth every minute.
What Sam didn’t know was that a helpful hand was on the way, and it was a lot closer to Dr. Bumfuzzle than he could ever have predicted.
Chapter Four
OVERACTIVE IMAGINATION DISORDER
Mo Ishikawa set a Wiz Kids folder on her pink bedspread and faced the large mirror in the corner of her bedroom. Unlike her friend Sam, Mo loved mirrors—possibly a bit too much. She had three of them in her room and never passed an opportunity to check herself out, strike a pose like Amy Evans, or say “hey girl” when she passed by.
At the moment, Mo was staring into the eyes of her reflection for a very serious, nonquirky matter. She took a deep breath and recited a speech she had been working on for three months. She had practiced it so much it was ingrained in her memory like the Pledge of Allegiance.
“Dad, we need to talk,” Mo said. “I don’t mean to ambush you, but we need to discuss my education. I know it’s always been your dream to see me attend Stanford, but after a lot of thought and reflection I’ve decided it’s not for me. I never told you this, but after I applied to Stanford, I also applied to the creative writing program at Columbia University. I was accepted there, too, and that’s the school I’m planning to attend in the fall.”
She opened the Wiz Kids folder and spread her Columbia acceptance letter and the information about the university’s creative writing program across her bed, pretending to show her father.
“I understand why you think writing isn’t a secure profession, so to make you more comfortable, I’m planning to minor in economics. I apologize for not bringing this up earlier, but I knew you would be upset. I sent enrollment deposits to both Stanford and Columbia to buy some time so I could work up the courage to tell you, but I need to start choosing classes before they all fill up. Here’s a list of all the courses I’d like to take during my first semester.”
Mo set the list on top of the business school information.
“I don’t want to live with regrets, and going to Stanford for business will make me miserable. I’m a writer, Dad—it’s in my blood and it’s what I want to spend my life doing. As you’ve taught me, being an adult is about making tough decisions, so I hope you see this as an example of maturity and not disrespect. Now please look over the materials I’ve provided and let’s have a conversation about it in the morning. Thank you. How was that, Peaches?”
Mo anxiously glanced at her gray cat, Peachfuzzle “Peaches” Carter, who was lying on a pile of stuffed animals in the opposite corner of the room. The cat was twenty-one pounds of pure judgment and wore a jeweled collar that perfectly matched his demeanor. He looked at Mo the way he always looked at people—as if the voice inside his head was saying, Go fuck yourself.
Mo was used to her cat’s unsympathetic expression. Peaches’s green eyes had been filled with resentment since the day he was brought home from the animal shelter—like he knew his existence was a tribute to a fictitious television couple.
Naturally, Mo knew it was unlikely an animal that pooped in a box of sand, lived off canned salmon, and slept twenty hours a day was holding a passionate grudge against her. However, Mo had to remind herself the truth about most things from time to time. Her imagination had a mind of its own.
“I wonder how mad Dad will be when he finds out,” Mo pondered as she paced the room. “I mean, technically he can’t force me to go to Stanford. Then again, my college fund is technically his money. What if he keeps it from me? What if I have to pay for a Columbia education with student loans? What if I never get paid to write after I graduate? How will I get out of debt? I’m going to have to sell my organs on the black market!”
Mo had suffered from OID (overactive imagination disorder) since childhood. The condition wasn’t officially recognized by the United States Department of Health (because Mo had made it up) but the disorder was just as taxing and consuming as any.
“Snap out of it, Mo!” she said, and slapped herself. “Your father is not going to let you sell your organs to pay for college. You’re his only child—he’ll need you to take care of him when he’s old. God, if I just had an older sibling I wouldn’t be dealing with this crap.”
Then again, if Mo had a brother or sister, she probably wouldn’t be an aspiring writer. Growing up an only child was what sparked her creativity and cursed her with a lifetime of OID. With no one to play with, Mo had to invent alternative ways of entertaining herself.
For example, when Mo was two years old she took the caps off absolutely everything in the house and kept them in a Tupperware container under her bed. Her only reason for doing this was to frustrate her father and giggle as she watched him search for them.
At three years old Mo developed an obsession with the mirror. The lonely toddler spent hours every day looking, talking, and making funny faces at herself. The mirror was much more
than a sheet of glass that housed her reflection—it was a window into a world where her doppelgänger lived. To this day, if Mo passed a mirror without making eye contact or saying “hey girl,” she felt she was neglecting an old friend.
When Mo was four years old she named every object in the house so she’d always have someone to talk to. Not only did she bestow identities upon the furniture and appliances, but she also gave the objects pastimes, preferences, and political views. She didn’t know what the terms Republican and Democrat meant, but she told her parents in great detail how the washer wasn’t speaking to the dryer because he voted for John Kerry in the 2004 presidential election.
Mo’s mother thought her daughter was funny and inventive, so she encouraged the personification. Unfortunately, Mrs. Ishikawa’s supportive parenting backfired on her and her husband. Having names also meant every object in the house had a soul, so whenever the time came to replace or recycle something, Mo acted as if her parents were committing murder.
When the Ishikawas threw out Bruce, the wobbly bar stool, Mo cried for a week. She was never the same after she saw Anthony, the broken television, get kidnapped by two garbage men. Mo ran after the truck for six blocks, memorized the license plate number, and called 911 when she got home. The call resulted in a very awkward conversation between her father and the two police officers who showed up at their door.
Her mother had no choice but to tell her that Meredith, the dented lampshade, ran away to join the circus. Mo received postcards from Meredith until she was five years old, telling her all about her adventures on the road. Thankfully, Mo never noticed how similar Meredith’s handwriting was to her mother’s.
Mo’s personality assignments continued into the backyard as well. Every tree, plant, and rock had a complex backstory she was eager to create and share with her mother.
“I had no idea the maple tree lived in Switzerland before moving to our backyard,” Mrs. Ishikawa said. “What made him decide to move to the United States?”
“Because he was in love with the cedar tree and they wanted to get married and start a tree family,” Mo said.
“That’s the same reason Daddy moved here from Japan,” Mrs. Ishikawa said. “What about that boulder? Why does he or she live with us?”
“That only looks like a boulder, Mommy,” Mo explained. “It used to be a shooting star and flew through the galaxy for a million years before it crashed there!”
“That’s incredible, sweetheart,” Mrs. Ishikawa said. “I love your stories so much. Could you do Mommy a favor? I have to go to some meetings soon—just grown-up stuff, nothing exciting—and I would love it if you wrote your stories down so I could take them with me. They’d give me something to smile about.”
“I would love to, Mommy!”
Mo was beyond excited to have a project and took the task very seriously. Using the few words she knew, Mo wrote elaborate stories about the bugs in the garden, the birds that lived in the trees, and the stars in the night sky. Sometimes the plots became very complicated as she unraveled them, so Mo would make visuals with crayons and markers so her mother wouldn’t get confused.
“These stories are wonderful, Mo-Bear!” Mrs. Ishikawa said. “They’re exactly what I need. Listen, I’ve got even more meetings coming up soon. Do you think you could keep writing stories for me? They’re the highlight of my day.”
“You bet I can!”
Every day that Mrs. Ishikawa had a meeting, Mo handed her a new story as she walked out the door. Her father always drove her mother to her meetings, leaving Mo in the care of her aunt Koko, and by the time they returned, Mo would already have a new story for her mother to take to the next meeting. Soon the meetings became very frequent and Mo found it challenging to keep up with the quota she had set for herself.
“I’m so sorry, Mommy,” Mo said. “I didn’t finish my story about the neighbors’ dog for you.”
“That’s all right, sweetheart,” her mother said. “Mommy’s feeling a little tired—I probably won’t do much reading today anyway. Why don’t you finish it and I’ll read it at my next meeting?”
Mo was so devoted to supplying her mother with stories, she hadn’t noticed that Mrs. Ishikawa’s energy level had lowered significantly since she started having all those meetings.
“Mommy, why are you so tired all the time?” Mo asked one day. “Do your meetings make you sleepy?”
“Why yes, they do,” Mrs. Ishikawa said. “Adult stuff is important, but it can be very boring. It makes me sleepy just thinking about it. But don’t worry, Mo-Bear. Mommy will be her usual self once her meetings end.”
Her mother’s energy level wasn’t the only thing changing. Mo also noticed Mrs. Ishikawa was much frailer and paler than she used to be. The more meetings she went to, the smaller and weaker she became.
“Mommy, why are you so skinny?”
“Um… well, sometimes I forget to eat lunch at my meetings,” Mrs. Ishikawa said.
“What happened to your eyebrows and eyelashes? Did they fall out?”
“Oh… maybe I’m shedding like the neighbors’ dog? You know, summer’s just around the corner.”
“Mommy, people don’t shed. What’s really going on?”
“Sweetheart, come have a seat with me and I’ll explain,” her mother said. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something, but I’ve been waiting for the right time. You see, the meetings I’ve been going to every day are at the hospital with doctors.”
“Why are you going to the hospital, Mommy?”
“Because… because…,” Mrs. Ishikawa said with difficulty. “Well, because the doctors think Mommy might have superpowers! They’ve been running tests to find out.”
“Superpowers?” Mo laughed. “You’re teasing me!”
“How else would you explain all my changes?” her mother asked playfully. “Your mommy is the Incredible Sleepy, Shrinking, and Shedding Woman, but we have to keep it a secret so none of your friends get jealous.”
“Is that why Daddy has become so quiet? Because he’s keeping your superpowers a secret?”
“That’s exactly why he’s been so quiet,” Mrs. Ishikawa said. “But not to worry, Daddy will be back to normal once I’m done with all my superhero tests.”
“What can you do with your superpowers?” Mo asked, still unsure of the story her mother was telling her.
“That’s what the doctors are trying to figure out. It’s taking them a long time because they don’t have very much imagination. Boy, I wish I knew someone who could help them out with that.”
Mo lit up with bright eyes, and a big smile grew.
“But, Mommy, I’ve got a great imagination!” she said. “If I wrote stories about the Incredible Sleepy, Shrinking, and Shedding Woman, maybe it would help the doctors out!”
“Mo-Bear, that is the best idea I’ve ever heard!” Mrs. Ishikawa said. “I start another round of meetings soon—this time I’m staying in the hospital for a couple nights for more superpower tests. How about you write some stories for me and we can read them together when I get home?”
“You’ve got it!” Mo said.
While her mother was away at the hospital, Mo religiously worked on her stories about the Incredible Sleepy, Shrinking, and Shedding Woman. She wrote how her mother used her superpowers to sleep through the loudest noises on the planet, how she shrunk to the size of a mouse to retrieve things that fell under couches and behind dressers, and how she shed her hair into food to get free meals at restaurants.
Mo couldn’t wait to share her new stories with her mother, knowing they would make her laugh harder than all the other ones had. Her aunt Koko didn’t appreciate her creativity like Mrs. Ishikawa did, so Mo was very eager for her parents to come back. After almost a week, her dad finally returned home, but Mrs. Ishikawa wasn’t with him.
“Daddy, is Mommy done with her superhero tests?”
“No,” Mr. Ishikawa said. “No more tests.”
Mr. Ishikawa had trouble looking
his daughter in the eye and Mo worried he was mad at her for something.
“When is Mommy coming home?” Mo asked.
“Mommy isn’t coming home,” he said.
“Why not? Where is she?”
Mr. Ishikawa paused like he always did when he mentally translated his words into English. However, this time he knew exactly what to say, he just didn’t want to say it.
“Mommy is gone.”
“Gone? But where did she go? I have to give her my new stories.”
Mo tried to hand her father her stack of stories but he wouldn’t take them from her.
“No more stories, Moriko,” he said. “Mommy died.”
In time, Mo learned her mother had been battling cancer for over two years before she died. Then, during a simple procedure at the hospital, Mrs. Ishikawa went into kidney failure and was too ill to recover. She had never thought her and Mo’s conversation about the Incredible Sleepy, Shrinking, and Shedding Woman would be their last.
However, none of this was explained to Mo by her father. After his wife passed away, Mr. Ishikawa never spoke of her again and barely spoke at all. He worked late six days a week to avoid their house and spent his days off alone in his den watching Japanese television. He didn’t have friends—most of his family still lived across the world—and the only communication he had with his daughter was to give her commands such as Clean your room, Study for your test, and Go to Stanford. Mo felt closer to her deceased mother than to her father—he was the real ghost in their house.
Even after thirteen years, Mo and Mr. Ishikawa had never adjusted to being a family of two, but became more and more like strangers living under the same roof.
“Dad’s staying extra late at the office tonight,” Mo said, and glanced at her clock. “What’s taking him so long? How many Japanese people need legal advice this late on a Saturday?”