Chapter 8
It had been two days. Oliver sat on the bed in the room that Mr. Stark had given him, looking at his small bag of possessions. His only possessions now. Mr. Stark had asked him what he wanted him to bring back when Oliver transferred to his room.
“So. This is yours. Home sweet home kid.” Oliver didn’t say anything in response. He had been pretty depressed. He had been depressed real bad before. He knew what it tasted like. “So, I’m going to go get some of your things from your parents today.” Mr. Stark kept pausing, kept waiting for Oliver to fill the silence. He rarely did. “So you want to come?” Oliver looked at the man, searching his eyes for a motive. He didn’t really know what he wanted. He wanted to say goodbye, he guessed, but he didn’t want to see them. Didn’t want to see anyone. He shook his head. “Is there anything you want me to make sure I get?”
Oliver finally spoke up. “There's a bag in my closet. I have a few things in there. Just in case.” Mr. Stark seemed upset by this, but he simply nodded and left the room. The bag had been in his closet for a while now. He had added and taken away some things over the years but, it’d always been there. Always served the same purpose. Just in case. He had first started it when he had really started to question his sexuality. He knew how his parents had grown up. He knew all the stories. And when you're a young queer kid, forced to confront how much your parents really love you, you're forced to think the worst. His parents hadn't even found out yet. They didn’t find out for another year when they went through his texts after he dated that one girl. It didn’t go well the first time. His mom seemed insistent that she was mad that he went on a date without permission but Oliver knew. He added it to the bag after that night. Did some research and took control of all his legal documents. He had cried hard that night, thinking about all those times he had imagined what it would be like. He was so naive back then. He barely imagined the worst, though he prepared for it. He imagined being held in his mom's arms. She told him it was okay. She told him she still loved him, no matter what.
That never happened.
The next time he added to the bag was two years later. He had put up a pride flag, his mom had become more chill and he thought it would be fine. She said she didn’t want to advertise any political beliefs to the neighbourhood. The flag was behind his door, in the corner of the room. They fought hard about that one, but it ended quickly. She said she would take it down if he didn’t. He took it down and put it in the bag.
The most recent time was almost a year ago now. When she found out he was trans. He didn’t like remembering it. There was a lot of yelling all the time. He fought back. He had never fought with his mom that hard. He was so tired. Every time he was home he was afraid of another fight. Of another search through his room and another mound of things to cover in therapy in the future. Every time he wasn’t home he was afraid he would get texts from his mother accusing him of being with his friends, and of running away. Of course, he was with his friends sometimes. This was the hardest time he had experienced yet, he needed them.
Eventually though, eventually, the yelling took its toll. The hours of emotional labour every day settled on Oliver. It was exhausting and he was patient. Maybe, if he just shut up and did what he was told now, in the future he could be himself, and maybe his mom would come to visit. Maybe one day she’d tell him she loved her son.
He gave up.
He hated himself for it. Even while he was doing it. He emailed his teachers saying he had made a mistake. That no, he wasn’t a boy, he had been wrong. His mom proofread the emails. For his friends, well, he simply stopped talking. He knew they deserved better. He knew they loved him and they wanted to help and he knew they, at the least, deserved a goodbye. Instead, he just rolled over in bed and turned off his phone.
It was refreshing, almost, looking back at that now. Looking back at a different kind of love. If he had just told his friends that he had made a mistake, that he had been so tired and he couldn’t do it anymore, they would have understood. They would've held him and told him it was okay and they would let him live with them for a while. Now though, if Oliver went and saw his mom and begged and cried and told her he had made a mistake. That he was wrong. She wouldn’t have done anything.
Oliver added to the bag a week after he gave up. Because he saw it, despite doing everything she wanted, despite being perfect for her, she still treated him like the family queer. She still looked at him like she didn’t before she knew. It wasn’t a good look. He added all the things that mattered at that time. All the pictures and drawings and memories with people he wouldn’t know anymore. What did it matter that his walls were empty now? University was in two years anyway, he could make it.
So here he was, sitting in front of the bag he’d been packing for years. Just in case. In the very situation, he’d imagined. Despite a few different factors, but, all in all, he was alone. He used to imagine all the grand things he was going to say to them when it happened. How he was going to tell them how much it had hurt all this time. He didn’t even do that.
He finally scooted over and hovered his hands over the bag. His hands shook. He seemed to be shaking all the time with what that woman had done to his brain but, the fear wasn’t helping.
The first thing in it was his pride flag. He didn’t take it out. He wasn’t ready yet.
There were a bunch of bottles of his illegal testosterone and documents too but he wasn’t looking for them. No, he was looking for the pictures. They were printed on regular printer paper and he had secured them with an elastic band. five pictures. The first one was of his parent's wedding day. His tears welled up. He didn’t bother holding them back now. He had been crying a lot the past few days. Anytime no one was around, anytime someone was around. It felt cathartic at first, but now it was just wet.
His father looks so happy in that picture. The happiest Oliver had ever seen him. He looked so young. He had always said his mother looked like she was hiding some unpleasant feeling. He had told them that, on many occasions. His mother had always looked at him like he was joking and said “Of course not, that was the happiest day of my life!” his father had always made some joke about trapping her in that marriage. Oliver still thought she wasn’t happy in the photo. Whether it was nerves or the terrible body issues he knew she had, or maybe she didn’t even love her dad, she was just marrying him because he was the perfect Christian boy. Perfect for the perfect Christian girl. He never found out. It’s not like they were miserable though. His parents had only fought really badly about once a year. None of those times were around Oliver’s queerness. They always seemed to agree on that. Despite his dad not doing anything.
The next picture was of Oliver and his dad. Oliver was maybe twelve in the photo. He wore a pretty white dress and a toothless smile. He and his dad had gone to this daddy daughter dance the church set up. He loved that memory, loved dancing until the sun went down. Loved wearing the pretty dress. He still did like wearing dresses. He just didn’t like the looks he got when he wore them. The ‘I know you’re faking it’ looks.
The next picture was of Oliver and his mom. They had gone to take professional photos together when he had gotten his first period. He was a woman now, she had said, and a woman should have nice photos with her mother. She had tied his hair back and put on makeup and she wore the bright pink blouse Oliver had always loved on her. That was the hardest part of this. Oliver loved his parents. He really did. He saw how hard they tried to raise him well, despite everything. They had good memories together. That was the hardest part actually. That he still loved them. It would be so much easier to hate them, to cast them away as people who hurt him so much and would continue to if they had the chance. But somewhere in Oliver, that love still held out hope. Hope that his parents would hug him and tell him it’s okay, and tell him they love him no matter what. He knew it probably wouldn’t happen, but it’s what kept him there all those years, despite all the pain. He thought that maybe they would be like they used to. That they would love him like that again. Love him like a kid. Oliver wondered now, whether they had ever really loved him like that, or whether he had made it up. A shiny mirage to keep him marching towards the future. The hope he had given himself.
It wouldn’t happen now anyway.
The next photo was of his cat. Well, it was the family cat. Jinger. He had named her when he was ten and his parents thought the spelling was cute. She had always favored him, Oliver didn’t know why, he didn’t treat her very well when he was young. But every night, especially the hard nights, she had come in purring like a motor and plopped down on his chest, her face two inches from his face. She had been with him through everything. She knew everything. She was the only one that did. He felt a little stupid, with how much he missed her. It wasn’t overwhelming but, every time he found himself thinking of everything that was wrong, it always ended with “and I just want my cat”. He wondered if his parents would keep her. He set the photo aside from the others. Maybe he would put it up.
The last picture was with Oliver and his friends. All three of them. It was taken a year before his mom found out he was trans.His one friend, Matt, had gotten his mom to drive the three of them to Canada’s wonderland. They were laughing in the photo. All of them are sweating and only binders on their chests. They had teased Oliver onto going on his first roller coaster and at the end of the day they had gone on the Leviathan, the largest roller coaster in the park that year, twelve times. It was the best day of Oliver’s life. He knew it well it was happening too. With every stupid dirty joke they made and every time they spent twenty dollars on one iced coffee, he knew he would think about this, years down the line. Oliver wiped a tear that had fallen on the paper. He missed them. He wondered where they were. Wondered if they thought about him still.
Probably not.
Oliver set the photo aside with his cat. He supposed he should thank Mr. Stark for getting his things. His parents probably yelled when he got there and yelled harder when he went to Oliver’s room. They had packed all Oliver’s clothes in a garbage bag. He hoped they packed the right ones. Probably not. That was fine. The nurse had given him pretty comfy clothes that gave her easy access to his wounds and those were fine with him. He supposed he'll have to change eventually but, not yet.
A knock sounded on the door and Mr. Stark peaked into the room.
“Hi.” He was so much different than Oliver had ever thought. He looked like he felt guilty all the time. It was weird, he’s supposed to be so confident.
“Hi.” Mr. Stark took Oliver’s hello as an invitation. He walked over to the bed, standing just far enough away. Oliver waited, he expected him to be here for something, to tell him something. He didn’t speak though, not for a while, just looked at Oliver and then looked at the ground and then back at Oliver again.
“Kid, are you okay?” Well, that wasn’t what Oliver was expecting. He felt his throat clench up when he said it but he had gotten good at suppressing that feeling.
“Never been better.” There was no humour in it this time.
“Look I know you don’t really know me. But I also know you’ve kinda been through hell recently and I-” He took a deep breath. “Is there anyone I can get in contact with so that you're
not so alone?” A flicker of anger lit itself in Oliver's stomach. Anyone he could get in contact with? No. There was no one anymore. There was no one left and he just had to remind him.
“Nope.”
Mr. Stark hesitated and then sat down on the bed next to Oliver. “Kid, I’m sorry.”
Oliver wished he'd stop apologizing, he didn’t even do anything. Well, Oliver was mad at him but it didn’t make any sense and he got the message at the first apology. “Don’t be. You didn’t do anything.” It came out with more bite than he wanted.
“I’m sorry anyway.” Oliver looked at him. He wanted him to stop apologizing. It was stupid. It was inevitable for this would happen, why did he think he had any say in it? “I’m sorry I couldn’t have done more and I’m sorry that you ended up so alone.” This man needed to shut up and leave Oliver alone. No one could do anything. No one could make it worse so why the hell does this Mr. Stark think that this is all his fault? It’s not. If anything it was Oliver’s fault, he yelled at his mom, and he asked her to call him his stupid name. This guy needs to stop taking the blame and shut up. “But most of all I’m sorry that your mom did that. It was wrong.”
“Stop it. Stop saying you're sorry.”
“But I am.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t do jack shit.” He snapped. “I buried this shit for years. I shut up and was the perfect little girl for years. Your moment of aggravation didn’t do shit. My years of perfection didn’t do shit.” The anger was wet, more tears, more fucking tears. Oliver wiped them away, why did he have to cry all the fucking time. “They decided they didn’t love me enough to stay years ago and years of commitment wasn’t enough to sway them. I wasn’t good enough to sway them. So why the fuck would you be?” He tried to yell, tried to make what he was saying look less pathetic. It didn’t work, Mr. Stark still looked at him with pity.
“Did they ever hurt you?” He didn’t seem to get it. It’s like they were having a conversation.
“Fucks sake no they didn’t hurt me. They were lovely people and I loved them and they loved me and they found out and now they are never going to talk to me again.” Oliver stopped yelling. It was so stupid, all of it. It was so stupid and it hurt so bad and he was so tired but there wasn’t any way he could give up now, not like he did then. He couldn’t play the perfect little girl now, it wouldn’t help. “They were kind to me for so long and then they found out and now they hate me. They were good people, I swear. So maybe I just wasn’t good enough. Maybe they made the right choice, not loving someone like me. Maybe this is what I deserve.” He was quiet again. But at least the crying felt like something this time. At least it wasn’t just wet.
“No.” Mr. Stark put a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. He spoke in that confident sure voice he used on tv, but without the cocky humour. “No, they are not right. No, you don’t deserve this. What they did was wrong and painful. No matter how good they used to be, this was wrong.” Oliver looked into his eyes. He sounded so confident and so sure. No wonder people followed him religiously. He almost believed him. Almost thought that maybe this was for the best, so that Oliver could finally be free, could finally grow and become a person without restraints and fear. Maybe.