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I don’t remember Dad taking any of these. I don’t remember him being that involved.
Then I get to the next set of pictures.
I’m older. They’re all candid shots I had no idea were being taken.
They have words scribbled in the white space at the bottom.
Two weeks.
One Month.
Six Months.
One Year.
They’re testosterone markers. They stop around the time I move into Atty’s house after Blair leaves for school.
I shove all of the pictures back in the sleeve and stuff it in my jacket pocket. I’ve never once seen the pictures of Mom and me, and then documenting my transition journey as if he didn’t make me feel like an unwanted outcast my entire life?
Fuck him.
I’m about to shove the box in one of the giant trash bags when one last thing falls out. It’s an old spiral bound notebook with my name written on it in sharpie.
My name.
Not my birth name.
The very first page has a hospital bracelet taped to it.
Half of the name is scribbled out and written over.
Shiloh Novak.
6lbs 8oz
19 inches
With the F crossed out and replaced with an M.
The rest of the pages are filled top to bottom with Dad’s awful scrawl. It expresses his confusion, his anger, and some horrible things I was never meant to read.
But along with lines and lines of bigotry, there are sparks of sunshine sprinkled throughout.
He has his mother’s sense of adventure. Her recklessness.
It’s like Hana herself is pouring her disappointment through his eyes.
Looking at him is like looking at her.
Hana would have loved him. Would have made up for what I lack.
So much stream of consciousness and bouncing between headspaces. But I can follow.
Because my brain does the same off my medication.
“Hey, Blair,” I croak, clenching the notebook in my hands as I hear my brother settle beside me. “Was Dad bipolar, too?”
“Not diagnosed, but it’s possible. It’s a genetic disorder.”
