Chapter 1: Lily of the Valley
The rain and snow had been relentless all week, a brutal assault on Baneberry Lane. Winter here was always the worst season, a season that seemed to draw out the darkness in people. Living on a street populated by the wicked, you counted your luck in pennies if you could escape it.
The thought churned as I unlatched the small window beside my bed—if you could even call it a bed. Stitched cotton atop a broken floorboard was all it was. Still, the real bed, the proper one, went to Ma. She needed it more than I ever would.
Sunlight kissed my nose, and I almost flinched. In all the years I’d lived on this wretched street, the sun never showed itself during winter. Something was wrong. Trying to grasp at the sliver of warmth, I closed my eyes, letting the cool air mingle with the sun’s glow. It felt like The Valley—this city—was offering a flicker of hope, a promise of getting through the winter.
I sat up and dusted debris from the sheets. Stretching, I walked to the chipped mirror atop a cabinet. My hair was a mess from the bed, and dark circles haunted my eyes—permanent fixtures, it seemed.
I hated looking in the mirror. I’d reached my limit on it when I was thirteen. Enough of the long hair, the name, the chest, myself. Everything that felt imposed on my life, plastered there by someone else. So I broke the tall rectangular mirror, watched it shatter. Using a shard, I hacked at my hair, shaping it like the cobbler’s boy’s short cut. Another shard I used to bind my chest, flattening it against my clothes. The last shard—the one I could never hide, never change—I sliced into my inner thighs, letting the blood dry before scratching it off.
One piece of the mirror remained with Ma. She’d returned it to its place on top of the cabinet, and I used it now to remind myself I was closer to becoming who I wanted to be each day. Yet, people would always look at me the same. So I soothed myself as I had all those years ago.
I left the room and entered the small, boxed kitchen. I heated water on the metal stove Ma cherished, then tossed tea leaves into a mug. Wrapped in a heavy cloth, I poured the boiling water, watching the leaves bloom into ink.
“The sun’s up, Ma. You should get some light on yourself. It’ll do you good.” I called from the kitchen. I set the pot down, dusting my hands on my long, grey shirt. My voice was always rough, and I’d made it rougher with each passing day. It didn’t mean I couldn’t feel the constant rasp against my throat.
A light scatter of coughs came from her room, and I closed my eyes at the sound. I needed to get her the proper medicine the physician had mentioned. Except, it was the dead of winter, and there were no jobs for someone my age that didn’t involve selling your fanny. If it came to it, I’d do anything for Ma, but I prayed it wouldn’t come to that.
Walking into her room, it smelled like infection. She held a cloth speckled with pink blood from her mouth. She was awake, looking out the window. We had a small view of the street below, and a smaller glimpse of the sky above. We couldn’t afford rent after three years ago, but the landlord had died of cholera, and no one ever came looking for the house beneath the ground.
Ma turned her head and smiled softly. I leaned against the doorframe, watching her struggle to sit up. I stopped myself from helping, to see how bad she was today. Worse than usual, it seemed. I edged into the room and placed the mug beside her bed. Helping her upright, I imagined her bones rusting from staying inside, her heart slowing from underuse.
“You worry too much, my boy. Your eyes speak a language only mothers and lovers can understand,” she whispered as I settled her against the bed frame.
She always called me her boy after I told her my heart belonged elsewhere. She never judged, punished, or questioned. Instead, she told me she’d felt like I was a boy when she carried me, and she’d chosen the name “Brinley” had I come out as one.
People don’t understand that genitalia doesn’t dictate identity. It’s hard to make them understand when we’ve been told otherwise for years. But my mother understood. She is still, the only one.
“I’ll make you some warm soup, then we can try to get you onto the porch. It would be a waste to stay in bed when the sun wants to meet my Ma.”
She laughed, a hearty sound, and my heart felt crushed by my ribs. I always thought it was a funny physics—that the heart, such a powerful organ, had to be caged. Do all powerful things end up in cages?
“You speak in such poetic verse for a southside boy, Brin. It would be hard to believe you were anything but a lover,” she didn’t acknowledge her going outside, but I saw her small head nod and took it as defeat (or acceptance, depending on your side).
“I’ll go make some soup, Ma. Get you the morning paper. You just… focus on getting better.”
I left the room, and the coughs rejoined the silence in which they festered.