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i’m born to be somebody, then somebody comes from me
i’ll tell you about the rabbit moon and when to keep walking
— clairo, ‘reaper’
//
you see izzie — and no one else — waiting for you when you head out of the terminal at lax.
‘hey elsa,’ she says, giving you a hug when you open your arms, even though you’re a little confused. ‘casey’s in the bathroom,’ she rushes to explain, rolling her eyes fondly. ‘they had like six la croixs today, even though i said it was a bad idea, and —‘
you don’t really process much else because then casey is barreling into you, even though ever facetime call has ended abruptly with an adamant refusal to return any sentiment about missing each other. ‘hey mom,’ casey says into your shoulder, and when you back up you have to smile at the sun-kissed freckles and cutoff shorts fraying at the hem, even though it’s february and snowing in connecticut. casey looks happy, and links hands with izzie, who tries to take your suitcase for you before you glare at casey, who sighs and takes it instead.
/
you’ve visited before; you helped both of them move into their dorms, and then you’d flown out with doug for a weekend in october. casey and izzie came home for thanksgiving and winter break, but you have some miles saved up now and casey hadn’t sounded too annoyed at the idea of you visiting for a few days to get out of the cold. they drop your things off at the hotel you booked near campus, and then izzie levels casey with a look and then says, ‘i have to meet with a group for a midterm presentation, but i’ll see you for dinner.’
you give her a hug and she kisses casey easily, quickly, and says, ‘i love you,’ far too seriously for an afternoon apart. you don’t know what’s going on but you think back to what izzie had said earlier — not about casey drinking too many la croixs; listening to rules has never been a strong suit, after all — but, you think, if you were listening, maybe izzie didn’t say her, which might mean—
‘let’s go to the palisades,’ casey says, then starts to ramble nervously about how they’re closer to the west side than laguna or manhattan but not as crowded as the pier, and who wants to be around that many tourists anyway, and there’s a little cafe if you wanted some snacks. you listen patiently and agree to any plans, because it’s a beautiful day and you don’t, actually, want to drive that much in la traffic or be by so many tourists. eventually casey runs out of things to say and turns on the radio to some music you don’t know but honestly don’t think is half bad. the windows are down and the sun is bright and you’ve been to pflag meetings in new haven for over a year now; you think you’ll knock it out of the park if casey tells you anything.
you do stop by the cafe, which is cute, and pick up a few snacks. casey had packed a big beach blanket, one you’d given as a joint gift to izzie and casey for christmas, which makes you smile. casey’s hands are shaking, a little, though, and so you don’t mention that it was, in fact, a great present that apparently they use all the time, according to izzie, who always politely and enthusiastically returns your texts and calls with all sorts of updates.
you sit down in the warm sand near the water and you know casey; sometimes, you just have to wait it out.
‘so.’
‘hmmm.’
casey fiddles with the edge of the blanket and then with some of the fruit you got at the cafe, before staring straight ahead at the waves. ‘i’m, uh. whew. well.’
you don’t laugh, will your body not to. instead, you squeeze casey’s hand, just once.
‘i’m just your kid, okay?’
you sit with that for a moment, try to process what you think casey is saying, but you don’t want to get anything wrong or jump to conclusions. ‘today, at the airport, izzie said they, when referring to you.’
casey sits for a second, shoulders tense all the way up toward the sky, and then says, ‘oh.’
‘i don’t think she was even thinking about it.’ casey nods. ‘but, is that what you’re talking about?’
casey sighs. ‘yeah. i guess. is that — is that okay?’
‘of course it’s okay,’ you say, because it definitely is okay, and also it’s not the most shocking news you’ve heard. casey hasn’t wanted anything to do with femininity, really, for as long as you can remember; you’ve grown used to, and proud, so often, of having a queer child — and another bonus queer child, too, which is what you consider izzie now, no matter what.
casey sniffles and then leans into your shoulder. ‘i know you’re, like, bursting with questions.’
you laugh, just a little, and feel a small smile against your skin. ‘not if you don’t want to answer them.’
‘depends on the questions.’
‘do you have any term you like, or any concept or something? i’ve been doing a lot of reading, and i’ve met a lot of other parents in pflag who have children who are also gender non-conforming, and—‘
‘whoa, slow your roll,’ casey says, but seems to deflate a little in relief. ‘non binary is fine, i guess. i’m just — not a girl. i’m just casey.’
that makes you smile. ‘your name is still casey, then?’
it produces an eye roll but then a begrudging, ‘it’s a good name. i like my name,’ so you’ll take it as a win.
‘i have great taste.’
‘ugh.’
‘you use they/them pronouns?’
‘yeah,’ casey says. ‘but, like, it’s okay if you don’t always get them right or whatever.’
‘no, it’s not,’ you say gently. ‘i’ll try really hard. i’ll get them right. it’s important.’
that produces a fresh round of tears that they try to dismiss by saying the sun is really bright and they have a hangover, which you know is false because casey had been asleep by 9 last night after an all-nighter and cross country the day before. but you let them have it, eat a few grapes and then toss one their way.
it elicits a reluctant laugh but it works all the same. ‘izzie corrects people all the time so she’ll love you more than she already does.’
‘i’m so glad you brought my favorite child into my life.’
‘wow, thanks elsa,’ casey deadpans, but then digs their hand into the sand and smiles. ‘izzie’s been so awesome, with all of this. i really love her.’
‘i know you do,’ you say with a smile, pat their hand.
‘and i’ll tell sam and dad eventually, but i want to tell them in person because sam won’t care, i’m sure, but dad is… you know.’
‘he loves you,’ you assure them. ‘i won’t say anything, of course.’
they look at you suspiciously.
you hold your hands up. ‘i swear i won’t. i know i love to meddle but i would never out you.’
casey sighs and nods. ‘i believe you,’ they say. ‘but, for the record, meddling is your most toxic trait.’
‘yeah, yeah.’
‘i don’t really want to talk about this anymore,’ they say quietly after a few moments. ‘it stresses me out, sometimes.’
‘okay. any time you want or need, though.’
they nod. ‘love you, mom.’
‘love you, casey.’
they pop up off the blanket, then, which whips sand into your face and all the food, and then take off toward the waves, laughing. you let them have a little space for a moment, watching your brave child chase off into the surf, fearless as always.
/
you take izzie to lunch the next day; casey has class during that time and you like to spend time with izzie anyway. she sits straight and proper but you see how she’s relaxed a little too, here, maybe getting to have a childhood for the first time ever. her hair is long and perpetually wavy from her runs by the ocean, and her eyes are bright.
‘thank you,’ she says, ‘for being so good with casey yesterday. they told me that you were awesome.’
‘casey, my child, said those words about me?’
izzie laughs, delicately takes a bite of her quinoa bowl, then shrugs. ‘not those words exactly. but they meant it. and they were so happy this morning, like a weight was lifted or something. i told them they didn’t need to be that anxious to tell you or anything but it’s been a process, you know. i think it’s been hard for a while.’
‘they like to let things stew, don’t they?’
izzie huffs. ‘it’s the worst.’
‘welcome to my world.’
‘casey is… quite the person, that’s for sure.’
‘thank you, too, izzie. for loving them so completely.’
izzie blushes, looks down at her hands. ‘impossible not to, i think.’
you think back to all the times casey has driven you up the wall over the years, the tantrums and fights, and then reach out to squeeze izzie’s hand. ‘impossible not to,’ you agree.
/
casey and izzie come home for spring break, and casey is pacing around and so you order food, send izzie to go get it, who thanks you quietly with a little squeeze to your shoulder.
you sit down on the couch and make sure that sam and doug are actually paying attention and then casey sighs.
‘is this an intervention?’ sam asks when casey doesn’t say anything. ‘i don’t know who it would be for.’
casey sighs again. ‘it’s not an intervention.’
‘okay,’ sam says, ‘good.’
casey tries to still their hands on their thighs and then says, ‘i’m not a girl. or a boy. or anything else, really, i guess. uh, if that makes sense.’
doug looks genuinely baffled but sam just nods.
‘there are many animals that don’t fit into a gender or sex binary. most commonly, it’s referred to as sequential hermaphroditism.’
casey nods contemplatively and your heart warms a little.
‘one of my friends is trans,’ he says, then takes out his notebook. ‘what are your name and pronouns?’
you can tell casey is trying not to cry, but they just clear their throat. ‘uh, casey, and they/them pronouns.’
sam writes something in his notebook and then nods. ‘got it. sibling? is that okay?’
casey is really trying not to cry now. ‘that’s great, sam.’
‘cool,’ he says. ‘is that all?’
‘oh, uh, yeah,’ casey says, ‘thanks, sam.’
‘sure, i’m just glad this wasn’t an intervention,’ he says, then stands and leaves the room without another word.
casey is smiling but then they turn to really look at doug, who has a furrowed brow.
‘i’m sorry, case,’ he says, which might not be the best start, but you’re fully prepared to jump in anytime they need. ‘i don’t — i don’t understand fully.’
he doesn’t sound angry, and he gets up to sit by them on the couch, squeezes their shoulder once.
‘i love you, though, and i guess, uh. you’re my kid. i just want you to be safe and happy. i’ll try to learn, okay?’
casey swallows once, and then again, and then hugs doug tight. ‘please never quote this, and only remember it for your sake and not mine, but mom knows a lot. she can definitely help explain stuff.’
you beam and doug nods. casey rolls their eyes.
’not now, though,’ they say. ‘izzie’s back with the food.’ they flash their phone. ‘she’s just been waiting outside until we were done talking. elsa, i see what you did there.’
‘you’re welcome.’
‘that pizza better not have pineapple or else i’m taking back everything i just said.’
‘extra pineapple, believe it or not.’
casey stomps off, and then makes a little noise of satisfaction from the kitchen when they discover that, in fact, you had actually ordered pepperoni. you hear izzie laugh.
‘so… we don’t have a daughter anymore?’ doug asks, quietly. ‘that’s not what i should call …’
‘them,’ you supply. ‘casey is our child,’ you say firmly, ‘they’re just casey.’
he takes a deep breath and then nods. ‘okay.’
‘we can practice. i’ve been practicing.’
doug looks relieved. ‘okay, good.’ he waits a beat and then laughs, just once. ‘you know, of all the things casey has ever come to us with, even though i don’t understand the details, really, this might be the one that makes the most sense.’
you smile, lace your fingers together. ‘i thought the same thing.’
/
when casey and izzie come home for a few weeks in the summer before preseason training begins, casey has a few more tattoos and a buzzcut and the biggest smile you’ve ever seen. izzie is in a crop top and long, flowing skirt and they’re both as enamored with each other as always, sweet and considerate and happy. you make peace with it all, because casey is kinder by the day, it seems, even to you.
zahid comes over one night and smiles and says, ‘sick shoes,’ to casey and leaves it at that, even though earlier you had told them that you thought they looked like geriatric shoes — not even in jest, you were worried about arch support or something — and izzie had laughed and casey had spluttered, ‘they’re jordans.’
it’s not hard to realize, as the weeks pass, that casey is better than they’d ever been; you’d read that a lot of trans and non binary teens have a really hard time during puberty, especially, and casey had been going through so much on top of trying to process this part of their identity. you fight the urge to wish you had known more then, even though they’re healthy and thriving now, it seems.
they get everyone to help organize a slip n slide in the backyard made with tarps and soap and water, and it’s genuinely hilarious when they set up an obstacle course. for two division i athletes, casey and izzie do terribly, falling all over each other and getting bubbles everywhere. you’re pretty sure casey is wearing a binder instead of a swimsuit or sports bra, and when they finally finish their ridiculous game, they lie back on the grass with izzie.
they’re both breathing hard and laughing periodically, not really talking. you bring them popsicles and it’s been a while since you’ve seen casey look this young.
/
things settle.
you miss your kids, of course, but they seem very genuinely happy. but one night in the fall, you’re just sitting down with a glass of nice merlot, ready to watch the newest episode of the bachelor even though casey relentlessly tells you it’s ‘misogynist garbage’ — which you know, obviously, but it’s mindless — when your phone rings.
it’s casey, and casey never really calls you for a good reason, and your heart jumps in your chest. you put down your wine and pause the tv.
‘case?’
you hear them sniffle on the other end of the line.
‘what’s wrong?’
your mind runs through a million different scenarios, each worse than the last.
‘izzie’s hurt,’ they say, finally, and casey has been known to be a little dramatic so you don’t know how hurt, or what you need to do.
‘what happened, honey? what do you need from me?’
’the trainers are taking her to the hospital for an mri right now but they think she tore her achilles in practice today. i don’t — she was running next to me, just intervals, and then i heard a pop and then she was screaming and — can you come? i’m sorry. they think she might need surgery, i guess, and, i just. please? can you come?’
you put down your wine and walk to your laptop. ‘i’ll look up flights right now, case. i’ll be there as soon as i can, okay?’
they let out what you can tell is a very relieved breath. ‘okay.’
‘i found one that can get me there tomorrow morning. i’ll find a hotel and keep you updated.’
‘mom,’ they say, ‘thank you.’
‘i love you, and i love izzie.’ it’s firm, but you mean it like that: there is no question; you will be there. ‘i’ll see you both soon.’
/
izzie does need surgery, you find out by the next morning when you uber from the airport to the hospital. casey is hunched over in a hoodie, trying to stay awake with a cup of coffee, but izzie smiles sleepily and happily when you come into the room quietly.
‘i’m high,’ she says, giggling a little.
casey rolls their eyes, clearly exhausted, but gets up to hug you tight. izzie squeezes your hand back when you kiss her cheek.
‘you didn’t need to come,’ she says suddenly, a little furrow to her brow.
‘of course i did.’
her lower lip starts to wobble and casey rolls their eyes but huffs a little laugh anyway. it’s an uncharacteristically chilly, rainy day outside and it’s surprisingly easy to convince casey to go back to the dorm to shower and nap for a few hours before they come back in the afternoon. izzie mostly sleeps, but you take careful notes when the surgeon comes to speak to you, because izzie really is out of it and, although they promise to come back and explain things later, you don’t want them to be missing any information. plus, they always process information better when it’s written down anyway.
izzie eventually gets discharged and has to come back a few days later for surgery. you have savings, so you’re lucky enough that you can stay for a bit. izzie is groggy but gets to have an outpatient procedure, and you help casey get her situated back in her dorm afterward. she has a big padded boot on her foot and ankle but you picked up pain medication for her and so she mostly sleeps. casey settles in next to izzie on the small bed and kisses her forehead, then looks at you, eyes big. their hair has grown out so that it falls floppily over their brows; it makes them look young and you have to fight to not want to kiss their forehead or hold their hand.
‘just — thank you, mom.’
/
you leave after a few days because izzie is doing better, taking just tylenol and very coherently getting around fine on crutches and so therefore casey has relaxed as well, their easy smiles back and their posture relaxed, slouched like normal.
they both come to see you off at the airport, casey doting carefully and izzie swatting away any attempts. you kiss izzie’s forehead and then do the same to casey, even though they fake gag.
within a few weeks, izzie is walking again, tenderly at first but then without any pause. casey actually gives you studious updates about her recovery; from what you can tell, they go to every physical therapy session they can possibly make it to. you know izzie has gone to therapy for years, now, and all of the drama from when she and casey first started dating seems to have faded into the background. but injuries are difficult, you think — scary and painful, especially because of what running has been to izzie. but eventually she sends you a selfie of the two of them by the beach, clearly having just run, with fly away hair and casey’s cheeks flushed red, huge smiles squinting into the sun.
/
a year passes, full of holidays and casey complaining about finals and izzie sending you pictures of pies she tries to bake in the tiny dorm kitchen. they run; sometimes when you’re pretty sure they’re a little high, casey will facetime you just to say hello. you and doug help them move into a small duplex together at the beginning of junior year, a bright sunny kitchen and the breeze from the ocean floating through the windows.
casey takes you to get coffee when they visit for thanksgiving — so you know something’s up, because they would never voluntarily spend time alone with you unless they really needed to talk — and when you sit down they smile at you, gently and openly, a rare occasion, and say, ‘i’m gonna have top surgery in the spring.’
you’re not surprised, and you’ve done casey’s laundry enough times when they’ve visited that you know they’ve been wearing a binder most days; you know they love being an athlete, and izzie has sent you enough articles about non-binary athletes in women’s leagues that you know casey has a place in sport.
that this surgery is happening, though, is a little different. you feel scared, because casey is your child, but mostly you feel excited for them. relieved for them.
‘that’s so wonderful, casey,’ you say, and they blink just once and then a grin lights up their face.
they tell you about their surgeon, and the type of surgery they’re going to have, how izzie has gone with them but how, they admit, they would love if you facetimed in for their next pre-op appointment in a few months.
‘can you help me explain it to dad? sam and i already talked, to be honest, because he asked me. which is, like, inappropriate from anyone else, but he’s sam, so it was mostly just so he could research statistics and stuff.’
you laugh, squeeze their hand. ‘i’ll help, absolutely.’
/
you go out to la a few months after casey’s surgery with doug and sam; everything had gone well and casey had cried in joy and relief when they’d seen their chest afterward for the first time, which had set izzie off, which had set you off too. you’re pretty sure doug had even sniffled.
when you’d left, though, they still had bandages and bruising but now it’s almost the beginning of their senior year and when you go to the beach they take their shirt off and then shove sam into the sand with a laugh. sam grumbles but gets up to dust himself off, izzie rolling her eyes as she helps you set out the blanket.
casey races off into the surf, turning back and yelling at all of you to come join them. you always have; you do.