Luce could not do this with me yet. He had received the results of the endocrinological tests performed at Henry Ford Hospital, and so knew of my XY karyotype, my high plasma testosterone levels, and the absence in my blood of dihydrotestosterone. In other words, before even seeing me, Luce was able to make an educated guess that I was a male pseudohermaphrodite—genetically male but appearing otherwise, with 5-alpha-reductase deficiency syndrome. But that, according to Luce’s thinking, did not mean that I had a male gender identity.

My being a teenager complicated things. In addition to chromosomal and hormonal factors, Luce had to consider my sex of rearing, which had been female. He suspected that the tissue mass he had palpated inside me was testicular. Still, he couldn’t be sure until he had looked at a sample under a microscope.

All this must have been going through Luce’s mind as he brought me back to the waiting room. He told me he wanted to speak to my parents and that he would send them out when he was finished. His intensity had lessened and he was friendly again, smiling and patting me on the back.

In his office Luce sat down in his Eames chair, looked up at Milton and Tessie, and adjusted his glasses.

“Mr. Stephanides, Mrs. Stephanides, I’ll be frank. This is a complicated case. By complicated I don’t mean irremediable. We have a range of effective treatments for cases of this kind. But before I’m ready to begin treatment there are a number of questions I have to answer.”

My mother and father were sitting only a foot apart during this speech, but each heard something different. Milton heard the words that were there. He heard “treatment” and “effective.” Tessie, on the other hand, heard the words that weren’t there. The doctor hadn’t said my name, for instance. He hadn’t said “Calliope” or “Callie.” He hadn’t said “daughter,” either. He didn’t use any pronouns at all.

“I’ll need to run further tests,” Luce was continuing. “I’ll need to perform a complete psychological assessment. Once I have the necessary information, then we can discuss in detail the proper course of treatment.”

Milton was already nodding. “What kind of time line are we talking about, Doctor?”

Luce jutted out a thoughtful lower lip. “I want to redo the lab tests, just to be sure. Those results will be back tomorrow. The psychological evaluation will take longer. I’ll need to see your child every day for at least a week, maybe two. Also it would be helpful if you could give me any childhood photographs or family movies you might have.”

Milton turned to Tessie. “When does Callie start school?”

Tessie didn’t hear him. She was distracted by Luce’s phrase: “your child.”

“What kind of information are you trying to get, Doctor?” Tessie asked.

“The blood tests will tell us hormone levels. The psychological assessment is routine in cases like this.”

“You think it’s some kind of hormone thing?” Milton asked. “A hormone imbalance?”

“We’ll know after I’ve had time to do what I need to do,” said Luce.

Milton stood up and shook hands with the doctor. The consultation was over.

Keep in mind: neither Milton nor Tessie had seen me undressed for years. How were they to know? And not knowing, how could they imagine? The information available to them was all secondary stuff—my husky voice, my flat chest—but these things were far from persuasive. A hormonal thing. It could have been no more serious than that. So my father believed, or wanted to believe, and so he tried to convince Tessie.

I had my own resistance. “Why does he have to do a psychological evaluation?” I asked. “It’s not like I’m crazy.”

“The doctor said it was routine.”

“But why?”

With this question I had hit upon the crux of the matter. My mother has since told me that she intuited the real reason for the psychological assessment, but chose not to dwell on it. Or, rather, didn’t choose. Let Milton choose for her. Milton preferred to treat the problem pragmatically. There was no sense in worrying about a psychological assessment that could only confirm what was obvious: that I was a normal, well-adjusted girl. “He probably bills the insurance extra for the psychological stuff,” Milton said. “Sorry, Cal, but you’ll have to put up with it. Maybe he can cure your neuroses. Got any neuroses? Now’s your time to let ’em out.” He put his arms around me, squeezed hard, and roughly kissed the side of my head.

Milton was so convinced that everything was going to be okay that on Tuesday morning he flew down to Florida on business. “No sense cooling my heels in this hotel,” he told us.

“You just want to get out of this pit,” I said.

“I’ll make it up to you. Why don’t you and your mother go out for a fancy dinner tonight. Anyplace you want. We’re saving a couple bucks on this room, so you gals can splurge. Why don’t you take Callie to Delmonico’s, Tess.”

“What’s Delmonico’s?” I asked.

“It’s a steak joint.”

“I want lobster. And baked Alaska,” I said.

“Baked Alaska! Maybe they have that, too.”

Milton left, and my mother and I tried to spend his money. We went shopping at Bloomingdale’s. We had high tea at the Plaza. We never made it to Delmonico’s, preferring a moderately priced Italian restaurant near the Lochmoor, where we felt more comfortable. We ate there every night, doing our best to pretend we were on a real trip, a vacation. Tessie drank more wine than usual and got tipsy, and when she went to the bathroom I drank her wine myself.

Normally the most expressive thing about my mother’s face was the gap between her front teeth. When she was listening to me, Tessie’s tongue often pressed against that divot, that gate. This was the signal of her attention. My mother always paid great attention to whatever I said. And if I told her something funny, then her tongue dropped away, her head fell back, her mouth opened wide, and there were her front teeth, riven and ascendant.

Every night at the Italian restaurant I tried to make this happen.

In the mornings, Tessie took me to the Clinic for my appointments.

“What are your hobbies, Callie?”

“Hobbies?”

“Is there anything you especially like to do?”

“I’m not really a hobby-type person.”

“What about sports? Do you like any sports?”

“Does Ping-Pong count?”

“I’ll put it down.” Luce smiled from behind his desk. I was on the Le Corbusier daybed across the room, lounging on the cowhide.

“What about boys?”

“What about them?”

“Is there a boy at school you like?”

“I guess you’ve never been to my school, Doctor.”

He checked his file. “Oh, it’s a girls’ school, isn’t it?”

“Yup.”

“Are you sexually attracted to girls?” Luce said this quickly. It was like a tap from a rubber hammer. But I stifled my reflex.

He put down his pen and knit his fingers together. He leaned forward and spoke softly. “I want you to know that this is all between us, Callie. I’m not going to tell your parents anything that you tell me here.”

I was torn. Luce in his leather chair, with his longish hair and ankle boots, was the kind of adult a kid might open up to. He was as old as my father but in league with the younger generation. I longed to tell him about the Object. I longed to tell somebody, anybody. My feelings for her were still so strong they rushed up my throat. But I held them back, wary. I didn’t believe this was all private.

“Your mother says you have a close relationship with a friend of yours,” Luce began again. He said the Object’s name. “Do you feel sexually attracted to her? Or have you had sexual relations with her?”

“We’re just friends,” I insisted, a little too loudly. I tried again in a quieter voice. “She’s my best friend.” In response Luce’s right eyebrow rose from behind his glasses. It came out of hiding as though it, too, wanted to get a good look at me. And then I found a way out: