I picked up Marin, my costar from The Umbrella Academy, one morning at her place in Chelsea, and we drove out to Coney Island. Masks on, windows down, we caught up. We hadn’t seen each other in a little while. Marin played Sissy, the woman my character falls in love with in the 1960s in Texas in the second season. Collaborating with Marin was one of the best experiences I have ever had working with another actor. She’s brilliant, generous, and so fucking in it, deep and present in a way that is rare. Basically, I had been talking about my gender and discomfort with Marin since we met. We instantly became friends. The first time we spoke on the phone before meeting each other, we talked for over two hours. It was as if we had known each other for years. The second season of Umbrella was a mixed bag for me. On one hand the character was more masculine, the clothes I far preferred to the previous season, but in the mirror I was still there. It was as if I expected the wardrobe to magically change me and it did, for a split second, but my reflection promptly corrected my thinking. My face, my hair, I wanted to rip it off and rip it out.
Marin was a rock for me during this period. I was struggling and did not know how to communicate it. She helped me, supported me, encouraged me to take time and focus on my well-being, to give myself space. As I crept closer to my truth, unconscious shame reared its head, bullying me to shut it down. It was hard to exist without diversion. Being alone I felt adrift. I mostly sat on the floor and smoked way too much weed, for some reason a couch wasn’t working for me. Stop too long, get too comfortable, and you’ll find the answer you do not want, but the answer you need. My brain was doing everything to get around it, for it to not be the case, it was just too fucking much to contemplate. An actor, an established career, people hate trans people … etc.
The hollow sound of the boardwalk emerged from each step. What is it about a boardwalk? It was hot, early July. The sun peered through the clouds, heavenly beams shot down into the ocean. Most things were boarded up, the amusement park silent, ghostly. Coney Island in the summer is usually overrun with people, but the pandemic had put a stop to that. Still, kids screamed and played in the water. Fathers carried burgers and fries. It was cinematic, time slowed. Men we passed stared at Marin for too long, and it made me angry.
I forgot where we parked so it was a journey to find the car, the stress of the day simmering. When we finally found it, I burst into tears, sobbing.
I turned to Marin. “Do you think I’m trans?”
“Um, it is hard for me to answer that, but between all the things you have shared with me and seeing how it has not let up and how painful it is for you, yes, perhaps. I think you are on the right track and I know this is hard, but you are not alone, you will get through this.”
Exhale.
My marriage had properly ended, personally not legally, that June.
I decided to give up the apartment we had been renting. One of my closest friends had an empty cabin in the middle of the woods in Nova Scotia and said I could stay there. I had not seen my mother in ages, so heading up seemed like the smartest idea. Leaving the United States felt nothing like before. The border was shut, I was able to go because I am a citizen, and while I packed up the car, tears started streaming. The beginning of the pandemic was full of unknowns, an unprecedented event we were living through and still are. I did not know when I would see my friends again.
Mo in his booster seat and me in the driver’s seat, we were ready for our journey. The drive in and out of the city I always find mildly terrifying. But then you get to Connecticut and you are surrounded by trees upon trees. The coast of Maine let my nervous system take a break, rugged with salty air, the smell of the ocean rushing by the open window, reminding me of home, almost there. I spent the night in Bangor to split the thirteen-to-fourteen-hour drive into two days. The hotel was desolate, but immaculately clean. Mo and I crashed early and were on the road by 6:00 A.M.
Emma got rid of their place in the city, too, and made their way up to Montreal. We were barely communicating, I’m not sure where Emma was staying exactly. The quarantine for new arrivals in Nova Scotia was two weeks. My mom and her friends were kind enough to put food in the cabin for me. On top of dropping off groceries, they made me homemade soup and cookies.
The cabin is connected to a dirt road by a half-kilometer unpaved driveway. Ascending the small mountain is a living fairy tale. Yellow birches, maples, and pine trees line the road. There is a small orchard that has not been touched in decades. Left free to grow, pears and apples scatter the ground. Deer paths wind through the tall grass. Snakes wriggle all over the property, nothing poisonous. There are a few that live in the greenhouse, and I like to say hi when I go over to water the plants—tomatoes, squash, peppers, kale, and more.
The cabin had been recently built. Other than a bed and a couple deck chairs, there was no furniture. For press, my computer sat on a blue Coleman cooler with a ring light right behind. The internet was so weak that the Netflix publicity team was understandably stressed, but it ended up being fine. I eventually added an old red chrome dining table. I had bought it when I was twenty and rented my first apartment in Halifax, down by the train station on the corner of South and Barrington. I’d given it to Nikki, who didn’t need it anymore. We’d become close again, and she returned it to me, perfect timing.
The two weeks of isolation flew by, I had a whole whack of press for the second season of The Umbrella Academy. I was grateful to be in the middle of the woods, the silence and darkness allowing my body to crash. Interviews and a lot of sleeping essentially. Mo was happy as a clam. He seemed in shock the first few days we were there, he would just sit on the patio and stare out at the woods, his ears twitching and head pivoting toward the sounds of ravens and squirrels and deer clomping through the brush. As far as I know he had never been in nature like that. He is very small, seven pounds, so I have to keep an eye on him. I wish I could let him take off through the forest, but there are coyotes and foxes that could eat him up, and hawks, eagles, and ravens that could scoop him up. I have never had a connection with a dog like I have with Mo. Dogs I have had in the past, I loved them dearly, but Mo is different. We are attached at the hip, I am obsessed, so much it hurts. Mo is an infinitely joyous little being who exudes love every minute of the day. Having Mo gave me a lot—routine, responsibility, walking, but primarily he expanded my heart. The care I feel is bottomless, a lesson learned from Mo. Without words he helped me, I began to offer some of that care for myself and to make the commitment to accept it.
When the press ended, I was left with no distractions. I hung out with Mo, I read, hiked a lot. I enjoyed doing chores, stacking wood, sheet mulching, taking care of the greenhouse. A peacefulness washed over me, a focus so pure. This was in direct contrast with the conflict in my body, the strain on my brain was burning me out, clouding everything. I reverted to not changing my clothes, not showering, sleeping in them, getting up in them. Changing socks and underwear was possible, but my shirt, nope.
Nikki came to visit for a weekend, and we went to Blue Sea Beach, a thirty-minute-or-less drive from the cabin. Nikki is always prepared for the beach in the summer, her Prius trunk contained an umbrella, beach chairs, a blanket—so smart. “Canada’s Ocean Playground” has a bounty of spectacular beaches. We parked and lugged everything to the beach that stretched on for an entire mile. We set up our zone, it wasn’t that busy. Nikki wore her one-piece swimsuit, and I wore boxers and a sports bra because I did not own a bathing suit, and hadn’t for a long time.
We took off our shirts and I looked down. My breasts were smooshed inside my tight Nike sports bra. I got it while making the first season of Umbrella Academy. I walked into the first wardrobe fitting and said, “I have to wear sports bras, because I need my chest to be pressed down.” I had not been that forthcoming about physical needs and costume in a long, long time, but I was working with people who I felt safe with and could communicate to without feeling judged or demeaned.
Nikki and I lathered each other up with sunscreen. She looked confident in her body, lounging in the sun. I had a hard time relaxing. Always. Shifting from one side to the other, sneaking a quick glance at my boobs and my stomach. I had always worked hard on my core, and I wished its flatness would extend up the remainder of my torso. We snacked on chips and pop as the sun lotion settled. The heat was fierce, I was grateful for the umbrella and Nikki’s beach preparedness.