by Jackie Lau
“I’d hate to work in an office,” Peter says.
“How long have you done landscaping?”
“Since I finished university. I used to plant trees up north in the summers, and I always enjoyed that.”
“That’s really hard work, isn’t it? Did you get paid by the tree?”
He nods.
“I wouldn’t have lasted a day,” I say.
“I’m sure you would have.” He pauses. “Do you want to do software development again? You said you couldn’t, but do you want to?”
I don’t reply but change the topic. “I’d love to live alone. Living with my family is, well, chaotic. But it’s expensive to have your own place, and I don’t make a lot of money. One day, maybe.”
I don’t let myself think about the future too much, because whenever I do, I get sad. Instead, I focus on getting through each day, putting one foot in front of the other. I can’t think about how everything blew up in my face; I just have to make sure I’m never in that position again.
Yet despite all the ways men have screwed me over in my personal life and my career, I’m still here. Alone. With Peter. And this isn’t for show.
Maybe I shouldn’t trust him at all. Maybe he’s an asshole deep inside. Nice men often turn out to be complete assholes.
But I can’t help it. I like being here with him.
We eat cookies and drink our tea in silence for a few minutes. I take a moment to admire Peter, the light and shadows playing across his face. He really is handsome, even more so than I initially thought. His hair is a touch long, but I like it on him, and he has that goddamn smile that just seems...peaceful. Content. Like he’s okay with the way everything is going in his life, even though he’s sitting in his kitchen at ten thirty at night with a fake girlfriend who started crying in a coffee shop.
He inches his hand across the table and places it on top of mine.
“I should go home,” I say. “It’s getting late.”
“Will you let me drive you today?”
Half an hour later, we’re pulling into my driveway.
The thought of being separated from Peter feels oddly unnerving. I don’t want this to end, yet I’m embarrassed that he’s already seen me cry. Stephen and I had been together for over a year by the time he finally saw me shed tears.
I’m embarrassed, but less embarrassed than I would have expected. Strange.
Peter leans over, as if to kiss me, but then pulls back. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” I say, then head inside.
I’m just slipping off my shoes when I realize that I forgot to give Peter the card.
Oh, well. Next time.
To my surprise, my parents are already in bed, and Sabrina is in her bedroom, likely studying. Nobody bothers me as I go to my own room, shut the door, and lean against it, unable to calm the strange feelings that have been stirred up inside me.
Chapter 8
Peter
I’m sitting on the patio at Ginger Scoops, waiting for Valerie’s mother and trying to think of some cool embellishments for my story. Maybe I once saved a child from a burning building and the mayor presented me with an award.
Nah, better make it three children. That’s more impressive.
Maybe I graduated at the top of my class in med school.
I chuckle at the thought. I wasn’t a particularly strong math and science student. I mean, I wasn’t terrible, but I wasn’t great, and my parents always reassured me with their “we all have our own strengths and special gifts!” talk.
I suppose I’m thankful for that.
Hmm. Maybe in addition to being a doctor, I’m a champion ping pong player or golfer or figure skater.
Maybe I only need two hours of sleep a night and spend my free time learning languages.
Maybe I was a music prodigy and became a concert pianist at the age of eight.
Maybe I won a national spelling bee.
My phone buzzes and I look at the screen. It’s my father.
We went to Hanlan’s Point today. Thought I’d send you some pictures.
I yelp. No, I do not want to see pictures from my parents’ trip to a clothing-optional beach, thank you very much.
“Peter? What’s wrong?”
I look up and see a woman of about sixty frowning at me.
Well, that’s great timing.
I jump to my feet. “Hi, Mrs. Chow. It’s great to meet you. Just got some bad news about the test results for a patient, that’s all,” I say breezily.
“Ah, call me Cynthia,” she says. “Your job must be stressful, yes?”
I nod. “Stressful, long hours, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” I pause. “Would you like some ice cream?”
“No, that’s okay.”
I’m not sure how to do this. I’ve met a girlfriend’s mother many times before, but never have I met a girlfriend’s mother while lying about being a pediatrician. Never have I met a girlfriend’s mother at an ice cream shop.
My cellphone buzzes again. Probably pictures from a nudist beach.
I don’t look.
“You should get that,” Cynthia says. “I know you’re an important man. Maybe it’s more test results.”
Now I feel like I have to get it, but I make sure she can’t see the screen.
There’s a picture of the Toronto skyline, as viewed from the Toronto Islands. No people in sight. I breathe out a sigh of relief.
“My parents,” I say. “I’ll talk to them later.”
“What do your parents do?” she asks.
“My dad’s retired. He used to work at Fong Investments.”
She nods her approval.
“My mother...”
Oh, dear.
I’m tempted to lie. Tempted to tell Cynthia that my mother is a pharmacist, optometrist, engineer, or similar.
But even though I was thinking up lies I could tell about myself earlier, I figure it’s best if I stick to the truth here.
“My mother is an artist.”
“Would I know any of her work?”
“I doubt it.”
This, I’m aware, is not quite meeting Cynthia’s approval, but more details aren’t going to help. My mother’s paintings celebrate women’s sexuality. She had an installation at Nuit Blanche last year, and she used to work as an art therapist.
I once gave that description to a former girlfriend’s parents, and it did not go over well, especially when they insisted on seeing some of her work. They assumed I was lying about the “celebrating women’s sexuality” part.
I was not lying.
I’m not ashamed of my mother, but life would be easier if she had a different occupation.
“Your last name?” Cynthia says.
Right. I know Valerie has refrained from mentioning it so far because she doesn’t want her family to Google me, but if I refuse to give my last name, it will seem suspicious.
“It’s So,” I say, not wanting to lie about that, either.
“And your parents are from Hong Kong?”
“Yes, but they were both raised in Canada.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “You are third generation, then?”
“Yes.”
“Do you speak Cantonese at all?”
“Not much.”
She clucks her tongue. I wonder what she’d say if she knew what I actually do for work.
“Are you sure I can’t get you something?” I ask. “If not ice cream, then tea or coffee?”
“Coffee would be nice, yes. Valerie knows how I like it.”
I head inside to get us each a coffee, rather glad to have a break from that conversation.
“One coffee for me and one for your mother,” I say to Valerie.
“How’s it going?” she asks.
“Not bad, but I told her that my mom paints pictures of vaginas.”
“Peter!”
“What? It’s the truth.” I grin. “Just kidding. I kept it at ‘artist,’ don’t worry.”
Wh
en I return to the patio and hand Cynthia her coffee, she returns to questioning me. “Where did you go to med school?”
“U of T.”
“And for undergrad?”
“Queen’s.”
She nods. “What made you decide to be a pediatrician?”
“I really like children.”
Which is true. At least, I like most children. My cousin has twins who are absolute terrors, and I can’t say I particularly enjoy it when they’re around. I’m not sure how my cousin doesn’t have severe hearing loss by now, because...wow.
But in general? Kids are good.
“So, you want to have children of your own?” Cynthia asks.
“I do.”
“Tell me, which hospital are you at right now?”
“Sick Kids.”
“What rotation are you doing?”
Unfortunately, I have no idea how medical residencies work. Nobody in my family is a doctor, nor are any of my friends, and it was never of interest to me. But apparently there are rotations?
“Um,” I say. “Broken bones.”
That’s one of the main reasons children would have to go to the hospital, isn’t it?
Cynthia looks at me like I have two heads.
Right. I might have broken a couple bones when I was younger, but that doesn’t sound like a proper medical rotation.
“Just kidding,” I say, although why I’d be kidding about something like this, I don’t know. “I’m doing a rotation in the ICU.”
“The NICU or the PICU?”
“NICU.” That’s the one with babies, right?
I’m making a hash of this.
I’m usually better at the meet-the-parents business, but it’s tough when I’m supposed to pretend I’m something I’m not.
“Valerie had to be in the NICU for a month after she was born,” Cynthia says, her voice suddenly quiet. “She came early, so tiny. We were very worried. But they treat us well, here in Canada. I just didn’t always understand what the doctors were telling me, you know? Because my English wasn’t perfect then, and I didn’t know all the fancy medical words. That’s why it would be good for Valerie to marry a doctor—if anything happens, you will be able to understand it all. Be in a good position to make decisions.” She looks off into the distance, and I get the feeling she hasn’t talked about this in a long time. “Everything turned out okay, though. I just want her to be a smart, successful woman.”
“And she is.”
Cynthia grunts. “She’s not reaching her full potential, but hopefully you will help her do that.”
What does Cynthia see as Valerie’s “full potential”? I assume this is related to Valerie’s previous career. I have no idea what happened, but I do know it’s a sore spot.
“Valerie is perfect the way she is,” I say, needing to defend her.
Cynthia smiles. “You really like her.”
“Of course.”
“Good, good.”
Valerie walks toward us. “Are you scaring him off, Mom?”
“Me?” Cynthia’s voice is upbeat again. “Of course not! He tells me he is working in the NICU right now—why would I want to scare him off? You should marry this one.”
I guess I didn’t make too much of a hash of this. Turns out I said exactly what she wanted to hear.
“But if you’re not careful,” Cynthia continues, “someone else will snap him up. You must keep him happy.”
“You’re talking about me as though I’m a piece of meat,” Valerie says.
“Wah, not a piece of meat! Well, maybe a very expensive, delicious cut of meat.”
I snicker. I can’t help it.
“Clearly you were not keeping Stephen happy!”
Valerie balls her hands into fists. “Stop it. Don’t you dare talk about Stephen.”
“Fine, fine. Just saying, that’s all.” Cynthia stands up and turns to me. “I hope the test results for your patient are not as bad as they seem.”
“What patient?” Valerie asks.
“Oh, one of the babies in the NICU,” I say airily.
I better make sure my lies don’t get out of control.
* * *
Valerie brings me a double scoop of taro and matcha cheesecake ice cream in a bubble waffle, along with an envelope.
Careful not to spill any ice cream on it, I open up the envelope and find a blank card with an elaborate set of pop-up red hearts inside.
My heart kicks up a notch. She got me a card! And it’s such a cute one. I’ve never seen a pop-up card quite like this before.
“You forgot something,” I tell her. “You didn’t sign it.”
“Ah, sorry. The card isn’t for you.”
“Huh?”
“It’s for you to give to me. So just sign your name and draw a few hearts or something and give it back to me. I’ll put it in my bedroom, my mother will see it, and it will fit our act.”
“What should I write?” I lean back in my chair and lick the taro ice cream. It’s good, but not as good as the matcha cheesecake. I’m particularly fond of that one because it reminds me of when Valerie and I had Japanese cheesecake. “Maybe, ‘Valerie, darling, you are the light of my life’?”
She mimes throwing up.
“What about, ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and durian is disgusting’?”
“That doesn’t rhyme.”
“Is that your only objection?”
“You know I object to calling durian ‘disgusting.’”
“When did you first try it?”
“I was nine, I think. My mother has some family in Malaysia, and we went for two weeks when her cousin got married.” There’s a dreamy smile on her face, which makes me smile, too. “I remember running on the beach with my cousins...the hot weather...the durian. It was a nice trip.”
“Valerie,” I say, “if you want me to give you a card, just tell me. I can pick it out myself.” I lick my matcha cheesecake ice cream, and her gaze seems to be fixated on my tongue.
Excellent.
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” she says, “but for now, you can give me this card.”
I think for a moment, then write something simple: The last few weeks with you have been amazing, and I look forward to more time with you. I hand the card back to Valerie.
“Thank you for not including any bad poetry about durian,” she says.
“You’re welcome.”
“How did it go with my mom?”
I shrug. “I told her that my current rotation is in, uh, broken bones, before changing it to the NICU. She approved. She wants me to help you reach your full potential.”
Valerie rolls her eyes. “Yeah, she doesn’t approve of this.” She gestures around the patio. “But at least I have a hot doctor as a boyfriend now, so she has something to like. Just don’t say anything stupid, okay?”
“I solemnly swear to do my best.”
She touches my knee, just for a moment, before she heads inside.
* * *
The truth is, I could write lots of poetry about durian, hopefully better than the line I came up with earlier.
You see, I think Valerie is like a durian.
Now hear me out. I’m not saying she’s spiky and stinky. In fact, she smells vaguely of vanilla and coconut—I like her scent. Though she’s kind of spiky on the outside, it’s true.
Inside, however, she’s a bit mushy. Sensitive.
I like her contradictions.
I don’t know everything that happened to her, but I want to know. She told me it’s hard for her to let someone in, and I feel like she is letting me in, slowly, and I don’t think anything good will come from trying to push her too fast. She let someone in once, and he screwed her over; I suspect she was always hesitant and wary, but even more so now than she was before. I hate him for hurting her.
I just want to be the guy she tells things to. The guy who knows everything about her. I want to get further past the spikes than I have so far.
To Valerie, durian is a delicious treat that not everyone appreciates.
I see her the way she sees durian.
Chapter 9
Valerie
It’s one in the morning. My father is asleep. My sister is asleep.
My mother is still out playing mahjong.
I sigh and open the kirigami heart card again. The last few weeks with you have been amazing, and I look forward to more time with you.
I’ve read those words over and over. I’m glad he wrote something sweet but not mawkish.
But it’s not real.
I told Peter to write me a card, and he did. He’s just playing his part.
Still, whenever I read it, a frisson of heat runs through me. I think of him casually chatting with my mother on the patio, not having a clue what he was talking about when it came to medicine, yet not freaking out.
I admire people like Peter. People who go with the flow, who never get too worked up about anything.
Unlike me.
I sip my tea, then put the card aside and return to my novel. If I’m honest with myself, I rather like it when my mom goes out late because it’s the only time I get any real solitude. It’s the only time I can hear myself think.
Tonight, I’m thinking that I like Peter, I really do, even if this is supposed to be fake.
Before I lose my nerve, I send him a text. Hey, you want to hang out tomorrow evening?
To my surprise, he replies right away.
* * *
We start at Pupusa Hut, an El Salvadoran restaurant on Baldwin Street. It’s crowded, bustling with people who are here for a late meal or snack. We place our orders before grabbing the last available high-top by the door.
Peter’s knee bumps against mine under the table, and it causes the same response in me as reading over the greeting card. There’s just something about his smile and his touch—even an accidental banging of knees—that hits me in the chest. I can’t stay away.
“What did you do at work today?” I ask. “Leaf raking? Hedge trimming?”
“There’s this rich guy on the Bridle Path—the durian guy, actually—who pays us to maintain the hedge maze in his backyard.”
“He has his own hedge maze? That seems extravagant. Does he hide durians in it?”
