Break in Case of Emergency

by Brian Francis

  Shirley was my mom’s best friend. Is my mom’s best friend. I’m never sure what tense to use when it comes to my mom. Was I her daughter? Am I her daughter? Was she my mom? Is she still?

  “Why would Shirley call you about my father?” I ask.

  “He called her,” Grandma Kay says. “To say that he was coming. He knew better than to call here. I’d give him a piece of my mind, that’s for sure. I’d tell him that he wasn’t—”

  “When is he coming? And why?”

  “In a few days. He’s going to Toronto. To do a show of some kind. And he asked Shirley if it would be all right if he came for a visit. Why, after all these years, I have no idea.”

  Grandma Kay gets up from her chair and starts pacing back and forth. She seems to be talking more to herself than to me.

  “Didn’t even come back for Heather’s funeral. That tells you the kind of person he is. Selfish. Said something about doing a run of shows. That he couldn’t get back in time. A lie if I ever heard one. I knew why he wasn’t coming back. The real reason he was staying away. He couldn’t own up to it. What he did. What he left behind.”

  Grandma Kay stops suddenly and looks at me, her mouth a small, dark circle. It’s as though she’s just realized I’m in the room with her. She walks over and places her hands on my arms.

  “Toby, I’m not in my right mind. I’m all wound up. Frank told me to go to bed, to talk about this in the morning, once I had a chance to calm down. But I couldn’t sleep. My mind was going a mile a minute. I’m sorry to do this to you, so unexpectedly. My emotions got the better of me. It’s late. Let’s go to bed and, in the morning, we can talk.”

  “Okay,” I say, even though I don’t want to go to bed. How can she drop a bomb like this and leave me hanging? I have so many questions, but I already know she won’t give me the answers. Not tonight, anyway.

  “We’ll see you in the morning,” Grandma Kay says. “Have a good night’s sleep.”

  Tomorrow, I was going to sneak away and take my pills. All my weeks of planning. Every last detail of my death imagined and sorted out. But now this. This news. About my long-lost father, finally coming home. I don’t have much choice but to put my plans on hold. For a couple of days, anyway. Until my head sorts this out. Until I see my father, finally, face to face.

  The only thing I know for certain is there won’t be any sleep tonight.

  * * *

  I haven’t seen Shirley in over a year. I used to hear from her more in the years following my mom’s death, mainly because she was worried about me, I guess. She’d invite me over for Chinese food whenever I saw her, but then she’d never follow up on it. I think, that way, if anything were to happen to me, she’d be able to say, “I used to invite her over all the time,” and not feel bad.

  Shirley is the age my mom would be now—thirty-three. Even though it’s only been five years, I can’t imagine what my mom would look like if she were alive today. Or maybe I can but it hurts too much to think about it. Shirley lives in a basement apartment in the south end of Tilden. Not the south side, as you’d think it’d be called, but “the end.” Like something has finished. There’s a sign outside her apartment building that reads “Carnation Acres” in faded black script, but I’ve never once seen a carnation anywhere near the building. I don’t understand why people give pretty names to ugly things.

  Shirley isn’t married and doesn’t have any kids. She has diabetes and works at Merle Norman, the cosmetics store, in the mall. Sometimes she goes around to people’s homes to do makeup demonstrations. She used to take me along as her makeup model.

  “Never tell your grandma,” she’d say as she wiped my face clean of lipstick, blush and eyeshadow. “We’re at a Disney movie as far as she’s concerned.”

  Shirley would come over and babysit me when my mom was having one of her spells. My mom used to lock herself in her bedroom. She said it was the only way she could get the voices to go away.

  “Call Shirley,” she’d say, pressing her fingers against her forehead. It always sounded like she was fighting to get the words out. “Ask if she can come over for a few hours. Tell her there are a couple of TV dinners in the freezer.”

  Shirley would show up with chocolate bars or chips and we’d watch TV until my mom came out of the bedroom. She’d be in there for a couple of hours, sometimes longer. A few times, she was in her bedroom overnight and into the next day.

  “Don’t be scared, sweetie,” Shirley would say. “Your mom is just fine.”

  “I know that,” I’d say, trying to sound nice, but I never could. The truth was that I hated Shirley. I didn’t like her coming into our lives like that. I didn’t like anyone seeing the private world I shared with my mom. The closed bedroom door.

  what stays shut stays hidden

  Why, after all these years, is my father coming back? And why did he tell Shirley? Why didn’t he call the one person he should’ve called?

  His daughter.

  * * *

  In the morning, I wait patiently for Grandma Kay to say something, but she doesn’t. Instead, she only mutters to herself while getting breakfast ready for the hired hands. This morning, it’s toasted Western sandwiches, along with coffee and orange juice. Since it’s Saturday, I help. I think about saying something while I’m chopping the onions, but I don’t. We work in silence. But it’s the loudest silence I’ve ever heard. I both want to talk about it and I don’t. It’s complicated.

  “Let’s get these out,” Grandma Kay says, grabbing the platter of Westerns. “They’ll be coming to the back porch soon enough.”

  We set the toasted Westerns, orange juice and coffee onto the picnic table on the back deck just as the hired hands start walking over. I glance up and see Mike, lifting his ball cap to reveal an explosion of red hair. My knees wobble. I hurry back inside before he gets any closer.

  While we’re doing the dishes, Grandma Kay clears her throat.

  “We’ll need to have a talk after this,” she says. “I asked Grandpa Frank to be here. To keep me in control.”

  “Why do you need control?” I ask.

  “Your father has a certain . . . effect on me. I don’t want to get all wound up. That won’t help.”

  I go to my room after we’ve put away the dishes. Inside my closet, there’s an old suitcase. Inside the suitcase, there’s a zippered pouch. Inside the zippered pouch, there’s a pink sock. Inside the pink sock, there’s a folded-up piece of aluminum foil. Inside the folded-up piece of aluminum foil are the pills. I take them out and count them, touching each one gently with my fingertip.

  Twelve.

  I’ll still go through with it, once all of this has died down. Once things go back to being normal.

  Chapter 6

  A few months after my mom had shared my father’s letter, I asked if we could send him my grade two school photo.

  “So he’ll know what I look like,” I said. “That way, if he ever sees me on the street, he’ll come over and hug me.”

  My mom sighed. “I don’t think you’ll be passing your dad on the street anytime soon, pudding. He doesn’t live around here. He lives in Europe.”

  “Where’s Europe?”

  “A long way away. Across a big ocean.” She stretched her arms out. “The Europeans are more accepting of him. Of his craft. Your father is very famous over there. He’s a celebrity.”

  Inside my head, flash bulbs popped.

  “Arthur has a very strange and wonderful talent,” my mom said. “I’ll tell you more. One day. When you’re older. He’d come over all the time when we were in high school and sing songs in the living room. He didn’t get along well with his own family, so I think it was an escape for him. Your grandma would play the piano. They’d tear the roof off, those two got along so well. Strange to think how things have changed. For all of us. Sometimes that seems like it happened a lifetime ago. Maybe, in some ways, it did.”

  “Does he know about me?” I was afraid to ask the question, but I needed to
know.

  “Of course he does,” my mom said. “He knows your name and everything.”

  “If he knows about me, why doesn’t he ever come to see me?”

  My mom was quiet for a few minutes and looked down at her gloved hands. “I think he wants to. But he’s afraid. Sometimes, when you go away, it’s hard to come back. Sometimes people don’t want to think about what they left behind. So it’s easier to just stay away and pretend. Your father is very good at pretending.”

  “Did he write any other letters to you?” I asked, trying not to show my disappointment.

  “A couple. Though nothing recent. Nothing in a long time. Do you want me to read you another?”

  I said yes, so my mom went to her room and came back with a card with daisies printed on it.

  “Arthur knew daisies were my favourite flowers,” she said. “He remembered the littlest details about me, things I didn’t give a second thought to.”

  Dearest Heather, the card read:

  Here I sit in a stinky bar. I have two more shows to do before I move on to the next stinky bar. I am tired tonight, of not being good enough. Of always having to prove myself. I want to be seen the same as everyone else. Is that too much to ask? I thought I could escape, but it’s followed me here and everywhere I go. I feel it on my shoulders, pressing me down when all I want to do is float. I think of you often. I miss our talks. You always made me feel better. I hope you’re well and the voices are delicate whispers that hover above your head like angels, protecting you.

  xo

  Arthur

  My mom closed the card and there were tears in her eyes. I was both sad and angry. My father needed to be here, in Tilden. He needed to find a regular job like all the other fathers and come home at the end of the day with an empty lunch box. He needed to ask, “How’s my little girl?” and tuck me in and read bedtime stories. He needed to lean over and kiss my cheek and leave my skin smelling like his aftershave.

  He needed to be a dad, like all the other dads on television and in movies and the ones I saw holding their daughters’ hands in the grocery stores or along the sidewalks. Those were the dads that hurt the most—the ones who didn’t even realize how the smallest things could mean so much to someone who never even had the tiniest thing.

  I asked my mom if she had a photo of my father. She said only one. She kept it in an envelope in her dresser drawer. She brought it out and handed it to me.

  “It was taken at a fair,” she said. “The kind they set up in mall parking lots in the summertime. There was a Tilt-A-Whirl and a small Ferris wheel and games. We only went to laugh at people, which is how we usually spent our weekends. It made us feel better about who we were. About our difference.”

  In the photo, my mom was standing on the right. Her hair was down, and she was wearing jeans and a pink V-neck blouse. Standing next to her, and not much taller, was a boy. He was wearing a sweater that was the colour of green saltwater taffy and looked too big. He had curly hair and an expression on his face like he had just sucked on a lemon. His body was turned toward my mom and one leg was up. I remember thinking it seemed a funny way for a boy to stand.

  This was my father. Seeing him made me feel funny inside. I was looking at a stranger, but also someone who was a part of me. And I was a part of him.

  “Arthur won me a big stuffed dog that day,” my mom said. “Then we got sick from eating candy apples and corn dogs.”

  The photo went back into my mom’s dresser, but I looked at it every chance I could. I’d take out the magnifying glass and go over it, searching for any little clue, some sign of myself. But I was nowhere, of course. I was still in darkness. I had yet to be.

  The day my mom died, the photo was the first thing I took.

  It was the only thing I had left.

  * * *

  After what seems like a long time, I hear Grandma Kay’s voice calling from the kitchen.

  “Toby! Can you come here for a minute?”

  The two of them are sitting at the kitchen table. Grandpa Frank is playing with a fork, running the tines along his fingertips over and over.

  “Have a seat,” Grandma Kay says in a tight voice. I pull out a chair across from them.

  “I want to talk to you about last night,” she says. “I’m sorry for how I acted. And what I said. I’m sure it was shocking to you. I wasn’t in my right mind. I should’ve just gone to bed and waited until this morning to tell you.”

  “It’s all right,” I say. “I don’t know what difference it would’ve made. He’s still coming.”

  “Yes, he is,” Grandma Kay says with a sigh. She starts scratching a crusty spot on her apron. Grandpa Frank keeps playing with his fork. I don’t know why they’re acting so weird. I mean, I get why this is strange, but it feels like there’s something else going on. Something they’re not telling me.

  “How much do you know about your father?” Grandma Kay asks.

  “Not much,” I say. “My mom said that he was a singer and that he lived in Europe.”

  “That was all she said about him?” Grandpa Frank asks.

  “Maybe a few other things,” I say. “That he used to come over here and you’d play the piano while he sang songs.”

  “That’s true,” Grandma Kay says. “Although it’s hard to believe now, given everything. Did Heather say what kind of singer your father was?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Your father is a troubled man,” Grandma Kay says, scratching harder on the spot.

  “Troubled how?” I ask.

  Grandma Kay turns to Grandpa Frank. “How will we put this, Frank?”

  “Don’t look at me,” he says. “You’re the one with the gift of gab.”

  “I should’ve known I couldn’t count on you for this,” Grandma Kay says, her voice rising. “It’s not fair of you to leave this all on me. You know just as much as I do.”

  “I’d sooner not know anything.”

  What are they talking about?

  Grandma Kay turns back to me. “Heather loved Arthur. She was always so protective of him. They had a strong connection, I guess. When he left Tilden, it wasn’t on the best of terms. He didn’t tell anyone. Only Heather. Shortly after he left, she found out she was pregnant. With you. And we thought, naturally, that Arthur would come back home. To make things right. Because that’s what men are supposed to do. The good ones, anyway. But he didn’t. He didn’t come back at all. There were other things, over the years. Stories we heard. Things we read in those gossip magazines. About his life. The people he associated with. Sometimes, there were calls in the middle of the night.”

  “He called here?” I ask. “At the house?”

  “Yes, but that hasn’t happened for a long time,” Grandma Kay says. “Anyway, I called nShirley and told her that Arthur isn’t welcome here. Your grandfather and I think it’s best if you don’t meet him. He needs to stay away. From you.”

  I can’t believe this. “Why would you tell Shirley that? And why wouldn’t you want me to meet him? He’s my father.”

  “Because he has no business coming back,” Grandma Kay says. Her face looks as hard as a rock. “You can’t stay away for all these years and show up at the doorstep and expect to be invited in for tea and cookies. You don’t get to have that. Not after everything.”

  “What’s done is done,” Grandpa Frank says.

  “No, Frank,” Grandma Kay says, her voice rising again. “What’s done is never done. It carries on. Things don’t fall off a cliff. They keep circling back and causing more damage. I said good riddance to that man a long time ago. I won’t open my door to that chaos again.”

  “But this isn’t about you,” I say. “This is about me.” The tone of my voice surprises me. I’ve never spoken to my grandparents this way before. But anger fills me, head to toe. I have a right to meet him. Even if he pretended that I didn’t exist. Even if he abandoned me, and my mom, when we needed him most. I keep thinking about those three words my mom said.

&n
bsp; He. Was. Magic.

  I deserve to look at him, face to face, and tell him all the things he did to us. How he hurt my mom. How he hurt me by never trying to contact me, not even one birthday card in fifteen years. I want to hear his excuses, what reasons he could possibly give for turning his back on his own flesh and blood.

  “There are things you don’t know, Toby,” Grandma Kay says.

  “Then tell me,” I say.

  She glances over at Grandpa Frank. “I don’t even know how to begin.”

  “Arthur is . . . feathery,” Grandpa Frank says.

  “What are you saying?” I ask. “That he’s a bird?”

  “What I mean to say is that he walks lightly.”

  “You mean he’s skinny?”

  “He marches to the beat of a different drummer.”

  I’m so confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Frank, you’re only making things worse,” Grandma Kay says. “What your grandfather means to say, in his convoluted way, is that Arthur is different from other men. At least the ones you see around these parts.”

  “I already know he’s an entertainer,” I say.

  “It’s more than that,” Grandma Kay says. She takes a deep breath and her words come out like a sneeze.

  “I’msorrytotellyouthisbutyourfatherisahomosexual.”

  I can’t decide what’s more shocking—what my grandma just said about my father or that she said the word “homosexual.” It’s like hearing another language come out of her mouth.

  “What?” I ask, because it’s the only word I can think to say.

  “A homosexual,” Grandma Kay repeats. “A man interested in other—”

  “I know what a homosexual is!” I interrupt. “But I don’t understand what you mean. He’s my father. I mean, my mom and him . . .”

  “I don’t know what turned Arthur that way,” Grandma Kay says with a slow shake of her head.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Grandpa Frank says. “That stupid piano. It’s no goddamn wonder.”