Break in Case of Emergency

by Brian Francis

  “On one condition,” Trisha says.

  “What’s that?”

  “You have to introduce me to him. Imagine, a real-life drag queen, right here, in Tilden. These kinds of opportunities only come once in a lifetime. Just think, Toby. They’re going to make a movie out of your life. I can see it now. Only who would play you? And, more importantly, who would play your drag queen father?”

  * * *

  She insists that we take the bus to the mall to get something for me.

  “A new top to wear when you meet him,” she says. “Something sparkly.”

  “I’m not wearing anything that sparkles,” I say, flipping through the racks of clothes. “I don’t even know anyone . . . like that.”

  “You mean a drag queen?” Trisha asks.

  “I mean gay.”

  “Oh, God,” Trisha says. “You are so naive. Of course you know gay people. There are lots of them.”

  “In Tilden? Who?”

  “Evan Gray, for one.”

  Evan is in our grade.

  “How do you know Evan is gay?”

  “He listens to En Vogue. Duh.” She holds up a red top. “What about this? Very dramatic. Daddy might steal it off you.”

  She starts to laugh.

  “Stop making jokes, Trisha,” I say. “This is humiliating for me. You have no idea.”

  “Hi, ladies.”

  We turn to see Claire and Angela standing next to us. My heart stops. How much of our conversation did they hear?

  “Hi, ladies,” Trisha says back. They call one another that all the time. It’s so annoying.

  “What are you two up to?” Claire asks, giving me the once-over. She makes me feel stupid.

  “A little shopping,” Trisha says. “Toby has a big event coming up.” She winks at me.

  I give her my best death stare. If she says anything, I swear—

  “A date?” Angela asks. Is that a smile on her face or a smirk? It’s hard to tell.

  “No,” I say, pretending to be preoccupied with my clothing search. “Nothing important.”

  “Well, don’t let us keep you,” Claire says. “We’re just on our way to the movies. You should join us.”

  “Maybe,” Trisha says, before glancing at me. My expression must say how I’m feeling. “On second thought, maybe another time.”

  Trisha’s tried to get me to hang out with her, Claire and Angela before. She says they’re nice, but I don’t believe her. And I know she’s only extending the invitation out of obligation, not because she wants us all to hang out together. It’d be so much easier for her if I wasn’t around.

  “Suit yourself,” Claire says, giving me a quick glance. “See you around.”

  The two of them saunter off. I can only imagine what they’re saying about me.

  “You should’ve gone,” I say. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

  “Toby, I’m not going to leave you here alone.”

  “You don’t have to think of me as your charity case,” I say. “I can get by on my own. I always have.”

  “How’s that for gratitude?” Trisha asks. “That’s no way to talk to someone who’s trying to help you be your glamorous best.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I’m just tense. How about this?” I hold up a grey top with pink hearts.

  “I guess,” Trisha says with a shrug. I can tell she’s annoyed at me. I don’t blame her. It’s hard being friends with someone like me.

  Chapter 9

  We go back to Trisha’s house so I can pick up my bike. It’s getting late and I know Grandma Kay will be getting more and more worried with each passing minute. As we approach their driveway, I stop. Mike’s car is there. I check my watch. He should still be at the farm. Why is he here? I tell myself to calm down. I don’t want Trisha to suspect anything.

  “You want to stay for dinner?” Trisha asks. “My mom is making lasagna. It’s one of her relatively edible recipes. Way better than that stew she makes with the V8 juice. So disgusting.”

  “Thanks, but I need to get back home,” I say.

  My bike is leaning against the side of the house, so I grab the handlebars and start walking away. My legs can’t move fast enough.

  “Toby! Wait!”

  I turn around to see Mrs. Richardson standing on the porch. “Do you want to stay for dinner? I’ve got lots.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Richardson,” I say. “But I should get going.”

  “You sure? Oh, before I forget. Are you around this summer?”

  “I think so.”

  “Make sure you pick a weekend to come up to the cabin. Trisha, you organize it with Toby. And Toby, make sure it’s okay with your grandparents.”

  “Oh my God, Mom,” Trisha groans. “She’s not four, for crying out loud.”

  Mrs. Richardson invites me to their cabin every summer. I know she’s only doing it because she feels bad for me. Whenever I’m there, I feel like I’m ruining everyone’s good time. I haven’t been for the past couple of years and have no intention of going this summer either. Especially if Mike will be there.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Richardson,” I say. “I can’t wait.”

  “You’re not biking all the way back to the farm, are you?” Mrs. Richardson asks, putting her hands on her hips. Her forehead gets wrinkled. “It’ll be dark soon.”

  “Mom, it’s only four o’clock,” Trisha says. “It doesn’t get dark until, like, 10 p.m., for God’s sake.”

  “Watch the attitude, Trisha. Toby, you wait there. I’ll get Mike to drive you back.”

  “No, that’s okay, Mrs. Richardson. Really. It’s not that far. I could use the exercise.”

  “Nonsense. You wait right there while I get him.”

  Panic sets in. I’m going to cry. Can this day get any worse?

  “Make sure he doesn’t try to put you in a superhero costume,” Trisha says. “You may have a big homo for a father, but I’ve got a pervert for a brother. I can’t tell which of us has the shorter end of the stick.”

  I think about cycling away before Mrs. Richardson and Mike come back out, but it’s a lost cause. Mrs. Richardson would only send Mike tearing after me. And that would make things worse.

  “Remember, Toby,” Trisha says. “I get a front-row seat for Daddy Drag Show.”

  “Don’t say it like that,” I say, glancing around. I’m still scared that Claire and Angela overheard us.

  “I wonder if he can give me tips for my hair,” Trisha says, curling a strand around her finger. “I’m just so sick of straightening it every day. There’s got to be something else I can do.”

  The screen door opens, then slaps shut. The next thing I know, Mike is standing on the front porch, looking like he just woke up. We make eye contact and then quickly look away. He covers a yawn with his hand.

  “I’m sending Mike to the grocery store anyway,” Mrs. Richardson says. “I forgot to get garlic bread. Are you sure you can’t stay, Toby? It’s the one meal no one complains about. Which must mean they love it.”

  “I’m good,” I say. How am I going to sit next to Mike for the fifteen minutes it will take to get to the farm? What on earth are we going to talk about?

  “Okay, no pressure,” Mrs. Richardson says. “Mike can put your bike in the back of his car. And no loud music—it’s distracting. And both of you, please wear your seat belts.”

  Mike walks up to me and takes my bike and puts it into the trunk. Then I get into the passenger seat. The car smells like stale cigarette smoke, in spite of the scented pine tree hanging from the rear-view mirror. Ashes cover the dashboard and seats like grey confetti. Mike gets in and turns on the engine. A guitar screams from the speakers and I barely make out Mrs. Richardson saying “Turn that down!” as Mike squeals out of the driveway.

  We ride without saying anything for a couple of minutes. Then, because I can’t stand the silence, I break the ice. “Do you mind if we turn the music down? I have a bit of a headache.”

  He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

&nb
sp; “So . . . ,” I say, a few minutes of silence later. “What’s new?”

  “Not much,” he says, leaning over to push in the cigarette lighter. “What’s new with you?”

  Imagine if I actually told him. That I’d been planning to kill myself by taking the pills I’ve been stealing from Mr. Whitlock. But then my grandma told me my long-lost father is coming back in a couple of days. Oh, and did I forget to mention my father is also a gay drag queen?

  “Not much,” I say. “Do you have any plans for the summer?”

  “Work,” he says, lighting his cigarette. The tobacco crackles. “Might go camping with a couple of buddies.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Trisha told me once that all of Mike’s friends are losers. None of them have jobs and they sit around listening to grunge music, complaining about how they could’ve played the instruments better.

  “Might go away for a few days to Toronto too. See a baseball game or something.”

  “I didn’t think you liked baseball.”

  “I don’t, but the girl I’m going with does.”

  He glances over at me, making sure I’ve heard.

  “Oh,” I say. So he’s found someone else. Not a big deal. What was I expecting him to do? Spend his whole life pining over me? Who do I think I am, anyway? The girl he never got over? I used to have fantasies about him, out for dinner with his wife, years from now. Maybe it’s their anniversary.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” he’ll say between the appetizer and the main course. “Something I’ve never told you.”

  And then he’ll tell his wife about me. Toby—the girl who killed herself so many years ago. How I’ve always stayed with him. I’m like a stain. He’s always wondered if he could’ve done something to stop me. If only he’d known. Mike’s wife will be silent. Or maybe she’ll say, “Oh,” as she dabs her lips with her napkin. She’ll know what this means, how this changes things. The living can’t compete with the dead. I know this better than anyone.

  “What about you?” Mike asks. “Any plans?”

  “No,” I say. “Nothing out of the ordinary. We can’t really go anywhere on account of the cows.”

  “It’d be nice if your grandpa had a day off,” Mike says. “That guy’s basically a prisoner to those cows.”

  I always thought of it the other way. But Mike might have a point.

  “I know it’s weird between us,” I say. “And I’m sorry about that. I just want us to get to a place where it’s not so weird. Do you think that’s possible?”

  He takes a long drag of his cigarette. “Here’s the thing, Toby. You were the one who said you didn’t want anything anymore. And that’s cool. Whatever. But you don’t get to decide how we act after you make up your mind about something. Especially when your decision isn’t something everyone agrees on. You don’t get it both ways. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say. Then, because I can’t think of anything else to say, because I can’t tell Mike that the real reason I can’t be with him is because I can’t have feelings for anyone, I keep my lips pressed shut the rest of the way.

  Chapter 10

  When I get back home, Grandma Kay is sitting at the kitchen table, almost in the same position as when I left this morning. Her eyes look tired and I know I’m to blame. I wish I was a better granddaughter. I wish I wasn’t such a disappointment.

  She looks up when I walk in. “There you are,” she says. She smiles weakly. “I was just about to start dinner. In all the excitement today, I forgot to take the pork chops out of the freezer. Are you okay with tuna noodle casserole?”

  “Sounds good,” I say. “Do you need any help?”

  “To open a couple of cans and boil some noodles? I hope to God not. Do you want peas in it?”

  “Sure. If you have them.”

  Then Grandma Kay pats the kitchen chair next to her, so I sit down. She pinches the bridge of her nose with her fingers and squeezes her eyes shut.

  “About your father . . . ,” she says.

  I wait for her to finish the sentence.

  “About your father . . . ,” she repeats. I guess that’s the end of the sentence.

  “What about him?” I ask.

  “I got a bit wound up earlier. No surprises there. I was caught off guard by the whole thing. And I don’t like surprises. You know that.”

  “I remember your fiftieth birthday party,” I say. “You were pretty mad.”

  “The idea of being the centre of attention bothers me,” Grandma Kay says. “Makes me feel icky. Like I owe people something when I didn’t ask for it in the first place. It’s hard for me to explain.”

  I understand.

  “When I’m caught off guard,” she says, “my thoughts twist around and around. Everything inside my head becomes a big black ball of words and sounds. Do you ever feel that way?”

  “Sometimes,” I say. She must know about the pills. They’re still inside the aluminum foil, inside my sock, inside my suitcase, inside my closet. Knowing they’re still there makes me feel safe, like being in a dark room and knowing there’s a flashlight if you need it.

  “Your father and I didn’t have the best relationship,” Grandma Kay says. “You might be able to guess that. We didn’t see eye to eye about a number of things, especially when it came to my daughter. When he left, without any notice at all, I was furious. He didn’t even have the decency . . . and then when I found out Heather was pregnant, well, that made the situation go from bad to worse. Arthur refused to acknowledge anything. As though Heather’s pregnancy would just fly away, like some kind of bird. I found out where he was living in Toronto and went to see him. This was right before you were born. I got Frank to drive me, and you should’ve seen his face when he opened the door and saw me standing there. I told him to cut out this foolishness. That there was a girl back home who needed him, a girl who was in tears every night. A very . . . fragile girl who needed special care and attention.”

  Grandma Kay slowly shakes her head.

  “I still remember his laugh. As though I’d just made the funniest joke. People’s cruelty never ceases to surprise me. How hard some people get. Hearts like charcoal. I told myself he’d come back, one day, especially after what happened to Heather. But nothing. Only silence. And cold, cold air.”

  “But he’s coming back now,” I say. “That must mean something. It must mean he’s changed.”

  “I don’t know what it means,” Grandma Kay says. “I can’t stop you from meeting your father. In spite of everything. That’s your right. And maybe it’s wrong of me to speak of him so poorly, but I want you to be prepared. He may not be the person who you thought he’d be.”

  It’s a little late for that, I think.

  Grandma Kay gets up from the table. “You meet him and make up your own mind. And maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s changed. I just hope for your sake—and his—that he has. And I just wish I could believe it.”

  My father will be here in twenty-four hours.

  Chapter 11

  When I wake up the next morning, I lie in bed, not wanting to get up. It’s the same as every morning. I feel paralyzed. But when I finally manage to pull my covers off, they don’t seem as heavy as they usually do, and I don’t feel as anxious when opening my bedroom door. I go into the kitchen to find Grandma Kay rooting through the cupboards.

  “I was going to make a pie,” she says. “I froze those peaches last summer, but I haven’t made a pie in ages. Today seemed like a good day for one. It’s the crust that’s the trickiest. I can’t find my pastry recipe, though.”

  I find her recipe box and start flipping through the index cards and magazine clippings, most containing recipes for things she’s never made. All of Grandma Kay’s good intentions in one small Tupperware container.

  “You ready for today?” I ask, scanning an index card with a recipe for Cheerio Chews written in her perfect handwriting.

  “I’m not sure,” she says. “How about you?”

  “It’s one of tho
se days where you wake up and the first thought you have is, ‘How is this day going to end?’”

  “That sums it up pretty good.”

  “I found the recipe,” I say and pass her the index card.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Grandma Kay sighs.

  * * *

  We spend the next hour preparing the breakfast for the hired hands. The day is warming up, so we serve it on the back deck. Mike is there, of course. And, of course, we pretend not to see one another. I’ve made things so awkward for both of us. Another life I’ve managed to screw up.

  Grandma Kay and I wash the dishes and dry them and set the plates back into the cupboards. We’ll take them down again, in a few hours, when it comes time to serve lunch. It’s the same day in and day out for Grandma Kay, and I think about what Mike said. How Grandpa Frank is a prisoner to the cows. The same is true for Grandma Kay. I don’t know how she’s going to manage when she gets older. Who will make the lunches for the hired hands? Who will wash the dishes and put them away and take everything out a few hours later to start all over again? But I tell myself those thoughts don’t matter today, not with the day being what it is, a giant, quivering ball of expectation. I feel so many things. Fear. Hope. Dread. Excitement. I can’t pin down any one emotion. I can’t squeeze all of my years of longing and dreams and disappointment into a small hole.

  A little later, we make lunch, wash the dishes and put everything away. Grandma Kay makes her pie. I tidy up the living room. Grandma Kay wonders if she bought enough potatoes. If she should make a turkey for dinner instead of a ham. She can’t remember if Arthur likes ham.

  “There’s still time for me to get one,” she says. “There’s still time for a mind to be changed.”

  “I think a ham is fine,” I say, at the same time thinking, Is my father going to show up in a dress? This question has been overtaking my thoughts since I woke up this morning. I have no sense as to what my father will look like or what he’ll be wearing or what he’ll say to me when he sees me for the very first time. Will he notice my green eyes? Will he see himself in me? And, most important, will I see myself in him?