And so...
“It’s no big deal,” I say. “I had a relationship crisis a few years ago, and I got depressed, drank too much, couldn’t paint. I turned it around and I’m making a living as an artist, which is an accomplishment. It’s not to put you off at all, but I think it’s more important to live in the present, don’t you?”
“Sure,” he says.
“So talk to me about today. What’s going on with you today?”
And so, crisis averted, we talk. And talk. And keep talking. But it’s not the words, or not just the words, but what happens alongside and between the words. It’s my eyes, drifting over his body, and our hands and lips and the sounds that come from our mouths.
The brick-like pressure I carry around on my chest lightens, gets pushed aside, if only for a while.
The crowd is thin tonight and there are pauses filled with warm air, the touch of Hugo’s fingers on the back of my hand, the thrumming of my heart as it squeezes against the wall of the box I’ve been keeping it in since...
I won’t think about that.
Since...
Damn.
Since Lucas.
I shut my eyes.
“Mara?”
I open my eyes, try to smile, to recapture the mood.
“Sorry,” I say. “Hey, what about that mindless sex?”
“Not a chance,” he says.
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
“See you tomorrow night?”
“Probably.”
Chapter 8
“I’m not going to be dependent on some bastard,” Mom says. “And neither are you.”
It’s not like you’re telling her to marry him, but the nice man from down the street keeps calling and you feel bad telling him that Mom’s out when she isn’t.
“But, Mom, he might make you happy.”
“I’ll be happy when I know I can put you through university.”
“I’m not going to university.”
“That’s what you think.”
“I’m going to stay here and take care of you.”
“Don’t. You. Dare,” she says in the voice that isn’t supposed to be screaming, but really is.
“But...who’ll make sure you eat? Who’ll rub your forehead and pick up groceries and help you with your filing?” She needs you. She has to need you. Your stupid lower lip is quivering and you hate that. You need to not need her.
Mom stares hard at you, pushes an over-sprayed chunk of brown hair behind her ear.
“Of course I need you, kid. But you’re going to grow up, and then what I need is for you to be able to take care of yourself.”
“Okay...I’ll go to university. I’ll be a doctor.”
“Let’s just get you through the fourth grade.”
“Okay,” you say. “Mom?”
“Yes?”
“D’you think I’ll have a husband ever?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Do you think you’ll want one?”
“Well...”
Will she take it the wrong way if you say yes?
“Only if we don’t fight and he promises not to interfere with my career.”
Mom throws her head back and laughs and laughs, then she grabs your shoulders and dances you around the room.
It’s a good day. A day you hold close and relive on all the other days when you come home to an empty house or a mom buried in paperwork who shushes you for making too much noise washing the dishes.
You never complain that you’re lonely, or that the kids at school don’t like you—you know she can’t do anything about it.
***
One month into junior high (where you still have no friends), Mom buys a house in North York and you have to move.
Being the new girl doesn’t turn out to be the great fresh start it was supposed to be—instead, it sucks. You’re not a girl who takes piano lessons or ballet or plays on a soccer team. You are not a girl who gets a new fall wardrobe and fancy pencil cases. It’s not the divorce—lots of kids’ parents are getting divorced now—it’s that something is wrong with you. You don’t look right in your clothes, you don’t laugh at the things other girls laugh at, or, if you do, it’s a beat too late, too loud. You don’t have a record collection or watch Falcon Crest or have a crush on John Stamos. You have nothing that says Esprit or Benetton on it, and you don’t perm your hair. You’re rotten at sports and you live in a serious world—a mom in night school with two jobs, a dad in an apartment that reeks of cabbage and cigarette smoke. You are alone.
But alone is fine. Alone is perfect, as long as nobody bugs you. You doodle nasty cartoon versions of your classmates in the backs of your notebooks and practice glaring in the bathroom mirror at home. You’re getting tall, so the glaring works, and soon the only people who talk to you are your teachers.
One day after Thanksgiving, someone sits beside you at lunch.
“I see you drawing,” she says.
You say nothing.
“What are you drawing all the time?”
“Nothing,” you mumble.
“You’re new.”
“No shit.”
“I’m Bernadette. We’re in Geography together.”
“I know.”
“Sometimes I skip.”
You take a bite of your sandwich.
“I skip class, and I hang out behind the Seven Eleven and smoke.”
“Good for you.”
“You could come.”
“No thanks.”
“You don’t have any friends,” she says.
“And?” You say, and ignore the wobbly feeling in your gut her observation brings.
“Well, you want one?”
“One what?”
“A friend, dipshit.”
“Oh.”
“I have some friends already,” she says, “but some of them are so immature. You seem, I don’t know, smart. Different.”
It could be a trick.
“Maybe,” you say.
“Maybe, huh?” she says. “Okay. We could do, like, a trial period.”
“All right.”
“Cool.”
“I’m Mara.”
“Sure, I know.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“One thing...”
“Yeah?”
“Call me Bernie and I’ll fucking deck you.”
Of course you say yes.
You say yes to the first boy who wants to “go around” with you too. All at once you have a best friend and a boyfriend—if getting stoned and giving someone a hand job makes him your boyfriend. But he’s clumsy and boring and soon you break up with him. Bernadette, though, her you keep.
Suddenly going downtown to Dad’s for the weekend is very cool. Bernadette comes with you sometimes, and you can always sneak a couple of beers.
Dad catches you taking one once, when you’re there alone. He tries to have a heart-to-heart about it, but he doesn’t do so well considering he’s on his sixth.
“Dad,” you say, “it’s really no big deal. I know what I’m doing.”
“But, sweetheart, it’s not...Your mother would...”
“Never know.”
He blinks.
You sit down next to him on the couch. “Dad, I’m very mature, and I know how to handle it.”
“Hey, I’m not so old, I get it, but...”
“It’s just a beer now and then. I like the taste.”
“Me, too, honey. Me, too.”
“How ‘bout I just sit here with you and finish it while you watch the game.”
“Just this once.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t tell your mother.”
“Never.”
He smiles.
You smile back. “Our secret,” you say.
And that clinches it. Beer and baseball become a tradition for you and Dad, except when he has a girlfriend, which he often does. Then your weekends are spent going to lame amusement parks and the zoo. You sneak the beer into your room at night a
nd try not to hear them screwing in the next room. You’re twelve, so it’s not like you don’t know about these things, but seriously, it’s gross.
***
Hugo and I find the bar too noisy on our sixth meeting. He suggests we walk.
The word “walk” has a slightly sickening effect on me, but I can’t exactly say I don’t walk. Obviously I walk; it’s a basic skill. I roll my shoulders and breathe. I focus on Hugo, on wanting to be with Hugo.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say, and grip the edge of my chair.
“You look a little...dizzy or something.”
I swallow, then nod. “Yeah, I was for a second. I’m fine though.”
I stand up and reach for his hand. The warmth of his grip grounds me.
“Let’s walk,” I say.
He gives me a cute, shy smile, squeezes my hand and we’re off.
The air is crisp and smells of fallen leaves and wood smoke. I take full breaths. I’m okay. Air has never smelled so good.
“So,” Hugo says, “what about your family? You said your parents are divorced. Are they both still in Toronto?”
Something always wrecks it.
I try to relax my jaw.
“Yeah, my dad lives on Jarvis. He, um, works in the restaurant industry on and off, he’s got an on-and-off girlfriend, and generally he’s...either on or off.”
“I’m not sure if I should laugh at that or not. Are you serious?”
“Dad’s got issues,” I say. “He’s all right though, he’s...we’re friends.”
“And your mom?”
“She’s here too. I don’t see her very much.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.” I sigh. “I used to know but now...”
“Is this another one of those off-limits subjects?” Hugo asks. “Should we talk about, I don’t know, particle theory, musical theater?”
There is an edge to his tone, which makes me feel sick in addition to tense.
“No, it’s fine.” I say. It’ll have to be. I can’t shut him down on every personal subject and expect him to keep hanging around. “I’m sorry, I’m just out of the habit of talking about any of this.”
“Okay...” he says, and waits.
“Um...my mom and I...it’s been a rocky relationship since I was a teenager, even before that. For a long time I was angry but now we’re just different. It doesn’t work very well between us.”
Again, he waits, just watching me.
I take a deep breath. “My dad was a bit of a flake, in terms of child support, reliability, all kinds of things. It’s not really his fault, he’s just always been a mess. To be fair though, my mom was on her own supporting us, raising me, etcetera. I was made very aware of what a strain it was for her, how disappointed she was in how her life turned out. And she wasn’t exactly the warm and fuzzy type—still isn’t. She wasn’t around a lot because she had to work so much and when she was, her parenting strategy was about making me tough and independent.”
I pause and glance at Hugo, who is now looking far too sympathetic.
“She succeeded,” he says.
I make a sound that’s almost a laugh.
“You don’t think so?” he says.
I’m flattered, but he has obviously confused prickly and paranoid with tough and independent. What would he think if he saw me hiding in my house, painting the same thing over and over, running to my lover to get my fears fucked away?
“I’m glad you do,” I reply.
***
I hold my shit together, though between the walking and the personal conversation, it’s a challenging evening. I wave goodbye from my car and drive two blocks before the shaking starts and I’m forced to pull over. I rest my head on the steering wheel and wait. I try to slow my breathing and tell myself that I’m making progress, that I am, in fact, being strong. Stronger, at least.
But when the shaking subsides it leaves a chasm of loneliness and doubt. I find myself driving, but not in the direction of home.
I park the car, take out my rarely-used cell phone and dial. I usually give him more warning. I usually manage to stay away longer. But there is a strange safety in Erik and I need that safety right now.
He’s waiting in the open doorway, a lit joint in his hand.
“Hey,” I say, and brush past him.
Maybe it’s because of Hugo, or maybe I’m more of a mess than usual, but I start babbling about the weather and then the mayoral race and finally about an editorial piece I read online this morning. Erik leans back on the closed door and squints at me through the haze of smoke until, finally, I trail off.
“What’s going on?” he says.
“Nothing,” I say, but I have trouble meeting his eyes.
Regardless, he sees me. Even stoned, even though we never talk much, he sees.
“Bullshit,” he says. “Try again.”
“Oh,” I say. “You know I’m always a little fucked up. Nothing new.”
“Really?” he says. He moves to stub the joint in an ashtray and then walks toward me. I take a step back and bump into the side of the couch. He comes close and stands inches away, never breaking eye contact. “Then how come you can’t shut up? How come you look like you might break if I touch you?”
“I’m fine. Touch me all you want.”
He reaches out and draws a line up from my throat, under my chin with his index finger. The still, dark look in his eyes and the delicacy of his touch send shock waves through me. I swallow and somehow hold his gaze.
“I don’t think you’re here for the usual, Mara,” he says. “Though, of course, I’m all for it, if you are.”
“Yes, I am,” I say, but my voice sounds strangled.
He lowers his head and brushes his lips across the skin of my neck. The shaking starts again and quickly spreads to my legs. I lock my knees to keep them still.
“Liar.”
I reach for his shirt, but my fingers can’t manage the buttons. He takes my hands in his and presses them against his chest. I feel his heart thumping. His eyes search my face.
“Ah,” he says.
“What?”
“Not running fast enough, are you,” he says. It’s not a question, he just knows. He knows because he has his own past to run from, his own ghosts to flee. And of course, there’s always Lucas. We both know more than enough about that.
As always, he sees right through me, right into me, makes me feel obscene, naked.
I try to pull away, but he’s got my hands trapped.
“Let me go,” I say and jerk backwards.
“I don’t think so,” he says. “Did something happen?”
I shake my head. If I don’t get out of here I’m going to turn to mush. I’m going to fall apart and blubber like a fool and I really, really don’t want to do that here.
“Please. I have to go.”
He let’s go of my hands, but only to wrap his arms around my waist, pick me up and carry me to the couch. He puts me down and kneels on the floor in front of me, between my legs, effectively blocking me in.
“You came to me,” he says. “And I get it, all right? I fucking get it.”
I can’t hide the shaking anymore. I’m gasping for breath, holding my arms crossed in front of my chest.
“Okay,” he says, his voice warm and calming. “Okay.”
He climbs onto me, straddles me so his legs brace mine.
“Hold on,” he says. “Just hold on.”
My arms are still clutched in front of me. Erik presses his forehead to mine and puts his hands over my cold fists and slowly opens them and twines our fingers together. I grip his hands and his body absorbs some of the shaking.
He holds me and murmurs soothing words. When the tension starts to ease, I reach under his arms and wrap mine around his back. He pulls my head to his chest and presses me closer. A few tears fall, but I don’t turn to mush. Eventually my breathing slows to match his and I feel the heat returning to my limbs. I
should really pull away, but I can hear his heartbeat and he is so warm...
“Better?” he whispers.
“Mm-hm.”
“I’m not crushing you?”
“Mm-mm.”
In another few minutes we shift so that we’re lying side-by-side. The couch isn’t quite wide enough, but we squeeze together anyway. We close our eyes and listen to the hum of the computers and the sounds of the city.
It should feel weirder than it does.
It should feel much weirder when he leans over and kisses the corners of my eyes, my cheeks and then my lips. It doesn’t feel nearly weird enough.
“Erik,” I say.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean...”
“No, it’s not that.”
Our faces are inches apart. His breath is on my face and his eyes look huge.
“What then?”
“You’re just...not supposed to kiss like that.”
“You don’t like it?”
“Um...”
He does it again and strange things start happening in my body.
“You can stop me anytime,” he says.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” I slide underneath him and bring my lips back to his.
He moves slowly, watches my face and parts of me unravel with every touch.
“Jesus,” I say, even as I slide a hand into his pants. “You’re scaring me.”
“Don’t worry,” he says and moans as I my fingers close around him. “I’m still the same old Erik.”
He is and he isn’t. We’re both too far gone to care. Just for now, just for this night, I close my eyes and arch against him, letting the tender mix with the fierce...and pretend it doesn’t matter.
Chapter 9
You are fourteen and nobody fucks with you anymore. Your best friend is awesome, you can drink without puking your guts out, and your mother has a Master’s degree.
Never mind that she’s become a feminist and stopped wearing a bra to the grocery store, which is seriously embarrassing.
You say “fuck” these days and sound like you mean it.
You wish your dad were more like Bernadette’s, though. Bernadette’s dad takes care of the yard, helps with meals, plays tennis and golf, and discusses the Political Situation at the dinner table. Bernadette’s dad would never go a week without changing his clothes or cry to Bernadette about how his life stinks.
Falling Under Page 5
