“So do I,” he says, relaxing into his next pitch, launching the ball with only the slightest arc.
“I’m a fan of weather,” she says. “Pretty much every kind. Every season.”
“You like spring?” Soggy, colourless lawns. Pitted wastelands of snirt on every corner.
“Uh-huh. I love the rain. Although my hair goes crazy.”
“Summers are getting pretty hot.”
“Yeah, but this?” She cactuses her arms and lifts her chin, as if offering her whole self to the night. “It’s like the tropics.”
“Fall?” Michael asks, and her arms drop back to her sides.
“Come on.”
“Winter?” Men having heart attacks shovelling. Drunk, drugged boys losing unprotected body parts.
“Skiing? Snow? Snowflakes?”
When she throws to him, the ball lands light and square in his glove. “I don’t think I really liked Eli that much,” she tells him.
Michael tips the ball into his hand. “Sounds like a good reason to break up.”
“Still,” she says. “I feel bad about it.”
“Not every relationship works out.” This time Michael throws high, a pop fly, an arc of white hooping through the night sky, never losing the light. Frankie raises her arms, takes a couple steps back and brings the ball soft into Finn’s old glove.
—
TWO A.M. Her window dark. Our backyards dark. The gap in the fence. The tree. Dark for something like twenty-five days, give or take a couple seconds.
I let the curtain drop. Tell myself to get up, get over it, get productive. Tell myself it was never real. I grab a marker and trace some shorelines on my map. Head for the islands, the atolls and the archipelagos, low-lying, so it makes sense I guess. Oahu, Maui, Lanai. Swallow the Big Island’s beaches, although inland, I figure the mouth of the volcano stands tall. American Samoa. French Polynesia. The Galapagos, which kind of hurts. Drowning exotic, endangered species unafraid of mankind. I traverse the Panama Canal and start on the Saints—Saint Martin, Saint Lucia, Saint Kitts. Puerto Rico. The Dominican. Haiti. One good thing: I’m definitely getting steadier with the left hand. Cuba goes under without a wobble. And just south, the Isle of Youth.
While David’s earning his $360 dealing with Peter’s lawyer, Mia’s earning her seventy-five dollar hourly wage at the condo overseeing the arrival of his new king-sized bed. The deliverymen set up the frame and the black lacquer headboard, but it’s Mia, in a short, swingy pear-printed dress, her loveliest bra, her laciest underwear, who wrestles on the bamboo sheets and smacks life into the vacuum-sealed pillows. It’s Mia who lies down first.
In her opinion, the bed takes up too much of the room, but it’s quickly apparent that David, who picked it out without her, has exquisite taste in mattresses. Lying alone in the almost empty room, unfurled on the new pillow-top, memory-foam, coil-springed marvel, Mia feels almost weightless; even her heaviest parts, head, hips, heels and elbows, seem to float in a trickery of perfect support and suspension. From a rooftop air conditioner storeys up, cool air breezes soundlessly into the room, wafting the hem of her dress. Mia closes her eyes against the sunlight streaming through the glass—they’d called for rain, but apparently not at the Soho—and tries but cannot remember ever being more comfortable in her life.
And then, of all things, she thinks about Helen. About calling her up just to talk. She’d tell her about getting high and skinny-dipping with David, how she’s been kind of turned on ever since, and she’d let that conversation unfold, leaving out the part about him being their lawyer. She’d tell Helen how quiet Finn’s been lately, how down, she’d say heartsick if there were a girl involved. She’d talk to her about love and worry, love and sex, sex and security, about wanting to wall up her heart and turn her back on it all. She’d tell her about the big breakfast she made last Sunday, how she hollered upstairs but neither Michael nor Finn had come down. How she finally left for her studio at one in the afternoon, the scrambled eggs and bacon cold on the table, the fresh-squeezed orange juice grown thick and warm.
And for every story of hers, every confidence, every concern, Helen would have one of her own. Mia closes her eyes and tries to imagine the stories she’d tell, just the two of them together, chatting on the bed.
—
“I NEED A THIRTY.” Finn dangles a pair of jeans over the top of his changing room door. “Or maybe a twenty-nine.”
A twenty-nine? Christ, the kid’s almost six feet tall. Michael keeps quiet as he takes the jeans. They’ve finally made it to the mall, while Mia’s getting things ready for the party. Today is about Finn and regardless of pant size, money spent or the pound of the rap music—I’m going to slap the fucking freckles off your face, bitch, those can’t possibly be the lyrics, that can’t possibly be what he’s hearing—Michael’s going to stay friendly. Maybe take him for a beer in Quebec when they finish up shopping.
Michael relays Finn’s request to the guy working the change room—tattooed and pierced, earlobes stretched halfway to his shoulders, good luck getting a real job—and sits back down. From his place on the bench, Michael has a good view of Finn’s cubicle. Beneath the door, a pair of well-worn flip-flops and beside them, his son’s size eleven and a half feet. Impossible. Yesterday, the day he was born, they couldn’t have been more than two inches long. His toes, pulpy and black in the hospital, are now a healthy-looking pink.
Michael remembers wrestling on miniature socks. The terror of nail trimmings. Strapping his son proudly onto his chest and stepping out into a city grown suddenly dangerous—the sidewalks too narrow, the traffic too fast, the bridge railings precariously low.
On Finn’s first birthday—the rapture of ice cream and chubby fistfuls of chocolate cake. Sometime during his second loop round the sun, the boy learned a new trick. He’d lie on Michael’s chest and rub his face into his father’s. A little drooly, a little rough, nose pressed flat, skin pulling skin, Finn would be giggly and glassy eyed with the fun. Such unabashed intimacy seems as impossible as inch-long feet now holding up a fully grown man.
He used to wrestle with his own father after dinner when he was little. There was no face rubbing, and he doubts the man ever changed a diaper or read him a bedtime story, but he was expert at tussling with a kid on a living room floor. When Michael left for university his dad shook his hand, pressing a folded fifty into his palm. He can’t remember if he wished him luck or gave him any advice at all. He sure didn’t tell him he loved him, not then, not ever: spoken aloud, those words would have embarrassed them both.
“Yo, bro.” The sales guy with the earlobes slaps two pairs of jeans onto the cubicle door. Finn’s hand pops up—“Lit, dude, thanks”—and the pants disappear inside. One pair slaps to the floor. Finn kicks his way into the other pair, his shins nearly as skinny as Dirk’s. He pulls up first one side and then the other, awkward, uneven. Above the knee, behind the door, Michael can only imagine the struggle continues.
What with all the late-night baseball, he’s been sleeping better and the nightmares of finding Finn in the snow have tapered off. Still, that moment is never far away. Waiting on a heartbeat, the whole world dead in the pause.
Finn steps out of the change room. His hair needs a trim, but the jeans look good on him. They fit him well. He pushes them lower on his hips, then turns and checks out his ass in the mirror. “What do you think?”
“Good. You should get a couple pair.” He doesn’t ask the size; the boy has another sixty, seventy years to fatten up.
“Thanks, Dad,” Finn says as Michael slides his credit card across the checkout counter.
“You’re welcome. You needed them.” He claps Finn on the shoulder. “Happy birthday,” he says to his son, eighteen years old and standing tall beside him, strong beneath his hand.
—
MIA HAD PLANNED to have dinner on the deck, but rain drove the party inside. They ate their spaghetti and meatballs at the rosewood bar at the back of the living room, which a
lways feels more festive than the kitchen; the candelabra flickering, the silk chandelier dimmed and doubled in the old French mirror, the walls glowing a rich ruby red, a rebuke to the sullen sky beyond the sliding doors.
Michael’s at the bar, fiddling with the iPod, and Finn and Frankie are sprawled on one couch, Jess and Eli on the other, when Mia carries in the cake. She’d fallen asleep in David’s bed, barely waking up in time to get back to make it. The cake’s still warm, the icing a little drippy, but she doesn’t think anyone will notice, and if they do, well, she came home feeling light and well rested, looking forward to the evening.
They sing a sweet, off-key “Happy Birthday” to Finn, even Eli, who’s been quiet all night, with a prickly edge to his glumness. He’s barely even looked at Frankie, so Mia guesses his mood probably has something to do with her. In fact, all the kids were quiet at first, but two bottles of Champagne later, the others have brightened considerably. Finn looks happier than she’s seen him in weeks; Mia curses herself for forgetting to stop at the studio on her way home to grab her camera.
When he leans in to blow out the candles, his beauty seems risen to the surface. Golden with light, centring the room, he draws them all closer, both concentrates and expands them. Mia’s chest fills with the heat of eighteen tiny flames, the small fire celebrating this boy’s life. Behind her rain beats on the glass, far off, hushed, an inconsequential patter.
“Make a wish,” Frankie says, and Finn’s gaze drops. In the candlelight, the shadows of his eyelashes fall long on his cheeks. Mia can see the way Finn holds Michael, too. Standing at the bar, near reverent, iPod forgotten, he watches his son consider how to spend his annual fling with magic.
Finn smiles over at Eli, at Jess, and a second later extinguishes the candles with a single breath. A light smoke rises from the cake, Mia blinks, Finn fades back on the couch, and the moment is over, if it ever existed at all. She sets the cake on the bar and starts plucking out the candles. Maybe the Champagne’s made her romantic. Or the heart-twisting truth that Finn almost didn’t make it to this day added a strange, gilded gravitas to the ceremony. Or maybe it was real. Maybe what rose in Finn also rose in them, a shared space, a common light, so for an instant they knew life to be both beautiful and good.
Mia expects groans from the kids, but Finn and the girls, chatting brightly, smile as Billie Holiday spools velvet from the speakers. One leg tucked up on the couch, his knee bobbing lazily to the music, even Eli’s gloom seems to have lifted. He looks relaxed and only slightly pensive as he listens to the others talk.
When Michael comes for the cake Mia’s slicing, she points her chin at their son.
“We did that,” she says. “We made that boy.”
“Yes.” Michael leans across the bar. “I remember.” And he kisses her, a tender, lingering kiss. Even with her eyes closed, Mia can feel the kids watching, embarrassed perhaps, perhaps not. It doesn’t matter. Like the rain, they are far off, beyond the smallest circle.
The kiss ends. Michael delivers the plates. Finn and Frankie, Eli and Jess, everyone quiet in the wind-down, bites of warm chocolate cake, the clink of forks on good china, and only Billie Holiday singing magic to them now.
—
WHEN I COME out of my bathroom from taking a leak, Jess is in my room, looking kind of nervous, standing close to the door. She’s already wearing her raincoat, zipped up and everything, a belt at the waist so I know she’s not planning on hanging around.
Your mother said no presents but I brought one anyway. She hands me a rectangular package wrapped in light blue paper, almost the same shade as the stuff she puts on her toenails. No card. No “Love Jess.” I lean up against my desk, fumble off the wrapping. Inside, a new plaid shirt.
To add to the rotation, she says.
Thanks. I don’t say anything about it being short-sleeved. Or ask if her boyfriend paid for it. I don’t tell her how I had to look away when she walked into the living room. That I didn’t know she was coming and when I saw her, my heart went so raw.
New jeans? she asks.
I nod.
Nice, she says, and shoves her hands in her pockets. How are you?
I blow air through my lips, raspberry the nothingness in front of me, hold on to the desk with the hand I have left. Great. Fantastic. You?
I’m okay, she says, and I stare at the floor for a while. The bottoms of her pants are rolled up. Her feet are bare and still perfect. Unlike my mother, she’s definitely not into shoes.
It was getting complicated, Finn, she says, kind of aggressive.
It was always complicated, I say, kind of soft.
Her foot brushes the hardwood. It was getting too intense.
It was always intense.
Listen, she says. I’ve gotta go.
No you don’t.
She turns her head toward the wall and starts biting her bottom lip. Her hair a black blaze against the white of her coat. The white curved into a dream. She frowns. Walks toward me, past me, toward my bed, squinting a bit, her head tilted to one side.
What happened to your map? For a better view, she steps right up onto my pillows. I fiddle with the little metal handle on the desk. Open and close the drawer. Open and close. An inch or two, the tiniest bit. She licks her thumb and wipes the marker off the Indian Ocean. Stares at her new blue fingerprint. Shit, Finn. She swishes her hair over her shoulder and frowns at me. Bali? she says. Did you do that on purpose? You know I have family there.
Warmest July on record, I tell her. There. Everywhere. Ever. Till August rolls around. She licks her thumb and wipes off more of the blue. It’s a shitty way to grow up, I tell her. And nobody’s doing fuck all about it.
She turns away from my altered map. Don’t be so fragile. Go chain yourself to a pipeline or something if you’re worried. If you get into trouble, you have parents who will bail you out. She climbs down off of my bed. Fierce as she stomps across the room in her fancy raincoat and her bare feet.
I don’t want her to leave mad. Don’t want her to leave at all.
Hey, I say, hey, wait. I have something for you. And I open the drawer all the way. Pretty sure it’s just one more dumb, pathetic thing I’m about to do. My hand shakes a bit as I pick up the Ziploc. My name on the side in Sharpie ink. A black velvet ribbon snaked at the bottom—her own small sacrifice to love. Or being wasted. I toss her the bag, kind of clumsy with my left hand. And the Ziploc’s light, the air all resistance, the bag fluttery and falling.
Jess bends her knees, catches it low, just before it hits the floor. She takes a look. Her eyes get bigger. Her mouth goes serious.
The doctor found it that night, I tell her. At the hospital. In my hand. I was holding it in that hand.
Jess kind of tips back against the door, slayed by the weight of a ribbon.
I want you to have it. To, you know, remember me by.
She slips the Ziploc into her pocket. Doesn’t even look at it. I wait for her to say something, to do something, but she just stands there, looking upset.
Why’d you even come over?
Your mother invited me.
You could have made an excuse.
I’ve been to all your birthdays, she says, her hand a fist in her pocket, her knuckles making bumps in the white. I didn’t want to miss it. Her voice is unsteady. Her eyes bright and twitchy. And even though she never does, for a second I think she’s going to cry. Like, actually. But she rubs her nose with the back of her hand instead and sweeps her foot across the floor again.
How about a kiss? She glances up and I risk a wanting smile, feeling a little brave after her rare display of emotion. I mean, it is my birthday.
I already gave you a shirt.
Ten steps. Maybe eleven. Whatever. It feels like a long way to the door. Okay? She nods and I unloop her belt. Unzip her raincoat. Slip my arms around her, pull her close, my chest tight lit at the centre, a spark about to jump.
I gave you what I could, Finn, she says, her breath warm against my shirt.
Sometimes it felt like I was all I had.
I reach up and wrap her hair around my wrist, a beautiful black rope. Rest my fingers on the back of her neck. When she tilts her face up, her head gets heavy in my hand.
I take what she gives me. I give what she takes.
Good morning. My dad gives my shoulder a shake. Hey, get up, he says, you have an appointment. And today I’m going with you.
Which isn’t ideal.
An hour later we’re in the waiting room at Glenmore. He was chill in the car, but now, talking to the receptionist, he’s getting a bit loud. Running his hand through his hair, forehead to neck, right up and over the top.
The receptionist slides a sheet of paper out of her booth. He leans in and lowers his mouth to the hole in the glass. What’s this?
I’ve already explained. It’s the bill for the missed appointments. The receptionist looks kind of happy when she says it. Your son has missed all ten of his appointments. We sent you a letter. She pushes through another paper. And this is the bill for the prosthesis that was never returned. She gives him a smile, the first one since we got here.
My father doesn’t even turn around. But it doesn’t matter. His anger’s pretty versatile, capable of radiating in all directions. Even behind him, on the far side of the room, I feel his wrath.
He ends up going to talk to the psychologist without me, some expensive doctor I’ve never even met. I pick up reading material. War Amps Monthly. Holy fuck. I put it back down.
On the wall across from me, posters to inspire. The Canadian sledge hockey team cheering, their stumpy sticks raised. The Blade Runner crossing the finish line wearing his cool sunglasses and his fancy bouncy legs—they should probably take that one down.
A woman huffs into the waiting room, carrying a little girl on her hip. Both her legs are this unnatural tan colour and completely smooth and shiny. Even her running shoes look fake, although they’re not, they just look fake because they’re stuck onto the end of her fake legs.
We All Love the Beautiful Girls Page 18
