Baygirl

by Heather Smith

  “But I thought it was a special object to you.”

  “A bloody tea cozy? Special?”

  “Well, you use it every day.”

  “I use toilet paper every day too. Is that special?”

  “But your wife…she knit it.”

  “She knit me long underwear too, but it’s not my prized bloody possession.” He shook his head. “A bloody tea cozy. Multicolored bloody hues. Fills me with glee, my arse.”

  I looked at my poem and sighed. When I wrote it, I thought it was genius. But it was clear now that it sucked. Big time.

  Mr. Adams saw my disappointment. “Listen, flower. It’s a tea cozy. I don’t like cold tea. That’s all there is to it. Now get off your arse, get yourself home, and write something good. You’ll be laughed out of the class if you bring that flamin’ piece of rubbish in.”

  “But what will I write about?”

  “Think of something really special. Something unforgettable. Something dear to your heart. Something as unlike a bloody tea cozy as humanly possible.”

  He picked up my poem and shook it at me. “You’re made of better stuff than this, love. Now go home and get crackin’.”

  On New Year’s Eve, Mom and Dad came in and sat down on the edge of my bed. Iggy stood in the doorway, looking serious and slightly ticked off. My stomach twisted into a knot. Something was wrong.

  Ms. Bartlett had called. Nan had pneumonia. She was sick with a fever, and her cough was so bad that she had trouble breathing at times. She was on antibiotics but wasn’t getting any better. Mom said Dad was going back to Parsons Bay to take care of her temporarily. I could stay in St. John’s or I could go back to Parsons Bay and spend time with Nan. She said it was my choice.

  “What about you, Mom? Aren’t you going back?”

  “I have to stay here, Kit. I’m the only one with a job.”

  I thought about Nan. Dad would suck at looking after her by himself.

  “What about school?” I asked.

  “If you go back to Parsons Bay, you’ll just go back to your old school,” Mom said.

  “I think you should come with me, Kitty,” said Dad. “I’ll need your help.”

  Iggy spoke up. “She’s your mother, Phonse. She’s not Kit’s responsibility.”

  “This doesn’t concern you, Iggy,” snapped Dad.

  “But she is my responsibility, Iggy,” I said. “She’s my grandmother. And she’s sick. She needs me.”

  “You’re a kid!” he barked. “Not a bloody nurse! You belong here! Not in Parsons Bay!”

  “Iggy,” I said, “just hear me out.”

  “No!” he said. “You’re staying here and that’s that!”

  “I’m not,” I said. “I can’t. I mean, I should go—Nan needs me.”

  “Jesus, Kit,” Iggy shouted. “Don’t be such a martyr!”

  The room fell silent. Iggy’s face softened. “Kit, I—”

  But I didn’t want to listen anymore. Iggy reached for me as I brushed past, but I pulled away and rushed down the stairs.

  “Kit, wait!”

  I slammed the door to the den and sat on the couch, shaking. My father had raised his voice at me almost every day of my life, but I had never expected to hear my Uncle Iggy do the same.

  I could still hear him, even with the door closed. “Okay, you want to know the truth? I don’t think Kit should be living with you, Phonse. Not alone. You’re a drunk. A bloody good-for-nothing drunk. You can’t be trusted. Look what you did to Emily that time!”

  “Mind your own goddamn business,” my father yelled.

  “She won’t be alone,” my mother said. “She’ll be with her nan.”

  “Who is sick!” said Iggy. “Kit needs someone looking after her, not the other way around!”

  “I’m sorry, Iggy,” said Mom. “Kit needs to be with her nan. It might be the last chance she gets.”

  I felt like throwing up.

  I heard footsteps on the stairs, then a knock on my door.

  I wiped my eyes.

  “Come in.”

  Iggy sat next to me. “I’m sorry. For shouting like that.”

  “Don’t worry, Iggy. I can handle him.”

  “I know you can. But you shouldn’t have to.”

  “Yeah, well, life sucks sometimes.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, it does.”

  “But we’ll manage, won’t we?”

  Iggy put his arm around me. “Yes, yes we will.”

  I banged on Mr. Adams’s door. “I’m leaving. I have to go back to Parsons Bay. To take care of my nan.”

  “Very well,” he said.

  “Very well? That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  “Bon voyage?”

  I stormed out.

  “I-I-I’m not very good with words,” he called from his front step.

  I stopped on his path. “Not good with words?” I shouted. “You don’t shut up for five minutes. Your mouth runs all day long!”

  “Why don’t you come back in? We’ll ’ave a bickie.”

  “Stuff your bickies!”

  I went home and called Elliot, hoping he’d have a more heartfelt reaction to my news.

  Telling Elliot over the phone was too hard, so we met behind Pelley’s. When I told him I was leaving, he cried. He actually cried. He tried to hide it by pulling up his hood, but I could hear him sniffing, and when he finally looked up his eyes were red.

  I cried too. But I didn’t hide it. Elliot wiped my cheeks with his sleeve.

  “What a way to start the new year,” he said.

  “I know. But if it was your grandpa, you’d go too, wouldn’t you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So you understand?”

  “Yeah. But I’m really going to miss you.”

  “Will you come visit?”

  Elliot put his arm around me. “As often as I can. I promise.”

  I put my head on his chest.

  “I love you,” I said.

  It came out. Just like that.

  I waited for him to say something.

  He didn’t.

  I wished I could take a great big breath and suck the words right back into my mouth.

  I tilted my head up slightly to take a peek at his face.

  He was grinning.

  “Je t’aime aussi.”

  Within days we were packed and ready to go. The day we were to leave St. John’s, I went back to Mr. Adams’s house.

  “Can we have a proper goodbye now?” I asked.

  “I’m happy you came back, lass. Come in and I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “I brought my poem,” I said. “New and improved.”

  We sat at the kitchen table.

  “Let’s hear it,” he said. “Special object. Round two. This better be good.”

  I reached into my knapsack for my paper.

  “Wait just a tick,” Mr. Adams said, jumping up from his chair to look out the window. “Look, a Yorkshire terrier. Crackin’ good dog. The best there is, in my opinion. You can keep your bloody retrievers and shepherds. The Yorkshire terrier, that’s the dog for me.”

  He sat back down, coughing, sputtering and gasping as if the act of getting up to look out the window had almost killed him. He beat on his chest with his fist. “Remember, one lung. Don’t forget what I said about the lung.”

  “You never said anything about having one lung.”

  Mr. Adams ignored me. He did one more heaving cough and looked up at a crucifix hanging over his kitchen door. “God help me, me and my one lung.”

  I waited patiently.

  “Okeydokey,” he said chirpily. “Special object, poem number two. Hit me with it.”

 
; I really did want to hit him with it. I wanted to roll my paper up into a tube and give him a smack on his crotchety old noggin, but I didn’t. I cleared my throat.

  “Reginald,” written by Kit Ryan.

  “What did you just say?” he interrupted. “Reginald? Is this poem about me? Am I the bloody object? Do I look like a bloody object to you? I am a livin’, breathin’ human being, not a flamin’ inanimate object.”

  “I just wanted to write about something—well, I guess I mean someone special.”

  Mr. Adams looked surprised. “Oh, well, right you are, then. Special, aye, certainly. Okay then, let’s hear it.”

  “Reginald”

  Written by Kit Ryan

  For Reginald Adams

  A cliff,

  Battered by wind and sea

  Changes its shape

  Weathered

  But not weakened

  Strong as ever

  He is like that

  A man,

  Battered by judgment

  His choices challenged

  Weathered

  But not weakened

  Strong as ever

  Morals formed

  By hardship

  Every crack

  Every crevice

  Filled

  With what is right

  And what is true

  He is a cliff

  Eroded

  But solid

  Strong as ever

  I placed my poem on the table and looked up. Mr. Adams took a sip of tea and cleared his throat. “Ee, I’ll tell you one thing,” he said. “It’s a damn sight better than that tea cozy rubbish.”

  “Thanks.”

  He got up and went to the window. “And eroded but solid? Cracks and crevices? You make me sounds like a right decrepit old fart.” He paused a moment. “It’s not bad though…if you like that sort of sentimental rubbish.”

  He looked at his watch. “It’s getting late. You’ll be heading out soon.”

  I got up to leave. “I’ll miss you, Mr. Adams.”

  “Yes, yes, I know you will.”

  I was surprised by the stinging I felt in my eyes. “Ee by gum,” I said. “I feel like I might cry.”

  “Your bladder is too near your eyes, you silly girl.”

  I gave him a hug. “Well, bye.”

  “Okay, okay, flower,” he said, patting my back. “Cheerio and ta-ra and all that rubbish.”

  So I left. And as I walked down the front path of Yorkshire Cottage, I looked back and saw, through the window, Mr. Adams reading my poem.

  We drove across the province in our old Buick, the flatbed trailer hitched once again to the back, with Dad’s smelly old recliner on top. I sat in the backseat and opened my goodbye presents: writing paper and a book of stamps from Caroline, a necklace with a heart charm from Elliot, an envelope of money from Iggy and the multicolored knitted tea cozy from Mr. Adams.

  The drive seemed longer this time. Maybe because Mom wasn’t there making small talk. I purposely sat in the back to annoy my dad, and, as I predicted, he worked himself into a tizzy about how he wasn’t my bloody chauffeur and who did I think I was, Princess Bloody Di? When his rant was over, the car was filled with an awkward silence.

  We drove though the outskirts of St. John’s. Large car lots and industrial buildings provided a bit of visual stimulation, but once we hit the Trans-Canada Highway, everything looked the same. The road was smooth, but the terrain that surrounded it was barren and rough. The landscape was mostly fir and birch trees, but every so often changed to scrubland, boggy and bare. To tourists it was probably rugged and rustic, majestic almost, but to me it was boring as hell. So, as I had on our last journey across the province, I slept.

  We stopped at an Irving restaurant for lunch. I ate a grilled-cheese sandwich alone at the counter while Dad sat in a booth and talked to some truckers. Soon we were back on the road, and when Dad slowed to take Route 320, I sat up straight and opened the window. We were only an hour away. Dad whistled as we wound our way along the Kittiwake Coast, in and out of tiny fishing villages, until we reached the one that mattered most: Parsons Bay.

  Walking into Nan’s house was like slipping on a pair of favorite slippers. Warm and inviting. I tried to hide my shock when I saw her. She was stooped and small and pale. Like a little white ghost. She said she was sorry to cause us so much trouble. Dad said it was no trouble at all and how about a cup of tea, but he made no move to put the kettle on, so I did. I helped Nan into her rocker and tucked a blanket around her. I added honey to the tea instead of sugar because I knew it was good for coughs. When I stretched the tea cozy around the pot, I told Nan that it was a gift from a friend of mine. And then I told her all about Mr. Adams. “I’d like to meet him someday,” she said.

  When Nan got tired, I put her to bed. I went back to the kitchen and made homemade bread, just like Nan had taught me. The first step was activating the yeast by mixing it with warm water and sugar. Within minutes the mixture had turned frothy, a guarantee of nicely risen bread. After mixing in the flour, water, butter and salt to form a soft dough, I turned it out onto Nan’s lightly floured table. Then I started to knead it just the way she had showed me, folding the dough in on itself, pushing it out with the heel of my hand, then rotating it a quarter-turn and starting again. When it had transformed from a wet blob into beautiful, smooth dough, I placed it in a bowl and covered it with a tea towel. Then I sat alone at her kitchen table and waited for my favorite part—punching down the risen dough, shaping it into loaves and waiting for it to rise again. Nan said the key to good breadmaking was patience. So I settled into a kitchen chair and relaxed. I looked out at the Atlantic and listened to The Fisheries Broadcast on Nan’s transistor radio. I was home.

  Before I went to see Anne-Marie, I went by my old house. I was surprised by how little emotion I felt seeing my old home boarded up and empty. Nan’s house felt more like home. And, strangely enough, so did Iggy’s.

  Out of habit, I ran past Fisty Hinks’s even though I was pretty sure he’d moved in with Ms. Bartlett. When I reached Anne-Marie’s house, I threw a handful of pebbles at her window. A moment later she was standing on her front step, in a pair of tight jeans and a fitted tank top.

  “Wow! Look at you!” I said.

  She put her hands on her hips and posed like she was a supermodel.

  “What can I say?”

  “You can say you missed me.”

  “I pined for you the whole time,” she said, wiping away an invisible tear. “Why, I haven’t slept a wink in six months just thinking about you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  “What’s with the pebbles?” she asked. “You haven’t done that since we were eight.”

  “I know.” I laughed. “I did it for old times’ sake.”

  She smiled. “I’m really glad you’re back.”

  “Come here, you.”

  We hugged.

  Something was different.

  “Are you wearing perfume?”

  She raised her eyebrows and gave a sly smile. “Chanel Number Five. Toby loves it.”

  “Toby? Toby Burt? Are you and he…?”

  She pulled on a pair of boots and grabbed a purse. “C’mon. Let’s go to our spot. I got lots to tell you.”

  Mounds of dirty snow were dotted here and there like giant burnt marshmallows. It took longer than usual to get to the top of the cliff because Anne-Marie’s high-heeled boots kept getting stuck in the ground. We found two boulders to sit on and faced the cliff’s edge. The ocean breeze had a cold edge and brought with it misty droplets that left our cheeks shiny and red.

  “I’ve missed this,” I said.

  Anne-Marie pulled her scarf up over her face. “It’s friggi
n’ freezing.”

  “I love it.” I took a breath so deep, I snorted.

  Anne-Marie laughed. “Manners, Kit. Remember what Ms. Bartlett used to say—learn manners now so when you’re big, you won’t be called a big fat pig.”

  I pushed the tip of my nose up with my finger and snorted again and again until Anne-Marie pushed me off my boulder.

  “Come on, tell me all the gossip,” I said, brushing bits of snow off my pants.

  “Well, the biggest news is that Ms. Bartlett got married. To Fisty Hinks!”

  “Yeah, I know. Nan told me. I can’t picture it.”

  “I know. It’s so weird.”

  “So is she Mrs. Hinks now?”

  “Nah,” said Anne-Marie. “I asked her and she said Getting married does not mean giving up your identity.”

  I laughed. “That is so Ms. Bartlett.”

  “Totally.”

  “Anyway,” I said, elbowing Anne-Marie in the ribs, “enough about her love life. What’s this about you and Toby?”

  Anne-Marie’s eyes lit up. “We’ve been going out for two months, three weeks and two days.”

  “Really? So what’s he like?”

  “He’s cool and nice and cute. It’s different from when we were kids—you know what I mean? He’s mature now. He’s sensitive.”

  “So how did it happen? How did you hook up?”

  She told me everything about him. “It was a Friday night, and everyone was hanging out on the cliff. I couldn’t get my bag of salt-and-vinegar chips open, so Toby opened them with his teeth. When he passed them back, I said, Ewww, this bag’s got your spit on it now, and he said, Doesn’t matter, we’ll be swapping spit later tonight anyway. I swear, Kit, it was the most romantic thing I’d ever heard.”

  It sounded kind of gross to me, but I said nothing.

  “And you should see his face when he says I love you— it goes all red. Totally adorable. And his eyebrows do this thing where they rise every time he takes a drag on his cigarette. It’s so cute. I’m telling you, Kit, he’s simply perfect.”

  I looked out at the ocean and pulled the neck of my shirt up over my nose, smelling the perfume that had rubbed off when we hugged. I wondered if Elliot would like me to wear Chanel No 5.