by Roya Carmen
“Nice going,” I tell her. “Good job.”
The smile stretching across her face is the reason I do this. I know Katie will be just fine.
Jade
Sixty-seven pairs of shoes, beautifully lined up in my custom made closet. Colourful and flashy – they look like works of art. I don’t know when I became such a shoe-fiend. Perhaps it was when Michael came into his success and started to shower me with shoes… dresses, and jewelry.
I catch my reflection in the wall length mirror. I look like a princess, which is fitting since it’s what Michael always calls me. His little princess. I’m wearing an emerald evening gown, a gorgeous floor length affair, a collection of sheer layers covered with delicate embroidered butterflies. The dress was a gift from Michael, one of many he’s given me over the years. When he’d presented it to me in a ridiculously large luxurious box, he’d said it would match perfectly with my green eyes.
I have too many shoes. I can’t decide which ones would look the best with this dress.
What a long way from home I’ve traveled. Me, the girl who grew up in a double wide on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. My closet is as large as my childhood home. Who could have imagined I’d become such a princess?
I settle on the flowery embroidered Dolce & Gabbana heels. As I slip them on, I do another assessment. Perfect. I’m not too keen on these social events and fundraisers Michael drags me to, but it does give me an excuse to dress up and eat great food… well, eat as much as Michael will allow – he’s such a stickler. I’m quite excited about this particular event – a fundraiser to raise money for the homeless shelter in our town.
Although I’ve never been homeless, I know what it’s like to be hungry and cold. I can’t count the times our heat was turned off, or the times our cupboards were empty. My parents preferred to spend their money on cigarettes rather than food. Two cartons of smokes, a jumbo box of no-name brand cereal, a giant jar of peanut butter, two loaves of bread, mustard, a pack of bologna, and a carton of milk – that was a typical grocery shop. And once the bologna, bread and milk ran out, we were stuck with peanut butter, mustard and a can of condensed evaporated milk we’d mix with water to eat with our cereal.
As I put on matching earrings; delicate emerald gems, Michael draws nearer and presses a hand on my hip. He grabs an inch of my flesh playfully. “You look gorgeous,” he says. “Your dress seems a little snug though. Have you gained weight lately?”
I shrug. “I dunno,” I lie. The truth is, I have gained weight. Just a bit. We are trying to get pregnant after all, and I need to eat. I need to be healthy. And once I get knocked up, I certainly won’t get any skinnier. I make a mental note to not eat too much tonight.
He runs his hand along my shoulder. His Rolex catches the light, and shines like a star. “Have you been to yoga this week?”
“Well,” I falter a little. “Twice,” I tell him. “I had to skip it Thursday because I had an appointment to get my lash extensions done,” I explain. Honestly, I’m not too keen on the yoga – I always feel like an awkward baby giraffe in a studio full of lean glorious gazelles.
“Those extensions are worth it,” he says. “Your eyes just pop. You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”
I smile at our reflection, feeling torn. This is how he makes me feel – happy and protected one second, and resentful and fearful the next. “Thank you,” I say quietly, suddenly feeling defiant. I press my hand against my barely existent stomach; it’s lean thanks to a strict diet and yoga three times a week.
I miss eating. I love food. I never had it as a kid, and now I want to make up for lost time. I want the most fattening stuff too; fried chicken, mashed potatoes smothered in gravy. I miss eating naughty food; chocolate treats, potato chips, pizza and soda. This stuff doesn’t exist in our house.
I decide I’m going to eat tonight. And damn it, I’m going to drink too. I’m looking forward to this evening and this great cause, and I’m going to celebrate.
Flynn
“Wow, three times this week,” Amber quips. “Don’t you have any food at your place?” she asks as she hands me my plate. It’s beautiful – her famous Boeuf Bourguignon flanked with mashed potatoes and Caesar salad.
“What can I say,” I tell her. “I love your food, sis.” My sister is an amazing cook. I love coming here for dinner. Truth be told, I’m not much of a cook myself. Our mother, God bless her, never really taught us boys much in the kitchen. We were always helping out our dad outside with the horses, and fixing and renovating the house and the stables. There was always something that needed fixing – we have over ten acres. This estate is huge; the main Inn, the Banquet Hall centre, fully equipped horse stables, and riding arena. Still today, there’s always something that needs fixing. I used to do it all myself, but thank God, I have my soon to be brother-in-law, Aiden, to help me now.
“Hey, I barely have a kitchen up in that barn loft,” I point out.
She laughs. “What a perfect excuse,” she says. “Admit it… you love it up there.”
I think about my home; rustic, small, and for lack of a better word, cozy. Surrounded by cats and horses down below. The smells of barn, the sounds of the horses and cicadas in the summer. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“How are your fourteen cats?” Aiden asks with that annoying grin of his.
“Five,” I clarify. “I have five cats.”
He downs a gulp of beer. “Hey buddy, did it ever occur to you that you’re the male version of a ‘cat lady’.
I shake my head. I’ve known Aiden Rogers forever. Since we were kids. He’s three years younger than me but he and I always got along famously. Although, we got into fights occasionally when he used to bully Amber – no one messes with my sisters. And now he’s gone and married her. Okay, not quite yet… but it’s a done deal in a month. I’m the one walking her down the aisle, and I’m happy to do it – Aiden’s a great guy.
“You should start wearing sweaters with cute pictures of cats on them,” he keeps ribbing. My little nephew Trevor laughs out loud, clearly amused. Amber just stares up at the ceiling, a trace of a smile on her lips.
Obnoxious as hell sometimes, but still a great guy.
I roll my eyes. “Really, Aiden… I think you’re in the wrong profession. You should have been a comedian.”
A smile stretches across Amber’s lips. “We’re just joshing you, Flynn. We love it when you’re here.”
“I wish you were here every night, uncle Flynn,” Trevor says, a glass of milk in his hand – sweet little kid, that one.
“It’s nice to have another guy around the table,” Aiden says. He elbows Trevor playfully in the side. “We boys need to stick together.”
Trevor breaks into a wide grin. Yes, Aiden is amazing. He practically brought my sister back from the dead. After her husband died in a car crash, she was left in shambles, trying to piece her life back together and be a good mother for Trevor. I struggled to help. Being a therapist, you’d think I would have been able to. She made progress but she still wasn’t quite herself, not until Aiden Rogers came back into our lives.
“You boys are outnumbering me,” Amber says, fork mid-air. “Now that Ruby has moved out.”
Ruby. My little sister.
“How is she doing? Still madly in love?”
Amber smiles. “Yes, we don’t see her around as much as I’d like. I miss her.”
“Me too,” Trevor says, a bittersweet grin stretching across his cheeks.
I’m crazy about Trevor. I bring him into town once in a while when I go to the hardware store – he absolutely loves it. Most people assume he’s mine because we look so much alike. A small part of me is always a little sad when I tell them he’s my sister’s. I can’t wait to have more nieces and nephews. I hope Amber and Aiden get on that soon, and Ruby and her new guy too hopefully. At this point, I don’t think I’ll ever have kids of my own but I certainly wouldn’t say no if the right woman came along.
&nbs
p; The room fades into stillness as we all enjoy our food. Trevor breaks the silence when he asks me out of the blue, “Hey, Uncle Flynn. If you had a choice… would you rather be naked in Antarctica, or in the middle of a desert wearing a snowsuit?”
He always asks me silly questions. I smile and think about it for a second. “Well, I really hate being cold,” I tell him. “So I think I’d choose the desert.”
He digs into his mash potatoes. “Me too,” he says and then his head jerks back up again. “Hey, uncle Flynn… do you have a girlfriend yet?”
Everyone smiles at my expense. Nope, I do not have a girlfriend. I don’t get involved with my clients. I don’t date the girls who help out at the barn – most of them are still in high school – I wouldn’t even dare think about it. The only girls I meet is when I go to the bar in town. “Sorry Trevor… no girlfriend yet. I used to meet some girls when Aiden and I used to go to the bar and shoot some pool, but now he’s too busy apparently.”
Aiden laughs. “Oh, I’ll get you out again, buddy. Just say the word.”
I mull this over. I don’t have much desire to meet a girl at a bar. Been there. Done that. A few drinks. A little flirting. Good sex. But nothing ever seems to come out of it. No one is ever good enough for me. And then all I end up with is a clingy girl who texts me twelve times a day.
“We’ll see,” I say.
My five cats pop into my head. Seriously, I really should take him up on his offer.
Jade
My mouth waters. So much food. I love buffets. I want it all, but I rein myself in. I know Michael won’t approve if I overfill my plate. I make healthy choices; salad, grilled veggies, curry chicken. I let myself indulge just a bit; fried wings, and two or three spoonful of creamy mac n’ cheese. And I don’t care what he thinks but I’m planning to have dessert too.
We’re seated with two other couples at a round table for eight. The centerpiece is modest; an artful collection of twigs and a lone white lilly, quite beautiful in its simplicity. These fundraising events usually have decent food but they never go too crazy with luxury – the goal is to raise funds for a greater cause after all.
We make polite chit-chat with the other two couples who are both much older than us. The men have silver hair and the women have perfectly styled coloured hair. One of them appears to have had a little helping of Botox. She is impeccable in a soft pink silky dress and blond bob and pearls, older but attractive. She tells us she and her husband have been together for thirty years. I can’t even imagine… it’s only been about ten for us, nine years married and ten together, and there are still so many challenges. But whoever said marriage was easy?
Heads jerk back as a young attractive couple nears our table. They both offer friendly smiles as they inch closer. “I think this is our table,” the woman says. Dressed in a lovely red gown, she perches her bottom on the seat when her date pulls a chair for her. The man introduces himself before he sits. He offers a hand to one of the older gentlemen. “Rick Standhope,” he says, “and this is my wife Samantha. Sorry we’re late.” Handshakes and grins all around. I catch Michael flashing Samantha an extra wide smile, chock full of charm. I don’t really blame the man – the woman is quite stunning. And so is her husband who looks like one of the Hemsworth brothers.
When he finally takes a seat at the empty chair, it’s right next to me. To be honest, I’m more interested in my food than I am in him. However, he’s pretty chatty so I humour him. He tells us he owns a beauty products company. It all started with a product he imported from Brazil and sold here in North America – a magical smoothing balm to control frizz. “I’d arrange to send you a few bottles but you don’t seem like you’d need it,” he says. “You have such gorgeous silky hair.”
I smile, bashful. “Thank you,” I say softly. I really don’t think he’s flirting – I always receive compliments on my hair – it’s one of my best features. I’m not that crazy about the rest of myself; the mole at the base of my neck, my wide nose, my short legs, and those extra pounds around the middle, but I have amazing hair.
Truth be told, I’m fascinated by this man and his wife. He took one idea; a singular concept and turned it into a fortune. And she’s a veterinarian – my dream job as a child. I can’t get enough of them.
When I finally turn back to Michael, he pins me with an intense stare.
Fuck.
I know that look. My body knows that look. It reacts instantly and stands to attention. I feel a chill at the nape of my neck. My breath gets away from me. I know I’ve messed up. I need to explain but I don’t know how. I realize I’ve done nothing wrong but I also know he doesn’t see it that way.
“Uh… I…” I stammer. “They’re a lovely c-couple,” I say, my voice cracking. “She’s a vet.”
The man sitting next to me asks me if we live in the area. I answer his questions with clipped one or two word answers. I feel horrible. And when the wife asks me where I’m from, I’m very friendly – I’m allowed to talk to the wife.
Eventually the conversation wanes and I turn back to Michael, my heart pounding. He stares down at my plate. “I see you’re all done. Will you be having dessert?”
I set my fork next to my plate. It clinks against my glass. I jerk at the sound. I’m a mess. “Uh… I’m not sure.”
When we were young, I was feisty. I occasionally antagonized him, but over the years he’s tamed me, reined me in. Now I say nothing at all to upset him, but yet, he still loses control sometimes. I constantly need to walk on eggshells around him. My chest is tight as I stare at my near empty plate, the remains of my food colouring its centre. I know he doesn’t want me to have dessert, and thankfully, I don’t even want it anymore. I couldn’t bear to eat a thing – my stomach is tied up in knots. “Oh… I don’t think I will,” I say in a soft whisper.
The couples at our table seem to disappear. All I can see is him; his dark slicked back hair, his high imposing forehead, strong nose and dark dangerous eyes. He grins at me; his smile ominous, chilling.
“I think you should have dessert,” he says simply. I force a smile as he rises to his feet and offers his hand. I feel so heavy, rooted to my seat. For a second, I can’t seem to move. I take his hand reluctantly and follow him to the buffet.
I take a small plate and grab the tongs next to the fruit. I help myself to a slice of watermelon. Michael stands behind me and presses his hot mouth against my ear. “You two seemed like the best of friends,” he says. “I bet he was picturing you naked.”
My heart is frantic, wanting to protest, but knowing it can’t. “Oh… I…” I falter a little, careful with my reply. “He’s just a friendly guy,” I say casually. “His wife is pretty nice.”
“You loved it,” he says. “You loved the attention. I could see it in the flush of your cheeks. You love it when other men want to fuck you, don’t you?”
My breath hitches. I scramble to find words. “Oh… he’s not my type. You know I don’t like blond men,” I tell him. “I like my men tall, dark and handsome,” I add with a little smile, a poor attempt at flirting with my own husband.
“I don’t want you speaking to him anymore,” he deadpans.
I nod. “Yes… I won’t.”
I help myself to a small brownie. I plop it next to my watermelon slice. I’ll be lucky if I can finish this. When did I become like this? I don’t even recognize myself. When did I become so pathetic and weak?
As we dig into our desserts, the conversation is still lively.
“So what do you do, Michael?” Rick asks and I’m glad he’s focused his attention away from me.
Michael straightens his back and clears his throats. He sets his fork down. I know he’s about to go into a long winded speech as he seems to often do, basking in the attention of those around him. He loves this question.
“I’m co-founder and CEO of Canna-Med,” he gloats. “I founded the company with a partner about eight years ago. We’re producers and distributors of medical cannabis and we w
ork in partnership with the Ministry of Health.”
Yes, my husband is a pot grower. That’s what it comes down to. But if someone came up to him and told him that, he would protest in a rage. No, now he’s an entrepreneur. He wears designer suits, drives a Mercedes and attends numerous meetings with his Board of Directors. I’m one of the few people who knew him when he was just a scruffy lowly pot dealer, pimping his wares on street corners. Somehow, over the years, all his old friends and cohorts seemed to have disappeared, replaced by men who lunch and golf and drive expensive cars. He’s kept a few thugs in his circle – men like him always need thugs. Even Michael golfs now, and every time I see him sporting his khakis and golf shirts, I want to cringe. But of course, I don’t dare.
“We offer quite a selection of different products,” he goes on. “Indica, sativa, and hybrid. We have a ninety thousand square feet state-of-the-art facility. We’re listed on the TSX… we went public a few years back.”
It’s the same old speech. He always goes on like this. He speaks so eloquently, puts on a false professional demeanour. I know there’s more to the suit. I know there’s another person hiding under there, a person striving to prove his worth. No matter how much money he has, he always seems to want more.
“Wow, you must be making a killing,” Rick pipes up. Both he and Samantha seem fascinated by Michael – it’s always the reaction he gets, and he laps it up. There are many things I love about Michael. He loves passionately. He’s generous; he gives so much to a multitude of charities and causes. He can also be very caring; he’s a wonderful nurse when I’m sick. He’s adventurous and fun. But I hate this side of him.
He nods overdramatically. “Hell, yes. It’s practically a license to print money. When The Ministry of Health implemented their new regulations for medical cannabis, I jumped at the opportunity. A good entrepreneur always has a vision. Now the problem is I can’t keep up with my success. We need to get another facility to keep up with demand.”
