Meteorites

by Julie Paul

  This is a Letter of Truth, Maddie. I’ve got to admit something: I’ve never told you about what happened that summer I caught a ride to Toronto with your dad. God, that was such a disaster. Not the ride—no, your dad was great, singing country songs and sharing his Swedish berries for the four-hour trip, while I sat there obsessing about that Italian boy I’d met at camp. But when I got to that boy’s house, he just stared down at me from the second-floor balcony, as if he didn’t know who was at the door. Eventually he came down and talked to me, but it didn’t take long for me to figure out that he didn’t like me, away from the lake, the tents, the lack of other available and willing girls. His mother looked at me like I was a total whack job.

  God, I was embarrassed. That’s why I told you I wasn’t into him anymore when I got back. I just couldn’t admit the truth.

  I sobbed all the way home on the bus, and I cried listening to the playlist you and Maya put together for my 16th birthday. I smelled that bandana of his he’d given me at camp. I kept crying.

  Then, when I got home, I saw that my father, who was at a conference, had taken the suitcase where I’d hidden a box of Trojans. I’d bought them for the trip but didn’t end up taking them. I’d worried too much about an accident, someone going through my luggage and thinking I was a whore. A Catholic whore, no less, because there was that laminated confirmation prayer in my wallet to prove it. Oh, remember how we even took new middle names for confirmation? I chose Veronica, the woman who wiped Jesus’s face with a towel on the way to Calvary. Who’d you choose again? I think it was Teresa, right?

  Anyway, when my father came home from that conference, he asked me to come into their bedroom.

  “Are these yours?” he asked me.

  I got red in the face and started crying again.

  “I’m not mad at you,” he said. “I just didn’t think that they were mine.”

  I felt better for a few minutes, and then it sunk in. My father thought I was having sex and was okay with that. AND . . . my father was having sex with someone who wasn’t my mother because why else would there be condoms in a suitcase? For some reason, he wanted me to know.

  Then I looked at my poor mother, whom I hated that year (we were forming ourselves, right? It’s called Differentiation. It’s totally normal), and I felt a mean smile forming. I knew more than she did about what was going on and maybe even about bloody everything, and it felt like it was only a matter of time before her world crashed around her like a pane of glass, dropped from above.

  The thing was, it didn’t. And I was left alone with this information that has smouldered inside me, ever since. Every day, I woke up and wondered if that would be the day she’d find out, but she never did. (More about that later!)

  “Why am I telling you this?” you’re probably asking. I’m getting there. This is what happened next, right on cue. I established my identity. I balanced what I had with what I wanted to do with it. And all I wanted was to get out of town. I was counting off the days until I could escape to a decent city where there were taxis, buses, streetcars, and different colours of skin. Having fake ID and clear skin and even a car, sure, those were important parts of my development, but I wanted more. I wanted all the things I have now. Like gay friends! International friends! Brown friends! I’m so loving it at school, Maddie, you have no idea.

  (Do you ever hear from Maya now? We’ve lost touch, and I totally want to know how it’s all going for her. And what about everyone else in the group? What bad things are they getting up to?)

  Although I kept waiting for my parents to break up, I still heard them going at it, as in IT, at least once a week. Maybe Mom opened herself up to forgiveness and secretly renewed her vows. After all, God was watching, or so I thought at the time (I had Religious Delusions). A promise was a promise. Religion is really no guarantee of anything other than another set of rules to follow, or break, is it? Or do you still go to church? I’m thinking you probably don’t now. Father Healy can be pretty harsh about straying from the straight and narrow.

  I was starting to test what is called fidelity—being faithful to something I believed in or loved despite it not matching what my values were. Although it didn’t feel like anything from a textbook: I just needed to get out.

  Anyway, you know what happened next. High school was six months away from being over, and you found out you were pregnant. Liam, that idiot, had already dumped you.

  Oh, Maddie, I didn’t tell you before, but . . . I kissed him. Way before you and he got together—at least a week before. He just had a way with words, and with his tongue (as you know!!), and before I knew it, we were necking on his captain’s bed one night while his mother made brownies in the kitchen. I’m so sorry. I know you’re not with him now, but still, I should have brought it up before. Is he even in the picture anymore? What a jerk.

  I’m really starting to sound like I’m a slut, but you know I’m not, right? I’ve never even used a condom. I can count on one hand the number of times I danced to “Stairway to Heaven” at those stupid dances, and how many times I wished those lights did not come on at the end, revealing me—and my dance partner—in all our bleary, break-out glory.

  So many things look better in the dark. I should never have been afraid of it!

  Then your baby arrived just before school was over. That day, when all of us visited you at your house, I know I totally upset you when I didn’t want to hold the baby. I know you wanted me to coo over sleepers and blankets and plushy toys, but I just couldn’t. I know what it was now: a Coping Mechanism. It might’ve looked like jealousy to all those other girls, but it wasn’t. It might’ve looked like I didn’t care. I did care.

  I do care.

  She was only a baby, right? Harmless, helpless, an honest mistake. And you seemed okay with all of it: ready to keep her, raise her on your own with your mom’s help. But it’s so crazy, remembering what I was worried about: what if, just by being around you, some kind of juju rubbed off onto me? What if I got pulled into the vortex of staying in town, helping out, playing auntie, staying true to our friendship? See, I was so certain about my path that I could have nothing interfering. Not even your beautiful baby.

  I’m sorry. I was immature.

  Anyway, I escaped. When the train arrived, I was the first on board, gaily waving goodbye to my parents (it’s totally okay to use that word, you know, as in meaning happiness!). They were both wearing dark sunglasses, but I could tell they were crying. For once, I was not weeping (it’s called Mild Dissociation), not until that train slid away, leaving them standing there, arms folded, side by side, watching me go. I was sobbing by the time the next town came into view. And the next.

  I’d broken up the family (Survivor Guilt), and I had three days on a train to think it all through. Luckily no one knew me. No one at all (Social Pain, Psychalgia). But that’s exactly what I wanted. I just didn’t expect it to hurt quite so much.

  Enough of the past. I made it west, and everything worked out. I mean, I was free! I was—and still am—taking classes in subjects no one really even talks about back here, like history in art, philosophy, anthropology, and of course, this amazing psych class. My money ran out early in December, though, because I bought a plane ticket to come home for Christmas, so for the past few weeks, I’ve mostly lived on cheap apples and spaghetti mixed with frozen peas and cream cheese. I’m not complaining. Life is good.

  Especially since the next stage in the psychosocial stages list is really the best one, and I think I’m in it!

  Love. Figuring out the difference between intimacy and isolation . . . I’ve met a guy! No living alone for this girl. I mean, we haven’t moved in together, nothing like that, but it’s just a step in the right direction.

  I have a Christmas gift in my luggage from a boy with the strongest chin I’ve ever seen—a pound of fancy chocolates in a crimson box. Maddie, we’ve been havi
ng so much fun together. He showed me the mountains. I kissed him (and more!) above his mother’s kitchen, while she was making bagels, of all things. It is odd that all my good kisses have had mothers cooking in the other room. But I’m not worried—and not complaining.

  (Next day, sorry, got sidetracked!)

  It’s pretty strange being back, seeing the same old things but being totally different inside. And at home too. I thought something was weird here when I first arrived, but my parents told me everything was fine. It was like the space around my parents was full of static electricity.

  Then, last night, while I was lying on my Sears catalogue canopy bed, an idea came to me. I was going to interview my parents to get some answers. I would tell them it was for psychology class. Once I got them alone, with me recording it all, I’d ask them to do the Carl Jung test.

  This is it. You should totally try it! It won’t take long at all.

  Okay.

  Think of and describe:

  1. A colour

  2. An animal

  3. A body of water

  4. Being in a white room with no windows or door (describe how you feel!)

  Cool, hey? Let me know what you got! I’ll put the meanings down below but

  DON’T READ AHEAD

  Anyway, this morning, before I could do the test, they asked me to sit with them at the table. They poured me a cup of coffee and set warm croissants on the table.

  They’re selling the house.

  The realtor is coming by tomorrow.

  They’re splitting up and moving into separate condos when the house goes.

  They’re sorry to drop the bomb, and so close to Christmas. They’re sorry. They’re sorry.

  What do I do, Maddie? My parents are getting a divorce! I asked them, “Was it something I did?” And they said, “Of course not, honey,” in these creepy soap opera voices.

  Then it hit me. It was true. It was something I didn’t do that kept them together for this long. I know that if I’d told my mother about those Trojans, my life might have been turned upside down much sooner. I might’ve split them up way back when.

  It’s just all too much.

  I reacted, and called my boyfriend, and told him that I loved him. But I don’t really know what that means! I’m a bit freaked out that I’ve gone too far. I don’t know if I can be with a guy who has such a big chin, and some pretty smelly feet too . . . Maybe you can tell me. You have a baby now, and that takes a lot of love! Did you love Liam when you two, you know . . . made the baby? I can’t believe we haven’t talked about any of this. I guess I was just focused on marks, and you had all that morning sickness, and then you had to leave school early because of your swelling, wasn’t that it? Did you think you’d be with him forever? I’m not sure forever is what I’m looking for, but I just don’t know.

  I think this holiday is going to suck.

  Okay, I better close this epic letter, but before I forget, here are the meanings of that test!

  1. The colour is how you see yourself

  2. The animal is other people

  3. The body of water is your sex life

  4. How you feel in the white room with no windows or door is death.

  I really want to know what you got! When I took it, my body of water was an ocean. OMG, right? They say they’ve only discovered a bit of the ocean. It’s so huge, it’s barely been explored at all.

  Anyway, I wanted to write you because, even though we haven’t seen each other in six months, you’re still my best friend. I could totally call or text, but I’m not sure you’d want to talk to me. And I wanted to send you this little gift for the baby. I hope you don’t have any yet! They say that starting flash cards before the age of one can really help a child develop and get ahead in the world. And that’s what I want for your sweet baby, Maddie. I only want the best for everyone. There is just too much selfishness in the world.

  Hope to see you on Facebook!

  Much love from your best friend ever,

  Sophia

  P.S. If I threw a party, do you think anyone from the old group would come?

  P.P.S. Could we hold it at your place, because mine is being sold out from under me?

  P.P.P.S. Are you seeing anyone? I totally forgot to ask!! If not, don’t worry, your ship will come in any day now. Guys don’t care about virginity anymore, right? I mean, having a baby might be a bit of a deterrent, but I bet you’re a Yummy Mummy, big time. Plus, if she got your eyes, she’ll be an easy sell to any future daddy. Life has a way of working out, Maddie. And oh! I met someone from that university you wanted to go to, and he says it’s a total cesspool, so you’re not missing anything. Plus, becoming a nurse is so predictable. I know your life is going to be awesome.

  P.P.P.P.S. Is Liam still in town?

  //// Hangman

  Falling in love with a foster kid was like falling for a stray dog that’s come into the backyard. You weren’t supposed to do it. But if anyone told Heidi that, she just didn’t listen.

  On Boxing Day, they went skiing with Heidi’s dad Tom. Owen took a lesson in the morning, on the baby hill, but after lunch, he and Heidi went up the chairlift together to ski the bigger slopes. The snowflakes on his curls looked like miniature fairies.

  Heidi’s mother had stayed home to sew her a leprechaun costume for the skating show. Instead Tom’s work friend, Paula, came along because he’d given her a day pass for Christmas. Paula’s husband, home with their little girl, kept phoning her all day long.

  Heidi wasn’t all that good at skiing, but neither was Paula. Tom kept having to help Paula up. “I’m a mess,” she said, more than once. It was true—a giggly mess in a bright peach snowsuit—but Tom didn’t seem to mind.

  Her father had a soft heart—it was his fault Heidi loved so easily. He worked at Children’s Aid, winced when he took out her slivers, stopped into church to light candles for lost and lonely souls. Heidi liked to go and slide the offering into the gold box, choose a few candles, attach a prayer to the flame. The red glass votives pulsed with liquid, beating light, pushing her prayers up beyond the crucifix to where someone was waiting for them, ready to act.

  They took their last runs around four o’clock, then hit the road before full darkness fell. Their legs were rubbery, their cheeks rosy, and on the hour-long drive home, they played twenty questions and shared a tin of Paula’s gingerbread cookies; the radio blared out oldies, and Paula and Tom sang cheesy harmonies. Heidi counted thirteen smiles appearing on Owen’s impish face.

  When Paula’s cell rang again, just before they got back into the village, she turned it off.

  Tom asked, “Checking in again?”

  Paula shook her head. “Checking up,” she said. “He needs some help.”

  She shoved the phone into her purse and Tom turned up the radio: “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.”

  |||||||||||||||||||||

  It’s nighttime. The kids are waiting in the car in Paula’s driveway while Tom helps to take Paula’s skis inside.

  From the car they can hear snowmobiles zipping around the village, backfiring now and then on the trails between houses. This is the first time Heidi has been alone in the car with Owen, and the air feels like it’s made of glitter.

  It’s been more than a few minutes since her father left them, and she really has to pee. She should have gone at the ski hill, but it takes too long with snowpants.

  The radio news is talking about Afghanistan, and after the sports update, Owen says, “This sucks. I’m going to get him.”

  “No!” Heidi doesn’t want to say it; it makes her sound like a baby. “We’re supposed to stay in the car and keep it locked.”

  “What’s gonna happen? Nothing ever happens around here.”

  Her family only has a few rules, and this is one. A bo
y got abducted from a nearby town, plus once there was a rabid fox by the school. When she tells him this, Owen stays inside but climbs into the driver’s seat, changes the station, drums on the steering wheel to the Black Eyed Peas, sings the bad words over the beeps. She’s fidgety.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks.

  “I have to—go.”

  Owen grins. “Number one or two?”

  Heidi’s face burns. “Number one.”

  “Go outside.”

  “No way!”

  “I won’t look. Just go beside the car.” He laughs. “No one will know the yellow snow was you. It’s dog central.”

  “It’s okay. He’ll come out soon.”

  Owen sighs. “Why don’t I just honk the horn?”

  That’s also not okay, but Heidi really has to go.

  “I guess.”

  He gives the horn three short blasts. They wait. No one comes. He does it again.

  “How could he forget about us?”

  “He hasn’t.” But Heidi is thinking the same thing.

  “Then where the hell is he?”

  It’s been twenty minutes. Owen has just said a semi-bad word about Tom, and she’s beginning to feel scared and hungry on top of having to pee.

  Then they hear Mozart rise over the modern music. Tom’s ringtone.

  Owen pulls the phone from the glove box and flips it open. “Hello?”

  Heidi’s mother’s voice. “Owen?”

  “Hey, Mrs. Munro—”

  “Are you nearly home?”

  “Um, we’re at Paula’s house, and we’ve been waiting, and—”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I dunno. He just went to carry her skis in.”

  She pauses. “How long have you been there?”

  “Thirty-three minutes.”

  “Dear God,” she says. “Okay. Stay put. I’ll be there soon.”

  Heidi wants to talk to her, to ask if she should just go and get her father. But when she grabs the phone from Owen, she’s already hung up.