“You bussing back home?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
“We better go, then,” I said and waited while he hugged everyone goodbye. Johnny did a lot of hugging.
As we rode the bus up the peninsula, I told him about the story the girls in the kitchen were telling about Angela. He laughed.
“She was always her own person,” he said.
“That she was,” I agreed, wondering exactly what that meant. “Johnny, do I smell like weed?”
I WASN’T A POTHEAD BACK THEN, but I smoked. Everyone did. They say that the biggest industry in the province is BC Bud, and if the Island was anything to go by, it’s probably true. Even Mom didn’t care that much about the odd joint. Cops wouldn’t bust you for smoking; they only cared about the grow ops in junked-up old houses. Doubtless, if she’d caught me with a bag of weed I’d have been in major trouble, but even though possession was still illegal, no one got arrested for it.
So it was that I was out smoking a joint in the woods by my house when I ran into Angela. It was maybe a month after the party with Johnny’s friends and I was still surprised both that I’d had a good time at the party and that no one had talked to me after. I heard a rustling in the trees and hastily put out the joint. I was trying to hide it in this little Ziploc bag when Angela burst into the clearing where I was sitting.
“Heya, Gumbo,” she said, grinning. “You smoking a jay?”
“Yeah,” I said, my face colouring. I don’t know why Angela catching me with a joint would be embarrassing, but it was. “You wanna toke?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said and sat down on the log next to me. I sparked up the joint and, after sucking down a hit or two to get it going, passed it over to her. She took a couple quick tokes, held the smoke in her lungs, then passed it back. We spent a few minutes smoking in silence. Then she said, “Heard you were at that party at China Smithers’ house.”
I frowned. “Johnny took me to the cast party for Guys and Dolls a few weeks back,” I said. “Never knew whose house it was, though.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” she said. “How much fun was that?” She grinned and I wondered what she knew.
“It was okay,” I said, shrugging. “How come you weren’t there?”
She frowned. “No one asked me,” she said. “I don’t hang out with that crowd too much,” she added.
“They seem to like you plenty,” I said.
“What makes you say that?” she asked, suspicion in her voice. I wished I hadn’t said anything.
“Oh, you know ...” I said, hoping she’d drop it, but Angela never dropped anything like that.
“Come on, Gum,” she said. “Spill it.”
“Just some people talking, you know,” I said. “About you painting at the mall. They all thought it was pretty cool.”
She frowned. “That was months ago,” she said finally. “It was raining and I needed decent light. You know my house is dark as the devil’s asshole.” She had taken to creative cursing. It was just another aspect to her mystique. “So, what’s so great about painting in the mall?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Everyone thinks you’re a real individual,” I said. “At least Johnny’s crowd does.”
She laughed, but it didn’t seem like she found anything funny about what I’d said. “So individual that I couldn’t possibly want an invitation to a party, eh?”
I looked over at her. “I think they’re scared of you, Ange. I bet if you just showed up, they’d be beside themselves to hang out with you.”
“Yeah, whatever,” she said, looking off into the trees. “Any luck on the parents thing?” she asked. It was no secret from anyone except Mom and Dad that I was looking for my birth parents. I mean, who wouldn’t be?
“Not yet,” I said. “I can’t do much until I’m nineteen.”
“That’s such bullshit,” she said, fire in her voice. “Too bad your mom’s such a bully.” Angela wore a bright yellow button on her army surplus backpack that read Question Authority, and she often did. She’d taken to calling them fascists: cops, teachers, whoever tried to tell her what to do. My mom was not immune to Angela’s anger.
I was used to it, but I didn’t know what she meant. “If it weren’t for your mom, your dad would probably just tell you who your parents are. He’s such a sweetheart.” Everyone knew my dad was the biggest softie in the neighbourhood.
“I don’t think they know,” I said. “It’s not on any of the forms and I looked it up. They don’t tell the adoptive parents anything about the birth parents unless it’s an open adoption. Which it wasn’t, or I wouldn’t be looking.”
“Come on,” Angela said, exasperation in her voice. “Sherlock could find out if she wanted to.” With that, she stood up and headed back out of the woods. “Thanks for the smoke, Gumbo. Hang loose.”
MY MOM WAS SADDLED WITH THE UNFORTUNATE NAME of Shirley Holmes. It might not have been so bad if she hadn’t decided to become a police officer, but the nickname was obvious and impossible to avoid once she did. She could have taken Dad’s last name when she got married, but that wasn’t her style. I’m still a little surprised that she didn’t make him change his last name to hers, or worse yet, hyphenate them.
But thankfully I wasn’t stuck with Holmes. I guess it was growing up with Mom’s annoying nickname that made me immediately think of ketchup when I heard my real mother’s voice on the phone that morning.
“Kim Heinz,” she repeated.
“It’s good to finally hear from you,” I said. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”
“Well,” she said. “Here I am.”
5
BUSH PARTY
BY THE TIME I WAS IN TWELFTH GRADE, I’d resigned myself to the fact that I just wasn’t getting anywhere with finding my birth parents on my own. Once I was nineteen, I could access my records and register with the government. Then, if my birth parents also registered, there was a possibility we could connect. It sounded so easy, but I tried not to get too hopeful. These were the people who gave away a newborn baby, after all. It wasn’t hard to imagine a scenario where they wouldn’t be all that interested in being found.
So I focussed on my schoolwork. I somehow developed a real non-parents-related interest in John Park’s internet and finally managed to convince my parents to buy me a computer of my own. I played up the educational aspects of it: accessing the university library, reading about advances in science and technology. I think they thought I just wanted it to play games, and there was plenty of that. But I actually had gotten interested in science and spent an awful lot more time than you’d expect a seventeen-year-old to spend at the webpages of NASA and MIT.
I applied to the engineering programs at UBC, Simon Fraser and UVic. Like everyone else I knew, I’d have given my right nut to go to Vancouver for school. When you’re seventeen years old, living on the Island is like living in the boondocks, only more so. You know everyone, everyone knows you and the good bands never come to your town to play. Vancouver was like Las Vegas, Paris and New York all rolled into one. It was only a couple of hours away by ferry, but it was still far enough that going over was a major undertaking. And, of course, it was expensive.
Which was why I knew it probably didn’t matter whether or not I got accepted to the Vancouver schools. Although in all the discussion, wheedling and arguments about it, I found that I had a surprising ally in my petition to move to the mainland for university.
“It would be good for him to gain a little independence, Dom,” my mom said to my dad one night when we were hashing it out again for the billionth time.
“What does that even mean, Shirley?” Dad countered. “He could buy a beater car for less than it would cost to live in res. That’s more independence than he’d have being stuck with the bus in Vancouver.”
“Guys,” I said, “I’m sitting right here.”
“Sorry, Brian,” Mom said.
“And what about all the crime?” my dad continued as if no on
e else had said anything. “Gangs, junkies ... it’s not safe over there.”
“Dom,” my mom said, “it’s not as bad as it sounds. It’s a big city, there’s a lot going on every day. Of course you hear about it when something bad happens, but really it’s just as safe as Victoria on a day-to-day basis. Besides, UBC is in the middle of nowhere, relatively speaking.”
“Exactly,” Dad said. “Living in res means Brian would be practically as far away from the city as he is now.” He turned to look at me. “And anyway, it’s a moot point,” he said with finality. “We just can’t afford it.”
And that was the gist of the problem. My parents had started saving up for my education the day they signed the papers, and there was just enough to pay for four years — if I lived at home. Even with summer jobs, there was no way I could make up the difference for rent, even in residence. And it would be hard to get a student loan just because I wanted to be in the big city. Plus, even I knew enough to realize that I’d be better off without a big chunk of debt when I left school.
And so even though we probably wasted a night or two a week for my entire twelfth grade year fighting about it, there was never really any question about it. I was going to the University of Victoria or nowhere.
WHEN I GRADUATED FROM HIGH SCHOOL, there was this enormous bush party out near Blair’s place. It wasn’t just for those of us out on the peninsula; the whole graduating class was invited, plus probably an equal number of other kids. Older brothers and sisters, kids from other schools, the odd eleventh grader who was particularly cool. The after-grad party was the party of the year.
In something of a tradition, the older kids always got the booze for the party. We had to pay for it, of course, and I suspect that they made a bit of a profit off us, but it was worth it. The cops turned a blind eye to the whole thing — underage drinking, drinking in public, the copious amounts of pot going around.
The week before the party, my mom sat me down. “I don’t want you to lie to me about what goes on at the after-grad party,” she began, and I gulped. “So I’m not going to ask you anything. If anything happens that you think you want to tell me, then I’ll listen, but otherwise I trust you to be smart about things.” She looked out the big picture window that faced into our yard. She seemed almost sad, but I couldn’t imagine why.
“I know there’s going to be drinking, and ... other stuff,” she continued. “And I don’t expect you not to have a beer or two. Just be careful, be safe. Don’t get into a car with anyone who’s inebriated, and stick to the party. Every few years some kid goes off in the bush and ends up falling down a ravine or something. I don’t want that to happen this year and I especially don’t want it happening to you.”
I didn’t have anything to say during this bizarre un-cop-like talk we were having. Finally, she said, “I’m proud of you, Brian. You’re a good kid and you deserve to have a little fun. I know it’s hard for you, me being a police officer and everything. So just go and have a good time, okay?” She smiled, and I could almost see that there was someone under there who wasn’t all bound up in the uniform. Almost.
Dad had less to say, but it was just as awkward. He handed me fifty dollars and a brand-new box of condoms. “Just in case,” he said and grinned while I just about died. When I was in middle school, he had spent an afternoon putting condoms on bananas and cucumbers with me while telling me about sexually transmitted diseases. As a nurse, he had a scary number of stories about young guys with gonorrhea, herpes and even HIV. It was mortifying, but I was the go-to source for condoms for years. Dad made sure there was always a full box in the bathroom, and he handed them out to me and my friends like he’d never handed out candy. It was horrible and awesome at the same time.
The party was surreal. I only remember snatches of it now. I drank more than I’d ever drunk before, trying to make the most of my mom’s free pass. I remember puking behind a stand of trees in time to the music playing on someone’s portable CD player. I remember sitting by the fire, mesmerized by the yellow and red sparks, having a deep and meaningful conversation with someone whose name I don’t think I ever knew. And, remarkably, I clearly remember being successfully and entirely seduced by Jacquie, Blair’s older sister.
I’D NEVER REALLY TALKED TO BLAIR’S SISTER BEFORE. She wasn’t much more than a year older than me — Blair was one of the younger kids in our grade — but she’d graduated two years before. She was sophisticated, she’d been around and she was gorgeous. Looking back on it, she was probably just reacting to their parents’ divorce, but she was known to be a man-eater. And I’d somehow shown up on her list of possible meals.
I don’t remember how we got to talking, but I remember her handing me the first of many vodka coolers — the downfall of many a teenage drinker. They taste like candy and pack a boozy wallop. After a few of those, I found myself following her into the trees, her hand in mine pulling me through the shrubbery. I don’t think I had any idea what was coming, though honestly I don’t think things would have happened any differently if I’d had a week’s advance notice.
We broke into a small clearing and all of a sudden she was on me. Her mouth on my mouth, hot and wet, her tongue snaking into my mouth. It was momentarily paralyzing; then my drunkenness and eighteen-year-old hormones took over and I was making the most of the situation. My hands went all over her and she didn’t do anything to stop me. It didn’t take long before I’d gotten her shirt off and one of my hands down her jeans. I was so busy that it took me a second to realize what she was doing with her own hands.
I’m still amazed that I managed to get one of the condoms out and on in time. It was over almost as fast as it had started, but even with everything that happened after, I still remember it fondly. It was the first time I’d ever had sex and it was the last time for a long time that I ever did it without a tiny rush of panic. It wasn’t all Jacquie’s fault, but I blamed her for years. What Jacquie giveth, Jacquie taketh away.
IT WAS JULY. SUMMER WAS IN FULL SWING. I was working at the A&W and hating every second of it. I couldn’t wait for the summer to be over so I could start university. I’d even managed to get sort of excited about going to UVic. I was on a break at work one afternoon when I heard Jacquie’s voice from the next booth over.
“I missed my period,” I heard her say.
“Who’s the guy?” her friend asked.
“Just a friend of Blair’s, it’s no big deal.”
“You’ve told him, though, right?”
“No, he doesn’t need to know. I’ll deal with it.”
Somehow, I found myself in the staff bathroom; I don’t remember getting up from the table. I stood there in the john, red and black spots before my eyes. I had to sit down with my head between my legs for five minutes before I could breathe again. I knew exactly what that meant. Jacquie was pregnant and it was my fault.
In the days that followed, the phrase Like father, like son kept going around and around my mind. This is exactly what my dad, my real dad, must have felt. Terrified. Like his life was over. Like nothing worse could ever possibly happen.
“SO YOU LIVE IN VICTORIA?” Kim asked, even though I’d told her all that in the email.
“Yeah,” I said. “You’re up island?”
“Near Maple Bay,” she said. My heart fluttered. Maple Bay was only about an hour’s drive away. Maybe some weekend ...
“But I’ll be coming into Victoria next week,” she continued and I felt as sick as I had overhearing Jacquie’s conversation all those years before. “Maybe we could get lunch?”
6
THE THING WITH JACQUIE
I DIDN’T TELL ANYONE ABOUT JACQUIE. What would I say? Who would I tell? My parents would be so disappointed. I didn’t even want to imagine the look on my dad’s face. Johnny was worldly enough, I thought, but I didn’t know how to casually call him up and say, “Hiya, buddy. I haven’t talked to you since that party last year, but I’ve knocked up Blair’s sister. Any idea what I should do?”
<
br /> Obviously, talking to Blair was out. I thought he’d probably murder me for just screwing around with Jacquie; I didn’t want to think about what might happen if he found out about this. Angela might have understood, but she was gone tree planting for the summer. John Park and I never once had a conversation that didn’t involve computers. So there was no one. It was just me and my dread.
It wasn’t surprising that Mom and Dad noticed something was up. I never could tell a lie, and just not saying anything about this felt like a massive whopper. About a week after I overheard Jacquie’s conversation, Mom was still at work and Dad was making a batch of his famous ribs for dinner. The meat was boiling on the stove while he mixed up his barbecue sauce, and I was quietly fretting at the dining room table. “What’s on your mind, Gumbo?” he asked. He only ever used my nickname when he was trying to be especially nice to me.
“Nothing.”
“You seem a little preoccupied lately,” he said, licking the wooden spoon and pursing his lips. He reached for the bottle of hot sauce and as he dripped tiny amounts into the bowl said, “I remember when I graduated from high school. It felt so great, like I was finally free, like I was finally an adult. But then that feeling faded and I started to really freak out about what I was going to do with my life. I mean, I didn’t know what I wanted to do.” He stirred the sauce and put the spoon down. He turned toward me and grinned. “Well, that’s not entirely true. I knew I wanted to smoke joints, drink beer and get into Madeleine Zaworsky’s pants.”
“Dad!” I said, momentarily shocked out of my funk. He just laughed and poked at the pot of ribs.
“Oh, come on,” he said, “I wasn’t always old and boring. I remember being eighteen perfectly well. And I know that it’s not all fun and games, either. There’s a lot of pressure on you right now, more than there was on me at your age. Kids these days are expected to have it all figured out: school, career, the whole bit. I just want to let you know that I’m here for you if you want to talk. You don’t have to decide your whole life right now, you know.”
The Home for Wayward Parrots Page 3
