And then there was the bird gallery. These people obviously lived for birds. I don’t know what most of them were, but there was an amazing variety. They were green and blue and red and yellow; big and small and tiny and enormous. They had scary-looking talons with razor-sharp beaks and delicate little feet with tiny little heads. I can only imagine what that place sounded like when they all got going. I wondered how many of them talked.
I still can’t tell you exactly what it is I thought I was going to learn from scrolling through the photos of birds. If she worked there, maybe my mother had a thing for birds herself. She’d mentioned birds in her email to me. I’d read it over several thousand times and I could recite it word for mispunctuated word. I guess I wanted a little clue to what she was like. More than knowing that she was a self-professed “flake” who believed that email didn’t require the same level of writing skill as other forms of written communication. At least, I hoped she didn’t write like that all the time. But for all I knew she was functionally illiterate. Maybe she cleaned the cages at Pawz N Clawz as part of a government job program for disabled people. I had no idea what I was getting myself into at Café Mozart.
WE’D AGREED TO MEET ON SUNDAY at one o’clock. I usually spent Sunday afternoons with Mom and Dad, drinking beer, eating barbecue and avoiding talking about my life. I called them to cancel on the Tuesday before, hoping to get the machine.
“Hello,” my dad’s voice boomed out of the phone, cheery and energetic. Wincing, I turned the volume down.
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Oh, hi,” he said, his voice quieter but somehow even cheerier. “I didn’t expect to hear from you. What’s up?”
“I can’t make it for dinner Sunday,” I said.
“Oh, that’s a shame,” he said. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Just something came up.”
“Okay,” he said, then with a sly tone asked, “is it a woman?”
“No,” I said, then backpedalled. I didn’t tell my parents a lot about my life, but I was a terrible liar, so I tried not to say anything actually untrue. “Well, yeah,” I corrected. “But it’s not what you think.”
“Huh,” he said. “Now you’ve really got me curious.”
I took a deep breath. I knew I was going to have to do this sometime and it seemed like now was the time. “I’ve found my birth mother,” I said. “We’re meeting for the first time on Sunday.” There was a very long pause on the other end of the line. “Dad?” I asked. “You there?”
“Yeah,” he said, finally. “I’m here.” Another long pause, this one I didn’t interrupt. “She found you?”
“No,” I said, knowing he didn’t just hear me wrong. “I found her.”
Another pause. Eventually, he said, “We didn’t know you were even looking.”
“You must have thought I might,” I said, unable to believe that he and Mom hadn’t known something. “How could I not want to know?”
“Sure,” Dad said. “It’s only natural. I’m just surprised, that’s all. You never said anything.” All the life and energy that had been in his voice when he’d picked up the phone was gone. It was like I was talking to a different person.
“Come on, Dad,” I said, trying to be kind. “I didn’t want you and Mom to feel bad, like I was, I dunno, trying to replace you or something. It didn’t seem like something you talk about with your parents.”
“I guess,” he said. “You know you can always talk to us about anything.” It sounded like one of his many lectures when I was growing up. “Even this. Especially this.” He sighed. “Your mother and I always expected you’d be curious. That’s why we gave you all the papers and things when you were a teenager. But you never said anything about wanting to find your birth parents, and some kids, well, they just don’t want to know. We finally figured that you were one of them.” He took a breath. “It’s just a surprise, is all.”
I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” I finally said, feebly.
“No,” he said. “You don’t have to tell us, though I’m glad you finally did. I hope it goes well, your meeting.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“If you feel you’d like to,” Dad said, “we’d like to hear about it. But it’s up to you. This is your thing, not ours.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “I don’t know ...”
“It’s okay,” he said. “Just know that your mom and I love you. No matter what.”
“I know, Dad,” I said. “I love you guys, too.”
“We know that,” he said. “We know.”
I GOT TO THE CAFÉ AT ABOUT A QUARTER AFTER TWELVE. I hadn’t planned to be so early, but I was so nervous that I couldn’t stay in my apartment any longer. I’d finally gotten up at six a.m., after lying awake for what seemed like hours. I didn’t think I’d ever been this nervous before — not for a job interview, not for a date, not even when I walked over to Jacquie McKirk’s and found out she wasn’t pregnant after all. For a while, I thought I was going to throw up.
Café Mozart is, I think, one of the best-kept secrets in downtown Victoria. It’s a two- or three-minute walk from all the major office buildings, yet on a weekday noon hour there’s almost always a table available. They do okay there, but it’s off the beaten path so it’s never as busy as the other eateries in the main business district. But their food is fantastic. I have to ration myself so I don’t eat there every day.
It’s some kind of European/Californian/Asian fusion thing they’ve got going on. Lots of quiches, soups, rice and noodle bowls and enormous grilled sandwiches. Plus there’s always a special, some kind of really substantial meal. In the years I’ve gone there I’ve eaten everything from spanakopita to an eggplant and chèvre stack and once even pork chops with apple sauce.
Sundays were no busier than any other day, so I slid into a table near the window as soon as I arrived. I ordered herbal tea in the hopes of calming my nerves, and it arrived in a huge cup with a small almond cookie on the saucer. I smiled at the waiter and sipped the tea.
Getting there early didn’t calm my nerves much, but the tea and cookie helped. I spent the time surfing the internet on my phone and staring out the window. Is that her? I wondered about the haggard-looking brunette fighting with the parking meter across the street. What about her? the short, chubby lady talking on the phone by the door. I was staring at a bleached-blonde woman about the right age, who had a Dachshund in one of those tiny dog carriers disguised as a giant handbag, when I felt a presence at the table.
I looked up to see a short woman with close-cropped dark hair and a broad smile. “Brian?” she asked. She stuck her hand out for a shake. “I’m Kim.”
9
CAFÉ MOZART
SHE ORDERED FALAFEL AND BABA GHANOUJ, a fact I remember more clearly than the beginnings of our conversation. I think it stuck in my mind because it was such a bold choice — foreign and garlicky and made for sharing. It put my black forest ham and gruyère panini to shame. A part of my mind was amazed that I was focussing on the food at this of all times. The rest of me was just trying to get through the moment.
After we had plates between us to buffer the awkwardness of meeting, the small talk receded and we actually talked. Between openly delighted bites of her meal, Kim gave me the basic outline she thought I wanted.
“I was sixteen years old when I had you,” she said, idly mopping a piece of pita bread in the spicy eggplant dip. “I was in high school and there just wasn’t any chance of me keeping a baby.”
I nodded. “I can completely understand that,” I said, flashes of The Thing with Jacquie in my mind. Kim seemed to notice something on my face, because her face took on a little smile of recognition. “Sixteen is young,” I added.
She nodded. “It is,” she agreed. “And with my parents, there wasn’t much else in the way of options.” She shrugged. “Honestly, if it had been up to me, you might not have made it. But it took me a long time to realize that I was pregnant and b
y then my mother had put two and two together herself. Mom and Dad are ...” She paused, her dark eyes aimed at the ceiling, as if some explanation for the strangeness of all parents could be found in the acoustical tile at Café Mozart. “They were crazy Christians before being a crazy Christian was cool,” she said finally.
I didn’t know what to say to that. “Your parents were strongly religious?” I prodded.
“True, but that’s not the best way to describe it,” she said, a sad smile on her face. “You know those nutty Americans, the ones down south, who play with snakes and speak gibberish and have those terrifying television programs where they heal the lame and cure the sick?” I nodded. “Well, that’s how I grew up. Only back in the seventies, it was my folks and, like, three other families in the province who did this shit.
“We were just lucky that there was no such thing as homeschooling back then, or me and my brother would be total fruitcakes ourselves, I’m sure. As it was, it didn’t take long for me and Wolf to figure out that Mom and Dad were nuts. We just had to play along until we were old enough to get out.” She ate another bit of falafel and when she was done chewing said, “Lucky for you, I got knocked up a couple years too soon.”
I don’t know why I was so shocked. That Kim had a less than perfect childhood, I’d been expecting, even if the details were weird. But it never occurred to me that she’d sit across from me, eating pita, talking about why she didn’t get an abortion. I’d thought of it, of course, many times. I knew it had to have been something she considered. I think I just never thought I’d hear her say it out loud, as if it were the same as getting a mole removed.
I recovered somewhat and changed the subject. “It must have been very hard for you, pregnant so young and with such a religious family.”
She shrugged. “By then my parents had already consigned me and Wolf to hell. We were doomed just by not believing the claptrap they tried to shove down our throats. The rest of our sinning behaviour was just icing on the cake.” She stopped and turned to look at the café’s counter. “Hey, cake! Wanna share a slice?”
She was far too casual about this. I know not everyone is as serious as I am, but cake? Really? What could I do? I said, “Sure,” and Kim waved down our waiter to order a slice of the chocolate torte.
“When I got pregnant, I think they were expecting it. Not because I got around, they wouldn’t have known one way or another about that, but because it was just the kind of thing a child of Satan would do. I think they are eternally disappointed that Wolf is a lawyer, rather than serving out life for some heinous crime.” She shook her head, laughing slightly.
“It seems like you had a rough time of it,” I said.
“I’m giving you a very one-sided picture of what it was like growing up,” she said. “Ninety percent of the time, Mom and Dad were pretty normal parents. They took care of us, we always had food and clothes and they really valued education. They paid Wolf’s way through law school and would have sent me to college too if I’d wanted it. They offered to raise my child — to raise you — when it happened. But I figured that you’d be better off with someone else, someone who really wanted you, who really wanted to be parents.”
The cake arrived and she took a giant forkful. Closing her eyes as she ate it, she laid the fork along the side of the place. “So tell me about them,” she said when she’d swallowed. “Your parents.”
I gave her the short version — cop, nurse, nice, loving, kind of weird. She nodded and I added, “They’ve been great parents. I can’t complain and lots of kids really can. I just wanted, you know, to know where I came from.”
She nodded. “I understand. I’ve wondered about you all these years. Every time I got pregnant — I have three other kids — I thought about you. And now that we’ve met, I’m glad I made the choice I did. You seem to be a good man and your parents sound like a better set than mine were.” She looked into my eyes and said, “Don’t ever forget, Brian, it’s easy to have a child. It’s not so easy to raise a child. And the two aren’t really related at all.”
“So,” I said, toying with the last crumbs of the cake. “You have other children ...”
“Yeah,” Kim said. “Charlotte, Rob and Jeannette. Charlotte’s twenty-six, Rob is twenty-three and Jeannette’s just a baby at eighteen.”
I did the math. “So, you got married when you were nineteen or twenty?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never been married,” she said. “Once I left home, I kind of let myself just be free, you know? I lived with Aaron, Charlotte’s dad, for a couple of years, but it didn’t last. Rob’s dad was just a big mistake.” She made a What was I thinking? face. “I stuck around with Chris the longest. But we grew apart and Jeannette was, like, ten when we split up. Relationships are tough.”
“Yeah,” I said, wondering what it must have been like for those kids. I couldn’t really imagine it; even when the McKirks got divorced, they just fought and then Mr. McKirk moved out. It’s not like there was some new guy in the house every few years. I fought not to judge her. It did, however, open the door to one of the questions that had been burning in the back of my mind.
“Speaking of which,” I said, as nonchalantly as possible, “I’d been hoping you might give me a lead on my own father. I’m hoping to meet him someday, too.”
It seemed like a cloud passed over Kim’s face and all the casual cool was gone from her demeanour. “Don’t hope too hard, kid,” she said.
“Well, I’d still like his name,” I pressed.
“I don’t like to talk about it,” Kim said, staring fixedly out the window.
“But ...” I started, and she cut me off with glare.
“Don’t push it, Brian,” she said. “I’m really glad we’re connecting here, but this isn’t just your show. I said I don’t want to talk about it, and I mean it. Not now. Maybe not ever. And that’s final.”
I nearly said, “Okay, Mom,” in a sulky teenage voice. Instead, I looked out the window, feeling lost.
We were silent for a few moments; then Kim smacked her hand on the table. The soft slap broke me out of my trance and I looked over at her, startled.
“You should come out to the house next month,” she said, all trace of her earlier coldness gone.
“Uh, okay,” I said.
“Charlotte’s getting married in August and all the kids are coming over to hang out at my place in July. I have an acreage and there’s room for camping and stuff. It’s sort of like a family reunion.” She looked at me and grinned. “And what a great time for you to meet your half-siblings! A family reunion, indeed. It’ll be great.”
“I, ah,” I stammered, completely dumbfounded by this turn of events. “Sure, I guess,” I said. “You’re talking like a couple of days?”
“Sure,” she said, “or a week or two, whatever. It’s pretty free and easy over at my place. You have a tent?” I shook my head. “No matter,” she said. “We can figure something out. An extra body is never any big deal.” She looked at me and beamed. “It’s going to be great!”
She pulled her wallet out of her purse and started toting up what she owed. “No,” I said, “it’s my treat, please.”
She smiled and said, “You sure?” I nodded and she put her wallet away. “Well, that’s awfully nice of you, Brian,” she said, then looked at her watch. “Damn it, I’ve got to get a move on.” She stood, and I stood, and we awkwardly looked at each other for a moment. She finally came around the table and gave me a quick hug.
“It was good to meet you,” she said, smiling. “I’m glad you tracked me down. Now, I really hope you get a chance to come up while the kids are all there. It’s going to be a laugh.” She slipped her sunglasses on and walked to the door. She stopped and turned back to me.
She said, “I’ll send you a map.”
10
THE NEW KID ON THE BLOCK
THE TINY TRUNK OF MY HONDA CIVIC was nearly filled by the tent, sleeping bag and air mattress I’d rented from one of the
local outdoors outfitters. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been camping — it was probably with Johnny, Blair and Ange in someone’s backyard before we’d hit double digits. Sleeping where there’s nothing between you and the dirt but a few layers of nylon and polyester didn’t fill me with joy. But I didn’t want to impose myself on Kim too much; it was enough to be invited to this bizarre get-together as it was.
As I drove up the highway toward Maple Bay, the other cars passed me impatiently. I was a pretty good driver, I thought. I’d never had a speeding ticket and usually was pretty close to the limit. I was driving way slower than usual this morning, though. I wanted to meet my half-siblings, I really did. After all the thinking I’d done about my real parents — imagining their lives and experiences in the last thirty years — it had never occurred to me that I might have siblings.
When I was growing up, people often expressed their pity for me when they found out I was an only child. It was always odd to me. No one ever said it was a shame I was adopted — I guess that would just be too politically incorrect to say aloud. But a shocking number of people — other kids’ parents, teachers, friends of the family — told me what a pity it was that I didn’t have a brother or sister to play with. Mom and Dad always let it slide, which struck me as kind of cowardly. I knew it was their choice to adopt only one kid; after one of these comments they had mentioned it. They should have stuck up for their decision, especially because I thought it was a good one.
It’s not like I was never lonely or bored as a kid. I had lots of those days. But I never once wished for a brother or sister. I liked being the sole object of my parents’ attention when I was young, and by the time I was old enough to wish there was someone else to deflect their scrutiny, I’d known enough kids with siblings to see that they were obviously more trouble than they were worth. Even Johnny Frazier, who got along pretty well with his sister, was constantly having to stay home to take care of her, or share his toys, or some other pain-in-the-ass thing. I just never saw the attraction of a brother or sister.
The Home for Wayward Parrots Page 5
