My Former Self

by C. T. Musca

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form.

  Copyright © 2013 by C. T. Musca

  ISBN: 1482670585

  ISBN-13: 978-1482670585

  This is a work of fiction. Although some places are real, all events and characters are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For Mom and Dad – my roots

  For Martin – my rock

  For Alex and Matty – my world

  As hard as I try, I just can’t forget.

  -2003

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Fall 2010

  God, sometimes living in an apartment complex irritates me. I often look in the houses nearby as I walk to and from the bus station. I glance through the windows of these detached homes and think that inside, their lives must be so peaceful and perfect. The noises from the street don’t drown out their conversations; the pigeons don’t defecate on their windows; the smell from the neighbours’ cooking doesn’t permeate their kitchens. I can see myself in those houses—drinking a glass of white wine that my husband has just brought to me after I have finished putting the children to bed. I sit down at our computer and play solitaire and sip my wine. Ahhh, the peace, the calm, the normalcy. I suppose it’s not really me I see, but in another life someone who could have been me.

  I am jolted back to reality when I hear a knock at the door. It must be Rosanna in 702. She told me when she saw me earlier that she had to talk to me. There is no getting away from her; she knows I’m home. I get back from work at the same time every day. I wonder what today’s issue will be. Last week it was the heat. Because we’re on the seventh floor and get all of the other apartments’ heat, she wanted me to talk to the landlord about adjusting it. I told her there is probably not very much Louis can do; he can’t—or won’t—tell seventy-eight-year-old Gladys in 322 to turn down the temperature. If it really bothers her, she should go down to Louis’s room and plead her case. Rosanna said that she thought I could articulate it better than she, and that he might just listen to me. She didn’t exactly say it like that, though; it was more like, “You talk so good.”

  So I drag myself to the door. All I want to do is sit and relax for a few minutes, but the sooner I deal with Rosanna, the sooner I can do just that.

  I wasn’t wrong about who’s at my door. Rosanna is wearing a bathrobe on top of her clothes. Her grey and black hair is wet—she has just recently come out of the shower. She looks older, which I attribute to the fact that she is not wearing any makeup.

  “I have some great news for you, doll.” She can hardly contain her excitement. “My nephew, Ryan, is back from university and he has agreed to come up and meet you!”

  Oh God, it’s worse than I thought. How the hell am I going to get out of this one? I know she is just trying to be nice and friendly, but the last thing I want is to date—let alone date her nephew. If anything ever did happen between us, Rosanna would be at my place morning, noon, and night.

  “Oh, Rosanna. I’m just not sure I am feeling up to it. How old is Ryan anyway?” I guess I shouldn’t be asking about his age, as that might mean I am actually considering this invitation or arrangement or whatever it is you would call it.

  “He’s twenty-three, and he’s very smart—smarter than that no-good father of his. I’m sure you two would get along good.”

  “Rosanna, you know I am thirty-six, right? He’s much too young for me. And besides, I just got out of a bad relationship. I am not really ready to date yet.” I lie. I just can’t think of how else to get her off my back.

  “Oh, doll, what are we going to do with you? You need to find someone before all of the good ones are snatched up!” It seems she doesn’t believe my lie.

  “All right, Rosanna, thanks. Have a good night.” And she is gone. And I can change out of my work clothes and sit down in front of the TV and not think about anything else.

  I go into my cramped bedroom which has far too much furniture for the space, and change out of my incredibly conservative pant suit. I work as a receptionist at a dentist office. It’s quiet and easy and pays the bills. Dr. Tom Roerke is a good employer. He’s friendly and listens if we have any concerns or need time off. Two years ago, when my mom died, I asked for three days off and he gave me the whole week.

  He has never specified what the dress code is, but I have always worn dress pants and blouses. It feels good to remove them now and put on my yoga pants. That’s probably the biggest joke of all. I wear yoga pants all the time, but have never—not once—done yoga.

  I look in the fridge for something to eat. The chicken from the other night doesn’t look very appealing, and the fact that it’s a few days old makes it even less so. There is some jarred pasta sauce, or I can have scrambled eggs and toast. I have never been much of a cook, preferring the simplest option over anything else. Mom was an epicurean. She loved to cook, and we’d have very extravagant meals for dinner every night—never simply ‘meat and potatoes’. It’s surprising that this love of food didn’t rub off on me. I am content with the premade dinners that I can buy in the freezer section. I decide on the chicken. If it’s not eaten tonight, it never will be. Just then the phone rings.

  “Hey Tonya. It’s Cindy. Are you coming tonight?” Cindy is the assistant at Dr. Roerke’s office. She is in her twenties and is going to school to become a dental hygienist. She is bubbly and warm, and she often tries to include me when people from the office go out. I have always thought that Dr. Roerke was smitten with her, even though he is married, with three children. Her attractive face and lean body have always made the men who come in there, or work there, speechless around her.

  “I don’t think so. I’m pretty beat. Thanks, though.” I don’t really provide any more details, although I could say that I really don’t feel like changing again, going out to a bar, buying ten-dollar glasses of wine, and watching men salivate when they look at her. It’s not jealousy either; I think it’s disgusting the way they look at her like she’s a piece of meat. But I guess she doesn’t really mind it—maybe even likes it. She does dress provocatively when she goes out. She wears tight shirts that accentuate her breasts and even tighter pants that leave men staring at her at every turn.

  “Are you sure, Ton? It’ll be fun. Patrick and Deb are going.”

  Patrick is the other reception worker and assistant. He is also Dr. Roerke’s son. I’ve often wondered whether he finds it bizarre watching his dad drool over Cindy. He’s nineteen years old, quiet and friendly. He doesn’t have the confidence that his father possesses. He’s sort of cute, but his awkwardness diminishes it. Deb is the dental hygienist. She’s my age, married with two kids. She demonstrates to me how different two people of the same age and gender can be.

  They are all nice people, but I am really not in the mood. I am surprised they keep inviting me. I went once, last Christmas time, and even then all I wanted to do was crawl out of the bar and make my way home. I stayed, though, because I had always said no to them. I thought that if I finally went they might stop asking me. I was wrong.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Thanks, though. Have
fun and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Now I can eat my dinner and sit down to watch my shows which are PVR‘d. I scroll down the list to find The Good Wife, one of my favourites right now. I watch it while eating my chicken dinner, having a glass of white wine from a cheap seven-dollar bottle, feeling content in my little apartment. I think back to Rosanna’s offer of a date. Why can’t people just leave me alone? If I wanted to date someone, I would. Dr. Roerke tried to set me up with one of his friends who had recently been divorced. He told me this guy was full of energy and would be able to keep up with a thirty-six-year-old. And then he laughed, looked at Cindy, and winked. I was embarrassed by his open flirtation, but I suppose Cindy is used to it. I told him that I was seeing someone, which was a lie. I had met a guy at the coffee shop on the way to work where I go every morning and see the same people. Just that week, a guy who I had seen each day for the past few months talked to me. He made small talk about the baristas, as the shop had just employed two new ones, who were slow in learning how to make all the specialty drinks. It really wasn’t anything, but this guy, who stayed in my mind for a while, was very useful in my conversation with Dr. Roerke.

  I have gone on dates, but I would rather do it on my own, without any “help” from my neighbours or employers. That way there are no expectations or requirements to divulge all the awkward details when I go into work the following Monday or leave my apartment to get groceries.

  My mind keeps wandering from Rosanna to Cindy to the guy from the coffee shop. I am not really watching the show I have on, so I decide to go to bed, even though it is not even ten thirty yet.

  I wake in the middle of the night after having a nightmare.

  I was in a boat in the middle of a lake. I was alone and anchored there. The next thing I knew, the boat careened to one side and I slipped into the water. Alone. For some reason I was unable to swim, even though I know very well how to swim. I started panicking, and then Dad was there in the boat, reaching his hand out for me to grab. I noticed my brother in another boat in the distance and tried to call to him, swallowing water in doing so. I was drowning.

  And that’s when I wake up. I am drenched. I look around the room, feeling scared, even though I know it’s just a nightmare and that no one is there. I look at the clock and see that it’s only four fifteen. Today is going to be a long day.

  Summer 1989

  Isit here in my room, daydreaming again. I find it so fascinating to picture my life in ten or twenty years. I imagine what I will look like, if the years will be kind to me. Will I have trouble losing weight after having kids, like my mom did? Of course I picture myself married with kids. I wonder what my husband will look like, if I know him already, or if I’ll meet him in the future. This dreaminess can go on for a long time, but I have to stop myself. I have to get ready because we are going for our family photo today. It was a gift my brother bought my parents for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. He is in university and has a part-time job, so he can afford it. I’m told it was pretty expensive as he hired the top photographer in Lindsay. But no expense is too great for my parents, especially after my brother has given my parents a lot to stress over in the past four years.

  Jeremy never did well in school. The fact that he was accepted into a university at all—even if it was Carleton (a.k.a. “last chance U”)—was surprising. It’s not that he didn’t try—he did; he just didn’t do well. He’d study for hours and then come back with poor grades. My dad would just shake his head, and we all knew what that meant. He thought Jeremy’d be stuck in his current job for the rest of his life, flipping burgers at Joe’s Fine Eatery. There was nothing really fine about Joe’s. Most of the food was the premade, prepackaged, deep-fried garbage that sold so well in our little town. But then Jeremy would go back to his room to study for the next possible pop quiz. It was kind of a cycle that I just wanted to end, and it did in the summer of 1987 when Jeremy got accepted into general arts at Carleton University. I remember that it was summer because he was on a waiting list. I think none of us—including my brother himself—ever believed he’d actually get accepted. So when the letter arrived in late August, notifying my brother that a few more spots had opened and he was being offered one of them, we were all flabbergasted, especially my mom. She started crying and hugging him, calling him her baby, which I had never seen her do before. So he packed up shortly thereafter and moved to Ottawa, coming home holiday weekends and in the summer, where he continued to work at Joe’s.

  I have always looked forward to when Jer would come home. He is such a positive and modest person, and he has a way of making everyone laugh at the idiosyncrasies of life. He doesn’t really look like any of us and has often suspected that my parents secretly adopted him at birth. He’s got dirty blond hair, while the rest of us are brunette, and he is nearly six-foot three, noticeably taller than anyone else in the family. I hope the photographer will take special care while placing us for our picture, otherwise Jeremy will have more ‘proof’ that he’s not a Daverin.

  I really, really don’t want to go and pose for who-knows-how-long in Riverwood Park, where it’s thirty-one degrees outside. But my parents are touched by the gift, and they want to use it while we’re all at home. I would rather be doing something with Amanda or Kaitlyn. They are my best friends and we see each other almost every day in the summer. If one of our families decides to go on vacation, we’re usually allowed to invite someone along with us. Kaitlyn, however, doesn’t really go on family vacations. Her mom and dad split up when she was in elementary school—long before I knew her. Her mom has different boyfriends all the time and Kaitlyn is able to go out whenever she wants. I think that’s great, but she seems to look sad when either Amanda or I go on a family trip. We don’t really ever hear about her father; I think he’s non-existent in her life and has been for a long time. Today they are going to the beach, with Neil, Darren, and Greg—guys we often hang out with. I told them I couldn’t go, but hopefully I can meet up with them afterwards.

  After fixing my hair, trying to make my bangs stick up to look fuller, I am finally ready. I spray what seems like an entire can of Finesse on my hair and I am all set to go. I just need to grab a bite to eat to tide me over until I’m able to eat again.

  Uncle Jack is sitting in the family room. I am a little surprised to see him. He is not really my uncle, just our next-door neighbour, who hangs out with us since his wife left him. I’m not surprised to see him sitting there—he often is in our home—but I am surprised he is here on picture day. Surely he won’t be in the picture.

  “Hey, Tonya. You look absolutely beautiful!”

  “Thanks. I think Mom and Dad are still getting ready. We’re going to have a family portrait taken today.” I say it as matter-of-factly as I can so that he is well aware.

  “I know. Bob and Sharon asked me to be in it with you guys. I said no at first, but they insisted. They said I’m part of the family.” He says it almost as though he is looking for confirmation. As he is speaking he opens his hand to offer me a mint.

  “Oh, that’s great,” I say, taking a mint, though I’m not sure I’m convincing. Don’t get me wrong, I like Jack. He is a loyal friend to the family, and he would do anything my parents asked of him. It’s just that after a while it gets a little annoying always having a neighbour in our house, at our holiday dinners, and on our family vacations. Jack has two children of his own, but he doesn’t see them too often. Penny, his ‘bitch of a wife’, as my dad once referred to her, took the kids and left. I don’t know the whole story, but some of the details that I’ve been able to piece together are that she wanted more out of life than he did. She wanted to travel; she wanted to go out at night and not stay home, sitting on the couch watching TV. She wanted a new man, too, I guess, because shortly after she left Jack, she was seen in town with another guy. I had seen this guy before at Joe’s, when we’d go at the end of one of Jeremy’s shifts. He had a motorcycle, multiple tattoos and long hair, and he was often smoking
when I saw him. I couldn’t imagine anyone finding him attractive, but I overheard my mom once say that he must make up for it in other ways. I didn’t really know what she meant at the time, but I think I do now.

  “Okay, everyone,” Dad shouts. “Let’s get in the car. We have to be at the park by eleven and it’s ten to, now.” Then he notices Jack. “Hey, Jack. Do you want to drive with us or meet us there?”

  “I’ll meet you at the park. I have a few errands to run afterwards. I brought my cooler and filled it with water and colas for the kids—it’s pretty hot out today. See you there.”

  “Thanks. Kids, let’s go!” Dad rarely gets mad at us, but he doesn’t have much patience for tardiness. He once told us that people who are late are egotistical—they think they are worth waiting for. That has always stuck with me, and I try not to make anyone wait for me.

  “I’m ready, Dad. Sandy,” I call to my younger sister, “come on!” Sandra is eleven and in sixth grade. She’s a funny girl and makes us all laugh. Sometimes she gets in trouble at school because she makes the entire class laugh. One of her teachers, Mr. Keddy, called home a few times, saying that she needs to take science more seriously. He said that when he’s trying to teach important concepts, she makes jokes and is clearly not paying attention. My parents talk to her and tell her that class is not the appropriate place to make jokes, with which she agrees. It lasts for a week or two, and then there is a poor test result sent home to sign or another phone call.

  “’Kay, I’m done. Look at me!” Sandy has obviously had fun with Mom’s makeup.

  “Sandra! What on earth have you done to your face?” Dad is trying not to laugh. He probably would have if he weren’t feeling rushed for time. “Go wash your face quickly and get back here!”

  So, by 10:55, we leave to go get our family portrait done. I can see that my dad doesn’t really want to talk on the way. He knows we’re going to be about five minutes late, and it is visibly upsetting him. My mom touches his back and says, “It’s okay, Bob, Jack’s there. He’ll tell him where to set up everything.”