Over Our Heads

by Andrea Thompson

  Rachel was silent. Grandma was gone, and there had been no chance for goodbye. Emma hadn’t given her a good enough reason why. And instead of talking about that elephant stampeding across the room, they were discussing the secret reason that George the dog peed on the rug. Rachel wanted to laugh.

  “Well, there’s this symposium here next month,” Emma said.

  “Symposium?”

  “An Animal Communication Symposium. It’s part of the Psychic Fair at the CNE.”

  “Oh, for God’s sakes. You’re kidding.”

  “No Rachel, and please try to be supportive okay? It wouldn’t kill you.”

  She tried, but the day had delivered too much to be able to handle Emma and her fairy-tale new-age world on top of it all. Nothing is funny today, Rachel thought. Let her talk about her stupid pet psychic kick, and then, when she was done, Rachel could ask her again – why she didn’t call when she knew Grandma was about to die?

  “That’s wonderful Emma,” Rachel had said. “Congratulations.”

  Emma had frowned.

  Rachel stared at the door to her grandmother’s house. At the best of times, it took effort to not become impatient with Emma’s flakiness. The things she would come up with were ridiculous. Rachel wondered how her sister had made it this far in life with such a loose grip on reality. At least she hadn’t asked Rachel for another loan in the last couple of years. What a laugh. As if Rachel would ever see a cent of that money again. She had to do it though. It was up to her to keep Emma off the streets. If she didn’t look out for her, who would? Sure, Sam could likely afford to help her too, but he’d never think to offer. She envied Sam for that. It may have been selfishness on his part, or maybe it was his ability to be oblivious to the obvious. Either way, Sam floated through life. Always had. Never felt the pressure of responsibility, of obligation that Rachel always felt. Why should he? If there were a fire, Rachel would put it out long before anyone else even smelled the smoke.

  Rachel breathed deeply before opening the door to number 66. The house had been closed up since Grandma had gone into the hospital. Inside, the air would be stale, so better get a lungful of fresh air while she could. She opened the door, and stood staring into the musty darkness of the house. She stepped over the threshold and reached for the hallway light, flicking it on. Nothing. She flicked it off, then on again. Still nothing. She stood in the darkness with a sinking, jittery feeling in her belly. Don’t be an idiot, she told herself, it’s just a burnt out light bulb. No big deal.

  She headed towards the kitchen as her eyes adjusted, and reached for the light switch. She flicked it on. Light filled the room. She flicked it off again, then on again, then off again. Three times. She knew better than this old trick, but she was alone so what the hell.

  Rachel tried to remember when it started, the triple light switch flicking, and the illogical feeling of security that followed. Who was it that first told her about that friend whose house had gone up in flames one night? Not having a light switch solidly flicked to either “on” or “off” hadn’t been enough to make the electricity jumpy in the walls. It hadn’t caused it to shoot all through the house, as those inside slept unaware, later burned to a crisp. It had been a lie. How long had it been after she heard this urban legend that Rachel had discovered the truth? She couldn’t remember. All she knew was that she was never really able to shake the feeling that a switch that was neither on nor off, but left somewhere in-between, could destroy everything.

  Rachel took the list out of her purse and posted it on the fridge with a magnet. It wasn’t for her. She remembered every item, every step they would need to take to get the house sorted and sold. The list was for Emma, to keep her on track, to remind her of why they had come here, and what they had to do. The more quickly they could get things settled, the better. The market was good and the area was prime. They could turn it over quickly if they focused. One step at a time, and soon it would all be sorted, and Rachel could get back to her life. It wasn’t as if her grandmother had chosen the moment when she’d finally let go, but really, the timing couldn’t have been worse. Rachel was in over her head at the office with the aftermath from year-end reports.

  Picking up the pieces after someone dies is a full-time job if you’re the executor. Back when it was her dad, it had been Grandma who swooped in like a superhero to save the day, and pull Rachel out of the dark bullet hole in the middle of the kitchen floor. Wanda had been around at the time, sure. But as usual, Wanda hadn’t been much help. Grandma had been the one to arrange everything. But this time, it was Rachel’s turn to take the helm.

  Rachel felt an emptiness in her belly start to swell, start to bully its way toward her eyes. There’s too much to do, she thought. I don’t have time for this. Hold it together.

  8.

  WHEN RACHEL WAS NINE YEARS OLD, the police came to the door right in the middle of the pilot episode of The New Original Wonder Woman. Dad was on the road and Sam had gone out without telling anyone where again. Mom tried asking him, but Sam said, “Don’t hassle me,” so Mom said, “Screw it,” and decided to spend the night on the couch, playing the drinking game Rachel had invented for the two of them. Mom had her rum and Tab, and Rachel had her chocolate milk, and every time someone said the word “Wonder Woman,” they’d take a sip. Two sips when Wonder Woman used her Lasso of Truth, and three sips when she deflected a bullet with her Indestructible Bracelets. They were both laughing a lot because they had played the game during the Six Million Dollar Man, too, taking sips at the mention of the word “bionic” and whenever anything was done in slow motion. Mom was just starting to get loaded, but wasn’t yet at the point when Rachel would have to watch her cigarette.

  If it wasn’t for the fact that it was right at the part where the Amazon warrior women were shooting at each other in the big “bullets and bracelets” contest to see who would be allowed to take the handsome air force man back to America, it would have been Rachel who let the cops in. She was always the one who went when someone came to the door. She didn’t know why, but whenever she heard the doorbell she’d jump. Sam would always laugh and call her “Pavlov.” Rachel didn’t know who Pavlov was, and Sam never clued her in, but she could tell from the way he’d shake his head after he said it that it wasn’t a compliment. Rachel wished she had been Pavlov that night though. If she had been the one to let the cops in, it would have been different. She would have seen the bad news in their eyes, and would have told Mom herself instead of them.

  Cops always made Mom shaky, but Rachel knew how to handle them. When cops came to your house you had to be cool. You had to not tell them anything and act stupid, like you didn’t know what was going on. Once they got you to open the door, they’d try to trick you by asking you things like if your older brother had any secret hiding places in his room, or if he had a lot of friends drop by who didn’t stay very long.

  The pigs always lied, Sam had told Rachel after that time they came looking for him. That was the first thing you had to know when you got busted, he said. Usually Sam wouldn’t talk to her about important things like that, because she was a stupid kid who listened to the Bay City Rollers and AM radio. Sam had long hair and a leather jacket with fringes down the arms and would never be caught dead listening to anything but CHUM FM, where they played cool music like David Bowie and Frank Zappa, so Rachel understood. Sam had been extra nice to her though, because she told him she had found a joint on the floor in the kitchen one day and she hadn’t wanted him to get in trouble, so she’d hid it in his guitar case before Mom found out. After that, Sam told Rachel she was all right, and that he was going to give her seventy-five bucks for her birthday. He told her he would have to pretend to only give her twenty-five bucks though, and would slide the rest to her later so nobody would start asking him a lot of stupid fucking questions.

  Seventy-five bucks was a lot of bread, and Rachel had no idea what she would do with it, so she had deci
ded she’d stash it in her Easy-Bake Oven. It was the perfect place to hide things. Rachel was disappointed when she got it for Christmas that year. She had wanted a chemistry set, but instead, her parents gave her a fire hazard. Rachel had said thank you and smiled, but never once plugged it in. She knew the money would be safe there until she came up with a plan. It was important to have a plan, Sam said. Like when you climbed up on the high school roof to drink beer with your friends, you had to come up with fake names and phone numbers for all the guys beforehand in case some asshole heard the bottles smashing and called the cops. That way, if you got busted, and the pigs tried to tell you that your buddy ratted you out, you’d know they were trying to pull a fast one on you.

  Pigs were always trying to pull a fast one. So, when Mom opened the door that night, and Rachel saw the two dark uniforms standing in the shadow of the carport, she knew she’d need some back up. She went to the door, and stood next to Mom, when the dark haired cop with the bushy sideburns asked, “Are you Mrs. Robert Stewart?”

  Mom started to sway a bit. She was still holding her rum and Tab. “Yes,” she said, “that’s me.” Rachel started thinking: off, on, off, on, and reached up for the light switch. Without even turning to look at her, Mom swatted Rachel’s hand away.

  Most of the time Rachel would only check the lights when nobody else was around, cause she knew that if Mom saw her, she’d get mad, and if Sam saw her he’d call Rachel a nut-job. She had tried to explain it to Mom once, but Mom hadn’t taken her seriously.

  “It’s so the house won’t set on fire,” Rachel had told her.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Mom said.

  Then Rachel had told her how Marcia Miller said at recess one day that her cousin’s next-door neighbour’s house burned down because they hadn’t turned the lights off properly.

  “The electricity got loose and just shot right through the walls into the living-room and set the drapes on fire. Then the whole house went up in smoke. Just like that,” Rachel had said, snapping her fingers. “So, I’m just making sure that they’re either on or off because in between is dangerous.”

  “Turning the lights on and off won’t stop the house from setting on fire Rachel,” Mom had replied. “Leave the bloody light switches alone.”

  Mom invited the cops in and everyone stood in the hall and didn’t say anything for a minute. Rachel started thinking about the guitar case, and whether they’d go up to search Sam’s room, and find the joint still in there. She was about to go up the stairs and check, when they all looked at her, and the cops asked if they could speak to her mom alone. Mom said sure and told Rachel to go back in the living room, and tell her how Wonder Woman ended. Then the other cop, the one with the dark circles under his eyes like a raccoon said, “Ooh, I had wanted to watch that.” Rachel felt like kicking him.

  Rachel pretended to go back to the TV room, but went to the dining room instead, and crawled under the wooden buffet that had come with the dining room table. There was just enough room underneath for her to lie flat on her belly. She didn’t really like being under there, because if the bottom of the buffet fell out all of a sudden, all the dishes inside would fall out on top of her. She thought about the sound her ribs would make if she was crushed, and held her breath.

  From there, on the floor, Rachel peeked around the corner so she could see the cops and her mom in the kitchen. The cops made the fridge look small and stupid, and left puddles on the floor from the snow melting off their boots. Mom was sitting on the stepladder she used to get the stuff off the top shelf when Dad was on the road, which was all the time those days. At least that was what Mom told him whenever he came home and they started fighting again.

  Mom said the fights were because Dad had sex with other ladies when he was away. One time she even said that she wouldn’t be surprised if he had a whole other family stashed away somewhere. But Rachel knew the truth. She knew the fights were really because they all lived in Grandma’s house instead of their own place. Dad had told her once, when she was helping him work on the basement renovations. She had been watching him put the drywall up over the concrete, when he sighed and said, “I wish I could buy us all our own house, Rach, I really do. I think that would help your mother. If I could get her away from here, she’d get better. It’s not good to stay in this place with all those memories.” Rachel hadn’t asked what was wrong with her mother that she had to get better or what memories she had to get away from. Not right away, anyway. She hadn’t wanted to ask because that moment with her dad was so rare. It wasn’t like him to sigh, or to talk to her like she could hold his secrets. So she hadn’t wanted to startle him into realizing what he was doing. She figured that if she stayed quiet, he’d tell her everything she wanted to know. She figured there was plenty of time.

  Sam said that Dad wouldn’t bother to have a whole other family, because it was cheaper if he just went to see whores when he was on the road. Rachel didn’t believe any of it. To her, Dad was the good parent, the solid one who remembered their birthdays every year, and always kept track of when they had doctors’ appointments or were going on school trips. She couldn’t see him doing any of the sneaky stuff that Mom always accused him of.

  “You never know,” Sam said. “He does have all those Playboy magazines in his sock drawer. It’s not like he doesn’t like to look.”

  Rachel didn’t need Sam to tell her the magazines were there. She knew where everything was kept in Mom and Dad’s bedroom. She remembered the first time she did an inspection, she was in the hall and noticed Mom going through Dad’s drawers like she was looking for something, but couldn’t find it. So later, when Mom had gone out, Rachel decided to see if she could find it – whatever it was – instead. Mom’s inspections were messy. She’d leave Dad’s underwear unfolded and all the pockets of his pants turned inside out. She’d go from his suits in the closet to his papers in the desk by the bed in bursts. Mom’s inspections were a series of sprints that always ended up with her standing still with her hands on her hips, chewing on her lip.

  Rachel’s inspections were silent, orderly marathons. She’d wait till Mom was out somewhere, or had passed out on the couch before beginning so she’d have a lot of time; then, she would go from the far corner, slowly around the room. She looked in places Mom didn’t bother with, like behind the drapes. She’d even peek behind the painting of the lady in the chair with the blue bonnet and the eyes that followed you no matter where in the room you were standing. Dad had always hated that picture. He said it gave him the creeps.

  Rachel peered into the kitchen from under the buffet, wishing that her dad were there now, or at least that the cops would get to the point. She was thinking about all the good stuff she was missing in Wonder Woman. Finally, the cop with the bushy sideburns started talking. “I’m sorry,” he said. “There was an accident. Your husband was in a collision on the Don Valley Parkway. There were several vehicles involved. Unfortunately his injuries were fatal. I’m sorry,” the cop said again.

  Then both the cops just stood there, as if they didn’t know what to do next. It made them look stupid, with their big belts and walkie-talkies. They had guns sticking out of their belts too, and for a minute – just a minute because Rachel wasn’t a wacko – she wanted to jump out, grab the gun and shoot something. Not a person, just something. Maybe just a little hole in the floor. But then Rachel forgot all about the guns, when the cops told her mom that it wasn’t the accident that killed her dad, but the thing that happened after the accident when he got out of his truck.

  As soon as the cop said the word “decapitated,” Mom dropped forward, like she was going to pick something up off the floor all of a sudden, or like if there really was a gunshot hole in the floor right beneath her and she wanted to peek into it. She went so far forward that her bum lifted up the step of the stool, and Rachel could see right down her top. But then the cop with the bushy sideburns stepped forward and pushed her back into
the chair.

  Mom’s head snapped back in a way that looked like it would give her a sore neck later, and everyone just sat there breathing for a minute. The cops asked if she was all right and if they could call someone. Mom said, “No, no, no.” Then she started to laugh, and said, “He lost his mind!” She put her hands over her face after that and didn’t say anything, even though her shoulders were going up and down.

  Rachel didn’t know why, but for some reason, right at that moment she started to think about when her dad had told her that their cat, Cindy, had climbed up in his semi one night to keep warm by the engine, and he saw her fall out in his rearview mirror when he hit the turnpike. He had told Rachel that she hadn’t suffered at all and there were lots of mice in kitty heaven. Rachel hadn’t believed him, and had told him she hated him and would never ever speak to him again.

  Watching her mom, and thinking about Cindy, Rachel almost started to cry as well, but just then Mom looked up, toward the doorway of the dining room. She looked right toward where Rachel was, and she would have caught her peeking if Rachel had been standing up instead of lying under the buffet. Mom kept looking too high up, as Rachel pushed herself away from the door, then rolled over quick out from under the buffet, then jumped up and ran to the couch like she was bionic. The stupid raccoon-eyed pig came back in the living room, but he was too slow, and didn’t know Rachel had heard everything. She really wanted to say something that would get her in trouble, like calling him a “pig” out loud or a “motherfucker” even. Rachel had never said the word “motherfucker” before, and for a minute she was sad about that and mad at herself too for being such a stupid kid and listening to the Bay City Rollers. She wished Sam would come home and talk to Mom even if he was stoned or drunk or something.

  But Rachel didn’t say anything. Even when the cop asked her what was happening with Diana Prince. She ignored him, and stared at the TV instead, which she knew was rude, but she didn’t give a shit.