What Z Sees

by Karen Rivers

  Oh, I snort. Okay.

  Please. That is the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard, but Fm not going to get into it. I glare at Gigi, who has appeared behind us like a shadow, like Axel’s shadow. I wonder how much of what we said she heard, and then I realize that I don’t care.

  What kind of camera do you use? I ask.

  You wouldn’t have heard of it, she says. It’s European.

  Ooh la la, I say. Very impressive.

  She looks at me like I’m some kind of insect buzzing in her face, threatening to sting her.

  Sorry, I add, though I don’t know exactly what I’m apologizing for. I guess because Axel asked me to back off and I’m not. Not really. I glance over at him: his thoughts are too shiny and sharp to bother trying to interpret. They shimmer around him in different aquarium colours, raw and sore, in blues and greens.

  She shrugs. Lifts an invisible camera and snaps a shot of my face.

  Maman is waiting at the front door; ready to go. Esme waves goodbye and we take over. We work silently to get

  Maman wheeled to the car, into the car. Get the chair in the back, the dog loaded up. We’ve done it a million times now. It’s just part of our lives. Gigi watches with her nose all scrunched up. I kind of wish I could see what she’s thinking because it bugs me that she’s here, witnessing all our family stuff, and not reacting. Not helping.

  As it gets later it becomes more apparent that it’s just going to be a dark day. Dark clouds, thick and heavy; if the air wasn’t so warm, you’d think it was the middle of winter. The air tastes of steam. Showers are coming and going like someone is jerking a faucet on and off. In places not already saturated, the drops bounce off the hard, dry summer ground and evaporate back up into nothingness. In other places, mud slicks are forming. The course will be bad, I realize. Slippery, wet, unpredictable. For a minute, I think about my warm bed and almost bail out, almost say, Forget it, I’ve changed my mind. But I can’t do it. I never back out of things I’ve made a promise to do. My phone beeps in my pocket and I check the message. A text from Sin saying she’s sleeping in. Maybe she’ll come out later to watch. Lucky Sin. Tears prickle the back of my eyes, though I’m caught off-guard by the fact that I want to cry. I’m so so so tired.

  I run back into the barn and swallow some Advil, dry, nearly choking but not quite. In the mirror, I look like a pile of freckles on a stick. Ugly.

  I run back into the rain and climb into the back of the car with Maman and Maman’s assistance dog, Butch. Axel’s driving and I let Gigi take the front seat. Axel likes to drive. We both got our licences at the end of last year, but I hardly ever do it. I don’t care. I don’t find it as thrilling as he does. He likes it because it makes him feel like an adult. Like he’s in charge.

  Gigi is getting more and more on my nerves. Maman is a paraplegic, she isn’t deaf yet when Gigi speaks to her, she shouts and pronounces her words slowly like she is talking to a child or someone who speaks no English.

  Are you comfortable back there? she shouts slowly.

  I’m fine, says Maman.

  Let me know if I can help you, enunciates Gigi.

  With what? asks Maman. Don’t be silly.

  Oh! says Gigi. Sorry.

  What does Axel see in her? Even Butch doesn’t like her, I can tell. He follows her movements with his eyes like at any moment he might lunge over the back of the seat and bite her. Not that he’s ever bitten anyone, but this morning I sort of wish he would.

  I press myself back in the seat and pull my legs up to my chest, like that will somehow squish the cramps and fix my mood at the same time. Big fat raindrops bead off the window and, in each one, I can see the highway refracted upside down and tiny. I try to focus on that instead of Gigi, but she keeps ... I don’t know. She keeps doing things like turning up the radio and cranking the heat and it’s annoying. I have to look. Today, she’s wearing something that looks like a pinafore from an old British movie about schoolchildren. Only she’s acting like it’s some fancy garment that needs protecting, picking individual dog hairs off it and sighing heavily.

  Ugh. If she lasts too much longer with Axel, I might lose my mind completely. The way her fingers pinch at each individual hair, like a crab’s claws. Add that to the fact that she’s unctuous. And, worse, she’s boring.

  I have no time for boring people. No energy for them. When I’m around Gigi, I feel like I’m a tub of water and Gigi is the drain, siphoning away all my everything. Horrible. How can a person be such a drag? Take last night, for example. Sin and I went to a comedy open- mike night and Sin did the most hilarious routine ever. Her sense of humour is so vicious and funny, it kills me. It was fat jokes, sure, which made me sort of uncomfortable, made me sort of feel guilty for not being fat, but it was really funny. Afterward, Sin was so high and hilarious. We went for coffee and met some kids from some other school. And then we decided to blow off some energy and caffeine at an underground club where one of our all-time favourite bands was playing. Normally, Axel, Des and Wick and Chelsea would have come to see Sin and everything for sure. But last night Axel begged off. Gigi doesn’t like comedy clubs. Gigi doesn’t like coffee. Gigi doesn’t like bands.

  Gigi Gigi Gigi. Blah blah blah.

  And Des and Wick and Chelsea don’t usually come along without Axel. Axel is — or was — kind of the glue that held the group together. Suddenly, I feel like crying again. Stupid period. I hate it when I get weepy like this. It’s obviously just hormones, but everything seems so bleak. Frankly, I blame Gigi. Our little group is always so much fun. I hate Gigi for wrecking it.

  I put my iPod in and try to concentrate on the music and to ignore Axel’s shiny beetle thoughts, darting around and taking up all the space. He’s worrying about his headache. Worrying about his dry-mouth. I nearly say out loud, It’s just a hangover. You’ll live. But I don’t.

  I hate being drunk, being dizzy, being out of control. I wish Axel hated it, too. It’s getting so much worse, his problem. It’s the only time lately that he seems kind of okay in himself, when he’s drunk, that is, which can’t be a good sign. It seems like only yesterday that we were like little kids. We were running through sprinklers and having water fights and ... I don’t know. I can’t explain it.

  Without really meaning to, I pick up a few of Axel’s buzzing thoughts: Man, I hate driving in the rain. I can see better out of my left eye. Why is my right eye all blurry? Fucking stupid contact lenses. I should get my hair highlighted. Des’s hair looks really good. I should try it. Why not? I wonder if Gigi would like it. I wonder if Gigi likes me. I wonder if Gigi...

  I close my eyes to shut him out. I mean, shut up about Gigi already. I can’t even stand to know he thinks about her at all, I’d rather believe that she’s just latched on somehow and he’s too nice to tell her to back off. Besides, I have my own jittering thoughts to deal with, I’m always nervous before an event. I don’t have time to worry about Axel’s girl problems.

  I grind my teeth. I hate being nervous, and I don’t know why I am because, on one level, I don’t actually care how I do. It’s not like it matters. But I am anxious in spite of that. Especially without Sin here to cheer me on, to wish me luck. Sin almost always shows up to these things. There’s something about Sin that makes everything okay, like I need her. With Sin, well, it’s less about what Sin is thinking and just that Sin is always there.

  Maman reaches over Butch and squeezes my shoulder. I lean as much as I can into her, though Butch pretty much blocks the way, and close my eyes, smelling her familiar scent. She smells like dogs (well, that’s probably Butch, who is wet from the rain and stinkier than ever) and vanilla and something floral that I can’t place. Something tropical. And an underlying scent of Dad, something cheap and fake, some kind of cologne. He finally left again last night, was around long enough (three whole days) for Maman to light up from the inside. For Maman to start counting on him. For Maman to give her nurse the day off, and for things to start to seem normal or as normal as they
can be when you have a father who makes an appearance once a month, like a rock star making a pit stop on his whirlwind tour. Three days. If that. If we’re lucky.

  Frankly, I’m starting to feel like it isn’t lucky at all. I know Axel feels it, too. It feels wrong. I’m starting to feel like, well, it’s something nagging. Something I can’t shift. Something along the lines of “He’s using us.” That’s how I feel when he leaves. Used up. Sort of on Maman’s behalf. Maman’s gratitude for the affection he shows her is so disgusting. It’s totally upsetting. I want to scream, Come on, Dad, she’s worth more than this. But it isn’t my place. And Maman seems genuinely happy almost all the time. Maybe this is what she wants: a nurse who takes care of her, two kids to dote on, a dozen dogs to lavish affection upon her and to protect her, and a handsome husband who only sees her for long enough to make her miss him when he’s gone.

  Maybe it’s a French thing.

  Behind closed eyes, I contemplate this. Who am I to judge, anyway? I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve never wanted one. Maybe there is something wrong with me. I like boys, it’s not that. There are a few boys that I run into at events that I like like. And there’s a boy who sings sometimes at the club who is just adorable. But I don’t want one permanently. It makes me feel kind of weird and freakish. I know it’s what most of my friends want. I read magazines, I watch TV. It seems like it’s what I’m supposed to want. I just don’t. I just want to be friends. Maybe friends with benefits. But not an actual formal attachment. Not like Sin and Hamster. Hamster’s kind of like an ugly purse that Sin is always carrying around.

  I wasn’t kidding about thinking it’s a good idea that Axel and Sin get together. They both need to have someone around all the time, and it would be good for both of them. I know Sin likes him. I’m not stupid. Besides, Sin told me once when she’d had a few drinks. She never brought it up again so I’m pretending I don’t remember either, but it’s not something you easily forget. I see the way she looks at him. And I don’t care! I think I’d love it if they got together.

  Maybe.

  Or maybe I’d be jealous.

  Would I? I don’t actually know. Not that it matters because it won’t happen. Axel is way too insecure to pick a girl like Sin. He’s going to always go for the Gigis — the girl who fits the mould, you know?

  The idea of being part of a “couple” myself, well, it’s suffocating. It makes me want to crawl out of my skin. I just can’t even picture it. Imagine having to tote a boy along to all the events, to just be so involved with. It skeeves me out. Maybe there’s something wrong with me, after all. I just... I’d rather be by myself, not that I really ever am. I have Sin. I have Axel. I have Maman. That’s all I want. All I need.

  I mean, I love meeting new people, hooking up. Even kissing. Making out. But I don’t want anything more than that, not really. Not yet.

  If I were going to be completely honest, and I’d never tell anyone this in case they rolled their eyes or laughed or something, but the only thing I can really imagine being is a singer, like a travelling singer. On the road all the time. Concerts. Connecting with so many people but not tied down. Not attached. When I picture a future like Maman’s, chained to the house, the dogs, to us, to Dad’s infrequent appearances, I feel claustrophobic. I think I just don’t want all that stupid pressure, all that relationship stress and garbage. It makes my vision tunnel, a sharp point of light appearing in the imaginary distance, somewhere beyond the red of my closed eyelids. I take the mute button off and try to listen to my favourite song on repeat, to calm myself down.

  The sound of the car stereo competes with my music, so I turn it up accordingly. I can tell Axel is irritated, orange flashes bounce around him like ping-pong balls. He’s thinking, I’m in such a bad mood. Why? I want to be anywhere but here. He shoots me looks in the mirror and I know it’s because my foot leaning up on the back of his seat is pissing him off, the tinny sound of music-through- headphones is bugging him, too. Well, too bad. I stick out my tongue.

  He swerves sharply into the other lane and my foot falls from the seat.

  Hey, I yell. You can’t do that with the horse trailer on, idiot.

  Cake whinnies so loudly I can hear it over the competing music. Kicking the side of the trailer, the metal clattering under his hooves.

  He’ll hurt himself, you jackass, I say, panicking. Shit. Don’t do that again. I’m serious.

  Merde, says Maman. Be careful, what are you doing?

  The noise from the trailer quiets. I exhale. Idiot.

  Sorry, he says. Oh man. Sorry. I just... kind of lost it for a second.

  Jerk, I say.

  Be nice to each other, Maman admonishes. Don’t be a stupid.

  Yeah, I say. Don’t be a stupid.

  Gigi shifts in the front seat and turns around and stares at me. Her face is completely blank. I mean, I’ve heard the word expressionless before but never really had anyone to apply it to until now. I fight the urge to flip her the bird. What’s wrong with me? It must be hormones that have me so edgy. So ... unlike myself. I raise up an imaginary camera, slowly, point it at her face.

  Cheese, I whisper.

  She glares.

  By the time we arrive, we’re so tense, it’s like a cobweb has wrapped itself around all of us and is somehow squeezing us into silence. No one is speaking except Maman. She seems like she didn’t notice any of it, or she’s successfully pretending, at least. Maybe we learned from her how to be so good at it.

  Look at all the people! she says. Such fun. I’m so glad we’re here. Your dad will be sorry he missed it.

  Right, I say. I’m sure. Whatever.

  He will! she says. I’m going to call him.

  She proceeds to take out her cell phone and punch in the familiar number. Even from where I’m sitting, I can hear the unavailable recording.

  Shoot! says Maman. He must be with the horses.

  Right, I say. I’m sure he is.

  I climb out of the car, my legs feeling stiff and creaky. Axel is already out. He lifts Maman out of the car and I get her chair ready. It’s a fancy chair, equipped with all kinds of gadgets that make it easy for Maman to get around. We joke about it, call it the Land Rover of wheelchairs. Its all-terrain wheels make it easier for her at events like this where the ground is rutted and mucky, where a regular chair (a mall chair as Maman calls them disparagingly) would get stuck.

  Getting Maman into her chair and making sure she gets to a good place for watching what’s going on is always our first priority. We work together without speaking. Axel is uneasy, and doesn’t know why. I see it. I want to say, Maybe it’s because you’re lying. Maybe it’s because you’re acting like such a jerk. Maybe it’s because you feel guilty for being that way.

  I glare at him. I have to go get ready, I say.

  Then I see it. The sheen of green, a shape like a triangle tipping over. He’s sorry he was being a jerk, but can’t say it. He feels bad.

  It’s okay, I say. Don’t worry about it.

  I’m not apologizing, he says, too quickly. But he smiles a bit. I smile, I can’t help it. He’s still my twin.

  Forget it, I tell him. I’m on the rag. It’s my fault.

  Figures, he says, making a face. But he gives me a half- hug so I know that all is forgiven. Mostly.

  Gigi stands and watches, shifting back and forth on her feet like her shoes are too small or she has to go to the bathroom. I look at her, look back at my brother. Snarl like one of Maman’s puppies. Yip, yip, I say.

  Z, whispers Axel. Give her a break. Don’t be so hostile.

  I’m not hostile, I say (though I suddenly feel totally hostile again) through gritted teeth. I’m just in a bad mood.

  Okay, he says. I know. But get over yourself. She’s sweet. You’d like her if you got to know her.

  Get over yourself, I mimic. She’s sweet. Yeah, sweet like a cobra.

  You don’t know her, he says.

  I’ve tried, I say. I tried.

 
Yeah, he says. I... forget it.

  Don’t worry, I say. I am forgetting it.

  In the distance, I see Des’s Dad’s fancy Cadillac SUV pulling in, the two-horse trailer behind with Wick’s and Des’s horses inside. I’m totally relieved to see them, looking forward to some meaningless banter, or at least to getting away from the weird tension that has stuck all over me like a caterpillar’s feet. I dust off my hands and go around to the back to unload Cake, who is practically foaming he’s so over-excited. Over-something. He’s never been very good in the trailer, never liked being transported. I croon to him gently, leading him down the ramp. He’s stepping high. Antsy. I get him down and lean into him. Feel his ragged breathing gradually normalizing. I sing so quietly no one else can probably hear, but his ears flick up. His eyes are calmer. They assess me and I could swear that he nods.

  I lead him off to get tacked up. I feel weird, too big or something for my own skin. I’m fumbly and clumsy, keep dropping things. Maybe I took one too many Advils.

  What’s up? asks Wick, sticking his head into my stall. What are you trying to do to that poor horse?

  I shrug. I don’t know, Wick. It’s just not working for me today.

  Want some help?

  I hand him the tack silently, watch him proficiently cinch up the saddle. Are you okay? he asks again.

  Yes, sure, I say. Cramps.

  Oh, he says. He blushes. He’s so funny, the kind of boy who blushes when a girl mentions girl things.

  Sorry, I say.

  He shrugs. Cake, Cake, Cake, he murmurs to the horse. Cake’s ears flicker and his eyes follow Wick as he leaves.

  Thanks, I call after him.

  Axel will take care of most of the registration stuff for me, that is, if Gigi lets him get to the registration table. I poke my head out of the crowded barn and spot them in the distance, leaning up against one of the paddock fences. It looks like Gigi is pulling on his hand, trying to drag him toward the car. Probably wants to make out. That has to be the appeal, but... gross. Not a mental image I want to have, that’s for sure. He needs to get my stuff for me! Suddenly, I’m back to being mad at him. I have to trust him to look after it, to look after me. And he will. Won’t he? He always has before.