The other two didn’t argue but they shared a glance that said they weren’t sure about her reasoning. Neither am I, ladies. I slipped back into my room, mad that Mom didn’t want me painting, and hurt that she was ashamed of the way I looked. I just didn’t want to look like everyone else. Was that really so bad?
I grabbed my sketchbook and opened it. A quick sketch I’d made of Zach stared back. You can keep me in my room, hidden from your friends, I thought, but you can’t keep me from painting.
I flopped on my bed and closed my eyes. With a deep breath, I pushed away the thoughts of Mom and concentrated on Zach. I thought of his beautiful ocean-coloured eyes and strong body. I imagined what it would be like to go on a date with him. As I drifted off to sleep, I kept replaying the scene where he said to come early on Saturday so we could talk.
I dreamt of Zach. We were hanging out, eating pizza at Tomaso’s. We talked and laughed until midnight. Then we grabbed some paint and created the most amazing picture on the side of the pizza shop. It was so good the owner decided to make it permanent. He offered us free pizza and pop for life. Everything was going along great until Officer Mitchell showed up and handed me the white envelope with the card inside. This time it was addressed to me. I opened it and all it said was “It’s time for the truth.”
I woke up in a sweat. I checked my phone. It was seven o’clock. Mom would already be gone to work, so I crawled out of bed and tiptoed down the hall to her room. My stomach began to knot. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I had to know. I searched the top of her bureau and in the drawers. Nothing. I looked on the bookshelf and in the closet. Finally, I opened the small drawer of her nightstand. There it was. I grabbed the small white envelope, rushed back to my room, shoved it in my backpack, and got ready for school before I could change my mind.
I stumbled through the morning and made my way to the cafeteria at lunch. I was looking forward to finding Justine and having someone to talk to.
“Hey.” I sat down with my sandwich. “Can I tell you something?”
“Sure,” said Justine. She put her fork down and took out both of her ear buds.
“Yesterday, there was a card in the mail for my mom. She got really upset when she saw it. And when I asked where it came from she yelled for me to mind my own business and stomped out of the room. She wouldn’t discuss it. It made me curious so…I stole the card.”
“You did what?” Justine’s mouth hung open.
“I needed to see why it made her so angry. But I haven’t had the guts to open it yet.”
“Maybe it’s from some old boyfriend or something,” Justine suggested, picking up her fork.
I took a couple of bites of sandwich, considering the possibility. I thought of James. “Hmm, I don’t think so. I think it’s more serious. She wasn’t just angry…she was almost afraid?”
Justine shrugged.
“Doesn’t make any sense,” I said.
“Not everything makes sense.” Justine sighed. “Like algebra.”
“Trouble with math?”
Justine made a face. “Math is the trouble.”
“Let me see it. Maybe I can help.” I moved my tray to the side and Justine pulled out her textbook. We spent the rest of lunch working through her homework.
“Oh my God, thank you so much,” Justine said gratefully as she stuffed her book back in her bag, flung it over her shoulder, and grabbed her tray.
“No problem.” Math questions are easy to solve. I waved and headed to next period.
Mr. Fawthrope was reading from Romeo and Juliet today. Usually I liked Shakespeare and the old language he used. Other kids seem to think it was hard, but I actually enjoyed the challenge. Today I didn’t care. The card seemed to be singing to me from my backpack; a background hum that was getting harder and harder to ignore. Did I really want to open it?
Mr. Fawthrope called my name and I jumped.
Kate giggled.
I glared at her and then looked back to Mr. Fawthrope. “Sorry. Rough night.”
Mr. Fawthrope looked at me. He seemed concerned. He nodded and continued on with the story.
“Out too late doing your fancy art?” whispered Mark.
“Nah, she’s part of a ‘project’ now,” answered Jeremy. The way he said “project” made it sound like I had been quarantined.
I didn’t comment. I had other things to think about. I had just decided I was going to open the card. If Romeo and Juliet could die for love, I could open a silly envelope.
I took off as soon as the bell rang. I didn’t want an audience. I sat down on the bench behind the school where some students had planted a small flower garden. Yellow daffodils burst free from their green buds, velvety red tulips swayed gently in the breeze, purple and white crocuses opened and closed with the rise and fall of the sun. Each spring the flowers returned, sharing their determination to survive even the harshest of winters.
I took the envelope from my backpack and stared at it. I took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and blew it out. I turned the envelope over and over. Finally, I tore it open and pulled out the card. I could not believe what I read.
Dear Julia,
I just wanted to let you know that Richard is not well. It may be terminal. If Victoria wants to meet her father, she needs to do it now. He is staying with me as long as he can, then he will go to the hospital.
Please, Julia, time is of the essence.
Love, Elsie
I read it again and again.
Richard.
Father.
My heart pounded, making my chest hurt. The yellow, red, purple, and white of the flowers began to swirl together. How could I have a father who was alive? I had just asked Mom about him. She said he was dead. Like she always did. And she was angry that I had even asked.
He wasn’t dead. That was good, wasn’t it? But he hadn’t contacted me in fifteen years. That was bad. I sat there, stunned. Suddenly, bile rose in my throat and I turned and puked on the tulips.
Why would Mom lie to me? I was confused, but felt certain about one thing: there was no way I was going to risk the pain of being hurt by another parent. I would not meet this Richard guy. But I would definitely confront Mom. My shock was slowly solidifying into anger. I’d do it now. I left the school and headed downtown.
I never went in to Mom’s work, but today was different. I walked the length of Halifax in record time, anger fuelling each step. I wouldn’t let Mom stomp out of this conversation.
I arrived at the IWK and headed straight for the nurses’ desk on the third floor. I was about to demand to see Julia Markham when I caught a glimpse of her in a room caring for a little boy. I watched. She stroked his hair and touched his cheek gently. She smiled at him and laughed when he laughed. She spoke softly and began to read from a storybook as he pointed at the pictures. She was being so thoughtful and tender it was more than I could bear.
I remembered her reading to me when I was little—I had loved fairy tales best. We’d snuggle on my bed, and pull my fluffy comforter all the way up to my chin. My hair would still be wet from the bath, the smell of strawberry shampoo still fresh. Mom would read with great enthusiasm, giving each character a different voice. Even though we read each book dozens of times, each reading always felt magical and new. I was warm and safe. Happy. Now, all she did was find fault with everything I did. If she could love a complete stranger, why couldn’t she love me?
My heart ached as my hot anger quickly snuffed to cold self-doubt. Confronting Mom at work would only lead to a freak-out. She’d have to admit to her co-workers that the strange goth girl was her daughter, and that would make her even more angry. Then she’d get mad because I’d taken the card. Everything would be my fault….
Coming here was a bad idea. The triage nurse was eyeing me, so I raced for the elevator and pounded the down button once, twice, three times.
“Come on, come on!” I coaxed, but it wasn’t coming fast enough.
I flung myself through the door for the stairwell instead. When the door clanged shut behind me, the silence enveloped me and I bent over and put my hands on my knees. All of a sudden, I couldn’t catch my breath and tears were prickling my eyes. I sat on the step and sobbed.
Eventually the tears stopped. I felt drained, empty, almost hollow. My feet were like lead as I trudged home.
Once in my room I looked at the card again. Love, Elsie. I wracked my brain. That name…that was Richard’s mother, so...she must be…my grandmother. Why had I never met her? Why hadn’t I pushed Mom to know more all these years? But I knew the answer to that: I used to be so eager to please her that I never would’ve asked a question that might upset her. Now it didn’t matter if I asked or not. Upsetting her just seemed to come naturally to me these days.
I glanced back down at the card. There was an email address included at the bottom. I wasn’t ready to meet Richard, but maybe I could message Elsie.
I sat in front of the computer in our living room without turning it on. I stared at a little picture in a homemade frame on the desk beside the monitor. It was one I had made for Mother’s Day years ago. Mom used to always make a big deal about my creative side, covering the fridge with my artwork, buying me new crayons.
I finally pushed the power button and waited for the screen to light up. I knew Mom’s password because I had helped her set up her account. When I began to enter Elsie’s email address, the rest of it auto-filled. That meant the address was already in the contacts. I checked the sent folder and found an email Mom had sent to the same address:
Please stop trying to contact me. I have made up my mind, and Victoria is not going to meet Richard.
Maybe Mom thought I didn’t need to meet my family. But she hadn’t bothered to ask me.
I stared at the screen. What do you say to some lady who may or may not be the grandmother you didn’t know you had? I typed, deleted, and retyped three times. In the end, it was short and to the point:
Dear Elsie,
I found the card. It’s me, Vic (Victoria). I’d like to meet you. Don’t tell Julia. Call me at home between 7 and 7:30 A.M.
Vic
I hit send before I could reconsider.
When Mom got home I was in my room reading and I planned on staying there.
“Victoria,” she sang. “I’m home.” Her voice was light, happy.
Cool. I don’t care.
“Come into the kitchen.”
I threw my book down and got up. I traipsed to the kitchen.
Mom smiled. “I bought some fish, and stuff for a salad. Doesn’t that sound good?”
“Yeah,” I muttered. I really wasn’t hungry.
“Do you want it pan-fried or baked?” Mom took the salmon from the package and began to season it.
“Whatever.”
“I know I don’t do a lot of the cooking, so I thought I’d treat you.”
No comment.
“I think I’ll bake the fish. Could you cut up some lettuce and tomatoes?”
I slammed the cutting board on the counter and angrily chopped at head of Romaine. I practically pulverized the tomato.
Mom looked over at me. “Is something the matter, Victoria?”
“Nope. Everything’s perfect.” I scooped up the chopped vegetables and dropped them in a bowl. I plunked the bowl on the table.
“Are you sure? You seem upset. Did something happen at school today?”
I did not want to have this conversation. Not yet, it was still too raw and I was too tired to fight. “Yeah. That’s it. But don’t worry. I can handle it.” I turned to leave. “I’m going to go back to my room.”
“Okay. I’ll call you when the fish is ready.”
“Can’t wait.” I stomped away.
We ate in silence. Mom didn’t ask me again about being upset and I didn’t offer to tell her any more.
I went to bed early but didn’t sleep well. I tossed and turned. The bright numbers on my digital clock mocked me—1:00 A.M.: “it’s really late, you better get some sleep”; 3:00 A.M.: “ha, ha, you’re still awake”; 5:00 A.M.: “forget it; it’s almost time to get up.” When my alarm buzzed at 6 it was a relief to get out of bed, even though I was still exhausted. I hurried to get dressed and apply my Goth Girl makeup. I didn’t want to miss Elsie when she called.
But the phone didn’t ring. I couldn’t believe it.
This lady had tried to make contact first, and now she was rejecting me, too. Did anyone give a damn about me? I left for school, slamming the door behind me.
There was no call on Friday, either. I wracked my brain, trying to justify the delay. Not everyone checks their email every day. The voice in my head was firm and reasonable. Maybe she’ll call tomorrow. But tomorrow is Saturday and Mom will be home.
Then it struck me. With all the card drama I had let it slip my mind: Tomorrow is Saturday and I get to see Zach. My inner voice was suddenly much more pleasant as I daydreamed about what might happen with Zach. I reached for my sketchpad. My mind was racing, and it felt good to translate that frantic energy into sketches.
Zach bled into everything I drew: the guards at Citadel Hill all had his jawline. The log cabin had a candle-lit table set for two. The fancy condominium came with a muscular salesman that stood with his thumbs in his pockets.
Forget Mom, Richard, and Elsie.
After all, they’d forgotten me.
Saturday. It was grey and drizzly but thoughts of Zach made me feel sunny and warm. I had replaced the card in Mom’s drawer before she realized it was gone, and thoughts of Elsie and Richard were tucked away and replaced with images of a certain badass guy that wanted to talk to me. I should have given him my number last week so we could have texted a bit. I rushed out of the house and set off for the art group. I was psyched to see Zach, but today was also the day we’d finally get to see the fence we were going to paint.
When I neared the office building I saw Zach leaning against the brick outside the glass doors. He was turned away from me, but I knew it was him by the way he stood with his hands in his pockets.
I called out. He turned and waved. My stomach flipped.
“Hey,” he said when I reached him. He stood close. “Let’s get out of here. This art project is lame.” He gave me a killer smile and stepped a little closer. “We could head to over to the mall and get something to eat.”
I was tempted, but I had these ideas about the project I wanted to share. I had been drawing in my sketchpad and on every scrap of paper or notebook I could find. I felt torn, which surprised me.
Zach noticed my hesitation. “Jeeze, Vic. You actually want to spend time with these whiners?” He placed a warm hand on my shoulder, his eyes pleaded.
My knees went weak and I’m sure my heart skipped a beat. “Of course not,” I scoffed. I backed away slightly so his hand fell from my shoulder, allowing me to breathe again. I looked up and down the sidewalk for a distraction, but there was nothing but beige concrete. “But we’re supposed to get the chance to go to the construction site today. Aren’t you the least bit curious?” I remembered the keen look in his eyes when he had looked at the artwork on the screen that first day, and the way he had sat straight up, focused.
“Look. We helped with ideas last week, so we know what’s gonna end up on the wall.” He ran his fingers through his hair and grinned at me. “Come on. They won’t miss us for one week.”
“I don’t know. What if Russell or Peter screws up my good idea?”
“So, you’ll fix it later.” Zach kept looking at me, and I could feel myself starting to cave. My pulse quickened when I thought about spending time with just him, forgetting everything else.
“Don’t you like to paint?” I asked in a last-ditch effort to stay.
“Yeah, but having to do what I’m told drives me nuts. I am a man of free will—an independent thinker.”
“Right. So how did all that independent thinking lead to this?” I gestured at the building.
“Well, I got nabbed doing some graffiti at school. My penalty was supposed to be more severe because I’ve been caught three times now, but my dad knows a local judge and he pulled some strings.”
“Oh yeah, that’s totally fair.” I rolled my eyes and threw him a mocking smile. “Only a little rich boy could get away with being a repeat offender.”
“Hey.” Zach pushed my shoulder, gently, pretending to be insulted.
I shrugged and stuck my tongue out, laughing. “I know what you mean about being told what to do, though. I hate that they’re telling us where and when to paint.”
“Yeah. I don’t think they get that what makes art good is that it’s inspired, not forced.”
I knew it, he really does get it. He isn’t just a jock.
“So what were you painting when you got caught?”
“Mostly just some dumb tags.” He kicked at a crack in the sidewalk, hands in his pockets. “Then I painted this pic of our principal looking like a tyrant ruling his kingdom of kids, who were all in chains.”
I was impressed. “No way. I bet that didn’t go over well.”
“Yeah, Dad really had to extend some favours to get me here.” Zach rubbed his thumb against his index finger indicating there might have been money involved. He laughed hollowly.
“The luxury of money, I guess. But it’s not all bad: you got to meet me.” I looked right into his eyes, hoping the bold line would land.
“That’s right, Vic,” he said seriously. “Art has brought us together; it’s our destiny.” Zach waved his arms like he was giving a grand speech, convincing the world that what he said was true. “If we hadn’t been out defacing public property, I wouldn’t know you.” He stopped waving his arms around and looked at me. “I think it’s a good thing we both bend the rules.”
I laughed. “I’m not sure anyone else would agree with that, but I’m glad we met.”
Goth Girl Page 6
