Just Like Family

by Kate Hilton

  “You’ll be perfect,” I said. “Ethan is ridiculously lucky.”

  Tara smiled. “We both are.”

  “Tara,” I said. “How do you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That you want to be with him forever. How can you be sure?”

  She thought for a few steps. “You know Ethan,” she said. “He’s decent, kind, solid. I’ve known him my whole life, so there won’t be any surprises.” We stopped at an intersection, and the cacophony of horns and engines made it impossible to continue the conversation. We launched ourselves into the pedestrian crossing, making it safely to the other side.

  “Do you think people feel more alive in Italy because they are always on the brink of death?” said Jenny. We all laughed.

  “My answer about Ethan wasn’t very romantic,” said Tara.

  “You don’t have to sell me on Ethan,” I said. “He’s my brother.”

  “I know,” said Tara, “but I didn’t explain it well. When I’m with Ethan, I feel calm and sure and safe. He’s a rock. I know in my bones that he’ll stand with me no matter what comes at us in life.”

  “He will,” I said. My voice caught.

  “The two of you!” said Jenny. “Honestly. Enough crying. Is this the restaurant, Avery?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I can’t help it,” said Tara, wiping away tears. “I love you guys so much.”

  The waiter ushered us to a table on the patio. “Acqua?” he asked. “Frizzante? Naturale?”

  “Naturale,” I said. “Grazie.”

  “Prego,” he said. Jenny and Tara looked disoriented.

  “Do you want me to order for you?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Tara.

  “No,” said Jenny.

  We decided on pizza to share. I ordered a bottle of prosecco. We were here, in Rome, together. Tara was getting married. It was cause for celebration. We sat in the sun, savouring the food and the soft alcoholic buzz.

  And then Tara said, “Jenny, there’s something I have to tell you. Don and Peter are coming to the wedding.” Wine had a confessional effect on her.

  “Peter?” Jenny and I said in unison.

  “My mother insisted on inviting Don,” said Tara. “I thought that since we were having Greta, we should leave him off the list. But my mother had . . . strong views on the subject. She has a few divorced friends and she decided on a blanket policy of inviting everyone with a guest. And then Don replied that he was bringing Peter.”

  Jenny was silent for a moment. “It is what it is,” she said.

  “Are you mad?” asked Tara.

  “Yes,” said Jenny, swallowing the rest of her drink. “But not at you.”

  “Is it really so bad?” I said. “Peter’s okay. I know he’s not your favourite person, but isn’t that sort of a holdover from childhood?”

  “Avery,” said Tara. “I’m not sure this is helpful.”

  “I think it is helpful,” I said. “I’m trying to help our friend see that she doesn’t have to spend the rest of her life feeling like a displaced child. I think that she and Peter could have a perfectly civil adult relationship.”

  “Do you?” said Jenny. “Do you really, Avery?”

  “I do,” I said. We were well into our second bottle, and the wine had made me incautious. “I like you, and I like Peter. In my opinion, you are both smart, interesting, nice people who could have a decent relationship with each other if you could let go of all the baggage.”

  “Is that what you’ve been doing over here for the last four years?” asked Jenny. “Letting go of your baggage?”

  “Guys,” said Tara.

  “This isn’t about me,” I said. “I’m Switzerland.”

  “My mother was in litigation with Don for five years,” said Jenny. “Don and Peter are not my friends. They will never be my friends. And the people who are my friends don’t get to be Switzerland. You’re with me or you aren’t.”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” I said.

  On the last weekend of May, we opened the cottage for the season.

  “Nineteen eighty-nine,” said my mother. “Can you believe it, Brian? Time flies.”

  “Not quickly enough,” said my father. “That was a long winter. I, for one, am ready for summer. In fact, I’m putting on my bathing suit.”

  “You’re nuts, honey,” said my mother. “The water’s too cold.”

  “It’s been colder,” said my father. “I’ve never missed a May dip.”

  “And I’ve never missed trying to talk you out of it,” said my mother, kissing him. “I won’t change your mind, but I feel duty-bound to try.”

  “And I love you for it,” said my father. “Who’s coming in with me?”

  We all shook our heads. I wouldn’t have dreamed of stripping off my fleece pants and sweatshirt, let alone diving into the lake.

  “Avery, you disappoint me!” said Dad. “You, my most reliable swimming partner! You must be growing up and getting sensible like your mother.”

  “Sorry, Dad,” I said. “You’re on your own.”

  He headed to his room and soon reappeared in his bathing suit and towel. “I won’t be long,” he said.

  “Peter!” I heard him calling as he headed down the path. “Be a man and join me.”

  “I’ll go watch,” I said.

  I followed my dad down the path and saw Peter coming out of the Haines cottage. I waved, and he waved back. He jogged along the path and caught up to me. He was wearing a bathing suit and a sweatshirt.

  “Are you swimming?” I asked.

  “I’m conflicted,” he said. “I’m wearing a bathing suit in solidarity. My solidarity may not stretch far enough to go in the water. I’ll start with my feet and we’ll go from there.”

  I giggled, and mentally kicked myself. I sounded like such a ditz around Peter. I wished he knew how smart I really was. I was a completely different person than I had been when he met me two years ago. I was fourteen now. I wasn’t a little girl anymore. But he couldn’t see that yet. He didn’t know that I dreamed about him, grown-up dreams, not little-kid ones.

  “Hurry up, you two,” Dad called. “I’m going in without you.”

  We heard the splash as he dove in. “He’s nuts,” I said. “It’s freezing.”

  “He likes traditions,” said Peter. “And an audience. Come on. Let’s go watch, at least.”

  We ran down the stairs and around the corner of the boathouse. I expected to see Dad climbing out of the lake, shivering, but he wasn’t on the ladder or the dock. “Still in?” I called. “It must be warmer than we thought.”

  Dad didn’t reply. Peter stepped ahead of me quickly, threw off his sweatshirt, and started climbing into the water, one rung at a time, wincing at the cold.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  “Stay there!” said Peter. His teeth were chattering.

  “Why?” I said, walking to the edge of the dock and looking down at Peter, who was putting an arm around my Dad’s floating body and pulling him toward the ladder. “What is Dad doing?”

  “Avery,” said Peter. “Run and call nine-one-one, as fast as you can.”

  Jenny and I reached a truce in Rome that afternoon, brokered by Tara. We agreed to “keep it light” and focus on having fun. So we did. Jenny and I had discovered a barrier in our friendship that we couldn’t cross, but we could avoid it. And there were distractions everywhere: beaches, ruins, museums, markets, food, and wine. The trip ended as it had begun, with a group hug at a train station.

  Several months later, decked out in a strapless blue satin dress, I sat at the head table after the food had been cleared and the speeches had been given, and watched Tara dance with her dad. When the music stopped, I excused myself. I locked myself in a stall in the bathroom and put my head in my hands. Time passed; I wasn’t sure how much. When I could breathe, I went and stood in front of the mirror and fixed my makeup as best I could.

  In the banquet hall, Tara
and Ethan were tearing up the dance floor along with most of the wedding guests.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Nice speech,” said Peter.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “A hidden talent for public speaking,” said Peter. “Just one more reason why you should go to law school.”

  “Why is it that every time I see you, you tell me to go to law school?” I said.

  “So that I can hire you,” said Peter. “I told you years ago that we’d make a great team.”

  “You barely know me,” I said. “Maybe I’m feckless and irresponsible.”

  “Maybe I like feckless and irresponsible,” said Peter. “Your eyes are red, by the way.”

  “It’s a wedding,” I said. “Everyone is crying.”

  “You must miss your dad today,” said Peter.

  I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

  “Come on,” he said. “There’s a bar down the hall. They make decent cocktails. You’ve had enough pinot grigio for one night.” He held out an elbow, and I let him escort me out of the room. I caught the corner of a tablecloth near the exit and wobbled precipitously on uncomfortably high heels. Peter steadied me.

  “Add unbalanced to the list,” I said.

  “What list?” said Peter.

  “Unattached, unemployed, unfocused,” I said. “The sad bridesmaid.”

  Peter laughed. “I’m glad you’re not feeling sorry for yourself,” he said. “So what is it that you’d like to be?”

  “Mysterious,” I said.

  Peter steered me into the bar. We perched on bar stools and ordered. “I’ve got news for you, Avery,” he said. “First of all, mysterious is seriously overrated. Second, if you want a man to find you mysterious, you’ll have to pick one who hasn’t known you since you were twelve.”

  “Maybe I’ve picked up some secrets since then,” I said.

  “I’m sure you have,” said Peter. “But people don’t change that much. You’re still the same girl who built that raft with me: determined, disciplined, dogged.”

  “Any more ‘d’ words?” I said. I hoped I sounded unruffled, and not like someone who had just been described as “dogged” by her childhood crush. Was “dogged” the least sexy adjective in the English language? “Earnest” could be worse, I supposed, but only marginally.

  “Decent? Direct?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “What?” said Peter. “You don’t like my word selection?”

  “It could be worse,” I said. “You didn’t choose ‘decrepit’ or ‘deficient.’”

  “Defensive?”

  I sighed. “You win,” I said.

  “Good,” said Peter. “So what’s your plan, Avery?”

  “Honestly?” I said. “I don’t have one.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Good,” he said again. “Scared is fine, Avery. Scared means you’re awake. Scared means you’re alive.”

  “I’ve been alive all along,” I said. “I’ve been travelling. I’ve had amazing experiences.”

  “You’ve been hiding,” said Peter.

  “I don’t think you know me well enough to say that,” I said.

  “Like I said, people don’t change that much,” said Peter. “You are a doer. Doers need to do. Find something to do and you’ll feel more like yourself.”

  “But I want to find the right thing to do,” I said. “I don’t want to waste my time.”

  “Don’t make the mistake of waiting for the perfect choice to appear,” said Peter. “Just move forward. Apply for a job. Apply for grad school. Strike out on a new path. It doesn’t really matter which one. What matters is that you get some momentum behind you.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” I told him. “You’re doing exactly what you’ve always wanted.”

  “Who told you that?” said Peter. “I didn’t want to be a lawyer.”

  “What did you want to be?”

  “A rock star,” said Peter, grinning. “And I don’t want to be a lawyer five years from now.”

  “You have a garage band?” I said.

  “I have a campaign team,” said Peter. “It’s like a garage band, but quieter.”

  “A campaign for what?” I said.

  “That’s the big question,” said Peter. “Federal, provincial, or municipal? I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  “Politics?” I said. “You want to be a politician?”

  “I am a politician,” said Peter. “I just haven’t been elected yet.”

  “You’d be fantastic,” I said.

  Peter smiled. “We’d be fantastic,” he said. “Now go get some experience so that I can hire you.”

  {CHAPTER 9}

  Friday, July 14, 2017

  I walk into the office later than I would like. It’s only 9:10 and I’ve already been outflanked by my boyfriend and my mother.

  After a late night with the architects, brainstorming solutions to what we are calling the Artist Problem, I’d made welcome progress on the work front. Coming home, however, I recognized that I was sliding into a serious deficit position on the domestic side. Matt, channelling his hitherto unknown 1950s housewife, had left a congealed plate of lasagna on the breakfast bar and gone to bed.

  Brooding on the meaning of the lasagna, I failed to double-check that Matt had set the alarm, his usual habit. Consequently, when Matt nudged me awake at eight, handed me a mug of coffee, and said, “Sweetie, I hate to wake you, but I think you’re running late,” I could do nothing but scream, gulp down the coffee, and run through the shower; all higher brain functions abandoned me, which is, perhaps, why it didn’t strike me as odd that Matt was bringing me coffee in bed and calling me “sweetie.”

  From behind the shower curtain, Matt said, “I had a nice chat with your mom yesterday.”

  “That’s good,” I said, shampooing wildly. “I’m sorry I was so late last night. I meant to call. Something came up on the project.”

  Matt’s voice was soothing. “That’s okay. Did you eat the lasagna?”

  “I . . .” Huh. Maybe the lasagna was a gesture of peace and not of war? I felt wary. What was going on here? I didn’t have time to assess it, or to shave my armpits, which were on their way to becoming noticeably woolly. “I ate at the office, but I really appreciated it. Thanks,” I said, stepping out of the shower.

  “No problem.” Matt handed me a towel. “Your mom is excited that we’re coming up to the cottage tonight. What time do you want to leave? I can pick you up from the office if you like.”

  “That would be nice,” I say. “But I’m doing a surgical strike. I was planning on leaving first thing Sunday so that I can get back to the city in good time. Are you sure you want to come?”

  “The weather’s supposed to be gorgeous,” said Matt. “Why don’t we play it by ear? Do you want to pack now?”

  And so, at 9:10, I happen to be standing at Bonnie’s desk as Melanie swans out of Peter’s office, eyes bright. Peter emerges behind her.

  “Ah, Avery,” he says. “Melanie was reporting on your meeting with the artists yesterday.”

  “I checked to see if you were here first,” says Melanie, looking nervous.

  Peter puts a hand on Melanie’s shoulder. “Melanie has a terrific idea about soundproofing,” he says. Melanie blushes.

  “Peter,” I say, “could I have a word?”

  “Of course!” he says. “Come on in. Melanie? Are you joining us?”

  “Best not,” I say. Melanie scurries off.

  Peter closes the door. “How is Melanie going to learn if you don’t include her in meetings?” says Peter.

  “I might ask how she’s going to learn if she doesn’t include me in meetings,” I say. “But let’s stick to the update. I was here until midnight with the architects last night, going over options. Extra soundproofing is too expensive. Instead, we are proposing moving the women’s shelter to Building Two. The daycare centre is already there, and we can redraw the
plans without too much extra expense. We can put office and retail in Building One, below the artists.”

  “Sounds sensible,” says Peter. “What’s the downside?”

  “Building One is on a park, so it’s slightly more desirable, but otherwise it’s not a dramatic difference. Do you want to see the plans? I can have the architects in this afternoon to show you.”

  “No,” says Peter. “My schedule’s a mess this week. You obviously have it in hand. By the way, I have the constituency picnic this afternoon. Are you coming?”

  “I can’t,” I say. “The advocacy group for the women’s shelter has asked to meet, and I have to leave early.”

  “You never leave early,” says Peter. “What’s up?”

  “I have to go to Berry Point,” I say. “Matt’s picking me up at five.”

  “I forgot you were away this weekend,” says Peter. “Never mind. Is the raft still up there?”

  “It is,” I say.

  “How about that?” says Peter. We share a smile. “I can take Melanie to the picnic with me.”

  “Sure,” I say. “And, Peter, I’ll be accessible by email and phone if you need me.”

  “Relax, Avery,” says Peter. “We can survive for a couple of days without you. Have fun. Say hi to the old place for me.”

  “Peter,” I say. I hesitate, then forge on. “Be careful with Melanie. She’s very . . . enthusiastic.”

  “Enthusiastic is good, Avery,” he says. “You used to be enthusiastic, too, remember?”

  I did, it’s true. But it’s hard to muster any enthusiasm for my meeting today with the Women’s Alliance for Affordable Daycare and Safe Streets, otherwise known as WAFADASS. WAFADASS is coming to city hall to advise me. Officially, WAFADASS only ever advises; in fact, they more commonly reproach, upbraid, berate, and ream out. Their executive director, Doris Renaud, has been offended for decades. Her face is pinched with the effort of long endurance. Doris was in my office weekly during our first months at city hall, determined to hold us to our campaign promises. Happily, it’s been a while.