CHAPTER 9
“Beware of entrance to a quarrel…”
—HAMLET, ACT 1, SCENE 3
When I go home the next morning, I’m surprised to find Mom sitting on our livingroom couch, wearing her velour housecoat and sipping green tea. Lately, the Clear Your Clutter Closet Company has been so busy that Mom has been working weekends too. She isn’t good at turning down jobs. Maybe it’s because, from what I understand, we were seriously broke after she and my dad split up. It took her years to pay off the debts he’d left, and I guess she got into the habit of working hard. I worry about Mom getting run-down. But there’s a plus side too: she works so much she hasn’t noticed how little time I’m actually spending at home.
“Hey, you’re home.” I hand Mom the newspaper, which I’ve brought in from the porch.
Mom removes the thick elastic band that’s keeping the newspaper rolled up and pops the blue band into the cup she uses for collecting elastics. Then she taps her cheek. It’s something she’s done since I was little—her signal that she wants a kiss.
Even though I’m not five anymore, I kiss her. For the first time, I see myself playing the role of devoted daughter. Which feels a little confusing. I’ve always been devoted to my mom. But things feel different—I feel different—since I started lying to her and since I’ve been in contact with my father.
Mom’s face smells lotiony. There are new lines over her lips and by her eyes. “I had a last-minute cancellation,” she tells me. “One of my clients’ cars needs a new transmission. They’re going to hold off on redesigning their closets till next fall. To be honest, I’m great with it. I need some downtime. And this way we can spend the day together, Iris. How ’bout breakfast at our bagel place? And a DVD tonight? Like old times.” She must catch me biting my lip because she adds, “Unless you’ve got other plans, sweetpie.”
I could object to being called sweetpie, but I don’t. “I can do breakfast, but then I need to get back to”—I pause to give myself time to get my story straight—“to school. For rehearsal. And I promised Katie I’d sleep over tonight.”
“But you slept there last night.” Mom’s voice is neutral. Not hurt. Definitely not suspicious. Even so, I can’t help feeling guilty.
“Things get kind of intense, Mom, when you’re in rehearsal.”
“I know they do. And I respect that you work so hard. Really I do. But you do seem to be doing an awful lot of rehearsing for a high school production…” Mom lets her voice trail off. She knows this is a sensitive subject for me.
“It’s more than a high school production, Mom. Ms. Cameron says she’s making a point of treating us like professionals. So we can get a feeling for what acting is really all about.”
“All right, Iris. I respect that. I think it’s great that you’re learning so much from Ms. Cameron. Hey, before I forget to ask—how was Katie’s birthday bash?”
When I hear the word bash, I can’t help picturing the hole Mick made in the wall. I try to push the thought as far away as I can. I don’t want Mom to see it on my face. “Amazing.” Short answers make lying easier.
“D’you want to have some green tea or should we head right out for those bagels?”
“We should probably get there before the line gets too long.”
Mom tightens her housecoat around her waist as she gets up from the couch. Then she runs her hand over my forehead. “You’re gorgeous, Iris, but I have to tell you—you look a little stressed. Maybe it’s all that rehearsing.”
There’s already a lineup when we get to the bagel place, but because there are only two of us, we don’t have to wait very long. A woman sitting by the brick wall waves. Mom did her closets two years ago. “Hoarder,” Mom says under her breath. “One of the worst cases I’ve ever seen. She’s got ten years of newspapers piled up in her hallway. You have to walk sideways to get to her kitchen.”
I peek over my shoulder at the woman. Her hair is stylishly cut and she’s laughing at something her friend just said. I’d never have guessed she’s a hoarder, which goes to show how little you can tell from looking at a person.
“Do people ever ask you to sign a confidentiality agreement?” I ask Mom when we’re seated across from each other. “Like a lawyer or an accountant?”
Mom’s laugh has a tinkling sound. When I was little, her laugh made me laugh, but now I look around at the nearby tables, hoping the people sitting at them are too busy eating to notice it. “It’d probably be a good idea for some of my customers,” Mom says. “But it’d be awful for me. I’d have nothing to talk about. Except you, of course.” Mom takes my hand and squeezes it. I want her to let go—it’s embarrassing to be seventeen and holding hands with your mother in public—but I know if I shake my hand loose, it’ll hurt her feelings.
Thank God Mom releases my hand when the waitress comes over. I make a point of asking the waitress how she’s doing. I also take the napkins and cutlery she’s carrying and put everything in the right spot. I know how tough it is to stay on top of things when a restaurant gets busy.
“Thanks,” the waitress says. Our eyes meet for a moment, and I know she knows I’m a waitress too. It’s like being part of a secret society. Freemasons have a secret handshake; waitresses help each other with cutlery.
Mom points to the bottom of her menu. “We’ll have our usual. Scrambled eggs with sesame-seed bagels. Toasted. Fruit salad instead of home fries. Please.” Mom hands the menu back to the waitress.
My hands are in my lap now—safely out of Mom’s reach.
“I’ll have poached eggs, not scrambled, please,” I tell the waitress.
“Sure,” she says, scratching something out on her pad.
“Sweetpie!” Mom says. (The waitress gives me a sympathetic look.) “Poached eggs? Since when do you like poached eggs?”
“I guess I’m in the mood for a change. Besides, I’m starting to like poached eggs. I’ve been eating them at”—lying is harder than acting because you have to make up the script as you go along—“Katie’s.”
Mom’s not good with change, even if it involves eggs. I think if she had her way, she’d keep me a little girl forever. Not because she doesn’t want me to grow up and have my own life; I think Mom just got used to having a little girl around for company.
“Iris,” she says, “why don’t we plan to come here for breakfast every single weekend? If we did it first thing on Saturdays, I could still—”
“Mom.” My voice comes out sharper than I want it to. “I can’t go making plans like that. Not with the play coming up.”
This time, Mom bites her lip. “You’re right. I’m being a pest. So tell me everything…”
I have a sudden urge to check the time on my cell phone. I’m meeting Mick back at the loft at one.
There’s no way I’m going to tell my mom everything, but I know I’ve got to tell her something.
“I’m really getting into Ophelia’s character.”
“That’s wonderful,” Mom says.
I’m waiting for her to say what she usually does—that I should probably have a Plan B—but she doesn’t. That makes me want to tell her a little more.
“Ophelia is really close with her brother and her dad. So she’s super torn when her dad says he thinks Hamlet’s totally wrong for her. But the thing is, Ophelia’s crazy in love with Hamlet.” Just saying the words crazy in love makes me think of Mick and how I’m crazy in love with him. His lips, his shoulders, the way he calls me Joey and holds me so tight it almost hurts to breathe.
“It’s been ages since I read the play, but wasn’t Hamlet bonkers?” Mom asks, twirling one finger in a circle by the side of her head to emphasize bonkers.
“He’s brilliant, not bonkers. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s a prince.”
“A difficult prince,” Mom says. “Why is it some women always fall for difficult guys?”
I want to ask Mom whether my father was difficult. But I can’t. My father has always been the forbidden topic in our lives.
Besides, I already know he was difficult. That’s why they broke up and also why I’m supposed to be grateful he didn’t make an effort to stay in touch with me. Only maybe what he wrote to me is true—maybe he did make an effort. Maybe Mom blocked it. But why?
Take it from me—we’re better off without him. Mom said that so many times when I was little, I took it for a fact. Now I’m not so sure.
The waitress brings our food. Mom gives me a suspicious look as I break off a piece of toasted bagel and dip it in the runny egg yolks.
“Speaking of princes,” she says, “how’re you and Tommy managing? He really is a lovely guy. So respectful. Not at all bonkers, like that Hamlet of yours. I’m really glad you chose someone who’s good for you. Some women have such awful taste in men.” I wonder if she’s talking about herself. Does Mom worry that bad taste in men is a genetic trait I might have inherited—like green eyes or wavy hair?
I hate disappointing Mom, but I don’t want her holding out hope for me and Tommy. “I’m not really with Tommy anymore.” I’m playing with my napkin, folding it into smaller and smaller triangles.
“I had no idea.” This time, Mom does sound hurt. You’d think she was the one who’d just gone through a breakup. “How come?” She leans in a little closer, and I know that if my hand was on the table, she’d be squeezing it. I know Mom wants me to tell her everything—the way I used to when I was little. And part of me wants to because it felt good to tell someone everything—to let out whatever was going on in my heart and head. But I know I can’t. Not just because things are too complicated right now, but because I’m not Mom’s little girl anymore. No matter how much she wants me to be.
CHAPTER 10
“Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.” —HAMLET, ACT 2, SCENE 2
I take off my jean jacket and sling it over my arm. The weather’s so mild, it feels more like May than October. I heard on the radio that Indian summer is coming later than it used to. Scientists think it could be another sign of global warming. I wish I could just enjoy the warm air, but I worry about the planet. How will global warming affect my kids? Our kids? I’d never tell Mick, but sometimes I let myself daydream about the children we’ll have one day. I know they’ll be into acting. I hope they have my green eyes—and Mick’s confidence.
There’s no answer when I buzz the loft. I’m buzzing a second time when Mrs. Karpman—Mick’s neighbor— opens the glass door in the lobby for me. Her eyeglasses are dangling from the end of a long sparkly chain hanging around her neck. With every breath, her scar pulses. “I have something for you, dear,” she says, handing me an envelope. “It’s from your friend upstairs.”
“Thanks,” I say as I tear the envelope open. Why in the world would Mick write me a letter? And then a dark cloud crosses my mind. What if he’s going back to Melbourne? What if he’s already left? The idea of having to live without him makes my arms go limp. But no, he’d never take off without telling me. Never. Katie thinks I’ve got abandonment issues on account of my dad’s having left when I was so little. I remind myself now that Mick is nothing like my dad. Mick would never abandon me.
“What does it say?” a small raspy voice is asking. I’ve forgotten Mrs. Karpman, who is still standing by the glass door, propping it open with her crocheted purse.
Mick has written to me on a sheet of thick cream-colored stationery. I even love his handwriting—its boldness, the forceful strokes across his Ts. The letter is only two sentences long, but they take up the whole page: There’s a Diamond taxi waiting outside the apartment building. Get in it. Your Mick.
I don’t even realize I am reading the letter out loud.
My heart swells in my chest at the Your Mick part. My Mick. I love the sound of that. Who cares that Mick doesn’t say please—or that the message sounds bossy? Get in it. Mick’s not bossy. He’s old-fashioned and romantic. He likes to take charge, and I like how that feels. How could I have worried? Am I that insecure? Mick would never go back to Australia without me!
Katie says that in every couple, there’s always someone who loves the other person more—but that isn’t true with Mick and me. No way. He loves me just as much as I love him. Loving Mick—and being loved by him—makes me feel like the luckiest girl in all the world, ever. Other guys might be handsome or fun or talented or have a great sense of humor or be smart and sophisticated, but Mick’s all those things. So what if he’s fourteen years older than me? I could never be with a boy my own age. I could never talk to some seventeen-year-old boy the way I can talk to Mick.
Mrs. Karpman is beaming up at me. “That Aussie of yours is quite a charmer.” She says the word charmer in a neutral way, as if she isn’t quite sure it’s a good thing. “All he would tell me is he’s planned a surprise for you. I must admit, it makes me miss my Nelson. Not that he was one for surprises. Still, once you get to my age, it’s nice to be part of someone’s surprise. I just hope he’s kind to you, dear.”
“Of course he’s kind to me. I’ve never known anyone kinder.” And because I’m so happy and excited and relieved that Mick hasn’t run off without telling me, I hug Mrs. Karpman, hard.
Even her laughter comes out raspy. “Drop by and see me sometime,” she says, her voice sounding even more strained from all the excitement. “I want you to meet Sunshine, my canary. He’d enjoy the company.”
Just as Mick said, there’s a Diamond taxi waiting outside. “You Iris?” the cabbie asks, turning to look at me when I get in.
I’m too excited to do anything but nod—and smile so hard my cheeks ache. When I look at my reflection in the rearview mirror, I decide I have never seen myself look so totally, completely happy. Maybe Mick’s right. Maybe I am beautiful. There is something different about my eyes. I think it’s that I look happier and more confident. It’s hard to remember who I was before I met Mick. I was a plant withering on a shady windowsill. Mick is water and sun to me. He’s made me come alive in a way I never had before.
The cab is heading east along Côte-St-Luc Road toward downtown. “Where are you taking me exactly?” I ask the cabbie, trying not to giggle. Though it shouldn’t matter what he thinks of me, I don’t want him to think I’m some silly teenager.
The cabbie meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “I’m not supposed to say.”
I feel like a star. If only I could text or phone someone to say how happy I am and how amazingly wonderful and totally perfect Mick is. That’s the thing about good news—a person can’t help wanting to share it. Bad news is different—at least for me. When there’s bad news, I just want to make it go away. Of course, I can’t tell anyone my good news. No one is supposed to know about Mick and me. Unless you count Mrs. Karpman.
The cabbie pulls up in front of an expensive flower shop, the kind that sells tall bouquets of exotic feathery flowers. “You’re supposed to go inside there,” the cabbie says. “Then we go to your next stop.”
There’s a man in a white apron by the refrigerator. He’s holding a bouquet wrapped in thick cellophane. “Love your name,” he says when he spots me—and that’s when I realize he’s holding a bouquet of irises! Pale mauve with slivers of yellow. I take the bouquet and press my nose against a little opening in the plastic wrap. The irises smell like…like…grape bubblegum. I take another sniff.
I can’t believe Mick has done all this for me! Me!
Our next stop is a French patisserie on Côte-des-Neiges Road.
What am I supposed to do now? Go to the counter and ask if there’s a box of pastries with my name on it? Just as I’m trying to figure out my next move, my eyes land on a wall with a bulletin board. The bulletin board is crammed with ads for concerts and lectures. A string quartet, chamber music, a lecture about grief and another about using tough love on your kids. And now, beside all the ads, I see a photo of Mick that’s been made into a black-and-white poster. I laugh out loud when I see it. I can’t believe the trouble Mick has gone to, all for me! So what if he won’t let me tell anyone
about us? This treasure hunt—because now I realize that is what this is—proves Mick loves me as much as I love him. Maybe even more. The thought makes me feel more drunk than when I had that cup of sake on our first date.
The photo must be an old PR shot because Mick looks younger than he is now. For a second, I’m wistful. If only the me I am now had known him then—we’d be closer in age and we wouldn’t have to keep our relationship a secret. Of course, that makes no sense. I was probably ten when Mick posed for that photo.
On the poster there’s a note I know is meant for me. Mick must have come here himself this morning to hang it up. The note tells me to look underneath the small round table at the back of the patisserie. I practically dance over to the table.
I find a large cardboard box with another pale mauve iris fastened to it. Little tears sting the corners of my eyes. So this, I think, is what it feels like to cry from happiness.
When my cell phone rings and I answer, it feels like I’m onstage. Only I’m not Ophelia pining for Hamlet. I’m the lead in a play an internationally acclaimed director has created just for me, Iris Wagner.
I put my bouquet and my box down on the table.
Mick’s voice is warm caramel. “Go to the curb outside. And close your eyes.”
I do exactly what he says. I like when Mick directs me.
Even with my eyes closed, I can feel him. First he takes the box and the bouquet from my hands, then he takes me in his arms and spins me round and round, faster and faster. Part of me feels all grown up; another part feels like a little girl. A very happy little girl. A happier little girl than I ever was when I was little.
“Keep your eyes closed, Joey,” his warm-caramel voice whispers in my ear.
Mick leads me back to the cab, and we sit in the backseat, our thighs pressed together. “No, no,” Mick says when I try to open my eyes. He slips his hand under my skirt and runs his fingers along the inside of my leg. I hope the cabbie isn’t watching now. I try pushing Mick’s hand away, but he won’t let me. He presses his fingertips into my skin.
So Much It Hurts Page 5
