I can’t find the envelope anywhere.
“Shit!”
I can’t phone Mick. He’s in a meeting with some theater people from Quebec City who’ve come to talk to him about a theater festival they’re organizing this summer. “This is a major opportunity for me, Joey,” he told me last night. “For both of us.”
So I text Mick. Cant find colg app. U seen it? Brn evlp. Strssd. Luv U.
I hope he’ll answer straightaway and tell me where the envelope is, but he doesn’t. Looking at the blank screen on my cell phone makes me even more upset.
I pull open the kitchen drawer, though it doesn’t make any sense to look in it. Who’d put an envelope where the cutlery goes? There’s nothing there, of course, except forks and knives and spoons, all nestled in their separate compartments.
“Shit!”
I slam the drawer closed so hard that I bang my wrist. I rub the bone, and for a moment I see myself—rubbing my wrist in Mick’s tiny kitchen.
Okay, Iris, I tell myself, calm down. You’re losing it. And then I think, Is this what losing it feels like? Is this what happens to Mick when he gets so angry he explodes? So angry he can’t stop himself? It must be like being on a train that’s going too fast and flying off the track, only you’re not a passenger—you’re the train. I close my eyes to make the feeling stop.
I make myself sit down on the sofa and breathe. In and out, slowly, over and over again. When I can feel my whole body begin to relax, I let myself think about the envelope. But not in a panicky way this time. I need to keep my train on the track. Where was I the last time I saw it? I was right here. The envelope was on the coffee table. I’d just double-checked every line. Why didn’t I put it right into my backpack so it’d be there now? I stop myself again. There’s no point in thinking that. Go back to the coffee table, Iris. See it in your mind. What happened next?
This time, the answer comes. Mick was doing some paperwork. I can picture him scooping up his papers and shuffling them so they’d be in a neat pile with their edges lined up. Mick’s particular that way. Did he accidentally pick up my envelope? Maybe that’s why I can’t find it.
Mick keeps his personal papers—including the ones he was busy with that day—by his side of the bed. So I go over there now. Even from here, I can see there are several brown envelopes in his pile. Maybe mine’s in there. My wrist throbs a little. Silly me to get so upset over nothing when all I had to do was replay the scene in my head.
My phone vibrates on the coffee table. It’s probably Mick texting me back. I’ll check the phone later. First, I want that envelope.
I find it right away. It’s near the top of the pile. I recognize my own neat handwriting. Iris Wagner. My mom’s return address underneath, of course. One day, maybe even by next year, I’ll have the same address as Mick. That’ll be as soon as I turn eighteen and we can stop hiding our relationship. By then, Mick’s life will be more settled, so he’ll be calmer. There’ll be no more fights. I’m sure of it.
I don’t know what makes me look at the other envelopes in the pile. I know Mick wouldn’t like it. He’s a very private person. But Mick isn’t here to get upset with me. Besides, what harm is there in looking? I love Mick so much. I just want to know him even better so I can love him more, understand him better.
There’s an envelope marked Nial. I’ve only seen that one photo of Mick’s son, and I’m curious to see if there are more inside the envelope. I slide my hand into the envelope and pull out what’s inside. No photos—just papers that look like legal documents. One with a red-and-gold seal catches my eye. I open it and see something about a restraining order. What is a restraining order exactly—and why is there one in the Nial envelope? I skim the words on the page.
Which is when I learn that last July—exactly two months before I met Mick—the Commonwealth of Australia issued a restraining order against him. According to this document, Mick is not allowed to go within twenty-five meters of Millicent Temple, who must be his ex-wife, Nial’s mother. It also says he’s not allowed to contact her by telephone or email and that his visits with his son Nial have to be supervised by a state-approved social worker.
My hands shake as I read. I think I know why Mick is not allowed within twenty-five meters of Millicent Temple. But why would she insist that someone be there to supervise Mick’s visits with his son? It doesn’t make any sense.
There’s another envelope, marked Millicent. This one seems to have quite a bit of stuff inside and the seal looks worn, as if the envelope’s been opened and closed many times.
I fish the envelope out of the pile. A photograph falls out. It’s of Nial and a woman who must be Millicent. I can tell right away she’s Nial’s mom. They have the same fair hair and laughing expression. I tremble a little as I inspect the photograph. Millicent is younger than I expected. She’s probably around twenty, just a few years older than me.
I reach into the envelope to see what else is there. A menu from a fish restaurant in Melbourne. Tickets to a show. More tickets. And then a crumpled piece of lined paper with a poem on it. I only need to read a few lines.
Until you.
I was small and lost, like a rudderless ship.
Until you.
Nothing made sense.
My poem. The one he wrote for me. Only he didn’t. This poem is dated three years ago. He wrote it for her. For Millicent.
I rush to the bathroom and get there just in time to vomit into the sink.
The very worst part is having no one to talk to. Not Katie, not my mom, not even Mrs. Karpman, who’s still away in Toronto. So I keep up a running conversation in my head.
The restraining order is no big deal. Millicent is a difficult person. That’s obvious from the way Mick talks about her. And I remember too that Mick once said Nial’s mother knows a lot of lawyers. He said her uncle is a lawyer in Melbourne. I’ll bet she got that restraining order just to get on Mick’s case, to make him look bad, and to get even with him for breaking off their relationship. And the business about the supervised visits— well, it’s the dumbest thing I ever heard. Millicent shouldn’t be interfering in Mick’s relationship with his son. Nobody knows that better than I do. Besides, Mick is crazy about Nial. He’d never do anything to hurt that little boy.
Or would he?
The poem is no big deal either.
Oh yes, it is a big deal. He made you think it was just for you. That you were special. He deceived you.
Maybe he used the same poem because he was blocked—you know, artistically. Because of the legal stuff. The poor guy’s been under so much pressure. I’ll only add to the pressure if I mention the restraining order. Or the poem.
Plus, he won’t like that you’ve been going through his papers.
That might set him off. And you don’t want that, do you, Iris?
The vibrating movement of my cell phone interrupts the conversation I’ve got going in my head. Thank God it’s not Mick. I don’t know what I’d say to him right now.
It’s Phil. “Listen, Iris. I don’t like to bug you during the week. I know you’re tied up with school and that play of yours. Shakespeare, right? He sure was some genius. And plays, well, they’re the greatest. Way better than TV. Anyway, Iris, the reason I’m calling is Suzanne phoned in sick and I’m wondering could you help me out here and do an evening shift? You’d be done by eleven. The tips are way better at night, Iris. People are more relaxed. They’re out having a good time. People need to get out—”
I say yes—not just because I want to get Phil off the phone, and not just because of the bigger tips. It’s mostly because I don’t know what else to do with myself. I’ll leave a note for Mick to tell him where I’ve gone. I don’t want him to worry.
There’s a thick line of customers waiting to get into Scoops. It’s only March, but maybe ice cream on a Saturday night makes people think they’re getting a head start on spring. Anyway, I’m glad the restaurant is busy. I won’t have time to think about Mick and those p
apers.
Phil raises one hand when he sees me, spreading his fingers. He’s telling me he needs me on the floor in five minutes. Thank God, I think, that he’s too busy to talk.
I rush to the back bathroom to change into the dreaded uniform. My nurse’s shoes smell of leather and sour ice cream. The white laces have gone gray.
There’s bad news—the busboy has also called in sick. “We need to pick up the dirty dishes ourselves,” Joyce, the other waitress, tells me when I’m grabbing my pen and order pad. “And we’re outta soda spoons. I’m getting too old for this lousy job. At least you’ve got a future, kid. This is my life.”
Why is it that everyone wants an ice-cream soda when we’re out of soda spoons? Between orders, I gather a dozen or so of the long spoons from the big gray tubs we use for collecting dirty dishes and scramble to the kitchen at the back of the restaurant. As I run the spoons under hot water, soaping them with an old sponge, Chen, the dishwasher, scowls. “I’m doing the best I can here,” he growls.
There’s no point serving an ice-cream soda with a short spoon. You need a soda spoon to get to the ice cream and the syrup at the bottom—which are the best parts. And without the right spoons, my tips are going to suffer.
A tall man with dark hair sits down at the counter. For a second, I remember when Mick sat in the same spot. That was our beginning. When everything was possible. Before anything bad had happened. The place where our story began.
“Excuse me, miss, but can you take our order, please? We’ve been waiting forever—and then some,” someone calls from a booth by the wall.
“Sorry about that,” I say as I pour water. “Crazy night here. What can I get you folks?”
“Hey, Iris!” a girl’s voice calls from somewhere in the lineup to get in. Even before I turn around, I know who it is. Lenore. I wave—and hope to God she won’t end up in my section. But God must be busy with other people’s problems, because a second later Lenore calls out, “We really want you to be our waitress!” You have to know Lenore well—the way I do—to know she’s said it in a mean way.
I flip my order pad to a fresh page as I approach their table. It takes everything I have to be nice to Lenore and the three guys she’s with—trust her to be out with three guys, though one’s a cousin. “She’s Ophelia in the play,” Lenore tells the cousin. “It’s not as big a role as mine, of course, but still, it’s a start. You know, Iris,” she says, looking back at me, “that uniform looks supercute on you. I love the puffed sleeves.”
“Thanks, Lenore,” I say, wishing I could slug her. “So have you guys decided what you want?”
I get their order as quickly as I can. But as I’m heading back to the kitchen, I hear Lenore whispering—in one of those nasty, too-loud whispers that’s meant to be overheard. “Poor thing has to work. Her mom cleans closets. I heard the dad was some kind of scammer.”
How dare she talk about me like that? My mom runs her own business, and how would Lenore know anything about my father? Now I really want to slug that bitch. But I know I can’t, so I grit my teeth and force myself to keep moving.
Three customers are getting up to leave, and I’ve got to clear their table before the next ones sit down. I can feel the checkered fabric under my arms getting damp. Can anger make a person sweat?
I sweep the dishes off the table and dump them in the gray tub on top of one of the trolleys. I still need a clean dishrag to mop the table, which is all sticky.
Shoot! I’ve nearly forgotten about a customer sitting alone at one of my booths. I’m about to go take his order when I see him snap his fingers at me. For a second I think I’ve imagined it, but the hard clicking sound carries in the air.
He’s treating me like some dog he’s calling to attention.
Even Lenore turns to see what’s going on.
There’s no way on earth I’m going to apologize to this douchebag for not getting his order quickly enough. No way. How dare he snap his fingers at me! Who does he think he is? More important, who does he think I am?
My eyes land on the gray tub. If the busboy were here, he’d never have let it get so full. Soda spoons are sticking up out of the tub like masts in a crowded harbor. The glasses and cups inside are coated with a cloudy film of leftover ice cream. Balled-up napkins are stuffed wherever there’s a bit of space. The only color comes from the half-chewed gumballs left over from some kid’s scoop of bubblegum ice cream.
I suck in my breath when I pick up the tub. It’s heavy and hard to carry because it’s jammed so full. Leaning back a little on the heels of my nurse’s shoes, I carry the tub, letting one end rest on my stomach, over to the man. The one who snapped his fingers.
“Yes,” I say, smiling at him from behind the tub. “Can I help you?”
And then, just like that, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, I dump it on him. The spoons, the glasses and cups, the balled-up napkins and the half-chewed gumballs. They’re on him, on his eyeglasses, on his shirt, on his table.
The guy jumps up from his seat, shaking the mess off him like a wet dog. His eyes look like they’re about to pop out of his head. “What the hell!” he shouts. From somewhere far away, I hear Lenore’s voice calling out, “Oh my god! Look what she did! She’s crazy!”
Joyce comes running over with a pile of dry dishtowels.
Phil is coming now too. His lips are forming an angry O. I know he’s going to fire me. And probably make a long speech about it too.
I hold my order pad in front of my chest like a shield. Before Phil can fire me or make a speech, I quit.
CHAPTER 22
“O limed soul, that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged!” —HAMLET, ACT 3, SCENE 3
I’m walking down Saint Catherine Street when I realize I’m still wearing the friggin’ uniform. I cross my arms over my chest to hide the awful checkered blouse. Why didn’t I change before I stomped out of there? Now I’ll have to go back next week to get my clothes. Why am I such a complete and total idiot?
I phone Mick. We texted each other earlier and he said he’d pick me up at 11:15. But that’s not for nearly two hours. I really need to talk to him, to tell him what happened and ask him to come get me right away. He’ll say I was right to quit; he’ll laugh when I tell him how I dumped the gray tub on that guy who snapped his fingers. But Mick’s not picking up his phone. I try texting him again: Emrgcy. Whr r u?
He must’ve turned off his phone again. Or let it run out of juice. What’s the use of a cell phone if it’s off half the time or you forget to keep it charged?
There’s no way I’m waiting downtown. Not in this getup, that’s for sure. At least I’ll never have to wear it again after tonight. I’m going to burn these nurse’s shoes. Picturing the shoes on fire cheers me up a little.
Where is Mick anyway? He said he’d be spending the night at the loft, that he had script notes to review. He’s probably there now, working, too distracted to pick up his phone. Halfway down the block, I see the yellow light of a vacant cab coming my way. I rush to the curb and flag it down.
When I open the cab door, I’m nearly knocked over by a wave of lemony aftershave. Someone needs to tell this guy too much aftershave is bad for business. The change in my apron jingles when I take a deep breath and hop in. I give the cabbie Mick’s address and try not to inhale. He looks at me in the rearview mirror but doesn’t say a word. He can probably tell I’ve had a hard night.
When my arms get a little itchy, I don’t think anything of it at first. I scratch the skin around my elbows, figuring the itchy feeling will pass.
Only it doesn’t. I’m getting itchier. My legs, especially behind my knees, are getting crazy itchy, and so is my chest. I bet I’m having an allergic reaction to this guy’s aftershave. I lower my window and take a deep gulp of the night air. But I’m still itching like crazy. I scratch my legs so hard, I’m afraid I’ll leave nail marks. I itch everywhere—even the soles of my feet are itchy.
“I think I�
�m allergic to your aftershave,” I tell the cabbie.
He opens the other windows. “I’m sorry for the aftershave,” he says when we’re finally at Mick’s building and I’m reaching into my apron for the cab fare.
I turn to look at the cabbie when he says that. It feels like it’s been forever since anyone apologized to me.
I hit the buzzer downstairs, but I don’t wait for Mick to buzz me in. I need to get out of this uniform NOW. And I need Mick to hold me tight the way he does and tell me everything will be all right. Now and forever. Thank God for Mick. He knows how to make everything better.
It’s only when I’m in the elevator, under fluorescent lighting, that I notice the welts. Raised pinkish spots the size of mosquito bites, only more swollen and angry-looking. No wonder I’m so itchy. What are these things?
I fly down the hallway to Mick’s apartment. “Mick!” I cry out, banging on the door. “Let me in!” I’m too stressed out to bother with the key. “Mick!”
There’s no answer.
When I let myself in, it’s obvious that except for William Shakespeare meowing by the door, no one’s home.
That’s weird. Mick said he’d be here.
I check my cell phone. Still no text message from Mick. But his phone’s not charging at the wall by the couch the way I thought it might be. No, he has his phone with him.
I’m getting itchier.
It can’t be the cabbie’s lemon-scented aftershave. I look at my arms. There are even more pink welts than before. Hives. That’s what these things must be. I’ve broken out in hives.
I need a hot bath NOW. With bubbles.
While the water’s running, I do a quick search online about hives. The pictures on the screen confirm my diagnosis. Hives can be triggered by food allergies and sometimes by stress. Hot baths are not a good idea. Lukewarm ones are recommended. No bubbles. Oatmeal. Oatmeal?
So Much It Hurts Page 12
