“It’s Mrs. Karpman’s watch!” I don’t care if I’m shouting. I don’t care if the whole world hears. “It belonged to her husband. I know because I saw it in a photo. You stole it, didn’t you? You took the key she gave me and broke into her apartment!” I’m too angry to cry.
“Of course not. Why would I rob a helpless old woman?”
At first, Mick’s question throws me. Why would he rob a helpless old woman? Why would he rob my friend? Because, in some strange way, Mrs. Karpman has become the best friend I have. And then the answer comes to me. He’d rob her because he could—and because she is my closest friend right now. Mick has been trying to take everything away from me—even my friends. The worst part is I’ve let him. I’ve let him rob Mrs. Karpman. I’ve let him take everything away from me—or almost everything.
“How could you do this to her? To me?”
Mick won’t answer.
I’m dangling the watch in the air in front of him. Now I hold it to my chest. “I’m bringing it back to her. Now.”
Mick blocks my way. “Iris, don’t be ridiculous.” He makes it sound like this is no big deal, that he just happens to have Mrs. Karpman’s husband’s watch. That he didn’t just lie to me about buying it at some antique store. On Notre-Dame Street.
“If you bring it back to her, she’ll know who robbed her apartment.” Mick keeps his voice low, as if he’s afraid the walls will hear. “I could go to jail. And so could you. You gave me the key, remember?”
“I never gave you the key and you know it! You took it from the drawer!”
Mick shakes his head, and for a moment, I doubt myself. “Next you’ll be saying you didn’t steal those clothes from Forever 21 either,” he says.
“I didn’t,” I sputter. “You made me do it. You forced me to.” Even to my own ears, the words sound hollow— because I don’t really believe them. I could have said no. To the stealing. To everything. Just like I could have left the first time Mick hit me. Ms. Cameron didn’t stick around after Mick became violent. Or I could have left before that—when he punched a hole in the wall. But I didn’t. Doesn’t that make me almost as much to blame as him?
Everyone knows about women who stay in unhealthy relationships. In abusive relationships even. But they don’t get good grades in school or have families who love them. I can’t be one of those women.
Or can I?
I could cry. I could drop down on my knees right now and weep and weep and never stop. Because I’m trapped and lost, with no place to go. Just like in my dream.
I can’t go back to Mom’s. I don’t belong there anymore. Not in my single bed with her patrolling outside my door, offering me green tea.
I can’t stay here. Once Mick leaves, I could never afford this place on my own.
I can’t go to Mrs. Karpman’s. Because as angry as I am with Mick, I don’t want him to go to jail.
And I don’t want to go to Australia. At least, not now.
I’ve got no place to go.
I’m as badly off as Ophelia—and look what she did. She killed herself. I picture that now too. Where would I even go to drown myself? I’d have to jump from the Jacques-Cartier or Champlain Bridge if I wanted to drown in the St. Lawrence River. I could never do that. I suppose I could just walk into the water the way Virginia Woolf did when she killed herself. Or I could take a whole bottle of pain pills. Katie’s dad takes them for his back; I’ve seen them in their bathroom cupboard. I could steal the bottle—the way I stole those clothes at Forever 21. The memory makes me feel even more miserable. Or I could jump in front of the metro and give Katie something to talk about.
I’ve made such a mess of things.
How will I ever make things better? How will I ever find a way to clean up the terrible mess I’ve made?
Tender yourself more dearly.
Why am I quoting Polonius? And now I remember that that’s also what Ms. Cameron was trying to tell me at the cast party.
She said, We have to tender ourselves more dearly.
Polonius was criticizing Ophelia for having given herself away too easily to Hamlet. He was telling her she should have valued herself more. Is it possible I’ve made the same mistake? That I haven’t valued myself enough? Given my heart away too easily the way she did with Hamlet?
And now I begin to see another layer to the words. Tender has another, gentler meaning that has nothing to do with value or money. Maybe I need to be more tender with myself. Gentler. Look after myself better.
“Pull yourself together, Iris.” Mick is breathing hard and moving toward me. But his eyes aren’t flashing the way they do when he’s about to hit me. There’s a look I’m not used to seeing in his dark eyes. Fear. Mick is afraid I’ll tell people what he did. What we both did. Realizing that gives me courage I didn’t know I had.
“You lied to me. About Mrs. Karpman. Just like you lied to me about that poem. The one you said you wrote for me.”
Mick opens his arms, and when he speaks, his voice sounds like a lullaby. “Come here, Joey. I can explain everything.”
I could snuggle in his arms. I could let him try to explain what he is doing with Nelson Karpman’s watch. I could hope for another new beginning, the way I always do with Mick.
Or I could try to leave. Try, because I’m not sure I can do it and because I know it will be hard. Despite everything that’s happened, Mick still has a hold over me. But I’ve discovered something else: I’m going to have to tender myself more dearly. Even if Ophelia couldn’t do it, I think I can.
“I’m keeping the watch,” I tell Mick. “I’ll think of something to tell Mrs. Karpman.”
I half expect Mick to grab the watch from my hands. But he doesn’t. Instead, he zips up his leather carry-on bag. “Fine,” he says. “Have it your way.”
CHAPTER 30
“This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day…”
—HAMLET, ACT 1, SCENE 3
I gave Mick another chance. He went down on his knees and swore to me that he bought the watch at an antique store on Notre-Dame Street. He said he’d even take me there to prove it. When I said he didn’t have to, he took the watch back to Mrs. Karpman himself—and explained how he got it. How whoever stole it must have sold it to the shop.
Mick left for Melbourne on Friday. We said our goodbyes in the loft. I knew I’d lose it if I went downstairs and watched him step into the taxi. When I started to cry, Mick kissed my tears away. He cried too. He told me we had to be brave, that we’d be together soon. He said he wanted me to come the minute exams are over in June. He said he’d pay for the trip. He promised he’d never hurt me again—ever.
And, for the first time, Mick apologized. “I haven’t been the best man I could be,” he said, “but I’m going to do better. I’m going to work to deserve you, Joey.”
Because Mick had to pay the rent until the end of May, he said I should use the loft. Mom was against the idea until I told her I’d get more studying done. “Besides,” I added, “it might help me clear my head.”
She liked that part too.
Only I haven’t been doing much studying—or clearing my head. Unless bawling counts as a way to clear your head. I didn’t know a person could cry so many tears. Not even William Shakespeare—the cat or the playwright— can cheer me up.
Now Mrs. Karpman is at the door. “Even with two bad ears, I can hear you wailing, Iris. I’ve listened to it nonstop since he left and now, well, enough is enough.” She reaches out with her arm, and for a moment, I think she wants to shake me. I’m relieved when she lets her arm drop back to her side.
“How long did you cry after Nelson died?”
“A long time. But that was different. Nelson was different. Anyway, I’m an old woman and I didn’t come here to argue, Iris. I came to invite you for tea.”
I can’t stay upset with Mrs. Karpman. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you have tea here?”
It’s Mrs. Karpman’
s first time inside the loft. “I think he likes me,” she says when William Shakespeare brushes up against her. “Maybe he smells canary.”
Mrs. Karpman has never tried herbal tea. I tell her chamomile is supposed to be relaxing. “Red Rose relaxes me just fine,” she says, but when she tries the chamomile, she says she likes it.
“You get used to it,” she says. At first, I think she means chamomile tea, but then I realize she is talking about Mick’s being gone.
“I haven’t told you yet,” I tell her, “but I’m going to Melbourne. To be with him—and to go to theater school. I’m leaving as soon as my last exam is over in June.”
Mrs. Karpman nearly spills her chamomile tea. “I think that’s an awful idea, Iris. Imagine following some man to the other end of the earth. Especially a man who’s as temperamental as that Aussie.” When Mrs. Karpman calls Mick temperamental, I know it’s because of what she suspects. “Above everything else,” she adds, “a woman needs to be independent.”
I can’t believe it when she says that! “You weren’t independent. And look how well it worked out for you.”
“That’s beside the point. Those were different days, Iris. Few women earned their own livings. We depended on our husbands to support us. If you had a bad husband—one who cheated or beat you”—she watches my face, but I’m careful not to react—“there wasn’t much you could do about it. I was lucky with Nelson. But I’m independent now and I’m enjoying it, thank you very much. Nowadays women can do anything they want. To be honest, Iris, I still don’t trust that fellow of yours. He’s too smooth, and I know he loses his temper, even if you won’t admit it.” She gives me a sharp look. “To me—or to yourself.”
I’m proud for standing up to her. “You can’t keep saying bad things about Mick. I love him and that’s that. If you want to stay my friend, you’ll have to accept that and support my decision.”
When she nods, I know I’ve won my case. “Will you at least promise to send me postcards—and to visit whenever you’re back in Montreal? To be honest, I did hope you and Errol might—”
I cut Mrs. Karpman off before she can finish her sentence. “I promise.”
Mrs. Karpman takes another sip of chamomile tea. “So is he there yet—in Australia?” she asks.
“He was supposed to arrive last night. Our time, that is.”
“I suppose he’s been on the phone with you, acting all lovey-dovey, hasn’t he?”
I give Mrs. Karpman my bravest smile. I don’t want to admit that since he left I haven’t heard a word from Mick.
I serve Mrs. Karpman store-bought chocolate-chip cookies. Before she goes, she pats me on the cheek. “I know it hurts to be alone, dear. But you’re a courageous girl.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Of course I do. It’s one of the reasons I like you so much.”
I text Mick, but he doesn’t text me back. I know his plane arrived on time because I followed his flights online. It’s a long trip, so maybe he went straight to bed. He’ll text or phone me when he wakes up.
I don’t feel like studying, but when I finally get down to it, it helps. When I can’t read any more about gross national product and how it’s calculated, I take a break to look at theater programs in Melbourne.
There’s a school called the Victorian College of the Arts. It’s part of the University of Melbourne, and it offers a bachelor’s degree in theater arts. I click on the link for the program. There’s a video ad. In it, I see short clips of students doing warm-up exercises like the ones Ms. Cameron uses, and other clips from theatrical performances. Some of the students are doing mime. Others are in musicals. One is of a choreographed fight between a guy and a girl.
The girl is Millicent Temple.
I watch the video five times. Either Millicent is a very good actor or she’s had experience fighting.
It’s impossible to study after that. I keep thinking about Millicent. Did she love Mick as much as I do? No, I think, she couldn’t have. No one could love Mick as much as I do.
My phone rings. It’s my mom—not Mick. I try not to sound disappointed. She says she’s nearby and she’s picked up a vegetarian pizza. “I’d like to come and see the loft,” she says. After our conversation about my dad, I ended up telling her that Mick is my boyfriend. She didn’t take it well. Still, I can tell she’s trying, even though it must be hard for her.
I’m so used to hiding out, I nearly say no. Then I realize that with Mick gone, I can have anyone I want over. And it’s not as if I’m nursing a black eye. “Okay,” I tell her. “It’s apartment nine-oh-seven.”
“By the way, Iris,” Mom says, “I’m not alone.” She hangs up before I can ask who is with her.
CHAPTER 31
“…to know a man well were to know himself.”
—HAMLET, ACT 5, SCENE 2
I hear more than two pairs of high heels clicking down the corridor. Maybe more than three pairs.
I expect to see Mom when I open the door. But first I see Katie. Mom is behind her. With Ms. Cameron and Ms. Odette. And why is Tommy marching down the hallway, carrying the pizza cartons?
William Shakespeare has come to the door with me. When he sees the crowd of people, he meows and races back inside, probably to hide underneath the couch.
I want to slam the door in their faces. “What’s going on?” I ask instead.
“We brought pizza,” Mom announces.
Tommy is the only one who has the decency to look embarrassed.
“Mom, can I talk to you—privately?”
The others take a few steps back. I hear shuffling sounds in Mrs. Karpman’s apartment. Now she’s cracking open her door to see what’s going on. “Has everyone arrived?” she asks.
I get so close to my mom, our faces nearly touch. “You didn’t say you were bringing all those people,” I hiss.
“Iris,” she says grimly, “this is an intervention. You’re going to have to let us in.”
The intervention turns out to be Mrs. Karpman’s idea. “How did you even know what an intervention was?” I ask as she bustles past me.
“Errol told me about it,” she says. “He thought it might be a good idea.”
“Listen, all of you,” I say while they are filing into the apartment, “I don’t mind having you here for pizza, but I don’t need an intervention.”
“Interventions are for people who don’t think they need interventions,” Katie says. From her tone, you’d think she participates in interventions regularly.
Tommy heads for the kitchen, where he begins opening the pizza cartons. Seeing Tommy in Mick’s loft feels wrong. “Are there napkins here somewhere?” he calls.
Mom takes my hand and leads me to the couch as if I’m a blind person. “I know this must feel overwhelming, Iris, but you have to understand that it’s for your own good.”
Ms. Odette plops down next to me. “I should explain, Iris,” she says, giving me a tight-lipped smile, “that typically, interventions are used to assist individuals struggling with substance abuse.” Doesn’t she realize she sounds like one of her brochures? “Of course, we know that isn’t exactly your case, dear.”
“You’re right. I’m not an addict—and don’t call me dear.”
Ms. Odette nods. “It’s perfectly normal for you to feel angry right now,” she says. At least she doesn’t call me dear again.
Katie helps Tommy hand out pizza slices and napkins.
Ms. Cameron is poking around the apartment as if she has a right to. “Don’t touch that!” I tell her when she stops to examine the print of the Bonsecours Market. Someone must have brushed against it, because it isn’t hanging straight. I can tell Ms. Cameron wants to adjust it. I shouldn’t have said anything. Ms. Cameron curls her lip, then turns back to the print. She moves the edge of the frame, gasping when she sees what’s behind it.
Everyone turns to see what’s happened. Ms. Cameron lifts the print off the wall and exposes the hole underneath. It’s so obviously shape
d like a fist that for once I don’t try coming up with a story to cover for Mick.
“Oh my god,” Katie says.
Ms. Odette puts her hand on Katie’s elbow. “It’s important that we all stay calm,” she tells her.
I wonder if they’ve scripted this intervention. Everyone seems to have something to say to me. It reminds me of a fairytale I loved when I was little. Five fairies come to bestow their wishes on a newborn princess. Only I’ve got six fairies, one’s a guy, and they’re all eating pizza and annoying the hell out of me.
Ms. Cameron goes first. She’s still holding the print on her lap. “Iris, I told you I had an affair with Mick—and that he once got violent.” (I hate picturing the two of them together.) “What I didn’t tell you is that it happened more than once.” Ms. Cameron drops her voice. “It took awhile before I had the courage to break up with him.”
“This shit makes me sick,” Tommy mutters.
“Now Tommy,” Ms. Odette says. It’s obviously not his turn yet.
Mrs. Karpman is having trouble waiting for her turn too. “I knew it!” she exclaims, her voice even raspier than usual. “I could tell the first time I saw that man—”
But Ms. Cameron is not finished. “At the time, I considered going to the police, and honestly, now I wish I had. I know how seductive Mick can be, but I swear, Iris, you’ll be better off without him.”
Katie sputters something about wishing she had been a better friend to me. “I should have figured out what was going on,” she says. “I’m so sorry I let you down, Iris.”
When she’s through swearing to be a better friend, Katie turns to Tommy. He looks down at his running shoes, then up at me, then over at the wall where the hole is, then back to me again. “You deserve better, Iris,” he says. “I’m not saying that because you dumped me for this douchebag.” Ms. Odette purses her lips when Tommy says douchebag. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”
Ms. Odette seems to be responsible for statistics. “They say”—she doesn’t bother to explain who they is—“sixty-two percent of women have been hit, shoved or slapped. So really, Iris, when you think about it, what this man did to you and to Ms. Cameron, well, it isn’t so unusual. But that doesn’t make it right.”
So Much It Hurts Page 18
