Girl in Shades

by Allison Baggio

  The television up by the ceiling flips on. (I hadn’t even noticed it until now.) Static with no sound, but inside my head: I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.

  I flop onto my left side, close my eyes, and escape into the darkness on the underside of my eyelids.

  “What do you want to eat?” Aunt Leah is looking into an empty fridge. “Looks like all I have to offer you are ketchup, olives — well, mostly pimentos — and a rotten cucumber.”

  “I’m not really hungry yet.”

  “You gotta eat something, My. The doctor wouldn’t have let you out if he knew you weren’t going to eat.”

  “Pimentos then.”

  “I’ll go to the market and pick up a few things. We’ve got to eat for the next few days.”

  “So what did he say when you told him what happened to me?” I ask. She had called my father at work that morning.

  “He was worried. Upset. He didn’t know you had been feeling sick. He wanted to come over, but I told him no. That you just needed space for now, that I would look after you.”

  “It’s not working out, me and him.”

  “That’s why I’m taking you to Toronto.”

  “Why not Grandma and Grandpa?”

  “They’re getting older. They are finally enjoying things by the ocean. They don’t need a kid there messing it all up.”

  “How about my other grandmother then?”

  Leah makes her lips into a small rose and looks away from me. She speaks without opening her mouth.

  “Not gonna happen, sweetie. That lady is a bit too stuck in her ways I think. And a bit batty, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve only met her once, when she visited Mother.”

  “It’ll be great staying with me, you’ll see. Just until things calm down with your father, and he comes to his senses. I know you’re thirteen and all, but he can’t just leave you here all the time to look after yourself.”

  “What about my friends? I have two friends, Heather and Chauncey.”

  “I can take you to say goodbye to them if you want?”

  “Maybe.”

  “My, think positive, okay? Did you know that positive thoughts create happy lives?”

  “Please stop calling me that.”

  “What?”

  “My name is Maya.”

  When she leaves for the store, I run back up to my parents’ room and pull out my mother’s journal. I had stuck it between the mattress and the box spring. I hold it in my hand for a minute, not sure I even want to know what more it has to tell me. I read from where I left off.

  November 25, 1972

  I’ve told Steven I’d go to dinner with him tomorrow night at Roland’s. I had to. He has become so damn suspicious, even though he doesn’t know exactly about what. And can never know.

  I haven’t heard from Amar. Isn’t it always the way? Haven’t heard and I guess maybe it is for the best. I mean, what was I thinking? Older, Indian, a little bit strange. They should have me committed for even considering it.

  The secret is that I still do — think about him, that is. And they are not always the purest of thoughts, if you catch my drift!

  So, I’m having dinner with Steven at Roland’s. Classy. I’ll have to wear nylons. He’s picking me up in his father’s Plymouth Valiant. I’m preparing myself for a lot of ass-kissing if I ever want our relationship to be how it was. Do I? He’s mad at me. Especially since I cancelled our study date to go on the picnic with Amar. He’ll get over it though. He always does.

  Mother is giddy beyond recognition because I’m going out with Steven again. Spaz. If she paid attention at all she’d see that I’m not even that excited about it myself.

  “I’m home!” It’s Aunt Leah from downstairs. Boy, she’s quick. She must have just gone to the convenience store up the street.

  “I’m up here, hold on, I’m coming down.” I stuff the notebook back between the mattress and kick the picnic basket from the corner of the room and into the closet.

  Leah is spreading out cans of beans, a loaf of white bread, and vegetable soup on the counter.

  “I know that you and your mother didn’t eat much meat. So I tried to keep it veggie as much as possible. She slaps two black Mars bars on the wooden cutting board making a hallow clunk. “And a little treat for us never hurt.”

  She has taken my tape player and put it on the counter. She presses the PLAY button on my radio, and he starts singing.

  Just a little uncertainty can bring you down

  And nobody wants to know you now

  And nobody wants to show you how

  His voice makes me think about how stupid I was to believe that he would be able to help save Mother. How stupid I was to even send the letter.

  “Shut it off!” I run across the room and lunge at the stop button. “I don’t want to listen to him anymore.” Though I have never had an ex-boyfriend, or even a boyfriend for that matter if you don’t count Elijah, I’m certain that the way I feel about Corey Hart now is how it would feel after breaking up with someone. My juicy longing has turned into disappointment.

  “Easy, Maya. Just trying to lighten the mood.” She turns on the radio to a classical music station. The notes of stretching violins and harps fill my head while we wait for the toast to burn.

  Later, someone comes to the door. Aunt Leah opens up wearing a white tank top without a bra — you can see her dark nipples, but she doesn’t seem to care. It’s two in the afternoon and I am on the couch watching a Facts of Life rerun.

  “May I help you?” Aunt Leah licks peanut butter from her fingertips.

  “Yes, I would like to speak with Steven Devine.” It’s a woman’s voice, small and shaky.

  “And who may I ask, are you?”

  “My name is Mrs. Clifton. I am a secretary at Lakeview Public School.”

  “Oh.” I hear high heels click on the tile inside the door, and a clump when the door shuts.

  “A student has reported to our principal that Maya Devine has been living at home alone, and because she hasn’t been in school for the last few weeks, I volunteered to come see if everything was okay.”

  “Everything is fine, Mrs. Clifton. I’m her aunt and I’m here, aren’t I?”

  I can hear Mrs. Clifton’s thoughts, even from the living room. She’s nervous. She doesn’t feel comfortable standing up to a beefy girl like Aunt Leah, or pushing this issue. I wish I could just stay behind the desk, is what she thinks. I should not put up with Herbert’s abuse anymore. I’m not his slave girl.

  “Has something been keeping Maya from school?”

  “Well, yes, Mrs. Clifton, a few things as a matter of fact.” (I am still on the couch, now with a blanket over my face.) “She’s been sick with a terrible flu that has left her bed-ridden and, well, if you must know, her father has passed away.”

  “Oh gosh, I am so sorry to hear that.” Mrs. Clifton now sounds nervous on the outside, and I can see berry red light from her body, fanning out from the hallway.

  “Yes, she’s been orphaned and if you don’t mind, we certainly don’t need to be bothered right now. Maya is moving across country to live with her grandparents. She will not be coming back to school with you.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Clifton’s voice is even quieter than before, like the last bit of air from a deflated balloon. “Thank you for telling me. Sorry, I didn’t get your name?”

  “Penelope, Penelope Wishing. It’s my married name.”

  “Well, okay, Penelope. I guess I can go now. Now that I know everything is okay.”

  “It is in fact, very okay. Bye-bye.”

  The heels click out and the door shuts. Aunt Leah comes and sits on the brown chair beside me in the living room.

  “Aunt Leah, it’s not true what you said, is it? About Father being dead? And me going to live with my grandparents?”
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  “No, that’s not true.”

  “Good. Because I’d rather live with you.”

  She smiles and tugs at the frizzy ends of her straggly hair.

  Though Aunt Leah says it’s weird, I use the picnic basket as a carry-on bag. I put the notebook and the letter on the bottom and pack some underwear, a shirt, and pair of jeans on top of it. I wear my acid wash jacket and slide my mother’s butterfly bracelets on my wrist. In a small suitcase that Aunt Leah found under the stairs, I place my mother’s copy of the Gita, my Corey Hart tape (just in case I reconsider), three of my mother’s aromatherapy bottles (sandalwood, patchouli, and lavender), two sweaters that used to hang in her closet, rolled up into soft balls, and some more of my own clothes. I put her journal in the inside pocket of my jacket.

  “I can’t believe she lived in here,” Aunt Leah says when I find her in the backyard. She is standing inside my mother’s teepee, running her hands over the tarp walls.

  “It wasn’t that bad, really.”

  “I suppose it helped her find some sort of peace within herself. Lord knows that woman needed it.”

  “I guess.”

  “It was crazy what happened near the end, with everyone coming here and stuff. I even read an article about it in the Toronto Star when I first got there.”

  I nod.

  “Hey, gemstones!” Aunt Leah reaches to the two jagged stones on the bed where my mother’s pillows used to be.

  “They are quartz and malachite,” I say, grabbing them from her and putting one in each of my pockets. “For healing and protection.”

  “What are those things on your wrist?” She crinkles her eyebrows like I’m keeping a secret.

  “Bracelets.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “The flea market with my friend Heather.”

  “I guess we better call a cab. Our flight is at six o’clock.”

  When the cab is waiting on the street and I have loaded my picnic basket into the trunk, I hear a voice from behind me.

  “Maya! Where are you going?” It is Chauncey. I turn around and smile when I see him.

  “I’m going to live in Toronto, Chauncey, with my Aunt Leah.” Leah sticks her hand out from the back seat and waves.

  “Really, the big city? Hogtown?”

  “Yup. Tell Jackie good riddance.”

  “I will.”

  “Cool.”

  “Heather wants you to know she is sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For telling the school about you being home alone.” I don’t say anything. “Don’t be mad, Maya, she was just worried about you.”

  I force my lips to move, “I know.” I move to get into the car.

  “Maya?”

  “What?” I stop with one leg lifted into the back seat.

  “Don’t become a pretentious city snob, okay? (In his mind he is saying, I wish she wasn’t going, which feels good.)

  “I’ll try not to.” I bounce into my seat. Door slams and we drive away from my house, from the teepee, from my mother’s ghost, from my father. Through the black lines of the back windshield, Chauncey gets smaller and smaller until he becomes nothing.

  Our plane rises up over golden fields of wheat, silos, skinny streams — my first time in the sky. I’m not going to Montreal as I planned, but I am going somewhere. Away.

  “This is totally awesome,” I say to Aunt Leah.

  “I knew you’d like it.” She is reading the in-flight magazine and doesn’t look up.

  We zoom up until the clouds engulf us, bumping up until we reach the eternal space. Sun warms up the egg-shaped window.

  “Maya, I forgot to tell you, I saw your shampoo commercial the other night after Let’s Make a Deal. Great stuff. You really convinced me that you gave a shit about what your hair looks like, and that you have the potential of feeling bodacious.” She laughs through her nose.

  I raise my hand to quiet her and use my finger to brush my bangs from my forehead.

  “What’s that notebook?” She points to my lap where it sits for safe-keeping.

  “It’s just something I wrote,” I say as she looks back at her magazine.

  Out my window, the sky shines blue above the clouds — every space packed tight with spirit. Why didn’t anyone tell me such a place exists? I let out my air, the smooth stones are jabbing me from my pockets. I take them out and put them on the tiny table that flips down from the back of the seat in front of me. I look down at my lap and open the notebook to where I left off.

  Chapter Nineteen

  November 27, 1972

  Christ, where do I start. Shit, shit, shit.

  I didn’t go out to Roland’s with Steven. I wanted to, I planned to. I got ready to. But on the way out the door I was abducted. I like to say abducted because it sounds much more glamorous, like that little girl who was stolen from the 7-Eleven in the States. Truth is, it wasn’t like that at all. I chose to go. My hair swept off my face, a shirt a little tighter than Mother would allow, nylons, and foundation covering the bags under my eyes. I chose to go with him, I did. I can’t blame anyone else but myself really. It happened like this:

  I was coming out the front door of my house. I thought I would meet Steven on the street when he came, just to get Mother out of my hair for a few minutes. To prepare myself to make it all up to him and get on with where we were (ho hum). When there he was, coming up the front walk from the street.

  Don’t you look beautiful tonight, he said.

  Amar.

  Hello, Marigold. I’m sorry I haven’t called.

  That’s okay.

  I was away for a few days, and then resting.

  I see.

  I was looking out towards the street, where Steven would be pulling up in the Valiant. Amar was looking straight at me. He had a heavier jacket on finally, sheepskin, and blue jeans with desert boots. The same old beads around his neck.

  I was hoping to take you out again, he said pointing to the red and white Volkswagen van parked across the street, in front of a fire hydrant.

  Were you? I pretended to be disinterested as well as I could.

  Are you available now?

  I have a date. (I said this with a straight face. God, I really am proud of how I was able to say this, like I hadn’t been thinking of him at all.)

  Can you cancel?

  This took me by surprise. I mean, I wasn’t expecting it after six days with no word from him. My first instinct was to tell him, Hell no, I can’t cancel — I already did it once and look at the trouble I am in with my boyfriend. But I didn’t say that. How could I? He was clean shaven this time, no mustache at all and his skin smooth like it was inviting your hand. If anyone else asked me to cancel my plans on such short notice, why, I would probably sock ’em one. But him. The fact that he had the courage to ask made it all that more enticing to say yes. Imagine. Saying yes to such a request. Taking off with some Indian man when I was supposed to be fixing things with my boyfriend. Imagine. Making things worse instead?

  The inside of his van smelled like mildew, but was extremely clean. Dashboard and seats were polished with something, and the carpet under my feet had not a speck on it. When he shut my door and walked around to the other side, I popped his glove compartment: map of Ontario, half eaten bag of chips, napkins, long stick of something (incense?). I snapped it shut when he got into his seat. (I just wanted to know what was inside him.)

  It took him three tries to start the engine — sputtering and spitting until it took. I was glad when it did because having Steven pull up and seeing me in Amar’s car would not have been something I could have taken at that moment.

  He stuck a tape into the tape deck while we drove. Some sort of weird music he said was a sitar (an Indian version of a guitar as he explained without me asking). And when we got to his cabin — out of
town, on the highway, off onto a dirt road, into the forest — I still couldn’t believe I had gone. Me. A strange man’s cabin. Steven at my house waiting for me. They were probably worried by now.

  I didn’t care. I was alive, more so than ever.

  I told you it wasn’t much to look at, he said, opening the front door. The cabin was hidden behind a huge rock on a dirt road off the highway, buried among cedars, backing onto Indian River. The banks were covered with a thin blanket of snow. Snow that hadn’t yet fallen in downtown Peterborough. Not at all this season.

  It’s just fine, I said. We walked in and he shut the door.

  There wasn’t much furniture inside, not much of anything. A simple plaid couch, a small coffee table with ashes on it, a half-empty glass sitting on a counter, scattered books.

  My mother wasn’t here long, he said. She didn’t have much of a chance to fix the place up.

  Must be nice to have your own place, I started to say (getting only the first two words out, must be, but stopped when I realized how immature that sounded). Instead, I asked him what he was going to do with the place now. Do you think you’ll stay?

  Do you think I should? He reached for my hand and cupped his fingers around it. His palm was rough on the top part but squishy, soft even in the centre.

  You should do whatever you want to do, I said taking my hand back to throw my coat across the back of the couch. I sat down, looked up at him, into his brown eyes, his pupils large and round.

  Marigold, you have the most beautiful aura around you tonight, he said to me, and I blushed.

  Whatever, I said back.

  No really, blues and greens, fantastic.

  I don’t know what you’re talking about, Amar.

  It’s just that sometimes, the most beautiful part of a person is that part that no one can see or hear. The part that no one even believes is there.

  He stared to light candles, candles he pulled from drawers and closets and from behind curtains. Candles that he lit and placed mainly on the coffee table in front of me, and on the kitchen counter behind our heads. Soon our skin glowed the same colour in the soft light.