“That’s why we need this!” He takes out a pink bottle from his pocket, unscrews the white cap, and pours liquid into a bucket at his feet. “We can make bubbles, big ones, beautiful ones,” he says while the bucket fills with water from the hose, spitting droplets on his pants.
My mother, impressed to the point of a small smile, pushes me forward, towards him.
“Go help your father,” she says. “Go see what he wants to show you.” Her smile shrivels back into ambivalence.
I take two steps towards him. He uses his index finger to loosen his tie. His other hand holds the hose.
“Take that out of the plastic,” he instructs me, pointing to the string and stick leaning up against his pant leg. I do. “Now, dip it into this water.” He puts the hose away. Dunking my arm up to my elbow in the soapy water, I soak the string. “Now, pull that out, separate the string and run around,” he tells me. “You’re going to love this!”
I look at my mother, my hand still hidden under suds. She nods, so I pull the sloppy string from the bucket and run towards the back fence.
Head-sized bubbles slip from the holes in the string, colours dancing on their skin. They dangle in the air before bursting on needles of emerald grass.
“I like it!” I tell him, and he laughs. My mother does too, giggles that hardly leave her mouth.
“Run faster, Maya!” she says waving her hands by her ears. “See how many you can keep in the air at one time.”
I dip the rope again and take another dash around the yard, tripping my feet on the grass, skipping, looking towards the sky.
“Looks like your father brought you a nice present,” my mother says, and I stop and look at her while bubbles break open on my body. Her cheeks are rosy like they have just been pinched, her eyes glow, and yellow and green buzz around her reddish hair.
I wonder: when a bubble disappears, what is the proof that it ever existed at all? Mist in the air, a lingering soapy smell, moisture on your face?
“I want to try it again!” I yell to my parents. I dunk the string again, pushing strands of sticky hair behind my ear. My father moves towards my mother, putting his hand on her hip. She rests her palm on the small part of his back and steps closer to him. I smile. The sun lights our bodies. We glow from the inside.
My arm swoops from the bucket in one grand motion, revealing the biggest bubble so far. As big as my entire body, it floats up in the air, bobbing, while rainbows dance all over its surface. I can see the shape of my mother laughing through the other side, full-out, so that her head flies back and her mouth opens wide.
My father pokes his finger into the bubble, creating only a dent in its side. Could it be that he is not pushing hard enough? Could it be that this bubble will never pop?
“Don’t break it,” I say. “Not yet.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you to everyone who has ever encouraged my writing, especially during the inevitable times of self-doubt. To Elizabeth Ruth for speaking the words that helped me decide that yes, I too could get there if I just stuck with it. To the Humber School for Writers, and to Shaena Lambert for offering the first thoughtful and very lengthy critique of this book (it took me three years to get through your notes, but boy were they appreciated!).
Thanks also to the Humber School for Writers Literary Agency, and especially to Natalie St. Pierre for believing in Maya and in me as a writer — I am so lucky to have your enthusiasm on my side. To the wonderful team at ECW Press and especially Jen Hale for understanding this story in the exact same way as I do (we share a brain, don’t you know?), and helping me bring it to its very best place. You truly were my midwife in the birthing of this novel.
Thank you to Corey and Julie Hart for being so gracious and supportive about the use of Corey’s lyrics in this book. To all my friends and family who have shown their excitement about this novel and to Connie Yarkie, Lori Kerr, Lara McInnis, and Jeanette Simon for early reads and comments; also to Bianca Fera for taking my photo.
Warm thanks as well to my brother Andrew Exworth, my grandparents Ray and Janine Beaulieu, and my parents-in-law, Ron and Judy Baggio, for their encouragement. And of course, to my parents, Nancy and Terry Exworth, for always being there for me no matter what — love you, kiss, kiss. Thanks also to the Universe (or however you prefer to refer to it), for giving me yet another example of how thoughts can become things — mine created this book!
Finally, to my husband, Tom Baggio, and to my two beautiful little sweeties, Noah and Lily. Thank you for putting up with me while I write. Without even trying, you have given me everything.
LYRICS PERMISSIONS
SUNGLASSES AT NIGHT
Written by Corey Hart
© 1984 Saphir Music, Keep On Music (a division of Unidisc Music Inc.)
All rights on behalf of Saphir Music administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 8 Music Square West, Nashville, TN 37203.
All rights reserved. Used by permission.
NEVER SURRENDER
Written by Corey Hart
©1985 Saphir Music, Keep On Music (a division of Unidisc Music Inc.)
All rights on behalf of Saphir Music administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 8 Music Square West, Nashville, TN 37203.
All rights reserved. Used by permission.
BOY IN THE BOX
Written by Corey Hart
©1985 Saphir Music, Keep On Music (a division of Unidisc Music Inc.)
All rights on behalf of Saphir Music administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing
LLC, 8 Music Square West, Nashville, TN 37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
I AM BY YOUR SIDE
Written by Corey Hart
©1986 Saphir Music, Keep On Music (a division of Unidisc Music Inc.)
All rights administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 8 Music Square West, Nashville, TN 37203.
All rights reserved. Used by permission.
Allison Baggio’s fiction has been published in literary journals across Canada, including Room, LICHEN, and subTerrain. Her columns have appeared in Today’s Parent and the Toronto Star. She is a graduate of the Humber School for Writers and lives in Whitby, Ontario. Girl in Shades is her first novel. You can learn more about her at allisonbaggio.com.
Girl in Shades Page 31
