“We don’t have to go to the convention,” I say. “You’re looking pretty green.”
“I’m good.” He grins, playing it casual. “I’m good.”
“You looking forward to September?”
“Sure.”
“Your folks helping you out?” Last I heard, he was counting on shifts up to Labour Day to cover tuition, hoping to avoid having a job during the year. Apparently a lot of people fail out of engineering.
“Real estate’s slow these days.” He clicks away another message notification. “It’s okay. I’ve got the scholarship. I’ll pick up a few hours somewhere.”
“Well, I’ve never been, but watching Melly go through Ryerson – it’s a whole new life.” She went in still a girl and bloomed into a self-possessed woman, all gung-ho to start work, get married, have kids. “Just get through the summer without too many scars.”
Darren toggles his cell onto speaker. He can’t help but smirk as Brandon goes apoplectic over voice mail. “Update time, you prick. Nineteen birthday parties, no Frankie. My uncle’s had to borrow an old suit from Victoria Park. It’s some antique shit. The kids have no idea who this fucking guy is.”
Greyson’s held onto each iteration of the mascot suit. He could have lent them something more current, something closer to the athletic squirrel makeover. If he sent over the slick-haired rat with oversized tie, even Greyson must think Brandon’s a goof. But Darren needs to be careful. If parents complain, I wouldn’t put it past management to ask for damages.
“Call him back and promise you’ll get it in tomorrow night. Say that you’re at a cottage.”
Darren hits repeat and looks back at me expectantly, hoping for approval or camaraderie or dispensation. Maybe all.
“I know, I know. Brandon deserves worse.”
The kid holds up his phone as if I haven’t heard.
“Don’t escalate this. Call him back and don’t let on I’m here.”
Darren dials the office extension, which is a safe bet because no one ever answers. He mumbles into the voice mail that he’ll return the suit Monday morning at the latest. It was an oversight. Sorry for any trouble. He’s totally dejected by the time he hangs up.
“Henry,” he says, “you’re the only person I’ve ever met who likes his job.”
“What about your folks?”
“They’re just happy they don’t answer to anyone else. From what I’ve heard, back in China, Dad’s side of the family had kind of a rough road. My parents think I’m a loser for working at Frankie’s.” As soon as he says it, Darren looks like he wants to apologize.
I’m not offended. It’s an attitude I’ve come across before. “They must be proud you got the scholarship.”
“They’ve started a file of Waterloo success stories. Subfolder for engineering alumni.”
“I would have pegged you for film, special effects.”
“Maybe that’ll be the next degree I go into debt for.” Darren pops the tab off his empty Coke can. He lines the tab up with his thumbnail, flicks it in the air then catches it. He repeats the feat several times. When he stops, he looks embarrassed, like he’d forgotten I was here. “Do you ever wish you’d stuck it out in the auto industry?”
“Now?”
Darren laughs at my double take.
“These days the Funhouse has better job security.” I know what the kid is asking. It’s the type of question you can ask at eighteen, when there’s no weight to the answer. Did enjoying my job make up for the pay cut? Did life’s pro and con columns balance out? The jury is still deliberating.
Starr’s eyeliner has blurred out where her face met the pillow. A patch of foundation has worn off too, leaving a beige round on the white linen.
I point out the asymmetry.
“I like it like that.” She tries to reapply the hot pink lipstick herself. It’s too finicky to get into the bow – usually she’ll wear a tinted ChapStick or roll-on gloss, something that doesn’t require precision. She traces too wide a slant on the right, almost to her laugh line. “It’s because you’re watching,” she snaps, her chin wavering.
“I’m sorry.”
“Now I’m too nervous.”
“Can I help? Like Amy?”
She considers it a moment then sits on the closed toilet lid and angles her face up.
The makeup artist used several bases, including “primer,” before she even applied colour. It may as well have been resin, based on the difficulty I have removing it. Starr doesn’t like the feel of the washcloth, never has. As a child, she used to flinch when we’d wipe her face, recoiling like we were about to hit her. A great thing for your kid to do in public.
Her skin has turned red under the swipe of the cloth. She twists her face away.
“Will we be home in time for me to go back to work on Tuesday?”
“That’s all done now.”
“Mom said we can have a sit-down with Martha. I can go back if Riley’s gone.”
It’s not that she misunderstands, it’s that she’s hopeful.
“What are you doing Monday in day program? It’s arts and crafts week, right?”
“Beaded necklaces.” Starr ducks from the washcloth, annoyed that I’ve changed the topic. “I can go back if Riley is gone.”
“Lipstick?” I do my best to approximate the cosmetic girl’s touch. Deep down, I know she doesn’t want to work at Fresh Us anymore. This time we’re not settling for the first thing the support worker comes up with; I’m going to insist on something better suited to her skills, something social like reception. Or someplace with kids. If she didn’t have a terror about fire alarms, I’d hit up Chester, see if there was anything she could do at the station.
“Have I got a new career?” I ask, holding out a folded Kleenex for Starr to blot down on.
“You’re hired!” she laughs, admiring herself in the mirror. “You’re hired!” She wants me to take another picture. I dutifully text it to Kathleen, although I suspect she’s going to want to know why her daughter looks like she’s been through a three-week run of Cirque du Soleil.
Beautiful! Kath texts back. She wants to know how we’re doing. She sends a photo of herself at the booth, holding up two bottles of VQA icewine. Seven orders so far.
“Can you ask Mom when we’re having a sit-down with Martha?”
“I was going to keep it a surprise.” I head back to the bedroom, hoping to steer her away from this fixation. “But do you know what else is going to be at the convention tomorrow?”
“People with Williams?”
It’s a good guess. Kath’s taken her to three conferences, two in Ontario and one in New York state. They always come back fired up about the panels. They met one woman who owned her own record store, another who worked as an early years educational assistant. I used to worry it would make Starr feel worse, having to measure herself against these extra-achievers and their resource-rich parents.
“Try again.”
Darren switches off whichever CSI he was watching.
“Something you love.”
“Franny Feathers?”
“Even better.”
“I need a hint.”
“Hello, McFly!”
Starr’s got her mouth open, and her hands are frantically fiddling with her skirt hem. She’s too stunned to speak.
“Michael J. Fox?” Darren is almost as excited as my daughter. “Teen Wolf?”
“No, but they’re showing one of the original DeLoreans.”
Darren checks his cell to see if he can call up the event schedule. “He might be there, you know. Every year they have a theme. Last year they brought most of the cast of Star Trek: The Next Generation. It could be part of a reunion cast. Maybe Family Ties.”
Starr’s smile is as big as I’ve seen it. Gobsmacked.
“I bet he’ll be there,” Darren repeats. “I bet he will.”
I signal for him to dial it down. “Even if it’s just the car, we can get lots of pictures of you in it.”
“Hello, McFly!” Starr giggles.
“You know you have to pay for those things? Sometimes it’s more than you’d think.” Darren pitches his voice like he thinks I’ve just come off the turnip truck.
Kath texts again. Are you really okay?
I send a picture of Starr and Darren huddled over his phone, careful that his bruises are shadowed. Everything is fine.
Old habits.
Starr got her name because the year I turned fourteen my family moved to Niagara Falls. At school, our student council rep, a real hotshot twerp, started calling me Ringo. It was an insult – I had a nose that hung off my face like a light bulb. My mother was still giving me monthly bowl cuts. The nickname stuck but, as I made friends, the bite behind it gave way to something more good-natured. I didn’t have the looks of Paul, the voice of John or the talent of George but it felt like a way to say, yeah, you’re part of the group too, even if you’re funny looking, even if you’re just writing novelty songs.
If I’d gotten my way, Starr would have been her first name – I was buttering up Kathleen all through her second and third trimester. I settled for the middle name, second middle. Emily Kathleen Starr Robinson. As soon as she came out, though, it just suited her. The way she liked an audience right off the bat. The sunbursts of her irises. Later we’d find out that those weren’t unique to her; stellate eyes and social drive were hallmarks of Williams.
When we’d met, Kath’d been one of those women who’s broody before they even hit puberty. It wasn’t the only thing she wanted, but kids, that was going to happen. As soon as she got pregnant, she did all the right things – vitamins, exercise, Lamaze. She was something to see, that glorious belly marching proudly in front of her. Before she was even eight months along, she’d organized the nursery better than an army supply station.
I think Kath knew something was wrong as soon as she held Starr. I didn’t know what newborns looked like, couldn’t tell she was smaller, skinnier than she should be. I just remember those eyes, her screaming like a baby goat – so loud for such a tiny body. As I held her, I felt those small, purposeful movements – her limbs busy against the swaddling. She seemed more of a person already than I’d expected. “Who are you?” I’d ask as I jiggled her tummy over my arm. Nothing soothed her colic.
Kath had a real hard time during that first, darkest year. Starr refused to sleep unless she was held. I’d go to work, come home, take the baby so Kath could get a nap in, then I’d heat up something premade. Grocery store lasagna, the remnants of a bucket of KFC, shepherd’s pie, anything. Boiled up a tin of veggies and we’d eat dinner. The vibration from the baby’s windup swing made the corn kernels buzz together. At night, I slept in the baby’s room on a futon left over from when my brother lived with us, Starr collapsed on my chest. If she fussed, I’d carry her to Kath for feeding, then bring her back to burp her. When I was on shift, Kath was on her own for fourteen hours at a stretch so when I was there, I wanted to give her a break. I’ve never needed much sleep.
Starr wasn’t gaining weight. Our family doctor would show us the growth charts and plot Starr’s flat line beside the perfect arcs of the safe percentiles. Kath was constantly nursing, but Starr would just nudge the nipple, or lap at it like a kitten. If she did latch on, she’d quit after a mouthful or two. We supplemented with formula but it was the same with the bottle. At three weeks, she was admitted to hospital and they talked about giving her a feeding tube. A public health nurse took pity on us, spent three afternoons with Kath, teaching her different ways to get the baby to latch, ways to keep her awake. With enough coaching, it worked better, enough to get us back home.
It was awful for Kath, the feeling that she was letting our baby down, that after so much anticipation she might be unqualified for motherhood. Three years later, when Starr was struggling with speech, we found out she was tongue-tied. And when she was four we got the official diagnosis of Williams. It wasn’t until Melly came along – champion nurser, easy sleeper – that Kath relaxed into being a parent, forgave herself for those early difficulties.
Being a father was different. Less was expected of me. I went into it ready to bumble my way through but found when the girls were little that being their dad came naturally. Over the past decade something’s shifted, some invisible tectonic plate. A continental drift in my earlier proficiency. Often, I catch Kathleen and Melly sharing glances after something I’ve said. Now that both our daughters are adults, I don’t have many tricks left. Are you really okay? If Kathleen knew how much it means, to still be able to surprise Starr, to pull a DeLorean out of a hat, she wouldn’t need to ask.
DARREN
STARR’S STARTED ASKING HER DAD QUESTIONS again – where are we eating dinner, how far is it? What kind of food will they have? It started before we left the hotel. They have some code worked out where he’ll answer only a certain number of questions per half-hour. Something like five, but I’ve been keeping count. He’s let her get up to ten. Each time she asks, he has her look at her phone to see if it’s time for her next quota. It’s a bit uncomfortable, like I’m witnessing a child being disciplined. But she doesn’t seem to mind and there’s no tone of disapproval in Henry’s voice.
We’ve been driving around for a while trying to find something other than the usual grease chains. Maybe it’s because, except for New York last summer, I’ve never been farther than Collingwood or Niagara Falls, but I thought that a few hundred kilometres outside of Mississauga, the rest of the world started to get a whole lot more exiting. So far the biggest difference I’ve noticed is a lot more anti-abortion billboards. Henry caught me taking a picture of one – a full-term baby with an umbilical cord that said “Forgetting someone?” I wanted to send it to Luz, thought it would make a funny short. All those advertising fetuses coming alive and terrorizing the surrounding towns with their magnified baby mouths.
Maybe if it weren’t for the underlying grind in my face – Henry’s run out of spare Advil – the sameness wouldn’t be as depressing. All I can think is, what if I’m wrong about the rest of the world? Maybe the whole planet is now dotted with drive-through Starbucks and twenty-screen Cineplexes. Maybe suburbia is the modern blob, suffocating every landscape it touches, littering the continent with identical homes, brick to the waist, siding on top, lumpy as an outfit bought on special at the Gap Factory store.
“How much longer?” Starr asks.
“What time is it?”
“Seven forty-four.”
“Hey, Starr,” I say, trying to distract her. “When did you get your turtles?”
“A year and a half ago.”
“Are they good pets?”
Starr takes a moment to think about it. “Yes, they’re cute. And they’re not as much work as a gerbil or a dog.”
“Yeah, gerbils are too close to mice.”
“Are you afraid of mice?”
“When I was growing up, we had them in the walls and I’d hear them scratching,” I say. “I had recurring nightmares of them breaking through the drywall and chewing off my fingers.”
Henry coughs.
“Actually, mice are pretty harmless.”
Starr nods politely.
“My friend even had a pet rat and she let me hold it.” It was Luz’s sister’s and the thing completely disgusted me. Every year in North America, a few dozen people still get the bubonic plague from rodent fleas. When Luz told me Flacco died of a heart attack I was secretly relieved because it meant I didn’t have to cuddle up to it anymore to impress the family. Most people put poison out for them. Death by desiccation. Luz wasn’t overly wowed by that film idea: mutant rat hides in the sewers of New York feasting on mole people. When its supplies run out, it starts selling Warfarin-laced burritos from a hipster food truck, drying out its customers like beef jerky.
“How was Sweetpea last week?” Henry’s picked up a new topic with Starr. Her day program’s started pet therapy visits and there’s a failed Seeing Eye dog that comes in once a month.
“She flipped onto her back so I could rub her stomach. It’s so funny. She goes flat as a carpet.”
“What about the people who have allergies?” Henry asks. I’m still stuck on that rat. I heard a science program a while back on the radio where they were talking about rat experiments. They had researchers tickling rats to see if they’d have an aggressive response. At first they didn’t hear anything. Then one of the scientists hooked up a machine that could detect sound frequencies outside the normal range of human hearing.
When they played it back, they discovered that the rats were laughing; something they’d thought was reserved for humans and other primates. I love the possibility of that, of rats all around us, silently losing their shit. Rolling in the aisles as we walk past, oblivious.
Henry finally pulls up in front of an Applebee’s. Starr crosses the parking lot holding his arm and their height difference makes them look like cake toppers. I go to open the door for them, but get caught short by vinyl silver lettering: “Reid Jessup, Chef.” Right next to “No shirt, no service.”
Does the guy fine-tune his chicken finger batter? Is he hand-julienning fries? We should get Felipe and Varshu to get their names on the door in Mississauga. Personalized, hand-placed toppings on a frozen crust. A big marquee boasting “Darren Leung appearing every hour in his signature role as Frankie Fuzz.”
The hostess greets us with the tone of a department store cashier trying to sell a credit card.
Starr answers her in earnest. “We’re very well, thank you. We’re on a nice, long-weekend trip to Chicago. How are you?”
The hostess glances at Henry, like she’s looking for parental permission before feeding a kid an extra slice. That look makes me hate her on the spot. But Henry doesn’t react. He just waits and looks at her like Starr does, with anticipation.
In Search of the Perfect Singing Flamingo Page 11
