by Jill MacLean
He’s wearing a new short-sleeved shirt, one I’ve never seen before. “You smell of perfume,” I say.
In the pale light I watch a tide of red rise from the neck of his shirt, up his cheeks all the way to his forehead. “Sorry I’m so late,” he mutters, as though I’m the parent and he’s the kid.
He walks past me. It’s a nice perfume, flowery but not heavy-duty, like the freesias they sell for $7.99 at FoodMart. He goes into his bedroom—his and my mother’s bedroom, even though she’s scarcely ever in it—and closes the door.
I go back to bed and fall into a dead sleep. I wake up with a headache. Someone’s rapping on the front door.
“Coming!”
Bathrobe, tie it up, stumble across the living room. Hair’s a mess and mouth tastes like dead fur. The clock says noon. Noon?
So much for going to Abe’s barn this morning.
Tate Cody is standing on the doorstep. I snap awake. “What d’you want?”
“Good morning to you, too,” she says. “Thought you might want to know that your stepdad spent the night at Davina’s .”
“I know he did,” I say. Fingers twitching in the folds of my blue robe.
“His truck was still parked in her driveway at four o’clock this morning.”
“Tate, I hope you know how lucky you are to have two God-fearing parents who’ll never stray one step to the left or the right, and who’ll stay married for all eternity.”
Her fingers don’t just twitch. They curl into fists, waves of hate pouring out of her strong enough to vaporize you. “I’m not done with you,” she says.
“Good. Because I’m not done with you, either.” I slam the door in her face and flip the lock. The funny thing is, it’s true.
Just don’t ask me what it means.
Nineteen
to dictate
I brush my teeth and my hair. I’m getting out of here. I need to spend some serious money on me. Because who the heck else cares about me?
This mood stays with me all the way to St. Fabien. Clouds have rolled in and likely it’s gonna rain and I don’t care. The poster shop is busy, which gives me lots of time to look around. In the end, I buy two posters. The first one has two sleek cats sitting in the sun on a window sill; one of the cats is white, and reminds me of Ghost. In the other poster, a girl is appearing out of the mist, wearing a long, flowing dress and carrying a sword. A beautiful girl, whose face says, Don’t mess with me.
The woman at the counter wraps them up. I walk to the liquor store, parading in as though I own the place. The guy at the cash says, “Hi there, Sigrid.”
“Is Seal available?”
“I’ll fetch him.”
“Thank you,” I say and go back outside.
Seal hurries through the glass doors. “You okay, Sigrid?”
I still have a headache, but I’m not telling him that. I pass him the package. “Will you put these in your truck and bring them home with you? If you’re coming home, that is.”
“Now, Sigrid, of course I’m coming home.”
“For supper?”
“We have to talk,” he says.
“So are you coming home for supper?”
“Right after my shift. Why don’t I bring take-out from Pizza Delight?”
“I’m cooking.”
“We have to talk,” he repeats, stubborn as those early-morning stars.
“I’ll listen and I’m cooking.”
I walk away. I didn’t smile at him once, and the whole time we were talking I felt like that beautiful girl, flashing her sword, cutting the air to shreds. Am I so angry because Seal’s still living in my mother’s house and he’s cheating on her and I thought better of him?
I didn’t think I loved my mother enough to care.
Or am I jealous because he’s found someone else to love and my life feels like I’m stumbling through the fog with nothing but a kitchen knife in my hand?
Seal’s gonna move out…
I push that thought all the way down to the soles of my sneakers and march to the drugstore. I need some new blue eye shadow.
Racks and racks of make-up and that’s when I have this totally brilliant idea.
I frown at the racks. Okay, a week ago I had a brilliant idea that involved roofing nails. Think, Sigrid. Don’t blow it a second time.
Girls like make-up. Mel’s a girl.
Make-up makes a difference. No amount of mascara will turn Mel into Carly Rae, but we have to do the best with what we’ve got and all journeys begin with a single step, Mrs. Dooks said so.
I’d be doing something nice instead of something mean.
Is that the way to become a real Avenger? I feel a little flicker of happiness, and that’s what decides me.
Carefully I choose foundation, blusher, mascara, eyebrow pencil, and eye shadow. Then I pick up some herbal shampoo and conditioner. I pay with debit. I’m going through money like there’s no tomorrow but I’m beyond caring.
A price list is posted on the door of Darlene’s Beauty Salon in the mall. Darlene is happy to sell me a gift certificate.
Last stop is the grocery store. The makings for meat loaf join the make-up in my pack. The rain’s holding off, and despite my headache, I’ll make the best meat loaf ever.
Two hours later, Lorne and Seal pull into our driveway, one right after the other, and don’t tell me that’s coincidence. I mash the potatoes with lots of milk and butter until they’re creamy. Shoes and boots hit the front mat and five minutes later they’re both sitting at the table. We eat, my brother shoveling in his food like he’s Abe’s pig, Seal telling stories about some of his customers; you see all kinds in the liquor store.
When Lorne pushes back his chair, I say, “Hold on a minute.”
He flashes his white-toothed grin. “I’m in a hurry, sis.”
“Mondays and Wednesdays you’ll come home for supper, which I’ll cook. Six p.m. sharp. The rest of the week you can do what you like.”
From sheer surprise, he drops back into his chair. “You telling me what to do?”
“Yes.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m tired of you promising to come home then you end up at Sally’s without even bothering to let me know.” To my dismay, my voice goes raggedy. “I’ve got feelings, Lorne.”
“Jeez, Sigrid, it’s just that—”
“I don’t want your excuses! I want you home twice a week. Is that too much to ask?”
I’ve gone from raggedy to choked-up, hurt and fury duking it out in my throat. He looks seriously alarmed. “I guess not.”
“Good. Same goes for you, Seal, except when you’re on late shift.”
“Okay,” Seal says.
Lorne’s brown eyes are leveled on me now, like he’s thinking hard. Underneath that, they’re kind. I bet Sally goes for the kindness big time. More than for the muscles he works on at Mr. Murphy’s gym?
He says, “Mom’s hardly ever home, no use waiting for her to cook. Seal’s got his shift work. Guess I’ve gotten out of the habit of coming home. Mondays and Wednesdays work for me. And how about every second Sunday I bring Sally here for supper and we’ll order Chinese?”
“That’d be nice,” I quaver.
“Starting this Sunday. Sorry, sis, I should’ve let you know the last couple days.”
He pushes back his chair and this time I let him go.
Seal smooths his hair over his bald spot. He picks up his fork, looking at it like he’s never seen a fork before, then starts digging it into the padded plastic place mat so it leaves rows of little dents. “Me and Davina Murphy,” he says, “she lives in Ratchet and I’ve been seeing her.”
My fingers are clenched in my lap. “I know.”
“You do?”
“Tate told me. A while ago.”
He sighs, shifts the fork to a new patch of place mat, and digs some more. “Should’ve known you can’t spit in the ditch around here without it spreads ripples. They got us married yet?”
“Is that what you want?”
I wait for him to deny it, the blood pounding in my ears. He jabs the mat harder.
“Your mother never wanted more kids. Made that clear to me from the start. Disappointing, me never having had any of my own, but I loved her, and you and Lorne were part of the package.” He looks right at me. “A good part, Sigrid. Then there was all the paperwork and phone calls from lawyers when your father asked for a divorce—she got her dander up and decided she didn’t want to marry me. Common-law, that’s what we settled on. I’m ruining this place mat.”
He runs his thumb over the tines. “Davina and me have been chatting at Tim Hortons for a while now. Then we switched to lunches, then dinners. I want to marry her. Up front. Maybe have a kid or two.”
You’ll be their real dad…
“Oh,” I say.
“She’s a real nice woman. I’d like you to meet her.”
I’m starting to hate that word nice. “Does my mother know?”
Another sigh, all the way from his socked feet. “Not yet.” He looks up, his eyes as baffled as Mel’s. “I tried to make it work with your mother—I really did. Some days, I reckon I’d have felt better if she’d had another man. But eBay and the Shopping Channel? How can you fight a frigging TV?”
The last thing I want is to feel sorry for him. I try to breathe slow. “When are you planning on telling her?”
“When I can catch her with five minutes to spare!”
“It’d better be soon. Or she’ll hear it from someone else.”
He picks up the fork again, stabbing it right through the plastic. “And then there’s you—you’ve been on my mind day and night. Lorne’s okay, he’s a man now. But how can I move to Ratchet and leave you here alone most of the time? Last night—it scared me to realize no one was home with you all night. That’s not right.”
So now it’s my fault he can’t move in with Davina. “My mother will have to stay home more. Or Sally can come and live with Lorne. It’s not your worry!”
He flinches. “Your mother and Sally might have something to say about that. Even though I’d miss you something fierce, I’ve wondered if you’d like to move out west, with your real father?”
The headache tightens its grip. “I’ll ask him,” I say coldly.
“He’s been good to keep in touch and he never misses a month of his payments to Lissie.”
“I’ll ask him,” I repeat, and push away from the table. “I’ll do the dishes. Likely you’re in a hurry to go to Ratchet.”
“Sigrid, I’m doing the best I can.”
All the mad goes out of me, leaving me feeling sad and tired. “You gotta tell my mother, Seal. Not proper she should hear it from one of the neighbors.”
“I’ve been putting it off. She texted me an hour ago that she’s back in town…I’ll head over to Ady’s now.” He stands up, rubbing the back of his neck, and says, real bitter, “I doubt she’ll even care.”
I want a hug in the worst way. Too stiff-necked to ask for one.
He says, avoiding my eyes, “After I talk to your mother, I’ll tell Davina what’s happening. Then I’ll come straight home.”
He walks out of the kitchen, and a few moments later his truck pulls out of the driveway. Once he’s told my mother, everything will change.
I guessed that right. She swerves into our driveway fifty minutes later, braking so hard she burns rubber. Slam of the car door, slam of the front door. Guess Lorne comes by his door-slamming honestly.
No call to be afraid of my own mother.
Rat-tat-tat of her heels on the living-room floor. She parks herself by the kitchen door. She’s vibrating with rage. “How long have you known about all this?”
She’s had her hair cut, short and sassy; her denim skirt is short, too, her top a shimmer of sequins. I say carefully, “I only just found out that Seal wants to marry Davina.”
“He’s ruining everything! How dare he date someone behind my back?”
“Your back’s never home.”
“And what am I going to do about you when I go on buying trips? Tell Lorne he has to babysit?”
The Tylenol I took hasn’t kicked in yet; my head’s throbbing like someone’s playing heavy metal between my ears. “I don’t need a sitter.”
“It’s illegal for you to be alone at night. I’ll tell you, Seal’s buying me a brand-new computer with a 27” screen and it’ll sit right here in the living room—and he’ll pay me child support.”
“If he does, you can afford your own computer—after all, you can afford a flashy car.”
She shoots me a venomous look and starts pacing up and down the kitchen, all her movements jerky. “Ady’s husband, Roy, likes us being over there. Likes his mug of tea on time and his ashtray dumped. How can it work if Ady’s over here, will you explain that to me?”
I sit down hard on the nearest chair. “Ma,” I say, me who never calls her anything, “when it comes to you, I can’t explain my way out of a cardboard box. If you want to spend your days listening to salespeople babble about bone china, that’s your problem. But don’t complain if Seal wants more out of life than a wife who’s addicted to bargains.”
“I’m not his wife! Not to anyone but the income tax.”
“Did you ever want to live with me?”
“I’m your mother, aren’t I?”
“How would I know?”
“Course I am. Gave birth to you in St. Fabien Hospital at 5:43 on a Tuesday morning, 7 lbs. 10 oz. of squall.”
“That’s nearly thirteen years ago.”
“So?”
Last time I cried was right here on the kitchen floor, and I won’t do it again, I won’t. “I’m sure you and Lorne can figure out who’ll sleep home so your daughter—your daughter, Ma—isn’t left alone at night. You can draw up a schedule. Post it on the refrigerator. Here and at Sally’s and at Ady’s.”
“If your father wasn’t such a deadbeat, you could live with him.”
“He’s good enough that you take his money!”
For a minute I think she’s going to slap me, she looks so furious. “I’m going straight to Davina Murphy’s place and tell her what I think of her. Her and her new boyfriend.”
“Don’t, Ma! Please don’t do that.”
But she’s already halfway across the living room. I pick up the phone, my fingers shaking, and punch in the numbers for Seal’s cell. He picks up, his voice so familiar, so safe, that the rest of me starts to shake. “Hello?” he says. “Is that you, Sigrid?”
“My mother’s on her way to Davina’s,” I say, and drop the phone back in its cradle.
Rubbing my eyes, I sit at the table until I’m sure my knees will hold me. Then I push myself upright and waver across the living room to my bedroom. The girl with the sword—what does she know about real life?
Diving under the bedspread, I pull it over my head.
Twenty
to give
Seal taps gently on my door when he comes home. I lie still, pretending to be asleep. He opens the door, stands there a minute, then closes it. I could be a couple pillows under the bedspread for all he knows.
I stay in bed the next morning until him and Lorne have left for work. I don’t have a clue where my mother spent the night. At least my headache’s gone, which is a big relief.
It’s time to put my second brilliant idea into action. I put the make-up I bought into a box, wrapping it in green tissue paper with a purple bow. I skip breakfast.
There’s a headwind all the way to Long Bight and it’s another gray day. But I have this pretty picture in my head of Mel tearing off the tissue paper, seeing all the stuff in the box, and smiling at me, an astonished smile because I cared, a sunny smile because she can make herself look more like Carly Rae Jepsen and less like Mel Corkum.
A smile that means she’ll never act spitey to me again.
No truck beside Mel’s place. I bang on the door.
“Comin’!” she hollers.
W
hen she sees it’s me, her mouth drops open. She should throw her t-shirt in the washer. Or the garbage.
I take the box out of its plastic bag. “This is for you.”
She looks at it as if it’s a live snake. “You makin’ fun of me?”
I suppose it’s only natural she’d act suspicious; the Shrikes were never in the habit of exchanging Christmas or birthday gifts. “It’s a present, that’s all.”
“You got no call to be givin’ me presents.”
“It’s nice, Mel. You’ll like it.”
I’m starting to feel antsy. Don’t tell me I’ve blown it again.
She says, “You put a dead animal inside, that’s what you did. Road-kill.”
“I didn’t!”
I thrust the box at her. She hefts it in her hand, shaking it to see if it sounds like squashed squirrel. The contents rattle. She sniffs at the tissue paper.
“See you,” I say and hurry up the slope.
I can feel her eyes on my back. I’d guess it’s been a very long time since anyone gave Mel Corkum a present.
After breakfast, I ride my bike to Abe’s barn. He’s hilling his potatoes, and he leans on his hoe as I approach him on the path.
“Had to shovel the manure meself yesterday,” he says.
I blush. “Sorry.”
“Hmph. Gonna rain tonight. I’ll have me a good crop this year providin’ I keep ahead of the beetles.”
He shows me one of the brown-and-white striped beetles, squishing it between his fingers. I find a few and pass them to him. With a gap-toothed grin, he says, “You’d kill ’em, girl, if your life depended on the taters you’d stored up for winter.”
Have I changed so much I don’t even want to bully potato beetles?
In the barn, Ghost is on his usual perch in the loft. I talk to him for a while before I shovel the cow patties into the barrow and wheel them outside, dumping them on the manure pile. I spread fresh straw in the cow’s stall, scratch the pig’s back, chuck to the hens, then sit on a bale and pretend to fall asleep. A fly buzzes at the window. The pig snorts and the hens cluck. Will I ask my real father if I can live with him? What would it be like to move to Fort McMurray?
