Melt

by Heidi Wicks

  BREAKWATER

  P.O. Box 2188 • St. John’s • NL • Canada • A1C 6E6

  WWW.BREAKWATERBOOKS.COM

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from Library and Archives Canada.

  Copyright ©2020 Heidi Wicks

  ISBN 978-1-55081-824-6

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador through the Department of Business, Tourism, Culture and Rural Development for our publishing activities.

  PRINTED AND BOUND IN CANADA.

  Breakwater Books is committed to choosing papers and materials for our books that help to protect our environment. To this end, this book is printed on a recycled paper and other controlled sources that are certified by the Forest Stewardship Council®.

  For Elise

  contents

  Afterdeath

  Prophecies Through Plastic Trees and a Plexiglas Sky

  Death By Pancake Batter

  Death By Marriage

  Atom Heart Mother

  Dream Whiplash

  A Cubist Existence

  Fake Tans, False Hopes

  Salt in the Womb

  Blitzed in a Mall At an Inapproprite Age

  The Fog of Rapture

  Shaved Legs and Coconut Oil

  Slip ’n Slide to the Past

  Letter Go

  Sunshine List Slaughter

  Crunchy Peanut Butter

  Wind Warning in the Wrecked House

  Sugarloaf Secrets

  A Kinship of Cinematic Rivals

  El Camino

  Budding Buddies in the Bookstacks

  Taxi Driver

  Chains and Mixed Signals

  The Bannerman Rebound

  Retch and Release

  Rogue Waves

  A Healing Separation Agreement of Horseshittery

  Bruised Hearts, Fresh Starts

  Melt

  Acknowledgments

  afterdeath

  2016

  Cait brushes flakes of coconut and globs of marshmallow off the table surface next to the three-tiered crystal cookie tray. Sweeping the crumbs into her palm, she flinches as her hand rubs over something that feels not quite like a marshmallow glob, but more like the booger of a child.

  Her child?

  Horror sweeps through Cait’s body and she gawks past the items on the long food table:

  the hash brown casseroles and

  potato salads and

  macaroni salads and

  ham slices and

  fruitcake slices.

  On a round mahogany side table on the other side of the room, photographs framed in ornate silver are staggered, showcasing shimmering Kodak moments—babies and grandbabies being held in hospital rooms and churches and living rooms (including this very living room), weddings in churches, weddings on beaches, fifty-somethings dancing at a retirement party, a fiftieth anniversary party—landmark moments of a life. Behind the photos is an extravagant floral arrangement—orchids and lilies and spindles of wild grass, swooping and spilling out over the crystal vase. It is a display table that might appear on Dynasty.

  Standing next to said table is Maisie, age five. Wiping something goopy onto said crystal vase.

  Her child. Definitely her child.

  Cait glances skittishly around, the room chock-a-block with black suits and dresses and handkerchief-holding hands and friends and family, sobbing and laughing and hugging and sharing old memories. Did any of them see Maisie? Wiping her nose nugget on the set of Dynasty?

  Cait tries to catch her husband’s eye. Jake is in his usual stance. Legs apart, grand, dramatic finger and hand and arm gestures painting a Jackson Pollock in the air as he spews animated stories to anyone listening. Jake is standing closer to Maisie, and is in a better position to make sure there aren’t more boogers threatening to further tarnish the Dynasty ether. She wills him to look at her. Why can’t he see what’s going on? Shouldn’t he be able to read her mind by now? Read my mind, she bores her thoughts into his. Read. My. Mind. We have been together for twenty fucking years and we have a child together, and why? Why don’t you pay attention? Why don’t you pick up a tissue? This is a goddamn funeral reception and there are tissues everywhere, which you could use to wipe your daughter’s boogery nose so she’s not smearing it all over the Dynasty vase, and why don’t you pick up a goddamndable mother-loving tissue?

  Jake is oblivious.

  Jess is never far from Cait’s periphery.

  Currently, Jess is close to the table with the flowers and the photos and the speculative booger, her eyes flitting between the food table, the drink table, the guests—worrying. Does everyone have something in their hands? A plate? A beverage? Does everyone have someone to talk to? Where is her father? Is he holding it together?

  The photos in the elegant silver frames:

  Jess, as a child, in her bed, in a flannel nightgown, her mother cuddled next to her and they are cheek-to-cheek.

  Jess and Cait, at the high-school grad, with Jess’s parents. Cait spent at least half of her childhood at Jess’s house. “There’s the extra youngster!” Jess’s dad always said to her, with a tongue-tut and a hair ruffle, whenever she’d tromp through their door. Cait got along with Jess’s dad better than her own.

  Jess and her two little brothers, and their mother, and their father, on Halloween, all dressed as a bunch of grapes. Purple balloons, stuck with double-sided tape, all over their turtlenecks and spandex pants. The children’s faces painted with terror, petrified one of the balloons may pop. Jess can almost smell the latex as she looks at the photo.

  Jess, and her two young sons, and her husband, Dan, and her mother and her father, on Myrtle Beach, all sunburned like lobsters: The Newfoundland base tan. Neon orange and green sandcastle shovels and pails scattered around, tossed aside, and Jess’s father is covered in sand, pretending to be a monster trying to escape. He looked so happy, then. Dan’s shoulders are shrugged, his eyebrows raised, his characteristic silly look. Jess gazes at her boys like she is just so glad they exist. Her mother’s teeth, large and white, her head thrown back, her laugh is in full force in the photo, so much that it can almost be heard right there in the living room from beyond the grave.

  Jess blinks away tears and her blurred vision clears to focus on her boys, who are curled around each other like pretzels in the corner of the couch, both of their little faces illuminated by their shared iPad’s glow. Her heart halts placid.

  CRASH. The Dynasty vase is now on the floor, in several sharp pieces, because Maisie has, indeed, tried to wipe another bedangler on it and knocked it over in the process. Cait rages internally at Jake for not paying more attention.

  Her pupils quiver in panic, flitting from Maisie over to Jess, bouncing upon every person standing in the living room, trying to see if any of those faces noticed the shattered Dynasty vase. Of course, everyone has noticed. Finally, Jake notices Cait and she jerks her neck towards Maisie and he rolls his eyes and stalks towards their daughter as if it’s Cait’s fault.

  Cait is closer to Jess than the Maisie situation, so she weaves herself through the people towards her best friend. Jess’s brow is crumpled.

  “I’m so sorry about that, but don’t even worry about it,” Cait lays a hand on her shoulder. “Jake will clean that up.” She eyes her husband and daughter, realizing that Maisie could
snap at any time. It’s been a long day for them all, and she hasn’t napped. She’ll ask Jake to take her home soon.

  “Are you sure?” Jess’s voice wobbles. Her face is red, flushed.

  “Abso-fucking-lutely. It’s about time he woke up and helped out a bit.”

  Jess breathes through the clenching fist in her stomach. Cait and Jake have been at each other for years. Pick-pick-picking like crows jabbing their beaks into other people’s garbage.

  “Hey,” Cait tilts her head towards the kitchen, “let’s pop in there for a minute.” She shakes her wine glass. “I’m on empty,” she nods at Jess’s glass, “and you are too.”

  Jess imagines the cold white wine sliding down her throat, and she’s sold. She glances towards her father. He’s with someone he hasn’t seen in a long, long time and they are deep in conversation. The nodding, the arms crossed over the chest, the occasional hand on shoulder. He is in ‘maintain appearances’ mode. Just get through it. Put on a show, keep it together. Dissolve later, when it’s all over, when in solitude, amongst soggy sandwich trays and lasagnas and cookie crumbs and booze.

  The girls push through the swinging door to Jess’s parents’ kitchen. The door always reminded Jess of a saloon in one of the old Westerns her dad watched late at night on the Atlantic Satellite Network. Jess and Cait would call through the door as kids while they were playing hotel.

  “Rita!” eight-year-old Jess would holler. Rita was Cait’s waitress name. “Room one-oh-four wants a steak and eggs—right away! He’s a real jerk, too, so ya better hurry up.” Jess played the part of Nancy, the kitchen chef, who always had to take care of everything—including Rita. The Nancy-Rita dynamic was not unlike real life. Rita was constantly late for shifts, and Nancy was always tutting her tongue at Rita. The world of Nancy and Rita existed ran in full, unapologetic technicolour for hours at a time, until their brows were damp in a cool sweat from running up and down the stairs, delivering fake room-service orders.

  Cait squats down and digs into the back of the fridge, where she’d hidden a bottle of Prosecco. “Here. Gimme your glass.” She sits on the floor, holding her arm backwards until she feels Jess lay the stem between her fingers. She pulls the bottle out, shimmies the cork out and Pop! Cait splashes the cold, gold bubbles into the glass and hands it back to Jess. “Now pass me mine?” She doesn’t want anyone else drinking their Prosecco, so she hides it back in the back of the fridge, strategically placing the milk directly in front, but then the chocolate milk next to the white milk. If a youngster were to tear into the kitchen, thirsty, sweaty, the second they saw chocolate milk they’d ignore the white as if it was some kind of instruction from a parent.

  Cait stands up next to Jess, and they lean their hips against the kitchen island.

  Cait raises her glass. “To your most wonderful mother.”

  Jess taps her glass against Cait’s and gulps down a mouthful of wine along with her tears. “Jesus.” She slams the glass onto the counter. “I am so goddamn tired.”

  Cait leans into her best friend. “Of course you are. You must be desperate for everyone to get the fuck out of here.” She stands straight and hops up on the counter. “Hey, remember that time we snuck home from a party and tried to creep up the stairs but your mother heard us come in, and met us on the stairs and frightened the bejesus out of us?”

  Jess snorts Prosecco bubbles up her nose and coughs. “Oh fuck, yes.” Cough cough, “You started barfing everywhere and Mom was looking up alcohol poisoning online.” The booze bubbles pop in her belly. Little golden sparkles of happy memories. She is thankful for this stolen moment, this brief grief reprieve.

  “What an asshole I was back then.” Cait stares at the ceiling.

  “You were…stressful,” Jess agrees.

  “Shit, I still am.” Cait hiccups, cringing at the sound of Jake’s voice from the next room.

  “Well…I’m sure we all are in our own way.” Jess swallows the last of the Prosecco. “Is there more?”

  “You bet your ass there’s more.” Cait hops off the counter and goes back to the fridge, back behind the chocolate milk.

  Jess lays a hand on her forehead, suddenly feeling flushed.

  “You need to breathe. This,” Cait gestures towards the living room, “is a lot.” She hands Jess more bubbles.

  The saloon door bangs open and it’s Liam—Jess’s youngest.

  “Mom!” He yells. “I dropped my Orange Crush! It’s all over the carpet!”

  “Oh, fff—” Jess wants to scream FUCK so badly right now she craves it like a dirty street hot dog after a long night out. One, long, loud shriek would be so satisfying, she thinks, as she swishes wine in her mouth before swallowing it hard.

  “Nope, let me get it,” Cait drains her own glass and lays it on the counter. “I’ll be right back, Jess. Stay here. Come on, bud.” She takes Liam’s hand and grabs a roll of paper towels and they’re off. Rita wouldn’t do this. She’d be off with her boyfriend, on the back of some motorcycle.

  Jess sips the fresh bubbles. Leans her butt back against the counter. She can’t wait to peel the polyester skirt-suit off. It feels restrictive and suffocating, and she just wants Dan’s waffle knit Henley over a pair of leggings. No bra.

  If her mother was here, she wouldn’t give two fucks about Orange Crush on the carpet. “Sure what odds, it’s only carpet,” she’d probably say. Jess breathes in-two-three and out-two-three. Her body twitches and she can’t help wondering if her father is crushed over the Crush. He was always the more sensitive one. She gazes around the kitchen, the countertops littered with plastic cups and paper plates, napkins, nearly empty platters with cold cuts and sweet pickles and pickled onions. Her mother is everywhere. Next to the oven, pulling out a tray of chocolate-chip cookies. There’s still a large Tupperware container full of them at home in her deep freeze. Sitting at the kitchen table, arm around Jess, helping her with a book report. She remembers the smell of her mother’s baby powder-scented antiperspirant. The feel of her fuzzy permed hair, which sometimes tickled her cheek when they hugged or when her mother leaned in too close at the table.

  Cait bangs the saloon door open, a large wad of orange paper towels in her hand. “Rita gets the job done!” She whacks the clump into the garbage can. “I won’t lie, the carpet’s a bit stained.”

  Jess’s face falls.

  “It’ll totally come out though—bit of Clorox, that’s all you need.”

  “Is it in a noticeable spot?”

  “Nah—it’s just a little bit, right next to the fireplace. Not in the middle of the room or anything.”

  “Ok.”

  “Hey,” Cait pulls the photo of them at their graduation out from under her armpit, “I was just looking at this and I suddenly had a weird flash of Matt Bohmer being at the funeral home? Is that right? Or was I seeing things?”

  “No, you weren’t seeing things. He was there.”

  “Odd, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so…”

  “Doesn’t he live in Ontario?”

  “Yup.” Jess drains her second glass and lays it a bit too forcefully on the counter.

  “Do you…still talk to him?” Cait feels her stomach tighten. She hates Matt Bohmer. She hates all the pain he caused her best friend when he broke her heart, even if it was way back in grade twelve. She’s afraid Jess still loves him—the owner of that shit-eating grin that always drove her crazy, even when Jess and Matt were in love, and she hated it even more after they broke up.

  “Not really.” Jess wobbles slightly as she stands straight from the counter, preparing to re-enter the living room. She has barely eaten in days. “He messages me once every six months, maybe?”

  Cait squints her eyes at Jess.

  “Oh fuck off, Cait, I know what you’re thinking when you shoot me that stink eye. I have long since buried my feelings for Matt. It was a long frigging time ago.” Her walk is a slight stagger and, thankfully, it’s almost time for everyone to leave.

  “
Alright, fine. I believe you.” Cait does not believe her. She lays the photo down on the counter and links her arm into Jess’s. “Your mother was beaming that day. She was always so proud of you.”

  Great, heaving, retching sobs. From nowhere. Jess clutches onto Cait and throws her arms around her, buries her face into her best friend’s neck and weeps. She has leaned all of her weight into Cait, and Cait holds her until she can’t any longer, and they both sink onto the floor.

  Cait reaches up onto the counter next to the sink, finds a napkin and trickles cold water on it. “Here,” she passes it to Jess. “Dab your face and eyes a little bit. I can hear people leaving now. Just hold it together for a few more minutes.”

  They hear the front door opening and closing. Car engines starting. Children’s voices are inaudible—probably because they’ve been sent upstairs to play in the boys’ rooms.

  Jess’s cheeks are hot from crying and Prosecco drinking. The tips of her ears sear hot from heartache. The saloon door swings open. Dan. Jess lifts her forehead from her palms to look up at him. Her eyes are rimmed black with mascara and eyeliner and she startles him. “Yama Hama, it’s fright night,” he spits out the Seinfeld line and stumbles back a few steps, like Kramer, without skipping a beat. Jess breaks into chuckles and Dan slides down onto the floor next to her, tag-teaming Cait, who goes to the living room to tend to her family.

  On the way home, Maisie sleeps in her car seat, her cheek hot and flushed against the fabric. “Death has a way of making you take stock, doesn’t it?”

  “Hmm.” Jake keeps his eyes on the road.

  “I mean, you see shows and movies about the afterlife, and they always seem to be these lost souls, or these forlorn dwellers, just trying to make a braid from the strands of their life. Don’t you think?”

  Jake jabs his finger at the flat screen on the dashboard. “How do you get this fucking Bluetooth to come on?”

  “I mean—when someone dies, someone from your childhood, someone you were close to…you can’t help but think about yourself as you were in the past—”