by Teresa Toten
“The real problem …” we all leaned in, “is the way he kisses.” Madison made a very unbecoming gagging sound.
“What?” asked Kit. “A slobberer? Don’t tell me he slobbers!”
“I hate slobberers!” commiserated Sarah.
I nodded with disgusted empathy, even though I didn’t know what I was nodding about. I have only ever been kissed by Luke. The gruesome Ferguson Englehardt, who back in grade nine spent an entire party trying to part my teeth with his tongue, did not count. No, there was just Luke. Luke and me, outside on the fire escape at Auntie Luba’s wedding … Jesus God, I still wore his kisses, still felt them. I could taste Lucas Pearson even now, sitting there with my coffee. I shivered but kept nodding.
“He doesn’t slobber.” Madison lowered her voice. “He sucks.”
“Yeah,” nodded Kit. “I figured, but why?”
“No, I mean literally, he sucks.”
“Ohhh …” nodded Sarah while keeping an eye out for Mike. “He’s a Hoover.”
Madison nodded. Everyone else made a face.
I couldn’t pretend a minute longer. “I don’t get it,” I said.
“I keep forgetting that your education was pathetically lacking in all things important before us.” Kit rolled her eyes.
“A Hoover,” explained Sarah, “is one of the worst.”
“Yup.” Madison made a face. “It’s like he’s vacuuming your mouth, trying to suck out all your spit and your tongue.”
I felt my gorge rise and my gag reflex signal danger.
“But, then again,” Sarah came in to review the damage, “Billy is such a hunk, rival team captain, and …”
“Then, when he gets tired from all that Hoovering,” Madison raised her trump card, “he sticks his tongue right in and then, then he just leaves it there for a little rest.”
“Whoa, stop!” Kit glanced my way. “Sophie’s going to puke.”
Sarah passed me some water. “Oh well, dump him then,” she sighed. “You can’t rehabilitate a tired tongue. We’ll dig up someone from our own senior team for you. We can’t have you with a Hooverer and a tongue-rester for heaven’s sake.”
They nodded. I burped.
By the time we left, it was dark. I went home with Madison. She needed moral reinforcement because Edna was invited for dinner. Madison still wasn’t handling the whole Edna being her real biological grandmother any better. In fact, she was getting worse. Last year, she actually introduced Edna to Kit as her former housekeeper, which was bordering on creepy given how obvious it was to anyone with a pulse that Edna worshiped Madison. Edna’s problem was that she crashed right through Madison’s whole idea about herself and about who she was. Madison once confessed that she had told her grade two teacher that her biggest fantasy was to grow up to be a Chandler. Little Madison wanted to grow up and to take her rightful place as a responsible member of her own family, silver fish forks and all.
At seven, I wanted to be the Green Hornet.
“Don’t you think it’s time?” I asked as we walked up her path. “I mean to just get it over with and tell Kit and Sarah who Edna really is? You have to know that you’ll feel better getting it off your chest. And God knows she worships the dirt you drag your feet on.” I couldn’t see her reaction, but I could hear her sigh. “Look how well they handled the whole thing about you being adopted. That was a big so what, so I’m betting Edna will be too.”
She groaned. “I know, I know, it’s not even that. The woman makes me mental, and it’s like if I say it out loud, say that we’re related, it’ll make it true for good.”
“Well, yeah, it’ll make denial harder for sure, but I’m just saying that it’ll feel way better to get it out.”
“Yeah …” she said, doubt and suspicion piercing a thousand holes in that one-syllable word.
We barely got to the door when it flew open, with Edna on the other side. Edna had a disconcerting habit of taking on “meet and greet” duties when she was over for dinner. “Come in and take a load off, girls. Fabi and me have just been yukking it up while I waited for my beautiful granddaughter.”
Okay, that was suspicious. Fabiola was the real Chandler housekeeper, fiercely loved and loving in return, but a woman of few words, the Clint Eastwood of maids. “Probably pumping her for info,” Madison muttered under her breath.
I jumped right in. “Hi Edna. Nice to see you again.”
She somehow smiled at me without taking her eyes off Madison. “And your folks called to say they were running a bit late. Toot!”
I could feel Madison start to hyperventilate. One of Edna’s unique peccadilloes was that she had serious gas issues, which made her a championship farter. At some point, Edna convinced herself that she could mask the actual farts by saying the word “toot” out loud every time she let one fly. It just about undid Madison and her father every time she did it. Her mum and her grandfather, on the other hand, found the tootings killer funny.
Edna minced over to Madison. “Look at you, doll! What a sight for sore eyes you are!”
Madison submitted to a three-second hug and then politely extricated herself. “You too, Edna. Wow, your hair … wow.”
Edna’s hair was another one of those peccadillo things. Today, she was sporting flame-retardant orange, which had been teased and feathered within an inch of its life. She patted her sparse but puffy puffs. “You like it? I think it’s classier than the perm, toot, don’t ya think?” She kept patting. “I got to keep it classy for my classy granddaughter, toot, toot!”
“I like it, Edna.” Madison glared at me. Well, it was a step up from her most recent “do,” which was a conflicted combination of tight little curls in front and straight as a plank in the back. Edna always said she didn’t give a “tinker’s damn” what people thought of her when she was leaving a room.
“Want a drink, kids?”
“Uh?” said Madison.
“I know my honeybun will want a Coke. I’ll get you one too, Sophie.” And off she toddled to the bar in the den, humming Frank Sinatra’s “Strangers in the Night.”
“I am going to have to kill her.” Madison shook her head. “I see no other way out. I mean, make yourself right at home why don’t you!”
I had to admit that Edna threatened to make the Aunties look reasonable. Maybe that was why I liked her so much. No, that wasn’t it. Edna had balls. Mrs. Edna Ryder, mother of Madison’s biological mother, was light years below the Chandler family food chain and that didn’t faze her a bit. Every time I went over for dinner, it was like they had invented some new appliance that I had to pretend to know how to use. The last time it was this weird little silver blob that sat above the cutlery, a knife rest. Edna had a field day with that one. There I was tracking Mrs. Chandler with sonar precision, copying her every move, all pinched and petrified that my cover would be blown, that I wouldn’t pass. Edna did not pretend. Edna had a blast doing colour commentary on her knife rest. “Are ya tired, dear knife? Here, have a nap, toot, toot. What a hoot! What next, I ask ya?”
I followed her into the den to help with the drinks. She didn’t need any. Edna used the polished silver tongs to plop sculpted ice cubes into the crystal tumblers like she’d been born to it.
“Ice is ice, honey.” It was like she could feel my astonishment. “And bourbon tastes the same in crystal as it does in a Dixie cup.” She took a healthy snort and then topped up before heading back to Madison. That was Edna for you. Edna who lived in assisted housing. Edna who had plastic covers on her lampshades and her sofa. Edna who had a Dixie cup dispenser in her kitchen for God’s sake, who delighted in the gift of her new-found granddaughter, and who didn’t give a fairy fart about anything else. That Edna thought, no, she knew, that she was every bit as good as the Chandlers or anybody else in the stadium. I wanted some of that.
Maybe a religion could give it to me.
I got one! I got religion! Well, religions actually. After much serious consideration, deliberation, and flipping of coins, I
decided that I was going to be a Buddhist, with a bit of Jewish, and a drop of Catholic.
It felt right. My trusty encyclopedia said that Buddhism is a pile of really old spiritual teachings that mostly revolve around the concept of inner peace and God knows I wanted some of that. A bigger plus was that they seemed like a pretty flexible lot, which was perfect because I didn’t want to sweat the details. The details are why I couldn’t be Catholic. Catholics had way too many details.
I made an altar by piling up Mama’s stockpot on top of our Polish to English and Bulgarian to English dictionaries. I covered it all with several of Auntie Luba’s crocheted doilies. I got a nice long cream candle from Madison and stuck it in a silver candleholder that had belonged to Papa’s grandpa in Poland. All in all, my altar looked quite festive, if not technically accurate. Still, I was sure that Buddha would approve; he was all about getting rid of your suffering. Between the melodrama of my Eastern Europeanness and the daily opera that was Mama, I’d cut my teeth on suffering. Enough already. Buddhism and me—hand in glove except for the fact that the overall vibe was maybe a bit too blissed out. I wasn’t sure I could handle that much serenity, hence the Jewish part. Not too much, just enough to goose all that bliss and make me feel comfortably uncomfortable.
I explained all this to Papa on the Saturday after the funeral. Mama was showing houses, so Papa and I were having lunch. Just like the old days.
So normal … but not.
We were enjoying our favourite meal, Auntie Eva’s bread and our special Campbell’s tomato soup, which was one can each and only half the liquids they tell you so that it’s closer to warm ketchup than soup. Heaven. He glanced at his watch. Papa’s life of leisure was pretty well over since he had been made president, CEO, and chief driver of Pescatore’s White Night Limousines. They had inherited two ancient Italian drivers who were good for taking people to and from the airport but not much else. Papa did the drives to Niagara Falls, weddings, celebrities, and stuff like that. Today, he had a run to pick up a guest at a downtown hotel and drive him to a jazz club in Buffalo.
“So, you’re a Buddhist Jew?”
“Yup.” I nodded in between slurps. “Good soup, Papa. You haven’t lost your touch with a can opener.”
“High praise indeed.” He winked. “A Buddhist Jew, hmm. Just how orthodox do you intend to be?”
Yes. Well. There were choices? I knew I should have paid closer attention to the Judaism, or the Religion of Israel section of the encyclopedia.
“Are you going to keep kosher, for instance?”
Aha! I knew about this bit. I was the Seder kid for the Kauffman family four schools back. Every Friday, I’d turn on and off their lights, their stove, and anything electrical. The Kauffmans also had two separate kitchens and even two sets of dishes. There also was something about dairy and lobsters that sprang to mind, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Well, there might not be any more pork in my future, but I’m not sure about how kosher to take it. I don’t want to piss off the Buddhists.”
Papa smiled.
“I bet there’s like all sorts of kosher levels.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but there’s orthodox, modern orthodox, conservative, and reform, and then within those there are …”
“There, the last one, the reform one. That just sounds right.” Yup, I was adamant. “Reform it is.”
“Wise choice.” Papa got up, cleared the table, and started washing the dishes. “Why Judaism at all, if I may ask?”
“Well, thing is, Buddhists are so laid-back, which is exactly what I want, but then where do I go with the Sophieness part of me and so, presto, Jewishness!” Whoa, Papa was doing dishes? Was that AA or Auntie Eva? “I like being Jewish. It feels like me.”
To his credit, he didn’t laugh.
“Look, I know I don’t know much about either of them, but I’m going to learn and …”
“Of course you are.” He kissed my forehead. “You surprise me every single day, Sophie Kandinsky.”
I watched him finish drying. “You too, Papa.”
“Well, my beautiful Buddhist-Jewish-Catholic, I’ve got to get back to the office and make some calls before I go on a run.” My God, he sounded so … I don’t know, like other fathers must sound on their way to work, so I own a briefcase. It was weird.
Papa hugged me goodbye.
I hugged back hard.
He was amazing and solid and consistent and … it’s just that there were entire minutes when I didn’t recognize him. Did Mama recognize him?
As soon as the door shut, I felt claustrophobic. A run would be perfect. I’d run my ass off today and tomorrow, so that by Monday’s practice, I would show dragon boy that I was in fabulous shape, that I was a basketball warrior queen, invincible, superhuman, a leader of leaders.
Not that I cared.
I slapped on a decaying pair of gym shorts and one of Papa’s old sweatshirts, pulled my hair back into a massive ponytail, and even though it was almost the end of September, I grabbed my designer sunglasses for good measure. They were my lucky glasses. Mike said so. He and Auntie Luba bought them for me on their honeymoon. They stayed at The Plaza in New York City, which is beyond romantic if you can wrap your head around the fact that they’re both in their forties. Anyway, while they were there, Auntie Luba bought me these amazing Dior sunglasses from an entrepreneur who was selling them from a blanket on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street. They looked fabulous on me, even though the gold R fell off on the very first day. Kit called them my Dios.
It was a good decision, good to be there. The park was built over a reservoir overlooking Spadina and St. Clair avenues, so it gave you a feeling of being on top of the world. This time, I almost had the place to myself, just a couple of other joggers and dog walkers. There was a running path all around the outside perimeter of the park. I planned to do at least six cycles, which would be more than two miles. That’ll show him. The colours were turning fast. They got more intense with every lap. The air was just crisp enough that I could pick up a scent of burning leaves every time I rounded the southwest corner. I felt charged, electrified, the hairs on the back of my neck raised.
Wait a min—
Was that my name?
“Sophie! Sophie, wait up!”
Someone cut the cables holding up my stomach.
Couldn’t be.
I ran faster, with my heart knocking around in my chest. My internal organs were a mess.
“Sophie, wait, hold on!”
Jesus God! Damn, can a Buddhist Jew say Jesus God? Think it?
I stopped but did not turn around.
“Soph, hey, I know it’s you under those glasses!”
If she was with him, if the baby, if the child, his child was, I would projectile vomit.
“Sophie!”
I stopped, inhaled, and turned around. Luke. All by himself. Gorgeous, smiling, adorable Lucas Pearson.
“Hey, you look great, Sophie.” He flashed his lone dimple.
I exhaled into his smile and then fixated on the fact that I was wearing gangrenous gym shorts and a fifteen-year-old sweatshirt. In a stupendously pathetic attempt to look better I sucked in my stomach and willed my lips to turn glossy.
“It must be the Dios.” He looked perplexed. “My sunglasses.” I took them off.
“Nope.” He shook his head. “Still great, in fact, even greater now that I can see your eyes. How are you, Sophie?” He stepped closer to me. Perilously close.
Fabulous, Holy Buddha, never better.
“Good. Okay. You know.” I stuck one of the sunglass arms into my mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully. I saw Farrah Fawcett do that once on Charlie’s Angels and all the bad guys swooned, except I stuck it too far down and gagged.
A jogger blew by us and shot me a dirty look. Luke took my elbow and led me off the path. He walked us over to a massive chestnut, my favourite tree in the whole park.
“I watched you run for a wh
ile. Hope you don’t mind. Your form is impressive.”
Well, we can thank your best friend, the drill sergeant, for that. But I didn’t say anything because Lucas Pearson was holding my arm, hence, words were out of the question. Jesus, he still smelled of Sunlight Soap. I extricated myself before I got flooded by the physical memory of him.
It was instantly colder. I shivered. He moved to put his arm around me.
Stopped. Stepped back.
Colder still.
“Luke, were you at, did you come to Luigi’s funeral?”
“Yeah, sorry.” He stroked the tree trunk. I looked longingly at the tree. “I wanted to pay my respects.”
I was aware that he looked haunted or hunted. I was aware that there were circles under his eyes, blue circles, blue eyes, stubble on his jaw. Luke was tired. I was also aware that all this made him more gorgeous. I scanned my word file for something to say, then remembered that it was his turn to speak. He didn’t. Instead, he reached over and touched my lips with his fingers.
Jesus God Buddha Moses.
He drew them away immediately.
We both pretended it didn’t happen.
“Yeah, so I remembered Luigi from Mike and Luba’s wedding.”
I like to think that we both paused to remember the wedding, the dancing, the fire escape, the promises.
“But then I chickened out and snuck away as soon as you finished the reading. You did great. You looked great.”
Okay, enough already. “How’s … uh …” I couldn’t get the words out. Alison the slut who trapped you by getting pregnant just didn’t seem appropriate.
