“Sorry,” Jordan murmured.
“No problem. And to answer your question, I’m excited about doing something so normal. And so Halifax.”
Jordan angled her car up the hill, deciding to go through downtown, which wouldn’t see much traffic until later in the morning. She scanned the streets and side streets out of habit, looking for her kids, a face she recognized, a way to help. This, she realized, was her normal. And likely it didn’t match any definition of Ali’s.
“What would you normally be doing on a Saturday?” Jordan said.
“Working,” Ali said, looking out the window. “It’s the quietest day at the office. If not working, then working out. I still golf. Sometimes I’ll see friends. My parents, when they’re in town.” Ali shrugged. “I’m not home enough to have a weekend routine, I guess. My life is very corporate America.” She said the last part dryly. Jordan sensed her deflection.
“Does it make you happy?”
Ali folded the top of the bakery bag over and creased it carefully before looking at Jordan and answering. “No. Not anymore.”
The words were a heaviness, and Jordan absorbed the edges of sadness she guessed Ali did not want to acknowledge. At least not right now.
“Thanks for answering such an invasive question.”
Ali laughed lightly. “And before I’ve had coffee, even.”
Jordan turned left up at the light. “We should remedy that. We’ll need fortification to get through the morning.”
“It makes a difference that we’ve got history, I think.” Ali said after a moment of silence. She glanced sideways at Jordan. “Answering questions about myself. I’m not trying to impress you with how together I am, my address, my degrees. How my booze collection far outweighs the food in my fridge.” Jordan raised her eyebrows, and Ali laughed. “You’re either a gourmet chef in your spare time or you brag about eating takeout for all your meals. There is no in between.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“So what does it mean that I’m taking you to McDonald’s for coffee?”
Ali pretended to think about. “That you’re normal.”
“Fuck that,” Jordan muttered.
She noticed a clump of people sitting in a vestibule outside the Lucky Seven convenience store, the only open store at this hour. They were likely hoping for some change. She scanned their faces, looking past their uniforms of hoodies and jeans and dirty jackets. She recognized at least one of the kids. She pulled up next to the curb and put on her four-way flashers.
“Give me a minute,” Jordan said to Ali before she opened her car door. She called over the hood of her car. “Hey. I’m heading to McDonald’s. You guys want anything?”
There was silence for a minute before the expressions of the teenagers went from defiance and suspicion to nearly childlike joy. A chorus of “Jordan!” and “Fuck, yeah” rang out before they called out their orders, one kid getting cuffed in the side of the head for ordering a cheeseburger while the breakfast menu was still up.
Jordan repeated the order to make sure she got everything, then she ducked back into her car.
“Shouldn’t add too much time to our trip,” Jordan said as she pulled back onto the street. She could feel Ali watching her.
“This is your normal Saturday morning?” Ali said.
It wasn’t, exactly. But scanning the streets for her kids, feeding someone who looked hungry? That was her life. “Yes.”
Ali didn’t say anything, but Jordan felt a momentary anxiety at the evidence of the stark differences of their lives.
Jordan pulled into the McDonald’s drive-thru and soon was handing Ali bags of food and trays of coffee.
“I got it,” Ali said, balancing the two trays of coffee on her lap and pressing the giant paper bags of breakfast sandwiches and hash browns against her side. She looked so serious in that moment, committed to holding on to breakfast for a bunch of street kids. Jordan quickly picked up her phone from the console and snapped a picture.
“What the hell was that?” Ali laughed.
“Your boss said you needed to keep a journal. I thought you could use some photo evidence.”
“Drive, McAddie. You massive pain in the ass.”
Feeling lighter then, happy and connected, Jordan drove back the way they had come. The kids crowded around the car as soon as they pulled up. Jordan handed the bags of food through the window as they jostled and pushed, drawn by the sight and scent of food. They looked tired, Jordan thought. She wondered if any of them had slept the night before. But she laughed when one kid shoved an entire hash brown in his mouth, then danced around because it was so hot. His friends laughed and the group moved off down the street, waving their thanks to Jordan.
They drove in silence, Jordan half worrying about the kids she’d just left, half worrying about what Ali thought of her. After a moment, Ali pulled Jordan’s coffee out of the tray, pushed back the opening in the lid, and handed it to Jordan.
“Thanks,” Jordan said. “Your shotgun skills are excellent.”
“Ivy League schools teach you everything,” Ali said.
Soon, they’d left the downtown core and pulled into the blocks of low apartment buildings and tightly packed, run-down townhouses of Jordan’s childhood. These streets were nearly dead. The only evidence of life they saw was a stray cat and someone sitting on their front steps in their pyjamas, smoking a cigarette.
“Your parents still live in the same place?”
“Yes.”
Ali had been here only twice, as far as Jordan could remember. Both brief visits for Jordan to pick something up that she’d needed. As a teenager, Jordan had only felt shame. She had perspective now, a broader understanding of her family dynamic, addictions, and cycles of poverty. She read about it, she lived it, she helped her kids live through it. But driving Ali to the heart of her childhood still made her stomach tremble.
“There’s my mom,” Jordan said as she pulled into a parking spot outside the townhomes. Rosa McAddie was already making her way down the front steps of number eighteen Cobden Street. She was wearing a sweater and a jacket, her purse slung protectively across her chest. Jordan jumped out of the car, and she heard Ali get out as well. Rosa’s eyes lit up at the sight of Jordan. Jordan smiled and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Mom.” It had taken Jordan years to see every day of connection and love as a gift instead of a stark reminder of what she had not been able to count on growing up.
“Hi, Mrs. McAddie, I’m Ali Clarke.”
“Hello, there. Yes, I remember you, Ali Clarke.” Rosa peered up at the two of them. “Yes, I distinctly remember you two towering over me. And you’ve both grown. And I think I’ve shrunk.”
Jordan felt a momentary giddiness. Maybe this was going to work. Maybe her past and present could fit in this moment and be okay.
“It’s good to see you again. And we brought coffee and chocolate croissants.”
“You do know how to do this right, don’t you?” Rosa said approvingly. “Then let’s go, I want to be there before the crowds.”
They walked back to the car, and Rosa waved Ali into the front seat, which Ali protested. Rosa ended the argument by climbing in the back and putting her seat belt on. Jordan shrugged and got in, starting up the car’s engine in the quiet morning.
“Ah, yes. Thank you,” Rosa said as Ali handed back her coffee. “This is a treat.”
“It’s one of my favourites,” Ali said, sorting through the contents of the bakery bag. Jordan worried she was being condescending, but she saw no deception when Ali looked up. Good.
“Tell Ali why you love McDonald’s coffee when you go to the market, Mom,” Jordan said, heading toward the harbour.
“Because it tastes good and it’s cheap.” Rosa sniffed, but Jordan could see the light in her mom’s eyes when she looked in her rearview mirror.
“And?”
“And because I love walking a
round the crowds with my $1.79 double-double and seeing the look of horror on people’s faces as they sip their five-dollar organic lattes. It makes my day.”
Ali burst out laughing, and Jordan checked her mother’s pleased expression.
“You’re a shit disturber, Mom.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
Ali passed around the chocolate croissants, and Jordan ate the flaky, sugary pastry with one hand, navigating through the city with the other while her mom and Ali kept up a constant patter of conversation. The sun had already broken the horizon, pushing orange light onto the greyness of the morning as Jordan parked in the giant lot, waving away her mom’s concern with the price of parking. A steady trickle of people were already heading into the market as Jordan, her mom, and Ali made their way in with their coffees.
Jordan would have found the market overwhelming if she wasn’t already familiar with the space. Rows of produce vendors lined the long space, their tables loaded with baskets and crates of pale yellow and bright orange carrots, sixteen kinds of tomatoes, and a stack of leafy greens Jordan couldn’t even identify. Barrels of earthy potatoes and bright red apples were spaced every few feet, their round bellies protruding into the walk space. Rosa’s eyes were bright as she walked between stalls, picking up vegetables and chatting with the vendors.
Jordan and Ali hung back, sipping their coffees and looking at the artist stalls along the outside wall. A woman sat on a paint-splattered kitchen chair with a sketchbook and a pencil in her hand, looking perfectly at ease among the clamour of trade. She smiled benignly when Ali and Jordan stopped to check out her work before they moved on to the man in a ragged fisherman’s sweater planing wood, his handmade fiddles hanging off homemade wire hooks on the stall around him. Ali stopped to chat as Jordan took a step back to look for her mom. She was buying sweet potatoes not too far away, and Jordan walked over to take the first heavy bag from her.
“Thanks, sweetheart. I won’t be long. Just maybe a few more things for this week.”
“There’s no rush, Mom. Dad is covered, and we’re not in a hurry.”
They moved aside as a woman pushing a massive double stroller with two crying babies wound her way through the crowd. Rosa looked over to where Ali was smelling a block of chunky, handmade soap.
“Ali is having a good time, then?”
“Yes, I think she is.”
Rosa looked up at Jordan and a sadness passed through her eyes. It was fleeting, and Jordan wondered if she should acknowledge it.
“How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”
“Fourteen years.”
Rosa gave her daughter an appraising look, and she seemed to hesitate before she spoke.
“Have you missed her?”
“Ah, Mom,” Jordan said, a little embarrassed. She rubbed the back of her neck with her free hand. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
Rosa smiled. “You just did, sweetheart.” Rosa took a sip of her coffee, then consulted a crumpled list in her hand. “What do you think about inviting Ali over for dinner? Your father will have been out for a walk, so he’ll likely take an early meal and go to bed.”
Jordan wasn’t sure who she disliked more in that moment. Her father for making his wife a prisoner to his self-ravaged brain and body or herself for making her mother compartmentalize her life between husband and her surviving children.
“Mom…”
Rosa raised her hand. It was steady. Jordan still evaluated her mother’s steadiness, a childhood full of worry. “I don’t need an apology. Your father is happy to see you, but I know spending a lot of time with him is problematic. For both of you. I’m saying I’d like to have you and Ali over for dinner tonight, but your dad will only be there for a short time. If that works, wonderful. If not, that’s okay, too.”
The crowd was getting busier, and Jordan and her mom shifted away from a handful of women with woven baskets tucked in the crook of their arm.
“I’ll check with Ali.”
“Well, that’s good. I’ll head down to the meat and cheese section next if you two want to catch up with me there.”
“Okay, Mom. And thanks.”
Rosa smiled and tugged on the strap of her purse before following the walkway toward the meat, cheese, and seafood section. Jordan took a moment to watch her go before turning back to find Ali.
“Look at these,” Ali said when Jordan found her eyeing a selection of handmade pottery. “See the tiny lobsters in the pattern? I wonder if I could get them home without breaking them.”
Jordan’s stomach went cold at the word “home.” Home for Ali was a high-rise condo in Chicago. Home was a group of friends who talked about wine over expensive meals at nice restaurants. Home was not Halifax.
“Jordan?”
Jordan blinked, and the sound of the market filled her head in a rush. She was being an idiot. Again.
“Sorry. Yes, they’re adorable lobster mugs.”
“Adorable. Hmm. I don’t usually go for adorable in a coffee mug. But these are so…Halifax.”
“Won’t go with your current décor?” Jordan hoped she sounded light and funny. She must have missed because Ali shot her a quick look before placing the mug carefully back amongst its brethren.
“I had an assistant a few years back who loved to decorate. She and I were friends, I guess. So, I gave her a budget, she asked some questions, and then my condo was decorated. It’s nice.” Ali sounded utterly noncommittal about the whole thing. Disconnected.
“But would it be nicer with a set of adorable lobster mugs? That’s the real question.”
Ali laughed. “You know what? I think it would.”
Jordan sipped her coffee as Ali chatted easily with the artist, who carefully wrapped four lobster mugs in paper and nestled them at the bottom of a brown paper bag. Ali completed the transaction and took a business card. Jordan indicated which way they should head to catch up with her mom.
“Feel better?”
“Actually, yes. I’ll get to take a piece of home with me home.” Ali gave a short laugh and shook her head. “You know what I mean.”
Jordan did, or at least she thought she did. The word had already come up so many times today. Jordan wanted out from under the weight of it, but her next question was laden with the reality and complexities of home.
“My mom would like to invite us over for dinner tonight.”
Ali looked at Jordan briefly as they dodged a tiny, toddling human waving a crust of soggy bread over its head, chortling madly.
“What are you thinking?” Ali said.
It was a fair question.
“I have a lot of thoughts about it, but mostly I’m thinking if that’s how you’d like to spend this evening, that would be nice.”
Ali said nothing and Jordan reminded herself not to hold her breath. The meat section wasn’t quite as busy, the long glass cases filled with rounds of smoked ham and kielbasa. Jordan spotted her mom reaching up to a Styrofoam plate with cubes of cheese. Jordan knew she wouldn’t buy any of them, but she loved to sample the flavours. Jordan had always thought her mother should have been a chef. She loved being in the kitchen, loved to taste and experiment. She loved to serve her family. All of Jordan’s warm time memories of home involved her mom in the kitchen.
“You’re smiling,” Ali said.
“It’s been known to happen.”
“Good. Because here’s what I want.”
“Lay it on me.”
“I want to co-opt your day. Completely.”
Jordan laughed. “I like this plan already.”
Ali’s eyes were bright with laughter. “Right now I’m going to go tell your mom I would love it if she cooked for us, but I’m paying for ingredients.” Ali waved away Jordan’s obvious protest. “Then after we take your mom home with her groceries, you’re going to drive us to Mahone Bay and we’re going to wander in the sunshine and you’re going to tell me about your life. Maybe we talk about past regrets. Maybe I kick you for br
eaking my heart when we were teenagers. Maybe I don’t. Half the fun will be not knowing. Then we have dinner with your parents.”
Jordan laughed, the sensation in her chest a joyous mix of warmth and comfort and excitement. She knew this person. She liked her. And they had the whole day ahead of them.
“Yes. To all of it.”
As Ali’s gaze rested on Jordan’s face, the corner of her eyes crinkling with her smile, Jordan wasn’t sure exactly what she was agreeing to. But in that moment, she didn’t care.
Chapter Five
“We should follow up with that, see what it means for our budget next year.”
Cay followed her whispered words with a hard nudge, and Jordan crash-landed from her daydream back into the convention hall meeting room.
“What?”
Cay sighed. “Have you heard anything the Ministry rep has said in the last hour?”
“Um. No.”
They were at an all-day joint Ministry meeting. Normally, Jordan liked these days, because she got a chance to connect with other programs and municipalities, to find out about joint initiatives, and to glean meaning from the often vaguely worded but passionate updates from the various provincial Ministries.
Not today. Her mind was occupied by Ali Clarke today.
Saturday had been a perfect day, like nothing Jordan had ever experienced. They’d driven through the country on the narrow Fishermen’s Memorial Highway, the multitude of evergreens making up for the near sparseness of the trees that had dropped their leaves early this fall. Jordan had told Ali the Farmers’ Almanac called for a harsh winter and Ali had laughed. They’d talked about their shared history growing up in the Canadian Maritimes. Ali said early in her career she’d been told she was too friendly, and she needed to change that if she was going to get anywhere in business. She confessed that seeing tartan and hearing bagpipes sometimes still made her teary. She admitted she rarely ordered lobster on any menu because nothing could compare to lobster season in the spring back home.
That word continued to haunt Jordan throughout their sun-filled day. They’d walked the streets of Mahone Bay, checking out the scarecrows dressed as pioneers, fishermen, and even clowns displayed throughout town. With Ali’s insistent questioning, Jordan talked about the days, weeks, and years after she’d left Halifax. She detailed all the travel, the training, the bouts. She talked about depression, though she hadn’t known enough to label it at the time. They laughed about her crush on the coach’s wife and how she had used Jordan’s obvious infatuation to keep her in line and on task. Crystal Fernando was the reason Jordan had finished her first two years of university by the time she and the boxing world had split ways. Ali asked how she’d felt when boxing was done. Relieved and lost, Jordan had said. And ready to come home.
Shadowboxer Page 8
