Speechless

by Yvonne Collins

  My brain is vibrating from the drilling, but it dawns on me that removing the enamel is pretty permanent. Which means I am compromising perfectly good teeth for the sake of vanity.

  “I’ve outdone myself,” he announces proudly, handing me a mirror.

  I smile to inspect the temporary plastic covering—basically a hockey mouth guard: a yellowy, shapeless mould tucked around my upper front teeth. I burst into tears and Dr. Hollywell flees the room. The word gets out through the clinic: “A sister is down! Close ranks.” Soon every woman on staff has gathered by my side.

  “It doesn’t look bad at all,” they reassure me. “No one will even notice.”

  It’s not as if I can retreat to my bedroom for two weeks; I serve at the pleasure of the Minister. So I return to the office after my appointment and discover the sisters were lying.

  “Lily,” says the Minister during our afternoon meeting, “what happened to your teeth?” This from a woman who barely registers a life-form reading when I am in the room.

  “It’s a mouth guard,” I reply. “I’ve been grinding my teeth because of stress. I need to wear it 24 hours a day for two weeks.”

  I’ve been getting pretty good at spinning the yarn lately, but who knew I could do it with such speed and ease?

  To: Roxnrhead@interlog.ca

  From: Mclib@hotmail.ca

  Subject: Facial Renovations

  Rox,

  As I’m sure Bridget Wilkinson can tell you, personal enhancement is not for the faint-hearted—nor the tight-fisted (does she really have butt implants?). I’m going to have to factor the cost of personal therapy into the dental work. No wonder the dentist squeezed me in right away. I wouldn’t have gone through with it if I’d had time to read the brochure.

  There’s a plastic hockey mouth guard temporarily covering my front teeth. I’m still getting over the shock, but I suppose it’s good to get a taste, as it were, for the great Canadian pastime. Remember your toothless NHL player of 1990? Now that his career’s on ice, I hope he’s looked into implants.

  There’s no sign of Richard around the office, which is just as well, considering the state of my smile. Nonetheless, my crush slipped into first gear sometime around noon today. That’s when I walked to Holts in the rain to buy a new pair of hoop earrings.

  Lib

  20

  Tim leaves his last message on Friday. I can tell it’s his last message from the finality in his tone. There’s a hint of wounded pride in it, too, but what he says is perfectly civil.

  BEEP—“Hi, Libby, it’s Tim. You’re obviously too busy to meet right now, but I just want to say I really enjoyed last weekend and I hope we’ll be able to catch up sometime—at least at Emma and Bob’s. Take care.”

  It would only make me feel more inadequate to get involved with someone who has that much class, I conclude, curling up on the couch with a Black Russian, my comfort drink. I’m surprisingly morose for someone who has engineered her own fate. After all, there’s nothing to stop me from picking up the phone, calling Tim and telling him I’ve been a goof. It’s only been a week and the situation could certainly be salvaged. But I can’t call.

  Instead, I fetch a square of cooking chocolate from the cupboard and risk breaking my mouth guard on it. I don’t have anything finer—and I don’t deserve it.

  The next day, I officially begin penance by visiting my parents in Scarborough. The drive past the factories and strip malls is enough to drag me into the valley of despair.

  “What’s wrong?” my mother asks as I walk up the front stairs.

  “Nothing, why?” I say, brightly.

  “Something’s bothering you, I can tell.”

  “My stomach is upset, that’s all.”

  “Ah, so you’re stressed.”

  “No, I ate a lot of cooking chocolate last night, that’s all.”

  “If you’re settling for cooking chocolate, you must feel guilty about something.”

  “What is it with you and Rox? You think you can read my mind.”

  “A mother has a sense about these things.”

  She gives up and takes the passive approach, darting glances my way and hovering too close, as if trying to absorb the cause of my angst from the air. I back into her as I’m closing the cookie cupboard.

  “Mom, for God’s sake! Are you trying to get a look at my aura?”

  “Your color is off, dear,” she says. Then she tests a new theory. “So, what’s happening with Lola and the book?”

  “We’re expecting an offer this week.”

  “Wonderful! And how about work… Are things going a little better?”

  “Look, everything is fine. Turn off the radar.”

  I flounce down the hall to my bedroom and slam the door. No, wait, that was 1984. Today, I don’t flounce and I don’t slam because I recall just in time that I am thirty-three years old. My room, however, hasn’t aged a bit. Marjory has maintained it as a shrine. I’d blast some Springsteen if I could remember how to use my old turntable. I settle for flopping dramatically onto the twin bed and staring at the ceiling.

  I’m not confessing to her about Tim. I won’t yield no matter what she bakes. The woman does not need another reason to look at me in pained disappointment. When I was a teen, she wouldn’t even lie to guys for me the way other mothers did. Not Marjory, the nicest woman in the world. I wonder if she has any idea how much pressure she puts on me. Fortunately, there are constructive ways to deal with it. I emerge from my room and pull out the vacuum cleaner. Then I clean the bathroom tub and sink. Dad arrives just in time to save me from starting on the litter box.

  Mom is in the kitchen baking but I fear she is losing her touch. Does she really think I’ll cough up details for a coffee cake—especially one as dry as this? Not a chance. There’s a hint of a smile on her face as I choke on cake dust; she doesn’t offer me a beverage to wash it down. She’s on to me.

  Richard is back in the office. Recognizing the impossibility of being coquettish with a mouth full of plastic, I quietly absorb his pheromones from the safety of my own cubicle. I manage to avoid him all day, but as I’m gathering my things to leave, he appears.

  “So, Ms. McIssac, when’s that wedding?”

  “Get a date, then set the date, I always say.”

  I’m nervous that Margo might come by and rain protocol lectures down on my head. Richard clearly isn’t bothered by the specter of Margo—nor by my mouthpiece for that matter. He’s so busy telling me about himself that it hasn’t even registered something has changed. Normally, I’d find this self-absorption infuriating. Have I lowered my standards simply because he’s a rich and powerful man? That’s never been my MO before. Still, I contemplate investing in a quality watch.

  Margo is out of the office for two glorious days scouting a potential excursion to northern Ontario. I pray each night that this trip will not come to pass. I pray that Richard will use his power over the Minister to convince her it’s a bad idea. I pray that if the trip does happen, that Richard and I will be left behind at Queen’s Park to do something about the pheromones.

  To: Roxnrhead@interlog.ca

  From: Mclib@hotmail.ca

  Subject: The Crush Continues

  Rox,

  I thought you’d like to know that I am fanning the flames of my office crush. In fact, the “season” of Richard opened today with a trip to Banana Republic. I tried on over 20 outfits and wore out two perky young sales clerks. Though familiar with the common crush, they’re used to helping younger girls through it—girls who look good in everything. At my age, it takes work. I finally settled on two silk sweaters, one of which I’ll likely return once I’ve seen it in my own mirror. As you’ve discovered yourself, the mirrors in Banana Republic are enchanted.

  I’ve decided that certain protocols must govern my spending during a crush. In first gear, I will stick to tame purchases, including clothing, hair care products and earrings. While it’s justifiable to buy almost anything in the name of infatuation, ti
ming is the issue. Remember when I bought the Pink Floyd boxed set after two dates with that pothead, Dave Weir? Where is he now?

  Richard is likely to be an expensive and embarrassing diversion. He’s the kind of guy that drives a girl to buy something ridiculous, like a pricey watch—or a Jet Ski. The problem is that, despite his boorish habits, I somehow feel he’s out of my league. The more outclassed I feel, the more I’ll spend to even up the odds. He’s older, he’s worldly, he’s bright, he’s rich and he’s connected. And he’s incredibly sexy. So what if he’s a bit of a pig? He still outranks me. You know what I mean, Rox. Tim was too good for me, but he was still in the realm of possibility. With Richard, I am at a loss as to what I would bring to the match.

  Lib

  With Margo blighting the northern wastelands, I’m making good progress on several speeches. In fact, I’m focusing so intently that when Mrs. Cleary’s perfectly groomed head peeks around my cubicle wall I jump.

  “So this is where you hide, Lily,” she says, as I scramble to my feet. “I just stopped by to see how you’re doing with the speeches for the Culture Vulture Festival.”

  The festival is two weeks away and I haven’t even gathered material yet. “I’m sorry, Minister, I’m not working that far ahead. I have five other speeches to write first.”

  “That’s fine, Lily, but I’d like to share my ideas while they’re fresh, if I may.”

  “Shall I come to your office?”

  “No, no, I’ll sit down here,” she says, looking around. “Don’t you have a chair?”

  “I’m afraid not. Margo took it.”

  “Really. Well, I’ll just get one from another office.”

  She sets off to do just that—with her own two hands—hands that never carry so much as a handbag!

  “No, let me get it,” I say, bustling after her. She’s already heading into an office several doors down.

  “Whose office is this?” she asks.

  “No one’s used it since I arrived.”

  “Then why aren’t you using it?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Why aren’t you using this office instead of that dreadful box you sit in?” It’s a Linda Blair moment: I expect her head to start spinning on her shoulders. “I don’t know how you concentrate. You’re practically sitting in the hallway.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to work in that environment.” More importantly, she wouldn’t have the desk space for her toiletries.

  “It is hard to focus.”

  “Well, why don’t you just move in here right now? We can talk about the speeches tomorrow.”

  “Uh—okay.” I stand, frozen, waiting for the other glass slipper to drop. “I guess I’ll start packing.”

  “Off you go, then!” she says gaily. “Don’t break a nail!”

  It crosses my mind to grab a chair and bash her over the head until the spirit possessing her flies out, but I want the office too badly to stall over this service to humanity. Instead, I run back to my office and start grabbing files before she can change her mind. An hour later, I pin Cornelius’s photo on my new bulletin board and sit down to enjoy my office while I can.

  I might find myself stuffed into the supply cupboard tomorrow.

  The posters at the entry to Crews clear up the mystery of why Elliot asked to meet here instead of his beloved Manhole. It’s the Wednesday Night Drag Show. I silently curse Elliot because I’ve come straight from the office and I’m actually wearing a skirt. On the bright side, Cher is working the door and waves me in without collecting the cover charge.

  Elliot is at the bar flirting with the handsome bartender.

  “Where’s Günter, the love of your life?” I ask, pulling up a stool. The bartender gives Elliot a disgusted glance before beating a hasty retreat.

  “On tour, as I told you,” Elliot replies, unfazed. “Besides, he never comes along when I’m working.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  Elliot cranes after the bartender and smiles. “Just because I like to window shop doesn’t mean I’ll pull out my…wallet.”

  “Speaking of wallets,” I say, hauling out my own, “what’s it gonna cost me tonight?”

  “A double espresso and a shot of the best cognac the place has to offer. If I’m reading the signs correctly, you’ll soon be able to buy me the entire bottle.”

  “Cash on delivery,” I tease, withholding the cognac when it arrives.

  “I’m not going to miss you,” Elliot says, reaching for the glass.

  “Am I going somewhere, or just finding a new psychic?”

  “Hope you’re still laughing when I tell you about the upcoming road trip.” I groan. “Pack up your glue stick, doll, there’s another scrapbook in your future.”

  Depressed, I scoop a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the bar and dump them into my mouth.

  “My God, don’t eat those, Libby!” Elliot says, horrified.

  “Whph?”

  “Haven’t you read the studies about bar nuts?” Siphoning nut bits from the edges of my mouth guard, I raise a quizzical eyebrow. “They’re crawling with bacteria, because of people who don’t wash their hands after going to the washroom.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Hygiene.” I take a swig of bourbon and slosh it around my mouth to kill the germs. “Can we get back to how my life in the civil service is going to finance premium booze?”

  “I didn’t say it has anything to do with the civil service. On the contrary, I sense you are currently quite powerless on that front. What I see is a lucrative creative project on the horizon. It’s strange, though. I see you working on it, but you’re hidden behind a veil.”

  “Have you been talking to Lola?” I ask, suspiciously.

  “No, I’ve been avoiding her because I’m sick of hearing about Michael when we could be talking about Günter. Why?”

  Elliot is surprised to hear Lola and I are collaborating on a book—even more so when he hears the topic. “Not a serious book on weddings?” he asks.

  “I know it’s awful, but it’s not our idea. Lola knows this publisher and he wants us to explore how women are struggling to modernize their weddings despite pressure to stick to the traditional ‘script.’ We met the guy for lunch on Monday and tried to talk him into something funnier, but he didn’t buy it. We’re desperate enough to sign the contract anyway.”

  “Congratulations— I think. Hey, if it’s unique stories you’re after, you should come to my sister’s wedding. She and her idiot boyfriend are druids and they’re getting married in a forest near Cobourg. Thank God my father stipulated he’d only pay for the reception if it were held at his golf club. Being broke, the druids saw reason.”

  “If your sister wouldn’t mind, I’d love to come. Maybe I’ll meet the druid of my dreams.”

  “I doubt it,” he says, narrowing his eyes. Uh-oh.

  “I’m in no mood for the rock-and-sign crap, Elliot. And for your information, I’m practically irresistible to men these days.”

  As if on cue, the bartender slides another Maker’s Mark toward me. “Compliments of Mimi,” he says, gesturing toward Cher at the door.

  “I see what you mean,” Elliot says, smirking.

  “Oh, shut up.” I smile at Mimi and raise my glass in thanks. Elliot watches, amazed. “Look,” I explain, “if a guy who looks like a girl wants to buy a drink for another girl who apparently looks like a guy trying to look like a girl, then, as I see it, it would be rude and hurtful for the real girl to decline.”

  Elliot laughs, but he says, “You’re misleading him. And please forgive me for saying so, but Mimi isn’t the only one you’ve misled. You always send conflicting signals, Lib.” I glower at him silently. “Fine, I’ll say no more about the two men I see. Retract your claws.”

  “Okay, tell me,” I say hastily. The guy can read me like a cheap dimestore novel. “What do you see?”

  “I see a thirsty psychic.” Rolling my eyes, I order him another round. He
closes his eyes and continues. “I see two men, both smart, both funny, both utterly charming, if I may say. But one is a true diamond, while the other is a lump of coal.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing—that’s all I’ve got. You don’t need me to tell you what you should do.”

  “That wasn’t worth the price of another double Remy, you scammer.”

  “You buys yer rounds, you takes yer chances.”

  Next morning, I ponder my session with Elliot as I climb the stairs of the Pink Palace. I don’t need him to tell me that Tim is a diamond and Richard is coal. Besides, I don’t put any stock in this psychic stuff. Like anyone else, I’ll see the sparkle where I want to. Richard might be arrogant, but he isn’t that bad.

  I open the door—ah, a real door at last—and behold my new office. The oak paneling on the walls is my dream come true. The place is dim, though, and unlike my cave-dwelling colleague Margo, I’m diurnal. I flick on my desk lamp and nothing happens. Ditto for my computer, which is plugged into a separate outlet. Dead. Other than the weak overhead light, I am powerless in my new office—exactly as Elliot predicted!

  I am pondering the situation when Margo’s voice floats down the hall: “Where on earth is Libby? Her things are gone!” She sounds more hopeful than alarmed.

  Richard’s voice answers: “I think she moved down the hall.”

  Thump thump of rapid footsteps. For a change, she doesn’t try to conceal her approach. “What are you doing in here, Libby?”

  “It was the Minister’s idea,” I babble nervously. “She wanted to sit down in my cubicle and there wasn’t a chair. When we came to this office to borrow one, she said I should move because it’s so much quieter.”

  “I have plans for this office.”

  “Well, there are other empty offices, and I’m here now. I have a problem though: there’s no electricity.”