“Thanks.”
“I have to go.” The bell is about to ring and I don’t have anything I need for my next class. I step around Jem and he grabs my wrist. His hands are sweaty.
“Wait. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, great, forgiven.” I don’t have time for a feel-good conversation right now.
“No.” Jem tugs me back when I try to pull away. He’s embarrassed, and talks so lowly that I have no choice but to lean in to hear him. He smells like vomit and soap. “I’m really sorry. You were trying to be nice. I shouldn’t have said that stuff.”
“Jem, all’s forgiven, okay?” I pat his flushed cheek. “Try to chill out, eh?”
I slip out of his grasp and jog back to my locker. I’ll have to sprint to class, now.
Jem misses Soc, and I assume he’s either resting in the nurse’s office or that he went home early to recover there. There is nothing to suggest otherwise until after school, when I go out to my car and find a damp sheet of lined paper tucked under my windshield wiper. I grab it and get into my car. The sky is threatening rain.
Happy Easter, Kirk.
Friday
I sleep in to get the long weekend started off right. I follow that up with a long, thorough shower and one of my favorite books over a bowl of Fruit Loops. I plan to do absolutely nothing remotely resembling work today. You have to be dedicated like that to appreciate long weekends.
Paige calls around noon to make plans to hang out. Hannah can’t come because her family is pretty religious and actually observes Good Friday, but the rest of us go to a movie and dinner at McDonald’s. For a few hours it almost feels like nothing has changed, like I didn’t move away and have my entire life turned upside down. I’m not sure I like it, but it’s a temporary relief.
When I get home I check the answering machine. Nothing from Frank, who picked up a holiday shift for the extra pay, and nothing from Jem, either.
Saturday
I set up my homework on the kitchen table, even though I know it will be interrupted. I even prop the front door open, and not just to let fresh air in through the screen. Maybe Jem will take the hint and just welcome himself in. Who knows? He’s weird about boundaries. They move according to his moods, and he’s quite a moody bastard.
By one o’clock I’ve finished my homework and move on to the prep for tomorrow’s dinner. I mix the stuffing in advance and set peeled potatoes in water. The turkey is already thawing in the fridge.
By the time I’m done with Easter dinner prep, it’s time to start the real dinner. The sun is set and I haven’t seen or heard from Jem, which is pretty weird for a Saturday. Or maybe not—it’s a holiday weekend, after all. Maybe he has family obligations. Maybe he’s in Ottawa to see relatives.
It’s ten o’clock at night, well past the socially acceptable hour for phone calls, when I can’t stand any more circular speculation about Jem. He could be with family, yes, but he could also be really sick. He could be pulling some moody cold-shoulder stunt because I didn’t take his side in that stupid argument with Paige on Thursday. I take the phone and curl up on my bed with it, half-expecting to get the answering machine—proof that the Harpers are out of town.
Ivy answers the call with a polite but muted ‘hello.’ I apologize for calling at such a late hour and she ignores me to divine the reason for my call: “You want to talk to Jem.”
“I was just wondering how he’s doing. I haven’t heard from him in a few days.”
“I’ll see if he’s still awake,” she says.
“Thank you.”
“I’m glad you called, Willa,” she says quietly. “He’s had quite a day.”
I ask her what she means, but she won’t elaborate. “Let him tell you.”
Jem: March 21 to 29
Thursday
“Don’t gnaw the whole thing off,” Eric tells me as he looks over to change lanes. I stop biting my thumbnail and slouch down in the passenger seat, sulking a little. It’s Easter weekend, and Eric and I are driving up to Ottawa. Celeste’s family isn’t religious and Emily is Jewish, so Easter is just a four day weekend for them—and a great opportunity to visit. The plan is to drive up today, spend the night at the Harcourt house, and then drive back to Smiths Falls tomorrow morning with Celeste and Emily.
I’m a little nervous. I haven’t seen Emily since last June, except in pictures. A year can really change people. I don’t even look like the same person.
Emily used to have a crush on me, back in grade ten. It was really sweet and I tried to like her back, but it just wasn’t there, so we went back to being friends. Or at least I did, and she struggled to keep her desires under wraps. It hit her harder than any of my other friends when I moved away. She took it the worst when I told her about my diagnosis. Emily used to send me cards and stuff when I was in the hospital, and then she saw a photo of what cancer had done to me and she took a giant leap back like I was a leper. I think that photo killed whatever romantic feeling she had towards me. Who could love this? Who would want this?
“Dude,” Eric scolds me. I take my thumbnail out of my mouth. “What’s the matter? You nervous?”
“No.” That’s a lie. I’ve been snapping at everybody since I woke up and my stomach is still in knots from the episode at lunch.
“It’s been awhile since you’ve seen Em, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
Eric reaches over and rubs my head roughly. “Trying to soften the shock?” he says. My toque is rust-colored today. It’s the first one Elise made me. She chose this yarn because it’s similar to my hair color. And yes, I’m wearing it to make myself look more like the Jem that Emily used to know.
“It’s just a hat.”
“You’re tense, bro.”
“Just restless.” We’ve only been driving for thirty minutes.
“If you don’t want to see her we can cancel.” He gestures to the cell phone plugged into the dashboard charger.
“Of course I want to see her.” It was Mom’s idea that I invite Emily, after Eric asked to invite Celeste. It was sort of a last minute thing. Celeste and her boyfriend are on the rocks (when aren’t they?) and she was looking for a chance to get out of town.
I’m not looking forward to a night at the Harcourt house, but it’s the only thing I have to delay seeing Emily. Odds are, my time at there will be tense or boring. Eric will do the best friend thing and comfort Celeste about her stupid boyfriend, nurturing her self-absorption or distracting her as only Eric can, and I’ll be left to hang out with her parents or occupy myself. We’re not picking Emily up until tomorrow morning. She can still cancel our plans. I almost expect her to.
I get a sneer and glance from Celeste when we get to the house, before she ignores me and monopolizes my brother. Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt are polite, but distant. They don’t know what to make of me, what to say or what to offer in the way of hospitality. These are people who value perfection, which means that in their eyes, I’m practically worthless.
“Are you feeling any better?” Mr. Harcourt says.
“Every day.” Complete lie. We’re still making awkward conversation when Celeste and Eric come down to the kitchen in search of food. Celeste pays us no mind, still talking—nay, bitching—about her boyfriend.
“What’s your boyfriend’s name again?” I ask. I already know his name; I’m just trying to piss her off. Implying that the isn’t the center of the universe will do that.
“It’s Bentley,” Celeste says coldly. She’s offended that I interrupted her running stream of blah blah blah.
“Is his sister named Mercedes?”
She gives me a withering look. “Jem.”
“Maybe a brother named Porsche?”
Mr. Harcourt thinks my joke is funny. Celeste turns her narrowed eyes on him instead of me for having the nerve to chortle. Who names a kid Bentley, anyway? Rich people with fatter egos than wallets, that’s who. Figures Celeste would go for a guy like that—and still wind up unsatisfied.
The Harcourts give Eric and I the queen-sized guest bed to share. Eric offers to take the couch but Mrs. Harcourt waves away his ‘gallantry’ and insists that the bed is big enough for two. I bet she thinks he’ll drool on her nice throw cushions if she lets him have the couch. The Harcourts are weird about their possessions—their house looks like a museum or a magazine photo; not quite lived in, somewhat staged, and emotionally void.
As soon as Mrs. Harcourt leaves, Eric tells me to take the bed. We use the extra pillows and a spare blanket from the closet to make up a cot on the floor, and Eric sleeps there. I would share the bed with him gladly, but it’s a risk. Eric is a wild sleeper and if he hits me during the night it would cost me more than a bruise. Then there’s the fact that my immune system is still weak. I shouldn’t be sharing close quarters with anyone right now.
“Wake me if you need anything, eh?”
“Sure.” I don’t get much sleep anyway, the way my brother snores.
Friday
Around nine we leave the bourgeoisie neighborhood the Harcourts reside in for the more unassuming suburb that Emily calls home. I’m sweating by the time Eric pulls onto her street. I’ve been waiting for her to call and bail, but the only response to my text that we were on our way was a smiley face. What the hell does that mean? Stupid noncommittal emoticons.
Eric parks along the curb in front of her house and I get out of the car. He joins me, which is a surprise, but a nice gesture nonetheless.
“You look sick, bro.”
For a second I wonder if my ‘sickness’ is enough to get away with waiting in the car for Emily, for not going inside to see her parents, but that would be terribly rude.
“Come on.” Eric puts a hand on my shoulder and pushes me forward, up the front walk and onto the low porch. He rings the bell while I panic inside like a five-year-old girl.
“Relax, it’s Emily, not the Inquisition,” he whispers.
“You did your History homework.”
“All one-third of it,” he says proudly.
Emily answers the door with a giddy smile on her face. “Hi guys.” She steps aside and holds the door open for us. Eric and I walk in amid an exchange of hellos, and I notice Emily giving me the once-over. She seems to be having trouble holding her smile.
“Still cheerleading?” Eric asks.
“I made captain.”
“Congratulations.” They exchange a friendly one-armed hug. Emily looks at me like she isn’t sure if she’s obligated to touch me now, too. A year ago she had no problem sticking her tongue down my throat and inviting me to grope her.
I make it easy for her, looking the other way and asking politely if her parents are home.
“Mom’s out, but my dad is home.”
Emily goes upstairs to get her overnight bag while Eric and I make polite conversation with her father. It’s easier for Eric—they talk sports. Emily’s dad does that thing that everybody does these days—looks away from me when he’s speaking because it’s too awkward otherwise.
“Ready to go?” Emily says with forced cheerfulness. I bet she’s regretting this already. On the way to the car she studies me some more and says, “You look pretty good.” Pretty good? That’s a left-handed compliment if I ever heard one.
*
The drive back to Smiths Falls is filled with friendly but unsubstantial conversation. Celeste and Eric have their talk in the front seat, Emily and I have ours in the back, and occasionally the subjects cross to include everyone. For the most part, Celeste isn’t interested in talking to Emily or me. She dislikes me for a variety of reasons and disdains Emily on principle. I’ve heard Emily referred to as ‘that cheerleader’ when she isn’t around. Celeste considers herself so beautiful that she doesn’t have to ‘put herself on display like that,’ to use her phrase.
“Are you really okay?” Emily asks lowly as we drive through Kanata.
“Yeah. I’m getting better.”
“Ask him how much he weighs now,” Eric says with a stupid grin. I kick the back of his seat and Emily looks out the window uncomfortably. He got that idea from Mom, who has been bragging to anyone who will listen about how I’ve been gaining pounds by eating soup.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
“If I guess right, will you tell me?” Celeste says with a mean smirk.
“Piss off, Barbie.”
“Show her how they jack you into the Matrix,” Eric says. I kick his seat again.
When we arrive at the house, Mom meets us at the car and gathers Emily into a hug of welcome. Eric unlocks the trunk to get Emily and Celeste’s bags, and I corner him to demand what the hell he was trying to do to me back there.
“You two were so painfully awkward,” he says with a nod in Emily’s direction. “Just talk about it and demystify the whole thing before it wrecks your weekend.”
When Eric sounds wise, you know you’re screwed.
Elise accosts Emily in the foyer with giggly demands for updates on all the friends she left back in Ottawa when we moved. Emily obliges as best she can, and we somehow end up on the couch watching Harry Potter with my sister. Elise is trying to hide her dorkiness, but every so often I catch her mouthing the dialogue out of the corner of my eye.
In the kitchen, Mom is trying to cook a special meal in honor of our guests. A jar of Willa’s homemade soup for me is on to heat, and Mom is making an attempt at kosher food for Emily. Her parents are strict about stuff like that. They make her do all sorts of volunteer work at her synagogue or she doesn’t get to stay in cheerleading.
When the kosher meal is ready, I’m glad I don’t have to eat it. Mom isn’t a great cook when it comes to recipes she’s done a million times, never mind new ones. She’s too scatterbrained and ‘as long as it’s edible’ is her philosophy.
I smugly eat my soup while the others force their way through dinner. Elise wipes her mouth a lot and crumples at least a dozen napkins. I wonder if she swallowed anything at all. The food is so bad that not even Celeste tries to be a kiss-ass by complimenting it, and when everyone quits trying to choke it down Elise offers to make milkshakes.
“How’s your soup?” Emily asks as Elise sets up the blender. I’m practically licking the bowl—it’s that good and I want to rub it in.
“It’s ok.”
“His friend makes it for him,” Dad chimes in. “She’s a very good cook.”
“I guess you eat it a lot,” Emily says like she’s trying to joke. I can’t see what’s funny about that exactly, but I smile anyway.
“It’s all he can eat,” Celeste interjects, and I’m not smiling anymore. She must be fondly remembering my first round of chemo, when she was in town and I almost threw up in her car. I still regret asking her to pull over. I should have barfed on that bitch’s nice leather seats.
“He’s a sucker for milkshakes, too,” Elise says. “You’re going to love these, Emily. Do you want raspberry or peach?”
Despite her talent for annoying me, my little sister knows how to pleasantly divert an uncomfortable conversation. I don’t even mind that I owe her one now.
Saturday
Dad has the day off, and he proposes a day trip to the Rideau Trail, since the weather is going to be nice. It’s one of Eric’s favorite places to hike, but I’ve never been there. We head out after breakfast, Mom and Dad in the Audi and the five kids in Eric’s Neon. Elise claims the middle seat as the littlest person, but sandwiched between me and Emily, she seems like a protective placeholder; like she doesn’t want anyone getting too close to me.
Rideau Trail Association organizes activities year-round. Right now we have the option to hike or snowshoe along the trail around Perth. Sections of the trail include a wide gravel path, while others are just trodden ground.
“Only three quarters of a kilometre to the first rest stop,” Elise notes aloud as she flips through the brochure. Her pink-gloved hand slips into mine and squeezes. That’s longer than I’ve walked in a while. I’m not going to fail at this, though, especially in
front of Emily. I don’t even want to contemplate how embarrassing that would be.
She hasn’t looked at me all day, except from under her lashes when she thinks I’m not looking. I’m making her uncomfortable just by the way I look and my silence on the subject, but I don’t know how to initiate a conversation of that sort and she hasn’t done so either. Lucky for me, Elise is good at chatter, and she fills the silence along the trail. She stops to take photos a lot, and I take each opportunity to rest on a rock or fallen log.
“Are we moving too fast?” Dad asks.
“Not at all.” My joints are going to hurt tonight.
It’s almost noon when we get to the first rest area. It took us twice as long to walk the first leg of the trail as it usually takes Eric when he comes here alone. Blame it on Elise’s photo taking and Mom’s scatterbrained bird watching and my growing fatigue.
We stop at the rest area for a picnic lunch—no kosher food this time; Mom’s given up already. Emily sticks to vegetables and dip and I eat a Jell-O cup. Eric eats four sandwiches and Elise loses half of hers by dropping it on the ground. Eric dares her to eat it anyway.
The walk back to the cars is even slower than our walk into the forest. Emily hangs back with me, acting like my slow pace is normal, and we talk comfortably for the first time in months. She’s stressing over what to do this summer. Her dad wants her to go to Torah camp again, but she wants to stay in Ottawa and get a job—and be near her boyfriend.
“Aren’t you old enough to be a counselor at that camp now?”
Emily wrinkles her nose. “Probably. But it’s in Montreal. I don’t want to be so far away again.” Her parents have signed her up for camp without asking her opinion on the matter for eight years running.
“Maybe your boyfriend could mysteriously end up at the same camp.”
“He isn’t Jewish.”
That makes me laugh. “What does your dad think of that?”
“He doesn’t know.” This guy is doomed. The two weeks that Emily and I tried to date last year were punctuated by no less than five attempts by her parents to set her up with nice Jewish boys, hoping to divert her interest away from the likes of me.
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