The Change Room

by Karen Connelly

  Half an hour later, Bianca said, “I just heard the van. If you don’t mind, I’ll leave now. I’ll take those proposals home with me and do a bit of an edit tonight. Are you happy with the photos?”

  “If you can think of better shots from last summer, you can replace the ones I slotted in. The files came through okay, did they?”

  “Yup, they’re perfect. And the pics are lovely, too, but I’ll give it a think tonight.” Bianca hastily slipped her laptop into a padded sleeve and thrust it into her bag; she didn’t like it when Kiki and Eliza argued. In less than half a minute, she was gone, out the front door.

  Eyes on her computer screen, Eliza listened for the booted footsteps, the big set of keys rattling in Kiki’s hand; the few muttered swears in Quebecois she couldn’t understand. After the keys clattered down, dropped on the floor, Eliza glanced up to see Kiki’s precarious grip on a box that was too wide and deep for her arms.

  “Can I help you with that?”

  “Non. It’s too late for ’elping me.” Then she lost her grip. Luckily, she only dropped the box on the workbench just below her. Inside, the glass lanterns jostled, then cracked together, but nothing broke. There must have been several other boxes in the van.

  “Where the fuck were you?”

  At least she’s direct, Eliza thought. No passive-aggressive beating around the bush. Just straight interrogation. “I don’t blame you for being angry. I’m really, really sorry.”

  “You are always sorry. When will you get tired of being sorry?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Eliza shot back, knowing exactly what she meant. The important thing was to avoid mention of Andrew. She was not going to ask Kiki why she had called her husband. To show any interest in that would betray her fear of the answer.

  “Do you know what my mom says?”

  “Your mother? What does she have to do with this?” Having a business partner was like being married. Which made Marie-Josie the second mother-in-law that Eliza did not really like.

  Kiki’s whole family was made up of meddlers; that was why she had left Quebec in the first place. Whenever she mentioned her mother, it meant one of her sisters or brothers or aunts had been working on her to come home. Slaving among les maudits anglais was fine at a ski resort in the Rocky Mountains or Whistler when you were twenty, but only traitors moved to Toronto and built a life there.

  “She says my job is perfect—for you. You ’ave me, always, to take care of business. And you ’ave your family, your ’usband, your…” Kiki roughly pulled one of the lanterns out of the cardboard box and banged it down on the workbench.

  “Whoa!” Eliza said, forcing herself to be calm. She remained sitting behind her desk. “That’s not fair. We both do plenty of weekends and evenings, we both work hard…” But she couldn’t go on; she feared that her strap-on afternoon was floating in the room like a bubble-tableau of porn. Eliza coughed and tried to blink the images away—the awfully lifelike silicone cock, Shar thrusting behind her, both of them in front of the mirror, gorgeous with lust—but the flush was already rising up Eliza’s neck. She forced her eyes down, to see clearly what was in front of her this second: the lantern on the workbench. It was beautifully treated glass, rustic but expensive-looking, too. Just what a cottage wedding couple would like. The first wedding of the season.

  “My mother says I should come back to Montreal. I could modernize my own family’s business. And I could get married.” In her most colourful Quebecois, she uttered several insults about the “American” men of Toronto. “You know, I begin to tink she’s right.”

  “Your mother would swear she had the perfect man sitting in her kitchen eating poutine in order to get your ass back there. Doesn’t she always want you to come home?”

  “Why shouldn’t I go? I see ’ow convenient it is for you. I do all dis work and—”

  “And I don’t? All this is not my work as well as yours?” Eliza spread out her arms.

  “Lately you are not…you are not ’ere in da same way. I don’t know what is going on. You also forgot dat client meeting last week. And we were supposed to go to Mississauga together. You know I can’t stand driving ’ere. It terrifies me. You tink it’s funny, how upset I get, but what if I ’ad an accident? I couldn’t breathe. ’Ow could you forget today?”

  “I do not think it’s funny. I’m sorry that happened. My new phone and my computer calendar aren’t hooked up, and I was racking my brains all morning, knowing I’d forgotten—or was going to forget—something. Then Jake had an awful appointment at the dentist. And I’d just dropped him off at school when my phone died.”

  “You see? You take care of your kids, you take care of your life. But me, I just work all da time and date perverted idiots and almost die on da road to Mississauga.”

  “I should have called. From the restaurant. I had an emergency lunch with a dear old friend who’s…thinking she might…she might…divorce her husband. I…I just had to let her talk.” Eliza shook her head at this blatant lie. Yet—maybe it wasn’t a lie. She might be foretelling her own future. “She’s in a mess.” She certainly was.

  Kiki’s face changed as Eliza watched; an invisible force sucked the anger out of her and pumped her full of sadness. “She shouldn’t get divorced. She will become like your other divorced friend. Janet. Alone in da world and getting fat.”

  “Janet isn’t fat! She’s voluptuous. She’s in great shape. And her ex-husband was an asshole.”

  “But it’s still sad for ’er kids. Dat’s what my mom says. One ting for parents to separate, impossible for children.” She sighed, and pulled a second lantern out of the box. This time she put it down gently. “Anglophones don’t think about it the same way.”

  “Good grief, stop being so romantic. Don’t people in Quebec get divorced, too?” She allowed a hint of a smile to soften her words. “Going back to Montreal doesn’t make sense demographically. There are more single men in Toronto. It’s a bigger city.” She didn’t need to mention that Kiki’s departure would be a disaster for Fleur; Kiki knew this as well as she did.

  “But all my sisters are married. Even the youngest one already has two kids. She has a life.”

  “Violette got pregnant by accident and dropped out of university. You said she still regrets it.”

  “Yes, but she has a family.”

  “And a husband whose name I can’t remember because you always refer to him as ‘the loser.’ Come on, Kiki. None of your sisters have struck out on their own the way you have. You’ve become a successful businesswoman in what is essentially a different country. You’re the part-owner of the company that we’ve built together. We’re doing better every year.”

  Kiki kept her mouth tightly shut. She removed four more lanterns from the box. “The lights fit in right there, the centre well. They’re all rechargeable.” She held the lantern up for Eliza to look at. “See how the glass is textured? C’est très beau! The light”—she flicked it on, and held up the glowing chamber—“looks like a candle.” She switched it off, and turned to put the lantern on the shelf behind her. “I am sick of making udder people’s weddings so beautiful.”

  “You want to get married.” Eliza meant to sound fond, and nostalgic.

  Kiki spun around, red hair swinging. “Stupid, isn’t it, when I know so many people who are married but don’t appreciate it.” She dismantled the empty box, tearing the flaps open one by one, then wrestling the cardboard until it was flattened. She raised it, shield-like, in her hands. “There are three more boxes in the van. It would be nice if you could ’elp me now.“ She turned away and disappeared out the back door.

  30

  I Forgot About This

  THE HEAVY TRAFFIC WAS A BLESSING; IT KEPT HER from reaching home. What did Kiki know? The light changed from red to green but still only a few cars got through the intersection. Eliza sat behind her windshield like everyone else, each man or woman wrapped in his or her own suffering, tribulations, various ruins. And amusements. One
sat picking his nose, no apology. Another one talked agitatedly to herself or, rather, into a cellphone mike that dangled from her ear on a little wire.

  But surely some of these people were happy. She surreptitiously examined the man in the Saab beside her: his lips turned down grimly and his cheekbones jutted out. His hair was just beginning to grey at the temples. An angry-looking man. But maybe he was sick. Maybe he was between chemotherapy treatments.

  You never knew what people were going through; it was a mistake to presume. She herself, for example—what was wrong with her? She had been happy just a few months ago. Undersexed, yes, but happy. Now what was she? A lying, hungering, craven idiot. She had been sleeping the dreamless, calm sleep of the 24/7 married-with-kids life. Now she was wide awake, a hounded insomniac. A hound, howling at the moon, saliva running down her chin. How could sex still be a problem?

  Yet it was also the most fundamental pleasure. Wasn’t it? What else did she have for herself alone but the pleasure of her own body?

  The light changed to green. She burst into tears. The momentary blur made her think of getting into a car accident. Death or maiming, the Old Testament all over again, punishment for the whore! She would do the same thing to her kids that her damn father had done to her: she would die in a car accident! She fumbled with the stick shift, still crying; she ground the gears once, then sped through the intersection as the light turned yellow. A driver on the other side of the intersection, trying to make a left on that yellow light, honked long and loud.

  “Oh, shut up!” she yelled, talking to herself. “You stupid slut!” After a few more ragged sobs, she roughly wiped the tears off her face. She didn’t like crying about her predicament—tears dripped emotional hypocrisy on top of dishonesty—though sometimes a good sob was necessary to keep her head from exploding. As she turned onto Bloor Street, she deflected her own guilt with the thought that adulterous men probably didn’t feel so guilty. Men had more practice at destruction; it was an ancient masculine activity. Weapons: Glocks and semi-automatics, submachine guns, rocket launchers, drones in the sky. (Her own children were already obsessed with fighter jets, tanks, guns of all sorts.) Global deforestation. The big money men on Wall Street were not wringing their hands about the five million Americans who’d lost their homes in the economic crash.

  Beside the greater crimes, what was a little adultery?

  The voice addressed her out loud, calling her on the rationalization: “Eliza,” it said, “you are disgusting.”

  “I know,” she replied, not resisting this time, her eyes once more filling with tears.

  The kitchen was dark. She flicked on the light. “Marcus! Jaa-aake!”

  Where were they? It was Monday, wasn’t it? Yes, still Monday, the dentist appointment, the drive she didn’t do with Kiki. Monday, the day Andrew picked the boys up early from Annie’s. They were usually home by 4:30 or 5:00. She glanced at the clock on the stove: it was 6:00. “Andrew?”

  Where were they? What had Kiki told him?

  It was like being hit by a wave from behind, knocked over, dragged under. Andrew had taken the boys. She stood there beside the island. The house was silent. This is how it would be, the unravelling, the separation. The wreckage.

  She grabbed her bag, dug into one side pocket, the other, scrabbling for her phone. When he answered, after two rings, she yelled, “Andrew!”

  “Eliza?”

  “I…I…What’s happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where are you?”

  “At Annie’s. The boys started their swim lessons today.”

  “Oh, my god!” She was so relieved that she folded down onto the floor and gulped back a sob of sheer relief. “I completely forgot!”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, cautiously. “Me, too…Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I—I was just—” How to explain her panic? “—expecting you all to be home.”

  “We’re getting old. The swim class was up on the kitchen calendar and everything. We just missed it. The boys didn’t have their swim stuff, of course, so I rushed home to pick it up. Hey, why don’t you come to Annie’s? They’re just getting into the water now.”

  She ran, heedless of puddles on the sidewalk. She ran as if she were a runner, toward the three of them, two boys, one man. She could hardly wait to see them.

  She slipped off her shoes and socks and pushed through the public access doors, rushed into the humid chlorinated air and up the bleachers, stumbled, found her footing. Out of breath, she excused herself around one dad’s knees, then a mother’s, her eyes already on Andrew’s face; he was smiling directly into the pool. The fact of him shoved her into gratitude. He was right here; he still loved her. She had to restrain herself from running toward him along the narrow length of benches.

  She followed the arrow of his gaze; the boys smiled back at him, skinny and bare-chested in the pool, showing him the tensed muscles of their biceps, wrists curled over, fists clenched, miniature muscle men at the beach. In rapid chorus they counted (their swim instructor’s stern call flattened by their high echoing voices), “One-two-three!” and jumped straight up only to fall backwards—splash!—into the water. Spluttering and laughing, they came up again to more scolding from the instructor. Slick and beaming with delight, they waved at Andrew and flopped back to the side of the pool, still shaking with laughter.

  —

  In the next breath, Andrew became aware of someone coming toward him, too quickly for a stranger. He turned, saw Eliza, and rose to meet her unexpected embrace. It unbalanced him in the narrow space between bleachers; he hugged her tighter, regaining his balance, then pulled away, the watching-the-boys smile still on his face. “Did you see that? They’re such comedians!”

  She could only smile, she was breathing too hard to respond. She looked—frightened. They sat; he squeezed her hand. “It’s good you came. And so fast!”

  “I ran.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I—I—was so sad when I got home, expecting everyone to be there, and no one was. I forgot—I forgot—about this.” He heard the fear that had brought her here, running. He watched her as she waved toward the boys.

  “And you forgot about Kiki today, too. What’s up?”

  “Early Alzheimer’s. And emotional…exhaustion. I was having lunch with an old foodie friend. She’s…going through a nasty divorce.”

  Andrew frowned; what friend? He would ask her later. “So that’s why you were upset when we weren’t home. You wanted to come home to your adoring family.”

  “Exactly,” she said. They turned to watch the kids, who had started diving into the deep end. Jake glanced at Andrew nervously, preparing to take his turn. Are you watching me? His hands met in a point. He bent his knees, curved his back, then pushed off into a shallow dive. A mere three or four seconds later, he burst out of the water, head smooth and dark as an otter’s. He glanced at them again. Did you see me? Yes, Andrew thought, I saw you. I always see you. That was part of the job. He had to see his children. He and Eliza were the first witnesses to the boys’ lives.

  Eliza asked, “Was Kiki all right? When she called, I mean.”

  “She was extremely upset.”

  “I don’t know why she called you.”

  He turned to her. “You’re kidding me, right? You don’t know why she called?”

  Eliza’s eyes grew round again; her head gave a wobbly shake. “I just know she was lost.”

  “She was scared shitless, Eliza. She was in tears. Do you know why she called me?”

  “Because she couldn’t get hold of me.”

  “Obviously, but beyond that.” He saw the flash of fear in Eliza’s eyes. What was wrong? “She called me because I’m her English-Canadian father. And you’re her English-Canadian mother. Well, maybe you’re more like a big sister who speaks crappy French. When she couldn’t get help from you, she called me.”

  “Oh, come on! Kiki has parents. And she’s a part-owner of Fleur, no
t some helpless girl.”

  “I didn’t say she was helpless. Or a girl. But today she needed help. I felt like her dad. She was having a panic attack of some sort. She didn’t even understand how the highway signs work. She kept thinking she was on the 401, but then when she’d see a new sign naming an exit, she would think that the highway itself had changed names. She was in Brampton by the time she called me, parked and crying, so I talked her back to Mississauga. Once she got the lanterns, she called me again and I got her back downtown.”

  “What a disaster. The GPS wasn’t in the van either, so she was really on her own.”

  “I doubt a GPS would have made a difference. The highways just unsettle her. She never drove much in Quebec.”

  “Thank you so much, honey, for rescuing her.”

  The children lined up to do more dives, but he kept watch over Eliza’s face. “From now on, leave your phone on during the day, okay? We have to be able to find you. All of us.”

  From the pool’s edge, the boys plunged into the water.

  “What foodie friend? Who’s getting a divorce?”

  31

  Just a Phase

  FOR THE REST OF THE WEEK, SHE DIDN’T CALL SHAR. Though, once, she sent a text.

  I’m sorry. Stressed out. Guilty. Jealous

  of your freedom. & you are. Free.

  Enough, she thought. That’s enough. It’s time to take a break. She worked hard, took Kiki out for lunch. But she was already imagining the next week, or the week after, how and when she would see Shar again.