Chloe Sparrow

by Lesley Crewe

  Praise for…

  Her Mother’s Daughter

  Crewe’s talent lies in rendering characters that readers can actually care about. They have been hurt and they have hurt others, but their essential goodness shines through.—Atlantic Books Today

  Hit & Mrs.

  If you’re in the mood for a cute chick-lit mystery with some nice gals in Montreal, Hit & Mrs. is just the ticket.—Globe and Mail

  Crewe’s writing has the breathless tenor of a kitchen-table yarn…a cinematic pace and crackling dialogue keep readers hooked.—Quill & Quire

  Ava Comes Home

  She expertly manages a page-turning blend of down-home comedy and heart-breaking romance.—Cape Breton Post

  Shoot Me

  Possesses an intelligence and emotional depth that reverberates long after you’ve stopped laughing.—Halifax Chronicle Herald

  Relative Happiness

  Her graceful prose…and her ability to turn a familiar story into something with such raw, dramatic power are skills that many veteran novelists have yet to develop.—Halifax Chronicle Herald

  Copyright © 2014, Lesley Crewe

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Nimbus Publishing Limited

  3731 Mackintosh St, Halifax, NS B3K 5A5

  (902) 455-4286 nimbus.ca

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Cover design: Heather Bryan

  NB1144

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Crewe, Lesley, 1955-, author

  Chloe Sparrow / Lesley Crewe.

  Issued also in electronic format.

  ISBN 978-1-77108-158-0 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-77108-159-7 (pdf).

  —ISBN 978-1-77108-161-0 (html)

  I. Title.

  PS8605.R48C45 2014 C813’.6 C2014-903195-5

  C2014-903196-3

  Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) and the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia through Film & Creative Industries Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with Film & Creative Industries Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.

  For Tata

  CHAPTER ONE

  The only thing you need to know about me is that all my wishes come true.

  It can be a curse.

  The wishes have random outcomes; sometimes they don’t happen the way I imagined them, which can be extremely upsetting. It started when I was fifteen and told my parents I wished they’d shut up.

  They did. They died in the middle of an argument later that day in front of our Victorian row house in Cabbagetown. Dad was up on a metal ladder while Mom kept it steady, yelling he didn’t know his ass from his elbow and to get down from the utility pole with the hedge clipper before he hit a wire.

  After their funeral, mom’s older sister, Aunt Ollie, and my Gramps let me stay in my parents’ house, since they lived right next to me and we shared a front porch and a backyard. They didn’t want me to lose everything, they said. I think they were just alarmed at the thought of me underfoot. Whatever, the arrangement’s worked for ten years. The only downside is listening to the two of them argue through the plastered walls. It’s the same thing every morning: muffled shouts of frustration coming from the bathroom.

  “Did you take my teeth again?”

  “Why would I want your miserable teeth?”

  “You’re taking my money too! Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I’m telling Chloe.”

  After giving my cat, Norton, a tremendous farewell squeeze (the best part of my day), I’m on the bus heading to the CBC Building on Front Street West in downtown Toronto. I don’t own a car because they destroy the environment and make us all slugs. Gramps ferries me around in his ancient station wagon with wood-panelled doors when buses or bikes aren’t convenient; I guess I don’t mind him destroying the environment when it suits me.

  Every morning the same people surround me as I sway to the lumbering rhythm of this familiar bus beast. When an elderly lady gets on, I stand to give her my seat, and then scowl at the three able-bodied young guys who sit there and pretend they don’t see her, using their iPod, iPad, and iPhone as decoys to fake oblivion and escape guilt.

  It’s wet and wild out on this early June morning, and the feeling of being rumpled and damp lingers even as I take the stairs to our office. It’s my only exercise.

  “Why do you wear that nasty sweater all the time?” is the first thing out of spray-tan Amanda’s mouth when I get to my desk. I untie the belt of my comfy, hooded, cable-knit wool cardigan.

  “It’s cruel to wear leather.”

  “What about the flock of sheep running around buck naked?”

  Amanda and I are assistant editors and producers for television productions here at the CBC. I’m sorry to say she was entirely miffed when I was hired because I’m ten years younger than she is, but when I told her my orphan story she gradually warmed up to me.

  Every morning the first order of business is to get coffee. Our lunchroom has one of those fancy new coffeemakers. When we stampede to line up at this temple of caffeine, the latest rumour is unleashed, usually untrue or at the very least embellished, but that never stops us.

  “Word has it that we’re about to launch another news program,” Amanda says.

  This makes my heart race. “You’re kidding.”

  “Don’t get excited. This one’s mine.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Have you tried the hazelnut flavour?” Amanda has a terrible habit of changing the subject.

  “Why do you think you’d head up this new project?”

  “I believe I’m allergic to hazelnuts.”

  “What about me?”

  “Sorry, Chloe, you look like you’re still in high school.”

  “My appearance has no bearing on which assignments I get.”

  “Oh, you sweet, innocent child. How you look has a bearing on everything in this world.”

  Can I just say that I can’t see Amanda heading a serious news program? As nice as she is, she’s got an orange tinge to her skin and she can never make a decision.

  “What about this Bold French Roast cup, or maybe English Breakfast tea?”

  The entire day I dream about my new assignment, so I don’t get a thing done. Since my work evaluations are always excellent and my boss tells me I’m going places, it’s not impossible to think I might be picked for this project. Everyone knows my career is everything to me. It has to be. I don’t have anything else in my life. But I don’t dwell on it. Mother always said, “It’s no good feeling sorry for yourself because most of the time we make our own misery.” That was the advice she gave me when I didn’t get invited to a party in grade one.

  My cellphone bursts into song around four in the afternoon. It’s Aunt Ollie’s number, and since she never calls me at work, I’m sure Gramps is dead. Too frightened to answer the phone, I allow Beethoven’s Fifth to continue unabated.

  Amanda drops her neck backwards so she can peek at me from her workstation. “Are you go
ing to answer that or do we have to hear the entire symphony?”

  I press the answer button. “H…Hello?”

  “Don’t panic!”

  This isn’t a good thing to say to me over the phone. Not with my history.

  “Your Gramps backed over Norton with the car!”

  “Oh my God, is he dead?!”

  “Who’s dead?” Amanda jumps out of her chair and stands beside me, prepared to burst into tears if the situation requires it.

  “No, but I think his front paw might be broken. We’re taking him to the vet.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you there!” I throw the cell in my purse and scramble around gathering my things. “Gramps ran over Norton!”

  “Your next-door neighbour? The one with garlic breath?”

  “Not Norman, Norton—my cat! I have to get to the vet’s office. Call me a taxi.”

  “Do you want me to drive you?”

  I could kiss her. “Would you mind?”

  “No problem. Let me get my stuff.”

  We hurry out of the office, our high heels clattering on the cement of the parking garage as we run to her car. The interior of Amanda’s SUV is like nothing I’ve ever seen. If I didn’t know better I’d say she lives in it with her husband and two toddlers.

  “Don’t mind the stink. The kids spilled milk yesterday and I forgot to mop it up.”

  The smell is putrid, but I pretend I don’t notice, since she’s doing me a huge favour. We race down three levels of parking garage and emerge onto the street, the late afternoon sun blinding us momentarily.

  “Poor Norton. What if it’s really serious? He’s my best friend.”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.” Amanda thinks that because she’s thirty-five and married with two children, she knows everything. “It’s not a good sign when your best friend is a cat.”

  “Cats are nicer than people.”

  We swerve around cars and trucks. Amanda is rather exceptional behind the wheel, and I’m about to compliment her when she says, “Dogs are nicer than people, not cats. But you know what’s even better? A man. Find one, for God’s sake. You’re twenty-five and you’ve never had a boyfriend.”

  “I have so.”

  “Not since I’ve met you. I know you’re busy, so go online like the rest of the world.”

  “Ugh.”

  “I’m fixing you up.”

  “If you love me at all, you won’t.”

  “I only like you.” She screeches the tires in front of the vet’s office. “Do you want me to wait?”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll call you later.” I burst out of the car and into the vet’s office, startling an enormous husky. He howls his displeasure, which sets off the felines and makes a small mutt pee on the floor.

  “I’m sorry!” I sprint to the front desk. “Please, can you tell me if my cat is here? Norton Sparrow. He was hit by a car.”

  “Yes, the couple who brought him in are with the vet now.”

  “I have to see him, I’m his mother.”

  People who work in vet clinics have heard it all. “First door on the left.”

  Now I rush to the door and charge in, hitting Gramps on the back.

  “Ow, watch it!”

  He deserves it anyway. All I see is Norton lying on the table.

  Aunt Ollie wrings her hands. “He’s not dying. He’ll be fixed up in no time.”

  Norton seems happy to see me. Pushing my way over, I reach down to rub his head, giving him kisses. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

  “Norton will be fine,” the vet says. “The right front leg has some torn ligaments but no broken bones.”

  I didn’t realize the vet was in the room.

  “I told ya I didn’t run over him. I barely touched him.”

  Aunt Ollie points her finger at Gramps. “You back out of that driveway too damn fast. What if it was a child? I’m having your driver’s license taken away.”

  “You do and I’ll smother you in your sleep.”

  “Not if I poison your food, old man, so don’t cross me.”

  While I’m used to this sort of conversation, I’m acutely aware that other people are not. I turn my back on the vet so I can glare at my relatives. “Why don’t you two wait in the car? I’ll handle it from here.”

  They shuffle out and the silence is a relief. Time to turn around and pretend I have a normal family. “Sorry about that. What should I do now?”

  “Stop calling your cat Norton.”

  “Why?”

  “Norton’s pregnant.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “The usual way, I imagine…wine, a nice dinner.”

  For the first time I look at the veterinarian and not at his white coat or stethoscope. He has a pleasant smile, but then he ruins it.

  “I’m surprised a woman like yourself has to be told to fix their cat, especially in this day and age.”

  “I thought he was fixed! There was no evidence of....you know.”

  “That’s because female cats don’t have testicles. How did you not know the sex of your pet?”

  “I don’t get out much.”

  He turns his head to hide his grin. “I’ll bandage the leg to give her support. I can’t give her a sedative because of the pregnancy. She’ll be stiff for a few days, but otherwise she’s in perfect health.”

  I reach down, expecting to retrieve my expensive cat carrier, and see there’s an old wicker picnic basket with a towel in it instead. “This is how they brought him in?”

  “Her. Ingenious, don’t you think?”

  We carefully place Norton inside until she’s comfy, and I close the cover.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  It’s quiet on the trip home, since Gramps and Aunt Ollie aren’t speaking to each other. I’ll tell them about Norton later. For now our new mother needs a lot of peace and quiet, two things in very short supply when my family is around.

  The next day I’m reluctant to go to work, thinking I should be with

  Norton, but Aunt Ollie assures me she’ll take care of everything. It doesn’t give me a lot of comfort. My only female relative has a screw loose.

  It’s only while I’m on the bus that I begin to wonder whether I should wish to be the producer of the new series. No, I’m above that sort of thing. I need to get it on my own merit…but what an opportunity to advance my career. How many wishes do I wish? Not very many. It’s not like I’m greedy.

  It’s raining again, so of course the minute I get to my desk Amanda asks me why I wear my nasty sweater. She’s starting to bug me.

  I head into the washroom to make sure my hair still looks good. I put it up this morning, mindful of Amanda’s comment about looking too young. I have a lot of wavy brown hair almost to my shoulder blades. There’s a can of hairspray on the counter, something I’ve never used in my life. I spray some around my head, but it’s revolting. The price for beauty is too high, if you ask me.

  One last thing, and I make it as watertight as I can, since flubbed wishes make me break out in hives.

  I wish to be the producer of the new series at the CBC. Here in Toronto. In this building. The one being announced this morning. The series Amanda talked about. At the coffee machine. Amen.

  We assemble in the conference room to hear the big news, all of us with our lattes. There’s excitement in the air. Please let it be an informative and insightful documentary program, something that might make a difference in this crazy world we live in, a show that speaks the real truth.

  Amanda pokes me. “Why are your eyes watering?”

  “Are they?” I hadn’t noticed, but they are rather itchy.

  Our boss arrives, a man named Herb Gardner, which couldn’t have been easy growing up. I admire him greatly; he al
ways seems so sure about everything. He looks down at all of us sitting around the conference table.

  “We’re jumping on the bandwagon. We’re going to produce our first reality show.”

  I’m on it! Gritty reality, like investigating the housing concerns in First Nations communities, the heartbreak of Maritime families whose breadwinners have to work in camps and oil fields in Alberta to make a living, the impossibility of being a farmer in today’s world. The list is endless. I can’t wait. My God, what if it’s about political espionage or drug cartels? I’ll just die!

  “You’ve heard of The Lonely Bachelor. The Canadian version will be called The Single Guy.”

  What?

  I rub my eyes in disbelief. Everyone around me is shocked into silence. We are the CBC. The Lonely Bachelor has busty women disembarking from a stretch limousine, pledging undying love to a guy they’ve never met. How does that help society?

  Mr. Gardner continues. “And we’ve decided that the producer we need for this particular project is our wonder girl, Chloe Sparrow. Everyone give her a big hand.”

  Oh. My. God.

  “Come up here, Chloe.”

  As I get to my feet, Amanda pulls at my skirt. “What’s wrong with your lips?”

  My dismay is such that I fumble as I make my way towards my superior. My colleagues are looking at me but their faces are distorted. Catching sight of myself in the glass wall behind Mr. Gardner, I realize I’ve morphed into a Teletubby.

  Fade to black.

  Amanda’s with me at the hospital, giving me hell for using hairspray that wasn’t mine. The epinephrine the paramedics pumped into me to counteract my allergic reaction has me jumpy and talking like an auctioneer.

  “What is he thinking? I don’t know anything about bachelors or bimbos. You’d be better at that.”

  “I’ll forgive you because you have chipmunk cheeks.”

  “This isn’t what I signed up for.”

  “Enough! This should’ve been my job. Do you hear me moaning about it?”

  “You’re moaning about it now.”

  “I have to go.”

  After Amanda leaves to go back to the office, I lie there and count the holes in the ceiling tiles. To my horror, the doctor suggests I stay overnight on a gurney in the hallway just to be safe. She tells me my reaction was severe, so I call Aunt Ollie. Gramps picks up the phone.