Chloe Sparrow

by Lesley Crewe

  “What’s shakin’?”

  “It’s Chloe. I have to stay overnight in the hospital, but it’s not serious and I don’t want you to worry.”

  “Likely excuse.”

  “Gramps, make sure you feed Norton.”

  “You got two boyfriends?”

  “Is Aunt Ollie there?”

  “She’s always skulking around. Ollie! Pick up the gee-dee phone.”

  “Helloooo?”

  “Make sure you feed Norton, because I won’t be home tonight. There are cans and bags of dry food in the pantry.”

  “I already fed her.”

  “Stop snooping in my house when I’m not there.”

  “How dare you suggest such a thing? By the way, I’m mending the holes in your socks and soaking a few of your bras.”

  After a fitful night’s sleep on an uncomfortable slab that’s too high off the floor, I wake up with the world’s worst hangover. The nurse assures me this is normal for people pumped full of adrenaline. She tells me to take it easy for the rest of the day, so I take a cab home. It’s much easier than asking Gramps to come get me. I don’t have the stamina for him right now.

  The relief is overwhelming the minute I cross my own threshold. In my house everything is orderly and has its own place—a result of too many nights alone. Nothing’s changed since the day my parents died. It’s comforting to keep it this way. Although after ten years some items are wearing thin, like sheets and towels. Whenever I have a bad day I go to my parents’ closets and hang out there for a while, or I go to the library and read their books. Both of them were University of Toronto professors. They expected great things from me, and I still live in fear of disappointing them.

  In the weeks following their accident I was, of course, grief-stricken. I cried out one night that I wished my parents were still with me. And believe it or not, I’ve been living with two poltergeists ever since. Dad slams doors and Mom rattles the dishes. At times the thermostat goes crazy, too. I’m assuming it’s my mom around when it becomes unbearably warm. All she did was complain about hot flashes.

  Upstairs, Norton is on the canopied bed my mother wouldn’t let me get rid of because she said it was a sin to waste money. It doesn’t go with the black walls that I insisted I wanted when I turned fifteen. A decade later, I’d kind of like to paint the walls pale grey, or soft linen, but I still can’t bring myself to do it.

  Norton rolls over onto her back and waits for me to rub her belly. It’s our ritual.

  She showed up on my doorstep one night after I had a terrible argument with a friend. Stomping home through the snow, I wished for a new friend. Lo and behold, Norton was at my front door. At first I thought she was a fat racoon. The minute I put the key in the lock she walked in like she’d been doing it all her life. We understand each other perfectly. I’m also a stray.

  At five o’clock, I’m still sleeping when the phone jars me awake.

  “I’ve made beef stew. Dinner is in ten minutes.” Click.

  The thought of eating beef stew leaves me cold, but Aunt Ollie has guilt issues and insists on feeding me periodically. I trudge to the bathroom and for the first time look in the mirror. I’m a wax candle that’s been left in the sun too long. Hopefully hot water will shrink my skin back in place. I’m not vain, but right now I look like my grandfather.

  Naturally, the other two don’t notice a thing wrong with me. They’ve been locked in battle for so long the outside world has ceased to exist. Their entire realm is this atrociously messy house, which will be lethal one day, because Gramps is very careless with his pipe. My aunt and I have tried for years to get him to stop smoking. He said he’d quit smoking the day Aunt Ollie lost her spare tire, so I wished for Aunt Ollie to lose some weight. She got sick and lost ten pounds while she was in the hospital. I realized I had to stop interfering or I’d knock off my whole family.

  Aunt Ollie passes me a plateful of beef stew. She knows I’m a vegetarian, but she conveniently forgets.

  “What’s going on at work these days?”

  She sits and scratches her head through a hairnet. Sometimes I want to yank out the two pink plastic rollers that are forever curling her bangs. I don’t think I’ve seen her hair unadorned in a decade. At fifty-one, Aunt Ollie looks as old as Gramps, and he’s seventy-three.

  “I got a promotion. I’m the field producer of a new series for the network.”

  Gramps takes tobacco out of his pouch and fills his pipe. “That’s one thing I’ll say for you: you’re smart, like me.”

  Aunt Ollie passes me a huge bowl of maple walnut ice cream before I’ve even taken a bite of the stew. “Will you get a raise?”

  “I’m not sure.” That’s something I hadn’t considered.

  “What’s it about?” Gramps asks.

  “It’s a reality show.”

  “Which means?”

  “People go on television and pretend they’re living normal lives while a camera crew follows them around.”

  Gramps’s bushy eyebrows quiver. “The whole world has gone to the dogs. Who in their right mind would want to have a camera stuck up their arse all day and night? Where do they find these lunatics and why do I want to watch them?”

  “I love Say Yes to the Dress,” Aunt Ollie sighs. “You should’ve seen my wedding dress.”

  Gramps lights his pipe with a match. “Trust you to still be talking about it.”

  Aunt Ollie slams her spoon on the table. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “It was over thirty years ago! Drop it already.”

  Before I can say anything, Aunt Ollie makes her martyr face and rushes out of the kitchen. I’m left to defend her.

  “Why are you so mean? She’s the only daughter you have left.”

  “She loves it. Olive’s been a drama queen since she was born. I get her riled up so she can blow off steam. What else has she got to look forward to?”

  He kind of has a point. Since I’m not hungry, my food goes in the garbage and I start to clean up. Gramps leans back in his chair. He’s still a good-looking man, despite the grey facial hair sprouting out of his nose and ears. It’s his awful glasses that have to go. They hang off the edge of his nose and are so full of fingerprints it’s a wonder he can see.

  “Yeah, the poor little bastard got run over by a backhoe. No wonder. He was about five foot nothin’, only skin and bones. Just as well he met his maker before the wedding. Ollie would’ve smothered him on their wedding night.”

  “I hope you’ve never said that to Aunt Ollie!”

  “Might have...once or twice.”

  “No wonder she hates you.”

  The dishes loaded, I start the dishwasher. Only the pot to scrub in the sink and I can escape.

  “So what’s your reality show called?”

  “The Single Guy. It’s about a bachelor.”

  “And what do you do with him?”

  “He tries to find a woman who will marry him.”

  “You’re going to follow this numbskull all over the city?”

  “No, they’re delivered to him on a platter.”

  He sucks on his pipe for a few moments. “I believe I was born in the wrong century.”

  I’m back in my Barbie bed by seven-thirty. I spend most of my time in my room, despite its gloominess. The rest of the house is always in darkness. It seems disrespectful to use superfluous electricity in the rooms my parents lived in, since that was the manner of their death. I confirmed my instincts one evening when I decided to turn on all the lights in the house as an experiment. Dad opened and slammed doors shut the entire night, and there was a broken coffee mug on the kitchen floor the next morning. It would have to be my favourite. Thanks Mom.

  I am almost always alone, but it never feels lonely when Norton is on my bed. What would it be like to have a man here instead? Impossible, I guess. He�
�d want the lights on.

  Norton has her good paw over her eyes, which means she doesn’t want to be disturbed. Trouble is, she’s lying on the remote. When I gently remove it, she tightens the grip on her face, stretching her back paws until they tremble, toes splayed in annoyance.

  I decide a little television will put me to sleep. Wouldn’t you know, The Lonely Bachelor soundtrack fills the room as the camera sweeps over the palatial estate where this nonsense is filmed. Ordinarily I’d switch it off, but now I have to do research, so I reach for the writing pad I use to jot down my dreams and hold a pencil aloft, ready to do battle. An hour later there’s not a single word written down. A minute after that Amanda’s on the phone.

  “Did you watch it?”

  “It’s…terrible.”

  “The mud-wrestling segment was over the top. We shouldn’t do that right off the bat.”

  “We shouldn’t do it at all. What has mud-wrestling got to do with anything? Ever? This is going to be a disaster.” My notepad slides off the bed and I sink into my frayed sheets.

  “Hike up your big-girl panties. We have to start casting soon.”

  “I don’t think I’m the right person for the job.”

  “You’re not, but am I holding a grudge?”

  “A little.”

  “Which is understandable, given the circumstances. I am your senior.”

  “Your life is perfect, Amanda.”

  “Perfect? At this moment, the love of my life is snoring on his recliner with a jumbo bag of chips on his chest.”

  “At least you have someone in the house with you.”

  Norton opens one eye and gives me a dirty look.

  “Something occurred to me today as I was driving home,” Amanda says. “We’re going to be surrounded by gorgeous women for months. I think I’ll have streaks put in my hair and maybe get a little Botox for these frown lines.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Sparrow, you have no idea what you’re in for. These women are going to walk all over you. You look twelve! It might help if you cut your hair—gotta go, one of the kids is crying.”

  I haul myself into the bathroom and take a lengthy look in the mirror. This is when a mom or a sister would come in handy. The only thing Aunt Ollie has ever said is that my eyes are too far apart and my lips are pudgy. The longer I stand here, the more aware I am of the lingering scent of the hairspray that nearly took my life, and that reminds me of my ridiculous wish.

  No more wishes. No more hair.

  Making a hair appointment is like trying to get into a sorority. Amanda recommends a few salons downtown, but they’re booked for months.

  I’m at my desk eating yogurt and fruit for lunch when Amanda sits back down in her swivel chair, and I ask, “Why can’t I go to your hairdresser?”

  “No way.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the quickest way to ruin a friendship. If you hate it, you’ll blame me.”

  “I will?”

  “Yes.”

  In the end, I go to the local hairdresser at my closest strip mall. They take me right away, which should have given me pause. An hour later, I’m bald. I tip the girl because she’s so proud of herself.

  When I go back to work, Amanda claps her hands together like a little kid. “A pixie cut, I love it! You finally look your age.”

  On the way home, I notice people on the bus looking at me, wondering if I’m the same girl who’s been riding this bus for years. It’s amazing how you know when someone’s staring at you. Even the lazy bums who never stand for an elderly citizen sneak a peek. That must mean I look great.

  Or not. When I show up at my grandfather’s house, my Aunt Ollie covers her face as soon as she sees me and runs down the crowded hallway towards the kitchen.

  Gramps limps out of the living room. “What the hell happened to you? Did someone attack you with gardening shears? I’ll go kick his head in.”

  “By all means, go kick the girl working her butt off in our struggling local hair salon.”

  “You paid to have this done?”

  There’s no reason for me to stay out in the hall with my grandfather, so I leave him and go to the kitchen, where Aunt Ollie proceeds to sniff and shudder every time she glances at me.

  “I got my hair cut. People do it several million times a day.”

  “You look like you have cancer.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your beautiful hair!”

  “Okay, this is astounding. You’ve never once in my life told me my hair was beautiful.”

  “I didn’t want you to get a swelled head.”

  Gramps returns to sit in his rocking chair by the stove. “People are too conceited as it is.”

  “Did you ever once tell your daughters they were pretty?”

  “They weren’t.”

  “What a terrible thing to say!”

  “He’s right,” says Aunt Ollie. “I’m surprised your mother found a man.”

  These two make me want to pull out the little hair I have left. “I can’t stay. Could you keep Norton over here during the day? I don’t like leaving her alone now that my hours are unpredictable.”

  “That fur bag?” Gramps says. “The place won’t be fit to live in.”

  “This house is a garbage dump. A little fur isn’t going to spoil the overall look.”

  “Of course we’ll take her.” Aunt Ollie wipes her eyes. “Norton’s better company than old misery-guts.”

  “Hey, I resent that.”

  Back home I deliver the bad news to Norton. “I apologize in advance for the hell you’ll go through living next door.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  We’re swamped with applications. Are there that many desperate bachelors out there? Amanda and I spend an entire week going through the pile in the small, second-floor back room that we’re using as an office. It’s quiet and private and prevents our female co-workers from sneaking peeks over our shoulders.

  Reading about the personal lives of strangers takes an enormous amount of energy and concentration, not to mention a nose for bullshit, something I haven’t honed yet.

  “What about this guy?” I read the application out loud. “He’s a Rhodes scholar, a surgeon, has a black belt in karate, and runs his own charity for orphans when he’s not doing heart transplants or competing in triathlons.”

  Amanda rolls her eyes at me. “Honestly, Chloe, does he sound real?”

  “He could be.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Biff.”

  She leans over and grabs the paper out of my hand, throwing it behind her. “Next.”

  The next application floors me. “Wait a minute, I know this guy.”

  Amanda looks up. “Who is he?”

  “He’s the vet who helped Norton.” I look for his name. “Dr. Austin Hawke.”

  “Let me see.”

  When I pass it over, Amanda’s eyes widen. “Dear God!”

  “What?”

  “He looks like Ryan Gosling!”

  “Who’s Ryan Gosling?”

  Amanda slams her hand on the table. “Why are you in charge of this show? You barely watch television! Everyone knows who Ryan Gosling is. He’s a gorgeous Canadian movie star. How is it possible you don’t know this?”

  “I do so watch television…documentaries, and the news…”

  “Please tell me you watched TV when you were a kid.”

  “I was allowed to watch Mr. Dressup and Sesame Street.”

  “It’s like you’re from another planet,” Amanda moans.

  I find it very strange that a man like Dr. Hawke would want to be on a television show. He doesn’t strike me as the type, but then again, what do I know about men?

  After a long and gruelling process, we ask some of the wo
men on our floor to help us during their lunch hour. Amanda lays out the pictures on the conference table and passes out pencils.

  “These are the final thirty,” I say. “We’ve weeded out the obvious lunatics, criminal types, and mama’s boys. It goes without saying that they have huge egos.”

  “How do you know?” Debbie from acquisitions is always the first to question everything.

  “They want to fondle strange women in front of a camera and have it broadcast on television. What does that say about them? Please put a checkmark beside the men you find attractive. We’re going on looks alone at this point.”

  There’s no sense ignoring the fact that women like men who are deemed attractive by other females. That’s what I’ve read, anyway.

  They circle the table. Debbie uselessly puts a checkmark on every one of them. Fortunately, the rest are choosier. We thank them for their time and gather up our papers, counting the marks for each man. Based on that scientific criterion, we whittle the bachelors down to ten, and Amanda contacts them with the good news.

  Four days later, the finalists from all across Canada are cooling their heels in a downtown hotel—except Austin, who declined a room because he lives in town.

  I decide to let Amanda handle the interviews of these gentlemen. She’s pleasantly surprised that I trust her with the job. It’s more about me being a big chicken, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  We are now seated in chairs at a round table in one of the back rooms. Each candidate will be brought in one at a time from the annex room next door.

  Amanda pokes me. “Stop frowning. If Mr. Gardner finds out you despise this sort of show, you’ll be yanked outta here before lunch.”

  True. There’s my new raise to consider, so I give a big grin.

  “Okay, now you’re overdoing it.”

  “Did you buy a blouse just for today?”

  Amanda strokes the front of her new purchase. “Nice, isn’t it.”

  It won’t be by the time the spray-tan molecules bleed into the collar. Why she needs to look like she stepped off a plane from the Dominican every day of her life is a mystery to me. But then, so are most things.