by Lesley Crewe
I’m over at their place in late September. The air is chilly and it’s getting dark earlier. The dark and I are good friends. I’m comfortable with black. Tonight we’re having Chinese food we ordered in. My fortune cookie says A diamond is a hunk of coal that stuck with it.
Rubbish.
“Have you thought about getting another job?” Gramps puffs on his pipe.
“No.”
“What are you going to live on?”
“I have money.”
“I’m not used to seeing you mope around. Usually you never sit still.”
“I haven’t had a rest in ten years. I’m taking a little time off, okay? Good night.”
Once I’m back in my house, I go to bed. The next morning I get out of bed and scream. The frayed sheets are covered in blood. For a millisecond I think someone attacked me with a knife, and then I remember my long lost friend. After changing the sheets, I celebrate by going back to bed.
I stay there for three months.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It’s now January, Aunt Ollie tells me. I don’t remember Christmas, but we never do much celebrating anyway. This is a new year and I’m a new person. I’m addicted to sleep, food, and reality television.
This would blow my mind if I could care, but I can’t muster up the energy to care. I spend entire days watching shows I’ve always dismissed with contempt. I’m now emotionally invested in people trying to lose three hundred pounds in six weeks, or looking for a wedding dress, or being a New Jersey housewife. Mothers who subject their babies to beauty pageants fascinate me. Why are they all fat? Being a Gypsy seems like a lot of fun, until they get married. The Amazing Race is amazing; Survivor isn’t but I still watch it. Mob wives terrify me and boy can they curse.
Then there are the talk shows that are actually paternity clinics, and others where people come to confess their sins and thoroughly enjoy it. I boo at bad people and clap when they’re fixed before the end of the show. Now I get the fascination. When you have no life of your own, you live it through the television set. These people are your friends when you have no friends.
However, there is one show that premieres this month that I do not plan to watch. Every time a commercial for it comes on, I change the channel.
My hair grew while I was sleeping. I’m now a terrier with pierced ears, but bedhead is sexy, so I don’t have to do a thing to it. The buttons on my pyjamas have gaps of skin between them, which is rather unsightly, but I’m the only one who sees them. At least, I am until the day Dr. McDermott shows up at my door. Wait till I get my hands on Aunt Ollie.
“You look terrible,” he says.
“Thank you.”
“You were supposed to come and see me.” He grabs my wrist and takes my pulse in the porch before he escorts me into the living room and opens his ancient leather doctor’s bag. This bag has fascinated me for years. It seems to have no bottom, and its contents are always different from visit to visit. He listens to my heart, takes my blood pressure—boring things that don’t mean anything.
“Go get your scale.”
“No.”
He points at the door, so I go and get it. Once I’m on it, he grunts, but I don’t bother looking. It doesn’t mean anything.
“Did you get your period yet?”
“Yes. Now I wish it would go away.”
“You’ve packed on twenty pounds, and this is where it ends. You need to exercise and turn this new heft into muscle, not fat.”
When I don’t respond, he looks at me from under his bushy eyebrows. “Did you hear me?”
“Maybe.”
Now he gets his pad out. “I’m sending you for more blood work, we’ll check your hormone levels, and I’ll arrange for an MRI, just to make sure that noggin of yours is functioning properly. Concussions can have lasting effects.”
When I don’t respond, he looks at me from under his bushy eyebrows. “Did you hear me?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m also sending you to a psychiatrist. You’re exhibiting symptoms of depression, and I want to nip it in the bud before you spiral downward.”
“That’s already happened.”
“You’ll find another job. A girl with your talent and education would be an asset to any company.”
“I’m not going back to work.”
He eyes me. “Ever?”
“If I’m careful, I can live on my inheritance. And someday, God forbid, I’ll sell Gramps’s house and make another pile of money, so I don’t need to go anywhere forever and ever.”
He passes me the prescription. “Amen.”
Out of nowhere, Aunt Ollie says, “I’m starting my own book club.”
“You don’t read books.”
“I would if I had a minute to myself.”
“Who will join you?”
“Are you insinuating I have no friends?”
“No…but do you?”
“That’s neither here nor there. You become friends after you join.”
Norton stretches on my lap as I rub her neck. “Do you have a favourite book?”
“I liked Anne of Green Gables.”
“Anything more recent?”
“Nancy Drew.”
“Great idea, Aunt Ollie. Have a blast.”
“You could join the club.”
“I could, but I probably won’t.”
She frowns. “You’re turning into me, and you’re too young to do that.”
Later that night, while I watch Ice Truckers, my cell rings. I took it out of its hiding spot long ago and deleted the texts and voicemails before I looked at them. Now no one calls, and that’s the way I like it, so I’m reluctant to pick it up.
It’s Steve. “I got tired of waiting for you to call me. I miss you.”
“How can you miss me? You’re not my boyfriend. You can’t say you miss me like we have a relationship.”
“We do. We eat together.”
“I’m not allowed to eat anymore.”
“You sound tired.”
“I’m tired of everything.”
“I have the solution. Come away with me.”
“Where?”
“You choose. Anywhere you’d like to go.”
“Jamaica.”
“I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Don’t you dare. I’m kidding.”
“Just for a week. You can lie on a beach and I’ll rub suntan oil on your back.”
“Suntan oil is a big no-no. Sunscreen is better.”
“Your wish is my command.”
“Don’t. You have no idea how powerful wishes can be. So what have you been up to?”
“I have a new job. Advertising. Boring stuff.”
“Still, it’s a start.”
“What about you, Chloe? Are you working?”
“No.”
“If you ever need to get out, call me. Promise?”
“Okay.”
“Take care, Chloe.”
After we hang up I think about that. I have no one to take care of.
It’s while I’m watching two teams of hysterical bakers have a butter meltdown that I realize I want my own car. I do know how to drive, I just haven’t. At this point in my life I don’t care about the environment. The world is going to end because human beings are so revoltingly terrible to this planet and my not driving won’t tip the scales.
I mention it to Gramps. “Can I take your car for a drive? I want to refresh my memory.”
He looks concerned. “I’m not sure about that.”
“I took driver’s ed, unlike you, who learned in a field when you were seven.”
Aunt Ollie comes into the kitchen with a load of laundry to fold. She dumps it on the table and the three of us pick at it. For some reason, I love folding laundry.
The warmth of the clothes feels nice against my chest.
“Chloe wants to take my car for a drive. What do you think?”
“I think you should go with her in case something happens.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. It’ll make me nervous.”
“No, Ollie’s right. I’ll go with you.”
Aunt Ollie pretends to have a heart attack. “I’m right? Merciful God, will wonders never cease.”
This old station wagon reeks of tobacco. There’s a huge stain of nicotine directly over my head. Strange that I never noticed it before, but then I’ve never paid much attention to the inside of this car. Gramps starts grumbling when I mention the stink.
“Never bothered you before.”
The gizmo to bring the seat forward doesn’t work until I force matters and end up squeezed against the wheel.
“Now you broke it. You have to be gentle with it. I’ll never get it back in the right place.”
I turn the heater on and get a blast of cold air. “Doesn’t the heater work? This is the air conditioner, which we don’t need in January in Canada.”
“You need it in the summer.”
Now I turn on the radio. Nothing but static. “Gramps, how old is this car?”
“I can’t remember.”
It starts to snow halfway down the block. At a red light I try to locate the windshield wiper switch, but I turn on the lights, turn signals, and defroster instead.
“What are you doing?” Gramps yells.
Cars beep behind me when the light turns green. I can hardly see, but I put my foot on the gas, whereupon the car backfires, a plume of dark smoke pouring out the back. Undaunted, I take one more stab at a dial and the wipers start, but they only reach halfway up the window, rubber strips hanging off them precariously. They scrape the glass every time they move.
“Why haven’t you fixed this?”
“I was going to.”
Two cars pass by and both drivers point at my back end with exasperation. “What are they pointing at?”
“Don’t know. Someone did that to me the other day.”
So I pull into the nearest gas station to get out and look. Gramps joins me. “Something’s missing, probably the tailpipe. Ask the young guy to come outside and help us.”
The young guy confirms Gramps’s diagnosis.
“Is that bad?”
“Yeah, didn’t you notice the engine sounded louder?”
“No.”
He points at the tires. “These are in pretty rough shape, and they’re low to boot. You should put some air in them.”
“How do I do that?”
He points to what I gather is an air pump. “Sorry, I have customers.” He jogs back to the station, leaving us to our own devices. It can’t be that hard, surely. Gramps looks like he knows what he’s doing. He rummages in the glove compartment. “I don’t have a tire gauge. Go in and ask for one.”
The snow is falling fast and furious and I’m not dressed properly, but I retrieve a tire gauge and give it to Gramps. He checks the tires and then takes the hose and puts air in them. “I think we’ll be okay now.”
I give back the tire gauge and run to the car. Once inside, I look at him. “Have you ever had an emissions test done?”
Gramps strokes his chin. “Can’t say I remember.”
“You’re supposed to every two years!”
“That’s a rip-off, a way for the goddamn government to take more of our hard-earned money.”
“So that’s a no. At this moment, off the top of my head we need new tires, a new tailpipe, a new heater, new wipers, and a new radio. That’s just what we know about. I have a feeling you’re very lucky this heap didn’t blow up years ago.”
“Listen, missy, I’m retired. Money doesn’t grow on trees. Ollie doesn’t work. I have to watch my pennies.”
“That is drivel. I know full well you and Dad made a fortune on stocks before the market crashed. You’ve told me often enough. I think it’s time for you to buy a new car.”
“I don’t know about that. What will Ollie say?”
“Hallelujah, I imagine. I’m sure she doesn’t like freezing to death when she goes for groceries.”
“What kind of car?”
“We’ll figure that out when we get there.”
We noisily belch exhaust every twenty feet and I’m getting the finger from drivers on all sides, so I steer into the first dealership I see, which is Mazda. Two hours later Gramps is the new owner of a jet black Mazda 6. The salesman asks me if I’m in the market to buy a car and I think, why not.
“I’ll have that one over there. I like the colour.”
“I love you,” the guy says. Now I have a spirited green Mazda 2. I tell Gramps that his car is three times better than mine and he seems chuffed.
It takes another hour for the salesman to explain the new features to Gramps, and to tell the truth, to me as well. These babies can do everything but babysit, but the only thing Gramps is really impressed with are the heated seats. Me too.
We drive them home in a convoy through a snow squall with our temporary license plates, Gramps leading the way. When we get home we hustle Aunt Ollie outside so she can look at our new purchases, and then we take turns driving her around the block.
She’s madly in love with the heated seats as well. “I think I’ll sleep in here.”
We put Gramps’s new car in the garage and leave mine outside, since I’ll have an easier time wiping snow off my vehicle. We celebrate by drinking hot chocolate with marshmallows.
“Why didn’t we think of this years ago?” Gramps puzzles.
“People get into ruts,” Aunt Ollie says. “That’s what I’m in. Hopefully my book club will change that.”
“Are you telling me there’s going to be highbrow women in this house looking down their noses at me?”
“Think of the trays of sandwiches, Gramps.”
He mulls this over. “True.”
I take my car out the next day to run to the grocery store for boxes of Smarties. Out of the corner of my eye I see a colourful sheet of paper on the public bulletin board. Love Books? Me too. Join my book club. Aunt Ollie’s phone number is repeated on pieces of fringed paper at the bottom, making it easier for a prospective member to rip off.
All the numbers are still there. Poor Aunt Ollie. I grab three pieces and put them in my pocket. People will think others are interested and be more inclined to take a piece themselves. Two days later I go back to the store to get more cat food and check Aunt Ollie’s poster and notice another piece of paper missing. Thank God. When I turn to leave, I notice a similar poster.
Are you the woman of my dreams? I’m a young seventy with my own house, my own teeth, and a brand new car. Call me for a good time.
Guess who.
It takes me a good minute before I recover and another minute to realize that all his phone numbers have been ripped away. When I drop the cat food off, my grandfather is on the phone while Aunt Ollie frets by the stove.
“Every time that damn phone rings, I think it might be for my book club, but now he’s got every old widow in the neighbourhood on speed dial.”
“He’ll be out of your hair.”
“He copied me, and now he’s ruined everything.”
When I sit at the table, Norton jumps up on my lap and Gramps gets off the phone.
“Gramps, you don’t have all your own teeth.”
“I have two bridges, not dentures. There’s a difference. Are you going to be a sourpuss about my new hobby too? Olive here is carrying on like I’ve ruined her life.”
“I don’t care about your fancy women. Why aren’t people calling about my book club?”
The phone rings.
“Let me guess, it’s for you,” Aunt Ollie gripes.
Gram
ps picks up the phone. “Hello there, you’re speaking to Wilfred Butterworth, but you can call me Fred or you can call me to dinner, your choice.”
Aunt Ollie rolls her eyes.
Gramps listens. “Yes, she’s here. Are you sure you want to speak to her?” He hands Aunt Ollie the phone. “It’s for you.”
Aunt Ollie runs down the hall to pick up the phone in her room. Gramps hangs up. “Judging by her voice, she’s a dried up old prune.”
Today is my first psychiatrist’s appointment with a Dr. McDermott—either the weirdest coincidence ever or evidence that my pediatrician is messing with my head. This Dr. McDermott’s office is in a rundown apartment building. I can’t tell if it’s derelict or terribly chic. A labyrinth of hallways dissect each other on the first floor, and are seemingly endless, like an indoor maze.
Eventually I come to the office and the door is open. There’s a handwritten sign on the wall. Knock loud and come in. So I do. The place looks like someone is moving in or moving out. Moving out, more likely; who’d want to stay here?
There’s no receptionist.
“Hello?”
A door opens and a young guy sticks his head out. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Is that the doctor? This is ridiculous. I’m going to take advice from someone even younger than me?
He eventually emerges, escorting a little old man with a cane. “I’ll see you in two weeks, Mr. Finkel. Hopefully by then I’ll have chairs in the waiting room.” Then he looks at me and ushers me in his door. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Please, come in.”
The office is in an uproar as well, but at least there’s a chair for me and one for him. No couch, thankfully.
“I’m Dr. McDermott. It’s nice to meet you. My uncle referred you. Chloe Sparrow, isn’t it?” He takes out a notepad and sets it on his knee while looking at my file.
“How old are you?” I ask him.
“Old enough to be a psychiatrist. How old are you?”
“Old enough to be a patient.”
