by Elka Ray
“Okay, well, get well soon,” says Alana, again, obviously eager to get to Josh’s room. She swings her quilted black purse onto her other arm.
“Thanks. Bye,” I say.
As I watch them step out of my wheelchair’s way, something niggles the back of my brain. “Wait!” I say. “Alana, your Chanel purse. Who’d you buy it from?”
Alana purses her shiny mouth, clearly confused. She turns to Louise, whose face resembles an ice sculpture. “Oh, from Louise here. Why?”
Through narrowed eyes, Louise glares at me. I study her expensive eyeglasses. Why would a woman who spends that much on designer bags and glasses wear cheap shoes? All of a sudden, I get it.
“You were stealing stuff,” I say. “From Tonya.” I shake my head in amazement. “She was such a shopaholic, she didn’t even notice.” Like Josh said, she left the tags on a bunch of the crap she bought. Sunglasses. Pens. Purses. All those fancy brand names I’ve seen on Louise. I look back at her mustard loafers. “But her feet were smaller than yours.”
The knuckles gripping Louise’s calla lilies are almost as white as the flowers. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” she snarls. “Tonya gave me that stuff! We were best friends!” Her voice breaks. “She loved me! She gave me lots of gifts!”
Looking at Louise’s darting eyes, I know she’s lying. “How’d she find out?” I ask.
I expect her to keep denying everything, but her face crumples. Tears gush from beneath her designer frames, forcing her to remove them. “She needed me!” she whines. “I was the only one who was there for her!” She points a finger to her chest, her nail bitten to the quick. “When she got those scary messages, I was the first person she called! Me!” Her small eyes glitter with crazed pride. “She needed me!”
I blink. Everything is coming into focus. Louise is fifty shades of crazy. “You’re the stalker,” I say. “Scaring Tonya and reassuring her made you feel needed. Then you kept doing it, to Josh and Alana and me.”
Alana’s mouth flies open. “What?” she squeals. “That was you? That dead crow? But why me? What did I ever do to you?”
Louise rounds on her, causing Alana to shrink back. Behind me, the high school candy striper’s shoes squeak.
“You hurt her!” hisses Louise. “Sleeping with Josh when you knew he was married! She found out that night . . .” Louise’s chin falls to her chest and her lips quiver. “She went to the marina to confront that cheating scumbag! She was so upset!” Her voice rises to a shrill whine. “I just wanted to comfort her!”
The self-pity in her voice horrifies me. “Comfort her?” I ask. “I bet you’re the one who told her about Josh and Alana in the first place.” Two bright spots have appeared on Louise’s cheeks, the rest of her face chalky. She lowers her head, like a bull preparing to charge. “How dare you judge me?” she hisses at me. “After what you did at camp!” She looms closer.
The poor high school volunteer wheels me sharply backward. “I’m calling security,” says the girl, shakily, but stays put. Louise ignores her. She’s wielding those lilies like a baton. Following my recent run-in with Chantelle and her rifle, the threat of getting whacked with a bouquet doesn’t seem so bad. But given that I’m concussed, full of stitches, and wheelchair-bound, I don’t want another fight. And if I want Louise to keep talking, I’d better change my tone. Louise feeds on sympathy.
“I’m sure you did comfort Tonya,” I say, soothingly. “You were her best friend, right?” Louise nods vigorously. “Of course you were. So that last night, at the marina. Did she ask you for help?”
Louise’s eyes seem to cloud over. She sways, like she’s seeing that fateful night. Her eyes fill with tears again. When she answers, her voice is a strangled sob. “She was hysterical, so I raced over there,” she says. “I was in such a rush I forgot to take off the Pucci scarf . . .” She swipes her hand under her nose, sorrow changing to rage. “She recognized it and tried to grab it off me. She accused me of taking it! After everything I did for her!” Louise shakes the lilies.
Because I’m sitting, her hands are at eye level. I see her white knuckles around the lilies’ green stalks, and her rings, flashing. She’s only wearing three silver rings today, one a plain band, one with a chunk of malachite (spiritual transformation), and one with a turquoise cabochon (protection). I lean back. It’s crazy what you notice in times of stress. I grip the armrest of my wheelchair, scared she’ll strike me.
From down the hall come male voices. Louise must hear them too because she swings around. There’s a crazed look in her piggy eyes. She looks from me to Alana to the young candy striper, like she’s deciding whom to attack first. She throws the lilies to the ground and charges straight at me.
I scream as she knocks over my wheelchair. As I start to tip, I manage to kick her in the knee, slowing her a little. She staggers but recovers, pushing Alana into a wall. The poor schoolgirl goes flying.
I put down my hand to break my fall and feel a sharp crack in my wrist. So much for my good arm. The rest of the fall happens in slow motion. Every bone in my body hurts. When the motion stops, I curl into a fetal position. I’m scared that Louise will hit me again, and I try to protect my head.
“Are you okay?” Someone grabs my shoulder.
“Ow!” I yell. I open my eyes to see Alana leaning over me. She looks like a doll defaced by someone’s naughty little brother: her lipstick smeared, goggle-eyed, and her curls in wild disarray. Over Alana’s shoulder, I can see Louise’s retreating back. “Stop her!” I scream.
The poor high school girl staggers to her feet. “Help! Security!” she shrieks. When she sees the weird angle of my wrist her face blanches and her voice rises a few more octaves. “Help! We need a doctor!”
Far down the hall, I can still hear Louise’s ugly loafers slapping against the tiles. I grit my teeth against the pain and shut my eyes. I’ve been attacked twice in two days. And I thought island life would be peaceful. “Alana,” I say. “Do you have a phone?”
With shaking hands, she pulls a little pink phone from her purse. “I’m calling 911!” she says.
“No,” I manage to whisper. “Call Colin Destin.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:
FULL CIRCLE
My bedside table is full of bottles and jars of herbal remedies, all of them dark green or brown, frothy and smelly. Since I’m hooked up to machines, there’s no escaping my mom’s ministrations. “I caaaaaan’t, Mom,” I say, aware that I’m whining like a six-year-old.
“Come on, just one sip,” says my mother. “It boosts immunity.”
I squeeze my lips shut. This has been going on since the doctor let her in, after I was wheeled, yet again, out of Recovery. “Nooooo,” I say.
“Pleeeeeease,” begs my mother. Any minute now she’ll start pretending the spoon is an airplane. “Just a little sip. Okay?”
I take a deep breath. “Fine.” I lack the strength to keep arguing. My mom looks thrilled. She raises the spoon to my lips and I swallow and gag. It tastes like pond scum. I start to dry heave.
My mother beams. “Good girl,” she says.
For a few minutes, she’s satisfied. Then she starts rifling through her gigantic bag in search of fresh tortures. She sticks a shiny lump of hematite under my pillow. “To form new blood cells,” she explains. I nod. Fine, so long as I don’t have to drink it.
My eyelids sag. My mom bustles around the room, lighting aromatic candles. I know she means well but she’s driving me crazy. “Mom,” I say. “Can you sit down?”
She stops what she’s doing and walks over to me. “Toby? Are you okay?” I can hear fear in her voice.
“Mom, I love you.”
My mother blinks. From the hollows beneath her eyes, it’s clear she didn’t get much sleep. “I . . . I love you, too.”
“I know it was hard on you,” I say.
Her beautiful face creases as if in pain. “When Quinn called looking for you, I knew something was wrong. What with your terrible readi
ng and all . . .”
I cut in. “No, I meant when I was a kid. When Dad left.” I think of the morning I was driven back from camp, all alone in a Bluebird cab, in utter disgrace.
“Oh.” She sinks into the chair by my bedside.
For a few moments we’re silent. It’s probably the first time in years I’ve seen my mom sitting still, doing nothing. Her hands are always busy: knitting or stirring or chopping or shuffling cards. Stringing beads onto wire. Kneading grainy bread. Petting her overfed cat. Except now they’re in her lap and she’s just staring into space. “It was all such a shock,” she says. “It seems crazy . . . but I thought we had a good marriage. Well, a normal marriage . . .” Her voice falters. “And it happened at a hard age for you, fourteen.” She sighs. “Fourteen is tough at the best of times.”
I stay quiet, my thoughts on that morning, me alone in that expensive taxi I knew my parents would have to pay for, utterly shell-shocked.
We turned into the parking lot, my back rigid with fatigue and fury. The humiliation was bad, but the sense of injustice was much worse. It wasn’t fair. Yes, I’d snuck out, but that was it. I hadn’t done any of things they’d said I did.
At the far end of the parking lot I could see my mom’s silver Audi. She was stepping out of it. Through sore dry eyes I took in her outfit. What was she wearing? Her standard twinset, slacks, and pearls had been replaced by a weird thrift-store dress. And what was up with that crazy hat? She looked tired and too thin in her loose Indian-print frock, like a bag lady.
I heaved my backpack onto one shoulder and staggered out of the taxi. Who cared what my mom was wearing, she was here— and she would comfort me. She was the one person on earth I could count on, no matter what. She’d understand the injustice I’d endured. She’d listen to the full story and be furious on my behalf. She’d be on the phone within minutes. She’d write scathing letters.
“Mom?” I stumbled off the bus.
I expected her to throw her arms around me, to ask me, gently, what happened, to tell me it was okay, I was home. None of it mattered anymore.
Instead, she just stood there with a blank shocked look on her pretty face. When she met my eyes I saw something I’d never seen before: doubt. My mom doubted me. That was worse than Josh’s rejection, worse than being locked in that dank scary space, worse than being accused of stuff I could barely imagine and all the horrible names I’d been called. I dropped my bag and shoved my hands into my pockets. My stomach was a hard hot knot.
My mom shook herself, like someone roused from a bad dream. “I . . . are you okay?”
I couldn’t even nod. Her arms went around me except it was too late. I’d seen that look in her eyes.
“Toby?”
I wrenched away from her. “What?” This one word was swung at her like a bat, heavy with hurt and betrayal.
My mom leaned back. Her mouth screwed up. “Daddy and I . . . we’ve separated.” It was hard to see her eyes in the shade of that floppy hat. Her throat sounded raw. “He left already.” I realized she was crying. “He’s in Calgary.”
I felt myself reeling. Blow upon blow. My dad left home without even saying goodbye. Was it because of me? What they said I did at camp? Did he not love me anymore?
My dad had always been a distant figure, more at work than at home. On the weekends he sailed and came home late, smelling of salt and beer. But still, he was part of my life. My dad. Dr. Parsons, the orthodontist. Half the kids at school had braces fitted by my dad. He was the reason we had a nice house, two new cars, the reason we could afford all my lessons, horse-riding and gymnastics and violin, and my brand-name clothes and toys. Daddy worked hard for us. He loved us. My mom said it all the time. How could he just be gone? To another city! He had to know I hadn’t done anything wrong!
It must have been shock, but just for a moment, I saw us from above: a slight Asian woman and an even smaller girl, like carbon copies, both blank-eyed, their skinny shoulders hunched. Some moments stay with you and I knew this was one of them. I’d never seen my mom so sad, so scared and broken. Yet through the selfish prism of a fourteen-year-old, I had just one thought: Why was this happening to me? My life would never ever be the same again.
“Toby?”
I look up, startled. My mom’s hands are still clasped in her lap. She hasn’t moved. “I didn’t see it coming,” she says quietly. “Until your dad left. I found out three days before you got back from camp, about his . . . mistress.” She shudders. “I went a little nuts, throwing out all of his stuff, and the things he’d bought for me.” She gives a wry smile. “Remember that golfer Tiger Wood’s wife, running down the street, bashing his car with a golf club? Well, that was me, pretty much. I burned his suits in the wood stove and smashed his sailing trophy with a hammer.” She shifts in her chair. “I was that mad.”
My mom rubs her eyes. She looks so drawn I want to reach out to her, but hesitate on account of my IV. She licks her lips, her voice softer now. “I was so wrapped up in my own sorrow I don’t think I was there for you, for a while.” She turns and looks into my eyes. “You were such a great kid,” she says.
I smile. “And you were—you are—a great mom,” I say. It’s the truth. Even at her wackiest, I knew she’d do anything for me.
My mother smiles. She leans forward and strokes my cheek. “You were all I ever wanted,” she says. “My perfect little girl.” She studies my bruised and swollen face. I feel a great welling of love for her.
My mom is still gazing at me. I can see her mind ticking over. She raises her pinkie to her lips, looking pensive, then nods. “A paste of cabbage and comfrey leaves,” she says. “That’s what you need. It works wonders for bruising.”
I groan but my mom is already on her feet. She reaches for her bag. “I’m off to the organic grocer,” she says. She trots to the door. “I’ll be back in no time.”
I must have nodded off because I wake to see Quinn sitting at my bedside. “What’s on your face?” she asks, when she sees that my eyes are open.
Since I can’t actually touch my face, I have no idea. “Bandages?” I say.
“It looks like coleslaw.”
I grit my teeth. My mom must have applied it when I was sleeping. “Comfrey and cabbage leaves,” I say. “Get it off me!”
“With what?”
“I don’t know. A wet wipe?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Well you’d better get some!” I snap. “Don’t you have one of those massive diaper bags yet?”
Quinn stomps off to the toilet and returns with some wet paper towels. She daubs gingerly at my swollen face. I hold my breath. “Is it all off?”
“Mmmm, mostly.”
She throws the paper towels into the trash and collapses back into the chair. Like my mom, she looks tired. “How are you feeling?”
“Great,” I say, which we both know means like total shit. “How was your baby shower?”
“Great. Except there were a bunch of dumb games. Like everyone had to cut up bits of string they thought would fit around my belly and there were pieces you could have wrapped around a mammoth.”
I look at her belly. Yes, there might be a mammoth in there.
“I was totally pissed when you didn’t show,” continues Quinn. She leans forward to sniff at a purple freesia. My other bedside table is full of flowers: sunflowers from Quinn and Bruce; freesias from Ali and Jackie; purple asters from my mom’s garden; an elaborate mixed bouquet from Greene & Olliartee; pale pink roses from Colin; and tall cream ones from Josh. Quinn looks guilty. “I suspected you were so wrapped up in Josh that you’d lost track of time and forgotten.”
I nod. I figured she’d assume that.
She rearranges the sunflowers. “I was serving the cake when Colin called. By then, I was kind of worried.” Satisfied with the sunflowers, she turns to the pink roses. “So Colin went by Josh’s place and saw a cooler and a box of pastries on the dock. That’s when I knew something was up. There’s no way you’d
have left an entire box of zeppoles lying around!”
I examine the cast on my right wrist and the bandages on my left shoulder and upper arm. Considering I was shot and concussed, it could have been much worse. Josh was lucky too. His spleen was badly damaged, but the surgery went well. He’ll likely be discharged tomorrow.
A nurse enters the room with my lunch tray and sets it across my bed. I study the offerings: chicken noodle soup, an anemic salad, a bread roll, a carton of apple juice, and some pale green pudding. None of it looks tempting. I have a sudden longing for my mom’s place and a big helping of her chicken rice soup.
“Are you going to eat that?” asks Quinn, as she reaches for the pudding. I tell her to go ahead, but she’s already peeled back the plastic wrap. After licking the bowl clean, she clutches her belly. “False alarm,” she says, when she sees my face. “I’m having Braxton Hicks contractions. They’re these fake, preparatory contractions that help your body get ready for the real thing.” Yet again, I’m struck by the thought that human reproduction is nature’s cruel joke, at least for women.
Quinn reaches for my bread roll, then gives me a sly look. “So did anything happen with you and Josh?”
“What, besides being knocked unconscious, tied up by a psychopath, and shot?” I ask. “It wasn’t exactly the Love Boat.”
“He saved your life,” she says. “That’s pretty romantic.”
“I saved his too,” I say. “And then Colin saved both of us.” Maybe it’s because I’m sore and exhausted, but I’m not sure how I feel about Josh. I’ve spent so long wondering whether he likes me or not, that I’ve lost track of why I like him. I’m always second-guessing myself around Josh. Do I really want to be with someone who makes me so insecure? It’s exhausting.
At that moment someone knocks on the door, which is already open. I expect to see the nurse but it’s Josh, in a wheelchair. “Hi,” he says. “Are you up for another visitor?”
“Sure,” I say, then wish I’d washed my face, brushed my hair, and applied some foundation. Although it’d take more than that to make me presentable. My face resembles a white plastic bag full of squashed vegetables. I hope Quinn got all the cabbage-comfrey paste off. Not that Josh looks his best. His right eye is still swollen shut, there’s a long white bandage over his right brow, and his chin looks like it’s been rubbed with a cheese grater. And that’s just above the neck.
