It doesn’t make a difference if I stay or if I leave now. I’ve been spotted. So rather than continue waiting to humiliate myself even more, I quickly leave. I think I hear one of them say something as I pass by, but I can’t be sure. I can’t be sure of anything anymore. Other than the fact that I’m a freak.
I find a spot on the bleachers outside and eat my lunch, trying not to think of Trisha’s face. How she brought me that egg. How she’s been there for me all this time. How glad she must be to finally be free of me. To have her normal life back.
I can’t blame her for smiling.
* * *
I make it through the rest of the day Trisha-, Angela- and Claire-free. When the final bell rings, I make a pit stop in the bathroom. I secretly hope Arthur forgets to pick me up. But I also secretly hope he doesn’t. It’s complicated. Nothing I ever feel seems simple.
I wait until it feels like most of the school is cleared out. Then I go out the side entrance and scan the parking lot for Shirley’s blue Chevette. At first I don’t see it, and I consider that maybe he really has forgotten and how that wouldn’t be a surprise, given everything and what I know about him. But then I hear a car horn honking and someone yell, “Yoo-hoo, darling! Over here! Your chariot awaits!”
A few heads turn, and I look in the same direction. Sure enough, there he is, standing next to Shirley’s car. He’s waving a white handkerchief in the air. I say a prayer of thanks that he’s not wearing a wig or a dress or makeup. At least, not from what I can see at this distance. I hurry over before he creates more of a scene.
“Did you have a nice day at school?” he asks when I get closer. “Learn anything new?”
“Nothing I didn’t already know,” I say.
“Spoken like a true smart-ass,” he says. He’s wearing a pair of grey jogging pants that look two sizes too big and a T-shirt that reads Las Vegas is for lovers, only the o in lovers is a pair of dice. He catches me looking him over and wags his finger at me.
“Don’t you give me a hard time. I made Shirley take me to the Goodwill and this was the most decent outfit I could find. Needless to say, you won’t be seeing me walk any runways in this.”
“Why didn’t you wear your own clothes?” I ask.
“Because everything I own is sequinned or bedazzled or has feathers. And I promised you I’d behave like a normal dad today.” He twirls around. “How’s this for Tilden-dad realness?”
“But you were dressed like a cowboy the other day.”
His nose crinkles. “That was a bit too butch, don’t you think? I mean, even for Tilden. I was overcompensating. Which is the story of my life.”
He opens Shirley’s passenger door. “I’m warning you, it smells like cheap cosmetics and a perfume called ‘Needy’ in here. She doesn’t even have a CD player. I feel like I’m driving a car from a Flintstones episode.”
“Have you been drinking?” I ask before getting inside. “You’re not supposed to drive drunk.”
“I’m as dry as a bone,” he says, going around the back of the car toward the driver’s side. “Unfortunately for you. I’m much more entertaining when I’ve had a martini. Or two. If you fall asleep during dinner, I won’t blame you. Have you thought of a place we can go?”
“No,” I say. “There aren’t many choices in Tilden.”
“You got that right, dumpling.”
I keep forgetting that he’s from here. He probably knows Tilden just as well as I do. Maybe even better, since he left when he was older than me. But only by a couple of years.
“If memory serves me correctly, there’s a Chinese restaurant off Highway 7,” he says. “Right before Tilden spills away like sludge in the rear-view mirror. I remember going there as a kid. They brought the food out in these silver pedestals with lids, like little spaceships. I was mesmerized. It made the chop suey seem like something far more exotic than celery pieces and bean sprouts. Do you know the place I mean?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, clicking my seatbelt into place. “I think so. We don’t go out to eat very often. On account of the cows.”
“I can only imagine. Well, let’s try it. Worst case, there’s always McDonald’s.”
We pull out of the parking lot and turn onto the street. I make sure my seatbelt is locked. I feel like I’m about to go on a roller-coaster ride.
“Where’s Bruno?” I ask.
“With Shirley. She’s got him doing some colour therapy bullshit. I’m going to come back and his hair will be green. Mark my words.”
“You don’t really like Shirley.”
“It’s not that I don’t like her,” he says with a pout. “We tolerate one another. She and I have a long, complicated history. And sometimes, when you know someone for that long, you can’t move beyond who they used to be. You can’t see them in the present day. Everything you were mad about when you were sixteen, you’re still mad about. Well, I can’t say I blame her. She has her reasons, I suppose. Although she’s no blessed angel herself.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“So,” he says. “Burgers or pizza?”
“I thought we were going for Chinese food.”
“We are. Burgers or pizza?”
“I’m confused.”
“I’m trying to get to know you. Baths or showers?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you prefer baths or showers?”
“I’ve never thought about it. I have a hard time describing myself.”
“Well, just pick one.”
“Showers.”
“Chocolate or potato chips?”
“Chips.”
“See, I can already tell so many things about you. And a word of advice: never eat chips in the shower. I’m speaking from experience.”
We come to a red light. I realize he’s trying, and while it might be fifteen years too late, at least he seems interested in me, instead of prancing around drunk and half-naked. He looks over at me.
“You look so much like her,” he says. “It’s like she’s sitting across from me. She was around your age when I met her, you know. The same straw splat of freckles, the same mouth, like a heart on a Valentine’s Day card.”
“Can you tell me a story about my mom?” I feel embarrassed to ask the question, but I can’t help it.
“Okay,” he says.
Chapter 39
When my mom turned sixteen, Arthur told her she needed to get her driver’s licence. But she didn’t want to learn how to drive.
“It’s the only way you’ll escape Tilden,” he said. “Unless you want to try hitchhiking. And we’ve all seen those movies about teenage hitchhikers. You’ll either end up a prostitute or locked in a box under some farmer’s bed.”
So he said he’d teach her how to drive.
“I don’t know why she was so nervous,” he tells me. “Kay drove. Not well, mind you. But she still drove.”
He borrowed someone’s car one night and told my mom he was taking her driving.
“We’ll go to the cemetery,” he said. “You can’t kill anyone there.”
My mom was nervous, but she agreed. It was dark. She suggested visiting the cemetery during the daytime.
“There’s absolutely no point visiting cemeteries during the day,” he said. “You can’t see any spooks then.”
“Don’t say that, Arthur,” she said. “You’re going to give me nightmares. I’m serious.”
They drove past the wrought iron gates and found a place to park. He got out of the car and told my mom to take a seat behind the wheel. After giving her a brief overview of the mechanics, he told her to put the car in drive and slowly make her way around the winding roads. They were crawling at a snail’s pace, the headlights flickering off the ivory tombstones.
“What’s that?” he kept asking, and my mom told him to stop it.
“It’s not funny, Arthur! I’m nervous enough as it is.”
Then he began playing with the headlights, turning them on and off
, and that got my mom yelling at him to PLEASE STOP or else she’d get out.
“I don’t care,” he said. “Remember, I’m the one with the car.”
They rounded a short bend and then, someone appeared in the headlights. A person, running toward them. My mom hit the brakes and started screaming, covering her ears.
“Why did she cover her ears?” I ask.
He says he doesn’t know. “She always did when she was scared.”
He told my mom to back up the car and get the hell out of there. My mom did, but she hit something.
“I just ran over someone!” she screamed.
“Meanwhile,” he tells me, “this man is getting closer and closer. I was beside myself, so I screamed at your mother to get the hell out of the way. She started to crawl into the back seat and I shifted into the driver’s seat and tore out of there. I can still see her ass in the rear-view mirror as she struggled over the seat.” He laughs.
“I’m telling you,” my mom said as they sat eating Buster Bars in the Dairy Queen parking lot afterwards, “it was a pirate running toward us. He was wearing a hat.”
“There are no pirates in Tilden,” he said. “Dead or otherwise.”
“He had a hook for a hand!”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Heather. I know you hear voices, but the last thing you need is to start seeing pirates. It was a jogger. He had a headband on.”
“What I saw was real,” my mom said. “It doesn’t matter if you or anyone else believes me.”
I have to steady myself and grab the door handle tightly. The pirate. It was what my mom had wanted me to be that Halloween. Does he know this? It’s impossible. My mom said she wasn’t in contact with him. It’s so weird, hearing him talk about it, as if I’d been there that night, running through the tombstones. I can’t get the picture out of my head.
“That wasn’t bad for a first effort,” he said to my mom. “Pirates or no pirates.”
“I’ll never learn to drive,” she said quietly.
“Sure, you will. It’s not that hard.”
“I won’t drive, and I won’t leave Tilden and I’ll be stuck here forever.”
“Don’t say that. You’ll get out. You just need to have a plan.”
“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“What do you dream about?” he asked.
“Being happy,” my mom said.
Chapter 40
He says maybe it wasn’t the best story to tell.
“I mean, I started with the cemetery and her pirate hallucination, thinking it would be funny,” he said. “Show off your mother’s wackier side. But it didn’t end that way, did it?”
We pull into the parking lot of the Chinese restaurant and he turns the car off.
“Of course, most stories don’t have happy endings. Not the interesting ones, anyway.”
He told me something I never knew about my mom. It’s like she’s a book and I’ve only read some pages, but there are pages and pages that I can’t read. I need someone to read them to me. And only then will I have her full story.
“I can tell you more,” he says to me. “But first, chicken balls.”
* * *
There are only a few tables with people in the restaurant, which makes sense, given that it’s a Monday. I don’t imagine many people go out for dinner on Monday. And even fewer go out with their long-lost drag queen father.
“Your best table, please,” he says to the hostess. “This is a special occasion.”
“Someone’s birthday?” she asks with a smile, looking at me.
Before I can say no, he says, “Yes. A day of beginnings.”
She takes us to a table in the corner, next to some windows that overlook the parking lot.
“Well, it’s not the Taj Mahal,” he says. “But it’ll have to do.”
There are placemats on the table with the Chinese zodiac printed on them and we read to see what animals we are.
“I was born in fifty-nine,” he says, using his finger to trace along the words. “That means I’m a pig.” He looks up at me and scrunches his nose. “I don’t like the sound of that. It says pig people are caring, unique, self-sacrificing and creative. It also says we’re insecure, cunning and pessimistic. I guess that sounds about right. What type of animal are you, Toby?”
“You don’t know?” I ask.
“Well, let’s see. You were born in . . . what year?”
“You don’t know the year your own child was born?” I’m trying not to raise my voice, given how quiet the restaurant is. But my anger makes it hard. How can he not even know the year?
“I was never good at math,” he says quickly. “You’re fifteen now, right?”
I stare blankly at him and say nothing.
“Fifteen. That’s right. Yes, fifteen years old. It’s 1992, which means that you were born in . . .” He stops to tap on his fingers. “1977!” He says it like he’s on a game show and just answered the million-dollar question.
“When’s my birthday?” I ask.
He looks around. “When was the last time they redecorated in here?”
“When’s my birthday?”
He sighs. “I’m not good with dates. Honestly, I never remember Bruno’s birthday, and half the time I forget my own. I’m terrible with numbers. They’re like another language to me. Do you like fried rice?”
“When’s my birthday?” I ask again. “Go on. Take your best guess.”
“April?”
“April what?”
“April . . . eleventh?”
“Wrong,” I say, just as the waiter shows up. He places a couple of menus in front of us and fills our water glasses. He’s wearing a black bow tie and a burgundy vest. He smiles widely.
“We’ll need a couple of minutes,” my father says. “Toby, do you want a drink?”
I shake my head, keeping my eyes on the menu. I’m regretting this. How can he not know my birthday?
“Water is fine for now,” he says. “Can I smoke in here?”
“Sorry, non-smoking only,” the waiter says.
He leaves, and my father opens his menu. “I wonder if we should get the Dinner for Three. Strange, isn’t it? Why would they do a Dinner for Three? Such an odd number. Who gets the Dinner for Three? Triplets? Couples with a third wheel?”
“Maybe a daughter out with both of her parents,” I say.
“Touché,” he says.
“March twenty-first,” I say.
He places his menu down. “I should know your birthday. There are a lot of things I should know about you. But I don’t. That’s what I’m trying to do now.”
“By asking me if I prefer chips over chocolate?”
“That was just a little ice-breaker. I know it’s more than that. But I don’t know how to start with you. This whole thing makes me nervous. I’m trying to be playful. Winning you over with my humour and charming personality.” He holds his hands up on either side of his face and wiggles his fingers.
I look back down at the menu.
“God,” he says. “I wish I could smoke in here. What are they going to do if I light one up? Arrest me?”
“Don’t even think about it,” I say.
The waiter comes back, and my father orders the Dinner for Three.
“You can take home the leftovers.”
The waiter collects our menus and walks away. We sit at the table in silence. It’s so awkward and I just want to go home and jump into my bed and pull the blanket over me and forget about everything.
“How about this,” he says. “How about you ask me a question? Then, I’ll ask you something. Sound good?”
I shrug. “I guess so.”
He gives his shoulders a little shake, closes his eyes and inhales sharply. “All right, Toby. Fire away.”
“Why didn’t you ever come back?’
He cracks open one eye. “I see we’re starting with the heavy stuff.”
“It’s the only question I have for you.”
�
�The only one?”
“The only one that matters.”
“Lord, I could use a drink. Uh, okay. Why didn’t I come back? Let me try to put this into words. I was . . . afraid.”
I cross my arms. “Of what?”
“Heather. Kay. You. I was afraid that everyone would be angry at me. And if I stayed away, they wouldn’t be angry. They’d just . . . forget about me. I’d fade away, like a shadow on the sidewalk after the sun goes down.”
“But weren’t you curious about me? Who I was? What I was like?”
“Sometimes, yes. But mostly, no.”
My face must show the hurt I’m feeling, because his hand reaches across the table. His fingers stop, though, just shy of my arm.
“I don’t mean that like it sounds. But if I thought about you, it hurt me. To know what I’d done. Or hadn’t done, as the case is. Toby, I’m not normal.” His fingers make air quotes around the word. “I suppose that doesn’t come as any surprise. My mind works in funny ways. You’d think that someone like me, an entertainer, someone who will step out in front of an audience and perform for hours, would have all the confidence in the world. But it’s not that way at all. It’s the opposite. I want people to like me, but I never believe they will. Maybe that’s why I act the way that I do. I pretend I don’t like people so they don’t not like me first.”
I try to make sure my face remains blank, but inside of me, it feels like there’s a thunderstorm. Clouds and lightning. Rain so heavy, it’s like a wall. I feel exactly the same way as him but have never been able to put it into words like that. I think of my fight with Trisha, how I tried to push her away when all she wanted to do was help. And what do I really know about Angela and Claire? When have I ever heard them say anything mean to me? I imagine so much of my life and make everything seem true. But it’s not true. It’s only the way I want to see things. I want people to stay away so I don’t get hurt when they leave me.
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