by Jaclyn Dawn
Jack: 780.555.6891 / [email protected]
I didn’t care if Mom was in the same room. I called Nathan as soon as I was done reading.
“We need this last issue of the Inquirer to sell and sell big. Then we’re out, Amiah,” Nathan said. “We’ll add a few extra pages for what we would have printed in August, like the calendars. I’ve already contacted all the advertisers, and most are keeping the ad space they’ve already paid for despite the month delay. Some are even paying for bigger ads, cashing in on the farewell issue. If sales are good for the new Gazette, they will buy more. We’re good at this.”
“No, you are. I don’t have the nerves for it.”
“The Gazette won’t be so bad,” he said. “You know, if we do this right and hold off on paying your dad back for just a little while, you can still come back to school this fall. We can go together. My transfer into the Journalism program was accepted!”
“That’s great,” I said, mustering as much cheer as I could. There wasn’t much cheer to muster. I felt trapped again, but this time I had only myself to blame. “I’m happy for you.”
Mom’s knitting needles continued to click, but I knew she was listening. I covered the mouthpiece on the phone and whispered Nathan’s news. She gave me a thumbs-up.
“Don’t let the black hole suck you in,” Nathan said. “We can live together to save on rent like we talked about. You know your parents would do anything to help you out, and it’s not like you won’t ever pay them back.”
I wasn’t so sure. Dad wasn’t talking to me. And making it on my own was one of the only things I was proud of. “I’ll think about it.”
“You can pay part of your rent in baking for all I care. I need to renew my gym membership after my Alberta vacation,” he said. I listened to him excitedly ramble about his courses and all the things we could do on campus this fall. The conversation didn’t require much input on my end. “Seriously, though, Amiah, don’t give up. Let your friends and family help. Not everyone has ulterior motives and expectations to blindside you with. We aren’t all Mike.”
A few minutes after I hung up the phone, Dad paused in the entranceway of the living room, saw that I was there, and turned to leave.
“You can watch TV, Dad,” I said.
“Are you working on that paper?” he asked.
“Yes. I have to finish the last issue. I can work somewhere else, though. It’s your house, your TV.”
“It’s fine. I’ll go read.”
“I got another email about the stock trailer,” I said quickly before he could leave.
“Get a number. Talking on the phone is easier than dealing with the computer.” He stepped away.
“Dad!” My voice was louder and harsher than I had meant. I was desperate. “Quit giving me the cold shoulder. Yell, scream, whatever you need, but enough with the silent treatment. That’s what Mike used to do, okay? Sometimes for days. I can’t handle it.” My eyes blurred with tears, and there was a catch in my throat.
“I have nothing more to say.”
“What? Are you going to make me beg, too?” He hadn’t wanted to hear that, to know that. His shoulders slumped and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Mom’s knitting needles went quiet. Mom looked at him with raised eyebrows, willing him to stay put and listen. “I left because I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t want to come back. I missed home and you and Mom and Danika and the stars and …” I wiped my eyes and nose on my sleeve. “I just couldn’t be Mike’s Girl anymore. That’s all I was in Kingsley.”
“What about my girl?” Dad asked. “You were my girl first.”
I slumped. “I was his property, Dad. Inside and out. I couldn’t explain it then, and I’m not saying the way I started finding my voice again was right, but I’m trying to make up for it now.” As my mind raced in search of the right words, my chest felt tighter and my breath grew shorter. The search was hopeless, so I said what had been bothering me since the day I had returned to Kingsley. “I came back and he was here. Mike was here, smiling and winking like he was right all along. I was replaceable. Only you were happy to see me and now …” I was having trouble breathing.
Mom set her knitting down. “Where are your pills, Miah?” she asked in her calm, steady way.
We weren’t a touchy-feely family on the Williams farm. We hadn’t needed to be to know what we thought of one another. But that day I needed my dad to hug me. And he did.
“Quit trying to make the town get you, Miah,” he whispered with his arms around me and his cheek resting on the top of my head. “Cinderella’s cowboy boot is too small. You outgrew this place. But that’s not saying it’s not perfect for anyone else. Like me and your mother.”
CHAPTER 41
I TOOK A DEEP BREATH AS MOM PARKED THE CAR ON MAIN STREET. Kingsley Grocery was especially busy, even for the lunch hour on the day the Inquirer was released. Out front, four giggling teenage girls circled around a copy of the newspaper. They were oblivious to the people who had to walk around them to get in or out of the store. A farmer, a teacher, Trula, a ten-year-old kid, Emily … each left the store with a copy of the Inquirer. The main headline had everyone’s attention: Going, Going, Gone! The Inquirer Sold
“Sidewalks are for walking. Move it, girls,” Baba said, her cane stuck out in front of her. The girls made a path for Baba. No one doubted they would otherwise be jabbed with the rubber foot of the cane. Danika followed, pushing her fancy jogging stroller.
“Sorry,” Danika apologized to the girls.
“Don’t be,” Baba told her. As soon as they had passed, the girls reformed their circle.
“Hello,” Mom said at the same time as I said, “Hi, Baba.”
“The Williamses, too? Did the whole town run out of milk today?”
“The Inquirer was released today,” Mom said, “and I hear it’s the last one.”
Danika’s jaw dropped, and she gave me a look that screamed What?!? She gripped the stroller to keep from running into Kingsley Grocery and buying a copy right then.
“Good riddance,” said Baba.
Danika changed the subject before Baba could rant about the newspaper. “Abigail and I thought we’d visit Grandpa at the manor during our lunch break, and we ran into Baba.”
“I was seeing about a job in the kitchen, but it’s been filled,” said Baba. “I’m going to be teaching a cooking class at the Senior Centre instead. Young girls today don’t know how to make a good, old-fashioned meatloaf, shepherd’s pie, pierogi, or cabbage roll, right, Judith?”
Mom agreed.
“We are on our way back to the library to figure out the details,” said Danika, looking less determined than Baba. “You know, you’re going to need posters to advertise. Alek is at home with Benton. Maybe you should ask him to help you this afternoon. He is an artist and graphic designer. That’s the sort of thing he does for a living.”
“Good idea. I already know exactly what I want,” said Baba. Danika and I smiled, both imagining unsuspecting Alek’s afternoon. “You’re going to have to sign up quick, Miah, before the class fills up.”
“Thanks, Baba, but I leave for Vancouver tomorrow. I have to be back for pre-registration and open house at the University,” I said.
“What makes those classes better than my classes?” Baba asked.
“They aren’t better,” I said, quickly. “I’m getting my teaching degree, though.”
“We will both be teachers! Good for you. After, come over for a sleepover. You girls haven’t had a sleepover in a long time. But enough idle chitchat. Bye for now,” said Baba. She continued toward the corner where the crosswalk led to the library.
“Get me a copy,” Danika whispered to me. She pulled a toonie out of her pocket, pushed the coin into my hand, and followed Baba.
Kingsley Grocery was as busy inside as outside. Mom dropped a toonie into the contributions box and picked up her copy of the Inquirer. I already knew we would be buying toilet paper and dry pasta. She flipped to the coupon
s, which were for a dollar off toilet paper and buy two, get one free on dry pasta.
“Let’s make Rice Krispies squares this week instead,” Mom said, as we passed the bananas. There was enough banana bread and cookies in the freezer to last until Christmas. She added a gallon of milk and a box of Rice Krispies to the red basket I carried to the till.
“I only know that a new newspaper is coming,” Mr. Wong told two women who were paying for groceries when we joined the line. “Come again and you will see.”
I hadn’t thought about how Mr. Wong would be affected by the Inquirer’s demise. He had relied on the newspaper to draw business. Other businesses in the area relied on the advertising. Organizations, the calendar. Bobby was right: it wasn’t all bad.
When Mom and I got home, Dad was sitting on the porch editing the wolf list. I opened the Inquirer to the page I wanted Dad to read and set it on the little table beside him before I went inside. I had no idea what he would think, but he needed to read it and I couldn’t stand there watching as he did.
ADIOS INQUIRER
After seven spellbinding months the Inquirer is closing the doors! But we have to let you in on a little secret first. It can’t ever really end when we never printed anything you weren’t already talking about. All of our stories started with a slip on Facebook, a whisper in the café, a public scene …
Love it or hate it, the Inquirer taught us all some things. Everybody talks. There are at least two sides to every story, some less true than others. And every story is eventually replaced by another and then another.
The Inquirer sees no better way to wrap up than with some reviews from some of our more articulate anonymous contributors.
• ‘When I am looking at magazine stands, my eyes are always drawn to the headlines of the tabloids. Celebrities, politicians, and business gurus are at the mercy of the press. The Inquirer is an awesome social experiment, subjecting regular people to the limelight!’
• ‘This stuff needs to stop. You’re prying into people’s personal business.’
• ‘Putting this s**t in print makes people think twice about what they say. Good on them.’
• ‘The Inquirer makes people confront things in a way they wouldn’t normally. It’s the agent of change in a small town where little changes.’
• ‘The Inquirer makes small-town drivel funny. I actually read the newspaper now.’
• ‘This is an abuse of our right to freedom of speech. If we wanted to live this way, we would move to Los Angeles and mingle with the Hiltons and Kardashians.’
• ‘I don’t get what the big deal is about the Inquirer. It’s just a newspaper. If you don’t like it, don’t read it. I don’t.’
• ‘We want the Gazette back!’
Thank you to all our readers and advertisers! Let’s all remember to think twice before we open our mouths to speak or our laptops to tweet!
I had written and rewritten a hundred versions of that article. I had tried to explain the Inquirer’s creation, motivation, and destruction. I had tried to apologize for any damage done, but also justify our actions. One version I wrote was a tell-all, revealing myself and taking responsibility, as Nathan feared I would. The backlash on my family, the town, and me wouldn’t have been worth it, though. People knowing who was behind the Inquirer wouldn’t change the rumours or make up for the Inquirer helping circulate the rumours. I realized that none of these versions of the article would work because none could be written in the voice of the Inquirer, which had become a living, breathing presence apart from Nathan and me. Danika’s letter would never be printed, but it inspired my final article. ‘There is a time to speak up and a time to be quiet.’ It was the Inquirer’s time to be quiet.
Dad knocked on my open bedroom door and tossed the Inquirer onto the bed.
“This reads like any other article in the Inquirer, but I get it. We aren’t going to agree and we’ve each said our piece,” he said. “Be back for Thanksgiving, okay? Your mother and I are going to miss you.”
“Okay,” I said, breaking into a smile. “Thanks, Dad.”
CHAPTER 42
SOMEONE KNOCKED RAT-A-TAT-TAT ON MY BEDROOM WINDOW. I opened my eyes and waited for them to adjust to the dark. Had I dreamt it? Then there was another rat-a-tat-tat. My heart started hammering in my chest. I slipped out of bed, wearing my tank top and pajama pants, and peeked out the window. Mike looked back at me with a cocky smirk on his face. I opened the window just enough for us to be able to hear one another.
“Just like old times, eh?” he said. I could smell the whisky on his breath. He started to lift the window higher, and I stopped it.
“No, not like old times,” I said. If it were old times, one of us would be helping the other in or out. I was grateful for the barrier between us now. I would scream before I let Mike through that window. Then I realized I couldn’t scream. Dad would jump to his feet and hurt himself. I could call out for Mom. All the possible scenarios ran through my head. “What do you want, Mike?”
He suddenly hit the side of the house with his hand.
“I called you. Twice.”
“I’ve been busy. Dad said you were stopping in this weekend for your paycheque, so I thought we could talk then.”
“I can’t get that kiss from the other day out of my head. I know you can’t either,” Mike said.
“Yeah, but for different reasons.”
Mike’s face scrunched up, and he swayed a bit. “You can’t afford to be lippy, Miah.”
“The sale is done. I will be gone tomorrow. We’ve both moved on with our lives,” I said.
“I received an interesting letter in the mail. It says that my loan has been paid off and it thanks me for my business. I called the bank to let them know there’s been a mistake because I didn’t have a loan,” Mike said. My stomach did a flip. He was only a co-signer, and I had made sure to receive all the mail for the loan electronically. I didn’t realize that he would be notified when I paid it off. “Then I had a little chat with Max Gilbert. You know, the lawyer.”
I looked down at my bare toes. The pink toenail polish was half grown out. I could use a pedicure. It would be fun to go with Danika. Had I actually thought I was going to be able to leave Kingsley so easily a second time?
“It was a student loan,” I said. “I paid it off.”
“I asked Max Gilbert what would happen if someone forged a signature to get a loan. Fraud charges in Alberta are a two-thousand-dollar fine and can land you in jail for six months.”
“Good thing I’ve never forged a signature in my life and don’t have to worry about it, then,” I said. I wasn’t anxious. I was angry.
Mike had smelt like whisky the night he signed the forms, too. He hadn’t asked what the forms were for. It was his own fault he had assumed they had to do with his bills. He should have organized his own bills instead of expecting me to, and I shouldn’t have tried so hard to please him all the time.
“There’s that lip again,” Mike said. “I don’t remember you being so lippy when we lived together.”
“You should go home. It’s cold and late,” I said.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m not,” I said. “Wait. Maybe I am. Go home, Mike.”
He hit the house again and then started to pace. “You haven’t got your head on straight.”
The bathroom light across the hall lit up my bedroom. Mike stepped back into the dark.
“Miah? What are you doing?” Mom asked.
There was a time to speak up and a time to be quiet.
“Mike’s here,” I said.
“Bitch,” Mike said under his breath. Despite logic, it stung. Mike had been my first love, whether it was true or not. He knew me in ways no one else did because I hadn’t let anyone get that close to me again. That knowledge had given him power over me.
Mom came into my bedroom and looked out the window.
“What’s going on, Mike?” she asked.
“Nothing,
Judith. Go to bed.”
“You’ve been drinking,” she said, frowning at him.
“I’m almost thirty, remember?”
“Yes, so you’re old enough to know better. Did you drive here?”
Mike hesitated enough to confirm that he had. He had parked halfway down the driveway so he wouldn’t wake up my parents, like in the old days.
“You better get home,” Mom said. “Leave the truck.”
I closed the window on his sour face before he could respond. Mike spat on the side of the house before turning away. He tripped on his own feet but caught himself. I had seen enough and closed the curtains.
CHAPTER 43
I WOKE AGAIN TO KNOCKING ON MY BEDROOM WINDOW. MY EYES popped open. Not again. I slipped out of bed for the second time that night. I picked up my cell phone off the nightstand, prepared to call the police. Let Officer Petersen deal with Mike. My nerves were like live wires as I opened the curtains, bracing myself to see Mike.
When I looked out the window, I found Alek instead. Didn’t the men in Kingsley know what a door was for? Or a clock? It was midnight. Less than an hour had passed since my last impromptu visitor. I dropped my phone on the bed, resisted the urge to check my bed hair with my hands, and opened the window.
“Sorry. I didn’t want to wake your parents by knocking on the door or calling the house. I would have texted you, but I’m not privileged enough to have that number,” Alek teased. He kept a straight face, but I knew his tells.
“Was Mike’s truck in the driveway?”
“No. Should it have been?”
“Long story,” I said. I didn’t want to talk about Mike, though. And I definitely didn’t want Alek to get the wrong idea about Mike and me again. “What are you doing here?”
“Come out and see.”
I had promised myself an hour ago when Mike had stood at the window that I wasn’t going to make the same mistakes. Alek recognized my internal conflict. How could he not? In a matter of seconds, I bit my bottom lip, ran my hand through my hair, glanced at my bedroom door past which my parents slept, and crossed an arm protectively over my stomach.