“Oh, yeah? What position?” asked my dad.
“Power forward.”
I started to edge out of the room, hoping Jared would follow. “We’d better get going or we’ll miss the movie.”
Jared stood up. “It was a pleasure to meet you all.”
“You too, Jared,” Mom said. Then she gave me a thumbs-up when he turned his back. Totally embarrassing.
A minute later, we were outside, walking toward the bus stop. I breathed deeply, ’cause I could finally relax. “Pretty cool that your mom and dad and stepdad can actually have a meal together,” he said.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Why’d your parents split up?”
“They just didn’t get along anymore,” I lied.
“My parents have never gotten along. But they stay together anyway.” He grinned. Then he took my hand. He didn’t let it go the whole way to the bus stop. And he paid my bus fare.
I knew right then and there: I was in love.
WE PUT UP OUR Christmas tree today even though it is only November 30. Ashley protested because she said (1) it was way too early, and (2) our tree is plastic and she “won’t be associated with such total one hundred percent tackiness.” But she and Caroline don’t buy their real tree till a week before Christmas, which is nuts. I tried to explain that in our family, we are Christma-holics, and therefore we like getting an early start—we can’t get enough of the holiday season! Before it could turn into an argument pitting Dad and me against Caroline and Ashley, Caroline made the suggestion that we have two trees this year: our plastic one, which could go up in the family room immediately, and their real one, which could go up a few weeks later in the living room. I asked Caroline if she had ever been on the Model UN team when she was in school because her diplomacy skills are excellent. She just laughed and said no, but that working in the newsroom required a lot of diplomacy, especially when it came to “a certain arrogant sportscaster.”
While Ashley refused to participate in “this total disregard for estheticians” (I think she meant aesthetics), Dad and Caroline and I put on Christmas music and assembled the tree and hung all the decorations we had got out of our storage locker on the North Shore the day before. My mom was a serious crafter, so most of our decorations are homemade and involve a lot of glitter, glue, and Popsicle sticks.
The tree looked really good. Caroline brought me a peppermint hot chocolate with marshmallows and said, “You’ve done your mom proud,” and my eyes filled with tears even though I’d promised myself that yesterday would be the last day for tears, at least for a little while. But it’s not that easy to turn off the faucet.
See, yesterday was the second anniversary of my mom’s death.
I remember the day she died like it was yesterday. I know that sounds like a cliché, but it’s true, and I bet anyone else who’s experienced the death of a loved one would vouch for me. She’d been in the palliative-care unit at the hospital for two weeks. Palliative care is basically the end of the road in medical terms. It means the experts have agreed that there are no last-ditch medical miracles coming your way. Your goose is about to be cooked. Your bucket is about to be kicked. Your farm is about to be bought. It means the doctors and nurses will do their best to make you as comfortable as possible as you drift toward death. During those two weeks, she could still talk to me when I visited, which was every day.
But on the last day, she could no longer talk. She was drifting in and out of consciousness. My dad had gone to talk to the nurses, so I did the only thing I could think of. I crawled into the narrow bed beside her and put my arms around her. She felt so tiny, like a little bird. Her bones were right under her skin. I lay there and breathed in as many of her molecules as I could, so that a part of her could live on in me. I did that for a long time, even after my dad came back into the room.
Mom died later that night.
The first two weeks weren’t so bad. There was so much to do, and a ton of people came by with casseroles and cards. Her memorial service was packed; my mom was just one of those women who made an impression on everyone. There were people from her work, both coworkers and patients; people from Dad’s newsroom and my school; her crafting friends, her book club gals, her rowing team; and half the people from our neighborhood, because Mom talked to everyone wherever she went. Even some of the staff from our local coffee shop showed up.
But then the people disappeared and went back to their daily lives, and suddenly Mom’s absence hung around our house like a bad smell. That first year was not good, for me or for Dad.
This year was better. But there are still tons of days when I feel impossibly sad. Dr. Elizabeth Moscovich has assured me that this is normal, and will continue to be normal.
But the second half of November was the worst. I had thought that this year might be a bit better since (1) another year has passed, and (2) we’ve made so many changes. But to be honest, I think the changes made it even worse. By moving away from everything Mom knew, it’s like we abandoned her and her memory. If she were here, she would tell me that’s ridiculous, because that’s the kind of woman she was, but still. I can’t stop the feelings from happening.
When the third week of November rolled around, I started to feel uneasy. It was a good November on paper: Mathletes kicked butt, I got to spend a lot of time with Phoebe, and other kids had started talking to me because I have gained a certain cachet as the school mascot. But none of this mattered. With every passing day, I felt more anxious, as if a shadowy but unseen monster was following me. I had to call Dr. Elizabeth Moscovich at least six times on her private number so that she could calm me down.
Finally—yesterday—the anniversary itself arrived. Caroline made us bacon and eggs for breakfast. Dad and I were both really subdued. She sat at the table with us and took my hand.
“Would you like me to come today, too?”
“It’s nice of you to offer, Caroline. But I think I’d rather just go with my dad, if you don’t mind.” I didn’t tell her that in a million years I couldn’t imagine bringing her along.
“I understand.” She didn’t let go of my hand, which made it awkward to try to eat. “You know you can always talk about her, Stewart. Your dad and I talk about your mom quite a bit, when we’re alone. But we can talk about her anytime. It’s important to keep her memory alive.”
“Thank you.” I finally shook my hand free.
Ashley came into the kitchen a few minutes later and grabbed a banana. She glanced over at the table. “You made him bacon and eggs for breakfast?” she said to Caroline. “You never make me eggs during the week!”
“Stewart’s mom died two years ago today.”
Ashley opened her mouth. Then she closed it again. Then she opened it. Then she closed it. She turned to leave the room. Then she turned back and grabbed me from behind, like she was about to give me the Heimlich maneuver.
It was only after she’d left that I realized it was her version of a hug.
—
TWO YEARS AGO, DAD and I sprinkled Mom’s ashes in a few of her favorite places, like Whytecliff Park (in the water), the steps of the Vancouver Art Gallery (discreetly), Ambleside Park (also in the water), and Kidsbooks in Edgemont Village (on the sidewalk outside, also discreetly).
So, on the second anniversary of her death, we spent the morning visiting all of her favorite places. Dad even bought me a book that was recommended by one of the staff at Kidsbooks, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie.
Then we went to the storage locker. I spent a long time there, going through boxes and picking out a few more things to bring to our new house. On top of the Christmas tree and the decorations, I took a few of Mom’s cookbooks and a smaller painting she’d done, this one of a bowl of fruit. I figured no one could be offended by a bowl of fruit, no matter where we chose to hang it.
After that, we were hungry, so we stopped for lunch at Thomas Haas in North Van. I had dessert for lunch and a big hot chocolate to go
with it. It was a good way to warm ourselves up before we headed to Mom’s bench.
My mom doesn’t have a plot in a cemetery. Instead, she has a park bench. The dedication reads, JANICE BEAUDRY-INKSTER: NUMBER ONE MOTHER, NUMBER ONE WIFE; KIND, LOVING, AND FULL OF LIFE. (I helped Dad come up with the rhyme.)
We brought a huge bouquet of her second-favorite flowers, lilies (her favorite were peonies, but they’re hard to come by in November). We left them on the bench. Then Dad and I flipped a coin. He got his private time on the bench first, and I wandered out of hearing distance. When it was my turn, he did the same.
During my private time, I filled her in on all the good stuff that’s been happening to me. I like to keep these one-sided conversations light and upbeat, on the off chance she can actually hear me. Scientifically speaking, this is highly improbable, but I prefer to keep the door open just in case.
So I didn’t tell her that another one of her figurines was missing. This time it was one of her all-time favorites, a Royal Doulton Bunnykins, featuring an adorable bunny on his hind legs, in a painter’s smock, in front of an easel. Mom loved it because she loved bunnies and she loved painting. “It combines two of my favorite things,” she used to say.
I didn’t tell her I’d confronted Ashley, who’d simply said, “I haven’t touched your stupid figurines.” And I didn’t tell her about what I’d overheard last week when I was in the change room after a game. I was in one of the bathroom stalls when I heard Jared talking to Paulo.
“She’s a total tease. All she’s let me do is squeeze her tits a few times. Outside her clothes.”
My heart stopped. Maybe he’s talking about someone else. But then I thought, How would that be better? I peered through the crack in the door. I could see their bare bums in the change area.
“Why do you keep seeing her?”
“Have you looked at her? She’s hot. Besides, I love a challenge. I’ll break that bitch down.”
I felt sick to my stomach. I didn’t know what to do. I mean, I really did not know what to do.
So I asked the only person I could think of.
“What exactly did he say?” Phoebe asked. We’d just got on the SkyTrain after kicking some mathletic butt at a school in Burnaby.
“I’d rather not repeat it,” I said. “But it was really crude. And really mean.”
Phoebe thought about it for a while. We were sitting next to each other, and I tried not to think about the fact that our knees were touching. “If you talk to Ashley, it could backfire,” she said. “She might not believe you. She might shoot the messenger. But at the same time, you have to do something.” She fell silent again, thinking. “My best recommendation? You should talk to him. Man to man.”
Except I am not a man. I am a lilliputian, and he is a giant, I thought. But it was good advice, even if it was also terrifying.
We had a home game the following day. I waited for Jared outside the change room. Even though I’d barely touched my lunch, I felt like I was going to puke.
Finally he appeared, striding toward me. “Jared, could I talk to you for a second?” My voice cracked.
“Sure thing, Stewie.” He pushed open the change room door.
“It’s Stewart,” I said. “And not in there. In private.”
We walked to the far end of the corridor.
“What’s up?”
I took a deep breath. If he wanted to, I thought, he could squash me like a bug.
“I overheard what you said about Ashley in the change room the other day.”
“What? What’d I say?”
“That she was a tease.”
He laughed. “She is.”
“And that she’s only let you squeeze her you-know-whats.”
“Also true.”
“But—that stuff is private. It’s between you and her.”
“Big deal. I just told Paulo.”
“And you called her a bitch.”
“Dude. I wasn’t dissing your sister. It’s just the way guys talk to each other.”
“Not all guys. I would never talk that way about a girl I liked. Or any girl.”
Jared smirked. “But, Stewie, you don’t really count.”
“Why don’t I count?”
“Well, look at you. How can I even be sure you’re a guy?”
“You’re trying to change the subject.”
“You’re more like, I dunno…an elf. Or a gnome. Sexless. Or maybe you’re one of those hermaphrodites.”
I confess I had to look up that word on my computer when I got home. And I am not. A hermaphrodite, I mean.
“This isn’t about me. This is about Ashley.” My voice was shaking. “I just don’t think you should talk about her that way.”
Jared stared at me for a few moments. “I get it. You’re jealous.”
“Of what?”
“You have the hots for your stepsister, don’t you? Gross, Stewie, that’s verging on incest.”
“I do not have the hots for Ashley!” I shouted, and a couple of kids looked in our direction. I could feel my face flush hot with anger.
Jared just laughed some more. “I bet you try to spy on her when she’s in the shower—”
“Stop it! You’re being disgusting.”
“I can hardly blame you, she’s gorgeous—”
“You keep trying to change the subject!” I yelled. “Just—quit disrespecting her like that. If not for her sake, then for mine.”
He stopped laughing. “Why would I do it for your sake?”
“Because we’re friends.”
“Right. You and me. Friends.” Jared stared at me again. His eyes looked dead.
“Jared, get into uniform now! And, Stewart, get into the bulldog suit!” Coach Stellar yelled from the other end of the hall. “Quit dawdling! Game starts in ten!”
“We’d better get a move on, Stewie,” Jared said.
“Please stop calling me Stewie.”
“Sure thing,” he said as he headed to the change room. “Stewie.”
I had to stay where I was and just breathe for a moment. I now knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Jared was not a quality human being.
—
I DIDN’T TELL MY mom any of these things. And I am relieved that November is officially over for another year.
WHEN LAUREN ASKED ME on Monday how Saturday night had gone, I flashed my best secretive-yet-knowing grin and told her, “Fantastic.” We were hanging out on the front steps of the school, our coats pulled tight around us because it was freezing. Yoko, Amira, Lindsay, and Claudia were there, too.
“What’d you guys do?” Claudia asked, rather boldly if you ask me.
I giggled. “Oh, a little bit of this…a little bit of that…”
“C’mon, details!” Lauren begged.
“I never kiss and tell.” I took out some cherry-flavored lip gloss and started applying it.
“Does he really live in a mansion?” asked Claudia. She blew a huge bubble with her wad of gum.
“Yes.”
Lauren sighed. “You’re such a lucky duck. I bet it was incredibly romantic.”
I just smiled. But inside I felt kind of barfy.
I could never tell them the truth.
—
JARED HAD TEXTED ME late Saturday afternoon, two weeks after our movie date. We’d seen each other a lot since then, but always in public or around other people. This time he asked if I wanted to come over to his place. I texted back yes. Mom was out emceeing another fund-raiser, so I went downstairs and told Leonard my plans. He was in the living room practicing some of his fencing moves, complete with the sword-thingy.
“Will his parents be home?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said, even though I had no idea.
“And your mom would be okay with this?”
“Yes.”
“Where does he live?”
“Shaughnessy.”
“Ooh. Fancy. How are you getting there?”
“Bus.”
“I’d rather drive you.”
“I’d rather bus.”
“Nope. I’m driving you. Nonnegotiable.”
I did not like him talking to me like he was my parent. But I didn’t want to rock the boat, so I simply said, “Fine.”
At seven o’clock, Len drove me to Shaughnessy. He was right—it is a very fancy neighborhood, very old money, with enormous houses. We almost got lost a couple of times ’cause the roads in Shaughnessy are twisty-turny.
When we finally found Jared’s place, Leonard whistled. “Wow.” It was at least three times the size of our house. There was a semicircular driveway out front and a three-car garage. It was all brick and ivy, and the yard was huge.
I was worried that Len might try to walk me to the door, so I leapt out of the car. “Thanks!”
“I’ll pick you up at curfew!” he shouted out the window.
I walked up to the house. I felt really nervous all of a sudden, and my stomach started to burble in an embarrassing way. I rang the bell.
Jared answered, looking adorable in dark gray pants and a fitted black T-shirt with a thin white cardigan over top. I’d worn my favorite skirt, a short, flouncy purple number with a simple yet elegant black cotton top and tights to keep my legs warm. Jared waved at Leonard, who was still sitting in his car. Leonard waved back and drove away. “C’mon in,” he said.
“Are your parents home?”
“God, no. I wouldn’t have invited you over if they were.”
“Why? Do I embarrass you?”
“No. They embarrass me. They’re nothing like your folks—trust me.” He grabbed my hand. “Let me give you a tour.”
So he walked me through the house. There were dark hardwood floors and dark-painted walls and lots of dark furniture, which made it all, well, very dark. There was—honest to God—a billiard room. Also a library. I started giggling.
“What’s so funny?”
“I keep expecting Colonel Mustard to appear, holding a bloody candlestick.”
“Oh. Ha-ha,” he said. Then he took me to the basement to see the indoor lap pool. Yes, that’s right, an indoor lap pool!
We returned to the kitchen, which had gleaming countertops and fancy appliances and beautiful copper pots and pans hanging everywhere. “Your parents must love to cook.”
We Are All Made of Molecules Page 11