by Katia Rose
I move my hand away. “You know you didn’t have to come, right?”
He breathes out and turns to face me. “Sorry. That was out of line. I’m just...tense.”
“You’re nervous,” I tease. “You’re nervous to meet my mom. You’re like a seventeen year-old picking a girl up for prom.”
“I wouldn’t know,” he grumbles. “They didn’t have prom at all-boys boarding school.”
I stop laughing when he doesn’t join in. “Wait, you went to boarding school? Are you serious? How did I not know this about you?”
He freezes like he’s been caught in a trap and then forces out an unconvincing laugh. “Kidding. Just kidding.”
I don’t take the bait. “Ace...”
The driver pulls up in front of my mom’s building, and I decide to let the subject drop. I buzz us in and then stop walking just a few feet from my mom’s door.
“Just so you don’t feel awkward, I should probably tell you now. My mom is in a wheelchair.”
He blinks. “Oh. When you said health problems, I thought you meant...I don’t know, something else.”
“It’s...hard for me to talk about sometimes, so I usually just say that. Are you...okay?”
He puts a hand on my arm. “Of course. I’m excited to meet the woman who gifted the world with your existence.”
I make a face. “Please don’t ever say that again.”
I knock once and then pull the door open. Maman is already making her way over to us, calling me a bunch of embarrassing names in French. I’m about to ask her to switch to English for Ace when he introduces himself in his perfectly enunciated franҫais. There’s something aristocratic about the way he speaks the language. He uses Montreal slang, but his pronunciation is more European than Québécois.
Boarding school would explain that.
I shake the thought away. I’ll force him into telling me about it once we leave.
I’ve never brought a guy home before, so Maman can’t tell that on the surface, Ace looks just like the kinds of guys I used to get mixed up with in my teens and at the start of my twenties. Still, she seems wary, and Ace is so nervous I can see the slick sheen of sweat on the back of his neck. We sit in the living room while the casserole Maman made finishes cooking, making awkward small talk.
“Stéphanie told me you’re in a band.” Maman gives me a pointed look. “She didn’t have time to tell me much else about you because I only found out she’s been seeing you three hours ago.”
“Voyons, maman.” I wave my hands at her. “Don’t make Ace feel weird.”
She turns back to him. “What is your band called?”
“Sherbrooke Station,” Ace answers.
Ace and I are both completely taken aback when her eyes light up and she starts clapping her hands with excitement.
“Vraiment? Really? You’re in Sherbrooke Station?”
“I’m the singer and the guitarist,” Ace tells her, looking as bemused as I feel.
“Maman, you know who Sherbrooke Station is?”
She gives an unimpressed sigh. “I may be your maman, Stéphanie, but I’m not an old lady. Everyone in Montreal knows who Sherbrooke Station is. I adore your first album.”
She moves herself over to a box of CDs beside the couch and digs around before pulling out a Sherbrooke Station album whose cover art I recognize. Molly has a poster of it on her bedroom wall.
“Will you sign this for me?”
Things lighten up after that. By the time we’ve finished dessert, my mom is humming to the sound of Ace’s voice on her CD player and demanding that he tell her what every song is ‘really’ about. He puts up with it like a trooper. I can see him fighting not to laugh at the way her heavy accent sounds when she sings along with one of the choruses.
Eventually, Maman gathers up all the dishes and ignores our offers to help. Ace grabs my hand while she’s busy in the kitchen and traces his thumb over my knuckles.
“I think she likes you,” I whisper.
“Thank god for Sherbrooke Station,” he whispers back.
“Well, mes chéries,” Maman announces when she comes back into the living room, “I’d ask if you want a tea or coffee, but I have a late shift tonight.”
She nods toward her laptop and headset. Ace and I get to our feet.
“A hug for your poor maman, ma belle,” Maman demands when we’re all crowded in front of the door.
She and I hug, and she whispers that she still has to make up her mind about Ace, but tells me the outlook seems good. We all know she whispered just loud enough for Ace to hear.
“I think that went well,” I announce during the ride back to my place.
“Are you sure? I couldn’t tell.”
I think he’s joking until I see the panic in his eyes.
“Ace, yes. I’m sure. She liked you a lot.”
He swallows and nods a few times, like he’s trying convince himself.
“I liked her too,” he admits. “She’s...spunky.”
“Spunky? What does ‘spunky’ mean?”
He laughs. “Like, um...she seems light-hearted, but tough.”
“Light-hearted, but tough,” I repeat. “Yeah, that sounds like my mom.”
We climb out of the Uber, and I thank the driver before he pulls away from the curb. Instead of heading to my apartment, Ace takes my hand and leads me on a walk down the darkening street.
“She raised you all by herself?” he asks.
I nod. “My dad left us when I was three. She did everything on her own.”
“Has she always been in a wheelchair?”
My hand tightens around his.
“No. That...That happened when I was ten.”
He returns my squeeze and seems ready to let the subject drop, but for some reason, I’m not.
“I saw it happen,” I blurt. “The accident.”
He stops walking. “God, Stéphanie, I’m so sorry.”
“Do you mind if we sit down?”
We’re on a tiny pedestrian street that’s unusually empty for a summer night. I lead him over to a bench a few feet away. The story starts pouring out of me before we’re even fully seated.
“She used to clean houses. She couldn’t afford a babysitter all the time, so she’d bring me along on some of her jobs. Most of the houses were in Westmount.” I spit the last word out. “She hardly ever saw the families she cleaned for. To them, she was just the service she provided. Nothing more. It happened in the winter...”
Ace’s hand has gone limp in mine. I can’t look at him right now.
“This one family always made her use the side door. I guess the front entrance wasn’t for staff or some ridiculous shit like that. The side door was at the top of a staircase, and they never salted the steps. She almost fell a few times. She even sent her agency emails about it, but they never did anything. When it happened, I was making a snowball at the bottom of the staircase.”
I hear Ace make a sound somewhere in the back of his throat. I force myself to go on.
“I’ll never forget the sound her body made when she fell. She rolled all the way down the stairs. She landed face down in the snow. I thought she was dead. I screamed and screamed, but nobody came out of the house.”
My voice sounds flat. It’s almost like I’m listening to the words myself, not speaking them.
“I looked up and there was this little boy in the window—the family’s son. Maybe he had the day off school like me. I used to play around in his giant bedroom when Maman and I had the house to ourselves. I looked right at him and screamed for him to help me, but he just ran away. Maybe if he’d sent someone outside...He didn’t, though. A deliveryman driving by was the one who found me. My mom never pressed charges. She got letters from their lawyers, and they scared her. She said she just wanted to focus on taking care of me. She wouldn’t risk losing, but she could have won. I know she could have.”
I watch a woman pass by us with a small dog on a leash. Somewhere nearby, kids are singing
a French jump rope rhyme. I’ve always found that odd, how a moment can seem so still and stagnant in your mind, even while the world pulses with life around you. Ace doesn’t say anything for awhile.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, after several minutes have passed and I can’t take the silence. “I did it again, didn’t I? Dumped all my drama on you. I should have waited. It’s just, I’ve never told anyone about that day and—”
“I have to go.”
Ace pulls his hand out of my grasp and stands up, his back to me. His shoulders rise and fall, and I swear I see them shaking.
“Ace.” I sound as broken as I feel. “Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I upset you. Please just stay.”
“I...”
His fists clench and unclench. I can see it for sure now: he’s shaking.
“I have to go.”
He leaves me sitting there, my heart carved wide open and dripping onto the ground.
19 I Wish I Was Sober || Frightened Rabbit
ACE
I’m sorry if I moved too fast last night. I know it was a lot, you meeting my mom and then me telling you all that, but I’m kind of pissed, Ace. It took a lot for me to say that. I needed you there with me and you bailed. I’m not going to try calling again. Get back to me. Soon.
Stéphanie’s texts all blur into one fuzzy black line of guilt, pain, and regret. I drop my phone down next to the empty bottle of Jack beside me on my balcony.
“Fuck!” I yell, so loud the man sitting on a balcony across the street looks up from his newspaper. “FUCK!”
“Fuck toi, conne!” he yells back.
“FUCK. YOU.”
The sound echoes up and down the street. I push myself to my feet and stumble back into my apartment before he has time to reply. There are two beds inside.
I only have one bed...
I aim for the one on the right and end up on the floor.
“Fuck.”
I just lay there. The room spins. My vision drifts in and out of focus until my eyes land on a marbled guitar pick under my bed.
“Been wondering where that was.”
I reach for the piece of plastic and bring it closer to my eyes. There are two guitar picks. For some reason, this is fucking hilarious. I laugh so hard my stomach hurts and I have to press my palm to my ribs. Then, as quickly as the laughter came, it disappears.
I’m hollow again.
Not enough booze in here...
I was up past three in the morning last night, wandering the streets and torturing myself by keeping Stéphanie’s words on a loop in my head, her voice dull and monotone as she recounted the worst moment of her life to me.
She had no idea it was the worst moment of my life too.
When I finally made my way back to my apartment, I dug up all the alcohol I could find and drank enough to lull myself to sleep. I woke up at one this afternoon, stared at all the blinking notifications on my phone, and then started drinking again.
It’s now almost eight at night.
I get up, bracing myself on the mattress until my head no longer feels like a tilt-a-whirl, then chug down a glass of water and jump in the shower. I let the water run as hot as it will go before I switch it to freezing cold, shouting out curse words as the shock to my system helps to clear the fog in my head. After I towel off, I brush my teeth and pull some clean clothes on.
The liquor store won’t sell me alcohol if I seem drunk.
I make my way over to an SAQ and browse the bottles, squinting at their labels. The shower helped, but I’m still hazy, and it’s hard to read the small letters. I consider getting another bottle of Jack, but then I pass by the wine section and spot a display of champagne.
Gorgeous. Fucking perfect. What better way to celebrate my life going up in flames?
I grab the biggest bottle I can see and pay for it. Somehow, all the cashier asks is to see my ID. I have to keep myself from sprinting out the door with my brown paper bag, snickering at how easy it is to dupe the system.
Instead of walking back to my apartment, I find myself heading up to Parc Lafontaine. My grip on the bottle’s neck grows tighter as Stéphanie’s voice starts bouncing around in my head again.
I’ll never forget the sound her body made when she fell.
I screamed and screamed, but nobody came out of the house.
I heard her screaming. I still hear her screaming, those nights when I wake up clutching my sheets with sweat pouring down my back. That little blonde girl with her snowball. I didn’t know human beings could make those kinds of sounds. She was like an animal caught in a trap, all blind fear and panic. Then she glanced at my bedroom window.
I looked right at him and I screamed for him to help me, but he just ran away. Maybe if he’d sent someone outside...
I stop at the edge of the park and uncork the champagne. The pop makes a group of teenagers on a blanket turn to look at me. They cheer. I raise the bag-covered bottle to them and keep walking. Once I’ve rounded the edge of the pond and found a corner of the park that’s not crawling with people, I sit down on a bench and start gulping down champagne.
When I’m almost halfway through the bottle, I pull my phone out in the fading light to glance at the time. Almost nine now. There are a few new texts from Matt, urging me to check in with him. I missed a rehearsal today, but managed to convince him it was because I was with Stéphanie and lost track of time. He’s been sending me reminders about tomorrow’s La Rentrée schedule ever since.
“Une gorgée pour moi?”
I look up at the sound of the ragged voice asking me for a sip and find a homeless man pushing a shopping cart up the path in front of my bench. He stops and digs out a thermal mug, holding it out to me.
I shrug. “Why not?”
I pour some champagne in his mug after he shuffles over. He glances at the empty spot on the bench next to me, and I shrug again. He clinks his mug against the bottle, then takes a long sip.
“Tu parles franҫais?” he asks.
“Ouais,” I answer, “but I think I’m too drunk to speak French right now.”
We each take another sip of champagne, and then, just for the hell of it, I ask, “You ever been in love?”
He gives me a blank stare.
“You know? Love?” I urge. “Have you ever been in love with a girl?”
He lets out a laugh that’s close to a cackle. “Love. Hein. Fuck love, mon gars.”
“Fuck love,” I repeat. “Cheers to that.”
We clink our glasses again. I don’t know if the new alcohol hits my bloodstream at just that moment, or if it’s because there’s a blonde girl holding hands with a guy down by the pond and the sight is like a bullet in my chest, but I start to tell this guy everything.
I tell him how I met Stéphanie, how she looked when she danced on stage, how fucking her felt like madness and magic, and how the voices in my head all got quiet when she was around. I don’t even know if he speaks enough English to understand me, but I pour him more champagne and keep going.
“I grew up in Westmount,” I explain. “My parents are rich motherfuckers who barely do anything for themselves. I swear they probably pay someone to wipe their asses for them. I know they sure as hell didn’t wipe my ass. I was raised by nannies. My parents hardly ever spoke to me, unless it was to tell me I was doing something wrong.”
I take a long pull from the bottle.
“The only thing my dad ever did around the house was the trim the hedges outside. I wouldn’t be surprised if he jacked off to those hedges; he loved them so much. When I was maybe six years old, I got this idea in my head. I wanted to impress him. I wanted him to like me. I took his gardening shears, and I went outside. I was six, so obviously I made a fucking mess of it. When he got home...”
I shudder and blame it on the growing chill in the air.
“My dad only ever hit me that one time, but it was enough. It wasn’t even the pain that broke me. It was the look in his eyes. He didn’t see me as a person. He didn�
��t see me as his son. I was like...like a pet. I was just an annoying dog that misbehaved, and he wasn’t afraid to be cruel to me. I never acted up again. I tried to stay out of his way. I broke my finger once when I was eight, and I spent the whole night crying over it, alone, because I didn’t want to bother my parents.”
I sit in silence for a moment, until Monsieur Fuck-Love points between his mug and the bottle. I hand him the whole thing.
“This one time when I was ten, I had the day off school, and my nanny couldn’t come over. I was supposed to stay in my room all day and keep quiet. It was winter, and I stared out my window for hours, watching the snow come down. A woman came to the house. I didn’t know who she was at the time, but I learned later that she was one of our cleaners. She had her daughter with her, this girl about my age with a long blonde ponytail. She was making a snowball, and I was wishing I could be out there playing with her. Then her mom fell down the stairs.”
I can’t tell if my voice is faltering because of the alcohol or the story.
“The girl looked right at me in the window. She was screaming in French, asking for help, and I...I just backed away. I wasn’t supposed to leave my room. I wasn’t supposed to bother my parents. I know how fucked up it seems now, but you have to understand how much my dad scared me shitless. You have to understand...”
The homeless man thumps me on the back as I cough, choking on a sob.
“The girl kept screaming and screaming, and I was pulling my hair out in chunks and smacking my head against the wall, and she. Just. Kept. Screaming. Then I was screaming too, over and over. I don’t remember much of the rest. My dad came in my room and had to hold me down. I was having some kind of fit. I bit my tongue. I remember tasting the blood. When I finally calmed down enough, they tried to put me in the car and take me to the hospital, but the ambulance was there, loading up the girl’s mother. I saw her lying on the stretcher, and I thought she was dead. I really did. I started screaming again. I thought I killed her. My mom had to drive us while my dad pinned me down in the back seat.”