“There they are,” said Zoë. Down the side street, two boys playing street hockey pushed Ben’s wheelchair up a wooden ramp to a little pink house while Mrs. Fisher opened the door. Zoë watched the boys come back out of the house, pick up their sticks, and chase after the puck.
While they waited at the big road with the lights, Zoë changed arms but wouldn’t take her mother’s hand.
“I’m practising doing it by myself.” She dangled the bag and Zoë’s mother put her hand on her shoulder anyway as they crossed the street. Zoë carried the groceries the whole way home, three blocks.
“How many eggs do we need?” Zoë asked.
“Four, but let’s use six!”
Inside the kitchen, Zoë carefully set the bag on the table and ran to wash her hands with soap before her mom could say it, so she could crack the eggs for the cake.
After the last girl left the birthday party, Zoë inspected the chocolate cake on the dish.
“That’s half of half, right?”
“A quarter. Enough for everyone to have a small slice after supper.”
“Let’s save half a quarter for Daddy and take the rest to Mrs. Fisher and Ben.”
Zoë’s mother had forgotten. “We already saw her today. I don’t want to bother her now.”
“Tomorrow, then.” Zoë was tired out. She’d had six friends over, and the quiet felt like a blanket after the loud talking and games and presents. “Do you think Ben has naps?” Zoë used to have naps before she started kindergarten. She felt like having one now.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday, and we have the boys’ hockey game, and grandma for supper. We’ll see.”
The next day, while her parents and brothers got ready for hockey, calling out for washed uniforms and socks, looking for car keys and filling water bottles, Zoë sliced the quarter cake in half and lifted one part into a margarine container. There was still a piece left for Daddy, who was too full for cake after supper. The boys would have eaten it by now, but Zoë had hidden it overnight in the lazy Susan with all the extra pots and pans.
Zoë put the container into her knapsack along with two of the pink polka dot napkins and pink plastic forks left over from her party. She took the dog leash and called out to her mom, “I’m taking Joey for a walk.”
“Okay, but only once around the block,” her mom said. “We need to leave for the rink soon.” Zoë spent many Sundays at the rink watching her brothers play. The rink smelled like wet wood and dirty snow and sweaty socks. She didn’t like the noise, either, the yelling. So she had her own earphones and iPod in her knapsack and a few books and paper and coloured pencils. “I’m all ready,” Zoë said, showing her knapsack on her back.
She walked Joey quicker than usual and he happily kept up, but pulled when she left their own block and headed down to the busy street. She wasn’t allowed to cross on her own, but a lady was there waiting, and Zoë went beside her, so that wasn’t alone. Joey was squirreling back and forth, not heeling at all, and almost tripped the lady. Zoë pulled his leash in tighter. After the busy road, they had to cross again to Mrs. Fisher’s, so Zoë waited for no cars on the road and quickly pulled Joey across. She slipped in the slush on the other side, but didn’t fall. Joey was starting to bark now, little nervous chumfs.
At the tiny pink house, Zoë walked up the ramp, way longer than the one at kindergarten. Joey heeled now, sniffing. She rang the bell. And waited. There were no boys outside playing. Maybe they were on her brothers’ team and on their way to the rink. She’d have to hurry, but Mrs. Fisher took a long time to get to the door. When she did, she eyepopped at Zoë.
“Hello, Zoë. Did you walk all the way over here by yourself? Does your Mommy know?”
Before she could answer and take her pack off, Joey pulled away from her and ran in the house, chasing a small white cat. Mrs. Fisher went after him and stepped on his leash. The cat cowered on top of the lying-back wheelchair, then perched on Ben’s neck.
Zoë walked in without taking her boots off like she would at school or at home because the floor was already dirty with sand, grit, and cat litter. She took Joey’s leash and Mrs. Fisher picked the cat off Ben.
“Ah-ah-ah,” called Ben.
“This is Snowball,” said Mrs. Fisher.
“She’s really cute. I’m sorry about Joey. He’s nuts about cats. He likes them, but always scares them.”
Zoë put her foot tight on the leash so Joey had to lie down. Ben gurgled.
“I brought you some cake, Ben.”
“Ha-bee,” Ben said.
Mrs. Fisher smiled wide, teeny tiny teeth in her shrunken face.
“Oh, Ben loves cake. Especially happy birthday cake. Should we have a tea party?”
“Yes! Does Ben drink tea?”
“Cooled with an ice cube, and through a straw.”
“Can I have mine like that, too?”
Mrs. Fisher nodded and went to the kitchen.
In the living room, plants hogged the window. Photos and pictures and tinsel ropes were tacked up higgledy-piggledy, like her teacher said about messy printing. For Ben, Zoë thought, so there’s always something for him to look at wherever he’s parked. Joey was busy sniffing anything in reach. She would draw a picture of Snowball for Ben, whose eyes were focussed on the cat, now atop a bookshelf. Zoë looked around at where to sit. There was only one chair in the living room, and it was piled with books and plates and a phone, which rang, suddenly.
Mrs. Fisher hurried back in the room. “Hello? Oh, yes. She’s here. The sweet darling brought us cake. Yes, I’ll tell her. No trouble, not at all.” To Zoë, she said, “Your Mommy will pick you up in ten minutes.”
That meant they couldn’t have tea, but Zoë wanted Ben to try her cake. She brought out the napkins and forks.
Mrs. Fisher put a new bib on Ben, which said Mexico, another gift from Brenda at Safeway, she explained to Zoë, who also asked about Viva Las Vegas. “She gets them on her trips. Ben travelled to Mexico and all over, before,” Mrs. Fisher explained. “Then he had an accident and that’s when I quit working with your mom.” Mrs. Fisher rummaged and found a spoon on the chair pile.
“Forks are too sharp for Ben,” she said. She wiped the spoon off on the old bib, took a bit of cake with some icing on it and handed it to Zoë. “You give it. Go ahead.” Mrs. Fisher took Joey’s leash.
Zoë put the spoon near Ben’s nose so he could sniff it, like Mrs. Fisher said, and then he opened his mouth and closed it on the spoon.
“Do you like it?” Zoë asked.
And the cloud in his fisted face smoothed away and the sun came out again as Ben opened his eyes. Zoë laughed out loud with Mrs. Fisher.
“He likes it!”
She waited a minute like Mrs. Fisher said, and spooned another tiny piece in, making sure there was some icing. Ben looked directly at Zoë, and this time his sun smile came even before the spoonful.
The doorbell rang, and Zoë saw the van outside.
“Oh, Zoë! Don’t ever do that again! I was terrified—.” Then her mom looked around the room and bustled Zoë and Joey out.
“Everything’s fine,” Mrs. Fisher said, although she looked worried.
“If she ever does this again, phone me right away. Sorry. We have to go.”
Zoë only had a chance to wave at Mrs. Fisher from the sidewalk, but not to say bye to Ben.
“I don’t want to go to hockey. Can’t I stay and have a tea party with Mrs. Fisher and you pick me up later?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
In the van, Zoë put Joey in her lap. She couldn’t take him next time because of Snowball, or maybe she could tie him up outside. Her mother looked at her as if she heard every word of Zoë’s thoughts and put her hand on Zoë’s arm.
“I’ll go with you next time.”
�
��I’m not a baby.” I can go by myself, Zoë thought.
Her mother said, “Only if you tell me first, so I can send you with some soup for Mrs. Fisher and Ben.”
But Zoë never went.
Weeks later, when Zoë walked alone to the store for the first time, to buy milk, she asked the store lady who gave her a sucker before if she’d seen Mrs. Fisher and Ben. Zoë thought she’d stop there on the way home. If Brenda offered her a sucker, she’d ask for two, one for Ben.
“Oh, they’ve moved, into an old folks’ home.”
“But Ben isn’t an old folk.”
When Zoë finished paying, she waited, but Brenda did not bring out her basket of suckers.
“What about Snowball? Did Snowball die?”
Brenda had already turned her happy smile to chitchat with the next customer. Zoë carefully picked up her bagged carton of milk and walked straight home like her mother asked.
That afternoon all she wanted to do was draw. Because Snowball was a white cat, Zoë could only do her outline and give her pink lips and nose, and closed eyes.
The Maternity Project
When I invite her to my baby shower, Meg can hardly say no. Meg is nineteen and new to the city and, as Mom would say, naïve as paste, like her when she had me. But Meg hops to the Dollar Store at lunch and buys decorations with her own money. Blue for a boy.
She concocts Kraft Dinner with frozen peas for my girls. Snotballs, they call them. They giggle down a few bites, even the peas, then scramble to help Meg stick blue elephants on the windows and walls. I’m about to bribe them to finish their suppers, but I’m too slow and miss my chance. Instead, I eat their leftovers, still warm, while I clear up. I spit the peas into the garburator.
Then I settle down with a tall ginger ale and ice because KD twists my gut, and put my swollen feet up. Since I moved us to the condo, I don’t think I’ve sat down before the girls go to bed. By the time we get home from daycare, it’s way past six, then supper to prep, feeding, playing, bathing, clean up, and lunches to make.
Jasmine came first, then three years later, Jola, and after another three years, here I am, an elephant with little boy blue Jae, one month till payday.
I knew Meg would ask, but at least she had the sense not to in front of Jola and Jasmine. On the subway ride to daycare after work, a knitting blue-hair slows down her tsk-tsk needles to listen, but I don’t care and neither does Meg.
“Why don’t you marry the fathers?”
“That’s old-school.”
“Why not use a sperm bank?”
“Because that costs money, and the fathers support me.”
“Do they know each other?”
“Are you kidding? I let the guy brag about his finances, get pregnant on a one-nighter and then sue for child support when the baby is born. The guys set up payments to stay out of court, then head to Fort Mac. And I go on mat leave.”
“So Jasmine is black, Jola is Latina, and Jae?”
“Asian. He’ll be smart.”
“Is that on purpose?”
“The next one will be Indigenous. Also gorgeous.”
“Where do you find these guys?”
“I have a few lucky bars when I’m on the lookout.”
“When you’re working the system.”
Seriously? We work for the government. “Do you know how much work it is to drop the baby weight and get into decent bar clothes by the time you finish breastfeeding? It motivates me to get back in shape.” This is my livelihood.
But later, at home, Meg goes at me again.
“How many do you want?”
“As many as it takes.” All I want to do is not work, take good care of the kids, and not worry about money. “Lots of expenses with kids and daycare and I want to take a few trips.”
“Trips where, Mommy?” Jasmine says.
“Private Mommy trips. Bikini, martini, and me.”
“Oh,” says Jasmine. She shakes her head at Jola.
“When I get to stay home, every day will be a field trip. We’ll go to the zoo and the pool and the mall. As soon as Jae is born, we get a whole year to play. No daycare.”
“Can we go to the park?” That’s Jola. Such simple needs.
“I can hardly wait, sweetie.” I pat her head so she’ll believe me.
“Nice condo, by the way. How did you finance this?” asks Meg. So young.
I send the girls squealing to get ready. They’ve wanted to put on their new matching balloon print T-shirts since the morning.
“Sold my eggs.”
Meg blanches a little.
“The medical company flies you to San Diego once for shots, then does the extraction over a weekend so you get a little time after on the beach, and then flies you back, all expenses paid, for a big fee in U.S. dollars. More if you have a higher degree.” I try to pick a time when I earn big on the dive-bombing Canadian dollar.
“Wow. Does it hurt?”
“It mostly hurts after, but they give you pain meds. I have egg-kids somewhere in California.”
“Can they find you?”
“The records are sealed.” Not like with my birth mom. Freaked her right out at first. She never had any other kids but me, it turns out, but she sure put on her Supergrandma motorcycle jacket for the girls.
“Would you do it again?”
“Have to. To finance a van. My car won’t fit everybody after Jae moves up to a sit-up car seat. Kids have to ride in the back.” After Jae is almost one and weaned, I’ll go, before my mat leave is up. But this time, I’ll go a week ahead. Get the tan, hair streaked, gel nails. But where to leave three kids for a week? It was going to be Mom, but Mom stroked out shovelling the snow while I was buying groceries. Mom so loved the girls. Good thing Jasmine knew how to phone me right away. The girls even dragged her inside, out of the cold.
Meg could probably handle a week of babysitting, but she’ll be back at school in the fall. I go ahead and pitch it
to her.
“Maybe Reading Week. February? If you want the job.”
“Papers to write. But I could do it after April exams, before I start back in May. If I get rehired.”
I knew I could count on Meg. “You’re getting a great rec letter from me before I go on maternity.” She can do her job almost too fast; it pisses off the other workers. But good for them, to see how they need to keep up. I’ll suggest a special project for Meg this summer to keep her interested and a promotion and pay raise next summer to make sure she comes back. Fast learners get bored fast, need more supervision, than the regulars.
This mat leave, my main project is to find a new sitter for the kids. To go with my new neighbourhood, condo, and family of four. Meg’s serious student vibes won’t let me have her much during the university semester, except maybe for emergencies. I hope Jasmine and Jola will be interested in school, too, especially since Mom left all her money to them in RESPs. Good thing, because I can’t save a dime. I blame that on my supervisor job in Accounts Payable, ten years now. You get a little overpaid, and you overspend, but if you do it month after month, you dive right into debt. I can’t save much, but I’ve been debt-free for two years and I’m going to keep it that way. Mom got me straight on that and if anyone knew about debt, it was her. Starting with thirty-five years of maternal abandonment.
While I pop popcorn, Meg cuts veggie sticks and shows the girls how to stir the lemonade with the jug in the sink. After Meg vacuums, we circle the kitchen chairs in the living room, empty except for the one couch and side table. The girls like it open to play in.
We wait for the guests.
Did I make a mistake on the invitation? Even the girls’ excitement wanes. They’re more interested in drawing with Meg. One of the blue elephants’ heads comes unstuck and flops over. I invited seven other neighbourhood moms with decent cards, gold envelopes, a
nd blue stork stickers. The last invitation in the package went to Meg.
“Do you know the women you invited very well?”
“That’s what this was supposed to be. Hello, here we are, nice to meet you.” And thank you for the present. Not. This is a bust. What a waste of time. Except Meg’s getting to know Jola and Jasmine. Then it hits me that the women in this community all have husbands who live in their actual condos and it’s pretty obvious that I don’t have one, moving all our stuff in by my pregnant self, bit by bit, with two preschoolers helping me. Is that why? Or because Jasmine and Jola obviously have two different dads? Have I landed in Redneck Crescent? Has no one here heard of Madonna? Angelina Jolie?
I wish Mom was here. She’d have had every mother all talked up and interested and happy for me and feeling generous with their shower gifts and on time for the party. While I grew up and out of foster care, Mom worked at the Flamingo Casino and could talk to anyone while taking wads of their money. “It’s like Monopoly money after a while,” she said. But she knew how to manipulate it. She showed me the numbers for three, then four, and five children: expenses and revenue and those two columns need to match. We’d have made such a great team. I pick up her framed photo, the one at the elephant exhibit at the zoo. I hold the photo to my heart. The girls copy me doing this sometimes but lately it’s mostly me when I lie down. After a day at work this pregnant, I drop asleep like a bomb.
The doorbell wakes me. I wave to Meg, in the middle of a book with the girls, to answer the door. At this stage, after I nap my body feels like it’s scooped my brain out of my skull and gone to the spa without me.
“Hello. Party here?” A short Asian lady with searching eyes bustles in and claps her hands at me flat out on the couch, like that could set my brain back in place.
Meg tries to distract her. “Um, yes. For Jae, the baby?”
But she zeroes in on me. “Yes, happy time. My son brings me. He says, you his friend.”
Winning Chance Page 7