by Vicki Grant
I went into my room, flopped on my bed and watched YouTube stain-removal videos until I fell asleep.
Chapter 13
I’m an amoeba. I was heading to work one morning and that just popped into my head. It was vaguely disturbing. I used to think about stuff like clothes and food and homework and friends and what we—it was always “we” back then— were going to do on the weekend. I never used to think, I’m an amoeba.
What did that even mean? I pictured the two-tone illustration in my biology text. The amoeba looked like a splat of aquamarine yogourt that someone had just left there to congeal.
I stopped and waited for the light to change. The girls on the other side appeared to be Asian summer students. I didn’t have to worry. No skulking required. They wouldn’t know me.
An amoeba is the simplest form of life.
Was that true? It had been a long time since the test.
Maybe I’m the simplest form of life.
I reviewed the last few weeks of my existence. Eat. Work. Sleep. Repeat as necessary. You couldn’t get much simpler than that. How had that happened? Obviously the Nick and Carly thing had affected me—but where had the rest of my life gone?
Where had the rest of me gone?
The little green man lit up and I crossed the street. The Asian girls were tiny and pretty with their streaked hair and platform shoes. They were all talking at once.
It wasn’t just that I was hurt or sad or lonely. I felt like a whole different person now, a whole different species.
I remembered that song from Sesame Street. “One of these things is not like the others …” Other people my age did things. They wanted to do things. They tried to do things. That was sort of the whole point. They went places, bought stuff, watched stuff, read stuff, hung out, goofed around, changed, grew, hoped. Someday, no doubt, they’d also mate and raise young.
I leaned against a mailbox and shook a pebble out of my sandal. I just exist.
I’m an amoeba.
The most I could expect out of life? Someday, maybe, I’d divide. Pass my DNA along to the next generation of jellied blobs.
That was sad, but something about it almost made me laugh. I realized, this time last year that would have been a joke. There’d have been a bunch of girls hanging out in someone’s bedroom and I’d have said I feel like an amoeba and they’d all have laughed (except Fiona, who wouldn’t get it) and pretty soon, they’d have started calling me Amoeba or Amoe-Betsy or maybe just plain Moeb. The Moeb. Moebo.
They’d put a bunch of private jokes about it in the yearbook. Before long, everyone would be calling me Moebo, even the people who had no idea where it came from. That’s how you showed you belonged.
“One of these things just doesn’t belong …” I don’t belong.
I’d never put it in those words before but it didn’t surprise me. I was way past that point. I scratched my head and realized I needed a new elastic band. My ponytail was already falling out.
*
I was on my way to Mr. McCaffrey’s again. Mr. “Call-me-Frank” McCaffrey. He was the guy whose daughter phoned us that first day. He was eighty-two and lived alone in a little house down by the water, the last little one down by the water now that the monster homes had moved in and crushed the rest.
He never went out, never opened a window and, no doubt, never would have had anyone in to clean if his daughter hadn’t insisted. He was the only one of our clients who stayed in the house while we worked. I didn’t mind. It occurred to me that he was an amoeba too. He sat in an old plaid La-Z-Boy with greasy patches on the headrest and smoked cigarettes and watched the Weather Channel until it was time for his bologna sandwich at noon. That was his life.
I stopped halfway across the railway bridge. I leaned over the fancy plaster wall and looked down at the hard, grey tracks below. I could almost taste the metal in my mouth. Did amoebas die? I couldn’t remember what it said about that in my textbook.
If you never really live, can you ever really die? It sounded like something you’d see on a Dilbert coffee cup. That would have been a joke a few months ago too.
I kept walking. Some bird chirped in a tree. I looked up but I couldn’t see anything. I’d never really noticed birds before. My life had never been that quiet. I could just imagine Mom perched on my bed, holding my limp hand, trying to spin that bird into some big bonus. The silver lining of the getting-dumped cloud. You can finally hear the birds, sweetie! It didn’t seem like much of a trade-off to me. I’d have taken Nick over a yellow-bellied sapsucker any day.
Chapter 14
I turned on to Harbourview Drive and let autopilot take me to Frank’s. I heard Dolores before I saw her.
“O.M.G.”
“What?” I only asked to get it over with.
“You look like an escapee from The Nightmare Before Christmas. Seriously. Never realized how skinny you are. You’ve got Jack Skellington legs.”
She was sitting on Frank’s driveway in the shade of his 1991 Oldsmobile. This morning, she was wearing her pink Lapins de Poussière T-shirt, gold, heavily-bedazzled majorette shorts and shiny white plastic ankle boots. Her green hair was in a beehive. It made me wonder where she got off commenting on anyone else’s appearance.
“Yeah,” I said, “and you look like a cross between Tickle Me Elmo and Lady Gaga.” It just sort of came out.
Dolores did a drum roll on the side of the car. “Not bad. Not bad.” She scrambled up and slapped the dirt off her ass. “Love the Elmo part. Kind of captures the whole little potbelly thing I’ve got going on. But Lady Gaga? Too easy. It would have been funnier if you said something like …”
I mentally switched her off. I should have known better than to let myself get into it with her.
I nodded in that whatever way and headed to the front door. Dolores took the key out from under the welcome mat and sighed like a drag queen.
“Can you believe people? Everyone always—you know — ‘hides’ their key in one of three places. Beneath the mat. In the mailbox. Or under the flowerpot beside the front door. Why not just put a big sign in the window saying ‘Walk right in’? I mean, how stupid do they think criminals are, anyway?” She scratched her scalp with the key and sucked her teeth.
My parents put our house key under the flowerpot. I supposed that made them stupid too. Dad is a Harvard-trained gastroenterologist. Mom has her own public relations business. Just how stupid could they be?
Where did Dolores’s parents hide their key?
What did Dolores’s parents even do?
Did she even have parents?
She had a mother. She mentioned her that first day at Zinnia’s.
I realized in all the time we’d spent together over the last three weeks that was the only thing Dolores had ever said about her family.
Did she have any brothers or sisters?
Where did she live?
Not in the South End. Dolores had been too impressed with our house to be from the neighbourhood. Given her taste in clothes, she probably lived in one of those funky old row houses in the North End. I imagined her mother as a forty-something version of Dolores, riding her Salvation Army bike to her job at some food co-op slash record store.
Dolores talked about everything else. Why wouldn’t she say anything about her family?
But then, what had I ever said about my family?
She opened the door. “Honey, I’m home!”
Frank wheezed out a laugh. He was stretched out on his recliner in the far corner of the living room. “Well, if it ain’t the Leprechaun!” The chair screeched into the sitting position. “You bring Grace Kelly again too?” He kept his cigarette in the side of his mouth and his eye squinted up against the smoke. I got the impression he was doing it for our benefit. It kind of grossed me out. I felt quite strongly that someone that decrepit shouldn’t flirt.
The Grace Kelly thing didn’t make the least bit of sense to me either—for starters, Grace Kelly had blond hair and I’ve got brown—
but whatever. I wasn’t getting involved.
Dolores kicked off her boots and dropped her plastic bag in the hall. “‘Course I brought her. Couldn’t leave the Ice Goddess out in weather like this. She’d be reduced to a little glimmering puddle in no time.”
Another wheezy laugh from Frank.
This was only our third time here and already Dolores had a thing going on with him. “Whoa. Suck back a few coffin nails this morning or what?” She pushed open a window. “Jeepers, Frank! It’s smokier than a pepperoni fart in here.”
Frank just about had a heart attack over that one. Dolores took the cigarette out of his mouth and pounded him on the back until he caught his breath and horked up a few bronchioles.
I went into the hall and got out the cleaning supplies. No use hanging around. I knew where this would lead. Frank would complain about the draft. He’d complain about Dolores messing around with his stuff. He’d complain about how his dead wife used to complain about him complaining. Dolores would call him an old man and tell him to shut his toothless gob, which would just make him laugh/wheeze all the more. Then she’d pull over a chair and play cribbage with him until I finished cleaning the house.
Someone else might have argued about that arrangement but it suited me fine. I was better at cleaning these days than talking. That didn’t even amaze me any more.
I went into Frank’s bedroom and pulled open the short stiff curtains. Sunlight ricocheted off the mirror and the glass lampshades and the little crystal figurines on the bedside table—but the room still looked sad and empty. It dawned on me that everything in the house was the smudged-out colour of old erasers. Pink eraser chairs, green eraser curtains, beige eraser rugs, and, in the bathroom, blue eraser towels and furry toilet seat cover.
Did somebody choose those colours or was this just what happened when nobody cared? I suspected that Frank’s daughter paid us to come once a week so she wouldn’t have to.
The tears in my eyes surprised me. I realized I was the one who should have been out there, chatting up Frank. We had a lot more in common than he and Dolores did.
Frank hollered, “Don’t forget to give my Marie a good dusting!”
“She likes to look her best!” Dolores rushed in to say it before Frank could. He made the same joke every week.
“Don’t worry. I will.” I tried to sound pleasant but not so cheery they’d think they could drag me into their witty little conversation.
I wiped down the framed photos arranged on the dresser. I knew the guy in the wedding picture was Frank but only because he’d told us. He used to be so young and slim. And handsome? The slicked-back hair and the evil-landlord moustache made it hard to tell, but he was definitely happy. You could see the twinkle in his eyes.
I thought of Frank, sitting in that smelly old chair, fingers and teeth all yellow from cigarettes, belly between his knees, ankles as hairless as old dog bones showing beneath the legs of his pants. How did someone go from there … to here?
Did it hurt?
Marie had aged over the years too. She was so tiny and pretty in her wedding dress but that didn’t last. One, two, three, four—five kids. Then glasses. White hair. Novelty sweaters. She’d got a belly by the end too but, despite everything, there was Frank, still smiling at her in that last picture. It was so sweet I had to bite my lip.
Nick was smiling at me in our prom pictures.
Mom had said, “C’mon, Nick. Smile!” I never suspected a thing.
Marie probably hadn’t either.
I plugged in Frank’s old Looney Tunes Electrolux and ran it over the thin, beige rug. It probably sent up more dirt than it collected but it drowned out the mindless chatter coming from the living room. I shoved the vacuum head under the bed. There was a metallic gagging sound, then a high-pitched squeal, then it clanked to a stop.
“Hey, Gracie, keep it down in there!” Frank started coughing again.
“Christ, Frank. Would you quit with the jokes? I’m not going to give you CPR every time you make a funny. Now get on with it. It’s your turn.”
I wound up the cord and put the vacuum cleaner away. Frank didn’t care whether his rug was clean, and I didn’t have the stomach to pull the hardened wad of Kleenex out of the hose.
I went to the kitchen next. I looked at the pale-green paint and the frilly curtains and the little bouquet of moulded clay flowers on the wall and I thought of Marie. She raised all those kids in this little house, cooking, cleaning, painting, ironing, being a good, faithful wife— then the first chance Frank gets, he’s cruising a couple of teenagers. It wasn’t just gross. It was unfair. Men.
There were bread crumbs all over the checkerboard floor and a bad smell. I covered my nose with my hand. Something had definitely gone rotten or died since we were here last.
I knew—I didn’t know how but I absolutely knew—that Marie would never have let the kitchen get like this. I felt a sudden, intense duty to clean it up for her.
I was like a hound on a scent now. I stuck my nose into the air, under the sink, behind the fridge, out by the back door—into all the potentially revolting little nooks and crannies. The smell was everywhere but nowhere in particular.
“I skunked you, old man!”
I could hear Frank slap his cards down on the coffee table. “Bloody Leprechaun. Luck of the Irish! One more game.”
I leaned my elbows back on the counter and scanned the kitchen. I was going to find out what reeked if it killed me.
Dolores was pretending she didn’t want to play again. “Listen, you, I’m not being paid to babysit. I’m paid to clean.”
“Let that good-lookin’ one clean. You’re playing cards. I got to win my money back.”
The drawers. It didn’t seem likely, but maybe that’s where it was coming from.
The ones with the cutlery and the utensils smelled, sort of, but only as if they hadn’t been opened in a while. The next drawer had dishtowels, all neatly ironed, by Marie, no doubt, a thousand years ago. They were so perfect they made me kind of sad. I pushed the drawer closed.
Something crinkled. I pulled the drawer open again.
There was a small package wrapped in newspaper, tucked in the back. I had no business taking it out. I couldn’t smell anything funny. It clearly wasn’t the problem. I was just curious.
Is curious the right word? It sounds too innocent.
I could hear Dolores and Frank fighting over the score. They weren’t going anywhere. What was the harm of looking? I held the package in one hand and peeled it open like the chocolate orange I get every year in my stocking. I did it slowly so the paper wouldn’t make any noise.
There was a set of false teeth inside.
I sucked in my breath, but I didn’t drop them. I knew immediately they were Marie’s. The teeth were too small and the gums too pink to be a man’s. Frank must have kept them since she died.
I lost Marie in ‘05. That’s what he’d said.
I checked the paper. It was from a few days ago. Frank must have wrapped them up recently, then hidden them away.
It was weird. I wasn’t horrified. I got the kind of shimmery feeling I always get when someone braids my hair or gently scratches my arm.
Frank was suddenly someone different. I stared at the teeth, so perfect and fake, and I just sort of understood him. I understood how much he loved Marie. I had one of Nick’s sweaty T-shirts hidden away in my closet to prove it.
I wrapped the dentures up and put them back exactly where they’d been.
I found what stunk a few minutes later. There was a rotten potato in the cupboard by the stove.
Chapter 15
After Frank’s, we went to the Russells’. The first few times we’d cleaned there on Tuesdays but since they lived so close, Dolores had arranged to do them this afternoon instead.
She pulled a sandwich out of her plastic bag and started eating on the way. She offered to share but I said no. Since we’d started cleaning, I’d miraculously overcome an aversion to hair, ge
rms and the drool that collects in soap dishes, but something about Dolores still kind of gagged me. In my mind, she’d always be associated with that clot of strawberry.
“Yay. More for me!” Dolores said, her mouth not quite empty. The squelch of peanut butter sounded positively intestinal to me. I looked across the street so she couldn’t read my face.
A blue SUV sped by. “Betsy Wickwire! Where you been? Call me!” Paige Chisholm was leaning out the passenger window, waving wildly at me.
I raised my hand but couldn’t quite smile. It was like the dentist had accidentally frozen my entire head. Nothing moved.
I saw this snapshot of myself, standing there on the side of the road. The skinny legs, the messy hair, the dirty shorts and, to my right, Irritate Me Elmo in the matching T-shirt. I realized I’d become the type of person I used to make an effort to be nice to.
“Boy. What did that girl ever do to you?” Dolores pulled her neck back like a turtle and watched the car disappear down the street.
“Nothing.” I kept walking.
“Nothing? Please. What’d she do? Traumatize you as a small child? Subject you to ruthless cyberbullying? Buy the same prom dress? What?”
“Nothing, I said.”
Dolores licked the peanut butter off her fingers. “Ah … your mouth said nothing, my friend, but your face spoke volumes.”
I stopped. “Oh yeah? What’s it saying now?”
Dolores gasped and put her hand on her cheek. “I’m too polite to repeat it.”
I nodded and kept going. Good thing the Russells had such a big house. I wouldn’t have to see Dolores for a couple of hours. I could concentrate on keeping my brain in neutral.
Dolores took the key out of the mailbox and gave me this see-what-I-mean? look. Apparently, she even thought the Russells were stupid. I wanted to scream.
But then the door opened and—poof—Dolores faded. Paige disappeared. I relaxed. It was this house. Walking in was always a bit like putting on some gorgeous new outfit. I liked myself better here. I took a big breath. Even inside, everything smelled like the flowering bushes that grew out front.