by Vicki Grant
As usual, there was a note to The Bunnies on the hall table. Amy Russell had the big, stylish handwriting you see in greeting card commercials. The chores were all numbered and divided into Upstairs and Downstairs. The last three had stars beside them with a little note that said: Only if you have time! She signed it Amy with a big loopy y. I needed to come up with a better signature.
I tore the paper in half and said, “I’ll do the upstairs.”
“Sucker,” Dolores said. “You get the kids’ rooms.”
I rolled my eyes and headed up the slick wooden stairs. Huge windows looked out over the Northwest Arm. It was a dark sparkly blue today and full of sailboats. It hit me once again what I loved about this house.
It was perfect. Like something out of a magazine. Bright, white, airy, modern, but sort of fun, too. Exactly the type of place I always thought I’d like to live in when I get older.
In fact, Amy was exactly the type of person I’d like to be when I get older. Beautiful, athletic, smart, accomplished, stylish, nice—she was almost as perfect as her house.
I started in Griffin’s room. Sweep behind bed, dust bookshelves and table, organize Lego. I wondered how old Amy was. Thirty-five? Thirty-eight? She looked younger but her oldest kid was eleven and she’d trained as a chartered accountant. That must take a few years. She’d also travelled for a while before she got married.
I knew some of that stuff because we —i.e., Dolores — had talked to Amy the first day. The rest I’d just sort of absorbed from the pictures in the living room, the certificates in the study, the notes on the bulletin board. You could pick up a lot from a little snooping.
I finished everything on the list for Griffin’s room, then had a go at his dresser. (Amy hadn’t asked us to do that but I’d found a how-to video on the care of glass furniture knobs and figured she’d appreciate me cleaning them up a bit.)
I checked my list for what to do next. Master bedroom. Polish nightstands and headboard. Easy on the oil, please! A little dab’ll do ya.
I walked into Amy’s bedroom and just sort of drank it in for a moment. The huge bed with the thick duvet. The Turkish rug. The closet full of amazing clothes. The gorgeous black-and-white portraits of the gorgeous blond family.
Weird, I thought, that Frank could live on the same street as Amy.
Weird that Frank could live in the same universe as Amy.
Weird that I could.
That ugly snapshot of me on the side of the road flashed in my head again. Did I actually believe that someday I’d just miraculously transform into someone like Amy?
Open your eyes. Who was I kidding? I felt like barfing.
I went into Amy’s ensuite bathroom and splashed cold water on my face/dreams until the feeling passed. I dried my face and put the towel into the sleek wooden hamper. At that point, I should have just left.
But I didn’t. I told myself I may as well give the bathroom a little once-over too, since I was there and everything—but I knew that wasn’t my intention at all.
Carly and I had gone on a diet once. (This was before I had Nightmare Before Christmas legs.) There was this thing I used to do. I’d convince myself I had to go to the kitchen for a glass of water or something totally innocent like that, but somehow I’d always leave with a few cookies in my pocket. It didn’t feel like cheating when I did it that way. I was playing the same game now and I knew it.
The tub overlooked the Arm. The shower had a real beach-stone floor. The toilet was environmentally friendly. I should leave.
Amy’s face creams were from Italy. She wore coloured contacts. (I hadn’t realized that.) She used organic toothpaste. I shouldn’t be here.
There were no handles on the cabinets. I gave the top drawer a little push and it slid open like a secret compartaient. Everything inside was perfectly neat: the bamboo-handled brush, the little glass pots of makeup, the hairpins, the pills.
What would Amy need pills for?
She was so fit. I knew for a fact she was sweating it out at her Moksha yoga class right this very moment.
I picked up the bottle and read the label: Amy Russell. Take one before bed. Prozac.
Prozac.
I held the bottle between my thumb and index finger. I got the same shimmery feeling I’d had at Frank’s. The light glinting off the plastic just added to the effect.
Amy is depressed.
That didn’t make me happy. I wasn’t gloating. I put the bottle away and closed the drawer. I was just — I don’t know—relieved, I guess.
By the time I’d polished Amy’s bed and cleaned Maeve’s room, it was almost two. I went downstairs to see what was left to do. I really didn’t mind cleaning at all.
Dolores was sitting at the kitchen table, having a cup of tea and a granola bar. I was suddenly starved.
“If you’d told me you’d brought granola bars, I would have had one,” I said. Granola bars were sealed in nice, clean packages.
“I didn’t bring them.” Dolores popped the last bit in her mouth. “You want one? There’s a whole box next to the fridge. They’re not bad, considering they’re all-natural.”
I wheezed in shock.
“What?” Dolores said and put her mug in the dishwasher. “What? Seriously.”
“You can’t just take people’s food.”
“Please. What’s this, Somalia or something? You think the Russells are going to starve because I ate a couple of their granola bars?”
“A couple?”
She took the pins out of her beehive and shook down her hair. “Chill, would you? What’s the big deal?”
If Dolores didn’t understand what the problem with that was, there was no point explaining. I pursed my lips and looked away.
She took a Hello Kitty change purse out of her plastic bag and put two quarters on the table. “There. That cover it? … Relax. Seriously. I did the three optional chores, cleaned the deck furniture, and deadheaded the flowers in the window boxes too, so I think I’m entitled to a little sustenance. Even slaves were fed occasionally, you know.”
She was completely missing the point, but okay, fine. What was the big deal? Amy wouldn’t care. The first day she’d said if we needed anything, just ask.
Not that Dolores would ever ask, of course.
Chapter 16
As usual, Dolores tried to talk me into going out for a smoothie after work that day and, as usual, I wiggled out of it. It was getting harder and harder to come up with excuses, but I couldn’t tell her the truth. She thought Nick was a dickhead.
Every day after work now, I went to Larry O’Connell Field. I didn’t mean to at first. I just sort of ended up there. Now it was a habit.
There was a park bench there, tucked behind a big rhododendron bush. I could stretch out on it as if I was sunbathing. I could occasionally turn my head to the left as if I was just trying to find a more comfortable position and look beneath the chipped wooden slats on the back of the bench. Sometimes, I could see Nick on the other side of the field.
I had to think of it that way. Sometimes, I could see … Never sometimes I watched … There was a big difference. The word watched made me want to cry.
He wasn’t always there. I didn’t know his exact schedule but, based on what I’d seen, I was guessing he was on six-to-one now, every day except Thursday. That meant he could get home, change and run to the park by two-thirty.
I had a pretty good idea what he was doing with the rest of his time too. He’d be playing summer league rugby, golfing with his dad after work on Friday, and getting together for Wednesday night poker with the boys. I knew the routes he took to get wherever he was going. I knew where he liked to eat afterwards. I even knew how long he’d hang out before he’d slap whoever he was standing next to on the back and say he was on his way.
I could have found another place to see him but it wouldn’t have been safe. Carly, his friends, other people would have been there. Luckily, Nick liked to work out alone. He didn’t like distractions.
I wouldn’t distract him. He’d never even know I was there. I made sure of it.
I closed my eyes and actually sunbathed for a while. Halifax had been unusually warm all summer. I thought of it as a sign that the world was coming to an end. The larger world, that is. Not just the little Citadel High one I used to live in. That was long gone. It was like the Lost Civilization of Atlantis or something. I was starting to think it had never even existed.
I heard a loud grunt and my heart started up like a propeller. Nick always did this Braveheart war-cry thing right before he began his big sprint to the finish. Only people who know they’re making good time would do something like that.
I turned and looked through the back of the bench. It was like seeing him in a movie. A tiny perfect Nick, framed by the slats. Everything else was blocked out.
He slapped the lamppost, checked his time, then hunched over to catch his breath.
I noticed his back was almost the same perfect brown as Amy’s headboard. He always ran shirtless. He used to say he got too hot otherwise, but I didn’t believe that. I never had. Nick looked good without his shirt on and he knew it.
I couldn’t think about that. I could look at him but I couldn’t think too much about him. It was a balancing act. Get it just right and I felt great. Get it even a little wrong and I wanted to die. I figured that was how drug addicts overdosed. They got greedy.
Nick was doing push-ups now. He hated push-ups, but they worked. He had amazing biceps. I counted along with him. He was up to a hundred now. When I’d started watching, he was only doing eighty.
Started watching.
My elbows slammed into my sides. My face jerked to the front. I’d said it—only to myself, but that didn’t matter. The truth was out.
Who was I kidding? I didn’t just happen to see Nick. I was watching him.
I was stalking him.
I was a stalker. A sicko. That thought closed over me like a coffin.
I could hear Nick start his crunches and my teeth chattered.
Mom’s right. I need help. I need a doctor. I saw the pills in Amy’s drawer. Amy takes pills, I thought. Prozac.
It’s weird but I didn’t need to think about it any more than that. I started breathing again. Everyone has their little thing. I was okay.
Nick grunted out, “One hundred!” then fell back on the ground. No wonder he had perfect abs.
Dickheads don’t have perfect abs.
Chapter 17
I didn’t expect things to happen this way. It’s not like I planned it or anything.
It’s Saturday, ten in the morning, and here’s Nick, pulling up in front of our house in his dad’s 1968 MG convertible. Normally, that in itself would make it a special occasion. Phil’s pretty generous about most things but The Midget’s his baby. Nick’s usually stuck driving the Land Rover.
I rap on my bedroom window and he tips back his hat to look up at me. He’s got one hand slung over the wheel, the other stretched out across the passenger seat, and the type of almost-smile on his face that makes my abdominals clench. He’s wearing my favourite T-shirt. It’s this old grey thing that’s all faded and stretched out at the neck but it’s soft as a baby’s sleeper. “To see it is to want to fondle it”—that’s what I say every time he wears it and that’s why I know he’s wearing it on purpose now. I grab my stuff and run down the stairs and out of the house before Mom can lure/shame Nick inside for a coffee or — worse—”a chat.”
I just bought myself a new bikini. Blue-green, floral print, with a halter top and a bottom I don’t have to keep tucking my ass cheeks back into every two minutes. I love it. I’m wearing it under a white button-up shirt (also new) and dark jeans. I don’t know if we’ll have time for a swim and it’s probably too cold today anyway, but I don’t care. I really just want to wear the bathing suit. I know Nick will like it.
I throw my bag on the floor of the car and kiss him. Nick hasn’t shaved and his whiskers make my lips twitch. He laughs and says, “You’re doing that rabbit face,” then takes off with a jerk. (He’s not used to the clutch but no way I’m going to tease him about that now and ruin things.) Simon and Isaac—the little kids down the street—are drawing on the sidewalk. They drop their chalk and chase after us screaming, “Give us a ride! Give us a ride!” Usually I’d get Nick to, but not today. I smile and wave them back home. They slow to a stop and stand on the sidewalk with their hands on their hips and their lips turned down like pouty fish.
We’re not exactly sure where we’re going. It’s somewhere off the 101, that’s all we know, but we’re not worried. There’s bound to be a sign somewhere. Nick buzzes along the highway, just slightly above the speed limit. He knows cops won’t bother stopping you if you’re only a few klicks over.
His phone hums. He tosses it to me and I hold back my hair to look at the text. “Guess what?” I say.
Nick doesn’t miss a beat. “They’re not coming.” We look at each other and do a slow head-shake. Typical. Bobo and Fiona are always fighting.
“Still want to go?” Nick asks.
I see my reflection in his sunglasses and the big billowy white clouds morphing behind me too and of course I still want to go. I say, “We’ve come a long way to just turn around now. I mean, don’t you think?”
He looks at the fuel gauge. “Yeah. Probably right.”
I like Fiona and Bobo and everything, but when I realize they aren’t coming it’s as if I float up to a whole new level of happiness. Nick and me, alone. It’s been so long since we’ve spent a day just the two of us and now here we are and the sun’s shining and Nick’s got his dad’s car and that grey T-shirt and I’m wearing my new bathing suit and we’ve got hours and hours before we have anywhere else to be.
The sign we’ve been looking for appears on the side of the road. Grand Opening: Mad Man Milligan’s Crazee Fun World. Five minutes later we’ve left the car in the gravel parking lot and are holding hands at the end of the ticket lineup. It all feels so familiar—but strange too, like something we used to do ages ago when we were first dating.
Nick smells of shampoo and deodorant and laughs when I dare him to go on the Zipper with me. He keeps laughing while this guy with a missing tooth and arms like licorice Twizzlers takes our tickets and straps us in — but he stops when the Zipper lurches to a start. Not many people know this but Nick’s afraid of heights. I hold his hand as if I am too and we both scream and scream and scream until we’re back on the ground. My head is ringing and Nick’s T-shirt is damp and his face is pale, so we find a place to lie down on the grass far away from the newly revolting aroma of corn dogs. His arm fits under the curve of my neck and I can feel his heart still trying to get a hold of itself. I look up at that gorgeous sky again and think how everything seems different from this angle. I also think: This is love. It’s never been that clear to me before—
“Pancakes!”
The blinds clanged open and light burned through my eyelids like acid. I whimpered.
“Beautiful day!” Mom put the tray on the bedside table and flipped my duvet back below my knees. I burrowed deeper into my pillow and thought about killing her. It was Sunday. I didn’t have to work. I was quietly enjoying one of my few remaining happy memories. Why did she have to wake me up and ruin that too?
“Lazybones!” She mussed my hair. “Ten o’clock! C’mon! Chop-chop!”
No point prolonging the agony. I was defenceless against the barrage of exclamation marks. I rolled over before she had a chance to launch into “Pitter patter, let’s get at her!” and dragged myself up into a sitting position. She clamped the tray over my legs like she was locking a toddler into a car seat. I mentally wailed and kicked my tiny feet but stayed poker-faced.
She sat on the edge of the bed and smiled at me with her head all tilted in motherly love. At least that was the impression she wanted to give. I knew she was actually checking out my various shortcomings: eyebrows, split ends, dark circles, pale skin, dry patches, greasy patches, to name
a few. I was her latest project. I had become the wall that needed to be painted, the garden that needed to be weeded, the fundraising dinner that needed to be planned and executed. This was the planning stage. Execution was next.
I started to eat. Maybe if she saw me consume enough calories she’d go away and let me get back to Nick. She watched me take another bite with an interest that was intense even by her David Blaine–like standards.
“More maple syrup?” she said, dousing my plate.
It occurred to me that this might be an anorexia intervention. Was I really that skinny?
“Betsy?” She said it as if she’d only just realized it was me sitting a foot away from her.
I swallowed, more as a precaution than anything. I didn’t want to choke when I heard what she had to say next.
“I volunteered your services to run some errands for Granny.” She smiled like won’t that be fun?—then wrinkled her forehead. “Unless, of course, you have something else planned for the day …”
There wasn’t much I could say to that. Yeah. I planned to stay in bed all afternoon probably wouldn’t cut it, even though it was the truth. Nor would the obvious fact that Granny was perfectly capable of driving there herself. (Dad’s favourite joke is that there are high-priced call girls who go out less than Gran.) I shook my head and took another bite, because I knew Mom would never expect me to talk with my mouth full.
“Wonderful!” She slid the list onto my tray. “Well, finish up here, then head on down to the Drugmart. I got the doctor to call in the prescription. Granny’s got a luncheon with her bridge ladies at noon so you’ll need to get over before then. You might like to do a little something with your hair first, of course …”
*
The great thing about the Drugmart at ten-thirty on a Sunday morning is that you can pretty much count on it being devoid of anyone under thirty. I wasn’t keen about being thrown into the world again but at least I felt reasonably safe here. I got out the list and started getting Granny’s supplies.