The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes

by Bridget Canning

  “Chewbacca Mom?”

  “Or double-rainbow. Or Damn Daniel. Or cat video of the week.” Ivan says. “I’m referring to her popularity on the Internets.” He grins. What a knob.

  “Ah yes,” Genevieve says. “I’m hoping we can talk about that. But only what you’re comfortable with, Wanda.”

  Wanda nods. Her damp hands rest in her lap. The sound guy, an older, bearded man with a barrel chest, holds the boom and looks straight forward with unreadable eyes. The director or assistant or something is a guy in his twenties wearing a blue ball cap with “LOCALS” written across the top in yellow letters. He holds a clipboard in one hand and texts constantly with the other.

  Genevieve has quality posture and an ease to her limbs. When she leans forward, there is a soft scent of something deep and warm, a touch of cloves. “Let’s start on the day of the shooting. What were you doing up until the incident?”

  At first, Wanda plods through the events: it was a regular day, she was just trying to get in and out of the store. When she starts to describe how she saw Dr. Collier fall, her voice hits a snag. Genevieve nods and looks into Wanda’s face, but not prying. Wanda finds herself matching Genevieve’s posture, speaking into her open, upturned expression. The words gain momentum and her hands pick up and move with her voice—she wants Genevieve to know, she wants her to take it. Like a kind of thrall, Genevieve’s poised and willing countenance washes the words out of her:

  “I see her, Dr. Collier, over and over. She wears a purple coat and she is running. When I saw her picture on the news, she just looked so…wise and knowing and together. I can’t stop thinking about her.” Wanda wants to say other words: the magnifying glass, the chicken, the annoyance, but catches herself. She forces her eyes down, slows her hands into her lap.

  “A lot of people know your name now,” Genevieve says. She gestures to the guy with the LOCALS cap and he hands her a clipboard. “Here are a few reactions—these are comments left on the YouTube video.” She reads them out in a clean, neutral tone:

  “‘This is an intervention of God. God guided the hand of Wanda Jaynes to bring down evil. God bless you, Wanda Jaynes.’ ‘Wanda Jaynes stopped the devil.’ ‘From Acts 28:5. And he shook off the beast into the fire and felt no harm.’” Genevieve looks up. “When it comes to the moment where you threw the can, you’ve said it’s unclear in your memory, that you just did it without thinking,” she says. “In fact, Geraldine Harvey, the woman who Edward Rumstead shot at and missed, says that her survival and your act are proof that miracles exist.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, she’s been quite vocal through social media. And many agree with her in believing something powerful was present in the store. What do you say to that?”

  “No, I don’t believe that. I mean, I don’t believe in God, so I can’t say it was a miracle. I can see how people want to think it was a miracle or magic or something, but you can explain it through science. The range of what you’re capable of increases when you’re pumped up with fear and adrenaline.” She glances at Ivan. Huge grin on him. “I didn’t feel anything different. I just…all that was in my head was stop. I just remember thinking stop.”

  Genevieve nods. “Have you spoken with any of the other witnesses? We spoke with Liang-Yi Chen, the woman who was in the next aisle, and she expressed a great deal of gratitude towards you.”

  “Liang-Yi and I met briefly at the vigil,” Wanda says. “I haven’t spoken with anyone else really. I’ve just been trying to process everything. And spend time with my loved ones. I’m very lucky to have so much support.” Also, lucky to have booze. Like the bottle of wine she drank last night. Oh, and cigarettes, smoked a pack with the wine. And speaking of loved ones, hoping to find a way to procure more Valium once Ivan’s mom returns from Florida. Every little bit counts, Genevieve.

  “What do you want to say to the many people who consider you a hero and want to thank you?”

  “I don’t really know what to say. I don’t think I’m a hero. In fact, it was pretty impulsive and stupid, maybe? I don’t know. I think a lot of people might have done the same thing or done something better. As I said, it was an act of adrenaline.”

  “But everyone in that store was afraid and full of adrenaline,” Genevieve says. “Whether or not it was the right impulse, you are the one who acted. That is something to consider. That is some- thing that you may feel proud of someday.” She regards Wanda with somber eyes. Ivan nods in agreement. Wanda could burst into tears, lean forward like she’s starting a somersault and rest her forehead on Genevieve’s knees. She could shudder hot sobs into those expensive black slacks.

  As the crew gathers equipment, Genevieve shakes Wanda’s hand between both of hers. “Thank you. Thank you.” Wanda says thank you as well and then you’re welcome and they both laugh. She is reminded of a novel she read in high school, The Giver, about a society where the citizens had no memory of history. How cleansing to give these words to Genevieve, wouldn’t it be nice if she could take it all away with her.

  When the door is shut, Ivan does a little jig in the living room. “‘A miracle or magic or something.’ That was fucking gold,” he says. “You’ve done so much for their ratings. Their viewers will have a lot to say about that.”

  “Shit. Your mom.”

  “Oh, pfft, don’t worry about her.”

  “But, we’ve never really talked about it. Does she know we’re atheists?” Mrs. Medeiros and the gold cross around her neck, the St. Christopher medal pinned inside her coat. The woman is disappointed enough that Ivan and Wanda aren’t married. This will kick her hard in the faith.

  “She knows on some level,” Ivan says. “It’s not like we ever go to church.” He wraps his arms around Wanda’s waist and pulls her to him. “You’re so eloquent and straightforward and sincere. I’m so proud of you.”

  She nestles her face into the warm corner of his neck and collarbone. She lets her pelvis press into his. “How proud are you?” she says.

  Something twitches against her chest. “Oops, sorry,” Ivan says. “It’s on vibrate.” He releases one arm and pulls his phone out of his breast pocket.

  “Who is it?”

  “Message from Trish. Something on Imgur.” He lets go of Wanda. “Ho-lee fuck.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’re a meme! No, plural! You are memes!” Ivan holds out his phone. The screen shows a picture of her, a frame from the YouTube video. It’s her, standing alone with her purse and the can, her round head and blue coat. Above and below her are large block letters:

  WHEN YOU SAY YOU WANT A GIRL WITH A CAN-DO ATTITUDE

  Ivan slides to the next one.

  GROCERY LIST: MILK EGGS BUTTER AND A CAN O’WHOOP ASS

  And more:

  EVERYONE’S TALKING ABOUT GUN CONTROL… WHO’S GOING TO STOP THE COCONUT MILK PROBLEM

  THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU’RE DISTRACTED BY A WOMAN IN YOGA PANTS

  And two which include small, photo-shopped faces of Ryan Gosling:

  HEY GIRL YOU CAN HIT ME UP ANYTIME

  HEY GIRL YOU LOOK WANDAFUL TONIGHT

  “Jesus,” she says. Her stomach buckles, like it’s hunching down to hide.

  “It keeps reaching new levels,” Ivan says. She hardens her eyes at him. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But it is kind of amazing.”

  7

  THE door rattles open, shoes clunk off, bottles jingle. “Hey, hellooo.” Leo and Trish enter with wine, beer, and hugs. Leo is one of those huggers who really goes for it, a tight embrace with an extra squeeze. “Crazy time, Wanda Woman,” he says.

  Trish gives baby-bird hugs, her arms a faint suggestion of limbs. But both she and Leo are so warm and sincere that Wanda lets out an involuntary sob. Trish caresses her hair with her little sparrow fingers. “Oh honey. It’s fucking brutally stressful.”

  The four of them sit at
the dining-room table. Wanda is handed a glass of Shiraz and the temporary coziness and sanctuary of it and their friends are euphoric. She takes big sips and Leo tops her up without asking. They talk and drink. The Rogue Skaters might play a festival in Clarenville in August. Two of Trish’s photographs are being published in some German art magazine. Leo is doing sound for a couple of bands this weekend; hopefully, they’ll start before two in the morning.

  Leo clears his throat. “So, you don’t have to answer this, but do you worry about post-traumatic stress?”

  Wanda swallows her wine.

  “I mean, I’d be surprised if you didn’t have it,” Leo says. “Your life was in danger.”

  “Yeah, my god, I’d probably be in the psych ward,” Trish says.

  “I’m not sure how I feel,” Wanda says. “I think I’m okay. But when I try to fall asleep, the sounds from the store come back.”

  “She’s fretting in her sleep,” Ivan says. “You tossed and turned last night.”

  “Did the cops give you any resources?” Leo says.

  “Yes. I have a card for a therapist,” Wanda says. “I mean, it’s hard right now, but I expect that. I’m still processing everything. I don’t know where I would start if I spoke to someone at this time.” Processing. How many times has she repeated that word since Monday? Like she’s creating cheese slices, wrapped in cellophane. Or a new kind of bologna.

  “I checked out that therapist online,” Ivan says. “Mixed reviews on ratemds.com.”

  “Leo’s Gran had PTSD after her car accident,” Trish says. “She said the worst was right before the other car hit her, the realization that she wasn’t going to stop in time. For months, she’d be falling asleep and jerk awake. She got so jittery, she couldn’t drive or even be in a car.”

  “Yeah, she’s on Venlafaxine now,” Leo says.

  “I don’t want to go on any meds,” Wanda says.

  “Don’t worry about it for now,” Leo says. “It takes at least a month of symptoms for them to diagnose you.”

  “Oh, they give you a month?” Ivan says. “You see a slaughter and you get thirty days before they act? And then they’ll dope you up? So fucking backwards. Might as well keep calling it shellshock.” He stretches along the table and rubs Wanda’s shoulder, his guitar calluses chafe against her bra strap under her shirt.

  “I wouldn’t want to have anxiety and panic for thirty days,” Wanda says. “But I’m not eager for drugs. And I wouldn’t want to talk to just anyone.” And, at this point, with over a million views, it’s not like she could find someone in town who hasn’t seen the video already. Or who wouldn’t creep her online after she poured out her guts.

  “Technically, we’re self-medicating now,” Leo says. He tips his beer at her.

  “Good point, man.” Ivan says. Wanda eyes him. He sprawls across two chairs. Double-seating. When they first started seeing each other, she noted how he didn’t really sit, but would morph into his seat. His arms spread out over backs of chairs and booths, one knee might be nestled into his chest, the other might find a fit in the crook of the table or drape over an armrest. He fills all available spaces with himself, outstretched arms and appendages dangling and anything could come out of his mouth. Now here he is, leaning back in one of their matching chairs, toes tucked around the spokes underneath, and why does he sit like he has worms? Look at me, I’m Ivan, I even sit unconventionally.

  Ivan widens his eyes at her. She realizes she is staring at him hard—her eyebrows are knit. She looks away. Her face is flushed with wine and annoyance. Everything is too warm.

  Not surprising—besides the vigil, she hasn’t been outside in two days. All she’s done is eat, drink, and find distractions from the outside world: rom-coms she’s seen before, binge-watching Breaking Bad. And here she is with her friends, cramped and contrary. “Back in a sec,” she says.

  In the kitchen, she sees Ivan has put away the pots and pans, wiped down the counters. He isn’t doing anything wrong. All his quirks are things she loved, initially. He doesn’t know how to act or react in this situation. And neither does she.

  She opens the fridge. She should offer things, cheese, olives. There is a fruit tray and a platter of cold cuts from Mom. The crisper is empty except for a limp bunch of asparagus. No groceries, of course. Of course. She closes the fridge and rests her head against the cool, white surface, shutting out the glaring light on the products. Chips, there are chips in the cupboard.

  Laughter pours in from the dining room. Ivan and their friends. Her friends for a few years now, since she and Ivan got serious. But the three of them—Ivan, Leo, and Trish—go way back.

  When Wanda started dating Ivan, those three felt like an impermeable clique, gated with tall historic walls, strengthened with in-jokes and shared stories. Conversations would hitch into some shared memory and they’d be off. Like that time, it was ages ago, what was her name, Zoe, remember her, elaborate butterfly tramp-stamp tattoo, that’s how Trish described it. Ivan and Zoe got in a fight. Later, Leo and Trish found her, loaded drunk and crying on the front step. She was eating ranch dressing straight out of the bottle with her index finger, shoving it into her mouth between sobs. Missus was lactose intolerant. What a state she was. And the story was over before they explained Zoe was an ex-girlfriend of Ivan’s. They forgot Wanda didn’t know, or didn’t realize it might be a point she would need for understanding.

  Or the summer Leo and Trish lived in Montreal. They were house-sitting for Trish’s uncle, and Leo had a job as a security guard. Ivan came up for a visit. Trish and Ivan went to the Radiohead concert, Leo had to work a nightshift. When the show let out, the two of them came home to two German guys asleep in the main bedroom. When they tell the story, Ivan does a high voice to mimic Trish shrieking, What are you doing in my bed? And then they both say, Dis ist your bad? for the German guy’s reaction. And then Trish describes him as covered in blond hair, like an albino Sasquatch.

  Turns out, Trish’s uncle had double-booked the house and completely forgot. Trish had to bunk with Ivan on the twin bed in the kid’s room. Ivan jokes that Trish farted in her sleep, but Wanda suspects he’s trying to take the curse off it. Trish and Ivan, parallel forms on a small mattress. Did they sleep on their sides? Back to back? Did they wake up touching? Questions she’d never ask, for these are before times, irrelevant history. Leo shows no sign of minding, why should she?

  Those beginning evenings were like that, listening to the same anecdotes, well-told, embellished, successfully climactic. Wanda laughed and smiled. She even got in the odd joke. She carried on and shrugged off the awareness of how they rarely asked her about herself. Of how no new stories were created with her as a character.

  Looking in from the kitchen, she can see Leo stooping over his rolling papers. Ivan arches his spine and stretches back his hand to reach an itchy spot between his shoulder blades. Trish reaches out and scratches the spot for him. They grin at each other without words, like kids passing notes in class. Wanda’s eyes narrow. She grabs the chips and brings them in. Where is her wine? There it is. Her stomach tightens, but she downs the contents of the glass anyway and pours another. Leo peers up at her from under the sandy drapes of his hair. Ivan rants:

  “I’ve got one. You’re standing at an intersection. The light turns red and a monstrous Hummer pulls up and stops right in the middle of the crosswalk, you know, so you have to walk into traffic to get around it. The driver smokes a cigarette—no, a cigar, a big fat Cuban. In his other hand, he stuffs a huge, greasy Big Mac in his face. When the light turns green, he peels out and flicks the cigar out the window. And as the Hummer vanishes, in a puff of carbon monoxide and greed, you realize the driver is David Suzuki.” Ivan picks up his beer to signify he’s done.

  “Oh, my God,” Trish gasps. “That’s the worst.”

  “What are we talking about?” Wanda asks.

  “Ivan just asked what
would be the most discouraging thing to see on the street,” Trish says. “Like, something which would shatter your dreams.”

  “Well, homeless people,” Wanda says. “That’s kind of obvious.”

  “No, you’re not allowed to say homeless people,” Trish says. “We’re talking discouraging, not depressing.”

  “I feel very discouraged when I see homeless people.”

  “Yes, we all do,” Ivan says. “But that’s a given and let’s just acknowledge we’re desensitized, shall we? What else would rattle your philosophy on life?”

  “David Suzuki in a Hummer with a burger? That wouldn’t discourage me at all.” Wanda tops up her glass. “In fact, I think I’d feel relieved. If he’s doing it, maybe it’s not so bad for us after all.”

  “You know all that shit’s bad for you,” Ivan says. “David Suzuki doing it just means he…oh forget it.”

  “If I saw David Suzuki doing that, I’d go out and celebrate with a Quarter Pounder.”

  “I prefer Wendy’s, myself,” Leo says. He lights up the joint.

  “Seriously though,” Ivan says. “David Suzuki’s been telling everyone for years that if we don’t change the way we treat the environment, the natural world will be destroyed to the point it can’t ever repair itself. And then, the end of the world will start actually happening. It’s happening now, my love. If I saw David Suzuki behaving like that, to me, he’s accepted the end of the world.”

  “David Suzuki eating fast food is one of the signs of the apocalypse?”

  “Exactly.”

  Wanda nods slowly and pours more wine into her glass. Thick, hot irritation trickles though her. “Would it really be that bad, though? So, people die. We’re the worst things to happen to this planet, anyway.” Her words are greased and lubricated.

  “Oh. Very well then,” Ivan says. “End of humanity. Pass the nachos.”

  “Seriously, what does it matter? We’re here, we don’t care about maintaining things. Fuck the trees and the air and the water. Fuck all the species of bats and bees and…,” Wanda clicks her fingers at Trish, “what are those little birds called? The ones that sit on hippos and rhinos, picking bugs off them?”