Trish stands to hug her. She presses her chest to Wanda’s and the bodice on her cherry-print dress feels like it could make a dent in her. “Good to see you,” Trish says. “Mmm, you smell nice.” Wanda wonders what that scent could be. Trish’s perfume is honey and citrus delicious.
Trish plops back down so air puffs out the hem of her dress. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “I’m getting so nervous about all this. This weekend! There’s already, like, 1500 people following the event on Facebook.”
“Yes. It’s like the Regatta.” Wanda takes off her jacket. “I’m going to get a pint, do you want anything?”
“Pike said he wants to get us drinks,” Trish says. She nods towards the bar.
A lean, lanky figure approaches. Darryl Pike walks with a perk in the middle of each step, like he’s hiking himself up to reach a high shelf item. He wears a black t-shirt cut in a low v-neck with a thick chain that dangles and bounces. His head is clean shaven and he has a small square of facial hair under his lip. What are they called? A soul patch. An asshole tickler, Ivan would say. As he leans down to kiss Trish on both cheeks, Wanda notices he has added to his neck tattoo: the symbol ∞ next to infinity. Things must be looking up for him.
“Wanda. It’s a pleasure.” Darryl Pike takes her hand and pecks her cheek at the same time. His cologne fills her face and eyes. Musky undertones which might be pleasant if there wasn’t so much of it. “What would you ladies like to drink?”
“I’ll have gin and tonic. Wanda?”
“Um, a pint of Harp is fine,” Wanda says. She tries to catch Trish’s eye, but she stays focused on Pike until he walks away.
“You didn’t mention he was joining us,” Wanda says.
“Ugh, I didn’t? I’m so sorry. So, I tweeted about meeting you at The Duke and he responded. Said he was in the neighbourhood, would get us a beverage.” Trish waggles her iPhone at Wanda. “He’s quite the dude.”
“Quite. Why is he here?”
“Shit, girl,” Trish says, “he’s your biggest groupie. He’s been dying to meet you.”
“You’d think taking a video of me would be enough.”
Trish strokes Wanda’s hand. “I understand how you must feel. Honestly, when I saw that video and his interview on the CBC, I thought, what an opportunistic ass. And just showing up like this? Bold!” Her fingers dance over Wanda’s wrist. “But since I’ve been involved with the festival, I have to say, I think it’s going to be really good. He does have vision for this kind of thing.”
Wanda takes a deep breath. Trish’s fingers make airy motions along the top of her hand. She glimpses Pike at the bar. He’s waiting for her pint to be poured. A drink would be good. He owes her that, at least. She turns to Trish’s expectant face. “So, this weekend. What’s the plan?”
“There will be tents set up all over the park. I get one for the photo exhibit,” Trish says. “Lots of local organizations will be there, non-profits, mostly. And music all day. I’m so happy Ivan and Ray will have a chance to play. Although not the main act. Pike’s doing that.”
“Of course.”
“So, at the end of the night, Pike wants to get everyone up on stage, just as a big shout-out, you know? Maybe a song.”
“Like We Are The World.”
“Ha, ha. Maybe. But with just the real musicians playing,” she says. “Oh, here he comes.”
Pike rests the glasses in the middle of the table and sits down: “I just want to say how awesome it is to meet you, missus.” He reaches out and covers Wanda’s hand with his. Everyone is touchy-feely tonight. “And also, it’s awesome you’ve agreed to be part of Healfest.” The v-neck of his t-shirt droops. His Adam’s apple is large and vulnerably exposed.
“Oh, thanks.” Trish, the information sensation. The girl can’t have a crap without tweeting what colour it is.
“That day, you know, it’s one of those things. Like, we lived through it, right?” He squeezes her hand. Something pinches the skin on top of her knuckles. His three large silver rings act like teeth on her flesh. “The people I worked with at the store, the ones on that day…man, we’re totally bonded now. We all lost Mike. I had just talked to him before he went on cash. And now, all of us, we got these memories. We felt that fear as one.” He lets go of her hand and brings his fists together. “The strength of our connection now, you can feel it. It’s wicked powerful.”
Wanda nods. He lowers his eyes to swallow some emotion. His Adam’s apple waggles a little grotesquely. Those neck tattoos look dangerously close to it. Imagine the tattoo artist’s forearm brushing that huge-ass Adam’s apple. Stop thinking of that.
“Do you remember me from earlier that day?” Wanda says. “Before the shooting started?”
Pike’s face is blank. “What, like we met before?”
“Well, kind of. I was looking for the coconut milk and asked you where to find it.”
“You did? Oh my God.” Pike leans back with the impact. “So, I helped you find it? I helped find what you used as a weapon.” He looks from Trish to Wanda with shining eyes. “It’s like I said. Connected. Layers of connection and meaning. Did you see Deepak Chopra speak when he was here? I totally agree with his ideas on quantum entanglement. We are all part of a physical machine.”
“Never saw Deepak, nope,” Wanda says. Should she tell him he wasn’t actually helpful and she found the coconut milk on her own? Sorry, Pike, you were more of a rusty gear in the physical machine.
“Wild,” Trish says. “Totally wild.” Her red lips pucker over the straw in her gin and tonic.
“So,” Wanda says, “Trish said the festival will be pretty laid back.”
“Oh yeah, really casual. Me and my crew are going to play a couple of sets. After the second set, I’m gonna do some thank-yous and call up people on stage. Volunteers, Trish here and people like Lydia Heffernan—do you know her?”
“No.”
“She’s the head of the Coalition Against Violence. Trish’s portrait of her is stunning.”
“She’s amazing!” Trish says. “She does such good work.”
“Oh man, she’s a gift to the city. Also, I wanna give props to the cops on the scene that day, and you, Wanda, of course.” Pike swirls his drink so the ice cubes jingle.
So, people who devote their lives to helping others and some chick who threw a can. Wanda tries not to grimace. “I come out last?”
“The best for last, my dear,” Pike says. He grins at her. Something gold twinkles from inside his mouth, a cap or something.
“It’s not really cool that I’m a finale—I mean—those people are deserving of recognition. I really don’t feel comfortable being put on the same level.”
“Just like you said, Trish,” Pike says. He reaches across the table and squeezes Trish’s shoulder. She smiles and nods. “See, this is why you’re so awesome, Wanda. Trish said you were the most humble person ever and I can see it all over you. This is why you’re so loved.”
“That’s nice of you to say. But it’s way too grandiose for me to come out like that.” Pike and Trish continue to beam at her. For fuck sakes. “I don’t mind coming out on stage, but I’d prefer to avoid fanfare.”
“Oh honey,” Pike says, “the fanfare is there, even if you don’t care.”
“Ha! You are totally a rapper,” Trish says. She play-slaps him on the arm. Wanda’s phone flickers. Trish has texted her from across the table:
Wanda picks up her pint. “It’s nice to meet you. But I stand by what I think. I don’t want to be a big deal.”
“Okay. We’ll work something out,” he says. He raises his glass. “Cheers to you, Wanda. This weekend is going to be ah-mazing.” They all clink and drink. Wanda notices other customers—a couple at a nearby table, a guy seated at the bar—holding out their phones. They could be reading. They could be taking pictures.
The stree
t is tranquil and it is close to midnight when she gets home. Ivan is at the computer. “How was it?” he says.
“Fine. Darryl Pike joined us.” She kisses his cheek. He tucks one hand around her waist.
“What’s he like?”
“He’s pretty flaky. Tries to be smooth.”
“Does it work?”
“It seems to.” Her phone beeps. [email protected]:
I hope you do not think I send u things to bother you. Its so you will be aware of the monsters. The monsters, their mothers and the religion they misuse!
Wanda shows the message to Ivan. He strokes his chin mock-studiously. “Unhinged comes to mind.”
“Lexicon on you. Funny stuff.”
“Would you rather I panic?” Ivan says. “Forward it to the cop.”
“Every time I click ‘send’ to Lance, I feel useless. Here’s another piece of crazy for you to ignore.”
“Let’s get on his case.”
“I don’t understand why nothing is happening. Does there have to be an incident with this guy for action to be warranted?” She rubs her belly. “I think I’m getting an ulcer.”
“You should see a doctor,” Ivan says. “You’re losing weight. And this,” he points to the eczema on her arm, “Seriously. You obviously can’t leave it alone. It’s gonna get infected.”
The sores above her elbow have spread up to the bottom of her triceps: angry, pink welts which throb with the lightest contact. “Man, you’ve really been itching at them,” he says.
“You don’t have to guilt me out about it.”
“How is stating the truth guilting you out? Just go to the doctor.” He stands up with a jerk. “Want anything from the kitchen?”
“No thanks, I’m okay.” She takes his seat by the computer and opens her Facebook account. She’s checked Karl’s page so many times, it pops up as soon as she types K in the search engine.
Karl Prendergast: Having a nice quiet night in. Sometimes it just good to sit and dwell on ones thoughts.
Sometimes it’s just good to proofread. She wonders if he’s added her on Facebook with the hopes she’ll read his updates, put things together. Maybe he’s waiting to be seen.
Ivan shuffles out of the kitchen with a bowl of chips. His phone vibrates on the desk and he swipes it up as he passes by. Wanda gets a glimpse of Trish’s green and white on his screen, the colours of spearmint candy.
18
THE blond girl in the poster wears a bright white grin. “Sexually active? Regular pap tests save lives.” Wanda’s eyes dance over it while Dr. Jalaal goes over the paperwork.
“Ok, this cream is a corticosteroid, so only apply it to the affected area on your arm. Stop as soon as it heals.” Dr. Jalaal tears the page from her prescription pad. “We won’t know what’s going on with your tummy until we investigate. I’ll fill out requisitions for blood and urine tests. The stool sample you’ll have to bring in. First movement in the morning is best.”
Wanda’s face goes hot. Ugh, a stool sample. Pap Test Poster Girl stands nonchalantly, hands in the front pockets of her jeans. “Talk to your doctor about having your first cervical exam.”
“Until we know what’s wrong, you need to watch what you eat. Here’s a list of foods that are considered mild—celery, garlic, onions, lots of fruit, special teas. Some possible over-the-counter antacids there too.” Dr. Jalaal’s voice is tender. She is splendidly gorgeous: long, sumptuous black hair, high elegant cheekbones, creamy clear brown skin. “You need to avoid coffee and spicy food. No alcohol either.”
Wanda averts her eyes and nods. Pap Test Poster Girl smiles down on her. She does what she wants. So smug.
“Do you keep a journal?”
“Not really,” Wanda says. “I used to, but it’s been a long time.”
“It might help,” Dr. Jalaal says. “Take note of when you’re getting the discomfort, what you ate that day, the time, the temperature, anything you can think of. In your situation, stress can be a factor.” She gives Wanda a smile that goes all the way to her warm brown eyes. Wanda fights an urge to hug her. To rest her head on her shoulder. Ask to be taken care of. “Thank you,” she says.
No sign of Ivan in the waiting room. The only sound is the burp of Wanda’s shoes on the laminate floor. Damn farting shoes. A guy in a red ball cap scrolls through his phone. The girl sitting next to him stares at the notices on the wall beside her. Blood-donor clinic next week. A list of reasons why you should get the flu shot.
Wanda stands in the porch and looks out the glass doors. Three cars in the clinic parking lot. None of them are Ivan. No new messages or missed calls on her phone. A black car pulls up. Not their Honda Civic. He was supposed to get groceries before coming to get her. Texting will slow him down. She turns up the volume on her phone. She counts the fingerprint smudges on the glass door, twenty-three, mostly small, childlike hands. This is the third time he’s been late this week. The sky outside piles on more layers of grey. She shivers in spite of herself. Someone should wipe down the glass door. By the time he arrives, she’s been waiting for twenty-nine minutes. She says this when she gets in the car.
Ivan shrugs. “Everyone is late sometimes.”
“Text if you’re going to be late,” she says. She unzips her purse and stuffs the papers into it. He hasn’t asked how the appointment went. “Or call. It’s considerate.”
“I was busy.”
“Everyone’s busy.”
“That’s why they’re late.”
She folds her arms. Why can’t he just say “sorry?” It’s not saying uncle, it’s not please. He turns up the radio volume. She turns it down.
“I want to hear the news.”
“You know, I wouldn’t feel angry if you gave a shit.”
“Fine. I am sorry. But you should accept the fact that people are late at times.”
“At times. It’s a habit for you. Three times this week.”
“It’s been a busy week.”
“I think busier people than you know to text or call when they’re late.”
“I think sometimes those people get too busy even for that.”
For the rest of the drive, the only sound is the occasional tsk of the indicator. It’s not until they’re back in the house with their jackets off that she realizes there are no groceries.
“Did you go to the store?”
“Shit. Sorry. Totally slipped my mind.”
“What have you been doing this whole time? I gave you a list.”
“Work. Getting ready for the festival. You know, if I’m going to be the chauffeur and the errand boy, sometimes, I’m going to forget things.” He shoves on his jean jacket and leaves. She waits for the door to shut to say “fuck.”
A low rattle. Ivan has left his phone on the table by the door. The flash on the screen is white and green and familiar. Trish’s bleached pixie cut and appletini. Wanda’s jaw tightens. We all text each other. Not a big deal. Her and Leo, her and Trish, her and Ivan. We’re all textroverts, it’s okay.
But how often is okay? How many touches on the shoulder and lingering hugs are okay? She picks up his phone. Her hand hovers over the smooth black screen. Her pinky drops, the screen flashes open. If her pinky slides up, the phone will reveal the first few words of Trish’s message. The phone will lock itself in a minute or so if it goes untouched. Her pinky nudges upward.
She swallows. Her pinky taps the message icon. Trish’s message is in response to a photo of a chipmunk, crouched next to what looks like Ivan’s shoe. Okay. She likes chipmunks. No big deal. Wanda didn’t get a chipmunk photo, but whatever. She scrolls down. Many of the messages are photos. Bathroom graffiti. Chinese fortune cookie fortunes. The written messages are jovial and read like icebreakers/conversation starters.
And on and on. Not sexual or overly flirtatious, but regular. Plentiful. An easy camaraderie. W
anda and Ivan have never had that. Even though Wanda is good at puns. Wanda’s pretty fucking funny, actually. But Trish, he appreciates on so many levels, beautiful and pert and alert and such a joker. At least when she has a minute to think about it.
She scans other messages. 3:46pm on Thursday. She met Trish at The Duke that night.
Her stomach is a fist-full of dry sand. She should write that in her journal. Major abdominal discomfort when reading insensitive comments from my common-law husband and my “friend.”
She lays the phone down. Her fresh fingerprints are obvious on the screen. Hands should be washed after being in places like medical clinics. Hands should be washed after dealing with greasy characters. She goes to the bathroom and lets the water run warm. In the mirror, her lips are dry and peeling. Her hair droops defeated over her ears. A face that can’t be faced. Hard to approach right now. You know it. The steam rises from the tap. She washes her hands until the lather is thick and slippery. She rubs in into her nails, her cuticles, in between her fingers. Where did Pike’s tacky rings pinch her? There. Furious bubbles on the tops of her hands. She looks up again at her face, cheeks flushing now, mouth downturned and dour. Did Trish really send a sad-face smiley when they discussed her “hesitation”?
She dries her hands and stomps down to the living room. Opens the phone again.
Sad fucking face. What’s the emoticon for being a condescending bitch?
She flicks back through more messages. They scroll quickly, like a slot machine. A picture, lots of exclamation points.
Six photos. The first shows a white teddy bear, a red ribbon around its neck. The words Thank You are printed on the end. The teddy bear’s face is in profile. The background is grey, overcast light, a parking lot. A figure stands in a long black coat. Her long black coat. It’s her, at the vigil. The other pictures are close-ups of the offerings, flowers, notes, Thank you to the hero. Whoever you are, thank you. In three, the focus is on a gift tag with a slightly blurry Wanda, in three she is clear, her white face morose under the black hood. Trish photographed the gifts and offerings with the person they were intended for. Candid, standing unknown to everyone.
The Greatest Hits of Wanda Jaynes Page 19