“No, I think we’ll be okay without you tomorrow.”
When I came out of the office, Mike looked at me, searching my eyes, his face tight with concern. I shook my head and went into the staff washroom. I locked the door and sat on the toilet, feeling shaky and gross. A slimy layer of sweat had formed on my skin. I fought down the vomit that was threatening to erupt and ripped open the brown envelope. It was my first paycheck ever, and it was for seventy-two dollars and thirty-nine cents. Diddly-squat.
I hung my head in my hands. Hot tears stung my eyes. Then someone knocked on the door of the bathroom.
“Just a minute!”
“Are you okay?” It was Mike.
“Yep!” I lied.
I blew my nose and washed my face at the sink, then retied my bandana and prepared to face the disturbing world of chicken slinging once again.
When I came in the door, Dad looked up from his can cutting and turned the volume on the TV down.
“Hey, Dad.”
“T.”
“What’s up?”
“Time’s up.”
“Not bad.” I headed for the kitchen.
“Bring me a beer from the fridge?”
I unwrapped the chicken burger I had brought home for him and heated up the fries in the microwave. I made myself a peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwich and went back to the living room to eat with him.
“Thanks.” He opened the can, twisted off the tab and placed it carefully on top of a pile of tabs beside the couch. “Want one?” He looked at me.
“Can I?”
“Sure, when you turn eighteen.”
“Dad!”
He laughed. “Grab yourself a soda, kiddo.” I took a ginger ale from the fridge, then went back to the couch.
“So…” he said.
“So?”
“Cheers.” We clinked cans and both took a swig, and it was good. “So, I got a phone call from Mr. Ivers…”
“Oh yeah?”
“Were you going to tell me about that?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“I see.” He nodded, tilting the can to his lips.
I took a gulp of ginger ale and a bite of sandwich and then another big guzzle. I took a potato chip from the open bag on the floor, ate it, took another one, had another drink, sighed. Then I told him the whole damn thing. But I left out the part where Beth called my sisters slutty because Dad didn’t need to hear about that.
He listened quietly and nodded at certain parts. He didn’t interrupt me to ask questions like my mom would have. When I was finished, he said, “Well, I can’t blame you.”
“Thanks.”
“But there are other ways you could have resolved your conflict with Beth.”
“I guess.” I shrugged.
“And I never want to hear of you doing anything like this again. Ever.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious, Tamar.”
“Okay.”
“I worry about you.”
“Me too,” I said.
We sat in silence for a minute; then Dad turned the volume back up and we watched Jeopardy! and finished our drinks. I snuck looks at him while he was yelling out the answers to the hapless contestants who stared blankly at Alex Trebek. Dad’s skin was as pale as glue, and his light brown hair was flat and dingy.
“Who is Mahatma Gandhi! Jesus, these people don’t even deserve to be on Jeopardy!”
“Dad, when’s the last time you went outside?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Do you want to go for a walk?”
“No.”
I frowned.
“In case you haven’t noticed, T, I’m a bit of a gimp right now.” He gestured to his cast.
“You’re getting around on your crutches all right.”
He snorted.
“I want you to walk with me down the street to the mailbox and back.”
He grumbled.
“Come on, it’ll be good to get some fresh air.”
I slung his arm around my shoulders, helped him to his feet and handed him his crutches. He waved me off and pulled his coat on over his robe. Then he gingerly slid into his boot, teetering ever so slightly.
The snow was lavender under the light of the moon. There were no cars or people around, and our street was quiet except for the occasional yelp of a dog.
My dad breathed deeply. “Feels like it’s getting warmer out.”
“It’ll be spring pretty soon.”
He shook his head as if he didn’t believe it.
There was a huge stack of bills, late-payment notices and fliers in our mailbox. No one had picked up the mail for weeks.
On our way back home, I noticed rust-colored clouds creeping over the pockmarked face of the moon. “Look at that.” I pointed.
We stood on the sidewalk and watched as the splotch of clouds spread across the moon like a bloodstain. The whole sky darkened to a reddish brown and the thin wisps of clouds turned coppery. I shivered, and my dad adjusted his crutches and put his arm around my shoulders.
And then my dad tipped his head back and howled. It was a low, mournful sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep and secret inside his body. Well, that settles it, I thought. My dad is officially insane. Then a dog across the street yowled, and another one from a backyard close by woofed and whined. Dad howled again, and more dogs joined in, then more dogs, from two, three, four streets away, and then I howled too, right up into that strange dark shadow. Again and again we howled at the blemished moon, until the entire neighborhood was a loud and crazy chorus of bawling, wailing, yelping cries and shrieks and moans.
Once the murky smudge had drifted across the face of the moon, we stopped howling and listened to the dog choir carry on, their lonesome sounds echoing off the houses, their owners pleading with them to be quiet. We laughed for a long time, holding our guts as if to keep them from spilling out onto the sidewalk. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so good, so free.
We continued our slow walk home. When we got inside, I put the mail on the kitchen table, then helped Dad get set up on the couch again with his beer cans, ruler and pencil, and his X-Acto knife.
“Goodnight, Dad,” I said on my way upstairs.
“Hey, Tamar?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for the walk.” He smiled shyly at me, like a small boy.
That night I dreamt that I was naked and Don and Karen from Cruisy Chicken were spraying me with a hose, and all this curdled white stuff was coming out of the hose and sticking to me in nasty white globules. It got in my eyes and burned them and I couldn’t see, and I was inhaling it, and I couldn’t say anything because every time I opened my mouth, they would spray it in my mouth. It was horrible.
In the morning, the phone woke me up. I went into the parents’ room and picked it up. It was Don.
“Tamar, we need you to come in for a staff meeting today.”
Chicken fat, I thought. That’s what the white stuff was. Sick.
“Tamar?”
“Yeah?”
“Ten o’clock. Today.”
“Do I need to wear my uniform?”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” he said, and he hung up.
I barely had enough time to make it there and had to chase the bus for two blocks, waving my arms like an imbecile. When it finally stopped for me, I got on, breathless.
When I got to Cruisy Chicken, I was ushered into Don’s office. Karen was sitting in the only other chair, so I had to stand. There were no other staff members there.
“Tamar, Karen and I don’t feel that you can keep up the fast pace that we need to see from our employees.”
I looked at Karen
. She was eyeing my head suspiciously. I had worn a dark-blue bandana instead of my wig.
“We’re letting you go.”
“Oh.” Something crumpled inside my chest.
“Your last check will be mailed to you.”
“What about the uniform?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“That’s yours to keep.”
I sighed and walked out. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry. I had been fired. Fired! From Crappy Chicken! I was too slow! I was too stupid! For Crappy Chicken! I was a total failure.
I walked to the bus stop with my head down, my face burning with shame. I blinked hard to keep my tears from gushing out. I had to wait twenty-eight minutes for the next bus.
“Look on the bright side,” I heard Abby say. “At least you don’t have to work there anymore!”
“Yeah, that place sucked!” Alia said. “And your boss was a scummy perv!”
I nodded in agreement, gulping back a sob.
When I got home, I threw the stupid uniform and the stupid red visor and the stupid TRAINEE name tag in the metal trashcan in the garage. I had paid for it all, but I didn’t ever want to see it again.
But somehow it wasn’t enough to just throw it away. I dragged the garbage can outside and got the jerry can Dad kept for filling the lawn mower. I sloshed gasoline over the clothes, then lit a match and flicked it into the can. The clothes made a loud whoosh as they ignited, and a brilliant plume of fire shot up from the can. While I stood and watched the bright flames lick the sides of the shiny can, I couldn’t decide how to feel. I was angry, upset and delighted, all at the same time.
I had been fired! From my first real job! I was pathetic. Totally pathetic. But watching my uniform burn was immensely satisfying. The heat rising from the can felt good on my face. I began to feel a strange calm seep into me. I thought about my sisters. How they would have approved of this controlled burn. How they would have whooped and hollered and probably slapped me high fives and yelled “Fuck the man!” as they danced around the burning ring of fire.
After a few minutes, a pile of black and gray ash was all that remained of my service to Cruisy Chicken. I got a bucket of water from the kitched and poured it into the garbage can, then dumped the whole mess down the storm drain. Straight to hell with it.
I walked inside. Dad was still sleeping. I went upstairs. But I walked past my room and stopped in front of the closed white doors of my sisters’ rooms. I took a deep breath, turned the knob of Alia’s door and stepped inside.
It smelled stale. Except for her missing electric guitar and amp, everything was exactly as she had left it. Her clothes and books and pencil crayons and CDs were strewn about the room. I looked into the faces of the musicians plastered on her wall: Green Day, Kurt Cobain, The Ramones, Patti Smith, Bob Marley, Johnny Cash. Her dresser was littered with bottles of nail polish, cheap jewelry, notes, photos, pens, markers, hairbrushes still snarled with strands of her auburn hair. Out of curiosity, I pushed Play on her dust-covered stereo.
It’s something unpredictable, but in the end it’s right.
I hope you had the time of your life.
I leaned in to look closely at the photographs stuck around her mirror. She had her tongue out in a few of them. She had a tongue ring; I never knew that. Abby was in a lot of them. I was only in one. It was an old, old picture, taken when I was four or five. They would have been three or four. I was pulling a red wagon that we used to have, and the two of them were sitting in it, their arms around each other. We wore bathing suits, all of us smiling, squinting into the sun. I peeled the photo away from the mirror and examined the back. There was no date, nothing. As the song ended, I looked around the room once more. It was almost as if I expected her to burst through the door and tell me to stop messing around with her stuff. I pressed Off and the word GOODBYE scrolled across the stereo. I left Alia’s room with the photo in my hand.
I stood in the hall and stared at Abby’s door for a few seconds before I opened it. The door creaked on its hinges. Inside, it smelled like Love’s Baby Soft. She had obviously just cleaned her room before she went out that night; everything was in its place. I laughed when I looked at her bed. She had set up her pillows under the covers so it looked like she was in bed in case the parents checked. Apparently she had planned on not coming home that night. And she never had. I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. I sat on the edge of her bed and waited for it to pass. Maybe it was the intensity of her hot-pink walls. I had never liked pink, hot or otherwise. I spotted her diary on her bedside table. I opened the cover. PRIVATE! KEEP OUT! was written in bubble letters on the first page. I looked around the room. It was heavy with stillness. Should I? I realized I had been holding my breath. I flipped to a page.
Steven asked me out today and I said yes! He is so cute and has the prettiest blue-green eyes. Story eyes!!! Ahhhhhhhhhh! I think I’m in love!
I rolled my eyes and flipped to another page.
Alia and I went to Layne’s house last night. Steven and Eric and Josh were there and we all got drunk off vodka-orange juice. It was super fun but today I feel like a butt scrape.
I flipped again.
Tamar is such a lame-o bitch. I don’t know what her problem is. Why is she so mean to us?
I snapped the diary shut and placed it back on her nightstand. I went to her makeup table, sat down on the little white bench and looked in the mirror. I looked at her lipsticks and eye shadows and concealers, all lined up in a neat row. I selected a bronze lipstick and put it on. I smacked my lips together. Then I realized the last lips that lipstick had touched were Abby’s, and she was dead now. I shivered and wiped it off with the back of my hand. I opened her jewelry box. A ballerina popped up when it opened, but it didn’t play music anymore. I sifted through her necklaces, earrings, bracelets. I picked out a silver ring with an oval turquoise stone in the center. I slipped it on my middle finger. It fit. I glanced once more around the tidy pink room, then quietly closed the door and tiptoed back to my room. I put the photo up in the corner of my mirror. I flopped down on my bed and studied the pretty blue ring on my finger. I wondered where Abby had gotten it. And it struck me as being infinitely sad that I would never know.
twelve
With no school and no job and no play rehearsal, I didn’t have a lot going on. I took the C-train down to 17th Avenue with the intention of seeing Dr. Lung for acupuncture again, but when I got there his office was locked up, and old newspapers covered the windows. I peeked through a patch of glass that hadn’t been covered in paper. His desk and chairs and all the paintings and Buddhas were gone. There was a bucket and mop in the corner of the room, a bloated garbage bag and a crushed coffee cup. Nothing else. It was like he had never even been there.
I wandered around downtown, feeling empty. Then I tripped and almost fell over some baskets outside a vintage clothing store. The baskets were full of scarves. They were three for ten dollars, so I bought three. One was burnt orange with lines of gold thread running through it. One was black with Chinese dragons embroidered on it. The third was made of silk, with a gorgeous sunset scene and silhouettes of trees on it. I felt a sharp pang in my heart when I read the label, which said Handpainted on Stellar’s Island, British Columbia.
I couldn’t understand why my mom hadn’t called or written yet. It was as if she had totally forgotten that she had a family.
I tried to look after my dad. I forced him to go out for a walk every day. We ordered pizza and rented movies and ate chips and ice cream. We only watched comedies. I practiced my lines for the play and made him read the other parts.
“Do you know the band Pink Floyd?” He looked up from the script.
“Yeah, of course I do. Everyone knows Pink Floyd, Dad.”
“Do you like them?”
“Obviously, they’re only, like, the best band of all time.”
“Go rent The Wizard of Oz.” He handed me five bucks.
“Nah, I’ve already seen it ten times.”
“Not like this you haven’t.” He gave my ribs a little poke with his crutch.
“Ow!”
“Get going.” He jabbed at me again, and I scrambled off the couch.
When I got back, he had dusted off his old record player and put on the Pink Floyd album Dark Side of the Moon. He took the needle off. “Okay, put it in,” he said. I put the DVD in and pressed Play. The old MGM lion came on and roared. “Wait for it, wait for it, and…NOW!” He set the needle down and the album began. He hopped up and down on his good leg. “Mute it! Mute it!”
“Dad, what the hell are you doing?”
“Shh, just watch.” He pointed to the screen.
And so I did.
My dad heaved his broken leg up on a footstool, then sank back into the couch and laughed. “Isn’t that the damndest thing?”
It was probably the most awesome thing I had ever seen. I don’t know how Pink Floyd did it, but it had to have been planned. The album matched the movie exactly, and it told Dorothy’s story in a whole new way. A modern way. My favorite part was when “The Great Gig in the Sky” came on as her house was sucked into the tornado. Friggin’ beautiful. And then it got all political on “Us & Them,” when it was the Munchkins versus Dorothy’s crew. Supercool. Dorothy Gale was a misfit, a freak. Her friends were all insane too. She didn’t belong in Kansas or Oz. But she had people who loved her, and she believed in herself. And really, what more does a person need? I’ll never forget that Dark-Side version of the movie as long as I live.
On my first day back to school after my suspension ended, I decided not to wear my wig. What was the point? Also, I had been having nightmares that someone else would try to rip it off. I wore my dark jeans and a tight black sweater and tied the new black dragon scarf around my head. I drew on my eyebrows and glued on my eyelashes and put on some black eyeliner and walked to school, steeling myself against whatever insults were about to be hurled at me. I prepared myself to play the role of school laughingstock.
The New Normal Page 10