Edgy People

by Barb Nobel

  ***

  Fuck, I can’t feel anything from my leg anymore. Is that a good sign or a bad sign? I’d like to ask Mrs. Weller, but I think she’s sleeping or something. After I tapped for a while she tapped out “Happy Birthday” a bunch of times. Wouldn’t you know an old lady would tap out a song like that? At least it wasn’t “Rock of Ages”, or something religious. I don’t know how long I’ve been in here but I’m really thirsty now, and hungry too. I think I slept or passed out or something for a while. Mom must be wondering where I am by now. School must be over and maybe Jessica told her I cut classes, and she’ll be calling around trying to find me. Shit, it’s so dark in here. What if there’s a rat or something in here? I don’t care about mice, but what if there’s a rat in here? It will bite me if it feels trapped. I think I hear something. “Mrs. Weller, Mrs. Weller,” I yell.

  ***

  I wake up because I hear someone calling my name, and for a second only I think it’s Brianna, then I remember I’m trapped underneath the mall. It’s that boy, Neil, calling me.

  “I’m here, Neil,” I call back. He tells me he just wants to know if I’m okay. He’s petrified, I know. I want to talk to him but I can’t think of anything to say. What do I have in common with a teenage boy? Then something comes to me.

  “Do you know what your name means, Neil?” I ask him. I only know because when Robert and I named our own two boys, Neil was a name I favoured. Robert didn’t favour it, so we compromised on names we both liked.

  “Neil means champion,” I tell the boy. “And you, Neil, are a champion. You are. You’re in this terrible situation with me, and you’re coming up with suggestions to help us, and you’re trying to make sure I’m okay. You’re a true champion.” I think I hear Neil sob, but I could be mistaken.

  ***

  I’m so thirsty I can’t stand it. I think I’ve been sleeping on and off, but I’m not sure. I guess things are kind of bad now. Shit, if only we had got to fix that roof, I wouldn’t be here now. I don’t know why I’m finding it so hard to breathe. I thought at first there was something sitting on my chest, but when I went to push it off there was nothing there. I think I did sleep, because for a while I thought I was back in TO, safe in my own bed.

  ***

  God, what’s happening? I thought I saw my mom, but I was either sleeping or hallucinating, I don’t know what. I wish I could talk to her though. I thought Mrs. Weller was supposed to be tapping now, but she’s not. Maybe she’s asleep. I’m not going to wake her up, she’s an old lady and she probably needs a lot of sleep. Boy, I’m actually pretty tired too, but I’m going to tap a bit anyway.

  ***

  Jesus, what is this pain in my chest! If only I had some water.

  ***

  Fuck, I must have slept. It’s Mrs. Weller’s turn to tap for a while. Mrs. Weller, Mrs. Weller. Jeeze, how can she sleep like that when it looks like we’re going to die? Oh, fuck! Mrs. Weller, Mrs. Weller. Oh, god I wish I could talk to my mom.

  You Can Never Be Too Rich Or Too Thin

  TODAY, I MUST GO SEE my sister. Today, I must decide. Open or closed?

  This is what happens. The organs shrink. Fluid and electrolytes are out of balance. Fatigue is ever present. Dizziness occurs. Stomach hurts. Bloating. Constipation. Muscles disappear. Bone density shrinks. Menses stops. Memory fails. Kidneys fail. Heartbeat is irregular. Cardiac arrest.

  When did it begin? I don’t know. I think it is almost impossible to tell.

  One day, I was seeing my little sister, a young teen. She was a little chunky, yes, and this is what we were all used to seeing. Then, next time I noticed her, she suddenly had some curves. “Felicity, look at you,” I said. “You’re growing in to a young woman. Look at all those curves.” She blushed. Felicity has always been a little shy.

  Did it start then, when she saw she was getting breasts? Did she decide she didn’t want breasts? Did boys and men looking at her breasts bother her?

  We went on to talk about school. She was starting grade nine that year, and was looking forward to joining different activities. Felicity has always been a joiner. When she moved out of junior school into middle school, she was really nervous about making friends. I, with my six year advantage, advised her to join everything she was interested in, and if she wasn’t interested in anything, join something anyway. It was the way to make new friends. Felicity was planning on playing a musical instrument, joining the track and field, and the chess club.

  “A well rounded program,” I said.

  I was proud of her. She was, of course, on the honour roll. Felicity had always been a good student, not only getting good grades, but volunteering for whatever good works the school was involved in. She had won the citizenship award in grade eight.

  Felicity was living with me by the time she went into grade ten. Mom had passed away with cancer when she was four and I was ten, and Dad had done a great job raising us. But eventually he had remarried. Felicity and Maria, my dad’s new wife, didn’t get along. I couldn’t find any fault with Maria, except she was from a different culture and stricter than either my sister or I were used to.

  Dad was great, though. He gave me more than sufficient funds to cover Felicity’s basic expenses and gave Felicity a generous allowance. My job was decently paid, and I didn’t need any financial help for myself, but I couldn’t have supported Felicity too. But with Dad’s help, we were pretty comfortable. Plus, we were frequently to dinner at Dad’s place, and Maria was an excellent cook. Nobody disagreed about that.

  I had boyfriends on and off, but nothing serious, and thanks to Dad, we had a two bedroom apartment, so I didn’t feel put upon for privacy or any other reason. And when I didn’t have a Friday night date, Felicity and I would cuddle up on the sofa and watch some old, soapy movies, or TV re-runs. The Brady Bunch was a favourite for both of us for some reason. It appeared a good solution to the step mother/step daughter dilemma had been found.

  Around mid-winter that year I begin to wonder why Felicity was running every morning. Surely, track and field was over. But when I asked, Felicity said that track and field was coming in the spring, and she was getting a jump on the start of the season.

  Maria began to get irritating that winter. She was always encouraging us to eat, eat, eat. I pointed out that I was eating, eating, eating. One day, I was helping with the dishes when she expressed her concerns. “That Felicity, she’s too skinny,” she said. I looked at Maria, who was “pleasingly plump” when she married my dad, but was now becoming unpleasingly plump. I didn’t need to voice my thoughts; I could see that Maria got my point. Nevertheless, she still insisted, “She’s too skinny.”

  That summer, Felicity continued to run every day. I noticed that her once luxurious hair was getting dry, and I advised her to stay out of the sun more, or use a hat, and I got her a good conditioner. Her skin looked a little yellow also, and I teased her about using a rub on tan to impress the boys. But one day, I saw her in a bikini, and I was startled at how thin she was. That evening, I sat her down, and we had a good talk about taking care of herself, and about eating healthy. She still ate popcorn on Friday evenings, but I noticed she didn’t put melted butter on it anymore.

  Felicity had her first boyfriend that summer, and although I was pretty sure she wasn’t sexually active, like most 15 year olds, she was obsessed with having a good figure.

  And I had met a man, Thomas, that summer. It was a good relationship, and now that Felicity was old enough to be home by herself, I spent weekends at Thomas’ place. He and Felicity got on well enough, although a couple times Thomas asked me whether Felicity’s health was okay.

  At Thanksgiving dinner that October, all hell broke loose. Dad had been concerned about Felicity’s teeth, and was demanding that she go to the dentist. Felicity was claiming there was nothing wrong with her teeth, although it was plain that she had some cavities. We all knew she had a fear of the dentist. On top of that, Maria had been going on again, insi
sting that my baby sister eat more. So Felicity did.

  At the end of the dinner I went into the kitchen under the pretext of helping Maria with the dishes. I was thoroughly pissed off by this time and I started whisper-yelling at her to lay off, leave Felicity alone. To my utter amazement Maria burst into tears.

  “Listen,” she said. I listened, but Maria didn’t say anything more. I was about to start my tirade again when I heard it. Felicity was in the bathroom, vomiting.

  “You and your dad, you wouldn’t listen,” Maria said.

  And she was right. We should have been listening, and we should have been looking.

  This is what the person on the outside sees. Thin, thin, thin, hidden under baggy clothes. Dry, thinning hair. Yellow, sagging skin. Knobby joints. Brittle nails. Reddened eyes. Decayed teeth. Cold hands. No breasts. No hips. Fine hair all over the body.

  This is what the person, while still alive, looking out, sees. Fat. Fat, fat, fat.

  Dad and I together confronted Felicity. She already knew there was a problem.

  The next five years were a roller coaster of hope and hell. A counselor, hospital visits, regular weigh-ins, a nutritionist, support groups for both Felicity and myself, a residential treatment program. Dad retired and devoted more time to his daughter. Thomas disappeared under the constant pressure.

  There were some weight gains, some lessening of the compulsive running, some recognition by Felicity that there was more to this than feeling fat.

  But at the end of it, Felicity died. She died at the ripe old age of 21. And she did look old, extraordinarily so.

  And today I must decide on the coffin. Open or closed?

  Oh, That’s Why

  I CAN HEAR THEM OUT there, their voices soft in the soft evening. Occasionally there is some muted laughter, sometimes louder laughter, then a little conversation.

  I’m glad. Frequently I don’t know where Trevor is—out at the mall, driving the streets with Kenny in his old car, getting drunk? I don’t know. That’s why I’m glad they’ve taken to spending some evenings in my backyard. There are six of them out there now, 17 and 18 year olds, lounging around on the plastic lawn chairs and picnic table.

  I wonder what they talk about. Girls, probably, teachers, grades, girls, prom night, girls, parents, cars, and of course, girls.

  I need to put in some laundry, and I know I left my sweater out there this afternoon. I open the back door, and a small pool of light spills out. The boys are near the back of the yard, in a semicircle. Something about their seating arrangement bothers me, but I don’t know why.

  “What do ya want, Ma?” Trevor says, as if I have no right to come into my own back yard. Oh well, at least they’re here and not getting into trouble.

  I tell Trevor I want my sweater, and Kurt says, “No worries, Mrs. B., I got it.” He jogs to the back door with my sweater. I hope Trevor is that polite when he is at his friends’ parents.

  I put the laundry in, watch a little TV, fold the laundry, play on the computer, empty the dishwasher, and make my lunch for the following day. When I take the garbage out, I exchange a few words about the weather with the man bringing out the garbage from the small apartment building two doors down. By now it’s about 10 o’clock, and I wish they would all go. I don’t want to disturb them, though, for I would prefer Trevor be here then out some place. Finally, they do leave, at about 11p.m., and Trevor goes up to bed after wishing me a good night.

  I’m in my night clothes when I notice that one of the boys has left his jacket draped over a chair. It looks like leather, and I decide to go out and bring it inside for safe keeping.

  I look at the semicircle of chairs. Now I figure out what was bothering me earlier. They are all turned slightly to the left, instead of facing each other. I pick up the jacket, and when I turn, I see it. It’s a large screen, wall mounted television, second floor in the small duplex two doors down, and clearly visible. And what’s playing on it doesn’t need any explanation, plot or dialogue. And now I know why these boys are gathered in my back yard. It’s free porn.

  Home Invasion

  IT ALL STARTED WITH ONE little mouse.

  Well, it was probably two little mice, but I only saw one of them. I was sitting on a footstool talking to my boss on the telephone. I was home ill, the drapes were closed, and the room gloomy, when I saw something drop out of my African Violet. I knew immediately. It was not a leaf. A leaf doesn’t stretch out and land on tiny feet. With tremendous willpower, I refrained from screaming and dropping the phone. I didn’t want my boss dialing emergency services and reporting some kind of home invasion at my address. I remained calm and pulled my feet up. It’s a well-known, though not a well-documented, fact that mice run up women’s legs. Why they don’t run up men’s legs, I don’t know.

  After my call to my boss ended, I pulled some clothes on my fever-racked body, applied some mascara, and headed off to Canadian Tire to get bait. I put the bait out, it got eaten, I put more bait out, it got eaten, I put more bait out and, hallelujah, it was not disturbed.

  I was the winner.

  So I thought.

  Several weeks later, I started the Christmas baking. It was obvious the mice had already had Christmas dinner, and many more dinners, in the top cupboard where the flour was kept. Mice do not have good toilet manners. I had to throw out anything that wasn’t in a metal container. I also had to throw up several times.

  Then there was the nasty job of cleaning the shelf. That took several rolls of paper towels and industrial strength cleaner. As I stood on the kitchen step ladder I knew that if a mouse appeared I would need to perform an amazing athletic feat: I would need to leap off the top step of the ladder, avoid contact with the walls, and land safely at least six feet away. Fortunately, I was not forced to display my athletic prowess.

  Once I had cleaned the shelf I got on with the baking. With the cookie dough prepared, I reached into the bottom cupboard for the cookie pans. A mouse scurried past my hastily withdrawn hand. I leapt three feet into the air, giving the rodent ample time to run underneath me and disappear under the fridge. Of course, the fridge was to be my next destination. I needed eggs.

  Late that night, I woke up thinking with dread about the open house I was having. Would I have enough chairs? I had invited 15 friends—would they still be friends after an encounter with Mickey and Minnie? After much calculation, I decided that, if there was an appearance, I would have enough furniture for guests to jump on as long as I had no more than 12 people at one time. As there were several men invited, I wouldn’t need furniture for them to leap on. Being full of testosterone they have to claim they aren’t afraid of anything, never mind a mouse.

  It was on Boxing Day that I really became aware of the extent of the rodent problem. I was cleaning out all the cupboards. (Whoever says house cleaning isn’t exciting hasn’t tried to clean out the cupboards under the sink while standing on a kitchen chair). Mice kept popping out of the cupboards, heating vents, and woodwork. After a while, seeking relief, I retreated to the living room. Outlined against the deflector over the hot air register were two mice. I began to feel like I was in some low budget horror movie – ‘Mouse-o-phobia,’ maybe.

  The next day I began my search for the ultimate exterminator.

  After several phone interviews, I reached Brian. “You need to find the source,” he told me on the phone. This was something I had not even thought of. He said he could come the next day at 6:30 p.m. I immediately felt better.

  As I walked into my home after work the next day, a fat (or pregnant) mouse jogged across the floor. I’d had enough. I retreated to my bedroom, packed a suitcase with clothes for the next day, and sat with my feet up on the bed waiting for Brian. At 6:40, the telephone rang. My heart sank as I snatched up the receiver. I was sure it was Brian and he was going to say he couldn’t come that evening.

  “I was a little delayed. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said.

  I ran to sta
nd in my well-lit front door and wait for my hero. Juliet could not have longed for her Romeo any more than I longed for Brian.

  Brian was as reassuring in person as he had been on the phone. Tromping around in his big boots, he kept up a continuous chatter about rodent habits and reassured me that soon all would be well. He peered into all the heating vents, the cupboards, the nooks and crannies, and climbed his ladder to look into the attic.

  “Here’s the source,” he exclaimed from the top of the ladder, his voice resonating inside the attic. He tossed in about 50 packages of bait.

  “It’s vitamin D,” he said.

  “Wait a minute,” I protested. “Vitamin D! I’m not trying to grow bigger and better mice.”

  “It gives them a heart attack,” Brian explained.

  I followed my hero around the house babbling my appreciation. Kindly, he told me a story of receiving a panicky phone call at 3 a.m., and arriving to find a six-foot tall, 200 pound man with a broom in his hand, cowering in one corner of his living room, and a tiny mouse cowering in the other corner. It was a story that made me feel better.

  “Seven to ten days, and remember, you’re bigger than they are,” he said, going out the door. It was amazing. That was exactly what my mother used to say to my sister when she became hysterical about spiders. I rushed up the stairs, got my suitcase, and made my way to the nearest decent motel.