by Rose, Katia
“I realized it was time for me to move on,” I explain. “Maybe it’s time to move on from...a lot of things.”
“Dylan—”
“I’m not forgetting how bad what I did was,” I rush to explain before she can get the wrong idea. “I’m not asking you or Peter to forgive me. I’m scared to promise I won’t disappoint you again. I don’t know if I can promise that, but I want to try. I’m...trying.”
“Dylan.” Mom’s been sitting on the armchair, but she gets up to join me on the couch. I stare down at my mug until she leans forward, prompting me to look up at her. I can’t read the expression on her face. She almost looks confused. “Dylan, you don’t have to ask your brother and I to forgive you. We did that a long time ago.”
I jerk back on the couch. “What?”
“We’ve been waiting all these years for you to forgive yourself.”
That doesn’t make any sense.
“But you don’t want me to see him,” I protest. “You didn’t want me around Peter after what happened—and you were right to do that. All these years, every Christmas...it’s just so strained. It’s so broken. I broke it. It’s my fault.”
Now it’s my turn to look confused as I watch the tears well in her eyes. “Is that what you thought? You thought I didn’t want you to see your own brother?”
That is the last fucking thing I expected her to say.
“My god, I’ve really failed you as a mother if you could think that for so long.”
“Mom,” I rush to assure her, “you haven’t failed me. You never have. I failed you.”
She shakes her head. “Dylan, the only thing I’ve wanted for the past nine years is for you to say the things you just said today. I wanted you to try again. I wanted you to fight. I didn’t want you to let one mistake define the rest of your life. Yes, I was disappointed. Yes, I was angry. I was furious, but that didn’t last very long, and it was never stronger than my love for you, or my love for this family.”
“So why...why have things been like this for so long?”
She’s crying now, tears streaking down the lines in her face, but she doesn’t sob. No, she’s as graceful as ever, my mom.
“You pulled away,” she answers. “You got so distant, and we didn’t know how to pull you back. You had so much guilt. You gave up on so many parts of yourself, and I guess I tried to do what I always did. I tried to make you reach higher, to want more for yourself, but it sounds like all I did was make you think I was angry. I haven’t been angry with you for a long time, Dylan, and I’m sorry if I made you feel that way.”
“Mom...”
It’s all I can say. There’s too much to take in.
“Hey, Dill Pickle.” She uses the dumb nickname she used to call me as a kid, the one I banned her from saying after I turned ten, and it makes me laugh at the same time it nearly breaks me. “I want to help you, okay? Whatever I can do to make this new part of your life easier, I want to do it. I’m here for you. I’ve always been here for you. I’m your mother.”
She puts her arms around me, and even though she’s probably less than half my weight, I lean into her. I let her support me, and damn, does it ever feel good.
“I missed you, Mom.”
She hugs me even harder. We sit like that for a long time. The rest of the cider in my mug goes cold. When we finally break apart, she offers to get me more and comes back with steaming mugs for both of us.
“So,” she asks, always one for pragmatism, “what’s step one? Where do we go from here?”
“Step one.” I run a hand through my hair and blow out a breath. “Right, yeah, the actual making a plan part.”
She squeezes my shoulder. “I’m here. You don’t have to do it alone.”
“I just feel...stuck,” I admit, “like I’m trapped by what happened, like it’s this hole I’m always in danger of falling into. It’s just waiting for me to make one wrong move, to get too confident and take one false step, and then...I know that doesn’t make much sense. It’s hard to explain.”
“When you were in prison...” I flinch under her hand, but she just squeezes me again and repeats those words with a calm acceptance, like they’re a truth she’s come to accept, not a weight she can’t escape. “When you were in prison, I started going to this support group for mothers with children in there. I didn’t want to go at first. It sort of felt like admitting defeat, but it didn’t take me long to see how wrong I was about that. Those women were strong. They lifted each other up. I...I don’t know what I would have done without them. It was so important to talk to people who could understand.”
She gets up from the couch, and I watch in confusion as she grabs her phone from off a side table and starts typing something on the screen.
“I should have talked to you about this a long time ago,” she explains, coming back to take her seat next to me, “but I didn’t want you to feel like I was forcing you into it. These are all the programs and groups they have in Montreal for people who’ve been to prison.”
I scan the list of links on the screen after she passes me the phone. There’s at least half a dozen.
Former Inmate Support Group.
The name almost makes me flinch again. I haven’t had the word inmate applied to me in a long, long time. I hoped I never would again.
“Now, I know what you’re probably thinking.” She pats my cheek. “I know you better than you think, Dill Pickle. I know you probably don’t want to feel any closer to prison when you’ve worked so hard to get away from it, but there will be people at these things who feel just like you do, who feel stuck. There will be people who used to feel stuck and don’t anymore. There will people who get you, and I think you need that, Dylan. I think it could really help.”
She’s right; this does feel like throwing myself into a world I’ve only ever wanted to close and barricade every door back to.
But that doesn’t work. Just like I told Renee, it’s a mark that doesn’t fade, and trying to outrun it hasn’t helped me much.
“Think about it,” Mom pleads. “Just give it some thought.”
“I can do that. I can think about it.” I wrap my hand around hers. “I meant what I said. From now on, I’m going to try.”
Twenty-One
Renee
EPISTLE: A poem or literary work composed in the form of letters or messages
I wasn’t old enough for a real glass
So they gave me a plastic cup.
Plastic cup.
Plastic cup.
Plastic cup...
I set my pen down on the table, massaging my temples and staring at the words I’ve scribbled down until the letters start to blur. I’ve been trying to write this poem for almost an hour, and all I can do is repeat the same line over and over again.
The next one won’t come. It’s there. I can feel it lodged in my throat, holding my breaths captive until I give it a voice, but every time I try to speak, I choke. The words twist themselves around my tongue.
Plastic cup.
Plastic cup.
Plastic
Cup...
I flip my notebook closed with enough flair to make my drama queen of a best friend proud and glance around the coffee shop. Most of the people who were here when I arrived have already left. I’ve watched them come and go through the door, my head jerking up at the tinkle of the bell every time. My favourite table—the one in the corner with the comfy benches—is empty now.
I could move over there, but instead I stare at the vacant seats and the glossy table top still ringed with coffee stains from the couple who just left. I watched them over the rim of my chai latte while they sat there, stealing glances in between sips and doodling patterns in the margins of my notebook.
They didn’t look anything like Dylan and I. He was blond and skinny, and she had long red hair tied back in a French braid that even a full can of hairspray wouldn’t have kept my frizz from escaping, but something about the sight of two people sitting at the table, hol
ding hands and sharing those we’re-totally-thinking-the-exact-same-thing-right-now smiles while gazing into each other’s eyes, made my stomach lurch and my grip tighten around my mug.
That’s our table. That’s where we sit and hold hands and smile at each other with big dumb googly eyes.
It doesn’t matter if we won’t ever sit there again. It doesn’t matter that it’s been almost two weeks, and I’ve heard nothing from him. That table is still ours.
“Time to go,” I mutter under my breath as I toss my notebook into my bag.
I thought coming back to this cafe would clear my head, show me that I’m moving on, that I can go to the places we went and do the things we did and not feel the constant lack of him in my life.
“I know I’m okay without him,” I told my therapist yesterday. “I wouldn’t want a relationship where I needed someone else just to feel okay. I don’t need him. I just want him. I still want him so much.”
Enough to be getting territorial about a damn table, apparently.
My chai latte is ice cold by now, but I throw back the last spicy sip and hand the mug to a barista gathering dishes off the table beside me. I zip my coat up and pull on my gloves before heading out into the early November chill.
I start walking without a destination in mind. My back is stiff from being hunched over my notebook for so long, and it feels good to stretch out. I pass by a pub with a ‘We’re Hiring’ sign in the window and stop to read the details. They’re typed out in French with English underneath:
Looking for experienced servers and bartenders.
Full or part time.
Send resume in person or by email.
I’ve only just got my bank account nicely padded with my pay from Taverne Toulouse. If I spend another few weeks pretending to write while fueling myself with lattes and overpriced paninis from downtown cafes, I’m going to be back where I started.
I pull my phone out and take a picture of the sign.
Onwards and upwards.
The thought of working at a bar that isn’t Taverne Toulouse doesn’t feel like moving up. It feels like giving up—giving up friends who were becoming something close to family, giving up a place that was becoming something like a home.
Maybe that’s what starts leading me down Avenue Mont-Royal. I don’t realize where my feet are taking me until the familiar metal sign with the bar’s name spelt out in typewriter font comes into view, swaying in the chilly breeze. The windows show a dark and empty bar when I come to stand in front of them; I got an early start at the cafe this morning, and it’s only just past 11AM.
I’ve moved so close I’ve almost got my face against the glass, gazing at chairs and couches clustered in arrangements I have memorized, when the sound of my name makes me jump back.
“Renee!” DeeDee repeats. “Choufleur, I missed you! Come give Mamma DeeDee a hug.”
I end up with a mouthful of pink hair as she throws her arms around me, but I just squeeze her even tighter, soaking up her warmth. Even with her jacket wide open and her midriff bared to the elements, DeeDee is some kind of sunshine.
“You looking for a drink, ma belle?” She tilts her head toward the bar’s door once we pull away from each other.
“Oh, no,” I stammer. “I was just, uh, passing by.”
She crosses her arms and appraises me. “Well, you look like you need a drink.”
I don’t take it personally; she’s probably right, and besides, DeeDee thinks pretty much everyone needs a drink pretty much all the time.
“Come inside, and I’ll get you a beer.”
She fishes her keys out of her jacket pocket before ushering me through the door, telling a very expletive ridden story about today’s opener calling in sick and forcing her to get out of bed before noon.
“Câlice là, I haven’t opened in for-fucking-ever. Maybe the cooks will make me breakfast when they get here.”
The fact that she hasn’t had breakfast yet doesn’t stop her from motioning for me to have a seat on one of the bar stools as she pulls two half pints of Guinness. She throws a couple coasters down in front of me and places our drinks on them before coming around the bar to take the stool next to mine.
“I never drink this.” She taps the side of her beer. “Don’t they call this stuff a meal in a bottle?”
“I think so.” I chuckle. “What, it’s too early for tequila shots?”
“Renee, I have some standards, you know. Tequila shots are only for after lunch.”
I give her a look.
“Unless it’s a special occasion,” she admits, “but for now, we’re going to have our breakfast beers. Cheers, ma belle.”
We clink our glasses together and take a sip. I’ve never had a beer this early in the day before, and I’m not a Guinness girl by any means, but somehow, the dark, frothy liquid hits the spot just right. Selecting the perfect drink for the moment is another one of DeeDee’s bartending superpowers.
“We miss you around here.”
She reaches over and gives my shoulder a squeeze after we’ve set our glasses back down. She doesn’t pry, but I can tell by the concerned tilt of her head and the unspoken question in her voice that she wants to know why I left.
“I miss you guys too,” I answer. “It just...It wasn’t working out anymore.”
She lifts her shoulders an inch. “You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do, hein? I wish it had worked out, though. I’m not supposed to have favourites, but you were my favourite trainee.”
I smile at the compliment, but I can’t hold back my sigh. I can’t disguise the heaviness in my words when I reply, “I wish it had worked out too.”
DeeDee rests an elbow on the bar and props her chin on her hand, staring at me like she knows I’m talking about way more than the job.
“Can I say something I probably shouldn’t say?” she blurts as I’m lifting my glass again.
I’m glad I pause before taking a sip because her question has me letting out a burst of laughter that would have resulted in me spraying my beer all over the bar.
“Oh, Mamma DeeDee, could I even stop you if I tried?”
“Nope.” She pops the ‘p’ while shaking her head. “So I’m just gonna say it. You know I’m bad at keeping my mouth shut. I just...I don’t know what went on with you and Dylan—”
She pauses when she sees my eyes flare wide with alarm.
“Ben là, ma belle, anyone with eyes could see that something went on with you and Dylan. You don’t have to tell me I’m right, and it’s not my business to ask, but, ben...I wish you could see him now. After I heard you quit, I thought he would be a mess. I thought...I don’t know what I thought, but this past week he’s been so déterminé. What’s that in English?”
“Determined,” I murmur, low enough that my voice won’t break.
Hearing about him, being back in this place, smelling the same mix of spilled beer and pine scented floor cleaner that accompanies so many memories of our covert glances and smiles—it’s almost as if he’s in the room with me now.
“Yeah, he’s been so determined. He’s a fucking boss. Things have been kind of rough with all the new staff members and the reopening and everything, but he’s been whipping this place into shape. I have never seen him like this before. He’s always been Dylan, you know—doing his little radio shows and making everyone laugh, but he has, like, passion now. Confidence. It’s like he was spinning, and now he’s got a direction...or something like that.”
She grabs her beer and downs a few more sips.
“And at first I thought it was so weird for him to be like that, now that...” She trails off and waves her hand to indicate my general existence. “Now that you’re gone.”
I wait for the rest of the story, toes tapping the bottom rung of my bar stool. There’s no point pretending I don’t care; I’m hanging off her every word.
“Then one day when I was working, he was sitting at the bar doing paperwork, and he was all distracted by his phone. He kept typing
something, then putting it down. Typing, putting it down. Typing, putting it down. He look ben miserable about it too, and since you know I’m nosy like that, I kind of went over and checked out his phone while pretending to complain about the customers.”
We both laugh at the admission. I can see the scene playing out in my head: Dylan running his hands through his hair and leaving it stuck in all different directions after getting frustrated by the paperwork, DeeDee sashaying over and flicking a bar towel at him.
“He was typing a message out to you.”
My laugh dies in my throat.
“Over and over again.” Her tone turns as soft as her naturally throaty voice will allow. “I couldn’t really read what it said, but I could see your name, and I could see the message always started with ‘thank you.’”
Thank you.
It means more than ‘I miss you.’ It means more than ‘I want you back.’ If that was all he decided to send me, I’d know he isn’t ready to do what I asked. I’d know he isn’t ready to climb higher, but to thank me...
That means he’s found something, something he didn’t have before.
“He didn’t send it,” I blurt before I can stop myself. “He didn’t send me anything.”
The hope that’s been rising inside me like a balloon pops all of a sudden. If Dylan really did want to reach out to me, wouldn’t he have done it already?
DeeDee squeezes my knee. “Maybe he’s not ready yet, but I think he’s working really hard to get there. I just thought you should know.”
Two of the cooks walk through the door just then, joking and pushing each other around. They call out a greeting, and DeeDee lifts her glass in a salute. I do my best to look personable, but my mind is busy flinging my thoughts around like a slingshot.
“I’m gonna get these mecs to make me some food. Be back soon,” DeeDee announces. She gives my arm a reassuring pat before following the cooks into the kitchen.
I reach for my Guinness and take another sip. I’m staring out at the pedestrians passing in front of the windows when it hits: that itching, twitching rush of inspiration that always crawls up my spine and along my skin to announce the arrival of a poem.