That Time I Loved You
Page 16
“You’re so pretty, June.”
“Thank you.”
He pulled me closer to him, but I moved my head to the left so that his lips landed on my cheek. He was a stranger.
“Let’s go back inside.”
“I like you, June.” He gripped my arm.
I nodded. He tried to kiss me again, his hold on my arm tighter this time, too tight to be comfortable. Again I turned my head. I was about to explain, when suddenly he smirked. “You’re a tease, aren’t you? Fuck this.” He pushed me away and stormed off back to the side door and inside. It wasn’t even that hard of a push, but I lost my balance and fell on the grass anyway. The screen door slammed against the frame.
I stayed outside on the grass by myself for a while longer, listening to the crickets. Jimmy’s anger rolled off of me. I was too numb to feel anything but tired. My brain felt like it was moving through mud. Small lights from other windows interrupted the darkness. They drifted from houses, reaching across the yards, searching for dark corners. The yellow splashes and lines of light looked like they were dancing to the funk music thumping out of the basement. I rubbed my eyes to make sure I knew what I was seeing. The earth was tilting. I stood and, steadying myself against the jagged bricks of the wall, went back inside through the side door. I wanted to see a familiar face. I needed my friends. I wanted to shed my body, the stupid makeup, this party, and have all of us together being normal. I looked for Nav, Darren and Josie, but they weren’t upstairs.
People were still lounging around in the living room, and the punch bowl was empty. I made my way slowly down the stairs to the basement, careful to keep the ground from slipping under me. By the time I reached the bottom, I felt the need to barf. The laundry room was straight in front of me, and I pushed the door open and darted in. I didn’t know where the light bulb was and started to feel around for the sink. Then movements coming from directly in front of me startled me. I felt the pull chain for the bulb brush against my cheek, and I reached for it. As the light clicked on, it caught the sequins on Josie’s top, making her look like a disco ball. Behind her, leaning on the washer, I could make out someone in white. Painter pants. Bruce. They were hugging or something. Kissing. His hand was under her tube top. They both turned and saw me, and my eyes felt like they were blinking so slowly.
“June. It’s you.” Josie didn’t sound surprised to see me. She fixed me with a stare that said this was somehow my fault. Bruce didn’t look at me at all, his face turned toward the wall while he retrieved his hand from her top. The bulb swung back and forth on its cord. The light cast them in and out of shadow, still like statues, pressed together, her eyes glued to mine.
Suddenly, I was not drunk anymore. I felt like I had been dunked into an ice water bath and someone was holding my head down. I turned and bolted up the stairs, pushing people out of my way to the door. I kept running outside as I raced up my driveway and to my front door. I paused at the door, breathing hard, and opened and shut it softly, not wanting to be heard. I leaned against it on the inside and waited to feel better.
I didn’t know how long I stood there, but when I finally climbed the stairs, I could still feel the imprint of the doorknob on my back. As I walked down the hallway, the slant of light from under Poh Poh’s door widened and she peered out. “June, is that you? Are you okay?”
“Yes, Poh Poh. I didn’t feel like sleeping over. Go back to bed.”
The light disappeared as her door closed, but I could still see a thin, straight line as it crept out from the threshold. I used that light to guide me to my room next door to hers. I didn’t bother to change. In the dark, I climbed onto my bed and curled into a ball. My body felt like lead, and my head pounded. I wished I could wake up my mom, but I knew she would freak out when she sniffed the alcohol on me.
I couldn’t think about Josie or Bruce right then. I tucked them away for tomorrow, for when I would be able to tell if this night was a dream. Right now, my head was still foggy. I got up and went to my window and felt the night air on my face. It felt stuffy inside me, like I didn’t have enough air, so I tried to breathe deeply. From there, I could see the spread of Winifred Street. Everything was quiet except for the low buzz of electricity and the faint music drifting from Josie’s house. Even from my window, I could tell it was a slow song. “Endless Love.”
The light from the street lamps fell like pools on the black road. Even though I couldn’t see the details in the dark, I knew the street like my own face. I knew the curve of the road from my house before it straightened toward Nav’s. I knew my favourite part of the curb to sit on to watch Bruce pop wheelies on his bike. I knew the patterns in the wood grain of my front door. I knew the numbers of each of the suicide houses.
When the suicides first happened, my mom had said, “There’s more than meets the eye.” She had said it as an explanation, but I hadn’t given it much thought at the time. I looked down at the dark street and knew now that there were things that lurked on the other side of doors, behind the friendly faces, underneath the polite chatter across the fences. Although I had tried to pay attention to everything, what I thought I knew so well was probably not what it seemed. I thought of Josie’s eyes in the basement and knew that she must have secrets too.
The questions that I had had two years ago about the suicides were different from the ones I had now. Two years ago, I had only thought about how they did it and didn’t think much about why. Now it was all I could think about. Maybe one day I would understand. But today, I didn’t understand anything—why Josie would hurt me, why Bruce would never be mine, why the parents killed themselves.
I stared out into the night and thought about the one thing that my mom had always said that made more sense to me than anything else: home was where the heart was. Everything that mattered to me—my parents, Poh Poh, Josie, Nav, Darren, school—was here. But what happened when you expected home to be your heart and it wasn’t? What then?
I had assumed I would always want to live here, but now I knew that was childish. This neighbourhood wasn’t everything. It wasn’t anything at all, a grid of streets that crossed each other, a bunch of people thrown together. There were other places in the world, and I knew I would go. This place here, it was already leaving me, and maybe this was what it felt like to have your heart break.
Once, I asked Poh Poh if she wanted to return to Hong Kong, and she said that once you left a place, you could never go back and expect it to feel like home. “Places change,” she said, “and so do people. Memories sometimes lie.”
I listened to the buzz of the street lamps. I thought about those lights and how they had always been my signal. They always told me when to go home. I used to hate the street lights, wishing that the purple and orange glow at sunset would stretch endlessly, so I could remain outside with my friends forever. I wanted to hold on to this picture. This memory would not lie, as my grandmother had warned. A long, long time from now, I would remember the row of lights flickering on as night slowly fell to the street, and all of them waving back at me like shadows as I turned away.
Acknowledgements
As I was writing this book, the characters would follow me around. They rode with me on streetcars, stood in line beside me at coffee shops and accompanied me on dog walks. Some of them spoke to me with urgency, commanding me to put pen to paper and write in fast and furious sessions. Some spoke haltingly. The long silences interrupted by short utterances tested my patience. They made me laugh, and often, they tore me up. I grew to care for these characters deeply, and perhaps it’s a strange thing to say, but sometimes, I was just their typist. Writing is a deep magic, and I am grateful that sometimes this magic touches me.
I am immensely thankful to my agent, Denise Bukowski, and my editor, Jennifer Lambert. They recognized a spark in this book when I was still not sure. Working with them has been a privilege.
Thanks to the Ontario Arts Council Writers Reserve program and especially to Diaspora Dialogues and Inanna Publications fo
r their support.
I am indebted to my writing mentor and friend Jenna Kalinsky. It was serendipitous for me to wander into her creative writing class and find my way. Jenna has always been supportive, firm and passionate in her guidance. Her commitment to the craft has inspired me to be a better writer.
My early readers, Lynn Caldwell, Stephanie Dayes, Karen B.K. Chan, Sarah Couture-McPhail, Andrea Fatona and Estelle Anderson offered feedback and nourishment for my mind, body and soul. I am a lucky woman to have the friends and community that I do. There are too many to name here. You know who you are, and if you are not mentioned by name, let’s say I owe you a drink . . .
I am eternally grateful for the people who I grew up with in a little pocket of Scarborough, Ontario. My childhood memories of the Tes, the Angs, the Laos and the other kids on my block shaped my imagination from which this book emerged. My thanks especially to Hayley Lao, my first and longest BFF, who taught me how to chop onions, talk to boys and catch fly balls. She possesses the same indomitable spirit today as the first day I met her when we were nine.
Much love to my mom, dad, my aunts, uncles and cousins for being proud to have a writer in the family. I am especially elated to have my brother, Cecil Leung, in my life. My Poh Poh and Gung Gung continue to be my driving force long after they have departed from this world. Thanks also to the Paynes and Archdekins, who provided unwavering support through many years.
To Andrew Archdekin, you are, as always, my family. Your presence in my life is a gift. Thank you for continuing to believe in me.
To my kiddo, my Bean, the heart of my heart, Fenn Archdekin-Leung: you ask me every night to tell you a story. Here’s more for you. I hope we keep telling stories to each other forever.
Lastly, while this book refers to suicide, I hope it’s also a testament to the resilience we share when faced with the often-difficult work of living. If you are meeting these stories and characters at a heavy moment in your life, I wish you love and solace.
About the Author
CARRIANNE LEUNG is a fiction writer and educator. She holds a PhD in sociology and equity studies from the University of Toronto. Her debut novel, The Wondrous Woo, was shortlisted for the Toronto Book Award.
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Copyright
That Time I Loved You
Copyright © 2018 by Carrianne Leung.
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Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
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FIRST EDITION
EPub Edition: March 2018 EPub ISBN: 978-1-44345-288-5
Print ISBN: 978-1-44345-286-1
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