“Look.” Errol digs his hands into his jacket pockets. “I’m sorry I said anything. I shouldn’t have. It’s just…Bubbie worries. Maybe I’m a worrier too. Maybe it’s in my genes.”
“Did anyone ever hit you?” I ask Errol. I’m not quite sure where the question came from. And it’s too late now to take it back.
“My mom once. Not hard though. I was picking on my kid brother. I guess I had it coming.” Errol’s eyes are bloodshot, and I wonder if that means mine are too. “It was no big deal.”
Errol’s quiet for a bit. When he speaks again, his voice is thoughtful. “The roughest thing I ever went through was when my zaidie died. I really loved the guy. But even worse than losing him was seeing what happened to my mom. It was the first time I ever saw anybody lose it. Really lose it. When she got the news he was gone, she curled up on the floor and howled like a baby. None of us could make her stop, not even my dad. I’ll tell you something, Iris. Seeing her like that, well, it scared me shitless.”
CHAPTER 26
“…if like a crab you could go backward.”
—HAMLET, ACT 2, SCENE 2
Does an image ever just bloom in your head? Like a flower, only without a stem or roots or soil? And nowhere near as pretty as a flower. Not pretty at all—not in my case anyhow.
You don’t ask for the picture. It just appears, presto, out of nowhere. And you can’t make it go away, even when you try. Once the picture starts to bloom, there’s no stopping it.
Maybe it’s the weed, but that’s what’s happening to me now.
The image blooming in my mind is of a girl—a little girl—crouched inside a walk-in closet. She is surrounded by racks of clothing. There are men’s clothes on one side, women’s on the other. She can tell because the women’s clothes feel silky soft; the clothes on the other side are prickly and rough. The smells are different too. The women’s clothes smell like lemon, only sweeter; the men’s have a warm and spicy smell.
The floor is cold and hard underneath the little girl’s legs. Sometimes, as she rocks back and forth, her shoulders touch the crinkly plastic on the clothes that have come from the dry cleaner’s. Though I can’t yet see the little girl’s face, I know it’s me. It’s as if I can still feel the crinkly plastic on my shoulders and smell the sweet lemon and the warm spices.
In the pictures I’ve seen of myself when I was little, I’m almost always holding on to a giant blue cloth doll. And smiling. A smile that’s too big for my small face.
The little girl in the closet doesn’t have her doll—and she isn’t smiling.
Something bad is happening, has happened, is about to happen. That’s why she’s hiding in the closet. It’s safer there than out in the living room with them.
“Iris, you okay?” It takes me a moment to reorient myself. Errol’s talking to me. We’re outside on Lenore’s porch, at the cast party. What was it Ms. Cameron said before? There’s no rehearsing.
“I’m okay. Just a little dizzy. I should probably sit.”
“Here, let me help you.” Errol leads me to a rattan couch that Lenore’s family must have forgotten to take in for the winter. There’s a pillow that smells like mould on it. But I need to sit.
Errol helps me. “Is that better?” he asks.
I nod to tell him it is. I want to thank him for being kind to me, but I can’t. It’s as if the memory is calling me back, asking to be remembered.
Why am I remembering that little girl—me—in the closet? How come when you try hard to remember something—like a joke you heard a long time ago and want to tell your friends—it doesn’t always work? And then other times, a memory just comes back, like the image blooming in my head? Why is the little girl so scared?
Part of me is curious and wants to go back and remember; another part doesn’t. That other part wants yellow tape around the memory—the sort of tape the police put up after there’s been a gruesome accident.
The kind that says to everyone who sees it, Danger! Keep away for your own good!
But I can’t keep away from the yellow tape.
Another picture has begun to bloom.
It’s a man—his face is blurry There’s a woman now too. Mommy. She’s wearing a long yellow sweater dress, and her hair goes past her shoulders. She has an angry face. They are both angry—so angry they have forgotten the little girl who was in the room with them. They didn’t even notice when she left to hide in the closet. There wasn’t time for her to bring her blue doll.
The little girl presses her hands tight over her ears to block out the angry noises. There, she thinks, that is better.
The picture in my head goes black. Even when I try squinting, the picture won’t come back. But there’s something else I’m remembering. Not a picture. A sound—the words to an old nursery rhyme.
This little piggy went to market.
This little piggy stayed at home.
And why, now, do I feel a painful throbbing in my ring finger—the little piggy that had none? I haven’t done anything to make it sore. I didn’t sit on it or bang it into anything.
Errol has gone back inside to get me a glass of water. When he comes back, he says, “Have a drink. It’ll make you feel better. That dope was pretty strong, and you got seriously buzzed, Iris. I’m kinda buzzed myself.”
“Thanks,” I manage to say as I take greedy gulps of the water.
I don’t tell Errol about the flashback. I need time to figure out what it means. Besides, I hardly know him.
I look at my fingers holding the water glass. The ring finger, the one that’s hurting, is fatter than the rest. It’s always been that way. Or has it?
It’s the finger that fit my father’s ring. He told me the dragon was a symbol of strength. But I took it off after Mick said he didn’t like it.
“Are you looking for something?” Errol asks when I pick up my purse from the rattan couch and start rifling through it.
“A ring. From my dad.” It’s the first time I’ve used the word dad, not father.
I have to feel around for the ring, but I finally find it. I blow the lint off it.
I slide the ring back on my finger. This time, I won’t take it off. Even if the dragon is creepy. Even if Mick doesn’t like it.
CHAPTER 27
“What is between you? Give me up the truth.”
—HAMLET, ACT 1, SCENE 3
It’s nearly 2:00 AM when Errol drops me off at Mom’s. Thank God her bedroom light is off. I let myself in as quietly as I can. But then I hear her trudging down the stairs. Even in the dark, I can feel her standing in the hall. “I know we said we’d talk tomorrow, Iris,” she says. At least she didn’t call me Iris Wagner. Maybe she’s just glad I’m home.
“Mom, I’m going straight to bed.”
“I just wanted to know you were safe.”
I let her rock me in her arms for a few seconds before I pull away. “I’m safe, Mom,” I whisper into the darkness.
I almost text Mick when I get into bed. But I’m afraid to wake him. And if he isn’t at the loft…well, I don’t want to know.
In the morning, everything’s the same. Mom and I sit at our usual table at the front of the bagel place. We have our usual breakfast: toasted sesame bagels with scrambled eggs (I wasn’t in the mood for poached), fruit salad instead of potatoes. We even have the same waitress. I help her with the cutlery.
Yet everything is different.
Somehow, I managed to sleep last night, even though my head was spinning from trying to figure things out. How much can I tell my mom about what’s going on? And why did I remember hiding in the closet? I want to ask her about that, but I’m not sure I can. And what about my father? Will I have the courage to talk to her about him?
It’s hard to know where to begin the conversation. Mostly because my mom and I don’t usually have these kinds of conversations.
Mom doesn’t know how to begin this conversation either. “You’re too thin,” she says. “Maybe you should have ordered the potatoes
.”
I pop a pale green cube of honeydew melon into my mouth. “The fruit salad tastes funny. Like it’s been sitting around too long.”
Mom tries the fruit salad. She wrinkles her nose. “I know what you mean. Let’s send it back.”
“We never send anything back. We only talk about it.”
Mom uses the back of her fork to push the rest of her fruit salad to the side of her plate. Then she clears her throat. She’s working her way up to what she’s brought me here to discuss. “Iris, the first thing I want to say is, I’m not angry with you. I’m disappointed—deeply disappointed, because I thought we had a better relationship than this—but I’m not angry, Iris.” The way she keeps saying she isn’t angry only confirms that she is.
I am wringing my paper napkin under the table. I’m sorry about disappointing her and making her angry, even if she says she isn’t.
If she realized last night that I might be angry too— and I think she did—she seems to have decided not to mention it. I’m more and more aware that not mentioning things is how Mom operates. Maybe she stuffs the things she doesn’t want to face into some closet in her brain.
“Maybe it’s my fault,” she goes on. “Maybe I haven’t made you feel you could be honest with me.”
“It’s not that. You’ve been fine. You’ve been great. Always.” When I say the words, I realize I’m doing what my mom does—smoothing things over, protecting someone else’s feelings. I don’t want her thinking she’s been a bad mother.
Mom has put down her fork and is gripping the edge of the table with both hands. “So what the fuck is going on then, Iris?”
I nearly drop my fork. I can’t believe Mom just said “fuck.” She never says “fuck.” She never even says “damn.”
Mom catches my reaction. “What do you think?” she asks me. “That I never swear?”
“If you did, I never heard you.”
“I’ve always done my best to set a good example, Iris. I’ve tried to create an environment where you could be honest with me. But now I know that hasn’t worked.” Mom shakes her head. It’s hard to know if she’s more disappointed in me or in herself.
“Like I told you last night, there’s kind of a lot of stuff going on,” I say. “It’s hard for me to talk about.”
Mom sighs. She’s not going to let me get away with not telling her what’s been going on. “Let’s start by talking about where you’ve been staying. When you haven’t been staying at Katie’s. I take it there’s a boy involved.”
“It’s not a boy.”
Mom looks at me really hard. “You’re gay?”
That makes me laugh. Maybe I also laugh because I’m tense from holding so much in. “It’s a man. Not a boy.”
“A man?”
“Try not to shout, Mom. We’re in a public place.”
“How old is this man exactly, Iris?”
“He’s thirty-one.”
“Thirty-one?” The color drains out of Mom’s face. “My God, Iris, are you insane? This…this man is more than a decade older than you are.”
I understand Mom is upset that I’ve been keeping something like this from her, and that Mick is fourteen years older than me. But for the first time I wonder if maybe she is jealous. She’s always said she didn’t have time for a boyfriend. Not between raising me and running her business.
“That’s why I didn’t tell you. I knew you’d freak out. But Mom, what you need to understand is…we really love each other. And you can’t talk me out of it.”
Mom shakes her head. “A fourteen-year age difference— at your age—well, it’s huge. It’s practically a lifetime. You’re still a child, Iris.”
“No, I’m not. And you have to stop treating me like one.”
Mom is not listening. “How did you meet this man anyhow?”
“Through theater.” I can feel the words sitting in the air between us.
“I see.” She adjusts her knees as if that will make it easier for her to say what she wants to say next. “Unfortunately, I know exactly what a man of thirty-one would want with a seventeen-year-old.”
“You don’t understand. The age difference doesn’t mean anything to me.” I correct myself. “To us.”
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Iris: seventeen-year-olds don’t know the first thing about life—or relationships.”
“That isn’t true. I know something about life.” I’m trying to make her understand what it is I know. “I’m learning,” I say. It’s the best I can come up with.
Mom nods. It’s more a giving-up than an agreeing-with nod. “Well then, all I can say is, that I want to meet this manfriend of yours. As soon as possible.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her she’s already met him.
So I don’t say anything. Instead, I run my fingertip over my plate to pick up the last few sesame seeds. That’s when Mom notices my dragon ring. “That ring,” she says. “Is it from him?”
I shake my head. I’m tired of telling lies. I’m tired of keeping track of the lies I’ve already told.
I’ve been looking for a way to talk to her about my father—my dad. “You know what you said before about seventeen-year-olds not knowing anything about relationships? Were you remembering when you were this age?”
Mom rubs her forehead. I don’t want her to start feeling sick, but I can’t keep waiting for a better time to have this conversation.
“Weren’t you seventeen when you met my father?”
“That isn’t what I meant.” Mom hasn’t answered my questions. I can’t see her hands. Is she playing with her napkin now?
“I was at this party last night and I…” I have to be careful not to tell Mom too much about the party. She’d freak out about the weed. Mom thinks smoking up once means you’re headed straight for crack addiction. “I started remembering something that happened…a really long time ago. When my father was still around.”
Mom crosses her arms across her chest.
“I remembered hiding in a closet.”
Mom shuts her eyes, then opens them again. She reaches across the table for my hand. I let her take it. I wonder if she’s always noticed that one of my fingers is fatter than the rest. “Oh Iris,” she whispers. “I always hoped you wouldn’t remember. You were so little when he left.”
These are always the words Mom uses when she talks about my father. That he left us. But now I understand that that may not be how it really went. “You kicked him out, didn’t you? You made him go.”
Mom nods but doesn’t volunteer any more information.
“What did he do that was so bad?” I can almost feel the floor shift under me. It’s the question I’ve never dared ask her.
“I didn’t have a choice,” Mom says. “He nearly ruined us.” Mom’s voice is so quiet, it’s hard for me to hear her over the buzz of conversation around us. “I’ve told you before he had terrible problems with money…” Mom’s voice catches in her throat, and I know she doesn’t want to tell me more.
But I need to know. Even if it’s hard for her. “But what did he do exactly?” I ask, prompting her. “Max out your credit cards?” In Economics, the teacher warned us about the dangers of credit-card debt and how even before we graduate from university, credit-card companies will be fighting for our business.
Mom bites her lip. Whatever happened was worse than credit-card debt.
The waitress offers to refill our coffee. Mom wants more. She takes forever to peel the cover from the little plastic cream container. Then she stirs the coffee, first in one direction, then the other. She looks at me. “Maybe the reason you’ve fallen for some inappropriate older man is because your father’s out of the picture.”
“M—” I stop myself just in time from saying Mick’s name. “He isn’t inappropriate.” I must be raising my voice, because a man at the next table turns to look at me. “Did you ever think that not telling me about my dad…well, maybe that wasn’t the best idea? Maybe there were too many secrets in our house.
Too many things we could never talk about. So he lost a lot of money. Our money. It’s not the end of the world. We got through it.”
“It wasn’t just our money,” Mom whispers.
I don’t know what she means. “Whose money was it?”
“Lots of people’s money. My parents’ money. The neighbors who lived on our street, people we’d gone to school with…pretty much everyone we knew. Yes, your father had credit-card debt, but that was the least of it. That we could have dealt with. But there was more—your father talked other people into investing their money with him. He lost nearly three million dollars—of other people’s money.” I picture my father’s smile when she says that. The kind of smile that would make people like him, trust him. “Some of that money went into bad investments.” Mom stops to take a breath. I can tell it’s hard for her to go on, but she does. “He gambled the rest of it away. At high-stakes private card games, at the casino. He kept promising me he’d stop the gambling, that he’d get professional help, but he never did. He was addicted to the thrill. I couldn’t live with that.”
“He gambled away three million dollars?” It’s such a large amount, I can’t get my mind around it. “Is that why he’s not allowed in the country?”
Mom nods. “That and the fact that he still owes a fortune to Revenue Canada. At least they didn’t come after us for that.”
“Mom,” I say, looking right at her. I swallow hard. “I saw him.”
“Saw who?”
“Him. My father. My dad.”
Mom rubs her belly with both hands. How could her stomach be hurting so soon?
“What are you talking about, Iris?”
“We’ve been in touch. On Facebook and over the telephone. We met up in Plattsburgh. In October.”
“In October?” Mom’s voice breaks. “And you didn’t tell me?”
So Much It Hurts Page 16