Girl in Shades

by Allison Baggio

Steven, I’m practically buck naked, I said, pulling my comforter up to hide my nightgown.

  Oh sorry. He turned around while I slipped a Trent sweatshirt over my matted hair.

  So what was it you were saying, Steven?

  I said, what’s going on? I want to know. All of it.

  Nothing’s going on, Steven. I told you I have the flu.

  Bullshit!

  Steven, quiet, my mother is down the hall. I’ll tell you if you sit down first. He sat on the corner of the bed. I noticed that he had taken off his shoes before coming in the house and that his socks were bleached white (by his mother, I’m sure).

  Tell me, he said again, his voice shaking like a thin branch in the wind.

  Steven, I don’t have the flu.

  What’s wrong then?

  I’m just stressed out from school.

  I don’t believe you. Tell me now or I’ll leave here and you’ll never see me again.

  His threat was so dramatic that it scared me. Not that I was scared to be without him, but I think I was just scared to be without anyone. So, before I could stop myself, I started to tell him. The other night, when we were supposed to go out to dinner and . . .

  Go on.

  The other night, I wasn’t there when you came to pick me up because I went out with another man.

  What?! He stood up then, with his fingertips on his temples like someone had just screamed fire.

  Steven, sit down. (He did.) I’m sorry but I didn’t know what else to do.

  What do you mean?

  There has been this weird sort of distance between us. For the longest time now, it’s just not like it was when we first started going out.

  You should have talked to me about it. (His voice quivered when he said it.) I don’t want to lose you, Marigold.

  You haven’t lost me, Steven. I’m still here.

  I took his hand and looked in his eyes, trying to mean it, and before I knew it, I felt the tears forming a blockage in my throat. Must swallow, I thought.

  Oh, Marigold, he said. We’ll get through this. (He hugged me. I have to say, he looked decent.)

  I grabbed on to him because he was all I had.

  Oh, Steven, I’m sorry. (I am sorry, in a way.)

  Mari, you just have to tell me one thing. I don’t care who he is, or why, I just want to know, is it over between you?

  Yes, I said. (This I knew for sure.) Yes, it’s all over. I started to cry even harder after saying this.

  Good, now we can start over.

  I’m sorry, Steven.

  We rocked back and forth as we held each other, an innocent sort of rock, like two friends greeting each other after being away all summer. Only it’s almost December.

  And now he’s gone home. And I’m alone again, still in bed. I’m starting to think about washing myself — getting rid of the last of Amar living inside me — starting over.

  I will do it as soon as I can shove the rest of this guilt down my throat.

  December 14, 1972

  I’ve showered and started going to my classes again. I’ve got a final exam in five days that I need to prepare for, and a paper I need to write on Jane Austen and the complexity of relationships in Sense and Sensibility.

  I’ll show her complex relationships.

  Steven held my hand today in the Student Centre. Something about it felt safe and maybe like I could stop worrying about whether Amar was ever going to come back. Like maybe I could just be happy.

  All this time pretending to have the flu and I think I have created it for myself. I feel like crap. This morning I had to leave class to go sit on the toilet. Disgusting. I have a cold cloth on my temple right now, but I don’t think I have a fever. I’m sure this will pass, like all things.

  Steven wants to know where I got the butterfly bracelets I’m wearing. I told him I’d had them forever.

  December 19, 1972

  The very worst thing that could have happened — has just happened. I came back today from writing my exam, tired, of course, and not wanting to deal with any more shit, and what do I find? Mother. Sitting at the kitchen table with her forehead resting on the palms of her hands.

  She had just cooked a plate of chocolate fudge, and the sweetness in the air made it seem insane that she would be upset about anything.

  Then I saw it.

  My notebook (this one) was sitting on the table in front of her. Closed, but I knew it had not always been. She looked up at me like I had just been given a death sentence, her face red and blotchy from where her hands had been pushing.

  Marigold, how could you? She sung the words like a sad song and I freaked.

  What the hell are you doing?! I reached for my notebook and she grabbed it in her hands. I had to dig my fingernails into the fleshy part beside her thumb to get her to loosen her grip. This is none of your business! I yelled at her.

  Marigold, you have brought great shame on your family.

  Fuck you.

  I am glad your father is not alive to see this.

  I took my book and went to my room. Why did she have to bring up Dad? It’s not like he chose to get cancer. I’m sure if he had a choice he would have chosen to be here to see this. He would have chosen to be here with me, instead of wherever the hell he is now.

  We haven’t spoken all night, Mother and I. And we probably never will.

  December 22, 1972

  I’ve started throwing up in the mornings. Not a lot, just enough to fill the base of the sink after I brush my teeth. I don’t think Mother has heard me, and even if she did, she would probably not ask me why or try to help me. I swear to God she has disowned me. Nothing I could do could make her forgive me. She cries while she dusts the television.

  I’m pretty sure I’m pregnant. I feel this vague blob of sickness in me all day long, and it’s not just from the heartache of losing the only guy who has every really moved me to my core.

  I’m only a week late but I can feel Amar growing inside me, the part of him he left. And I wonder if he can feel it too? Does he know he can never escape it, or me? We will always be tied now, which feels quite nice actually — like he’s still here.

  December 23, 1972

  Christmas depresses me. I don’t know why Mother even bothers putting up a tree, it’s not like we’re going to celebrate anything — not with Dad gone only three years and things the way they are.

  I went to the doctor yesterday, the clinic on George Street. I know it’s early but I have to know for sure.

  I’m twenty, I told the nurse.

  No, I’m not married, Doctor Whatever-the-hell-your-name-is.

  I winced when they drew the blood, like I was losing pieces of him, or showing him to the world.

  I have been thinking a lot about the things he said that night. About life and happiness and all that shit. I think there might be something to it all. I’m going to try reading the Bhagavad Gita he gave me. I think if I can figure it out, I can figure him out. And that makes me feel like he is still here. I want to keep searching like he said, make sense of it all. I want to find out how to be happy. I want to be a good person — the kind of person that doesn’t sleep with someone she hardly knows.

  They are calling me with the results tomorrow. How much you want to bet that Mother is the one to pick up the phone?

  December 24, 1972

  Christmas is cancelled. I made it to the phone on the first ring yesterday but Mother was standing right there and my face could not hide the shock of the truth.

  It’s true.

  My eyes filled as soon as the nurse told me and I still can’t figure out whether they were tears of joy or sadness. Could it be both? It’s strangely comforting to have this little Amar growing inside me — a better souvenir of him than damn bracelets that’s for sure.

  So I hung up the pho
ne and Mother asked me right away what was wrong.

  Nothing, I told her. Nothing is wrong.

  Why are you crying then? She was wearing yellow rubber gloves and scrubbing the kitchen sink with Javex.

  I just found out some news is all. I felt my knees give out then and I started to sink towards the ground.

  Then she started to lecture me: Marigold, you tell me right this instance what is going on. Is it that coloured man? Are you still seeing him? What about Steven, Marigold? Steven is a perfectly lovely young man and if you ask me (I didn’t), he would make you very, very happy. And happiness is not something that the good Lord gives to everyone. In fact, I don’t think you even deserve it anymore . . . there was a time, yes, but now, with all the carrying on you have been doing, why, I think you deserve something much worse. I don’t want to say hell, but maybe something close. Maybe something almost as uncomfortable as hell, maybe some place like that would suit you —

  I’m pregnant, okay.

  Her yellow hands froze in the air by her face, like some sort of screwed-up flower with rubber petals.

  Excuse me? She stretched the two words out as long as possible to delay the time before I had to say it again.

  I’m pregnant, and it’s the coloured man’s baby.

  After this, hell truly did break loose. Panting and pacing and wailing (all from Mother). Things were thrown, pans, a casserole dish, the kitchen clock, potatoes from a bowl. I got through it all without crying, the only part of me showing my fear was my hands, which were twitching. I left through the back door and went to the only place I could think of. I went to Steven’s house.

  When I knocked on the front door, Steven’s mother and father were sitting in the living room watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show in the dark. Through their picture window, I could see their faces reflecting the dancing colour from the television set.

  Why, Marigold darling, what a nice surprise, his mother said when she pushed the door open. She flipped on the light to reveal a foyer of cardboard boxes that made me remember — Steven’s parents are moving out to PEI next week. Mr. Devine is retiring from the police force and they have bought a house on the ocean. Steven is moving into campus residence.

  Is Steven here, Mrs. Devine?

  Yes, he’s here, upstairs studying. Mrs. Devine’s chestnut hair was pulled back off her tired face into a bun. Her blue eyes were calm.

  Can I go up?

  You go right ahead. Nice to see you, Marigold.

  She sat back down beside Mr. Devine in the darkened living room lit up by the flashing colour from their television. I pounded up the stairs. I opened his door and saw him there, at his desk, pen in hand, looking into his wall like he was trying to remember something important.

  Steven! I ran to him and put my arms around him from behind. Steven, I said again, softer this time.

  Marigold, what happened? he asked. He turned around in his seat and hugged me and that was when I started to cry.

  Steven, I love you.

  I love you too, Mari. You know that.

  How much do you love me, Steven?

  As much as there ever was or ever will be.

  Steven, I messed up.

  Whatever it is, Mari, it’s okay. I’m here.

  Are you sure? He nodded and I exploded.

  I let it go too far with that other man, Steven. I got stoned. And we had sex with each other. He released his hug on me and instead gripped me by the shoulders.

  What? he said with his eyebrows scrunching together.

  I’m going to have a baby, Steven. I’m having another man’s baby and I need your help. I need you to be here for me.

  Steven said nothing. In my mind he said, Of course I will be here for you, Mari, we all make mistakes. But out loud he said nothing, only looked down at the floor like a wounded deer.

  After three minutes he spoke: I think you should go.

  But Steven, I can’t go home now. My mother found out and she is furious.

  You have to go now, Mari. I can’t talk about this yet.

  He walked me downstairs and we stood at the door for a second.

  Marigold! Steven’s younger sister, Leah, ran at me and attached herself around my legs.

  Hi Leah. Leah, I have to go now. Leah, you’ll have to let me go now.

  But I don’t want you to go, let’s go play, she said, her bottom lip jutting out, her pudgy hands grabbing the backs of my knees.

  No, I’m going now, Leah. Sorry.

  Bye, Mari, Mrs. Devine said from the living room.

  I left them all there. I left them all and walked home.

  Mother was curled on the kitchen floor in a mess of broken dishes and slopped food. I know she’s alive because I could see her back rising and falling. I went upstairs.

  It’s amazing to me that one mistake could cause so much upset.

  December 28, 1972

  I’m engaged to Steven.

  Yes, I know it’s pretty unbelievable — one, that he would ask, and two, that I would accept. But he did and I did.

  On Boxing Day he showed up at my door. Mother was locked in her room and I was flipping through channels, wrapped gifts still laid out around my feet. I was feeling nauseated and had been sucking the salt off saltine crackers for about an hour when he knocked.

  I opened the back door right away. He was wet because it had been snowing a sort of slush and apparently he hadn’t cared to use an umbrella or cover himself up in any way. He didn’t say anything when he saw me, just held one of my hands with his, and put his other one on my belly.

  I smiled tentatively, like I didn’t know yet what it meant.

  Marigold, I love you, he said.

  Thanks, Steven.

  And my love for you is enough to get over this.

  It is? I said.

  I want you to marry me, Marigold (he was on his knee by that time). I don’t have a ring, but I have something else to show you how serious I am.

  He took off his jacket and lifted up his shirt. I started to wonder then if he had been drinking. And there, on his bare chest, over his heart, was my name — Mari — tattooed on his skin.

  I reached out to touch it, still bloody and scabbing and gasped, Steven, what did you do?

  It’s for you. It’s all for you. I will help you through this.

  I kissed him soft on the lips, but not before I said yes, because well, there really wasn’t any other answer to give. I need a father for my baby. I need someone to support me when I drop out of school. I need to find a way to make my mother proud of me again. I guess it doesn’t matter that I am sort of in love with someone else. A phantom.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  This afternoon, with Buffy out developing photos and Aunt Leah getting the groceries, I sat on Buffy’s bed and read the rest of my mother’s journal.

  And now I know.

  It’s a lot to learn at one time. My father is not my father. And somewhere, maybe in India, lives the real man who made my mother pregnant the first time.

  I get up from Buffy’s bed and go back into the living room, stuffing the notebook back into the picnic basket beside my couch. I know I have to get out of here.

  Tripping over my boots, I leave the apartment and exit onto St. Clair Avenue. Noise. Cars are blowing smoke into my face. Honking. The sky is criss-crossed with thick black wires, and a streetcar rattles by. I zip up my white parka and pull down my scratchy wool hat over my ears.

  I don’t know which way to walk. I sit on the front step of Aunt Leah’s building, looking west towards Oakwood Avenue. I’m still not sure if I believe that instead of having one missing father, I actually have two. There’s a video store across the street with a sign flashing the word “OPEN” in pink. Open, open, open. It’s imprinting on my eyeballs. I shift my gaze to watch a family of three walk by in front of me. The
y are black and dressed in clothes that seem like they were purchased at the Goodwill, but assembled in a fashionable sort of way. The father is tall and broad, walking with arms crossed over his winter jacket. He’s wearing some large gold rings on his meaty fingers and doesn’t seem to care what his wife and daughter are doing behind him. The woman has an afro and is pulling a little girl in a pink coat down the street, annoyed that she wants to stop and pick up pebbles or look at my suede boots.

  “Yoo-hoo, Maya!”

  I see Aunt Leah getting out of a brown car across the street. She waves, turns to say goodbye to the person in the car and walks in my direction.

  “Hey, Maya darling, what’s shaking?” She is wearing a long skirt and platform heels and no jacket. She has huge hoop earrings in her ears.

  “Where’re the groceries?”

  “Changed my mind, I thought maybe it would be best if we went together. I have no idea what you like to eat.”

  “I know about my father.”

  “Know what?” She cocks her head like she’s got water stuck in her ear.

  “That he’s not. My father, that is.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, of course he is.” She sits down beside me on the stoop, her legs stretched out and crossed under her long skirt, her arms wrapped around her.

  “Why did you lie to me?” I say this quietly to avoid the ugliness in the words.

  “What?”

  “I know he’s not my father. I read my mother’s journal. My real father is some dude who walked out on her. I am even more of an orphan than I thought.”

  “Where did you get it?” She is looking across the street now, into the video store where there is one kid doing nothing behind a counter.

  “I found it in Mother’s closet. You’re not my real aunt.”

  “You will always be my niece.”

  “So it’s true!” I point at her, my finger almost touching her eyeball.

  “Maya, I only wanted to protect you and your family.”

  “How was that protecting us?”

  “It was a web of lies with different layers, and I was not going to be the one to bust them all open.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”