Girl in Shades

by Allison Baggio

  “Be careful how you use that,” she said and smiled a little bit, like a skeleton looking for candy on Halloween. Then she touched my hand, stroked it, and a tiny tear dropped from her eye.

  When my father arrived, he had sweat on his temples, in his hair, and in the armpits of his white dress shirt.

  “Let me sit there,” he said to me.

  I scowled at him with my eyes, as if to say “this is my spot,” but when I heard him thinking that this was his last chance, I moved from the chair beside my mother’s bed, to the window. I looked out at the sun heating up the afternoon. There were people in the parking lot of the hospital. They were standing in a circle, praying, and a cameraman was filming them.

  “Steven,” my mother said then. “I’m sorry.”

  “You just rest now, Mari.”

  “I didn’t deserve you.”

  Outside, the people were swaying with their arms up in the air and hugging each other. One woman seemed like she was crying and another woman was rubbing her back. They had all sorts of beautiful colours melting into the air above them: turquoise, grape, sparkling mauve — the colours of goodness and caring.

  “I wasn’t a very good husband,” my father said then, inhaling the words with his nose after they came out. “I tried, but I just . . . you sleep for a while now.”

  “You were as good as you could be,” she told him. From the corner of my eye I saw him stand up over her. “Live for you now,” she said in a whisper. “Like you should have in the first place.” My father leaned down, kissed her on her nose, and walked out of the room. This left only my mother and me.

  I will never forget the peaceful sort of stillness that descended into the room when the end came. It was like a thick fog that no longer let me see out. For a moment, I remember thinking that something that feels like that must be all right. But of course, I couldn’t tell anyone — they would never believe me.

  And that is the complete story of how my mother died.

  This may be exactly how things happened, or maybe not quite. I promise everything is how I remember it, but perspective is a strange beast — totally shaping what we think we know. Either way, I had to write it all in here. To remember my mother for what she was, what she tried to be, and what everyone else hoped she could be. To say goodbye to her. To move on.

  And now, after so much writing, and so little eating, drinking, or sleeping, I will put my pen down and rest. It’s done. And it hardly hurts anymore.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I wait in Conrad’s musty-smelling Buick on the side of the road — just behind the street in Cabbagetown where we will be performing. I’m pretty sure that Mrs. Roughen has put too much makeup on my face. The blue eye shadow, black mascara, and ruby lips must be what are making me feel so pathetic. Pathetic and repulsive — and only because this whole thing is so unlike myself. Who would believe that I, Maya Devine, at sixteen and only having had sex that one time, could be some sort of a magic vixen. There is nothing magic or vixen-like about me.

  I can’t believe I’ve agreed to do this. And as the minutes tick on since Conrad left, I feel increasingly more upset about going onstage. Aunt Leah will be here, I tell myself. And Buffy. And maybe Elijah if he’s got around to it — although after the fight we had last time I saw him, I sincerely doubt it.

  He said I was spending too much time practising the trick with Conrad down in the basement. He accused me of “blowing him off” now that we live in the same house. Complained that we see each other less than we used to. I ignored him. Said I didn’t have time to think about it until after the festival. And if you ask me, it’s him blowing me off now that we’ve done it. Even Mrs. Roughen says he can be difficult sometimes. Whatever. I don’t need him, really.

  My practice sessions with Conrad always went the same: I got into the box, he did up the buckles, he sawed, he separated, I saw the red-heeled feet that weren’t mine, he said “ta-da,” spun me around, and then put me back together. Then we did it again.

  “I think it’s so great that you’re helping me out,” he told me. “And I can assure you, once you get in front of the crowd, it will all be worth it.”

  He smiled a sort of lopsided smile when he said it — like my father sometimes did — and for a second, made me think that grey hair can actually look quite distinguished on an older man.

  I look into the rearview mirror, wiping off a black line of mascara that has smeared onto my eyelid. I see a red halo around my head. A protective red barrier of fear and ego. I smooth my hands over it, hoping it will just go away and that no one else will see it — see into me.

  “It’s a go!” Conrad screams out suddenly, appearing on the other side of the windshield glass in his black cape and tall hat. “First act went great, and your bit is up next!”

  He helps me out of the car and I nearly trip on the long aqua gown with the slit that he has made me wear. It’s a cloudy end of summer day. Muggy. And it feels like it might start raining at any moment.

  Conrad takes my hand and leads me through a small alley, under a black curtain, up a short flight of stairs, and onto the stage.

  There are people out there — lots of them. But I don’t look at anyone directly. At this point, I still prefer to watch the mingling of light above their heads and to listen to their mildly annoying inner voices. Get this show moving! Gosh, I hope the second half is not as bad as the first. Who does this guy think he is? Why are we even having a break? What’s coming on next? I wonder if they are any hot dogs left down the street?

  It’s a street festival, so there is a lot of competition for people’s attention, and I can tell they might not be around long. To appease them once onstage, I throw my hands up in the hair and put on a huge fake smile like I’m important.

  “And this,” Conrad announces into his microphone. “Is the marvelous Maya!” There is a small round of applause and a familiar voice that seems to be thinking nice thoughts about me — I choose to ignore it.

  My stomach buzzes with butterflies as I limp on red heels to Conrad’s black body box where I am supposed to lie down. He helps me in. He buckles up the box as planned. The audience gasps — I can tell they are getting more interested.

  “And now, I will perform the impossible. I will cut this girl, my own daughter, in half, in front of your very eyes.”

  His daughter? I think.

  Conrad lifts his blade into the air and starts sawing into the box.

  Since I know how this next part will go, I allow myself to turn my head and look into the eyes of those watching me. Many of them are sitting on little fold-up chairs like the ones parents use for card games in their basements. The chairs — about twenty of them — have been arranged into neat rows and are filled with men, women, and young children in shorts and baseball hats.

  I quickly spot Aunt Leah. She’s in the third row with Buffy on the chair to her left. It’s a comfort to see them. But then I see who they’ve brought with them.

  He’s there to their right. He’s smiling tentatively. And beside him, is her. Her long, raven-black hair, her red lips are like I remember. They’re holding hands.

  It’s then that I feel the warmth flowing up over my shins, soaking into my satin dress. It’s then that I know that magic is not always foolproof. Not if someone does not lie still enough.

  “Father?” I say before everything turns black.

  When I wake up, there are two people around me on the Emergency room stretcher: Mrs. Roughen and my mother. My mother’s face is white and translucent, while Mrs. Roughen’s is harsh and real. My mother smiles from a few inches higher, but Mrs. Roughen has a crinkled forehead and her lips are inside her mouth.

  “Maya, how do you feel?” She asks me. My mother says nothing.

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re in the hospital, dear. There was an accident at the magic show. The doctor says the blade only grazed
your leg, but the shock of it combined with the heat in the box must have caused you to lose consciousness.”

  “My mother’s here,” I say. Mrs. Roughen raises her eyebrows and pats me on the hand.

  “Yes, Maya, I’m sure your mother is always with you. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “And my father, I saw my father, when I was trapped in the box.”

  “We’ll talk about that later, Maya. Now, you just need to rest.”

  When I wake up again, Aunt Leah stands over me.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have invited him.”

  I choose instead to look down at the floor tile, aqua like my dress, cracked and stained.

  “It’s just that he really wanted to see you — it’s been so long, Maya.”

  I scowl at her, but not really because of what she’s saying, mostly because of what she’s thinking: I should have never listened to Elijah.

  “Let him have his new family,” I say with a straight sort of seriousness.

  “But he still wants to see you.” Aunt Leah’s brown hair is messed up like she’s been pulling at it. “He’s waiting downstairs.”

  “Don’t you get it? He left me alone for months, Leah. A little kid, alone!”

  She doesn’t say anything, just looks down at me with shocked, sad eyes. I turn towards the wall — which is how I stay until Mrs. Roughen and Conrad arrive to take me home.

  They set me up on the couch. I have a bandage wrapped around my calf, with padding on my shin. I still feel light-headed. Conrad sits his large bottom on the corner of the couch, rubbing his chin.

  “I don’t know whether the blade caught the incorrect grove, or if it slipped or what. You know that it was never meant to cut you, they aim to the sides, not down.”

  “It’s not your fault. I was wiggling around too much. I freaked out.”

  “But we were so well practised.” He looks away towards the window, brushing the hair from his forehead and rocking his pear-shaped body.

  Mrs. Roughen makes me hot dogs and green Kool-Aid for dinner. She puts the plate and cup on the coffee table in front of me even though I tell her I’m fine to eat at the kitchen table.

  “I’m feeling a lot better now actually,” I say.

  “You take all the time you need,” Mrs. Roughen says. “You will need your energy for tomorrow.”

  “What’s tomorrow?”

  “We’re taking you to visit with your father, Maya.” I sit up on the couch.

  “I already told Aunt Leah I don’t want to see him.”

  “Aunt Leah explained to me all that happened after your mother died, and while I know what he’s done is horrendous, Maya, you need to see him, for closure’s sake.”

  “I have enough closure, thank you.”

  “I’m sorry, but you have no say in the matter. Tomorrow morning we are taking you to your father’s hotel room. It’s what your mother would have wanted.”

  “You have no idea what she would have wanted!” I scream at her.

  I stand up, throw my comforter to the floor, and limp up to my bedroom.

  Elijah is in his room, sitting on his bed leafing through a music magazine with MC Hammer on the cover. He looks over when he hears me.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “You?”

  “Doing just great,” he says and looks back at the magazine, thumbing through its pages.

  Screw him.

  I go into my makeshift room — with my pyjamas spread out on the guest comforter, my bags still in the corner.

  I take my mother’s copy of the Bhagavad Gita off the bookshelf and open it to any page, like we used to do to try and pretend we were different than we were. “The sovereign soul of him who lives self-governed and at peace is centered in itself, taking alike pleasure and pain; heat, cold; glory and shame.”

  And then, I know what I’m going to do.

  I pack my things back up during the night while everyone sleeps. I put crystals, clothes, bottles, letters, journal back into paper bags and the picnic basket.

  In the morning I make it official. “I’m going back to live with Aunt Leah and Buffy because I do not want to see my father.”

  Mrs. Roughen stares at me. She’s got old eye shadow crusting in the corners of her eyelids.

  “Well, Maya. I had no idea that this was the kind of person you were. Shirking responsibility, giving up when the going gets tough.”

  “I guess I’m just the kind of person who knows what she wants.”

  Like mother, like daughter, I hear her think, and she leaves me on the front step. Conrad comes out and sits beside me. He says nothing but puts his hand on my knee. Luckily, I’m wearing jeans.

  “Maya, don’t listen to her, she’s just upset that it didn’t work out.” His hand starts moving back and forth across my knee cap. “Don’t worry. I have met the true Maya. You are sweet and kind and always willing to help out.”

  My eyes sweat with tears at his words. I turn my head towards him. “Thank you for saying that, Conrad, it really means a lot to—”

  His lips land on mine — dry and prickly. He sticks me with his tongue.

  “Stop!” I scream at him, pushing him off at the shoulders.

  He winks at me and does a little salute. I go out to the sidewalk to wait for Aunt Leah. Soon, Elijah joins me.

  “You’re taking this all a bit far, aren’t you? You just moved in, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Nice language,” I say.

  “Listen, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told Leah to invite him. I wasn’t being what you would call a big person. I guess I wanted to hurt you the way you are hurting me.”

  “Whatever.”

  “But Maya, I really do, you know . . . love you.” His dark hair is flat on his forehead. He’s got something white in the corner of his mouth. Despite how macho I find him, he reminds me of a little boy. A little boy drowning in a black lake, begging me to help him.

  “Sorry” is all I say as I gather my stuff and bring it down to the curb. I look back at him like he is a collection of molecules that have separated, leaving only empty space. I already miss where he used to be.

  Aunt Leah arrives in a cab like she said she would after I called in the morning. I told her then that I refused to see him because he’s not my real father anyway, and that he should have told me the truth about who I was. I told her that I wanted to come home.

  She smiles when I open the car door and calmly helps me load my baggage in the trunk. She puts her arm around me in the back seat when we drive.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  My last two years of high school pass like a frantic dream. I interest myself in nothing but textbooks, English homework, 7 a.m. wake-up alarms, and pencils with the eraser ends rubbed down to nothing. I take classes all through the summers. I work harder than I’ve ever worked at anything to finish all my OACs, and soon, it’s 1991 and I’m seventeen and about to graduate early.

  “So Maya, do you think you’ll go to university?” Buffy asks one night after dinner. Our apartment has filled with smoke from the fish sticks I fried up in a pan. Although Buffy can’t see how smoky the air looks, I’m sure she can smell the smoke better than anyone. I wave my hands in front of my face before answering her.

  “Don’t know.”

  “You really should think about it.”

  Buffy has finished her degree but is having a difficult time getting work as a photographer. “I’ll just have to let my portfolio speak for itself” is what she has been saying, and luckily she has a father who will support her until the world can accept a blind girl taking pictures. Ever since Buffy finished university last year, she has been mind-talking less and less at night. It’s as if with school done her mind is finally quieting down.

  I miss the things I used to hear throughout the apartment
. Three weeks before her final exam, I heard her going on for almost an hour about how we need to be courageous almost more than anything. And that even though life seems to suck you down to the bottom sometimes, you should simply observe what is happening and go on. Go on, feel depressed. Just don’t resist it, she had said. What you resist goes on and on.

  So when Buffy asks me about university, I’m anxious to hear what she thinks.

  “I think I might take some time off first,” I say to Buffy.

  “Interesting idea,” she says, removing her glasses and rubbing her fingertips over her eyes and then through her red hair. “But it’s hard to go back afterwards.”

  “I’ll do what I need to do.” My voice emerges like a slow-moving snake, thick, close to the earth, in no big hurry.

  “I just want you to be happy, Maya,” Buffy says.

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you ever think about Elijah?”

  I’m surprised when her question stings. “No, he’s got some new girl.”

  “Sorry that whole thing didn’t work out. I know you really liked him.”

  This is one of the first conversations Buffy and I have had alone for a while. Mainly because I haven’t felt much like talking to anyone and Aunt Leah is usually around to pick up my slack. Tonight she’s working late at the Tower and I agreed to cook.

  “You seem like you’ve been so down,” Buffy says, but I don’t respond. Instead, I chomp fish sticks off the end of my fork and exhale all the air from my lungs. “I just wish I could make you see that life is meant to be lived.”

  “I’m still living,” I say, getting up from the table and going to the kitchen to put my dish in the sink. I comb my fingers through my hair and look back at the table. Buffy looks so small sitting there; her feet barely touch the ground. I am amazed by what wisdom can come in small packages.