Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem.

by Camille Nagasaki

  Where did he even come from?

  “How did this happen?” he demands, eyes blazing into mine.

  Is he accusing me?

  “How should I know? We’re here for only a few hours and already you’re trying to kill us!”

  “Kill you? More like kill me. In all my years, I’ve never had a fire. And now! Well, you must be some psycho pyromaniac.”

  “Oh please! I have better things to do with my time than get my kicks at watching things burn.”

  “Are you intoxicated?”

  “Of course not.”

  The fireman who spoke with us before races over.

  “Is this the man you had previously thought to be inside?” he asks.

  “Yes, I am the owner of this home. Retired Admiral George Harris.”

  Well, whoopty doo.

  “Sir, may I ask where you’ve been?”

  “Piper and I went for our nightly walk.”

  “Who’s Piper?” I chime in. George gives me a nasty look, then lifts his black shoulder bag to the fireman, revealing a mesh window. We peer through the window, and two yellow eyes peer back.

  “It’s a cat!” Margo squeals. The fireman asks a few more questions and retreats back inside. By now the flames we had seen before are gone, and things appear to be under control.

  After nodding off on the boulevard with both girls curled up against me, I’m gently awoken. I open my eyes to find one of the other firemen at my side. His face is stained with black soot and he looks like he’s been to hell and back, but his brown eyes are warm and his approach is gentle. I notice too, it’s already dawn. We’ve spent the entire night outside. I shiver, damp to the core from the dew, and I draw the blanket closer.

  “Ma’am, how are you feeling?”

  It takes me a moment to find my bearings, and the memories of the fire come rushing back. “I’m all right, thanks.”

  “Ma’am, under normal circumstances, an extensive evaluation occurs before residents are allowed to return to the premises. Evaluations would cover everything from testing for asbestos, to analyzing if structural damage occurred to the integrity of the house.”

  “Well, how long is that going to take?” I ask, panic rising.

  “It could be anywhere from three days to two weeks, or longer.”

  “Are you kidding me? Two weeks. Where the hell are we supposed to go?”

  “Well, ma’am. Here’s the unbelievably good part. It appears as though the fire was entirely contained within the bathroom parameters and damage is nothing more than superficial. Aside from some minimal damage to the tiles and drywall, and some sacrificial linens, you’ve been given the OK to return immediately. Though, of course, in the case of any fire, you are all very lucky to have escaped unscathed.”

  I shudder at the thought of what could have been, but am equally baffled by our good fortune to not have to couch surf at Billy’s for two weeks.

  “Additionally,” the firefighter continues, “we’ve identified the source of the fire.”

  This piques my interest, and I momentarily forget about being homeless with two kids.

  Did crazy old George leave the stove on? Maybe he lit his dentures on fire, mistaking them for his pipe.

  “And?” I ask, waiting for more.

  “A fire log was burning in the attic hearth and some of the embers fell through the floor of the fireplace. It appears as though there were some floor tiles missing.”

  Holy shit, Billy’s literal housewarming present almost burned down the entire house. But how was he to know? If anything, it’s George’s fault for not ensuring the fireplace’s safety in the first place, just like that bloody fire escape. Ohhh!

  “I have something I need to show you,” I inform the fireman. I shake Margo awake and hoist Rory onto my shoulder. With that, I march around to the back of the house, leading the curious firefighter. Take that George!

  “TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS!”

  Ugh, George is so close I can feel the spit flying from his wrinkled old mouth. It’s midday, and we’ve all napped the morning away. Unfortunately, our peaceful breakfast was rudely disturbed by George, as, for some reason, he’s decided I’m the person to blame for letting his house disintegrate. I tilt my head to the side and stare at him. His face is so red I think a heart attack is just about a given. He continues screaming as he paces back and forth on my newly exposed hardwood.

  Please—old men can be so dramatic.

  “It’s not like you don’t have the money, Admiral.”

  George continues ranting; he doesn’t even see me. He wants only to hear his own crotchety voice. He stamps his foot and seems to hold his breath. He’s getting redder by the second.

  “You all right, there?” I feel mildly concerned, until I see his hairy eyebrows furrow. He continues spouting on about how I am the worst possible person to ever come into his life, blah blah blah.

  “Tell you what,” I say, “you hurry downstairs and make a grocery list because I need to run some errands.” I hop up from my chair and grab a cloth from the counter to wash the girls’ breakfast off them. Both girls seem relieved we’re heading out. And anyway it’s been a long night. The chance to wander beautiful Kitsilano and escape this geriatric hell-hole is an opportunity I just can’t pass up. Plus, soon I’ll have to start the job search. Sigh!

  Today is fantastic. At least it has been since we left the house. We ran the errands, and now we’re buying groceries from George’s very sad grocery list. It reads:

  Milk 1 lt.

  Can of Spam x 2 (Nasty! I didn’t think anyone actually ate that stuff.)

  Bananas x 2

  Whiskas cat food - senior (Even his cat is old!)

  Mr. Noodles x 7 (Seriously?)

  Can of sardines x 1

  White bread x ½ loaf

  Brussels sprouts x 14 (Again, nobody likes brussels sprouts. Old man George’s taste buds are totally screwed up!)

  At first I thought this was some kind of joke. But this is his actual list. Margo has fun counting out the brussels sprouts. One goes in the bag, one rolls on the floor. Giggle, giggle. I don’t think the produce guys like us. Also, Safeway is very drab. Having Whole Foods on the next block is an unfair tease. But, for now, my budget is Safeway. So sad. I try to piece together George’s menu for the week. I’m thinking his dinners must be Mr. Noodles with two floating brussels sprouts—every night! No wonder he thought microwave cooking was acceptable. I haven’t been a fan of the man since he was such a bigot toward Billy; but nobody should have to eat like this.

  Anyway, enough about George!

  We drop off the groceries and survive the chaos of packing for the beach, then make our way down to Kits Pool—the longest saltwater pool on the continent, boasting extraordinarily beautiful views of English Bay. I’m not certain, but I think I can actually pinpoint our very house across the channel in West Van, which leaves me feeling melancholy and agitated, until I hear Billy’s sing-song voice calling me. I turn around with a grin as Billy strides over, wearing aviators and a Gucci swimsuit. I notice a couple of brown paper bags poking out of his beach tote, which can only mean one thing—pastries! Margo is a few feet away splashing around in the pool. I lower Rory’s feet into the glistening water. She starts kicking wildly, mesmerized by the sensation and the splashing.

  “Here, pass me the baba so you can take a little dip,” Billy says.

  I hand over Rory and plunge under the cool water, opening my eyes to the exquisite turquoise underworld. Peace. I feel a lightness I haven’t felt since the East Wing. And the silence is incredibly precious. Underwater, I feel at home—safe, hopeful, and serene. I come up for a big gulp of sea air and plunge back under. I flip onto my back, still submerged a couple of feet, and watch the water ripple above me. This is one of my favorite things to do underwater. I smile at the thought of knowing I live less than a block away from this pool now and can experience this whenever desired. If I find a babysitter first that is. Speaking of which, time to find Billy.

/>   Billy is lounging on a towel with the girls, and he and Margo are filling their faces with croissants. Margo hops up as I approach, flashes me a huge grin, and splashes back into the shallow water to play. I flop down onto the towel beside Rory.

  “Fear not, dear cousin, there’s some for you too,” Billy says, handing me a bag.

  “Perfect, thanks,” I say, pulling a chocolate croissant from the bag and biting into the buttery flakes.

  “So, tell me. How was your first night at Casa George?”

  Ha! Wait till he hears.

  “Well, interesting you should ask. Turns out we had a house fire, and yours truly, along with your beloved nieces, were lucky to have escaped alive!”

  Billy’s eyes widen and he sucks in his breath. I fill him in on all the details, ending with George’s ten-thousand-dollar fine.

  “TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS?!” Billy has stopped mid chew and is gaping at me with those enormous, green eyes.

  “That’s right!” I confirm, lounging back on my towel and taking another bite of my heavenly chocolate croissant. I glance over at Margo to see her playing with two little boys and their water toys. Rory has fallen asleep. I reach out to touch her delicate, golden tresses. My lips curl into a slow smile as I think about George’s reaction to the fine.

  “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you! You’re a downright, first-class bitch, Lane.” Billy shakes his head, smiling.

  “The fireman was astounded at George’s lack of responsibility to have such a decrepit fire escape for a woman and her two young children. It was a major offense according to the city,” I say, eyes large for maximum drama. “The City of Vancouver Standards of Maintenance bylaw constitutes a maximum fine of ten thousand dollars for an unsafe fire escape. And George was struck with the maximum.” I pause for effect. “And,” I continue, “serves him right for calling me a pyromaniac—I mean, please.” I throw my head back and laugh just thinking of George’s angry, red face and crotchety yelling in protest to the fine.

  “Oh! So that’s why you did that; to get back at him for calling you a pyro?” Billy raises an eyebrow.

  “No. I wouldn’t risk taking my kids out on that deathtrap fire escape for anything. So he has to pay a little fine and have it fixed. Well, it should have been fixed a long time ago, and THAT is not my fault.” I shrug my shoulder and take another greedy bite. Yum!

  “Unbelievable.” Billy is still shaking his head. “Since when have you gone all Mother Hen on me?”

  “I haven’t gone all ‘Mother Hen’; I just don’t want to endanger my kids. Do you realize I could sue him? I mean, we almost died!”

  “Lane, you’re wild. You’re the one who begged him to live there; he never asked you to. And you started the fire!”

  I raise my hand in protest and wag my finger back and forth. “It was a broken-down fireplace. I could sue for that too!”

  Billy rolls his eyes and crumples his paper bag from his croissant and chucks it at me. We both dissolve into peals of giggles when it misses me by about three feet and hits a nearby sunbather on the bum. Billy always was hopeless at sports.

  Back in the attic, Billy and I are seated at the awkward little table, after having fed the girls and finally put them to bed. They were both out of their minds with tiredness, but, thankfully, after a large outpouring of tears, a bottle of milk each, and a quick story from Uncle Billy, they both conked out.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Billy asks.

  I take a slow sip of wine to buy time, as I consider my options. “Well, Margo is registered at General Gordon School, so tomorrow is her first day.”

  “Oh good. Now what about you? Are you okay for money?”

  “Oh yeah, I’m fine, really.”

  Billy narrows his eyes, saying nothing, so I do a quick calculation. “Let’s see, I have about four grand left after rent and the deposit.”

  “You need a job, Lane.”

  I roll my eyes and collapse back in my chair, gripping my wine close to me for comfort.

  “What do you want to do?”

  Ha, like I have any choices. “Billy, get real! I’m in my thirties and I’ve never had an actual job. It’s not like the world is my oyster anymore.” The reality that I have to put myself out there and actually try to find employment is incredibly daunting and depressing all at once.

  “Come on, just throw around some ideas. What do you want to do? If you could, you know, do anything?”

  Hmm, I probably haven’t given this much thought since I was a naïve teenager thinking I’d one day move to Hollywood and become famous.

  “All right, I want to be an actress,” I say, raising my eyebrow to challenge him.

  Billy actually chokes on his wine; he sputters and coughs and his face goes all red. I remain stoic, waiting for him to get a grip. Surely he couldn’t be laughing at me.

  Though he is.

  “Lane, I’m sorry.” Tears are now running down his face.

  Who’s the actor now?

  “Lane, you’re probably the most emotionally detached person I know. How can you possibly break through those layers to reach your authentic emotional self to properly portray a character?”

  I tilt my head to the side and narrow my eyes. “Since the fuck when do you know anything about acting?”

  Billy gives a small, shy smile, which is unlike him. “Um…well. Since I started dating an acting coach.”

  “WHAT? You have a boyfriend? Since when? How come I’m only hearing about it now?”

  “Well, you’re a bit fragile, hon, and I didn’t want to upset you. It’s all very new.”

  “What’s his name?” I demand.

  “John Childs. And, oh, he’s beautiful.” Billy actually blushes, and I giggle in response.

  “Oh yeah?” I smile. “I love beautiful men.” This reminds me of Micky, and I stop smiling.

  “Stop that thought!” Billy says sharply.

  Shit, now he’s reading my mind.

  “Anyway, this isn’t about me, this is about you. You want to act? Like, seriously?” Hmm, seriously? I don’t know. But why not?

  “Absolutely,” I confirm.

  “Okay, well I’ll speak with John, but in the meantime you need something like NOW.”

  Right. “I can be a personal trainer,” I offer, since the world is my oyster and all ideas are free flowing.

  “Lane, you cannot be serious. You don’t even exercise!”

  “Neither do you!”

  “Yes. But I’m not the one wanting to be a personal trainer.”

  “Oh, come on. How hard can it be? Plus, I happen to know how much money the society wives paid their trainers, and I want a piece of that.”

  Billy shakes his head, laughing, and pulls out his iPad. He taps away. “Which Wi-Fi connection is yours? There’s B-V-N-J, Harris twenty-seven, Johnson…”

  “Harris. That’s George.”

  “Damn. It’s password protected.”

  Hmm, what would George’s password be? Some good bets could be Admiral, SPAM, Piper—oooh! “Try Piper,” I suggest.

  “Okay. P-I-P-E-R… and we’re in! How’d you know?

  “Lucky guess.”

  “No fire today?” Billy motions to the fireplace.

  “No,” I pout. “George won’t let me use it anymore. He threatened to put danger tape around it as a reminder. Can you believe it? Not everyone is eighty and senile!”

  Billy and I giggle. Then he gets all serious on me. “Okay, so jobs. Do you want to place an ad as a personal trainer for the Kitsilano area?

  “Go for it!”

  Billy starts typing away, and I stiff a yawn. See, I haven’t even started working yet and already it’s tiring. Billy uploads my ad and then starts browsing the job postings. He seems focused on the task at hand so I sneak away unnoticed and slip into the bathroom where I browse my nail polishes. I select OPI Bubble Bath and start painting away. Bubble Bath reminds me of the last bubble bath I had when Micky kiboshed my fairy-tale life.

&nbs
p; “Lane, get back in here,” Billy calls, and I stick my head out of the bathroom, shushing him to be quiet. The last thing I need is a crying baby when my nails are wet. I saunter back to the table and professionally lower myself into the chair as though at a job interview.

  “So, there’s a job fair. And guess what? It’s tomorrow.”

  “What? Tomorrow? No way.”

  “Well, why not. It’s downtown at Library Square, and it’s not until noon, so you can do the school drop off and pick up.”

  “Yeah? And what do you suggest I do with Rory?”

  Billy shrugs. This is going to be impossible. Why even bother?

  “Now, what about a resume?”

  I groan and drop my head into my hands. After a beat, I whip my head back up and grin. “Tomorrow, I’ll take Rory to the library and ‘stumble’ upon the job fair, which will explain why I have my kid and no resume!” Oh, I’m so genius. Billy claps his hands with glee. “Now, please can we change the subject? No more talk about the J-O-B.”

  Billy nods, looking relieved, and pours another round of wine. “Have you heard from Micky?” he asks casually.

  I gulp a huge mouthful of liquid inspiration, hoping to numb the dull, ever-present pain that keeps hammering away at my heart and my soul. I can’t even think of him. Every time I do, my stomach bottoms out. “No.”

  “All righty then, switching topics again. So, I’ve made a decision.”

  “Oh yeah?” My interest is piqued, and I lean forward.

  “It’s kind of a monumental decision, actually.”

  “Don’t tell me Lover Boy is moving in. It’s too soon.”

  “No, no, nothing like that.”

  “Waiting…” I’m losing interest at an alarming rate.

  “I…I want to find my birth father.”

  “What? Seriously? But you don’t even talk about him.”

  “That doesn’t mean I don’t think of him.” This baffles me. Billy must be feeling a complexity of emotions and thoughts—worries, fears, and dreams—but his face doesn’t give it away. Though our mothers were identical twins and I’ve known him my whole life, I realize there will always be more to discover.