I lift the head so that he can see my face, forgetting momentarily that I look like a sloppy joe.
“That’s a battle scar.”
“Yeah.”
“You smell like a brewery.”
“The shower only had hand soap.”
“When I was young, we used to call in with the plague.”
“I can’t go home.”
“Did your parents . . .?”
Cut to a domestic violence PSA. If you know someone like Darren, all you have to do is pick up the phone.
“I think I’m going to be fired when I go back in.”
Henry’s pissed when I tell him about the slur. He’s apoplectic when I tell him about last night. I ask if he’d mind collecting my clothes.
“I’ll bring them out on my break. If you’ve got nowhere else to go, you can crash in the van – I’m only in for an hour, servicing the kitchen.”
“Are you still planning to go to Chicago?”
Henry unlocks the van and I shed the suit, making myself a pad out of some furniture blankets. By the time he’s back, my parents – both realtors – should be setting up for the weekend’s open houses, and I’ll be able to slip in and grab a few things. Henry’s offer is conditional on my parents’ permission but when I broached the subject of Comic Con back in May there wasn’t much room for negotiation. And if Jeremy or his mom have already called over, I’m not going to be let out for the rest of my life. This is my one chance to see Luz, to win her back. By the time I’m home on Monday, the swelling will be down and there will be less to explain.
I BBM Jeremy a picture of my face and three words: Cover for me.
HENRY
STARR JERKS TO A HALT WHEN SHE SEES DARREN’S injuries. She gives him a hug right away, which is okay, even for Kathleen, because Starr’s met him before and because I’m here, loaded down with her overnight bag and the terrarium.
Her turtles, Alex and Mallory, are stacked against each other on a rock, only their back feet in the turgid water. We’ve missed a tank cleaning. When we got them, we agreed to do the maintenance on the condition that Starr take care of feedings. Truthfully, she’s not great at keeping up a schedule with them but, we figure, they’re turtles, they can make it through the lean times and fat.
I hadn’t wanted to bring them, but Starr refused to come without them.
Starr is still petting Darren’s bruise when I open the door for her. “Does it hurt here?” she asks. “Do you need me to help?” Darren just stands there, limp as last week’s washcloth. Starr can see how worn out he is. “You look nice anyway, Darren, even with your face,” she says. “That’s a nice T-shirt. It’s like a scary movie.”
Darren pulls the shirt out and looks down at it. “It’s a French zombie.”
I don’t think Starr knows that word but she smiles and nods. “Like a horror movie poster.”
“Luz made it for me. It’s supposed to be funny.” There’s a beret tipped on the ghoul’s head and a bushy, waxed moustache silk-screened on its lip.
“Is Luz your mom?”
“No, she’s my ex-girlfriend.”
“Are you sad?” Starr settles herself as best she can. She doesn’t like the feel of the upholstery, but can make herself put up with it. “I have an ex too. Dr. Phil says that your boyfriend needs to be a safe place to fall but mine was like a pit of snakes.”
Starr watches a lot of daytime TV. Anything about relationships and self-help fascinates her. It mirrors a lot of the talk her support workers use. Often, I want to punch Dr. Phil because he arms her with my least favourite kind of jargon – pop-psych bullshit.
A snakepit, however, is about right for the boyfriend. They’d met at a conference for people with special needs transitioning out of high school. He lived close to the group home we’d decided to try her in, Kath’s first attempt at independent living. We called him Starr’s Prince Charming because he’d bring her presents all the time – a bag of chips or some flowers from the garden, a used book. Melly was dating and it seemed nice for Starr to have someone too. Why not, I’d thought? Kath was more cautious, but even she liked Timothy.
We started giving Starr two of everything, invited Tim over for dinner. It lasted about three months. I knew they held hands, suspected there might be some kissing, a grope or two over clothes.
Nothing prepares you, however, for the call from a community centre staffer telling you they caught your daughter naked with her boyfriend in the accessible washroom. Supposedly, it had been Tim’s idea. Starr said she liked the kissing and the touching, liked standing next to him, but she didn’t like feeling his body hair scratching her naked skin. She didn’t like when his penis was pushing against her.
Kath handled the situation. She’d had a lot of talks with Starr before, mostly about masturbation – to reassure her it’s normal, but also to set appropriate boundaries. Like when she got her period, for a while it was something she wanted to discuss with everyone. At the convention a few years back there had been a session on sexuality and special needs. I didn’t go, but Kath came back horrified because several Williams parents had put their daughters on birth control. Just in case. At the time Kath couldn’t believe they’d accept the risk of strokes or blood clots. We started wondering if they’d had the right idea. Starr was spared the morning-after pill because she’d alerted the staff with her distress whine before there was any penetration.
Timothy broke up with her after that. He started a rumour that Starr was gay and some of the roommates at the group home made a point of not letting Starr hug them. We couldn’t bear having our daughter upset all the time and moved her back home. It took four years before we were ready to try the condo.
Starr asks me again if Alex and Mallory are secured. “Don’t you think they’d like to ride up front? You can see everything out the window.”
“After the border, maybe.”
“I bet there’s a lot to see between here and the States.”
Darren catches my eye in the rear-view. He knows animals are not allowed, but I can’t tell Starr or she’ll know we’re breaking a rule and it’s going to be too much anxiety for her. We just need to find a way for her to forget about them temporarily and keep them covered in the back.
“Are you still working on that dog tormentor?” I ask.
“What?” Starr’s appalled by the literal implication.
“Sorry, honey. Just a joke. Darren’s building something to help his dog get more exercise.” The vet told Darren’s family that their corgi was getting too rotund. Instead of walking it more, Darren is working on a perpetual motion Tonka truck – something their dog goes rabid over – in the hopes he’ll chase it around the downstairs.
“I’m having some problems with the sensors,” Darren says. The truck is programmed to run away from any solid surface so it won’t damage the furniture. “I’m putting in an order soon for more Arduino chips. You want me to get a few for you?”
Darren knows about the karaoke set-up in the basement. He and Luz filmed a short with the animatronics, the blanketed silhouettes of the Laughing Rat Band rising up through the credits like giant termite mounds. Luz had the camera and Darren played the role of Frankie’s Funhouse employee. As he mopped the floor, the band members slowly became zombies, thanks to a lot of dyed cheesecloth, and ate his brains, sentencing him to an eternity of playing backup for children’s parties. They entered it in a couple of competitions but it didn’t win. I’d never tell the kid this, but I wasn’t surprised. That movie was terrible.
“I’m also trying to rig up a crawling spider,” Darren says. “I got a rubber toy from Value Village the other week and I want to use it to skin a Hexbug hack.”
“Another film?”
“Sort of. Luz’s birthday’s coming up. If things work out, I don’t want to have to rush.”
“Nothing wrong with being hopeful.” Thinking, no woman in the world is going to be won over by a remote-controlled spider.
“Pit of snakes?” Darren shif
ts to include Starr. “You like Indiana Jones?”
“Yes, especially Temple of Doom and The Last Crusade. Sometimes I can find them on YouTube and sometimes we rent it.”
“I can burn you a copy if you want.”
Starr wrenches her torso to face him and breaks out one of her big smiles. “Do you need a new girlfriend?”
I pat her knee. “He’s a bit young for you.”
“Age doesn’t matter if you’re young at heart.”
“It’s a nice offer,” Darren says, “but I’m still into Luz.”
“Dr. Phil talks about that too.” She starts fiddling with her seat belt, tightening it and releasing it, tightening and releasing. “If you need a girlfriend, just for the weekend, that’s okay. Some relationships are short and sweet.”
“Just for the weekend?” Darren looks at me for permission. He knows that we try to be strict with Starr and social interaction. She knows she isn’t supposed to ask people to be her boyfriend. But, it’s the start of a holiday and she’s in a good mood. I shrug.
“Okay then.”
“Good. Now we can hold hands.”
As we approach the Blue Water Bridge, I’m hoping for some young guy who’s got his weekend plans on his mind and nothing to prove.
“At the border, let me do the talking.”
Starr looks at me with big eyes, wondering if she’s done something wrong. Darren nods toward his lap – he’s been turning his phone on and off ever since we left. The bruises on his face are a red flag.
“You can talk all you want before the border and all you want after,” I say. “They just ask questions that can be confusing, so I should answer.”
“That’s okay then. You can answer.”
The car ahead pulls into a stall with a guard that looks all of twenty-three. I’d rather wait and take my chances with him, but we get waved through toward a middle-aged brunette. I drive too quickly over the speed bump and the van thuds down ominously.
Having a kid with special needs can be a curse and a blessing at the border. If they’re sure you’re on the level, that it’s your kid, that you’re taking her on a vacation, they practically roll out the red carpet. Kath and I call it the sympathy allowance. But, because the kids are more vulnerable, easier to manipulate, if they suspect something, they’ll tear the car apart. We got some messages on the listserv a while back about drug mules using kids with special needs as decoys. They suggested bringing long-form birth certificates for adult children, to make it easier to prove parentage.
Of course, I’ve forgotten to bring this. As I hand over the passports, I realize I’ve also neglected to pack Kath’s checklists. She’ll be irritated, especially since she sent me a reminder text.
The border guard cranes her neck past me into the van. “You all related?”
“This is my daughter. Darren’s a friend. He needed a drive to the Comic Con.”
“He’s my boyfriend for the weekend,” Starr says. She grabs Darren’s hand and swings it onto her lap.
The agent’s face is unreadable as she consults her computer screen, probably now checking for leads on coerced prostitution.
“He got his heart broken by his girlfriend and we’re going down to win her back. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“It’s nice, as long as he respects you. If he doesn’t, it means he doesn’t really love you, so you shouldn’t be with him.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Depends on how long we can drive today,” I say. “If we can make it to Napier Heights, we’ll stay at a motel in town. We’re heading up to Chicago tomorrow.”
“We’re getting Franny Feathers.” The guard has Starr’s full attention now.
“Franny Feathers?”
“It’s a character from Frankie’s Funhouse,” I say. “There’s a franchise that’s selling its stock.”
“She’s the flamingo. She’s got a lady voice like Dolly Parton.” Starr sings a few bars of one of Franny’s songs.
“How much does that cost you?”
The woman’s mid-forties, looks too well-rested to have kids, has likely never set foot in a Frankie’s. It’s worth the shot to lowball it, keep it just below my duty allowance. The last thing we need is a note going in the file.
“They’re asking three hundred fifty dollars.”
“Staying for two nights?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You got anything in the van?”
“No,” I say.
Starr interjects. “Just Alex and Mallory, my pet turtles.”
The woman’s eyebrows arch and she grabs a flashlight from the desk. The turtles’ scuttling feels almost audible – the clink of each claw echoing against the terrarium glass.
“Stuffed,” I mouth.
She puts the light back down. “Sounds like an interesting trip. Have a nice time.”
Through the rear-view, I can see the grey sedan that was in front of us, its contents flowing out on the concrete pad of the search bay. Our first bathroom break comes an hour after the border at a cafe next to a shoe outlet. The awning’s sun-bleached to orange rind but inside there’s an enormous display of baked goods. Starr strong-arms Darren over to the vitrine and calls out the varieties: sugar cakes, pecan fudgies, chocolate chubbies, whoopie pies, peanut butter.
I snap a picture of her holding a box of a dozen assorted and send it to Kath. Eating our way through Michigan. Kath replies right away, asking if I’m sure I’ve packed Starr’s meds. Yes, Synthroid, All-Bran bars, Lorazepam, toiletries, extra clothes. She asks us to check in tonight, after nine.
Darren eats four cookies before we’re even back on the highway. Who knows if the kid’s had a solid meal since his escapade. Throughout my time at both franchises, I’ve seen plenty of kids come through. Gotten to know a few of them. They always say that they’ll come back to visit, but they never do – why would they? A kid like Darren shouldn’t spend the next two decades of his life trapped in a muppet.
“I’ve thought of another way to die,” he announces, puncturing my sympathy. I glance over to warn him to stop, but he’s looking straight ahead, drumming his thumbs on the dash. “Parasites in cookies. Shipped across North America in tainted boxes. Slowly the host – probably a tentacled slug – bursts through the carrier shell. They can call it the brown bag menace.”
He absently brushes the crumbs out of the folds of his shirt and onto the foot mats. “You know, because of all the kids’ lunches.”
Starr has started picking her cuticles.
“Darren, is that something you saw on TV?” I ask.
“No, straight-up original.”
“I’m almost positive I saw that on TV last week.” If the kid’s not catching this tone, he’s more hungover than I’d thought. “Wasn’t that an animated show?”
Starr opens the box and peers at the remaining cookies. “What flavour was it?”
“No, sorry,” Darren says. “It was just a dumb idea.”
It’s not that she doesn’t know the difference between what’s real and what’s pretend. But it’s easier for her to draw the line if it’s something she’s seen in a movie or on TV because we’ve drilled that in since she was small. A far-fetched hypothetical can still balloon into a threat.
I grab a shortbread and turn on the radio. If anything will distract her, it’s music. Kath and I like to say that our lives changed in 1991, the year that we bought a Sony Walkman at a Boxing Day sale. With the headphones on, Starr could concentrate longer, was more willing to tackle things like stairs, things that spurred her anxiety. At school, teachers used it as a time out if she was overwhelmed. We bought double A batteries in bulk.
There’s a Target next to the motel, so we pick up some cheap swim trunks for Darren. Starr never travels without her suit, just in case. We used to take her to the Y several times a week, but with our schedules these days and her settling into life at the condo, it’s a rare occurrence. We considered looking for a building with a pool
, but the maintenance fees were higher and we couldn’t be sure that she wouldn’t swim unsupervised.
The pool is in an addition to the motel, next to the outdoor terrace. We have to split off and go through the washrooms and weight room to get there. A businesswoman is creaking the elliptical, an iPod clipped to her waist as CNN blares at her.
It’s almost closing time and the pool is deserted. Darren and I are dry from the change rooms – only Starr, from years of swim lessons, has obeyed the health and safety rules and taken a shower. Her curls are flattened under the goggle strap. From a distance, you wouldn’t know if she was a little kid or a senior.
It’s a kidney bean pool, fairly small, with a hot tub sunk in like the dot on an exclamation point. All around us, dusty plastic ficus trees shield us from the view of the town’s main drag.
“Are you a good swimmer, Darren?” Starr asks.
“Not so much.” Darren, still wearing his T-shirt, looks decidedly uncomfortable. The fluorescent lights amplify his bruising.
Starr doesn’t wait to check the temperature. She grips the shallow end handrail and slowly lowers herself down. It’s a difficult feat because the water masks her ability to guess the stair depth.
“Oh, it’s nice and warm.”
Darren doesn’t look convinced. Starr adjusts her goggles and does a front crawl to the end of the pool. She seizes the far edge, beaming.
“Mind if I sit in the hot tub?” I ask.
“No, Darren can keep me company.”
Darren is now waist-high in the water. “Are you sure it’s warm?”
Starr swims back to his side of the pool. “Let’s have a race. Two laps, front crawl.”
Darren gamely grabs the wall and waits for Starr to count down. He’s got no form and gasps for air with each head raise, but he easily beats her. It reminds me of when we’d take the girls swimming near Kath’s parents’ place and Melanie would organize races. To Starr, it didn’t matter that she never won, but Melly would lose interest in competing, giving her sister increasingly condescending head starts.
In Search of the Perfect Singing Flamingo Page 8