by Kim Cayer
“OK, but only as a last resort,” Shannon gave in. “And we’d have to keep in touch. Not just texts or phone calls, but actual meets.”
The depression I thought could go no deeper found a new low. “Oh, Shannon, please don’t think I’m gonna disappear for good! You know I love you beyond belief.”
“Ditto,” said Shannon.
“So we’ll find days where we can meet, have dinner, maybe catch a movie…”
“Meet, talk, maybe no movie though. You know my schedule is all over the place,” Shannon reminded me.
I gave her a hug, which I needed more than her. “My people will call your people.” I laughed through my tears. “Anyhow, I barely see you as it is. But I’ll need to get my mail, my cheques, my bills. You’ll need to get that to me because I’m not coming back until your dad is gone, baby, gone.”
Shannon had a good head on her shoulders. I know I’ve probably mentioned she is a super kid, but let me briefly tell you what I truly loved about my only child. Never mind the fact that she somehow managed to put her parents constant battling on a shelf and concentrate on her own personality. She currently held a school grade average of about 86% and she played on a rep baseball team, which meant they were all extraordinary athletes. She helped me clean the house, she took phone calls sensibly, she ate wisely, and she has been involved in a loving romantic relationship with the same person since she was 14.
Shannon was head over heels in love with Jody. And Jody couldn’t treat Shannon any better if I’d picked out the boyfriend myself. They had each other’s backs, they were loyal and when Shannon wasn’t busy at her studies, her baseball or her part-time job, I knew she would be with Jody. The thing I loved the best about Shannon was that she was helping Jody with a rather mind-boggling problem. It was something you thank your lucky stars you never had to deal with.
Both Shannon and Jody were ‘straight’. Shannon liked boys and Jody liked girls. The only tiny, teensy little thing was that Jody was born a girl. He (she? But from now on, he will be called ‘he’) didn’t look like a girl, didn’t act like a girl, didn’t sound like a girl. He was actually a very nice-looking specimen of the male human race. Jody longed to be an actual man and after years of mental pain, as well as physical pain caused by those who just didn’t understand, he began to seek treatment. Shannon was there for Jody every step of the way.
That was my 17-year-old daughter and other than a set of dysfunctional parents, she seemed to have her act together. Me? I was doomed if I stayed in that house another minute. If I didn’t get out now, she’d have a dad in jail, and a mom who, were she to have a broken nose and blackened eyes, could not get work. Then where would that leave us? Mom trying to support everyone working as a Walmart shelf stocker? I had no skills other than my looks.
And if I were in a mental institution, where I felt I was heading, I wouldn’t be able to support us at all.
Chapter Three
With my sight blinded by tears, I didn’t want to drive far. In the past, after a particularly brutal verbal match, I would flee my house. The place I would usually go, after picking up my XL double-double Tim Horton’s coffee, was the local church. It wasn’t my faith, but it was a church and I always felt pacified after a visit. Sometimes, if I would communicate some of my marital problems to my mother, she would often suggest I go to church. And her advice was right on the mark. Though I wouldn’t actually go inside, the parking lot always seemed to do the trick.
I backed my Suzuki Swift into its ‘usual’ spot, in the rear of the lot. Facing forward, because even though I live in fairly safe Mississauga, Ontario, Canada, I still wanted to see what was in front of me. I was parked under a tree, close to a chain-link fence that enclosed a lonely playground. I cracked my coffee lid open, took a big gulp, scalded my throat and renewed my crying.
Crying? Quite the understatement. This was the bawling binge of a lifetime. When I managed to stop, the enormity of my future plans caused the sobs to start all over again. Was I really planning on living in my car? Wahhhh! After a couple hours of this, my coffee was cold and I had to pee. I went back to the Tim Horton’s store, used their ladies’ room and decided to grab another coffee.
I recognized the lady who took my order. It was Mahatmamu. Not that we were anywhere near friends; she wore a name-tag that I saw countless times a week when she served me at the drive-through line. She was very pleasant and it didn’t matter if I looked like Marilyn Monroe or a bag lady, she would always recognize me.
But not this time. She simply took my order with a vacant look in her eyes, which put a stop to my usual immature greeting, “How do you do, Mahatmamu?” She would smile, while I always got a big kick out of my own joke. So she had me wondering how I could look any worse than I did when I was an overly made-up, teeth-blackened bag lady. I decided to pay another visit to the loo, and maybe look in the mirror this time. Besides, I’d used up all my Kleenex tissues and perhaps Tim Horton’s would lend me a roll?
What was staring back at me in the mirror wasn’t human. My face was beyond splotchy, my eyes were swollen and puffed, my lips were chapped and dry. And the hair! Was it my own or a fright wig? Who could know that running my hands through it a hundred times in grief would cause it to stand straight up? I tried to grab a roll of toilet paper but the coffee shop had them locked down. The best I could do was unroll about a kilometre of it, knowing I was in for another crying jag.
I returned to the exact spot I had vacated minutes earlier. Getting cozy with Christ, hoping He might show me a sign that everything would be all right. With the heater running through the night, my crying jag reduced itself to those big hiccups. I managed to fall asleep for a couple hours. I kept coming to with a start, surprised by the darkness, then being completely floored by the fact I was not in my bed. Not tonight and not anytime soon.
By seven a.m., I was awake but in a daze. Thoughts of ‘doing something’ rolled through my mind. Gee, it was seven o’clock. I should be unloading the dishwasher…filling the laundry machine…making Shannon breakfast before she left for school… But all that would likely be left for Shannon to do, while her mother was on the lam from her father. The sniffles began again.
The church was showing some action. I wasn’t really paying attention but I could see cars showing up and parking close to the front door. Not wanting to be seen by these people, I would duck low into my seat. None of the cars would stay long though, and by nine a.m., the church’s lot was almost empty again. Perhaps four cars, and they were parked quite a distance away from me. I was free to howl and get the rest of my freaking tears out of my system.
Time seemed to drag by. It kept occurring to me that I should drive away, but where would I go? It appeared I would eventually drive to a gas station, since heating my car all night had almost eaten up the half-tank it had. And I suppose I should pee. But the lethargy was overwhelming.
That is, until I saw a short, middle-aged woman standing in the doorway to the church, staring at me. I quickly slunk lower in my seat and waited a couple minutes, then peeked my head over the steering wheel. Shit! She was still there and she was still looking at me! Once more I ducked, but then realized I may be acting like a criminal. Straightening up, I snuck one more look at her, only to find that she was almost at my car!
Upon closer examination, I didn’t think I had any problem. She was a short, older lady with a Mother Goose-like appearance, especially with her blue apron that had teddy bears emblazoned over it. Her hair was permed in an old-fashioned way, each curl perfectly obvious. She hugged her arms to her body to keep warm and almost slipped. Foolish lady, not wearing a jacket in February, and sporting a pair of Croc shoes when it was definitely winter-boot weather. Her cherubic face held a slight countenance of worry to it. What could she want with me?
Lowering my window, I tried to smile but it was a truly lame attempt. Call it an exercise in stretching my lips. “Is something wrong?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, but you have us very concerned.
We run a daycare out of the church and you’ve been parked here all morning and we need to let the kids out for their morning break and we see you here watching the playground…” Mrs. Goose nervously babbled on.
“WATCHING THE PLAYGROUND?” I interrupted forcefully. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, you know, in this day and age, we can’t be too careful, and we even had a couple parents who saw you and wondered what you were doing here…”
“I’ll tell you what I’m doing here! I’m at a church, where I always come when I need some spiritual guidance,” I shouted. “My marriage is falling apart, I don’t know what I’m going to do, I don’t know how my kid is going to make out… I thought, maybe I’ll come to God’s house, maybe He can help me… BUT NO!!! You think I’m some kind of pedophile? And so you’ve come to kick me outta God’s house?!”
“It’s just that it’s so suspicious,” the lady offered. “And I’m real sorry to hear about your situation. You can explain that to the police, if you want to remain here. I’m sure they will understand…”
I put the car into Drive. “OK, I’m leaving,” I told her. ‘But now you’ve really done it. I will never come to this church again.” And I drove off.
I peeled out of there quickly, hoping nobody had bothered to take down my license plate. The big bad child molester was leaving – you can let those sexy little toddlers out to play. I hope the daycare was happy, because now I had no home and no faith.
Chapter Four
That first full day of living in my car went from bad to worse. I didn’t feel like thinking about my dilemma. After gassing up, I found a spot at South Common Mall, a local shopping centre. It was farther away from the mall that was within walking distance from my home…well, the house on which I was paying the mortgage. I felt sure that Ben would never drive out there and I didn’t want to leave the Mississauga area.
After cruising around the lot for ten minutes, looking for just the right spot to grab a much-needed snooze, I decided to park right behind the big SOUTH COMMON – MISSISSAUGA’S FAVOURITE MALL sign. I don’t know who gave them that moniker – I’m pretty sure they came up with it themselves. Other than the ubiquitous No-Frills and Walmart stores located at opposite ends, the rest of the place was a ghost town. Even though the sign fronted the street, I was sure nobody would notice me. The multi-worded plank completely hid my car.
Snow was coming down in gentle pellets and the sign cast a long shadow over my vehicle. With the heat on high, I instantly started to yawn. Oh, I just knew a good sleep was coming my way, and I couldn’t wait. I reclined my seat…that is, I tried to lay back, but the chair would only tilt down a couple inches. I had so much stuff thrown hari-kari into my car, it was so jam-packed, that laying down became a dream in itself. I was doomed to sleep upright, but that was okay. I was so bloody tired, I could sleep standing up in a Tim Horton’s line-up.
Was that an alarm clock I heard? I didn’t recall setting it…and as I strove to awaken from my deep slumber, I stabbed at my Blackberry. The ringing stopped. I was just about to slip back into serious REMs when the ringing started again. As I fumbled to grab the phone (did I hit snooze instead of quit?), my eyes glanced upon the dashboard clock in the car. Three p.m.! Wow! That had to be the most solid nap I’d ever taken.
And what was this? The phone was ringing because DUH, I had a phone call. In my amazement at this, I neglected to answer it. It went onto the missed-call list, which now numbered 15. I started to get an icy feeling, the first thought always being Shannon. Yes, ten calls were from Ben, but a quick look at my texts showed there was nothing wrong with our daughter. The other five were from Shamrock Shows.
Why would they call me five times? They were one of the many entertainment agencies I worked for. Though they were not one of my favourites, they were a source of income. If I saw ONE missed call from them, they knew I would call them back as soon as I possibly could. I mean, work paid the bills, right?
I gave them a friendly call, my voice a bit hoarse from all that howling at the moon I did the night previous. “Hey, Stan, it’s Madeline. You called?”
Stan was always calm. I don’t know how he got much business with that monotone of a voice. But his reply threw me for a loop. ‘MADELINE WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?”
“Uh…at a mall?” I tried on for size.
“So you blew off your Madonna?” he spat out.
OH SHIT. In all this drama, I totally forgot about work! I was so caught up in poor poor pitiful me, I forgot that I actually had a life! Telegrams to sing, income to bring in, a daughter to raise and a husband to pay off. How could I screw up so badly on my first day of freedom?
“Oh, Stan, I totally forgot!” I exclaimed. No need to fill him in on the actual story.
“Well, listen, they don’t leave the office until five, so you can still do the show, they said. But you gotta be there by 4:45 at the latest,” Stan informed me. “Can you do it? I don’t want to lose this client.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way,” I said quickly. “Thank goodness they managed to change the time! And Stan, again, I’m real sor…”
“JUST GET GOING!” he yelled, hanging up.
Taking a moment to grab my breath, I thought about the show I had to do. I knew where my Madonna costume was (buried) and had my balloons and silk roses in the usual place (but now under my suitcase). I still had to write the customized song and had no idea where I was going.
Scrolling through my saved Blackberry messages, I came upon the details of the show. Oh, great, in the heart of downtown Toronto. King and Bay, stockbroker land. Of course it couldn’t be easy, like Mississauga, with its miles of free parking for every address. Or even Etobicoke or Oakville, neighbouring towns. No, this had to be smack dab in the busiest area of Toronto, with its fancy underground parking lot mazes.
I opened the attachment for the details on the song. With most telegrams, the client would supply interesting tidbits about the ‘victim’. Things like his hobbies, his pet peeves, nicknames, accomplishments. I would then turn that info into a humorous song. People would feel thrilled that a ditty had been written especially about them! I groaned aloud as I looked at what they sent – it read like his biography! Even on a good day, I would be miffed at the amount of information they’d supplied. I had hopes of driving and writing this song at every stoplight I came across. That is, while I also applied my make-up. Well, screw that idea. I was just going to write my memorized stock song, one that would work for any joe. (You’re handsome, you’re great, you’re the best, Flattery 101).
It was time to retrieve the Madonna costume. Out of all my telegram characters, she was the one I wanted to discard. Never mind the fact that the real Madonna kept changing her damn appearance, the costume had about thirty pieces, what with the bangles and corset and crucifixes. And let’s not forget the long blonde ponytail and conical bra. I opened my door so I could look in the hatchback of my car for that cursed Madonna outfit.
Lo and behold, the soft snowflakes that I’d fallen asleep to had turned into quite a snowstorm. Now that was a nuisance! I wasn’t worried about my driving skills; I drove a lot in my line of work and I felt I was quite adept behind the wheel. What bothered me were the other drivers. For some reason, in the greater area of Toronto, a single snowflake drifting down was the cause for 62 fender benders. This serious downfall of snow would surely add to my driving time.
Madonna wasn’t buried too badly, just squished between the clown and the Grim Reaper. I threw my garment bag onto the front seat, pulled some stationery out of my agenda book (oh, gee, look, today’s date? Madonna, one p.m…) and began the slippery trek downtown. I was grateful I’d chosen the south end of Mississauga to nap…it was close to the Queen Elizabeth Highway that would take me downtown. From there, the intersection of King and Bay was a hop, skip and a jump.
You can take those directions to the bank, if the day wasn’t like today. There were vehicles who, nearing the end of a Canadian winter, still didn’t
have their snow tires on. A traffic light would turn green and the Honda Civic or Toyota Tercel would attempt to pull forward, only to have tires not gripping. Fishtailing back and forth, often they would be the only car to make it through a green light. I cut it close on a couple late yellow lights, but I was on a mission.
Arrive late, miss doing show. Miss show, anger client. Anger client, anger my agent. Anger agent, lose his business. Shamrock Shows may only account for ten per cent of my income, but word getting around the business could do more harm. I had to arrive by 4:45 p.m.!
At every red light, I applied my stage make-up, making sure I didn’t forget the slight gap in ‘her’ front teeth or her beauty mark. Once I hit the highway, I had the full make-up on and was ready to write the song. With every slowdown in traffic, I would eke out a few words. Then we’d slowly move forward. When I’d next write, the words would appear on a different line, or slanted. I decided to just write it in shorthand, so that I could read it and then pretend to forget to leave it. As long as I remembered to say at the end, “Happy 40th Birthday, from the gang at the office.” Boy, was I gypping these people.
The song written, I was still on the highway. At this point, I’d expected to be dressed and ready to exit my car. Usually, when I found myself unable to dress or do make-up while in my car, I’d blow up the balloons. I always arrived with a silk rose and balloons. It was a cheap gift to the telegram recipient, but it served another purpose. If people saw me on the street or at a banquet hall or WHEREVER, they would, they should, assume that I was some form of entertainment or something. I mean, what with the balloons, a rose and a nicely ribboned scroll of fancy paper, surely I wasn’t some kind of whacko just because I was dressed like a French maid.
Now, with every slowdown, I searched for my stash of balloons and roses. I tried to feel under the seats, to move them forward so I could reach into the back floorboard, but my car was stuffed so haphazardly that these cheap gifts remained elusive. Well, since I decided to shortchange them with the hand-delivered customized song, why stop now?