2
It’s after ten by the time I venture downstairs, my hair damp from a shower. Mom is in the kitchen on hands and knees scrubbing furiously, dressed in her yoga outfit and yellow rubber gloves. “’Morning.”
“Oh, good morning, hon! Try Iris’s carrot cake. It’s delicious. And there’s some coffee left in the pot for you. Mugs are in the cupboard above it.” She sounds way too cheery.
I pause a moment to take in the kitchen for the first time. It’s as old and derelict as the rest of the house, with golden oak wooden cupboards huddled into a small space and mismatched white-and-ivory-colored appliances. A four-person rectangular table sits tucked in against the wall. Half of it is covered with flyers and unopened mail. Along the brown laminate countertop are miscellaneous pots and pans—contents of the cupboard she’s scrubbing, if I had to guess. The smell of bleach lingers in the air.
“Did you sleep well?” Mom asks as I fetch a coffee mug and pour coffee.
“Not really. The sun woke me up.”
“I figured. That room faces east. We’ll get you some blackout curtains when we go shopping today.”
“It was hot, too.”
“Doesn’t the ceiling fan work?”
“Yeah, but it was making this weird rattling sound, like it was going to fall and, like, chop my head off or something.” Worries that don’t inspire a deep sleep. I spy Uncle Merv in the garden through the back door, plucking red tomatoes off the vine and tucking them in a basket. The tomatoes match the color of his suspenders, the same ones he was wearing last night. It’s a decent-sized yard, I note, full of fruit trees, with neighboring farm fields stretching far beyond.
Uncle Merv shuffles slowly along, his mouth moving as if he’s talking to someone, but I don’t see anyone around. “He wasn’t lying about getting up early.” Four thirty, according to the clock on my nightstand. That’s when I woke up to his first of many phlegmy coughing fits.
Mom chuckles. “Yeah. We’ll have to buy earplugs.”
I flop into a kitchen chair at the table, my fingers busy combing through my freshly washed hair. I cringe with disgust at the slick strands. “Oh my God, I still have shampoo in my hair!”
Mom glances over her shoulder once before returning to her task. “I noticed the water pressure is bad.”
“And it suddenly turned scalding. I think I have third-degree burns on my back.” My body stiffens, as if mention of the injury is enough to make the pain flare.
“That was my fault. I shouldn’t have used the kitchen sink while you were showering. That’s the thing about these old houses.” She sighs. “Don’t worry. Calling a plumber is at the top of my very long to-do list, along with getting cable run into our bedrooms and the internet upgraded. He’s still on dial-up, can you believe that?”
“I don’t even know what that means.” I spy the pad of lined paper next to her coffee mug. She must have at least twenty things jotted down already. That’s my mom—the queen of organization and order. Sure enough, the word “plumber” is scrawled on the first line, followed by “new toilet” and “fix water pressure?” in brackets beside it. Below that reads “cleaning lady.”
I frown. “Why are you cleaning if you’re going to pay someone to come in and clean?”
“Because I couldn’t leave the moldy spoiled bag of onions that stunk up the house for that poor soul. But I think I’ve got it out. A few hours of fresh air and some candles, and maybe my stomach won’t turn.” She stands with a groan, peeling off the rubber gloves and brushing away a strand of her wavy, sable-brown hair from her sweaty forehead. Gray roots peek out from her ponytail, something my mom is normally on top of but let slip this past month. I scan her list again. Sure enough, “find a new hair salon” is on there—number four.
“How could he stand it?”
“Who, Uncle Merv?” She snorts. “He’s always had a terrible sense of smell.” She takes a large gulp of her coffee and checks her watch. “Come on, you’ll have to eat that in the car. We have a million things to do.”
“What about unpacking the U-Haul?”
She waves it off. “Later. Let’s try to be home for lunch at one, after Uncle’s had his nap. Preferably with something better to eat than what’s in there.” She points to the fridge in the corner, her nose crinkling with disgust.
* * *
“Which box next?” I ask through pants, sweat coating the back of my neck. When we left Calgary, temperatures were dwindling, the cool nights needing heavy blankets. But summer shows no sign of leaving Eastmonte, Ontario, anytime soon.
Mom’s hands sit perched on her hips as she stares into the U-Haul. “You know what? Let’s leave the rest until after the house is cleaned and your room is finished. No point moving things twice and I don’t have to return it until Monday.”
“Okay. I guess I’ll start painting?” I was fully expecting Mom to reconsider her agreement to my dark and moody indigo blue when we stood in the paint aisle of Home Depot, but she was the first to pull out the various paint chips for comparison.
“We have to prep first. Why don’t you start by taping around the built-ins …” Her voice trails as she watches a black sedan pull into the driveway next door.
“Are those the neighbors?” The ones she met at Aunt Connie’s funeral earlier this year. She hasn’t told me much about them, other than that they have two teenaged children and they’ve lived next door for years.
“The Hartfords, yes.” We watch as a blonde lady in her forties steps out from the driver’s side. She waves at us.
“That’s Heather.” Mom returns the greeting. “She’s a portrait photographer. She took one of Uncle Merv and Aunt Connie for their sixtieth anniversary, the one sitting on the piano.”
I watch another female climb out from the passenger side, this one much younger, with a short blonde bob and glasses.
“She’s very nice. They’re all very nice.”
The girl seeks us out immediately. “Hi, guys!” she hollers with familiarity, grinning, her hand waving wildly in the air. “You’re our new neighbors! We’re so happy you’re here!”
I note the girl’s slightly stilted and slower dialogue.
My mom grins and calls back, “Hi, Cassie! It’s good to see you again!”
Heather begins walking this way.
“Wait!” Cassie suddenly sounds frantic. “The you-know-whats!”
“They’re on the back seat. Get them and then come over. You can do it.” Heather continues walking toward us. Meanwhile, Cassie rushes into the back seat, reappearing with a brown bag a moment later. She gallops more than runs after her mother, gripping the bag in both hands in front of her, as if it contains something of great value.
“Debra! It’s so good to see you again.” Heather takes my mom’s hand in both of hers, a friendly gesture between two people who aren’t acquainted enough to hug yet, her eyes crinkling with a smile. “Merv’s been talking nonstop about you two moving here for the past month.”
My mom chuckles. “Good things, I hope?”
“I haven’t seen him this happy in a while.”
“Hi. I’m Cassie,” the girl next to her blurts out, thrusting the bag toward me. “We bought you cookies. The double chocolate are the best.”
Heather gestures to her. “This is my daughter, Cassie. And you must be Aria?” She regards me with soft gray eyes. She is a pretty lady, and around my mother’s age, though I note more fine lines marking her forehead.
“I am.” I smile politely, sizing up the large cat graphic on Cassie’s T-shirt. “Hi.”
“You’re going to my school!” Cassie announces, adjusting her red-rimmed glasses as she peers first at me, then at my mom, then at her mom. Her gaze doesn’t seem to hold on anyone for too long. “Yeah, you’re in grade eleven and I’m in grade ten. Emmett’s in grade twelve. Do you know Emmett?”
“Uh … no.”
“Aria has never been to Eastmonte before. Remember we talked about that?” Heather reminds her daughter in
a slow, articulate voice.
“Oh, yeah.” Cassie grins sheepishly. “Emmett is my brother. You’ll like him. He has a lot of friends.”
“Cassie has been waiting anxiously for you. I think she’s asked me every day for the past three weeks what day you’d be here,” Heather says with a smile and a look of forced patience.
“Shh! Mom!” Cassie giggles, then turns to my mom. “I met you at Aunt Connie’s funeral.”
“You’re right, you did.”
“She’s not really my aunt. We’re not related. She’s a friend-aunt,” Cassie says, as if Connie is still alive and well.
My mom smiles. “A friend-aunt. I like that.”
“Yeah. I miss her. I wish she didn’t die.” Cassie’s grin is at odds with her words.
Mom frowns deeply. “I miss her, too.”
“Yeah, do you want to come see my room, Aria?” Cassie asks me in her next breath.
“Uh …” I look to my mom, feeling overwhelmed by the swirl of conversation.
“Maybe another day, Cassie. Aria is busy unpacking,” Heather says evenly, as if she can read my hesitation.
“Okay.” Cassie nods. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” Heather answers for me, then turns to my mom. “Do you still have a lot to unload? Because we can help.”
“Actually, I think we’re done unloading for now. I have to make room in the house first. But we have a few heavier boxes—books, mainly—that we might need strong arms for.”
“If you can wait until Sunday, Emmett and Mark will be back. They left this morning to visit a college campus in Minnesota.”
“Wow! College in the US!” my mom exclaims, and I can practically hear what she’s thinking because I’ve heard her say it before. Poor parents who have to pay that tuition!
Heather’s eyes widen with understanding. “I know.”
“My brother plays hockey. He’s so good,” Cassie blurts out. “He has a scholarship.”
“If he keeps his grades up,” Heather says. “Okay. Well, we’ll let you get back to it. And we want to have the three of you over for dinner, once you’ve settled.”
“We would love that.” My mom beams, sounding genuinely interested in the prospect of dinner with our new neighbors. I can’t remember the last time she made a friend.
“It’s nice to meet you, Aria.” Heather hooks an arm through Cassie’s. “Let’s go.”
“See you tomorrow.” Cassie’s eyes veer to the paper bag in my hand. “Those are really good cookies. They’re fresh.”
“Yeah?” I hold them up to my nose to inhale the chocolate scent. “Good, because I love cookies.”
“Me too.” She giggles. “Maybe I can have one?”
“You’ve already had two.” Heather smiles apologetically to us and begins leading her daughter away, whispering, “Those are a gift for them.”
“Okay.”
“You can’t give a gift and then ask to eat it!”
“Okay. I know!” Cassie’s voice turns petulant.
I catch Heather’s heavy sigh as they walk away.
“What other flavors are there?” Mom yanks the bag from my grip and eyes its contents, finally pulling out an oatmeal raisin. She takes a bite. “Mmm … She was right. These are good.”
I help myself to the double chocolate. “So, Cassie’s different.”
“Yes, she has autism,” Mom says, dusting crumbs off her shirt.
My eyes trail after the girl, who climbs the porch steps of their house with the caution of an elderly woman. “She seems so social though.” There were a few kids with autism at my last school. I don’t remember ever saying much to any of them. One boy named Michael spoke in a stilted voice and moved in slow motion and never made eye contact with anyone, but he won races on the school’s swim team. Another boy named Robbie couldn’t talk at all and had a service dog to keep him from running off school property.
And then there was that guy who showed up halfway through the year. I can’t even remember his name. I overheard a teacher talking about how his parents were in denial, refusing to have him tested because they didn’t want him labeled, even though there was definitely something off about him. He made people nervous with what he might blurt out. Apparently, one day in class, he wouldn’t stop frowning and pointing out a giant zit on Sue Collins’s forehead that she had tried in vain to cover with concealer. Finally, she ran out of the classroom in tears and he was suspended for bullying. And then there was the story about how he hated the sound of toilets flushing—like, pacing-screaming-hitting-himself-in-the-head hated. He’d tell anyone in the bathroom with him that they couldn’t flush until after he’d left. Of course, that didn’t go over well with a bunch of teenaged boys.
After a few weeks, he stopped coming to school.
“Yes, she’s always been overly friendly, according to Aunt Connie. She used to spend a lot of time visiting. Almost every day, after school. It made Aunt Connie happy, having a little girl around to dote on again.” Mom hands the cookies back to me and closes the trailer. “She seems like a lovely girl and I’m guessing she could use a friend. And you don’t know anyone around here. It’d be great if you got to know her.” Mom looks expectantly at me.
“I’m sure I will.”
“Good.” Mom throws her arm over my shoulder, pulling me into her as she smoothly snatches the bag of cookies from my grip again.
3
Dear Julia,
I’ve survived the first few days living in Eastmonte. I finished painting my room last night and my new mattress was delivered this afternoon. Plus, Mom took me shopping for bedding and lights, and cushions for the window seat. My room’s actually cozy. Still hot as hell, though. Uncle Merv promises I’ll be complaining that it’s too cold come winter. Can’t wait.
Uncle Merv is okay, for an old guy. He says “damn” a lot, and groans even more than he says “damn.” And I think he might have a drinking problem. Mom says it’s because he’s been so lonely. She’s been rationing his whiskey and making him drink tea after dinner, which has made him grumpy. Grumpier. He complains a lot, too. He saw all the salad in the fridge and started mumbling about rabbit food. But he could stand to eat some rabbit food. His stomach is big enough to be carrying quadruplets. It can’t be healthy.
Mom’s had a parade of cleaning ladies and servicemen marching through here. The Bell guy tried to sell Uncle Merv a PVR. He told him to go to hell. That was kind of funny, in a totally mortifying way. Still waiting on the plumber. The toilet in our bathroom doesn’t work properly. We have to jiggle the chain to get the tank to fill so we can flush it.
Let’s see … what else can I tell you about? Oh, I boiled and peeled, like, ten thousand tomatoes so Mom could can them for the winter, for sauce. And all that work for, like, FIVE jars. And then I had to help her put them in the cold cellar—a scary, spider-infested room in the basement that I’m never going back into. I don’t even like tomatoes.
Cassie’s been around a lot. She shows up in the morning and hangs out, following me around and blurting out whatever pops into her head. Usually it’s something about a neighborhood dog or her brother or her brother’s girlfriend, whose name is Holly—and is apparently really nice and really pretty and Cassie’s best friend. That or she drills me with questions about dogs and brothers. She asked me if I had a brother. I lied and said no, because I don’t feel like answering a thousand MORE questions about my dad’s new family. Something tells me she’d have a hard time grasping the details of that mess.
It’s Labor Day weekend. School starts in two days and I’m nervous. Cassie said I can go in with her and Emmett, whose plane is landing tonight at 6:32 p.m., by the way. She’s kind of obsessed with her brother, in case you couldn’t tell.
Anyway, that’s about all that’s going on. Told you this would be boring.
~Aria Jones still practicing
* * *
“That pot roast was damn near as good as Connie’s.” Uncle Merv leans back in the kitche
n chair, rubbing his swollen belly.
I eye the chair’s frail legs as it groans in protest under his weight. If it breaks and he goes down, I doubt my mother and I together could haul him off the floor.
“It was her recipe. I haven’t made it in forever.” Mom’s lips curve in a small, tight smile. It’s the one she gives when she’s proud, but doesn’t want to appear smug.
“You know, when your mother was here during the summers, she’d spend all day puttering around the kitchen with Connie,” he muses.
“I didn’t think she could cook.” I scoop a second helping of mashed potatoes.
He sets my mother with an incredulous stare. “What on earth have you been feeding this girl all these years, Debra?”
“Howie did the cooking,” Mom admits sheepishly through a sip of red wine. “But usually we ordered in.”
Uncle Merv grunts his disapproval. “Connie always said you worked too hard. I guess that’s a lawyer’s life, though. Too bad. She would have liked having you visit once in a while.”
Mom flinches but recovers quickly. “That’s not our life. Not anymore. Right, Aria?” She reaches out to squeeze my hand.
Uncle Merv’s droopy eyes flitter to the clock on the wall. “It’s past my bedtime.” He groans as he pulls himself out of the chair and hobbles over to the kitchen cupboard. He pulls out a bottle of pills.
The rattling sound sends a ripple of tension through my spine.
“Where did you get those?” Mom’s panicked eyes flash to me.
“Huh? Oh, I asked Heather to pick them up for me. For all these aches and pains I didn’t feel at night when someone wasn’t hiding away my whiskey,” he says, his tone thick with accusation.
There’s a long pause and then Mom asks in a strained voice, “Aria, are you finished dinner?”
Be the Girl: a Novel Page 2