by Ali Bryan
“What do all those numbers and letters mean?”
“That’s your name.”
“How come your character has a name and mine is X7YPU769?”
Dan sighs. “The kids made that one.”
“I want my own Mii.”
Dan looks irritated. “But you never play.”
“Just make her a Mii,” I say.
He gets impatient but gives in. Goes to the home screen and selects new Mii. He picks features hastily. “What colour shirt do you want?”
Allison-Jean says, “Purple.” Her Mii’s chest rises and falls as though it is breathing.
“Is that good?” Dan asks.
“No, that’s not good. That looks like Chaz Bono!”
“It does not.”
“Who’s Chaz Bono?” Dad asks.
Dan replies, “The lead singer of U2.”
“That’s Bono, you idiot. Chaz Bono is Sonny and Cher’s daughter,” Allison-Jean glares at Dan with her eyes all big and her neck extended.
Trying to be helpful, I say, “It does not look like Chaz Bono. For one thing, Chaz Bono is now a man and secondly …” I trail off, unable to think of a second thing. I come up with, “He doesn’t bowl.”
“He doesn’t bowl? Thanks, Claud,” Dan says. “That’s helpful.”
Allison-Jean grabs the Wii remote and tells Dan, “Shut up.” She lengthens her Mii’s hair and makes her thinner. She flicks her wrist to the side and begins entering the letters of her name. The clicking sound when she makes a selection reminds me of chattering teeth. Allison-Jean spells Allison-Jon. “I hate this,” she says.
Down the hall Emma begins to cry. Allison-Jean gives the remote to Dan and heads off to get her.
“I signed up to play in a bonspiel in April,” Dad announces.
“Nice!” I reply.
Dan focuses on his shot, altering his angle ten degrees left. He steps back from the TV and releases his Wii ball. It only knocks down one pin.
“No fair!” he hollers, examining the remote for the cause of his extreme curveball. He takes a second shot and the ball goes in the gutter. He stomps his foot.
“Dan!” Allison-Jean says, placing Emma in her ExerSaucer.
“What? This is ridiculous.”
“Remember when you missed that penalty shot at soccer provincials and you blamed it on the ref?” I ask.
Allison-Jean holds up a beer to me from the kitchen. I nod and say, “Please.”
“I did not blame it on the ref.”
“Oh, I remember that,” Dad says, proud of himself. “You said he was in your way.”
Dan rolls his eyes. “He was in my way. He was too close.”
“He was nowhere near you, son,” Dad replies, strapping the Wii remote back on his wrist. “Your mother had to ride home in the back seat to console you.”
“Didn’t you hit something too?” I add, twisting the cap off my beer. “Like a sign or something?”
“I did not,” Dan says, spit flying.
“No, it was the ball bag,” Dad says. “You came off the field and kicked the ball bag.”
“Yes!” I say, jumping to my feet. “And all the balls rolled out and your coach made you pick them up.”
Dad bowls another strike and hands the remote back to my brother. “Let’s go, Danny,” he says, clapping his hands with encouragement.
“I’m not playing!” Dan shouts, tossing the remote onto the couch.
“Dan,” Allison says, “it’s a game. Relax.”
“Well I’m not playing!” He picks up his beer and downs half the bottle. Foam tumbles out of the top and decorates his upper lip.
We’re all silent for a moment and look at the TV. And there in the back of the Wii bowling alley, behind the score table, is our Mii mother. She says nothing. Only wobbles slightly, the way a cell might under a microscope, and waits for Dad to bowl.
“That’s weird,” I say.
“It’s creepy is what it is,” Dan says. “Delete her profile.”
“We can’t just delete her profile,” I argue.
“Yes, we can.”
Dad just continues to stare at his Mii wife. “It really does look like her. Except for the eyebrows. The eyebrows are too high up.”
“Oh, you can fix that,” I tell him.
“We’re not going to fix anything,” Dan cuts in. “I’m deleting her.”
“Isn’t that Glen?” Allison-Jean says. “Behind your mom, in the orange shirt?”
“No,” I reply, “that’s ZPF678VG. Glen’s on the other side with the goatee.” If anything, it’s Mii Glen who looks like Chaz Bono.
I take the remote and lower Mii mom’s eyebrows.
“Is that it?” I check with Dad.
“Yeah,” he says. “It really looks like her.” He nods his head with satisfaction. I save and quit.
“That’s fine,” Dan says, crossing his arms. “But it’s my Wii and I’ll just delete her when you leave.”
“Come on, Dan. It’s just like real life. Mom showing up at all of your games.”
“I’m not remembering my mother in the form of a digital marionette.”
“Marionettes have strings.”
“What the heck ever,” he says, the heck part blurred by a burp. “A doll then. I don’t want to remember her as a little digital doll that sometimes has no legs.”
“Yeah, why is it that some of the Miis don’t have legs?” Dad asks. He pulls up his pant leg to scratch and reveals a gargantuan white sport sock.
I say, “I think it’s only the stranger Miis who don’t have any legs.”
Allison-Jean asks, “Whose turn is it?”
I strap the Wii remote to my wrist and tighten the strap. “Tennis, anyone?”
32
A week later, I drop the kids off at Glen’s for the morning and head to Canadian Tire to return a planter. The store is almost empty. I hoist the planter up on the customer service desk and tell the clerk I need to return it. She examines it and asks if there’s anything wrong with it. I show her the crack on the bottom and hand her my receipt. My father enters the store and has trouble manipulating the turnstile.
“Dad!” I yell.
My father looks around but doesn’t see me, and he heads towards the paint department. The clerk hands me back my receipt, which is covered in black marks to remind me I’m going to hell for making a return. After she’s made the refund on my card, I return my Visa to my wallet and head after my dad, who is squatting in an aisle.
“Dad,” I say. He turns and I help pull him up to standing. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for stain,” he says, “but I forgot to write down the colour.”
“Stain for what?”
“Oh, I’m refinishing this old chair for a lady I curl with.”
“You don’t know how to refinish things.”
“Yes, I do,” he says. “I learned it off the Internet.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Now if I could only remember what colour …”
“I thought you’d be at the rink practicing for your big debut in a couple weeks.”
“Going to practice tomorrow,” he replies proudly. “Are you and the kids going to come to the bonspiel?”
“We’ll try.” I try to imagine myself in the rink surrounded by droves of soft-bodied happy people who like to organize potlucks and wear fancy tracksuits. “You didn’t happen to bring the chair with you?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Yes, actually. It’s in the trunk. Do you want to see it?”
I follow my dad out of the store, as the clerk leans her back against the counter, her ankles crossed, watching us leave. In the parking lot my dad opens the trunk and shows me an old chair with an intricate back and caned seat.
“What colour would you say that is?”
“No idea. Looks like dark cherry or something.”
Dad pats the pockets of his jacket. “I should have brought my glasses,” he says. “I’ll have to do this tom
orrow.” He covers the chair with a brown blanket and closes the trunk.
“Don’t ruin that,” I warn. “It looks worth something.”
My dad seems surprised by my concern. He looks old in the sunlight, his chin taking on the appearance of a raisin. He reaches inside his collar and scratches his chest. I wait for him to finish and beckon him towards me.
“Come here, Dad.”
I hug him long and hard. Rest my head against his chest. After several seconds he pulls away and smiles.
“I should go,” I say, though I can’t remember where I parked my car and need to survey the lot. “I have some errands to do for my trip Thursday.”
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“Just Calgary for a few days. For work.”
“Well that should be fun,” he says.
“Nah, it’s training. I’ll call you with my hotel information before I go.”
“I should get home too. These damn bedbugs are killing me. I’ve got to find some Raid or something.”
“What?” I say, backing up. “Bedbugs?”
“Pretty sure. Got their damn bites all over me. Say, what’s that pink stuff your mom used to rub on you kids? Begins with a ‘c.’ You know, that lotion?”
He snaps his fingers a couple of times. Long enough for me to wave goodbye, spot my car, and head over to it. I sit in my car for a few minutes. When I’m sure my dad’s driven off, I go back into the store and empty a can of Raid all over my body.
33
I immediately tell Dan about Dad’s bedbugs and that he has to call an exterminator, and then I call two different pharmacists and inquire about a morning-after pill for having unprotected hugging with a bedbug carrier. There is no such pill, so I take my third shower in less than twelve hours. My skin is raw from the scrubbing.
Monday morning, I go outside and tie off the garbage bag of clothes I burned the day before. The kids mill about the house in their pajamas.
“Do we have to go to school today?” Wes asks when I come back inside.
“Yes, but you’re going to be late.”
“How come?”
“Because we’re running late.”
Joan asks, “Because Grandpa has bugs?”
I reply, “Yes” and immediately regret it because she will spread the word.
“Wes, go put your clothes on.”
For no apparent reason, other than being four, Wes drops to the ground and crawls to the bedroom with his tongue hanging out.
“That’s nice, Wes,” I comment.
Joan bobs for Rice Krispies at the table. Milk drips from her face.
“Are you almost finished?”
She replies by pulling on the skin below her eyes.
I say, “Does that mean you’re done?”
She excuses herself, goes to the living room, turns on the TV, and stands an inch from it.
It takes me a second to realize I’m scratching my back and I think of the bedbugs and my blood pressure goes up. I go to the bathroom and fold the mirrors around my body to look for bites but don’t see any. Wes appears at the door with a helicopter.
“Are we going yet?”
“Five minutes,” I say.
He spins the blades.
It takes another fifteen minutes before we’re actually pulling out of the driveway. I put on a kids’ CD and a happy person sings Who built the ark? and some happy kids reply Noah! Noah! Joan kicks her feet to the music and in my head I sing Who brought the bugs? Father! Father! and shiver.
Dan finally calls me back to say he can’t get an exterminator into Dad’s until the weekend.
“That’s not good enough!” I say. “Call them back.”
“You call them. Why is it my job anyway? Why can’t Dad call his own exterminator?”
“It’s your job to take care of bug things,” I assert, pulling into the parking lot of Turtle Grove.
I hang up the phone and walk the kids into daycare where they hang their raincoats on their respective hooks and the school’s director comes out of her office and greets them, and as they toddle off into the classroom, Wes sings “Who built the ark?” And Joan replies, “No one! No one!”
34
Glen agrees to pick up the kids from school Wednesday so I can work late.
He emails, Why don’t you just come for supper and I’ll take the kids tonight? That way you don’t have to drop them off tomorrow.
I email back, That would be great.
I spend hours sorting through sponsorship requests from ball teams and animal shelters. In lieu of funding I offer ham sandwiches and store brand juice. Saying no depresses me. I print off my boarding pass and training schedule before shutting down and chatting with my assistant. I can’t help but notice she looks pregnant. She catches me staring at her belly but says nothing.
“If the Legion calls, tell them I’ve approved their request and a letter is on the way.”
She makes note of my instruction on a yellow pad, then sticks the pen behind her ear. “Have fun,” she says, in reference to my trip.
“I’ll try,” I reply sarcastically.
I hurry out of the office feeling nauseous from work. Photocopies and light bulbs and the glass bowl of unwrapped spearmints in reception. I stop at home to finish packing before going to Glen’s for dinner. When I arrive they have already eaten.
“Yours is in the oven,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“Mommy!” Wes calls enthusiastically from the hall. “Joan pooped on the toilet!”
I look at Glen for confirmation.
“True story,” he says.
I find my girl with a colouring book on the kitchen floor and congratulate her. She elbows me out of the way and continues her work. I give her a dirty look she doesn’t see and go to the table. Glen joins me out of courtesy. He’s made salmon.
“This is good,” I say.
“You sound surprised.”
“Didn’t mean to.”
We talk casually. About work, his art, my dad. I notice my painting In Contempt is no longer on the wall behind him. I want to inquire about its whereabouts but am distracted. There is something different about Glen I can’t pinpoint. It’s not the shirt I’ve never seen before or the dill sauce he’s put on the salmon. It’s his demeanour. His contentedness. I see it in his arms, relaxed on the table, and in his eyes. And I see it everywhere else too. His clean countertops. The rapid thumping of George’s tail against the floor.
“Claudia?” he asks.
“What?”
“I asked if you’re okay?”
“Yes.” I apologize, “Sorry. I have a bit of a headache.”
“Why don’t you go lie down?”
Wes calls an American Idol contestant an idiot in the next room.
“No, I should go home.”
I fork the remainder of my spinach into my mouth.
“You sure?”
“Maybe for a few minutes.”
I go off to Glen’s room feeling equal parts fatigued and out of sorts. I keep the lights off and the door ajar. His pillow does not smell like head the way it did when we lived together. It smells like grass. I drift off as he’s telling the kids to brush their teeth.
When I wake up it is just after nine and I come to the questionable but likely conclusion that I’ve had an orgasm in my sleep. It leaves me confused and feeling a bit violated because I remember nothing about my dream other than trying to pass off a box of Band-Aids as a meat casserole.
Glen pops his head in the door. “You up?”
“Yeah.”
“The kids are both asleep,” he says.
“Oh.”
I sit up in his bed and he continues to stand at the door, his hand still on the knob. I ponder the orgasm. Think about all the times I had to try really hard to make it happen awake and feel both fascinated and cheated.
“Are you okay?”
“I’ll get out of your bed,” I say, folding back the covers.
“No rush,” he
says. “Jays are on TV. Eleventh inning.”
I go to the fridge and pour a glass of water, then nearly choke on the temperature.
“Don’t forget Wes has a Beavers thing tomorrow night.”
“Got it written down,” Glen says in the other room. I notice that he does. It’s on the fridge calendar.
I thank him for dinner and go to the kids’ room.
“I’m proud of you,” I whisper into Joan’s ear. She stirs but stays asleep. I then climb the ladder to the upper bunk. “Bye Wes.” I knock my shin on the way back down.
Outside the night air is cool and gives me a chill. I should’ve done up my jacket. I should’ve stopped eating when I was full. I should’ve known he’d found someone new.
35
I go from work to the airport. My flight to Calgary is delayed and I walk around the Halifax airport. It’s too big to have character like an island airport and too small to get lost in the crowd. Everyone sits and stares at each other. A boy uses a box of lobster packed for travel as a seat. Seniors in blue tartan wander around ready to show off their Nova Scotian friendliness. My Kobo isn’t charged.
It’s another hour before we finally board, and after we do, the flight’s not much better than the airport. The plane bounces around and they cancel the first drink service and neglect to pass out the little snacks normally fed to parrots. I stare out the window at nothingness and wonder where my mom was sitting before she died. Impossible. It’s not even the same airline, but I touch everything around me just in case. Press my cheek against the window.
My shoe slips off my foot and I nearly have a panic attack trying to retrieve it. The seats are too close. By the time I manage to get it back on my foot, sweat is dripping down my chest.
“Can I get you a drink?”
A male flight attendant leans into the seat. I order a ginger ale. He hands me a package of cranberry citrus cookies that taste like cranberries and citrus and nothing like cookies.
“These are gross,” I say to my neighbour, holding up the empty wrapper. He nods and goes back to reading an article on Mitt Romney, which I periodically attempt to read over his shoulder. I drink my orange juice too fast. Practically shoot it because I can’t move or do anything as long as my tray table is down and any second now the flight attendant will want to collect my cup even though he just handed it over. I put it in the seat pocket and doze off.