Days That End in Y

by Vikki VanSickle

  Mom takes a breather from all her smiling and posing and catches my eye. Seeing how happy she is melts my frozen legs, and I run over to join in the celebrations. She gives me a full strength hug, and then Doug joins in, and before I know it, I’m caught in the middle of a hugging sandwich. Doug lifts both me and Mom off the ground in his giant arms, causing Mom to squeal and my head to pound. It’s nice, if a little weird, and I wonder if group hugs are going to become a regular thing in my life now.

  When Doug puts us down he throws both arms in the air, fists clenched in victory, and crows like a rooster, “I got the girl!”

  It’s more than a little embarrassing.

  As a group, we are some of the last people out of the park. We walk Mattie and Denise home first — which is a relief, since the two of them discussing appropriate train length and wedding invitation etiquette is exhausting — then Benji and I drop back behind my mom and Doug, leaving them to stroll hand-in-hand and discuss the future on their own.

  “Hey! You’re going to have a dog now!” Benji says.

  Cripes. I forgot about Suzy. As if living with Doug isn’t going to be strange enough.

  “You say that like it’s a good thing,” I grumble.

  “Most people like dogs,” Benji points out.

  “I think I might be a cat person.”

  “You could grow to love her.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Either way, she’s going to live with you now.”

  The way he says it makes it sound like a proclamation of absolute finality. It sends a shiver across my shoulders. Doug is moving in. So is Suzy. My house will become his house. I guess, technically, it’ll be our house. But it’s been my house for so long, that I have trouble inserting Doug and his dog into the picture. There will be pet food in the cupboards, a water dish that will slop all over the floor and dog hair on absolutely everything.

  Nobody better expect me to poop-and-scoop.

  ***

  I’m not even close to being asleep when Mom knocks at my door later that night.

  “Come in,” I say.

  She enters tentatively, peering around the door and whispering, “Did I wake you?”

  “No. I’m not very sleepy.”

  “No, I imagine there’s a lot on your mind.” Mom smiles and sits on the edge of my bed, careful not to touch me. Instead, she straightens my sheets, smoothing them over and over like she has a tic. Her eyes occasionally reach me. She’s sizing me up, trying to figure out how freaked out I am. Finally, when the sheets can’t possibly be any smoother, she says, “I wanted to talk to you about tonight. We haven’t had a moment to ourselves all evening.”

  “Okay.”

  “That was a shocker, huh?”

  “You mean you didn’t know he was going to ask you?”

  “We’d talked about it. Getting married, I mean,” Mom admits. Then she adds, “But, no, I didn’t know he was planning on asking me tonight.” Her gaze wanders down to her fingers, where her brand new ring sits, demanding attention. She wiggles her fingers, and the diamond catches the light and throws it in big sparkles across the bedroom wall. I watch them, thinking about how they look like fireworks: bright and temporary. Just hours ago I was at the fireworks with my mom and her boyfriend. Now he’s her fiancé.

  “Hello? Are you in there?” Mom knocks gently on my head with her fingers, and I release a big gush of air I didn’t realize I was holding.

  “I’m here,” I say, stalling.

  “What are you thinking?” Mom looks both nervous and hopeful, which prompts me to speak.

  “It’s going to be weird with a boy in the house,” I say, being as honest as I can without sounding selfish or too unsure about the whole thing.

  Mom nods. “I know. It’s been just us girls for so long. It’ll be weird at first, but good, too. Right?”

  “Right,” I agree, adding, “I do like Doug.”

  Mom smiles. “I know you do, but it’s okay to feel strange about it. This is big.”

  “Super big.”

  “The biggest.”

  Well, not the biggest. The biggest thing that has happened to us in the past few years was her breast cancer diagnosis. She’s been healthy and cancer-free for over a year now, but it doesn’t seem like so long ago that I woke up every day and thought about my mother dying. I can tell by her silence that mom is thinking about it, too. Enough doom and gloom. This is her engagement day!

  “When is the wedding?” I ask, trying to brighten things up a little.

  “At the end of the summer.”

  I’m glad I was sitting for that part. “But that’s less than two months away. Don’t people take, like, a whole year to plan a wedding?”

  “Neither of us wants a big to-do: just a little backyard party with our closest friends. You’re welcome to invite some of your friends: Benji, Mattie, even Michael, if you want.”

  “Are you going to get a dress?”

  “Probably, but nothing fancy.”

  “Denise is going to be upset. She likes a big wedding.”

  “Denise will be thrilled that I’m not stuffing her into a hideous bridesmaid’s dress.”

  Too bad. That I would like to see.

  “When is he moving in?”

  “We thought he’d move in in stages. He’s going to start bringing some boxes by next weekend. That gives you and me some time to do a little cleaning and make room.”

  “That’s soon,” I say carefully, not wanting to let on that I am anything but thrilled about it.

  “Why wait?” Mom says with a goofy smile I have come to think of as her Doug smile. “It’s something we both want.”

  In my head I’m thinking, but what about what I want? What’s wrong with how things are now? Can’t two people live separately and still be in love? Wouldn’t that be the perfect situation? You wouldn’t have to clean up after the other person or get annoyed by their habits. Living separately seems like it would be the best way to stay in love.

  Of course, I don’t say any of this out loud. Judging by the look on my mother’s face, I can tell she wouldn’t agree. It’s like her Doug smile has melted her entire face, turning it into a sappy, goofy mess.

  Mom tucks my hair behind my ears and leans in for a quick hug. The hug is short but tight, and I can tell how happy she is by how hard she squeezes me.

  “This is a big step, baby,” she says, her words tickling my ears. “It’s a whole new world for the Delaney girls.”

  When she pulls back, she smiles at me — a true Annie smile, not a Doug smile — and I return it. When Annette Delaney smiles at you, it’s near impossible to not smile back. It’s like a magnet that tugs at the corners of your mouth until, before you know it, you’re grinning right back. Even if your insides are all mixed up.

  CLEANING DAY

  With Doug all set to officially move in, Mom is on a cleaning spree to make room for all his man-stuff. Whenever she gets a spare moment, she attacks a corner of the house, throwing everything into a “keep” pile or a “Salvation Army” pile. I’m supposed to be helping, but she’s such a furious organizer that most of the time I just end up keeping her company.

  Today her last client rescheduled, so she’s using the free time to attack her closet. It’s less interesting than the shed — which we gutted last night. We found toys I hadn’t used in ages, a bird’s nest and half a mouse. That was a little gross, but fascinating. Where did the other half go? What kind of cruel animal leaves half a mouse behind?

  I’m sitting on the bed, trying to avoid being hit in the face by the blouses and belts that fly by as Mom de-clutters her closet.

  “Can you believe I ever wore this colour? This must have been a gift. Or an impulse buy.”

  “It looks like something Denise would buy,” I joke.

  Mom gasps and pulls out a red dress I’ve never seen before. In fact, it doesn’t look like anything else she owns. It has buttons down the front and is belted across the waist, like a long, tailored shirt. “I f
orgot about this dress! I wonder if it still fits?” She holds it against her body and looks in the full-length mirror that hangs on the back of her closet door.

  “What’s it from?”

  “This was my interview dress. Everyone else would show up in grey skirts and suits, and I’d waltz in wearing red.” Mom smiles and I can imagine her breezing into a room of boring, serious people looking like a movie star.

  “Interview for what?”

  “Jobs, baby. They don’t just hand them out for free.”

  I never really thought of my mom working anywhere but at the Hair Emporium. As far as I knew, she left high school, had me, spent a few years at a mall salon perfecting her skills and then opened up her own place.

  “When was this?”

  Mom shrugs. “I worked all through high school and then just before you were born.”

  “What kind of jobs?”

  “This and that. Receptionist, sales associate, nothing fancy. You need a degree to get a fancy job,” she waggles her finger at me, “which is why you are going to university.”

  Not this conversation again. “Can I go to high school first?”

  Mom laughs. “Deal.” She hugs the dress to her body one more time and says, “I just can’t part with this yet. Doug will have to suffer with a little less space in the closet.”

  I still haven’t quite recovered from the image of my mother answering phones somewhere downtown. “But you like being a stylist, right?”

  “Of course! I love the Hair Emporium almost as much as I love you.” Mom smiles wryly and adds, “Sometimes even more.”

  “More than Doug?” I ask.

  “Be nice.” The phone rings before I can get a lecture. On her way to answer it, Mom dumps a box on the bed beside me. “Here. Make yourself useful.”

  Most of the box is old magazines and a few books — romance novels with a few murder mysteries thrown in for variety. I am about to haul the whole thing to the Salvation Army pile, when I spot what looks like a yearbook. I dig around in the box, and sure enough, there are four yearbooks. All are bright red leather with “Sir John A. Macdonald Secondary School” stamped in yellow on the front. Mom’s old yearbooks! I feel like I’ve found a winning lottery ticket.

  “That was Doug,” Mom says, returning from her phone call. “He’s bringing Chinese for dinner—” Mom stops short when she sees the yearbook in my hands. “Oh my god, where did you find those?”

  “In the box you gave me.”

  Mom sits on the bed next to me, tucking her feet under her like a teenager.

  “I haven’t seen these in ages! May I?”

  I give her the yearbook, and she flips through the pages, shaking her head and murmuring under her breath. It’s almost like I’m not there; it’s just her and the yearbook strolling down memory lane. “This is wild. Look how young we were!”

  “Wow,” I say, as she points out people I’ve never met before. I am itching to look at the books myself, but I act bored. I know my mother, and it is not wise to show too much interest or she’ll get suspicious.

  “Are you going to throw these out?” I ask.

  Mom looks horrified. “Of course not! Put them in the keep pile, and I’ll make room for them somewhere. I’m sure Doug will get a kick out of them. Denise, too.” Mom frowns. “On second thought, I think Denise got rid of her yearbooks a few years ago when she was reinventing herself. Something about ghosts of the past holding her back.” Mom and I share a smile, which is nice. Smiles at the expense of Denise are rare. Mom is Denise’s number one defender and rarely acknowledges her crazy factor, which is significant.

  Mom smiles wistfully at me and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, even though it doesn’t need to be smoothed. “Just think, in a few weeks you’ll be embarking on your own high school years.”

  “Don’t remind me,” I mutter. I’m not the biggest fan of school, and a new school that’s three times as big as my old one, where I’ll be the lowest form of life, is even less appealing. Mom is quiet, and when I turn to see what’s up, there are tears in her eyes.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  “You’re just so big. You used to be my baby, and now look at you!”

  Mom-tears make me uncomfortable. I look away, pretending to be busy folding and refolding a blazer until the coast is clear. When Mom starts humming, I look up again. I don’t recognize the song; probably something from the “good old days.” I eye the yearbooks but continue to fold the clothes she tosses my way.

  When the door opens and Doug yells, “Who’s hungry? I’ve got chow mein!” I let her run ahead. Then I fish the books out of the keep pile and smuggle them to my room where I can examine them later.

  I tell myself that everything is fine; it’s not stealing if it’s from your own house and you intend to return something eventually. Right?

  DOG DAY

  After stuffing ourselves full of Chinese food, Mom and Doug go outside to have a beer on the porch. I sneak off to my bedroom to find out about my mother’s past.

  I have one big reason for wanting to be alone with the yearbooks: my dad. I’ve never even seen a picture of him. Over the years I’ve learned bits and pieces from Denise — like how all the girls loved his floppy hair, how charming he was and that he met my mother at a bush party. But I could still count all the things I knew about him on one hand. It’s never bothered me before — not much, anyway — but now that I have the chance to look him up, I can barely contain myself.

  I skip the yearbooks from grades nine and ten and go straight to the year my parents met, grade eleven. I know Bill switched schools for her, moving from Bennington to Sir John A. so they could spend more time together. Imagine someone being so in love with you that he went to the trouble of switching schools!

  Someone else’s yearbook is not as exciting as you might imagine: page after page of school photos arranged in rows, some “wacky” club photos, a few news articles from the local paper and a list of notable world events that happened that year. You don’t realize how old your parents are until you discover that things you learned about in history class happened when they were in high school.

  Everyone has one of three haircuts, and none of them are flattering: flat-ironed paper thin locks, shags gone wrong and big bangs. I scan the page of students with last names that start with D–F, and there she is, the Dairy Queen. Even with an overly layered haircut it’s hard to find fault with Annette Delaney. With her heart-shaped face, dimples and eyes that sparkle, even in black and white, she has a face that looks made to smile. All the other girls on the page look like regular teenagers, but Annie Delaney looks like a teenager from a movie.

  Obviously someone else felt the same way, because there is an arrow pointing to the picture with the words Eat your heart out, Jeff K! scrawled in the margin. The same person (I can tell by the pen, which is green, and the handwriting, which is loopy) has commented on people throughout the book, mostly boys (My future husband; Mama’s boy; Hubba, hubba).

  Denise.

  Her picture is near the end of the section, and I have to stop myself from laughing out loud. Everyone else has polite little smiles, but Denise looks like she just told a bad joke — she’s smiling big as a Muppet, with all her teeth showing. I can’t get over how young she looks. Everything is a little too big on her face, as if she hasn’t quite grown into it yet. And her hair looks like it’s been assisted by both a curling and crimping iron. I’m not even sure what you would call that style other than maybe “the cloud.”

  The person with the green pen also drew a box around the picture and added little rays, like the ones children draw around suns. There’s a comment beside it: The coolest person I have ever met!

  Yep. The person with the green pen was definitely a teenage Denise.

  There is knock at the door. I slam the yearbook shut and slip it under my pillow.

  “Come in.”

  The door opens and Doug is there, holding Suzy’s leash.

  “Are you ready? It
’s go time!”

  Ever since the engagement, Doug has asked me to “tag along” when he walks his dog, Suzy. I’m not much of a dog person, and I’m definitely not a Suzy person. I have never quite forgiven her for running away from me last spring, even though it did lead to one of the more interesting moments of my life: kissing Michael. I still blush just thinking about it.

  Doug never uses the word “bonding,” but it’s clear that these walks are for us to get to know each other. Now that he is moving in permanently, it seems like a good idea. If I didn’t go, I’m sure my mother would find a horrible task for me to do, like fishing hairballs from the drain pipe in the Hair Emporium. Even half an hour with Doug and his hairball of a dog is better than that.

  Luckily Doug is a talker, so there are never any awkward moments.

  “So, C-Bot, you haven’t said a word about me moving in.”

  As part of our bonding process, Doug is constantly coming up with new nicknames for me. Some are better than others.

  I can feel him looking at me, waiting for a response. Even though they’ve been engaged for more than a week, Doug hasn’t asked me how I feel about it yet. I knew it was only a matter of time before the questions came. Doug can’t help himself when it comes to talking things out.

  I keep my eyes on the dog, who is basically skipping along the sidewalk, her nose to the cement, sniffing out who knows what. Unlike the other dogs we pass, she seems incapable of walking in a straight line, preferring to zigzag around, depending on what interesting smells she can find.

  “I think it’s good,” I say to him, still looking at Suzy.

  “You can be honest with me. I know it’s a big change.”

  “I know. We’ve never had a pet before,” I say.

  Doug laughs. He thinks I’m being funny. “It’s nothing. You’ll love it.”

  Just then Suzy spots a single fallen leaf, drops to her haunches and starts barking at it. I’m not so sure I will love living with such a dumb dog.

  Doug goes on, “Suzy will be a change, that’s for sure, but I was talking about me moving in. How do you feel about that?”