The more Doug talks, the angrier I get.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do. Just because you’ve moved in doesn’t mean you get to call the shots. You’re just my mother’s fiancé, someone I have to put up with. You’re not my father!”
I watch Doug’s face to see if the insult lands the way I intended it to, sharp and stinging like a slap. But instead of wounded, he looks steely and impenetrable.
“Are you going to your room?” he asks calmly.
“Yes, I think I will.”
Doug nods. “I think that’s a good idea. I also think you should stay in there for a while until you cool down and are ready to apologize.”
Now I’m the one who feels slapped. I look at Mom, who makes no move to defend me or step in. When it becomes clear that they’ve both finished with me, I storm back to my room and stay there all night. Not because Doug told me to, but because I want to.
Dinner comes and goes, and even though I can smell the hamburgers sizzling, I don’t budge. I’m too angry to be hungry, and I can’t stand the thought of their self-righteous faces sitting round the dinner table looking all smug and superior. Now that he’s fully entrenched in our lives, Doug has shown his true colours. Turns out he’s not the carefree, happy-go-lucky dude he makes himself out to be. He’s just another stuffy adult with stupid rules, who’s never in the wrong. Well, I don’t care how well he thinks he can play the role of my father. Neither he nor my mom can tell me what to do.
Tomorrow, I find my dad.
SHOPPING DAY
I go against all of my natural instincts and wake up at seven o’clock. That way I can catch Benji before he goes to rehearsal and tell him the plan.
Now more than ever, I have to get to the Lilac Motel. Before it was a risk, but now that I know Bill is in town looking for me, what have I got to lose? The sooner I track him down, the better.
I’m waiting for Benji on his front stoop when he comes out, ready for drama camp. He is so surprised, he almost drops his backpack.
“What are you doing here?”
“Today is your half day, right?”
“Right.”
“Perfect! Today is Lilac Motel day. I know he’s there now; his friend Stookey said so. We’ll go right after rehearsal, so it will be daylight and no one can kidnap us.”
Benji frowns. “You shouldn’t joke about stuff like that.”
“I’m kidding! It won’t take that long; we’ll be back before dinner.”
“I can’t.”
“Benji, it’s totally safe!”
“It’s not that. I want to go with you—”
I give him a look, and he changes his tune.
“Well, I don’t love the idea, but I still would go with you. Except, I’m busy.”
“With what?”
“Stuff for the play.”
“Of course!”
“Don’t be angry; Dean needs me!”
“I need you more! Benji, I found something out yesterday. Something about my dad. I think he’s here, looking for me! Don’t you see? I need to get to that motel.”
“Then why doesn’t he come to your house? It’s not a secret that your mom lives here.”
“Oh right, and have Mom beat him to death with a curling iron? Think about it, Benji! He can’t show his face here. I have to get to him before he gives up and leaves.”
Benji doesn’t respond. Not even a sad smile or a shoulder shrug.
“Fine. I’ll go by myself.”
Benji looks truly alarmed. “No! Don’t! Can’t you wait until tomorrow?”
“It can’t wait another day! He could be gone by then. Maybe he’s left already.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t today. I already promised Dean.”
The expression on Benji’s face is so miserable, it’s hard to stay mad at him. It doesn’t mean I’m not upset, though, because I am. I feel ditched. All I say is “Fine.”
“Promise me you’ll wait?”
“You know me better than to ask me something like that,” I say. I turn and stomp away.
Maybe I should have been more understanding, but the truth is I’m annoyed. I know the showcase is important to Benji, but there will be other plays. Possibly meeting my dad is a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
I have tried to be patient and understanding with Benji where theatre is concerned, even though it’s hard because I was the one who was interested in acting in the first place. Is it so much to ask that he give up a few hours to come with me while I track down my dad for the first time ever? There is definitely something up with him. The old Benji would know how important this was to me. This new Benji, with his fancy showcases, new hair and plaid shirts, sucks.
I hear our screen door creak as I walk back home, and Mom appears, tea in hand, stooping for the newspaper. I’m relieved it isn’t Doug. I’m still mad at him. I’m still mad at Mom, too. I’m not ready to forgive her for not sticking up for me last night. She is as cheery as ever and remarks, “You’re up early!” as if nothing happened.
I’m too angry to respond, so I continue to glower silently after Benji, even though he’s long gone. Mom, the eternal morning person, is undeterred. “What are you up to today?”
“That is yet to be determined,” I say, still fuming.
“Then I’ll determine it for you. We’re going shopping for dresses after lunch.”
I won’t have time to bike out to the motel and back before then, especially if I want to factor in any time for father-daughter bonding.
“But—”
“No buts. And Denise is coming with us. She may not be a bridesmaid in the traditional sense, but she’s getting a new dress all the same.”
Shopping is one of my least favourite activities, next to going to the dentist and algebra. But I’d rather spend a whole day in the dentist chair, finding the value of X, than spend one hour shopping with Denise. I prefer Denise in small doses and I’m still recovering from our confusing heart-to-heart the other night. Why is the whole world conspiring to keep me from meeting my father today?
***
Dress shopping is overwhelming. Mom refuses to go anywhere with the word “bridal” in its title, so we end up wandering into every store in the mall that carries dresses of any kind. There’s so much to choose from, even though we’ve limited ourselves to the bargain racks. The department stores are the worst. Just when you think you’ve seen everything, there’s a whole other section
As usual, Denise is full of advice: “If I had that waist, you can bet I’d be showing it off,” and “I know people keep saying coral is flattering, but if I were you, I’d stick with something less orange.”
Eventually a tired-looking saleslady comes over to ask if she can help us find anything.
“We need three dresses,” Mom says.
“Three?” I repeat.
“Yes, three,” says Mom. “You, me and Denise.”
“Me? Why me? Can’t I just wear something in my closet? I thought this was all about you and your special day,” I protest, but Mom doesn’t budge.
“Lucky for you, I’m willing to share my special day.”
The saleslady perks up considerably. “You’re getting married?” she asks.
“Sort of,” Mom says.
Denise snorts. “Sort of? Annie, I know you’re trying to keep this small and everything, but it doesn’t mean you have to tiptoe around the issue. You’re getting MARRIED for crying out loud! If it was me, you can bet everyone from here to Buckingham Palace would know!”
Mom relents. “Yes, I’m getting married. But I want it to be a casual affair, nothing fancy, no bows or bustles or tulle. Just a nice summer dress, appropriate for an afternoon party.”
The saleslady searches aggressively through the racks, throwing dresses over her arm. She holds them up one at a time for Mom to okay or veto, then sends us into the fitting rooms with the winning options. For some reason, Denise feels the need to give the whole fitting room a play-by-play of her experience.
> “Bless that woman. She brought me a size eight. I haven’t been a size eight in years. How’s it going in there, Annie? Which one are you trying on first?”
“The strappy little sundress. Are you ready?”
“Ready.”
“Clarissa?”
At my mother’s insistence, we all have to come out wearing the first option at the same time.
“Clarissa? You all set?”
There is no use ignoring them. “Ready,” I grumble.
I unlatch the lock of the stall and step out between Mom and Denise in a dress that is too strapless, too pink and absolutely not right for me. To my left, Denise has squeezed most of herself into a turquoise tube dress. It is too tight over her hips, and the zipper looks like it gave up halfway up her back.
“All that running and I still can’t get into an eight,” she mutters. Then to me, “You look cute as a button; what are you frowning about?”
“It’s too pink,” I say.
“Look at your mother over there. Just stunning! You’ve still got it, Annie.”
It’s true. My mother is wearing a white sundress that not only fits perfectly, but shows off her midsummer tan. If possible, it even makes her hair look blonder. The saleslady returns and stops in her tracks to gasp over the sight of my mother.
“Simple and gorgeous,” she says. “If you ask me, you can call off the search now.”
She doesn’t mention Denise or me.
Mom shrugs. “I like it, but I want to try the others before making a decision.”
We disappear back into our stalls for round two. My second dress isn’t much better, but at least it isn’t pink. The sleeves are made of lace and it has a ribbon threaded around the middle that can be cinched into a bow. It looks like something a flower girl would wear, and I am much too old to be a flower girl.
“Do you want Clarissa and me to match?” Denise calls over the walls of the stall.
“Doesn’t matter,” Mom says. “If you end up picking two dresses that match, so be it. I just want you to feel beautiful. Ready for round two?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“One, two, three.”
We emerge again, my mom in a long, flowing dress that looks more beachy than bridal to me. Denise is in a black, strapless dress. Mom gushes over Denise’s outfit.
“You look gorgeous, DeeDee! So sophisticated.”
Denise does a number of turns, checking herself out in the mirror. “I do, don’t I?” she muses. “Are you sure you don’t mind me wearing black at your wedding?”
“Not at all. Now, Clarissa, you look adorable.”
“Exactly. Seven-year-olds look adorable. It’s too young.”
To my surprise, Denise agrees with me. “You’re right. No more lace or ribbons for you. What would Michael think, eh?” She winks at me, and I march back into my stall for option number three. Even inside my stall, I’m not safe from interrogation.
“Is Michael coming?” Denise asks.
“I’m not sure yet,” I reply. The truth is I haven’t asked him.
“That boy is a cutie. Has he kissed you yet?”
That I don’t answer.
My mother laughs. “Now, DeeDee,” she says, but she doesn’t exactly tell her to lay off.
Then suddenly Denise bursts into loud, honking tears. I unlatch the door and step out to see what happened. As far as I can tell, she isn’t injured, and there isn’t anyone else around who could have done anything. There’s a click, and Mom rushes from her own stall to Denise’s side, still in option number two. Seeing Denise cry isn’t all that unusual; she cries all the time. She cries during The Bachelorette, for goodness sakes. I just don’t understand why she’s crying now. I try to remember if I said something to upset her, but unless she has something against Michael, I don’t know what I possibly could have done. Maybe she’s still feeling unhinged from the other night.
“I’m going to miss this,” she says, then collapses into my mother’s arms. Denise is not a pretty crier. Unfortunately, we have that in common. When my mother cries, delicate tears well up in her big blue eyes, and her face turns slightly pink, like a Disney princess. Denise and I are slobbery, red-faced snotty messes, but this doesn’t bother Mom. She lets Denise slobber all over her shoulder, while she rubs circles on Denise’s back and makes cooing noises.
“I know, DeeDee. Me, too. Me, too.”
It’s an odd sight: six-foot-tall Denise crumpled on the shoulder of my five-foot-three mother. I stare at them, two grown women hugging it out in the women’s fitting rooms at the Bay, and I wonder what they’re not telling me.
“What’s going on? What are you going to miss?”
Denise sniffs and runs her fingers under her eyes, trying to mop up the mess of mascara and eyeliner that is travelling down her cheeks.
“Denise got a big promotion,” Mom says. “She’s moving to Mississauga in the fall.”
My mouth drops open so quickly, I can actually feel the joint pop. I probably look like one of those cartoon characters — bug eyes and my jaw dragging on the ground. It takes real effort to close it.
“You never told me,” I say, thinking of all the quality time I spent with her the other day, and she didn’t mention a single word about a promotion.
“I just accepted the job this morning,” Denise says. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and now seems like the right time.”
“What will you be doing?”
Denise tries to laugh, but all that emerges is a shaky, uncertain noise, like a choked cough. “They want me to train salespeople. Can you believe that?”
Actually, I can. “You convinced Dolly to wear lipstick after sixty years of her wearing no makeup at all. Think of what you can teach people who already love lipstick.” This is probably the nicest thing I’ve ever said to Denise. I am rewarded by a fresh bout of wailing and having my face crushed against her chest in a wet hug.
Mom puts one hand on Denise’s shoulder and strokes her hair with the other. “DeeDee, you’ve earned this! Think of the opportunity.”
Denise relaxes her grip to wipe her eyes again, and I seize the opportunity to wriggle from her grasp. She fishes a Kleenex out of her purse, blows her nose with an enormous honk and says, “You’re right. I know you’re right. I’ve lived here my whole life, and what do I have to show for it? A crappy job, a crappy apartment and no love life.” Denise sighs. “Maybe there’s someone waiting for me in Mississauga.”
Mom smiles. “I know there is.”
Denise manages to get a grip, and the search for my dress is back on. I trail behind Mom and Denise as they sift through discount racks of sundresses. I don’t want to intrude on their time together, especially since it has an expiry date now. I’ve never noticed it before, but they talk in half-sentences, almost like their own language.
“What about—”
“Yes, but the thing—”
“You’re right, it’s too—”
“—fussy.”
“Not like that other one.”
“With the neckline?”
“Exactly.”
The saleslady is smart enough to leave us alone. I can see her watching us from a few racks over, but she has clearly been scared off by Denise’s theatrics. We find a few more options and head back to the change rooms try them on.
My favourite is a white dress with tiny straps that comes just to my knee. I’ve never worn anything so girly before, but unlike that piece of pink frosting I had on earlier, this one looks nice. I know I’ve made the right choice when I see Mom’s face light up as I come out of the stall.
“Well, look at you,” she says. “My young woman.” Then she is overcome by an embarrassing rush of mothering and kisses my cheek repeatedly. I resist the urge to wipe it off. I admit, I like what I see in the mirror. The dress is white and floaty, but in a summery way, not a princessy way.
Denise is getting teary-eyed again. “You’re just so big,” she says. “When did you get so big?” I frow
n. Would it be so hard to say tall? What’s with all the “big” talk?
Mom twists my hair and holds it at the top of my head. “We’ll do an up-do and get you some nice earrings; you’ll be a stunner.”
Stunner. I’ve never been called that before. I like the way the word tickles the hairs at the back of my neck.
“Wait here.” Mom ducks back into the stall and emerges a moment later in her first dress, which looks very similar to mine: white, knee-length, spaghetti straps. The only major difference is Mom’s is fitted and classic, like something from a black-and-white movie, and mine is only fitted at the top, the skirt loose and breezy. We stand side by side, looking at each other in the mirror. The similar dresses emphasize our differences. Short, tall. Blond, brunette. Straight, curly.
I wonder what she sees when she looks at me. Is she reminded of my father? Does she ever wish I looked more like her? Does she ever think about him? I want so badly to ask, but now is not the time.
I wonder if there will ever be a time.
The saleslady comes in and claps her hands in approval. “How lovely. I know of a couple of wedding parties where the bride and her daughter dressed alike. It makes for a nice picture.”
“You don’t think they look too similar?” I ask.
“I think they’re perfect,” Mom says.
After we pay for our dresses, Mom turns to Denise and says, “Now, shoes!”
“Shoes?” I’m not up for another half-hour of trying things on and spontaneous weeping. “Can I go to the food court?” I ask.
Denise frowns. “You just had a snack. You want to be able to fit into that dress, don’t you?”
Normally I’d make a joke. I’ve always considered making fun of Denise to be my job. But the thought of not having her around to laugh at is so startling, I can’t think of a single thing to say. I feel completely thrown, like someone just told me that drinking water is actually bad for you, or England is a made-up place that never existed. Typical Denise: just when we start to get along, she decides to move hours away.
“I think Clarissa has reached her limit,” Mom says. She hands me a five-dollar bill. “Go ahead. Meet us out front in forty-five minutes.”
I hurry away before she can change her mind.
Days That End in Y Page 9