MALL DAY
The mall is full of back-to-school shoppers and people looking to escape the heat. I wander in and out of stores aimlessly, enjoying an ice-cold Frappuccino (what my mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her) and not shopping. The back-to-school displays make my stomach turn.
Usually Mom and I do a one-stop, back-to-school shop (binders, shoes, maybe a pair of jeans). Then we have an end-of-summer barbeque with Benji and Denise, followed by my annual back-to-school haircut. School is less than two weeks away, and Mom hasn’t mentioned any of it. I wonder if she’s forgotten in all of the wedding/Denise-moving-away madness. Or maybe, because I’m going into high school, she thinks I’ll be too old. I hope not; I like the tradition. Besides, I don’t feel any older than I did last year.
I veer toward the food court, staying away from anything that looks like it could be used in a classroom. Fries will take my mind off school. Maybe even poutine.
I’m in line, trying to decide if I should get a small or a medium, when I spot Benji sitting with a boy I don’t know. He looks older; maybe he’s a senior. He’s handsome, in a boy-band kind of way, and he’s deeply tanned, with unnaturally sculpted hair. The vee of his t-shirt is a little lower than necessary.
When Benji spots me he looks surprised, then guilty, then waves me over. “Clarissa! Hi.”
“Hi. Who’s this?”
“This is Dean. He’s directing the show.”
So this is the famous Dean. Funny, they don’t appear to be doing show stuff that was so important, Benji absolutely could not miss it.
“Clarissa! It’s so nice to meet you!” Dean stands and gives me a big hug. Even after hanging out with Charity and some of Benji’s other theatre friends, I still can’t get used to how touchy they are. “Benji is always telling me hilarious things about you.”
“Oh, really?” I shoot Benji a look, wondering what exactly he’s telling this stranger that is so hilarious.
“Not ‘ha-ha’ funny,” Benji says, but he doesn’t elaborate.
“So what brings you to the mall?” Dean asks.
“Shopping,” I say flatly, not ready to share my business with this freakishly pretty stranger.
Benji laughs, but it sounds forced. “See? Hilarious!” he says weakly.
“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at the theatre?” I ask.
“No, rehearsal ended a few hours ago, but I had some show-related errands to do, costumes and stuff, and I know that costumes are Ben’s forte, so I brought him along. Now we’re just hanging out, having some ice cream. Want a bite?” Dean offers me a spoonful of vanilla ice cream that is dripping something that looks like melted plastic, but is probably strawberry sauce. I shake my head no.
“Costume design is one of Ben’s many fortes.”
Benji blushes, but Dean doesn’t seem to notice. Instead he laughs and says to Benji, “You’re right, so hilarious!”
“I can’t believe you went shopping without me,” Benji says.
“I could say the same about you. How do you think I feel, dragged to the mall against my will, only to find my best friend — who was too busy this morning to help me — having a great time in the food court?”
Benji starts to explain, but I don’t want to hear it.
“It wasn’t my idea, obviously. As you know, I had other plans today, but my mom made me. Denise came, too—” I am about to say something funny about her struggling with the zipper, but then I remember that she’s moving, and the words get stuck in my throat. Again.
Benji looks at me expectantly, waiting for the punchline, but there isn’t one that doesn’t make my throat ache.
“Who’s Denise?” Dean asks.
“She’s Clarissa’s mom’s best friend,” Benji explains, then he actually rolls his eyes, something he almost never does. “She’s crazy. Fun, but totally nutso.”
I am shocked at how casually the insult rolls off Benji’s tongue. Making fun of Denise is my job; he’s the one who always defends her. Dean nods like he knows; it makes my skin itch with irritation. He doesn’t know anything about me or Denise. How dare he nod his head! And how dare Benji pretend that he doesn’t come running over when he hears Denise cackling away at the TV!
“She’s more than that! She’s like my aunt. And she’s moving.”
I practically spit the words out. Benji turns two shades paler in shock. I’m a little shocked myself. I’ve never called Denise my aunt before, although that’s basically what she is. Denise has been at every birthday party I’ve ever had, whether I wanted her there or not. She calls to wish us Merry Christmas on Christmas Day, and she’s the one who stayed with me when my mom was in the hospital. Maybe she’s not related to me by blood, but isn’t that what aunts do?
“She’s moving?” Benji repeats. He looks as stricken as I feel.
“That sucks,” Dean says.
“Yeah, it sucks,” I say, thinking this glossy idiot couldn’t possibly know the depths of how much this sucks. I can feel tears starting at the back of my eyes. I can’t believe I’m about to cry over Denise. In the mall. I have to get out of here.
“Well, I should go. They’re probably looking for me.”
Dean stands up and looks at me with concern. “Hey, are you okay?” When he touches my elbow I actually flinch. What is with him? A normal person would see that I was upset and leave me in peace.
“I’m fine, but I really should go. Bye, Ben.”
***
I’m so angry when I get home that I have to do something or I’ll explode. There are still a few good hours before sundown — I can make it to and from the Lilac Motel if I hurry. I tell Mom I’m having dinner at Benji’s and grab two granola bars to eat on the way. I pack my helmet, the yearbook and bicycle light, and away I go, taking matters into my own hands.
LATER THAT DAY
As I pedal to the Lilac Motel, I think of all the rumours I’ve heard about it. Like the one about the old man who died of a heart attack. No one found him for three days, and only then because he had started to rot and the smell caught the attention of someone’s dog.
Then there’s the story about an old medium who lived there years ago. People came to visit her, looking to talk to their dead relatives. She’s no longer there, but the ghosts of the people she contacted still haunt the Lilac’s rooms.
I’ve even heard that the restaurant turns into a seedy club at night. But I’m sure none of it is true. People love stupid stories. Though it is true that the Lilac Motel has been closed down and reopened at least three times, and there must have been some reason for that each time. Maybe there is a tiny kernel of truth in the stories.
I’m feeling chilled, despite the heat and the warm wind I’m creating as I bike along the shoulder of the highway. Think about Bill, I tell myself. Think about your father who came thousands of kilometres across the country to see you.
I don’t see many cars, which is fine by me. Normally biking near cars doesn’t make me nervous, but the cars in town go much slower than the cars on the highway. My bike wobbles a little in the draft they create as they sail by at eighty, ninety, even one hundred kilometres an hour.
One more hill and the Lilac Motel is in sight. Just in time, too. My calves feel tight, and my mouth is completely parched. There are three cars and a van in the parking lot. One of the cars is black. It looks like the car I saw at the school parking lot, but until I see the licence plate, I can’t be sure.
I’m still on my bike, my left foot off the pedal and resting on the ground. I’m waiting for the traffic to pass so I can rush across the highway. I grit my teeth to keep from screaming in impatience. Where are all these cars coming from? Thirty minutes of almost no traffic, and all of a sudden there’s a mini-rush exactly when I want to cross.
Finally the rush is over, and I pedal like mad across the street and into the parking lot. I cruise by all the empty spots, nearing the little black car, saying the licence plate number over and over again in my head: BKJR 199. BKJR 199. BKJR
199. When I get to the black car, I stop, just to be sure.
BKJR 199. This is it — Bill’s car.
Now what? The parking lot is deserted. Everyone is either in their rooms or in the restaurant. The Lilac Motel is divided into two wings that reach out from the restaurant and lobby in the middle. I guess that’s where people go to check in. Each wing has five purple doors, each with a small window, which I assume means there are five rental units per wing, ten in total.
I could wait out here for him to come out to the car, but I don’t want to get caught loitering around the parking lot. People could get suspicious and call the police, mistaking me for a car thief. I could go in and ask for him at the desk. Maybe they could call him for me. But then I would have to know exactly what I want to say.
I take a deep breath, sucking in thick, soggy air. So much for deep, cleansing breaths.
It’s dim inside, the lobby lit with a ragtag collection of lamps in corners and on the front desk. A man with a walrus mustache and a belly that is barely contained by a sickly orange shirt is slumped in a chair behind the front desk.
“Excuse me, I was wondering if you could call Bill Davies for me?”
“Did you try his room?” the Walrus asks.
“Actually, I forgot his room number, which is why I was wondering if maybe you could call him?”
The man harrumphs into his mustache and reaches for the phone. Even this small movement is almost too much for the buttons of his shirt, which are threatening to pop right off. I take a step back and to the side, out of range.
Every part of me feels like it’s on high alert, like one of those wind-up toys full of gears and things that whir and spin. My nerves are jangly and my knees feel like jelly. It’s impossible to get myself together. I tell myself to keep breathing as the Walrus waits for Bill to pick up on the other end. When he hangs up without saying a word, I deflate a little, like a day-old balloon.
“Not in,” the Walrus says.
“But I saw his car in the parking lot,” I say.
“Must be in the bar then.” The Walrus gestures with his head to an even darker room just behind him. The only thing that separates it from the lobby is a podium with a Please wait to be seated sign stuck on the front. Beyond the podium, I can see tables, a bar and two TVs mounted in the corners of the room. It’s dingy, but it doesn’t look that bad, which is a relief. There are a few people seated at the bar, but I can’t tell if one of them is Bill.
“You going in?”
It’s now or never.
“Yes,” I say.
I wait at the podium as the sign instructs, but after a minute it becomes clear that, in fact, no one is coming to seat me. So I shuffle in, hoping I don’t look as lost as I feel.
Technically I am in a restaurant, not a bar, but I still feel like I am in some place that I shouldn’t be. Even the smell of french fries can’t hide the underlying musty stench of the place, which smells like an old couch someone has left outside in the rain. An older man and woman are sitting at a table staring up at one of the wall-mounted TVs. They don’t talk; they just sit and watch the baseball game, occasionally picking at the food in front of them. A pair of men are chatting with the bartender; both are wearing baseball caps and holding tall glasses of beer. A fifth person sits alone at another table, fiddling with his phone, an untouched beer and an open newspaper in front of him. Bill.
I make my way to his table, willing him to look up and see me, but he is wrapped up in whatever he’s doing on his phone. If he would just look up, surely he would see a resemblance between us and instantly know that I was his long-lost daughter, come to find him.
“Mr. Davies? Mr. Bill Davies?”
Finally he looks at me. We make eye contact, and I almost lose my nerve. Then he smiles at me, and I start to thaw out.
“That’s me. You look a bit young to be a waitress,” he says, but I can tell by his tone that he knows I’m not the waitress, he’s just teasing me. Charming, I think. Denise said he was charming. I try not to fall under the spell of his smile, which is as warm as the midday sun, and probably just as bad for me. My tongue feels heavy, and my throat feels gummy. I can’t seem to get any part of my mouth to work. This is going to be even harder than I thought.
“I’m not the waitress,” I manage to say.
“Okay, then. This is a strange place for a young lady,” Bill continues, not unkindly. “Are you lost?”
“No,” I manage to say.
“Well, then what can I do for you?”
“I don’t know where to start.”
He smiles again and says, “I always find the beginning is a good place.”
I sort of thought by now he would recognize me, or at least see some of himself in me. “I’m Clarissa,” I say. Then I puff myself up with a big breath and go on, “Clarissa Louise Delaney.”
I wait for recognition to flash across his face, change his features, indicate in some way that my name conjures up something other than the blank smile that he keeps giving me.
“Delaney?” I repeat. “As in, daughter of Annie Delaney? As in, your daughter?”
After all this time, after all my agonizing over the perfect wording, that is not what I wanted to say. It was too dramatic, too sassy. I feel like a bad actress in a soap opera. But now that it’s out there, I can’t take it back. Bill laughs, takes his hat off and smooths his unruly hair back. I want to tell him not to bother; we have the same bouncy hair and nothing will hold that curl back for long. But I can’t, because I’m confused by his laughing. It doesn’t seem to be out of joy or relief.
“All right, you got me. Who put you up to this? Was it Stookey? Tyler?” Bill looks around as if expecting ghosts from his past to jump out and yell gotcha! But it’s just me, stupid me, and I wonder if I’ve made a huge mistake.
“No one put me up to it. It’s me, Clarissa. Your daughter.”
Bill squints at me, like he needs glasses. “Don’t tell me it was Annie, not after all this time. She made it clear she was done with me when she ditched me for Jack Handover.”
Jack Handover?
The Jack from the yearbooks?
“I don’t know any of those people,” I say, trying to think over the sound of my brain screaming WHO’S JACK HANDOVER? “I’m Annie’s daughter. I’m your daughter.”
“Okay, look, haven’t you heard of taking a joke too far? You couldn’t possibly be my kid. Annie would have told me — I would have known!” Bill says, charming smile completely gone. It makes him look older, more haggard than handsome.
Even though I knew that Mom had never told him about me, a little part of me thought that maybe he had known all along, deep inside — that maybe the feeling had grown so big, that he’d done a little research and found out about me and came to town to find me. That part is thoroughly and utterly squashed now. All I can say is, “You really didn’t know?”
“You’re not kidding?”
“No!”
Bill swears under his breath, though not so quietly that I can’t hear him. “Jesus, Annie!”
“I’m Clarissa,” I whisper, feeling the last of whatever pride I had shrivel up and die.
Bill gets up abruptly, bumping the chair behind him. It totters but doesn’t fall. He rubs at his cheeks, as if they have answers.
“Of course you are. I just mean — Jesus, Annie! She could’ve told me! Called, or even sent a goddamn email after all these years!”
“Then why are you here? Who did you come out to see?” I ask.
“My nephew’s in a baseball tournament. He asked me to come see him play, so I decided to make a trip out of it. I don’t get out here very often.”
You can’t hear a heart break, but you can certainly feel it. I know this, because I feel mine shatter into a million pieces that lodge themselves all over my body. In my fingers, in my toes, especially in my cheeks, which are burning red and smarting with embarrassment. All this time, that little part of me thought that maybe he was back because of me, but he was b
ack for someone else. It wasn’t me he was looking to get some face-time with, it was his nephew. I had the whole situation wrong.
“Does your mother know you’re here?” Bill asks.
I shake my head no.
“Look, you shouldn’t be here. Let’s go call your mother, and we can all sit down and talk about this.”
My vision blurs as the tears I’ve been trying to hold back take over. Bill sees this and touches my elbow gently, as if he’s never comforted a kid before and is afraid I’ll bite him.
“Please don’t cry. I’m sorry I got all crazy. This is news to me, too, okay? But we’ll work this out. What did you say your name was again?”
I can’t help it, I am crying. I back out of the dark, dingy bar and run to my bike. I don’t know if Bill is behind me, because all I can hear is my heartbeat. It feels like it’s taken up residence right between my ears. I jam my helmet on my head, kick at the kickstand and book it out of there as fast as I can, far away from Bill and the Lilac Motel.
EVEN LATER THAT DAY
I can’t go home, and I can’t go to Benji’s. He is too busy with his new hair and Dean and the stupid showcase. But I do need somewhere I can go and be alone.
So I bike all the way to Michael’s house, let myself into the backyard and head for his brothers’ tree house. I climb up, not caring as the branches etch my skin and pull sharply at my hair. It’s like I can’t feel pain anymore. When I finally pull myself inside, I lie face down, spread-eagle, and pray for the horrible spinning sensation to stop.
What’s wrong with my mother? She’s the one who fell for him and got pregnant. How could she be so stupid? Didn’t she know a snake when she saw one? Is that why she didn’t tell him about me? And who’s Jack Handover?
The last question makes me feel queasy. What did Bill mean when he said that my mom ditched him for Jack Handover? I’ve never even heard of him before. Then I remember I still have the yearbook in my backpack. Part of me wants destroy it — throw it into the river, or rip it apart page by page and feed each one to the barbeque — but first I need to find out.
Days That End in Y Page 10