It’s dark, but I know David and Solly keep flashlights in the tree house — they showed me on one of my non-dates with Michael. There isn’t a lot of room for storage up here, just a shelf with all the tree house necessities: flashlight, binoculars, comic books, balloons for making water bombs. I find a flashlight and flip through the incriminating yearbook, my nervous stomach turning somersaults in my belly.
I find him quickly. In his school photo, Jack Handover looks like a jock with a serious streak. His hair is perhaps a bit too gelled and stiff, but it looks like a respectable haircut, not wild and rebellious like Bill’s bad-boy mop. His face is square, and he is gazing into the camera with a determined look on his face, like he can see his future and is just about to grab it. Did that future include my mother?
I don’t have to search too hard to find out more about him. Jack Handover is splashed all over the yearbook. He played senior football and was on the wrestling team, so I was right about him being a jock. He was also a member of student council and the debate team. There is a candid photo of him painting a mural that features the school mascot, a fierce-looking badger. There’s another of him posing with a group by a pick up truck, which is all dolled up as a float for the Santa Claus parade.
Bill wasn’t in any club pictures. Aside from the mandatory school photo, the cheeky prom photo and his dedication page, he was absent from the yearbook. I should know: I have been searching every page for him for weeks now. Unlike Jack, he wasn’t much of a joiner.
My mother was a member of both the spirit committee and the prom committee — not very serious clubs, like debating, but they are something. Is that how she met Jack? The autographs are sadly lacking in information. No one mentions Jack at all, and the only message that could potentially be from him is a bit of a stretch: Hey, Annie! You should come out for student council next year! You already have my vote! –J
“J” could be anyone, and according to the club picture, there were tons of people on student council. Probably more than one of them had a name that started with the letter J. Or maybe “J” wasn’t even part of student council, but just thought that my mother should be. I feel like I’m going crazy. I thought that talking to my dad would finally complete the picture, not bring up all these other questions.
I start to snuffle, and then snort, and then I’m crying. Soon I’m bawling like a baby in my maybe-boyfriend’s little brothers’ tree house. I’m pathetic, unwanted. No wonder Bill freaked out. What father would want me as a daughter?
Then I hear a screen door slam. My sobs dry up as I watch a beam of light bob cross the backyard toward the tree house.
“Hello? Is someone up there? I suggest you show yourself before I call the police,” says Mr. Greenblat.
I stay absolutely still.
“I have no problems setting our guard dog loose,” he adds.
Well, that’s a joke. Rambo may be named after some terrifying killer from a movie, but unless being covered in wet puppy kisses is torture, I’m not in any real danger. Still, I am technically trespassing.
I drag myself to my knees and stick my head over the edge of the tree house. I blink down into the light from the flashlight, which is surprisingly strong.
“It’s just me, Clarissa,” I call down, knowing full well that the rest of the Greenblats (and probably the neighbours) are watching this spectacle from their windows.
“Oh, Clarissa,” Mr. Greenblat is taken aback. The violent flashlight beam lowers in surprise; then he aims it directly at my eyes, but I’m too tired to shield them from the light. “You shouldn’t be here so late.”
He thinks I’m a bad influence. One of those girls. The kind that sneaks out in the middle of the night to prey on unsuspecting boys in a tree house. The kind that cheats on her boyfriend, or gets pregnant in high school. Like my mother.
“I know, I just needed to think,” I say, feeling about a hundred years old. “Michael doesn’t know I’m here. I came here on my own.” At least he didn’t know before. He probably does now.
“Oh.” Now Mr. Greenblat is even more confused, probably sensing that there is some major girl stuff going down. The beam of light disappears again as he considers my fate.
Suddenly Mrs. Greenblat’s voice cuts through the darkness. “Oh for goodness sakes, Mitchell! Leave the girl alone! She’s not a prowler. Michael, are you just going to let her sit there all night?”
There is some shuffling as Mr. Greenblat goes back to the house, the screen door slams again, and then there is the sound of branches protesting as someone makes his way up to the tree house. I rub my cheeks, dry my eyes the best I can and hope I don’t look as terrible as I feel.
I’m not surprised when Michael’s face appears in the opening that acts as a doorway.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
He pulls himself up, dropping a bag of Twizzlers between us as he sits.
“Want a Twizzler?”
“Okay.”
We sit in silence, pulling twists of red licorice out of the bag, one by one. The little tree house smells so strongly of strawberries that it’s making me dizzy.
Eventually, Michael says, “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Neither did I.”
“So, is everything okay?” He looks worried, like he really doesn’t want to know the answer.
“No,” I say, and I try to explain, but everything comes out all squeaky. Soon I’m sobbing (like with snot and everything) and Michael is patting my shoulder. And I think, I hate my mom and I hate Bill — but I could very well love Michael Greenblat.
After a disgusting sobfest that makes Denise look dainty, Michael tries to wrap his head around the situation.
“So, your dad’s in town?”
“Yes.”
“And he didn’t know you existed?”
“Yes.”
“Whoa.”
“I know.”
“And you thought he was here to see you, but—”
“It was his nephew, yes.”
“And the nephew is in the baseball tournament?”
“Yes.”
Michael chews on his licorice for a moment. “Do you want to know who he is?”
“The kid?”
“Your cousin, yeah.”
“No,” I say. Then I think about it for a minute. “I don’t know, maybe.”
“I bet we can figure out who it is. There’s only one baseball tournament, and it’s tomorrow. I’m going to be there. Remember I told you about it?”
“Right.” I vaguely remember this. Of course, back then it was just a day of baseball games that I barely considered attending. Now it was a day of baseball games at which one of the players was my secret cousin. Very different situations.
“Well, if you do want to come, it starts at nine and goes until four.” As an afterthought, he adds, “There’s going to be hotdogs at lunch.”
Great, I think. I’ll have to see the man who didn’t know he was my father, and my secret cousin, but at least there will be hotdogs.
“There’s one more thing,” I say. “Bill mentioned this other guy, Jack Handover. He made it sound like my mom dumped him for Jack, but Jack didn’t write in her yearbook or anything.”
I don’t mention the message from “J.” I already feel crazy.
“When did they break up?”
“Just after graduation, sometime in July,” I say. I don’t know this for sure, but I can do the math. It’s not hard to subtract nine months from my birthday, which is in March. I’m glad it’s too dark for Michael to see my cheeks, which feel like they’re flaming red.
It’s not a secret that my mom got pregnant and had a baby right after high school. I know I shouldn’t be ashamed of where I come from, and it’s not my fault my parents weren’t more careful, but Michael’s family is so proper and did everything in the usual order. I wonder what his mother really thinks of me and my messed-up family.
Michael flips through the yearbook. “This is her grade eleven ye
arbook,” he says.
“So?”
“So, you said they broke up after graduation. You need to look at the grade twelve yearbook. Maybe there will more about Jack in there.”
“Michael, you’re a genius!”
I can’t believe I didn’t think of that myself. I guess my brain is too full to really work things out properly.
Eventually, Michael’s mom comes to find us. I’m so tired out from all the crying, I can barely move.
“Why don’t you two come inside? You can stay for a while longer, Clarissa, but I think you should call your mom.”
“We’re coming,” Michael says.
I look at him through sore eyes, raw from crying. “I can’t talk to her yet.”
“Aren’t you going home?”
I try to imagine walking through the door and pretending nothing’s happened, but it’s like trying to think of one song when you’re singing another: impossible.
“Can’t I sleep out here?” Even as I say it, I know what the answer will be.
Michael hesitates. “I don’t think my mom would like that. She likes you and everything, but …”
“I know.” I’m sorry I asked.
“I’m sure we can give you a ride home. I can come with you, if you want.”
“Okay.”
We climb out of the tree house and go into Michael’s house, where his mother is waiting for us with two glasses of water. I don’t know what he says to her. I’m so tired my ears are buzzing. But the next thing I know, we’re getting into the car and driving the few blocks to my place.
Michael holds my hand the whole time, letting go only when I get out of the car.
***
I stumble into the house, feeling like the walking dead. I can hear the TV downstairs. Mom and Doug call up, and I make a noise that must sound somewhat normal, because neither of them asks me what’s wrong or comes upstairs. Only Suzy is there to witness my misery, snuffling at my feet with her cold nose.
“Don’t you start,” I mutter, refusing to stop and pet her. I am not ready to forgive her for peeing in the living room and getting me in trouble.
No one in the history of the world has ever felt as tired as I do now. I find the phone and crawl into bed with it, fully clothed, stopping only to take off my shoes.
I am about to call Benji, when I remember how he told me he was busy and left me to search for my father alone. I didn’t think it was possible to feel any lower, but that betrayal, as minor as it seems, feels like one more welt on my already bruised and battered heart.
I let the phone fall to the floor. With a jolt, I remember the photo of my parents, hiding under my pillow. I fish it out and fling it at the closet. It bounces off and clatters to the floor, much louder than I would like. I wait for Mom or Doug to call up and see what the fuss is, but the call never comes. Probably too busy being in love.
Part of me wants to find out more about Jack Handover, but I’m so tired and I don’t think my brain can take any more.
All I want to do is sleep. And eventually, I do.
TOURNAMENT DAY
In the morning I feel dried out. My eyes and throat are scratchy, and I drink two whole glasses of water as soon as I wake up. I take extra long in the shower, and by the time I’m done, I’m starting to feel human again. Mom is on the phone yelling about floral arrangements, so I write her a note and stick it on the fridge with a big happy face magnet. It’s not the friendliest note I’ve ever written, but I’m not feeling very friendly at the moment. Maybe the happy face magnet will make up for it.
At Ferndale for Michael’s baseball tournament. Gone all day. Back later. —C
I’m not convinced that going to the baseball tournament is the right thing to do, but I’m not ready to face my mother yet, and I have nowhere else to go.
***
At the park, I am happy to sit with the Greenblats. No one mentions my late-night tree house visit, not even the boys, which is a miracle. Mrs. Greenblat must have threatened them with something serious, like no candy or no TV. It’s comforting to be surrounded by the warm, noisy tornado of Michael’s family. I can just sit there in the middle of it all — the eye of the storm, a part of them but also separate. I accept a handful of sunscreen when Mrs. Greenblat goes around doling it out to everyone. “Don’t forget your ears,” she tells me. “My boys are always coming home with sunburned ears.”
Michael must have filled his mom in on some of the details, because she is extra kind to me, giving me the biggest muffin and telling Solly and David to knock it off when they start chattering at me.
“It’s okay, Mrs. G.; I don’t mind.”
It isn’t long before she’s telling me about how her neighbour’s tree casts a shadow over the garden, and that this is bad news for her tomato plants. Because she is being so nice to me, and didn’t kick me off her property when I showed up in the middle of the night, I try extra hard to pay attention. I nod and ask questions, but I can’t help but scan the crowds for Bill. I’m not sure if I want to see him or not, but if he is here, I want to be prepared.
Because it’s a tournament, there are a lot more people here than at Michael’s other games. All three of the school’s diamonds are being used, so six teams can play at a time. There must to be at least two hundred people here. Eventually I give up and try to concentrate on Mrs. Greenblat’s gardening woes.
Michael comes to sit with us after his first game, which his team won. I think. I wasn’t really concentrating. Mrs. Greenblat asks us to watch Theo while she takes Solly and David to the washroom, leaving us alone. Well, alone with Theo, who doesn’t count. Theo knows maybe a hundred words, none of which are incriminating. I have discovered that I can make Theo laugh simply by bouncing my knees really slowly and then really fast. He laughs and laughs like he’s never had a better time in his whole life. Making Theo laugh puts me in a much better mood.
Once his mother is out of earshot, Michael dives right in. “I think I know who your cousin is,” he says, his voice low.
I can’t believe how quickly he figured it out. “How?”
“I talked to some of the guys, asked about a player with the last name Davies.”
“You didn’t tell them—”
“That he’s your cousin?” Michael looks horrified. “Of course not!”
I have a cousin. A cousin who grew up in the same town as me, maybe even went to the same school. And all this time I had no idea.
“Who is it?”
“See the visitors’ bench?” Michael points to the bench that is farthest from where we’re sitting. A line of boys in white pants and green baseball jerseys sits facing the diamond.
“Yes.”
“Number fourteen, two from the end, the one with the red water bottle, that’s him.”
At first I can’t look. I stare at the dusty ground by their bench, unable to look past their shoes. “Do we know him?” I ask.
“I don’t. His family lives in the country, close to Hickson. He didn’t go to Ferndale.”
Chances are, I don’t know him either. I feel relieved. It would have been way worse if it was someone I knew. “What’s his name?”
“Nick.”
Somehow, knowing his name gives me the courage to look up. He’s just a boy, brownish hair, not too tall, my age or maybe a bit older. There is nothing special about him, except that we share the same DNA. The only difference is that Nick sees Bill from time to time. Bill has been a part of Nick’s life, even if he wasn’t around all the time. The truth stings.
Why Nick and not me? How would my life have been different if Bill had known about me? Surely a man who would fly across the country to see his nephew would make an effort for his very own daughter? Would he visit me? Would I go see him in Vancouver? Would he take me whale watching?
No. I can’t think like that. It won’t change anything.
I stare at Nick like I used to stare at Michael, wondering about him. Just then he turns and looks right at me. I look away, feeling caught
in the act. I tell myself to relax, he couldn’t possibly know who I am or what I was thinking. Unless Bill told him. Would Bill do that, call up his nephew and say, “guess what, you’ve got a cousin”?
“Do you want to meet him?” Michael asks.
“No.” This I am sure about. It is enough to know who he is and that he exists.
I thought I was ready to expand my family by one member, my dad, and that did not turn out the way I planned. I’m not ready for a cousin, too.
Besides, there’s Doug to think about now. I’m not about to call him Dad or anything, and I know he would never ask me to do that. But Doug is marrying my mother and is living in our house. He will probably make sure I do my chores, come to my graduation and do all the things a dad would normally do. He’ll have the job but not the title.
I am gripped by a wave of sympathy for big, goofy Doug. I wonder if he knows about Jack, or that my mother cheated on my father and didn’t have the decency to tell him that he had a daughter.
It was an ugly thing to do. I still have trouble believing my mother capable of it. Surely this is the kind of thing you should know before you agree to spend the rest of your life with someone.
“Do you know that man?”
Mrs. Greenblat is back, and her mom instincts are on high alert. She shades her eyes with a hand to get a better look at the man who is staring at me, trying to decide whether he is a pervert or not.
“Who?” Michael asks.
“That man, right there. He’s staring over here.”
I recognize Bill, but I am not about to explain who he is to Mrs. Greenblat.
“I do know him,” I say. “I should probably say hello.”
I don’t really want to talk to Bill, but if I don’t, Michael’s mom might march over there and demand to know why he is staring at her family and her son’s maybe-girlfriend.
“Do you want me to come?” Michael asks in a low voice.
“No, but thanks.” I smile at him to prove how okay I am with the situation, and then I leave my safe, warm Greenblat cocoon to deal with the mess I have created. Bill smiles at me as I get closer, but it’s tentative, like he’s waiting for me to explode.
Days That End in Y Page 11