by Teresa Toten
After the applause died down, Peter, our host for the evening, returned to the podium. The air charged and tensed, the smoke dispersed into different patterns. Peter stared at us for a good long time. What was he looking for? Finally, he exhaled. “It begins here, people. Does anyone have nine months of sobriety?”
Silence. You could hear us all breathing, but there were no takers.
“Six months?”
Our Native greeter in the fringed coat and a middle-aged man in a short-sleeved plaid shirt bounded up to receive a small red token and a very enthusiastic round of applause.
“Three months?”
A guy in chinos and a button-down shirt strode up like he was going to receive an Oscar. He got even louder applause. It was like the shorter you were sober, the louder was your applause.
“One month?”
A pause, tension built, and then three people from different parts of the room leapt up and made their way to the podium. Wild applause for two older men and a lady in a faded tracksuit! Wow, she looked like everybody’s grandmother and she had been sober just a month? This place was amazing.
“Now …” Peter scanned through the smoke into the room. None of us breathed. “Is there anybody in this room who can commit to 24 hours of sobriety? Just 24 hours?”
A skinny young guy in blue jeans and a red T-shirt with a big black peace symbol on the front jumped up. And so did— oh Jesus God no—the kerfuffle in our aisle was unmistakable.
Shoot me dead and make it quick.
Auntie Eva was making her way to the podium.
I turned and glared at Mama.
“Vat could I do?” she shrugged. “She vas carrying avay by da moments.” Auntie Radmila, who had held it together up until now, wept profusely.
“Auntie Radmila! Stop that. She isn’t even …” What could I say? She knew as well as I did that Auntie Eva liked her brandy, as did all of the Aunties, but she was no more an alcoholic than I was, and I didn’t drink. It felt like the room and God himself erupted into an explosion of applause. Auntie Eva hugged the skinny kid, her 24-hour-commitment partner, and the applause went nuclear. Our little area kept clapping until she sat down and shamelessly showed off her little white token to our seatmates, who mouthed “bravo” and “we’re here for you” while she pretended to blush.
Peter reminded us all that, no matter how cruel or unwelcoming the world was outside, inside we were welcome and safe, one day at a time. The meeting was over. People streamed by us, eager to encourage Auntie Eva, shaking her hand, touching her shoulder. I glared at her. No good, she didn’t notice. She was still bathing in her commitment, her triumph, her applause. I could see why Papa came over and over again.
It was addictive.
Okay. Made it. Cross it off the list. I survived yet another first day of school! Given my pitiful history of multiple schools and multiple humiliations, I say that with genuine surprise and relief. Today was also the first day of grade eleven, the first day of senior basketball practice, the first day of me and the Blondes getting together after a summer of being blown about, and the first day back to having lunch together at Mike’s. And all those firsts had gone about as good as they could go.
So why was I so twitchy back at the condo?
I dropped my books on the floor and glared at the living room like it was to blame. No. Our place was smallish, okay teeny, but it was way cool and it was ours. The Blondes all lived in spectacular Architectural Digest places, but even they had never seen anything like our condo. Condos were still a pretty weird concept, owning an apartment basically, but Mama swore that they would take off. That’s what she does when she isn’t locked in her room or riding me about my grades: she’s a real estate agent. Now, the last of the lazy afternoon sun slipped in from the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. That wall of windows overlooking Toronto’s treetops always made it seem like the condo was showing off.
I loved that.
I tiptoed over to the closed bedroom door and knocked.
“Mama?”
Nothing. I opened the door. No one. She was either at the office or showing condos to nervous Anglicans. At least she wasn’t entombed in here. Instead of shutting the door or going in, I hovered in the doorway. I’ve been hovering a lot lately.
Mama repainted her bedroom in Benjamin Moore’s Smouldering Red the minute she knew Papa was getting out of prison. I took a step in. It was like walking into a bottle of wine. I stopped and leaned back against the door. All traces of Papa were erased. No lingering smell of smoke, no swaggering “male” scent. There wasn’t a single tie or stray sock behind that closed closet door. I knew this from a thousand other inspections. The bench at the foot of the bed that once held his beaten-up tobacco-coloured suitcase was aggressively empty.
Gone.
Mama’s perfume bottle collection sat on the windowsill, waiting for me. It was her only indulgence. I loved them as much as she did. The bottles caught and held the light, making it dance against the deep burgundy walls. Each one captured a promise of fairy dust and dreams, but the bottle that held the most magic was the L’Air du Temps with its entwined crystal swallows. I could never resist touching it, stroking those beautiful birds, making a wish.
Wishes that came, but didn’t stay, true. This time, I put the bottle back and walked out of the room without making a wish. That was kid stuff.
I shut the door.
I could turn into her. Jesus God what a thought. I could turn into my mother … a flame-throwing drama queen who was never satisfied with anything or anyone. A diva who drives her husband to drink, drives him away, and then gets depressed because he’s gone! Auntie Eva says that I couldn’t turn into Mama because I’m not sensitive enough to get depressed. Okay, she means well, but I hate the “not sensitive enough” part. I’m plenty sensitive. Still, even now with Papa gone, I couldn’t work up into a decent depression. I was just a bunch of A words. I looked them up when I was searching for various definitions of addiction and alcoholic. At this very moment, I believe I am suffering from being annoyed, anxious, adolescent, agonized, anguished, ambivalent, angry, apathetic, ashamed, and anemic. Well, maybe not anemic. I just liked the way it sounds and the pictures it conjured up. You just know that an anemic-type person is going to be very sensitive.
I grabbed a Coke and went into the safety of my own room. Mistake. I got annoyed all over again. All my clothes were folded into razor-sharp neat little piles on the floor.
A crazy person lived here.
Mama said that I could do up my room any way I wanted. I just couldn’t get my head around it somehow. I’ve read magazine articles about this. Rooms say stuff about you. Like Mama’s red room and her lying perfume bottles.
Kit’s bedroom was all space age and modern. She had a shag rug that we kept losing stuff in and furniture that was tubular and plastic, sorry, laminate and lacquer, that was painted in lime greens and mellow yellows. Kit’s room was fun and bold, with a touch of freezer burn. I rest my case.
Sarah’s bedroom was swathed in matching lilac and mint-green flowers. There were lilacs on her curtains, on her overstuffed pillows, and all over her linens. Her furniture was either cream or princess white, including a little girl’s canopy bed that she couldn’t part with.
Madison’s room, her suite really, was almost as big as our apartment. All the fabrics were juicy yellows and blues, but the furniture was way weird. Every stick of it was old; they were antiques passed down from generation to generation. None of it matched. When you’re that rich, you can’t have things match. Matching was for poor people. I think all that old stuff soothed her adopted soul.
I took in the “I haven’t moved in yet” quality of my room. Oy.
At least I had my mirror.
I examined the upper-left-hand corner. It got chipped in the last move. Right below the chip and tucked under a Mr. Potato Head was a crystal rosary that I hadn’t noticed before. The mirror did that, showed me new things and hid old ones. I touched the rosary
and automatically made the sign of the cross. That felt good. Maybe I was a closet Catholic. Okay, maybe not, but I remembered that there was a ton of God at the AA meeting. I also remembered that all that God stuff seemed to settle down a room full of anxious alcoholics. Come to think of it, it settled me down too. Maybe I needed some holy help. Maybe that was my something. Maybe God could chase away Luke. I was fumbling around in my limited database of religions when the door blew open. Mama was instantly behind me, staring at me, at us, in my mirror.
“Mama!” I groaned. “I’ve been telling you for three years to knock!”
“I know you said …” Mama wrapped her arms around me. “Sorry, sorry.” She kissed the back of my head. “How vas our first day of school? I been tinking about you non-stopping.”
“My first day was fine.” She didn’t let go, just waited for more.
Much to my irritation, I delivered.
“Mr. Wymeran, our senior girls’ basketball coach, has called in the Mounties after our disastrous season last year.”
Mama nodded, pretending to understand the Mountie reference.
“So, he’s bringing in David Walter, the captain of the senior boys’ team, to assist for the whole season. The boys have been city champions for two years in a row, and David was captain for both years.”
“Good?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure.” I shrugged. “We need the help. We’re still young for a senior team.” Mama smiled. I could tell she thought this was a good thing rather than the liability it was. Despite the fact that she hunted down every game I’d ever played in, Mama still didn’t understand the first thing about basketball. Basketball was Papa’s game.
“So, dis boy coach is very good ting, da?”
“Da, yeah, sure, maybe, don’t know,” I said. David used to be Luke’s best friend. He was also beyond gorgeous. The whole team went on high alert as soon as he walked into the gym. Thing is, maybe he knew about Luke and me last year, even though we were a secret, and maybe he felt sorry for Alison, I mean, the new Mrs. Luke Pearson. Okay, none of that made sense, but I just couldn’t shake the feeling that David Walter got a rash when he looked at me.
“It’s a wait-and-see kind of thing,” I said.
“Que sera, sera, vatever vill be, vill be.” Hand Mama a slice of uncertainty, and she’ll hand you back a twenty-yearold Doris Day song.
“Uh, yeah.” I wriggled out of her arm lock. “Have you talked to Papa this week?”
She nodded absently, taking in my clothes sculptures out of the corner of her eye. She sighed but swallowed anything she was going to offer up about the unfinished state of my room.
I was impressed. Good control on her part.
“It’s not so crazy dis time, Sophie. Not like da last time, da prison time. Dis time vile he is avay is totally positive, totally healty, and very good.”
That was more like it. “Wow, you must not have been here for those weekends in the summer when you spent the whole time locked up in your room with a box of Kleenex.”
“I don’t like it ven you use da ironing tone vit me, Sophie,” she sniffed.
“Ironic,” I said. “And you mean sarcastic, not ironic.”
“I mean, don’t use dat voice to me.” She patted her hair. “Dis is good. Papa vill drying out like a prune. Ve saw how it goes at da alcoholics’ club.” More hair patting. “Den he vill come home and stay to da home, finish.”
Mama, who would rather undergo surgery with a stick than talk about any of this, walked over to my closet and pulled out a rolled-up poster. “Ve bought you dis poster two years ago, Sophie.” She waved it at me accusingly. “Vhy don’t you put it on your valls?”
My Endless Summer poster. I loved that thing. It was a heat source of burning oranges, flaming yellows, and hot pinks with a silhouette of a guy carrying a surfboard on his head. I’ve barely been on a ferry on Lake Ontario, but that poster made me believe I could surf monster waves on the Pacific. My room was not worthy of my poster. “Yeah, soon, Mama,” I lied.
“Good.” She smiled. I smiled back. It was our version of a truce, times when we pretended to believe each other rather than duke it out. Mama headed for the door and then turned her head. “Ven is your first big practice?”
“First full practice is tomorrow.” Wait a minute. Mama might turn up. I hated it when she came to the games, let alone the practices. She was beyond embarrassing.
She reached for the door.
“Don’t come, Mama.”
I felt like a piece of gum as soon as the words were out of my mouth. I saw her shoulders tense through the suit-jacket fabric. “It’s just a practice, after all. I’ll bring you the game schedule as soon as I get it.” Her shoulders lowered an inch as she reached for the handle.
“I vas being very busy anyvay,” she said to the door. “You vill be captain?”
Good question. I was the best player. We both knew this. I was captain of the last two teams, when we were city champions as juniors and when we were blown out of the water last year, when me and the Blondes were made to move up too early into seniors. The Blondes would make sure that the team, whoever made the final cut, would vote for me, but someone like David would have a say, maybe a big say.
“Could be, maybe. I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Sorry,” she whispered to the door and left.
What was the matter with me? Thank God Mama signed a blood oath when I was born that she had to love me no matter what an awful twerp I was.
If only I had signed one too.
I had to admit we sucked. Okay, not as much as we sucked last year, but we were pretty slurpy all right. Mr. Wymeran put us through some basic drills for over an hour while David wrote things down on a clipboard. I hate that, clipboard writing I mean.
Our starting lineup was too young given that me and the Blondes were still in grade eleven, and Jessica Sherman, our probable left forward, was only in grade twelve. The other Toronto teams were more reasonably populated with kids that were a couple of years older than us. Ontario was the only place on the planet that had thirteen rather than twelve high school grades, and we had to be the only team in the province without a single grade thirteen player. The inevitable consequence of this was that every other team in the city was taller, heavier, and meaner than we were. This we knew from last year.
I kept telling myself that we now had a year of senior play under our tunics. We too were smarter, tougher, and then I looked at Kit, all sinew and gristle. Kit swore up and down that she hadn’t barfed in a year, but our left guard still looked about as menacing as a pen stroke. Madison was our lone Amazon, clocking in at almost six feet, but she was willowy and graceful. She’d strike fear only into her fellow butterflies as she floated down the court. Sarah, dear God, was all breasts. Her practice jersey was strained to the breaking point, which made her a threat to the male coaches, but that was about it. Then there was me, 110 pounds of terror and five-foot-four, most of which was hair.
I didn’t like our chances this year either.
Apparently neither did Mr. Wymeran, hence David’s brooding presence.
There were sixteen of us on the senior team, first string, second string, and two alternates who also served as managers. The tryouts for the openings were held in the last week of August. For a fancy-pants school, Northern took its basketball shockingly seriously. Last year’s first string, us, got a pass. Me and the Blondes were in no matter what, so we were scattered until Labour Day weekend. Madison came back from somewhere called the Lake District in England. Kit returned from spending the summer at her mother’s place in Berkeley, California. And, although Sarah stayed around, she’d been consumed by the birth of a brand-new baby sister, the fifth blonde, blue-eyed girl in the Davis family collection. I spent the summer working at Mike’s restaurant and milling around the city. I don’t know about the Blondes, but I was incoherent with boredom and couldn’t wait to get back to being “us.”
Mr. Wymeran blew his whistle a
nd called us over. “Not bad, ladies, not bad, but we’re going to need a little more from you this year, right?” Most of us nodded. “So as you know, I got the team an extra pair of hands.” He looked mighty pleased with himself. “David Walter will, as of today, be named assistant coach to our senior girls’ team. His word is law, ladies.” David stepped forward and flashed a smile at the left side of the room. There were audible sighs. I was on the right side of the room.
“Just in case anyone here doesn’t know, David is the captain of our championship Northern Wildcats.” Yeah well, I’d just been voted captain back in the dressing room. So here we were facing off captain to captain. His jaw clenched and unclenched. I felt a compulsion to touch it. “David has a lot of fine moves and skills to show us.” This was greeted with very poorly suppressed giggles.
David winked at the girls on the left side. “Ladies.” The entire second string sucked in their stomachs and played with their hair. Pathetic. I flashed to David and Luke horsing around at the third-floor lockers, coming into the restaurant with the football team on Saturday mornings, catching bits and pieces of our games over the past couple of years. He glanced at me gimlet-eyed before gracing the second string with another smile.
Or maybe it was all in my imagination.
“What the hell, buttercup?” Kit nudged me with her elbow. “Did you shoot his puppy or something?”