Made That Way

by Susan Ketchen

  I guess I shouldn’t have said this because Mom slaps the steering wheel with her free hand and turns open-mouthed to say something that I anticipate will not be pleasant. But I resist the urge to shrink into the seat to hide from the blast; instead I take a deep breath and square my shoulders, the way Kansas tells me to steady myself when I ride. And then the engine catches.

  Mom slips the car into gear and clears her throat. “When did you learn about electronic fuel ignitions, Pumpkin?” she asks sweetly.

  “Kansas told me,” I say warily. I’m not sure about quoting Kansas on yet another topic, but Mom nods encouragingly so I continue. “Kansas wants a newer truck, hers is old and it doesn’t always start easily either. She says it’s because it’s a Ford. She wants a new Tundra but can’t afford one. She says the latest models have better towing capacity. They come in four wheel drive which she says we need in our climate if you have a long driveway like she has. Unless you drive a car. In which case all wheel drive would be sufficient.”

  “Hmmm,” says Mom, obviously having lost interest. “Honey, I bought a get-well present for Taylor. It’s on the back seat. I know she’s redecorating and I found the sweetest little angel mobile.”

  I’d forgotten the redecoration project, cut short by our biking accident.

  “It’s too bad she outgrew the unicorns though. I always kind of liked them,” says Mom. “You must have liked them too, Sweetie, being equines.”

  “I dream about unicorns.” I don’t know why I say this. I’d certainly never planned to confess something so stupid.

  “No kidding,” says Mom. “I used to dream of unicorns too!”

  Well that’s a surprise. But kind of nice too.

  Then she ruins it by going all academic on me. “Perhaps dream content is genetic too. I’ll have to do a literature search.”

  I slouch in the seat. She is so hopeless.

  “When did you start having unicorn dreams, Honey?” She doesn’t even wait for me to answer, not that I was going to. “I think I started in my adolescence. And they went on for years and years.” She stares off over the horizon and almost misses the turn to Auntie Sally’s. “As a matter of fact, now I remember, I stopped having them when I was pregnant with you. Isn’t that something?”

  I grunt.

  “So it has to be hormonal. This is so interesting,” says Mom.

  I wish I’d never brought it up.

  Fortunately we have arrived at Auntie Sally’s. “We’ll have to talk about this more later,” says Mom.

  “Oh right,” I say. I try not to sound sarcastic.

  As usual their dog Bunga has met us on the driveway. He’s leaping all over the driver-side door while Auntie Sally yells at him from the front steps. The last time Bunga did this to my dad’s car, Dad said the mutt was having a near-death experience and if he did it one more time he’d kill him with his bare hands. Auntie Sally promised to take him back for more obedience classes but I guess she hasn’t done it yet. She’s probably been too busy. My cousins are what my mom calls “a handful”. Especially Erika who is ten and gets whatever she wants, and Stephanie who is eighteen and gets everything she wants as well as things she doesn’t want, like Chlamydia. In the middle is Taylor who now, thanks to me, is an invalid.

  Auntie Sally ushers me to the patio out back where she says everyone is having a little picnic. My mom says she’ll follow me out in a minute, which I don’t believe.

  Taylor looks like she’s the only one who is happy to see me.

  “Oh look, it’s Evel Knievel,” says Stephanie. She’s wearing denim short shorts and a Madonna-like corset thingy. I hate it when she dresses like this. She’s even worse than Amber who mostly just wears super-tight things and has bra straps hanging out all over the place. Stephanie is much more into exposure. It’s bad enough in cooler winter months, but in the summer I never know where to look. What makes it worse is that I am slightly curious about what could happen to me development-wise after I start hormone treatments. Not that I’d like to turn out like Stephanie, or if I did I would have to be more modest about it, because I wouldn’t want people looking, or struggling not to look like I do. I force myself to keep my eyes off her chest. There’s a big tattoo on her left shoulder. I can’t quite make out what it is, but clearly there are fangs.

  “Evil who?” says Erika. Erika is holding a small mirror in her left hand. With her right she is using a pen to draw what could possibly be a black widow spider on her left shoulder.

  “He was a daredevil stunt rider. Like our cousin here,” says Stephanie. She sprawls on the lounge chair with one leg over the arm rest. “But he only ever maimed himself. He never endangered innocent passengers.”

  I look over my shoulder for my mom. I could use some reinforcements. But all I hear is the coffee bean grinder, so I know I’ll be on my own for a while. I take a deep breath and lift my collar bones.

  Taylor comes to my rescue. “Oh Stephanie, grow up. It wasn’t Sylvia’s fault. It was my fault. I made her double me on the bike.”

  “Hmmph,” says Stephanie.

  Taylor’s foot is resting on a plastic lawn chair. She’s wearing a huge sock so her amputation is not visible.

  “How’s the angel redecorating going?” I ask her.

  “Stephanie’s going to help Mom put up my wallpaper before she goes back to university next week. It’s going to be wonderful.”

  “It’s going to be ridiculous,” says Stephanie. “Taylor, you are such a Pollyanna.”

  “What’s a Pollyanna?” says Erika. In a way I’m glad she’s here. Half the time I don’t know what Stephanie’s talking about either, but I sure don’t want to admit it.

  “It’s someone who only looks at the positive side of things. As far as I’m concerned the only angels that are interesting are the fallen ones,” says Stephanie.

  “What’s a fallen angel?” says Erika.

  “They are angels who’ve gone astray,” says Taylor. “They’ve made a mistake.”

  This sounds curiously like what the unicorn told me about why he lost his horn.

  “They’ve had sex with humans,” says Stephanie.

  In slow motion I take a seat in an empty lawn chair. Oh no.

  “You’re kidding!” says Erika.

  “They have sex and then their wings fall off,” says Stephanie.

  1

  We don’t leave until almost lunch time. I’m in even more of a totally confused state than usual after a visit with my cousins. I don’t have a headache exactly. It’s more a feeling of pressure in the middle of my forehead. When I touch the spot with my fingers I swear I can feel a lump, and I swear the lump is bigger than it was yesterday.

  The situation is not looking good. Here are the facts:

  1. I am a hybrid.

  2. I have lucid dreams about a fallen unicorn who has lost his horn.

  3. Unicorns are not born with horns; they develop at adolescence.

  4. I am entering adolescence and my forehead hurts.

  5. My mom dreamt of unicorns until the time of my conception.

  The conclusion is grave and obvious.

  I have no alternative but to try to think about something else.

  We’ve rolled down the car windows because it’s so hot. If I hook an elbow up on the door a cool breeze blows into my hairless armpit.

  I have to try harder not to think about adolescence.

  I take a deep breath of road smells and then have to cough. At the traffic light all the cars stopped around us have their windows rolled up tight, and their passengers look a lot cooler than I feel, plus they’re not breathing fumes so their lungs must be much more comfortable. I look at my mom again, see how damp tendrils of hair are stuck to the back of her neck, how her fingers grip the steering wheel, how her calf muscle tenses above her foot fi
rmly planted on the brake pedal, how her eyes scan the traffic lights, preparing for the signal to go, no doubt praying that the car will respond and not die there in the middle of the road as has happened so many times before. I consider the sacrifice my mom is making for me. She’d probably prefer to be drinking wine with Auntie Sally. I feel guilty.

  “Mom, why don’t we go car shopping for you instead of clothes shopping for me? I can go shopping later with Taylor, when her foot has healed. She has good taste in clothes.”

  “Oh, Cupcake, really…”

  The light turns green. The car lurches and a new cloud of gasoline fumes wafts in through the windows. Someone honks behind us. The car lurches again, bounds forward, gains some momentum and then the engine dies. Mom frantically pumps the gas pedal to no effect, then flicks on the emergency flashers and steers the coasting car into the bike lane on the right side of the road. She rests her forehead on her hands gripped at the top of the wheel.

  “Mom, it’s a sign,” I say, surprising even myself. I don’t believe in signs. Taylor is the one who believes in signs and the influence of the spirit world. Ugh.

  Mom shakes her head. “Not now, Sylvie.”

  A car pulls in ahead of us but does not stop. I watch as it turns in the next driveway and winds its way through a parking lot jammed with shiny vehicles and stops in a space in front of a double-door marked “Reception”. Perhaps not a sign, I think. Perhaps more an opportunity. I unbuckle my seat belt, slide forward and turn to face my mom. My shoulders are square and I lift my sternum. A stream of cars whizz by. In the rear window of the last one are Amber and Topaz, laughing, pointing and making monkey faces. But even this sight is not enough to throw me from my task. Boss mare, I tell myself.

  “Yes, Mom. Now. You shouldn’t have to just make do—it’s not fair. You deserve air conditioning. You deserve a better car.”

  “It’s not about deserving, Cookie. You know this. It’s about whether we can afford a new car.” She retrieves her purse from the back seat and scrabbles through it. “Oh no. I left the cell phone on the charger. We’ll have to find a pay phone.”

  “A pay phone? There are no pay phones around here, Mom.” I focus on being patient. I want my mom to figure this out herself if she can. I don’t want to bully her into it, like Hambone would do. I will be subtle, like Electra.

  Mom checks the rear view mirror. “Maybe someone will stop.”

  “No one’s going to stop, Mom. The road is too busy.”

  “Well I have to call the Automobile Association somehow.” I see her look around and somehow fail to notice the obvious.

  “Mom, we can get out here and walk to the nearest business. They’ll let us phone. Or something.” I indicate over my shoulder. Finally Mom picks up the cue and stares across the verge at the glass and chrome building beckoning from the other side of the parking lot.

  I’m ready with an innocent blank expression when her gaze slides back to me.

  “The Toyota dealership,” says Mom.

  I nod.

  “How did you manage this?”

  I shrug.

  Mom slips her purse over her shoulder. “Well, we can ask to use their phone, but that certainly doesn’t mean we have to buy anything.”

  “Sure, Mom.”

  A salesman holds open the door for us and we step into the air-conditioned show room. The windows are all darkly tinted. When the door closes behind us the space feels like a sanctuary from all the noise and stink of the outside world. Instead the air is full of the scent of new cars and coffee and the sound of pop music. Near the door, dark leather couches surround a coffee table strewn with shiny colourful brochures.

  The salesman says his name is Ted. My mom explains that our car has broken down and we need to phone the Automobile Association. Ted suggests we take a seat and he’ll bring a cell phone, and anything else we might need. A coffee perhaps? He is really nice.

  “Have you got anything cold?” I ask.

  “I’ll see,” says Ted.

  “Nothing with a lot of sugar,” says Mom. “Or caffeine.”

  “Maybe a beer then?” says Ted, winking at me.

  I smile but Mom glares at both of us.

  “I’ll see what I can find,” says Ted.

  I flop into a seat beside my mom, and just about disappear into the couch. I’m feeling so much better. Things are going okay. I’m cooling off, my head feels fine and I’m in control of my thoughts. I clamber out of the depths of the couch and perch on the edge of the seat. I reach forward with one finger and slide the top brochure off the pile on the table and stuff it in my pocket. It’s all about Tundra pickups. I’m taking it for Kansas. The next pamphlet shows a picture of an SUV just like Dr. Cleveland’s. Under the photo, printed in bold letters is Toyota Hybrids and Crossovers. I groan. I can’t get away, no matter what I do. And it’s bad enough to be thinking about hybrids again but crossovers reminds me of the hermaphrodite barnacles I used to have as pets. For a while I thought I might be a hermaphrodite as well. In retrospect, those were the good old days. As difficult as it might have been to be a hermaphrodite, being a hybrid is much more complicated.

  “What’s the matter, Honey?” says Mom.

  “Nothing. They’ve got hybrids, that’s all,” I say.

  “Hybrids are great,” says Ted, handing Mom a cell phone. “They’re the way of the future. And you can reduce your family’s carbon footprint.”

  “You don’t say,” says Mom.

  Ted hands me a bottle of bright yellow Gatorade. “The label says it’s lemon-lime.” His expression is doubtful. “Though I know it looks kind of like hoss . . . ”

  “Thank you very much,” interrupts Mom. “It’s full of electrolytes, a very good choice on a hot day like today.”

  Great. The air-conditioning has revived my mom enough to get her back into lecture mode.

  Mom checks the number on the card in her wallet and phones the Automobile Association, but for some reason they are having a busy day and won’t be able to send anyone for two hours.

  “I’ll phone your father,” she says, punching in the number.

  “But he’s golfing,” I remind her. “He says he always turns off his BlackBerry when he’s on the course.”

  “Oh right.” But Mom has already completed the number and before she can hang up, through the tiny speaker comes my dad’s voice.

  “Tony?” says Mom, shoving the phone to her ear. “No of course you didn’t recognize the number. Do you mean to tell me you screen your calls on the golf course and only take the ones that aren’t from your family?”

  Ted gives me a little smile then strolls away and stands surveying the huge car lot. I expect he’s still in ear shot though. I place a hand on my mom’s arm and say loudly, “Mom, tell him you need a new car.”

  “I am not spying on you,” says Mom into the phone. “It’s an emergency, the car. . . . No, no, we’re both fine, but the car has died, it’s off the side of the road . . . . Well they can’t come for two hours so I thought that you . . . . No, it does not just need a new battery. I thought perhaps you could leave early and . . . . No, we can’t go shopping from here, it’s miles to the stores, we’re here at the Toy— hello? Hello, Tony?”

  She stabs the off button with a finger and slaps the phone shut. I expect the face plate to fall apart from the force, but it doesn’t.

  “Lose the signal?” says Ted.

  “Something like that,” says Mom.

  I open the Gatorade and take a sip. It has a thick almost oily texture. It’s not bad if you can ignore the colour. Ted was right, it does look a lot like horse pee.

  Mom grabs the bottle from my hand. “I could use a swig of this myself,” she says.

  Ted says, “I know you didn’t come in here looking for a car, but why don’t you let me show you a few t
hings anyway.”

  I steady my breathing and wait. I know I could jump in and say, “What’s the harm in looking”, which wouldn’t be subtle at all. Waiting is better. My mom takes another sip from the bottle. Her face transforms. She almost looks like another person. Peaceful, like after her visualization exercise, but also determined.

  “What a good idea,” says Mom.

  She is reminding me of qualities I have seen in Kansas and Dr. Cleveland, qualities that of course I had attributed to their membership in the herd of horsewomen. But now I see it in my mom. Some sort of resolve. Perhaps it’s something that comes with membership in a more general herd of women whether they are horse-nuts or not. Perhaps it comes with estrogen.

  My mom places the bottle on the table and picks up a brochure. I feel a sudden rush of pride in her that I don’t remember feeling before. I guess it’s usually my dad I feel proud of.

  Estrogen definitely has some things going for it. I wish I could have some of it for myself. Too bad I can’t just drink it up, like a bottle of Gatorade. Instead I have to wait for whenever the adults decide I can have my prescription for Premarin.

  I stare at the sweating half-empty bottle.

  And am struck by yet another opportunity.

  A pink glow has come to my mom’s cheeks despite the cool air of the show room. “I don’t suppose any of these come with all wheel drive,” she says to Ted.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Mom says she’s too tired to take me clothes shopping after buying her new Prius, but I think she’s too excited. She drops me off at the stable then heads off to pick up Auntie Sally and take her for a spin.

  Kansas isn’t in the barn and her truck isn’t in its usual parking space in the yard.

  Brooklyn is in a small paddock off his box stall. Electra is out in the pasture with Hambone and Photon, but she’s ignoring them. Instead she is standing at the fence staring at Brooklyn. Her tail is up and to one side. She pees every few minutes. She’s in season and I’m in luck.

  Kansas told me that often bringing a new horse onto a property will trigger the resident mares to go into season. They become totally disgusting flirts. Kansas says it’s all due to hormones and the mares can’t help themselves, which I suppose explains why Electra is acting so lovey-dovey about Brooklyn when she didn’t even like him before yesterday.