“Okay,” I said.
“If it isn’t busy, you can stock the shelves or tidy. I’d rather you didn’t read, or talk on your cell or text when there are customers in the store. But I can’t do much about that, can I?”
“I like tidying,” I said. “And I don’t have a cell. And I hate reading.”
“Excellent.” Mr. Hardcastle folded my résumé and stuffed it in a drawer. “See you tomorrow at ten then. Don’t be late. Payday is the first and the fifteenth. We’re open every day but Christmas and New Year’s.” He stuck out his hand and we shook. His hand was cold and damp, like a dead jellyfish. It was all I could do not to pull away and wipe my hand on my pants. “Welcome to the Castle Gifts family,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said. He turned his back on me and went into the back room. As I left the store, I picked up a little pencil-top eraser in the shape of a Mountie and slipped it into my pocket. I didn’t need it, but it felt good in my hand. Something else the old March wouldn’t do—steal something useless.
Poetry Girl and her cat were gone when I passed the corner. I wondered where she slept. Were there shelters that allowed pets, or did she sleep in a doorway or in the park? Did she sell enough poems to buy food for herself and the cat? And how did you sell a poem anyway?
I thought about that all the way to the hospital. How different our lives were, but also how messed up. By the time I got to the hospital it was close to 6:00 PM. I was counting on Tyler’s mom and dad being at home with his younger brothers and sisters. All five of them. Tyler’s parents are Catholics. Devout Catholics. Which explains the big family. They were probably at home saying grace, holding hands around the kitchen table. Praying for Tyler.
Eating together is a big deal in Tyler’s house. Nobody eats standing up at the sink. Nobody nukes a pizza pop and eats it in the car on the way to hockey or piano lessons or choir practice. Tyler’s mom makes dinner, and they all sit down together. Every single night. It’s kind of miraculous. I used to love going there for Sunday dinner. The praying didn’t bother me. I just shut my eyes and held hands with Tyler on one side and his youngest sister Tamara on the other. His hand was always cool and dry; hers was always hot and sticky. The words flowed over me like a summer breeze. I always said “Amen” with everybody else. I was going to miss those dinners.
Now, as I approached the hospital’s front doors, I realized that I had no idea whether Tyler was even allowed to have visitors.
“Four-oh-four,” the woman at the information desk said when I asked for his room number. “North Wing. You family? He’s only allowed family.”
“Cousin,” I said. “I’m his cousin. From Regina. I came as soon as I could. He’s, like, my favorite cousin.”
The woman frowned at me. She’d probably heard the “cousin” story a million times. Her phone rang and while she answered it, I walked away. The elevator to the fourth floor smelled bad—like sweat and antiseptic and maybe blood. I pressed the button 4 with my elbow and used the hand sanitizer before I went into the ward.
A young nurse pushing a meds cart smiled at me. Her nametag said Rosa, R.N. “You look a bit lost,” she said. “Who are you looking for?”
“Tyler McKenna. Room four-oh-four,”
I said. “I’m his cousin.”
“Oh, too bad. You just missed his folks.” She pointed down the hall. “Last room on the right.”
“Thanks,” I said.
She put a hand on my arm. “Brace yourself. It’s a bit of a shock. Lots of tubes. A respirator. But he’s doing well. And he’s getting great care. The best.”
“Thanks,” I said again. I wondered how someone in a coma could be doing well, but I didn’t ask. Rosa, R.N. gave me a jaunty wave as I headed down the hall.
Tyler was in a private room. I wasn’t surprised. His dad has donated a lot of money to the hospital. Money he made running an online travel agency called Pilgrims’ Progress that specializes in Catholic pilgrimages. He’s a multimillionaire. A great dad. If you want to go to Lourdes for a miracle, he’s your man. I was sure he’d airlift Tyler there if he didn’t wake up soon.
Chapter Eight
The door to Tyler’s room was closed, which for some reason struck me as funny. I mean, he was in a coma. It’s not like he’d care about noise or whether people could see him as they walked by. Even so, I closed the door behind me when I went in. I did care about privacy, even if he didn’t. The room was filled with light and flowers. Tons and tons of flowers. I giggled and then clamped my hand over my mouth. Tyler doesn’t know a rose from a daisy. He thinks cut flowers are stupid and a waste of money because they die after a few days. He always gave me chocolate roses on Valentine’s Day. Now he was lying perfectly still under a sheet. Tyler, who was always in motion, even in his sleep. Nurse Rosa was right. It was shocking. Lots of tubes. And lots of machines with lime-green lights.
But he was still Tyler. I pulled a chair up to the bed and took his hand in mine. Cool and dry, like always. We sat like that for a few minutes. Silent. Connected. I noticed his lips were a bit chapped. Tyler was always smiling, laughing. Now his lips looked like those wax lips you can get at Halloween. I tried not to think about those lips kissing Kayla. It hurt too much.
I got up and put the little Mountie eraser on his bedside table so he would see it when he woke up. If he woke up. “I’m sorry, T,” I whispered. “Get better. See you soon.” I closed the door on my way out. Nurse Rosa wasn’t around to see me cry.
I dozed off on the bus ride home and almost missed my stop. When I got to my house, both cars were in the driveway. I hadn’t thought too much about what my parents were going to say about what I’d done. As I opened the front door and called out “I’m home,” I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. The new me. Red glasses halfway down my nose. Creases on one cheek from sleeping on the bus. I ran my fingers through what was left of my hair. Nothing much I could do now.
Mom was in the living room, curled up on the couch with a glass of wine. Her eyes were closed and she was humming along to the Beatles. Isn’t it good. Norwegian wood. Creepy song. Another full glass of wine sat on the coffee table, an open bottle beside it. I could hear the shower running upstairs. Sorry, guys, I thought. Relaxing with a glass of wine and an old Beatles album is off the table.
“Mom?”
She opened her eyes and blinked. Once. Twice. Her mouth opened slightly and a tiny gasp snuck past her lips. A bit of wine slopped onto her shirt as she reached over to put the wineglass on the coffee table. I could almost hear her thoughts. March has been traumatized, first by the breakup and now by Tyler’s coma. She’s obviously very confused. Possibly having some sort of breakdown. We need to be supportive, not critical. My parents may not be therapists, but they’ve picked up a few tricks along the way.
“That color looks good on you,” she said. I looked down at my wrinkled pink shirt. Her pink shirt. Tyler once told me he loved my mom because she was always so calm. So rational. His mom was always shrieking, he said. Shrieking at his dad, shrieking at her kids. I bet she shrieked extra loud when she found out he was in a coma. But he wouldn’t have heard her. I almost wished my mom would shriek. Then I could shriek back and stomp off to my room like a normal teenager. End of discussion. But that’s not the way it works in my house.
“I’m not sure about the haircut though,” Mom continued, frowning slightly. “It’s certainly a different look for you. Very punk. Or is it Goth?”
“Neither,” I said. “I did it myself. I quit the restaurant and got another job. Downtown, at a gift shop.”
“So many changes,” Mom murmured.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really. I’m okay. Just tired.”
“Did you eat? I could heat up the lasagna.”
“No, thanks. I ate.” I started up the stairs to my room. Her voice floated up after me.
“We’ll talk later, March. With your dad.”
Not if I can help it, I thought.
H
ey Augie.
Heads up! Mom and Dad will probably be calling you soon. Here’s the deal. I cut my hair and dyed it brown. I’d send you a pic, but I don’t wanna scare you! I’m not wearing my contacts anymore. I got a new job too. I’m not crazy. Just trying to figure out what it means to have a perfect life. That’s what you told me to do, right? I went to see T in the hospital. So messed up. Him. And me. And him and me. Don’t tell Mom and Dad, okay? About me visiting T. They’d tell T’s parents, and then there’d be a scene. Like the one that’s about to happen. I can hear Mom and Dad outside my door. Time to face the music, I guess. As long as it’s not opera! LOL.
March
PS. I met this girl. She sells poems on a street corner downtown. Maybe I’ll buy a sonnet tomorrow.
Time to face the music, March. Augie always said that to me when I was in trouble. And I always said, As long as it’s not opera. Or bluegrass. Or Celine Dion. It always made him laugh. I wondered if he’d laugh when he read my email. I shut the laptop, got out of bed and opened my door. Dad was leaning against the wall in the hall, sipping from his glass of wine. Waiting.
“You can come in,” I said, peering down the hall. “Where’s your tag-team buddy?”
“She’s having a bath. It’s been a long day. Problems at work and now…”
Now your beautiful, popular daughter has been replaced by a troll, I thought. Just like in one of those fairy tales Mom used to read to me.
“We’re both worried, March. But we didn’t want you to feel ganged up on.”
“Very considerate,” I said. “But I’m okay. I just needed a change. That’s all.”
“A new look. A new job. These are big decisions.” He stood at the end of my bed and eyed me over the edge of his wineglass. “What’s going on, March? We understand that you’re upset—by the breakup and Tyler’s accident. But this?” He waved his arm in my direction. “This is an extreme reaction. Quite extreme. If you need some help—”
I cut him off. “I don’t need any help. I haven’t had a breakdown, just a haircut.”
“It looks like more than a haircut to me, March,” he said. “It looks like— I don’t know—a statement of some sort.” He lifted an eyebrow.
“I’m tired, Dad,” I said as I crawled under my duvet and turned my back on him. “That’s my statement.”
Chapter Nine
When I got up the next morning, there was a message from Augie.
Hey Sis,
In the immortal words of Miss Piggy, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye.” I always loved those red glasses. So retro. Ask the poetry chick for a sextina. And good luck avoiding the stupid and the misinformed.
Love,
Bro
I laughed. Then I felt guilty for laughing. There’s nothing funny about this, March, I reminded myself. No matter what Augie says. But when I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, the red glasses looked less hideous than they had the day before. My hair, however, was still a disaster. I frowned at my reflection. The glasses looked ugly again. Weird. Maybe I was one of the stupid and misinformed.
Mom and Dad had already left for work. A note on the table said, Have a great day at work, honey. Pad Thai for dinner. XO Mom PS. English muffins in fridge. She knows I love English muffins. Well-toasted, with tons of butter and strawberry jam. I poured myself a bowl of Dad’s All-Bran and covered it in skim milk. It tasted like wet sawdust. But at least I’d be regular.
I left early to catch the bus to work. I wanted to find Poetry Girl and ask her to sell me a sextina. Whatever that was. I could have googled it, but I wanted to be surprised. It sounded kinda dirty, which could be interesting. More interesting than the poetry I’d had to read for school anyway.
It felt strange to be walking through my neighborhood at eight thirty in the morning. Lots of sprinkler systems pumping precious water onto ridiculously green front lawns. I paid enough attention in my environmental studies class to know that watering lawns was insane.
Mrs. Lombardi, our next-door neighbor, looked up from picking up her paper and glared at me. She’s known me since we moved here when I was six. She always calls me Bella. Beautiful. Now I looked like a stranger to her. An ugly stranger.
“Hi, Mrs. Lombardi,” I called out. “Lovely morning.”
She did a double take. Staggered backward and dropped the paper, a hand to her heart, her wig askew.
I would have laughed, if it hadn’t been so sad.
Stupid and misinformed, I thought as I walked on to the bus stop.
I stopped at the McDonald’s to buy Poetry Girl an Egg McMuffin and a large coffee. I filled my pockets with sugar packages, creamers, stir sticks and napkins. When I got to her corner, she greeted me with a smile even before I handed her the paper bag of food.
“You again,” she said.
“Yup. I’m in the market for a sextina. You got any for sale?”
“A sextina,” she said after she had taken a few bites of the Egg McMuffin and shared some of it with her cat. She added six sugars and fours creamers to the coffee and stirred it dreamily, staring across the street at a guy pulling cans out of a garbage can. “A sextina. Yeah, I think I’ve got one. Just give me a minute.”
She closed her eyes and lowered her head. The cat batted her face with a soft gray paw. I checked my watch: 9:15. I didn’t want to be late for my first day at work.
At 9:17, she raised her head, opened her eyes and started to speak.
Turns out, a sextina is pretty long. It took two minutes from start to finish— I checked my watch. And it wasn’t dirty, not in any way. It started with “September rain falls on the house” and ended with “the child draws another inscrutable house.” In between there was a line that went, “Time to plant tears, says the almanac.” There was a woodstove, a grandmother and a man with buttons like tears. When she stopped speaking, I was crying. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was her voice—low and tender, for my ears only. Maybe it was the image of the child and the grandmother and the iron kettle on the woodstove.
“Time to plant tears,” I repeated.
She nodded. “Very complicated structure, the sextina. That one’s by Elizabeth Bishop. Great poet.”
“How much do I owe you?” I asked.
“You already paid,” she said, gesturing at the empty McDonald’s wrapper, the coffee cup.
I shook my head and put two dollars in the hat on the sidewalk. “That poem—the sextina—it’s too beautiful to be bought with some shitty food. Way too beautiful.”
“You may be right,” she said. “But we all gotta eat. Even if it’s crap.”
Suddenly my choice of All-Bran over an English muffin seemed pretty dumb. Way to make a statement, March, I thought.
“Thanks though,” she added. “For both—the crappy food and the money. Not much of a market for poems these days.”
“People are stupid and misinformed,” I said. “My brother, Augie, was the one who suggested I ask you for a sextina. I’d never even heard of it before.”
She looked up at me and I noticed her eyes were the same shade of gray as her cat’s fur. “Not everyone is stupid and misinformed then,” she said. “Not your brother. Not you.”
“Especially me,” I said. “My name’s March, by the way.” I stuck out my hand and instead of shaking it, she took it in both of hers and held on for a second.
“I’m Hazel,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”
Chapter Ten
When I got to work, Mr. Hardcastle was already there, even though I was fifteen minutes early. The door was locked, and when I tapped on the glass, he looked up from where he was counting cash at the counter. He smiled and held up a finger for me to wait. When he opened the door, the smile was still there. It made him look almost young. But he also looked rumpled and tired, as if he’d slept in his clothes. There was a stain on the shoulder of his shirt. His hands shook slightly as he shut the cash
drawer.
“Gotta run,” he said. “Here’s my number. For emergencies only.” He handed me a smudged business card. “I’ll see you at six.”
I nodded as he ran out the door. What would constitute a Castle Gifts emergency, I wondered. A biblical-style flood? A robbery at gunpoint? The need for a roll of dimes? I settled myself behind the counter on a high stool and thought about the poem Hazel had recited. From memory. Amazing. I could barely remember the words to “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
The day was filled with non-emergencies: Why was the bathroom light switch under the front counter? Where was the toilet paper? How do you say “Do you want a bag?” in Japanese? When Mr. Hardcastle returned just before six, he wasn’t smiling anymore. He had a serious case of five o’clock shadow. A bad smell—sour and burnt, like when you let milk boil over on the stove—wafted off him as he waved me out the door.
“See you tomor row,” I said. “Everything went well. No emergencies. Unless you count the occasional snowstorm.” I pointed at the snow globes, which I had lined up and dusted. I hoped he wouldn’t notice that one small snow globe was missing. I couldn’t resist. It had three zombies in it. Zombies in top hats. Tyler loved zombies.
Mr. Hardcastle grunted and locked the door behind me. Maybe he was a morning person.
I went to the library on my way to catch the bus to the hospital. It’s not somewhere I usually hang out. Mom used to bring Augie and me here every Saturday afternoon for story time. I remember being so proud of having my own white kiddie card. It pissed me off that that kids could only take out ten books at a time though. It never seemed like enough. But I hadn’t been to the library in years. Dad bought me an ereader last Christmas, but I still don’t read much. I’m not sure why, exactly. Maybe it’s because everyone else in my family is a hardcore bookworm. Piles of books everywhere. Even in the bathroom. My parents gave up on bedside tables years ago. They just have huge stacks of books next to the bed. The last book I read that wasn’t for school was The Secret Garden. My bedside table is home to a Little Mermaid lamp and my phone charger. And now my red glasses.
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