Not Suitable For Family Viewing

by Vicki Grant

  He held the door open. Krystal’s friend must have forgotten she was supposed to be mad because she said, “Thanks, Levi!” in this chirpy voice. Krystal sauntered in after her as if she were America’s Next Top Model. She turned and sneered at him in a way that somehow still made her look pretty.

  Levi and I got into the van. He went, “Well, that hit the spot!” He said it as if nothing had happened. As if we hadn’t run into them. As if things were just like they were before. Who did he think he was kidding?

  I went, “Un-huh.”

  Levi didn’t make fun of me or try to joke or change the subject or anything this time. He just pulled out and drove.

  I stared straight ahead and thought of that episode of You, You and Mimi where Diane Chisholm, PhD (Doctor of Romance), talked about “Charming Billys.” Apparently, these guys are all over the place. Charming Billys make you laugh, tell you what you want to hear, look you right in the eye. They say they’re crazy about you and they mean it. That’s what makes them so dangerous. They mean it when they say it to all the other girls they’re hitting on too.

  I knew that. I knew about “Rogues” and “Panty-Removers” and “Heart Specialists” too. I watched enough daytime TV to know to stay away from them. But here I was in a rusty van with the worst kind of all. I didn’t know whether to hate him or to hate myself for not hating him.

  I’m better by myself. I should just forget about other people.

  He finally said, “I guess you’re wondering what’s up with Krystal and me.”

  I was going to keep my mouth shut but I figured that would just make me look like I cared. I went, “Sort of,” but I shrugged when I said it.

  “I’m not going out with her if that’s what you think. I haven’t gone out with her in two years! Honestly. We went out for a few months one summer. That’s it. It wasn’t even very serious.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  He went, “Nobody’s heart got broken or anything. It wasn’t like that.”

  I heard him tap his fingers on the steering wheel, then he sighed and said, “I don’t know why she’s acting like that…She goes out with other guys and it doesn’t bother me…but, like, every so often she sees me with someone else and she gets all hissy. I just try to see past it.”

  I could feel him look over at me. I didn’t look back.

  He said, “Sorry she took it out on you.”

  I said, “No problem. I don’t care.”

  “You don’t care about her getting mad? Or you don’t care whether or not I’m going out with her?”

  He was grinning at me. I could feel it. It was like he had a heat lamp aimed at me. I did my best to ignore it. I kept trying to make myself think Charming Billy, Charming Billy.

  I closed my eyes. I shrugged again.

  “What does that mean?” he said.

  Another shrug.

  He poked me in the ribs.

  I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling. My face was all prickly inside.

  “So?” he went. “Which is it?”

  “Both,” I said.

  He pulled into Kay’s driveway.

  He leaned against his door and said, “I don’t believe you.”

  I said, “Too bad. ‘Cause it’s true.” I could keep my lips from smiling but my eyes were out of control.

  “Oh well,” he said. “I tried.”

  “Yup,” I said. “You sure did.”

  He laughed at that. He didn’t say anything else.

  I looked at my hands, picked at my weird thumbnail. I wanted to look at Levi but I couldn’t. After a while I went, “I guess I better get going.”

  He said, “Me too. I got a big day tomorrow.” Then he put out his arm and leaned across me.

  My lungs, my heart—everything—stopped at once as if someone had slammed down the off switch on some giant machine. He’s going to kiss me, I thought. I could feel my hair and my skin and every little hair on my body tingling. I opened my mouth just a little and turned toward him.

  But he didn’t kiss me. He just pushed open my door and leaned back in his seat.

  There I was with my eyes half open and my mouth half open and the horror of what I’d just done creeping up my neck. “You okay?” he said.

  I just nodded like a bobblehead doll and got out of the van as fast as I could. I started beetling back to the hostel. I don’t know how I looked on the outside but inside, I was in agony. I was twisting up like a plastic toy dropped in a campfire.

  Levi went, “Opal?”

  When he says it, I don’t even feel like a Robin any more.

  I turned my head halfway around and said, “Un-huh?”

  He was all stretched out so he could see me through the van window. He had this huge white smile on his face.

  He said, “I was going to kiss you but I was scared you’d smack me in the eye again.”

  30

  Tuesday, 10:30 a.m.

  You, You and Mimi (rerun)

  “The Look of Love.” Mimi’s personal stylist, Lucy Grant, gives desire-inducing fashion tips for the woman in love.

  I get up. I wash my hair. I pop in my contacts and slap on a bit of mascara. I put on that turquoise shirt and those new jeans Anita got me. They fit perfectly. I love Anita.

  I ride to the library in a daze. It’s amazing I find my way there. I don’t pay attention at all. I’m completely in my head, in yesterday, on the beach, in the van, with Levi. When I realize I’m talking to myself, I just laugh. Levi would laugh at me for doing something like that.

  I lean my bike up against the railing, then try the library door. It’s locked. The sign says, Open: 1–5. I’ve got half an hour to wait.

  It doesn’t bother me. The sun’s managed to come out. It’s almost warm. I flip through the church bulletins just to look like I’m doing something other than thinking about Levi. I try to remind myself that he’s a Charming Billy but it doesn’t do much good. I keep hearing him say, I was going to kiss you…, and I end up doing this full body smile.

  I glance again at that picture of Mom as a kid. I think of the beach and the Ingrams and the Bisters, then I think of Mom and Dad and me together in that old cabin doing jigsaw puzzles. That makes me think of being on that plane with Mom when we played cribbage all the way to Buenos Aires as if she didn’t have another thing in the world to do. Then I remember the time she bought me a book about bodily fluids that she thought was disgusting but was exactly what I wanted and how sweet she always is with Grandpa even when the nurses aren’t around and I end up doing something I haven’t done in ages.

  I call her.

  “Mimi Schwartz.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Robin? Is something the matter?”

  “No, no. I just thought I’d call. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to you before I left.”

  “Oh, phew! Darling. You scared me. Well, I’m glad you’re okay. Do you need money?”

  “No, I’m fine. I’m great. How are you?”

  “Me? Oh, you know. Busy. I’ve got to shoot a bunch of promos for next season. We’re opening that Institute for Culturally Deprived Children tonight. On top of everything, the new James Bond stood us up for tomorrow’s show. Honestly! Who does he think he is? His abs better be a whole heck of a lot better than the last guy’s or he’s not going to get away with stuff like that. I have no idea how we’re going to fill his thirteen minutes. I could pull in Tom Hanks again but…Oh, hold on, honey…Yeah…okay…okay. In a sec…Birdie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sorry, gotta run. Ingrid’s finally managed to get one of the victims of that big silicone scam on the line for me. Was there anything else you wanted?”

  “Uh, well, no. I just thought that maybe when I’m back and everything we could talk about some stuff…”

  “Sure. Like what?”

  “Um. Well, our family, I guess. I just realized I don’t know anything about my, like, background, you know.”

  “Uh…okay…Fine.”

  “Y
ou mind?”

  “No, no, darling, of course not! Mimi mind? Please! I completely understand. Spending a couple of weeks with your dad would make anyone worry about their family background…Just kidding!…Sorry…I’m coming! I’m coming!…Honey? I’ve really got to run. All the networks are trying to reach this woman. I’ve got to get her while I can!”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Bye, darling!”

  “Bye, Mom.”

  I say, “I love you” too, but she’s hung up by then.

  31

  Tuesday, 1 p.m.

  Ego Altered (film)

  Mimi Schwartz shines in her role as a displaced person who tries to disguise her past at war’s end. A hit at Sundance.

  I guess she must have had an audience. She was using her “Mimi” voice. Doing all that “Darling!,” “Please!” and “Gotta run!” stuff.

  That’s okay. She’s busy. I only feel sad for a second.

  Levi’s probably the reason. It’s kind of hard to be sad when he keeps flashing on my brain screen like some gorgeous computer pop-up.

  I don’t think it’s just that, though. It’s Mom too. I think maybe I’m not sad because I understand her now—something about her now anyway. I know why she’s not who she seems to be on TV, why she’s not who she seems to be at home.

  She’s got a secret.

  I don’t know what it is, but there’s definitely something going on here. There’s something about her she doesn’t want people to know. (The world might not believe it but Mimi Schwartz has secrets too.)

  I take It’s All About Mimi out of my backpack. I look at that picture of her on the cover with her crooked smile and her crossed arms and her raised eyebrow. She looks like she’s exactly who people think she is. Funny. Confident. A little bit on the racy side. In other words—nothing like my mother at all.

  I go through the book until I find that picture of her as a kid. It dawns on me that I might be able to recognize something in the background, now that I sort of know Port Minton.

  I crouch over the page like I’m a scientist squinting at some little amoeba. I can’t see much. The picture’s really grainy, and there’s hardly any background to identify anyway. For the first time, I notice part of someone’s hand in the bottom of the frame. Mom wasn’t by herself after all. Someone had their arm around her waist.

  Seeing that makes me think Mom’s childhood might not have been as lonely as she claims. (It could just be my current frame of mind but that makes me feel happy.)

  I get out the church bulletin to see if I can tell where the other photo was taken.

  The faces of the kids are pretty blurry, but the area behind them is sharp. It’s obvious it’s Port Minton beach. In the background I can see the big boulder Levi and I climbed. (That makes me even happier.)

  I study the picture some more, and suddenly, it’s like I can’t breathe. I open the book again. I line up the two pictures side by side on my lap. In the church bulletin, Rosie (or whatever you want to call her) is wearing a striped T-shirt and her hair is in pigtails. One of the other girls—Lenore, maybe—has her hand around Rosie’s waist.

  In the book, Mimi’s wearing a button-up shirt. Her hair is cut to her chin and her bangs go straight across her forehead. There’s a hand around Mimi’s waist too.

  Okay. So what? It’s the classic snapshot pose. People line up with their arms around each other. The photographer takes the picture. Everyone moves apart.

  But it’s not just the same pose in both pictures. It’s exactly the same pose. The hand, the watch, the way the thumb kind of disappears—identical. The tilt of Rosie/Mimi’s head, the slight curl of her lips, the jut of her elbow—it’s a perfect copy.

  My heart’s pounding like a sound effect in a slasher movie. I root around in the side pocket of my backpack and get the envelope I tucked away. I take out the photo I found in Mom’s chair. I put it beside the other two.

  The one from the chair and the one from the church bulletin are identical. People, clothes, hair, background.

  The one from Mimi’s book would have been identical too—before someone Photoshopped it, that is. Photoshopped out the other kids, the striped T-shirt, the beach. Drew in a new shirt, restyled her hair and—now that I get a better look—did a little something to her nose too.

  I turn the photo over in my lap. I can’t look at it any more. I have to calm down.

  I force myself to take some deep breaths. In through my nose, out through my mouth. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Things start to make sense. Now that I’m thinking straight again, I don’t know why this would have scared me. Of course Mimi would cover her tracks like that! For some reason, she doesn’t want anyone to recognize her as a kid. She had to retouch the photo for the book. Otherwise, someone would have seen it, would have made the connection, would have called Entertainment Tonight.

  But why does Mimi still care so much after all this time? What’s she got to hide? You’d think confessing to all the plastic surgery and men and those eighties dance outfits of hers would be way worse than this—whatever “this” is.

  I’m trying to figure everything out when the librarian walks up the stairs. I shove the photo in the envelope, stick it in the backpack. She says, “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here! I ran into Muriel Faulkner at the Save-Easy. She’s coming in this afternoon to pick up that Mimi Schwartz book. I hope you brought it?…Good.” She wrinkles up her nose and whispers, “I knew I could trust you.”

  She hands me the big box she’s carrying and unlocks the door. “I’m very excited. I found lots of material for you. I hope it’s helpful.”

  She turns on the lights and opens a couple of windows. “Ooh. Pee-yew! This place gets so stuffy when it’s closed up for a few days. It’s like I can smell old Enos here himself.”

  She bends her head and looks at me over her glasses. “Please don’t tell anyone I said that. I should be shot. This library is a huge blessing for the town.” Her voice gets all strained as she tries to pull open another window. “I’d just find it a whole lot easier to be grateful if I hadn’t actually known the man.”

  She takes the box from me and puts it on a table. “Don’t tell anyone I said that either. Especially Mrs. Hiltz. Which reminds me…she’d be delighted to have a little chat with you this afternoon.”

  I go, “Who? What?”

  “Mrs. Hiltz. Mrs. Enos Hiltz. Remember I said a friend of my mother’s was a Port Minton girl? That’s her. She lives just around the corner. She naps from one to two but said she’ll be home for the rest of the afternoon if you’d like to drop by.”

  I don’t know what my face is doing but the librarian obviously figures out that I’m not thrilled at the idea.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “You’ll enjoy it. She’s a great old bird. Everything Enos wasn’t. Cultured, down-to-earth, decent. She really worked hard for the underprivileged around here. Enos gouged the money out of people. She made sure most of it got back to them.”

  I say, “Sounds great.”

  She tucks in her chin and gives me this lame smile. I feel bad I’m not a better actress.

  She says, “If you’re worried about getting stuck there too long with her, arrive at about four. She’ll be sure to hustle you out the door by five so she can pour herself a glass of sherry…In the meantime, any questions and I’ll be in the back. My name’s Joan.”

  I thank her and sit down in front of the box. There’s a pile of stuff here. I wonder if Rosie/Mimi’s in any of it. I really need to find out what’s going on. There’s just something so creepy about that Photoshopped picture.

  Minutes from town council meetings, letters to the mayor, newspaper clippings about the school closing, all the stuff that Joan no doubt worked so hard to find for me—I throw it aside. I find a bunch of photos in a big brown folder. Most aren’t very interesting. Just people holding signs saying Save Our School or men in ties looking seriously at some official document.

  And then there’s the photo of t
he last Sunday school class of the Port Minton United Baptist Church.

  The colours are faded but it’s still sharp. There are only eleven kids, all lined up by height. I turn the photo over. Someone’s written down their names and ages. Rosie Ingram, 15, is in the back row, third from the left. I flip the picture back over. It’s her all right. She’s older but it’s definitely the same girl who was on the beach.

  I feel sort of intensely calm, if you can be such a thing. I know what I have to do. I get out the church bulletins. I go through them all. Rosie Ingram is mentioned in three of them. Once at the church picnic. Once two years later for helping organize the little kids’ Christmas pageant. And then again in the bulletin’s final issue: “Congratulations go as well to Rosie Ingram for a perfect ten-year attendance record at our Sunday school.”

  A perfect ten-year attendance record.

  It takes me a few seconds to understand exactly what those words mean. Mimi wasn’t just in Port Minton for camp or to visit relatives. She grew up here. She wasn’t home-schooled in Brooklyn. She wasn’t some little fourteen-year-old stuck at home looking after her mother.

  She was Rosie Ingram from Port Minton, Nova Scotia.

  32

  Tuesday, 2:30 p.m.

  You, You and Mimi

  “Birthday Bloopers.” Ten new mothers share their horror stories from the maternity ward.

  I’m not sure how long I just sit here, doing nothing, letting it all seep in. It’s like I’m at the dentist’s, waiting for the anaesthetic to kick in enough that I can get a tooth filled. I have to wait until I’m numb enough to go on.

  How did Rosie/Mimi/Whoever get from here to where she is now?

  There are a bunch of high school yearbooks in the box. I take a deep breath and start there.

  I do the math and figure that if Mom’s forty-two now, she probably finished high school about twenty-four years ago. I find the right yearbook and turn to the graduation photos. There are lots of Ingrams but no Rosies. Nothing even close. I flip back to the photo in the church bulletin. The other girls’ names are all listed there. I look them up in the yearbook. No Kathy Whynacht, Lenore Tanner or Tracy-Lynn Carter either.