by Vicki Grant
Funny. Did they move away? Were they just church friends? Or did the school have a really high drop-out rate?
I kind of laugh when the obvious next question hits me: or did Mom just lie about her age?
Of course she lied about her age. She might have called herself Rosie, but she was still Mimi.
I scan through some older yearbooks. They’re pretty much what you’d expect. Bad skin, thick bangs and glasses the size of ski goggles. There are Badminton Clubs, Debating Clubs and something called the Glee Club. (Is it only me—or is that kind of sad? How desperate do you have to be to join something called the Glee Club?) There’s a boys curling team, a girls curling team and a co-ed curling team made up of all the same people as on the boys and girls teams. There’s a pretty sorry-looking excuse for a basketball team.
And then there’s the hockey team.
Year after year—a good ten pages of it. It’s clearly the biggest show in town. There are endless pictures of kids getting trophies, scoring goals, piling up on each other after another big win. I wonder which one of those boys owned the ring.
I find a Roberta Ingram and for a second I think maybe Rosie is her nickname—but no. It couldn’t be. I doubt they’re even related. There’s no resemblance at all. Roberta has shoulders that run off the edge of the page. That would be a physical impossibility for a little bird like Mimi. (There’s only so much the plastic surgeon can do.) There are lots more Whynachts and Tanners and Carters too but not the ones I’m looking for.
What happened to all those girls?
I get out some more yearbooks. I’ve got this buzz in my head. I don’t know what it’s about but it’s bugging me.
I absentmindedly turn pages. It’s strange watching the styles change and people get almost more familiar or something. I see guys go from stick boys to captains of the hockey team, girls go from sort of nothing to prom queens.
There’s hope for me yet.
That makes me think of Levi saying, Good thing you’re pretty…I get a little stomach flip and for a few seconds I’m gone. I’m still turning the pages but I’m not here any more. I’m not concerned about Mom or Rosie any more. I’m back on the beach with Levi, reliving what happened, rewriting a bit, blushing.
That’s why I’m amazed I even notice. I’m so totally lost in my own world I don’t know how the words manage to get through, but they do. I turn a page and the name Rosemary Miriam Ingram just jumps right out at me.
Rosemary Ingram.
Miriam.
Mimi.
Levi disappears from my head. I stare at the page. There’s a picture of Rosie. She’s about eighteen in it but she hasn’t changed much from the Sunday school photo. You can see it’s the same kid despite the big glasses and the bad perm. This time, she’s not smiling, not even a bit. You get the feeling she hates having her picture taken. (Who wouldn’t with that perm?)
There’s one of those stupid yearbook captions underneath the picture.
Being shy isn’t all bad. Rosie’s the only kid in Port Minton High who never got kept after school for talking in class! (Ha-ha!) Still waters run deep so we know Rosie’s bound for great things! Good luck in the future, Rosie!
At first I think, Mom’s not shy! But I know immediately that’s wrong. Mimi might not be, but Mom is. She’s always found it way easier to talk to a camera than to a real live person. (Or at least to her real live daughter.)
I flip through the rest of the yearbook. Kathy, Lenore and Tracy-Lynn are all there too—and having a fabulous time by the look of it. I even find Debbie the hairdresser and her big-shouldered Roy.
I close the book and, for the first time, notice the date.
The yearbook only came out eighteen years ago.
It couldn’t be! There’s something wrong here.
Mom was pregnant with me eighteen years ago.
33
Tuesday, 3 p.m.
You, You and Mimi
“Children Raising Children.” Family physician and author Michaela Meltzer-Gardner discusses the alarming rate of teen pregnancies.
How could I be so dumb? Why am I even surprised? It’s the oldest story in the book. Rosie had to get out of town because of an unwanted baby.
Me.
Unwanted.
My eyes fill with tears. It makes so much sense it hurts.
I open the book again. I stare at Rosie’s picture until I can really see her. Maybe that look on her face isn’t just about being shy. Maybe she’s pregnant already. She’s scared and she’s worried and maybe she’s ashamed too. That’s why she’s not smiling.
What gets me the most, though, is that she’s actually pretty good-looking. I mean, she’s not bad-looking or anything. Nothing a bit of makeup couldn’t have helped. Mimi always made it sound like she was a real dog before her nose surgery.
Classic. What is it about girls? Why do we all think we’re so ugly? Why do we always make such a big deal about nothing? I mean, I was expecting her to have some giant honker or something, but Rosie’s nose is fine. Better than fine. Nice.
She added six years to her age, got rid of a perfectly good face and changed her name. How much do you have to hate yourself to do that?
Poor Rosie. I don’t care what Mimi said in her book. She must have been miserable. I can’t imagine being so ashamed of getting pregnant by some guy that I’d give up my whole life like that.
Some guy.
What am I talking about? Rosie didn’t get pregnant by some guy. She got pregnant by Dad.
That means Rosie Ingram knew my dad. Dad lived in Port Minton too? This is getting freaky. It’s like the pattern on the kaleidoscope just changed again.
He’s three years younger than Mom—or is that three years older? Did he lie about his age too? He couldn’t have been fifteen when he got her pregnant. Please, God, no. Now it’s getting gross.
I flip through all the yearbooks looking for a Steve Schwartz. No Schwartzes. Nothing even close.
Who knows if that’s even his real name? If he even went to Port Minton High? He could have been from anywhere. She could have met him at a dance or a friend’s or at that fish-and-chips joint out on the highway. Maybe that lame band of his was just passing through one weekend.
No. It couldn’t have happened that way. Mom and Dad got married. It didn’t last long maybe, but it wasn’t a one-night stand either.
I should just call him and ask. It’s a bit hard to predict how Mom would react to something like that, but Dad wouldn’t care.
Or would he? We don’t really talk about personal stuff. That’s probably why he’s so easy to get along with.
Quit dithering. Just ask him. He’s my father. He’d tell me. He loves me.
But…he hates my mother. Would I be betraying her by talking to him about it? Would I be giving him ammunition? Is he really like that?
I don’t know what to do.
I stare at the wall. No. I made a deal. I promised myself I wouldn’t tell anyone what I was doing. Anyone. That means you, Dad.
I go back to Rosie’s yearbook. I look at every page, hoping I’ll see something that makes sense. Kathy and Lenore are big into the Spirit Squad and there are a bunch of candid photos of Tracy-Lynn laughing and screaming and wearing one of those corny rainbow clown wigs—but Rosie only made it into the yearbook once, for her graduation shot. That’s not much help.
There’s the usual big section on the hockey team, but it’s more interesting this year. The editor devoted a whole double-page spread to the hockey “Ring Ceremony.”
The PMRCHS Student Council proudly raised $832.17 to purchase commemorative victory rings for each member of this year’s Panthers. Our boys have made us super proud again! Student Council President, Colin Graham, presents Panther Captain, Roy Tanner, with this coveted souvenir. Thanks to Himmelman’s Jewellers for giving us a price cut!
There were some bad photos of a “triumphant” march through downtown Port Minton but the rest were just of adoring fans hanging off various hockey
players.
How would someone like Rosie—some little wallflower—ever have ended up with a “coveted” hockey ring?
And why?
None of the other yearbooks offer any clues. Rosie never shows up again. As the years go on, the hockey team seems to lose its edge. There’s no more talk of championship rings—or “triumphant marches” for that matter. By the time the school closes down a few years later, the team is getting less coverage than the Debating Club.
The only other thing that catches my eye is that about a year or two before Rosie’s graduation, some Bisters show up at the school. I notice a group picture with a Gershom and a Barnabas Bister. (Minerva Bister was “missing from photo.”) I wonder if they’re Embree’s kids. They could be. The boys are skinny, with that same sour look to them. Gershom seems a little happier in the Friendship Club, but Barnabas still isn’t smiling in the only other picture of him. He was one of four kids in the Literature Corner. (I’m sort of surprised they could even find that many.)
I look at the clock on the wall. It’s quarter after four. I’ve got to go visit that old lady. I’m not dreading it any more. If she knows everything about Port Minton, she might actually be able to help me figure out how Rosie became Mimi.
I realize there’s someone else who might be able to help me too. I turn on the computer.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Secret Lover
Hey Selena
I’ve got some really juicy stuff to tell u about a guy I met but I need u 2 do me a favour now. It’s really important. U have 2 go into mom’s room. There’s a folder in the bottom left hand drawer of her desk. My grandmother’s obituary and mom’s marriage certificate r there. I need u 2 scan them and send them 2 me asap.
DON’T TELL ANYONE!!!!
I’ll explain everything l8r.
U r the best,
Robin
34
Tuesday, 4 p.m.
Radio Mimi
“Fortune’s Child.” Others might credit her talent and looks but Mimi claims her success has more to do with good, old-fashioned luck.
Joan says I can leave the box of stuff at the library and come back for it tomorrow. She points me toward Mrs. Hiltz’s house.
I thought she’d live in one of those big old mansions like you see in horror movies and decorator shows but she doesn’t. She lives in a new brick house with a three-car garage, one of those U-shaped driveways and two perfect half-circles of flowers under the front windows. It would be no big deal anywhere else but in Shelton it looks like it’s straight out of Hollywood Homes.
The doorbell makes this big bong sound. I almost expect some undead butler to miraculously appear, but it’s Mrs. Hiltz herself who opens the door.
“Why, hello!” she says. She’s all twinkly. “You must be the young lady Joan Chandler told me about. Come in! Come in!”
She steps back to let me pass and I get this little whiff of perfume.
Mrs. Hiltz looks as out of place in Shelton as her house does. She’s tall—almost as big as me—and I guess the word is elegant. Her hair is really white and perfectly curled. (She was probably just in to see Debbie.) She’s wearing a little eye shadow and some lipstick that’s a shade or two darker than her pale pink suit. I don’t know if it’s the scarf she’s wearing or the eye shadow but something really makes her blue eyes pop. Mimi’s makeover guy might have suggested that she go a little easier on the hairspray but that’s about it. She looks good. She makes me feel like a slob (and I got dressed up today…).
She tells me not to worry about my shoes and leads me into this huge sunny living room. The chairs are the old-fashioned kind with the claw feet. They look like they should be in a museum. A German shepherd is sleeping in a square of sunlight on the carpet. There’s a shiny wooden coffee table with a silver teapot, some cups and a plate full of little-old-lady cookies.
She points to a chair and says, “Please. Make yourself comfortable.” Then she puts her hand to her cheek like she’s just done something terrible.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” she says. “I’m afraid I’m getting dotty in my old age. I didn’t even introduce myself! I’m sorry. I’m Opal Hiltz. And who might you be?”
35
Tuesday, 4:15 p.m.
Mimi’s Men
The only on-line dating service to offer prospective partners personally vetted by Mimi Schwartz’s trained staff. Find love at www.mimismen.com.
Mrs. Hiltz is as surprised as I am when I tell her.
She says, “You’re an Opal too? Really? Well, isn’t that something! It’s not a name you hear very often—especially nowadays. Are you originally from this area?”
I manage to say, “Uh, no,” but that’s all. I’m still trying to pull myself together from the shock.
“Are your parents?” she says.
I hesitate. For half a second I think I should come right out and ask her. The fact that we have the same name couldn’t be random. Mimi must have known her—or at least known of her. Port Minton is a small place and she is Mrs. Enos Hiltz, after all. Mimi must have liked her too. She wouldn’t have put Opal in my name if she didn’t.
I bet if I told Mrs. Hiltz what I knew, she could fill in the blanks for me.
“Um,” I say.
I think of the paparazzi and the tabloids and all the trouble Mom took to hide whatever it is she’s hiding. I think of my deal.
“No,” I say.
Mrs. Hiltz smiles. “You must be an October baby like me, then,” she says. “Is it your birthstone?”
“No,” I say again. For some reason that almost makes me feel guilty.
“Well, then it must just be a lovely coincidence!” She passes me the plate of cookies.
I help myself to a Fig Newton.
“Now,” she says, “I understand from Joan that you’re interested in the history of Port Minton. Well, you’ve come to the right place. I spent most of my life there. I didn’t plan to, of course. I had a scholarship to university and was all set to head off, never to return. Unfortunately, my father died and Mother needed help supporting the younger children so that was the end of that. I found work at the fish plant. Horrible job—but I don’t regret it for a minute. That’s where I met my husband. Enos saw me on the line one day and must have liked something about the way I cut the head off that cod, because we were soon married. I’ve had a very happy life as a result.”
She looks off in kind of a dreamy way but then catches herself. “Oh goodness. I do go on! You didn’t come here to listen to me reminisce, did you.”
I try to say something but my mouth is full of cookie. It’s a little stale, and it sticks to my teeth. I guess she doesn’t have many visitors.
Mrs. Hiltz says, “Here’s some tea to wash that down with, dear. Help yourself to cream and sugar. I, unfortunately, have to take my tea clear—with a pill.” She makes this big dramatic wave of her hand. “Heart problems. My doctor won’t let me indulge myself any more…” She pushes the plate of cookies toward me again. “But you eat up! Please. It will make me happy that at least one of us is enjoying herself.”
She waits until I swallow, then asks me again. “So what exactly are you interested in?
The ring. My mother. Why she’s lying.
I look at her but nothing comes out of my mouth. How do you bring something like that up?
“The feud,” I say. At least that’s sort of neutral.
Mrs. Hiltz’s eyebrows shoot up. Either her tea’s too hot or the feud’s not that neutral after all. She puts her cup back on the table and smiles. False alarm.
“Oh, you’ve heard about that, have you? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
She holds out the pot and says, “More tea?” I shake my head. “I presume you know the story, how it all began?”
“Not really.”
She fills her cup. “Well, in the 1880s there was an outbreak of smallpox on Bister Island. At that time, quarant
ine was the only way to control a lot of diseases. Remember—there were no miracle drugs back then. All you could do was keep the epidemic from spreading. My guess is the Bisters would have demanded the people on Faulkner Island or Whynacht Island be quarantined too, had smallpox hit there instead—but the Bisters didn’t see it that way. They took the quarantine order as a sign the community was turning its back on them. Maybe their anger at the time was natural—it must have been hard to see so many of their relatives die—but they never got over it. They demonized the rest of Port Minton, which in turn demonized them. Things got worse and worse as the years went on. The Bisters became more isolated and, not surprisingly, more set in their ways. Port Minton people found them strange and scary. The Bisters no doubt felt the same about us. We avoided one another as much as possible. It was a very sad situation. As a result, the Bisters never managed to reintegrate themselves into society.”
She takes a sip of tea, then smiles at me. She’s ready for another question.
“So was the feud the Bisters’ fault?” I say. I consider leaving it at that, but I tell myself to stop being a wimp. “Or did other families—like, for instance, you know, the Ingrams—have anything to do with it?”
“The Ingrams?” She frowns in sort of a confused way. “No, I wouldn’t say the Ingrams in particular had anything to do with it. At least, no more than anyone else.”
She turns and stares out the window for a second. She moves her mouth around like she’s smoothing her lipstick or something, then she turns back to me. Her eyes have lost their twinkle.
“The feud was an awful thing. The Bisters didn’t behave very well—but we mainlanders didn’t do ourselves proud either. I remember a group of Bisters coming ashore for supplies once and the local men all getting out their rifles and sending them back.
“Now this was long, long after there was any threat of smallpox. People here just didn’t like having Bisters around. I’m sure that was at least in part due to the fact that we were ashamed of ourselves. These ragtag people, half-starved, living out on that godforsaken Island? We all knew how terrible it was, but for a long time no one had the stomach to do anything about it.”