by Vicki Grant
Deena
Former receptionist
Pygmalion Enhancement Clinic
There’s no way Robin is Mimi and Steve’s daughter. It’s genetically impossible. Everyone in the studio figures Robin is Beau Huxley’s love child. Take a look at his interviews with Mimi when he was still playing for the NFL and you can see why. She was all over him. Don’t tell me there was nothing going on there. He sure wasn’t acting like a man with a wife and an evangelical ministry back home.
Aimee
Former line producer
You, You and Mimi
I knew Mimi when she was still Miriam. I was an intern at a public access TV station when she got the job hosting Classic Book Talk. She was sure nothing special back then. She was shy. She’d never been on-air. And she dressed like a middle-aged lady going to a PTA meeting. None of us could figure out why the job went to her. We found out later that her father basically bought it for her. It still pisses me off. If my father’d been rich enough to bribe someone, maybe I’d be a millionaire today too.
Sandra
Traffic reporter
CJCH
My colleagues and I at the National Institute for the Prevention of Security Breaches (NIPSB) have studied the syndicated talk show You, You and Mimi for the last twelve years. Lack of plausible life records—school certificates, photos, early work history—and changing facial structure first aroused our suspicions concerning the individual known as Mimi Schwartz. Over the course of our research, we have uncovered irrefutable proof that Ms. Schwartz is an enemy agent transmitting classified secrets to hostile states via her daily show. Seemingly innocent makeup choices such as the colour of eyeshadow or lipstick are actually intricately calibrated codes designed to alert alien nationals to the location of chlorine stockpiles for our municipal water supplies…
I doubt my mother is actually Satan or an alien agent but I can’t help thinking some of the other people are onto something here. The “Eating Like a Birdie” stuff, the plasic surgery—that all makes sense. Mom’s first on-air job was a free one for a community access channel—she admits that in the book–so that story’s not too farfetched either. I don’t think Grandpa ever had much money, though. Of course I might be wrong.
The Beau Huxley thing really hurts me. I’m insulted that “everyone in the studio” assumed that my father would have to be a linebacker, but I Google him anyway. Beau’s got the size, but I’m pretty sure he’s not my father. According to my math, Rosie was pregnant before she left high school. Beau’s website shows pictures of him leading his team to victory at the Super Bowl that year. I somehow doubt a big star of the NFL was dating the shyest girl at Port Minton High.
I turn off the computer and look out the window. It’s like the more I find out, the less I know. How am I ever going to figure this out?
Get back to basics. Start at the beginning. Port Minton. I root through the box of stuff Joan got me. I find a magazine called Travel Today. It’s got an article titled: “Port Minton: A Forgotten Jewel on the Picturesque South Shore.”
Port Minton back then did look sort of quaint, I guess. The houses were painted up and there were boats in the harbour. Old guys in plaid shirts and big rubber boots sat around the dock apparently mending their nets. According to a sign, you could get an order of fish and chips for $1.75.
I almost flip right past the next page, until I notice the name Ingram. There’s a photo of an old general store—no doubt the one Levi told me about. Mr. Ingram himself is standing behind the long wooden counter wearing one of those white aprons. He’s even got little black bands on his arms to keep his sleeves out of the way. (Did he really dress like that or was this some costume the photographer dreamed up?)
I stare at the picture. Is this Rosie’s dad?
If so, does that make him my grandfather?
I have no idea.
I realize the only thing I know for sure is that Mom’s lying. She’s lying all over the place. So what’s true? Do I believe her—or do I believe enoughaboutmimi.com? Are they both lying? My brain creaks. This is like one of those Mindblower puzzles—and I hate that stupid game. There’s always some catch that no normal person could possibly have figured out. Somehow—like, discreetly—I’ve got to find out more about Rosie. Somebody around here must know what happened to her.
I put down the magazine and stare into space. I’m thinking so hard I don’t even notice when Levi walks in.
43
Wednesday, 5 p.m.
You, You and Mimi
“Best Guests.” Storied socialite Rachel Allan reveals her secret tips on how to be a perfect guest. They must work. She’s always invited back.
Levi picked me up at the library, goofed around for about five minutes, then deserted me at Mrs. Hiltz’s. He was all sorry and kissy and everything but he couldn’t do anything about it, he said. He has to get some work done on his uncle’s wall tonight. It’s going to rain tomorrow.
Mrs. Hiltz seems almost too glad to have me. She makes a big point of saying how she picked up some pop and chips for me today. She makes me feel like such a “teen.” I’m surprised she didn’t buy me a Hula Hoop too.
She gives me an old cane of her husband’s and shows me to my room. Big bed. My own bathroom. A view of the garden. It’s a lot nicer than my bunk at the hostel. She put little flowers on the table and fluffy towels by the tub and even had someone bring a TV into the room for me. That’s the type of stuff Mom always makes sure Anita does before we have visitors.
Dinner is a mini pork chop, a scoop of practically liquid mashed potatoes and a pile of peas. Mrs. Hiltz cuts up my meat for me because of my sore arm, then starts asking me about my family and my background and my research. I have to keep coming up with bigger and bigger lies—I can’t remember what I’ve told people already. I said Dad was a musician but did I give his real name? What did I say Mom does? A marriage counsellor or a psychologist? Mrs. Hiltz is just asking me where my mother did her training—and my insides are going all cold because I don’t have a clue where people get trained for something like that—when Casper starts barking. The front door opens.
“Hey, Mum! You home?”
Mrs. Hiltz goes, “Hello?” She seems annoyed or something. She probably finds it rude to have her meal interrupted. (I guess old people care about stuff like that.) She excuses herself but doesn’t have time to get up before Percy walks into the dining room. He’s wearing shorts and a grey T-shirt soaked black with sweat. His knees are all dirty and bleeding. For a big bald guy, he’s doing a pretty good imitation of a little kid.
I guess I must look even worse than he does, because he sucks in his breath and goes, “Geech. What happened to you?”
I give him the short version. He looks sympathetic, says something about campaigning to widen that stretch of the highway so accidents like this won’t happen any more and sits down at the table.
Mrs. Hiltz isn’t being very welcoming. She goes, “Eww! I don’t know if you should stay, Percival. What were you doing?” She closes her eyes and turns her face away like he stinks or something. He doesn’t smell that bad.
“It’s Wednesday, Mum. Road hockey. I haven’t missed a game in almost five years. I don’t know why you look so surprised.” He winks at me. “Poor dear. She’s losing her memory.” You can tell he loves tormenting her. (I wonder if Levi’s going to be like that when he’s old.)
Mrs. Hiltz says, “This is not ‘surprise’ you see on my face, dear. There’s another name for it and we both know what it is.”
“Yes, we do,” he says. He’s not the least bit offended. “Don’t worry. I’m not staying long. I just wanted to know if you’d be my date for the constituency luncheon tomorrow.”
Mrs. Hiltz’s forehead wrinkles up like a sheet kicked down to the bottom of the bed. “Why? Where’s Andrea? Why is she not going with you? I’m sure your constituents are more interested in speaking with your lovely young fiancée than with an old woman like me.”
“Two things, M
other. Unless you popped the question, Andrea’s not my fiancée. She’s just a friend. You know that perfectly well. As for tomorrow, she’s not coming because she’s got her own meeting to go to. Not that it matters…I’d prefer to take you anyway.”
Mrs. Hiltz rolls her eyes but you can see a smile back there too.
“Well then, since you insist…I’d love to, dear! Now why don’t you get going? Pour yourself a nice bath.”
“Yes, Mummy. And I’ll be sure to wash behind my ears too.” He stands up and leans over to kiss her goodbye.
She turns her face away in disgust.
He goes, “Ha! Fooled ya!” and steals her pork chop while she’s not looking. He jumps out of her way before she can grab it back. He waves it by the bone, takes a big bite and, with his mouth still full, says to me, “So long, Junior. Don’t let her bully you the way she bullies me!”
“I do apologize,” Mrs. Hiltz says after the door closes behind him. “Now where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?”
I don’t want to go back to talking about my family. It’s too dangerous. I decide to focus on her favourite subject instead. I say, “So does Percy play a lot of hockey?”
“Some,” she says.
I go, “Did he play in high school?” I’m getting an idea.
She’s just put a small bite of mashed potatoes in her mouth, so she only nods.
I say, “He wasn’t on that team that won the big championship, was he?”
She swallows. “Uh…yes. I believe he was…How do you know about that?”
“Oh, I just stumbled on it. Part of my research. I’d love to have a chance to talk to him about the team and, uh, life for young people in Port Minton back then. It must have been a big deal to be on that hockey team.”
“Well. Yes. It was, I suppose, but that was a long time ago. Now what did you say your mother did again?”
I decide on marriage counsellor and just go with it. I make some stuff up and then turn the conversation back to where I want it to go. I ask her if she knows Albert Ingram.
She smiles. “Of course. It would be impossible to live in Port Minton and not know Albert! What might your interest in him be?”
I’ve had enough of this. I just want to cut to the chase. “Well, to tell you the truth, I’m actually interested in Rosie Ingram. She’s his daughter, isn’t she?”
Mrs. Hiltz nods, then suddenly brings her hand up to her forehead. She’s gone really pale. “I’m terribly sorry, dear, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to excuse myself. I’m having one of my little spells.”
That kind of freaks me out. “Do you want me to call Percy?”
She waves that away. “No, no, no! I’m fine. It’s nothing more than old age, dear. I just need to lie down. Leave the dishes. Velma will be by in the morning to look after them.”
Within five minutes, we’ve both limped off to our own rooms.
I brush my teeth, looking at my puffy face as little as possible, and climb into bed, still thinking. Mrs. Hiltz knows the Ingrams. If she’s feeling better tomorrow, I’ll ask her about Rosie.
I’ve got the feeling I’m on to something.
44
Thursday, 2 a.m.
Mimi: The Magazine
Fabulous for any figure: today’s best swimsuits! Your dream analysis guide. And “Living in Glass Houses: Learning to Curb your Criticism.” On newsstands now!
Levi and I are swimming at the beach. It’s a beautiful day. It’s so warm out I don’t even mind the freezing water. I actually kind of like it. My skin feels all tight and sort of tingly. It sounds corny but it makes me feel alive. This must be what those breath-freshener commercials are talking about.
I’m wearing a black bikini I saw in a store window. It’s not really revealing or anything but it’s better than that bright red bathing suit Anita packed for me. I’ve lost weight since I came here. My hips are still no doubt huge but my belly’s flatter. I look all right. Levi seems to think so anyway.
He stands up in the water and slicks his hair back with both hands. He’s really tanned but the undersides of his arms are white. He sees me over by the boulder and dives toward me. He’s under so long I’m starting to worry about him. He finally pops up right in front of me. I jump. He laughs.
He puts his arms around me and says, “You have no idea what you do to me.”
He closes his eyes and leans toward me—There’s this huge smash and I wake up screaming.
I fly out of bed. My eyes dart around, looking for the robber, the bomb, the runaway vehicle, whatever. For a second I have no idea where I am—then I feel the pain shooting up my leg. I remember the accident and the doctor and, right before I stop screaming, Mrs. Hiltz.
I turn on the light and try to process what just happened. I feel a breeze. I pull back the drapes. Glass tinkles down. The window is totally smashed. All I can think is I’m in so much trouble. There’s a brick on the floor with a piece of paper tied to it. My heart thuds. Someone’s after me—again.
I’m kneeling beside the brick, too terrified to touch it, staring like it’s some little alien spaceship, when Mrs. Hiltz runs in.
Her voice is all pinched and whispery. “Are you all right?” She looks like she had a worse shock than I did. She’s out of breath and clutching her pale pink dressing gown.
I jump up. I can stand in front of the brick and hope she doesn’t see it but I can’t hide the window. I can’t do anything about the look on my face. I’m screwed.
“What was that terrible noise?” she says. “Are you hurt?”
She puts her hands on my shoulder. They’re so cold they make me flinch. She sees the broken window but doesn’t seem to care about it.
“No. I’m okay,” I say.
She looks down at the brick. She looks up at me. She goes, “Somebody threw that through the window?” She opens her mouth and just stays like that for a couple of seconds. “Who would do such a thing?”
I shake my head. What are the chances she’ll just say, Oh, well! No big deal, and go back to bed?
She picks up the brick. “There’s something tied to it,” she says. She takes off the paper, puts the brick on the bed, reads the note to herself.
“Oh dear…” she says. She folds the note back up, holds it tight in her hand. “Oh dear,” she says again, and gives this quivery little smile.
“What?” I say. It’s like it’s somebody else’s voice talking. I’d never ask that. I don’t want to know.
She gives her head the tiniest little shake. “Nothing, Opal. It’s got nothing to do with you, I’m sure.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t want to upset you,” she says.
“You won’t. Really. What does it say?”
She looks away and then turns back to me. Her mouth has gone really small. You can see her sort of collect herself. “Oh dear. You’re sure you want to know?”
I nod like I’m a little kid who’s promising to be good.
She pauses, clicks her tongue, then says, “I guess I should tell you. You’re the one who got the ‘rude awakening,’ after all…” She takes a big breath. “Well—in a word—it’s a threat.”
I knew she was going to say something like that but it still takes the wind out of me. What have I done to make someone act so crazy?
Mrs. Hiltz holds up her hand and waves her palm at me. “No, no, dear. Don’t worry. It’s not the first threat I’ve had and probably not the last either.”
She’s had.
She thinks the threat’s aimed at her!
It’s too good to be true. I should just shut up, thank my lucky stars, but I can’t help myself. I go, “What does it say?”
Mrs. Hiltz looks down at the paper as if it’s got notes for her class presentation or something. “Well…there’s some unpleasant profanity that doesn’t really add much, but basically it says, ‘I don’t like your type. I’m going to kill you if you don’t get your nose out of places it doesn’t belong.’”
The wo
rd kill sort of vibrates through my whole body, like it’s a hammer and I’m a gong. Whoever knocked me off my bike wasn’t fooling around.
I should say something to Mrs. Hiltz. Tell her the threat was for me, not her. But how? I mean, what do I say?
I’m searching for words when Mrs. Hiltz goes, “I can’t imagine who it would be from, though…I’m not really rabble-rousing these days like I once did. Believe it or not, I used to be quite an activist.”
She’s got this half-smile on her face as if she’s expecting me to have some suggestions.
“Maybe,” I say, “it wasn’t aimed at you. Maybe, um, it was aimed at me.”
Mrs. Hiltz opens her eyes wide at that, then shakes her head and laughs. “You? You, dear? Who would have any reason to be angry at you?”
I could tell her my suspicions. Tell her Krystal’s friend caught Levi and me kissing. Tell her how Embree caught me about to pee in the woods. Those are two places I wasn’t supposed to be.
No, I can’t.
There’s no way I could say either of those things to Mrs. Hiltz. She’d be so grossed out. Kissing? Peeing? I can’t imagine she’s ever done either. I say, “I don’t know. Maybe people don’t like me doing research on Port Minton. Maybe they think I’m going to talk about something I shouldn’t.”
She looks me straight in the face for so long that I worry about her going off again—then she seems to come to. She smiles as if I just said something cute. “What could you possibly have found out that would upset people so much?”
I say, “I don’t know.” That’s what makes me start to cry. I don’t know. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “I think I should go home. This was too scary. I just want to go home. I’ll see how soon I can get a flight out.”
Mrs. Hiltz’s eyes get all sympathetic. “Oh dear,” she says. “I feel terrible! I ask you to come here to get some much-needed rest and then this happens!” She puts her arm around me and squeezes. “I don’t blame you for being scared. It must have been a terrible shock. I’d love you to stay with me as long as you’d like but I’d understand too if you feel you have to go. You’ve had such a difficult time. You might like your own mother to be looking after you now…”