Not Suitable For Family Viewing

by Vicki Grant

  The thing that I’ve been trying not to think barges into my head.

  We’re both staring at each other now. I can hear little kids screaming and laughing in the other room but somehow I get the feeling we’re all alone.

  I swallow. It’s like my head is full of reporters, all shouting out questions I should ask, but can’t.

  I do my best. I say, “Did you have any…friends on the hockey team?” I put a little pause in there, hoping she’ll pick up on it, understand what I’m after.

  “Any…friends?” she says. She pulls at a thread sticking out of the arm of the couch. She shakes her head and laughs a quiet, little laugh. “No,” she says. “I didn’t have any ‘friends’ on the hockey team. I wasn’t exactly in their league.” She puts her hand up to her mouth. “Oh!” she goes. “I made a joke. ‘Not in their league.’ Hockey league. Get it?”

  She blushes again. I try to chuckle.

  I say, “But did you know the guys on the team?”

  “Oh yes,” she says. “Sure I did. I knew the guys. Everybody knew them. I can’t imagine any of them would have thought of themselves as my friend, though.”

  This isn’t going anywhere. Mimi’s the one who had the ring. Is it just a fluke I found it with Rosie’s picture?

  She says, “In fact, I only really had one friend…one true friend, I guess you’d say.”

  Then she stares at me. She stares at me so hard I feel like she’s trying to mind-meld me or something.

  I say, “Who was that?”

  This look travels across her face. I don’t know if it’s surprise or confusion or worry or what. It doesn’t stay long enough for me to figure it out. It’s like lights from a car driving past. It’s there then it’s gone.

  “Minerva…” she says. She sort of smiles but her eyes have gone all glittery. “Minerva Bister was my best friend.”

  I’m starting to understand something but I don’t know exactly what. My imagination is whispering things to me that are too scary even to think about.

  “Oh,” I say. “How did you meet her?”

  “In the washroom at school.” She almost whispers, as if it’s too shocking to say out loud. “It was just after the people come in and busted up Bister Island. I’d got some glue on my hands and I went to clean them off. Minerva was standing in the middle of the washroom, looking at the stalls. I could tell she didn’t know what to do. Poor thing. She didn’t know how to use the toilet. She didn’t even know how to ask.”

  Rosie laughs as if she’s going to tell me a secret.

  “I’m timid, but next to Minerva, I was like the class clown. She could barely get her mouth open. Didn’t help she talked funny and called things by the wrong names. Old-fashioned names. I remember she used to call the kitchen the ‘scullery.’ Sounded scary to me but that’s what she called it…”

  For someone so shy, Rosie’s having no trouble talking now. It’s like she can’t stop herself. She says, “Anyway, somehow I managed to figure out what the problem was. I showed her how to flush the toilet and how to pump soap out of the dispenser and how to tear off a bit of paper towel without the whole roll barrelling out—and we were friends from then on!”

  “That was nice of you,” I say.

  Rosie shakes her head. “No, I wasn’t being nice. I liked Minerva right off. We understood each other. We weren’t like the other kids. They flirted in the cafeteria and talked back to the teachers. They were always showing off, acting big. That wasn’t us. We were quiet. We liked to sit around and knit, do our handicrafts, stuff like that. I wasn’t real keen on books, but Minerva was. I’d wait until she’d finish, then make her tell me the whole story. Wuthering Heights, that was my favourite! Do you know that one?”

  I nod. Yes, I know that one. Mom reads it every year. She’s had it on her Book Club at least two or three times, enough to turn it into a bestseller again.

  Rosie goes, “Wasn’t it exciting? Heathcliff and Catherine and everybody marrying the wrong people! I just loved it—especially the way Minerva read it. She used to do voices for the different characters. You’d never think someone that shy could act—but she could. It was better than the movies…I was some sad when she stopped coming to school.”

  “She did?” I say. “Why?”

  Rosie shrugs as if the answer’s obvious. “Couldn’t take the looks from the other kids, the snickering and all that. Her cousins stuck it out. They acted like they didn’t even hear it. But it was too much for Minerva. Too shaming. She stopped going to school one day and never come back. Mrs. Hiltz learned her after that.”

  “Mrs. Hiltz taught her?” Why wouldn’t Mrs. Hiltz have told me that herself when we were talking about the Bisters?

  “‘Taught her,’ that’s right. I should know better than saying ‘learned her’…Yup, Mrs. Hiltz was fostering her and she took it on herself to do the teaching too. Did you ever see that movie My Fair Lady? That’s just what it was like. When she come here, Minerva didn’t have the first clue about manners or hygiene or eating with a knife and fork. Nothing like that. Mrs. Hiltz taught her all that stuff. Taught her to talk like a city person too. Suddenly, it was us kids who grew up in the Port that had the funny accent and the bad manners, not Minerva.”

  Rosie laughs again in that embarrassed way and then whispers to me. “At first, my mum didn’t like Minerva coming over to visit. She was a Bister and all, eh? After a while, though, Mum was begging her to stay so she could teach us youngsters some ‘etiquette’!”

  Funny to hear her say such a fancy word. It makes me think of that English lady who came on the show. She was big into etiquette too. She taught Mom and me which forks to use, how to get stuff out from between your teeth without anyone noticing, how to butter your bread. I hated that segment. It was so fake. Mom knew all that stuff already. She was a real stickler for it.

  Rosie’s smiling but I get the feeling that something’s made her sad. She hangs her head and stares at the floor.

  There’s a pause, then she says, “Oh, would you look at these shoes!” Her toes have poked right through the top of her dirty pink sneakers. She’s trying to be cheery, change the subject. “Minerva would be mortified to see me wearing these.”

  She puts her hand on the side of her face like she’s pretending to be appalled.

  “Mortified, that was her word. I don’t know if she picked it up from Mrs. Hiltz or it come from one of her old-fashioned books but she was always in danger of being ‘mortified.’ I don’t think they even had a mirror on Bister Island. The girl had no idea what she looked like when she arrived in Port Minton—and she didn’t care. Then Mrs. Hiltz got Minerva’s teeth fixed, fattened her up a bit, bought her some new clothes and, suddenly, Minerva couldn’t bear to have a hair out of place! You could see that one day she was going to be a good-looking woman. Mrs. Hiltz was some proud of her.”

  Suddenly I feel like panicking. That thing she said about Minerva’s hair, not being able to bear having it out of place. It gives me a stitch in my side, like I’ve been running too hard. I just have to keep breathing. I tell myself it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Lots of people like Wuthering Heights, like to be neat, polite.

  I wipe my mouth and say, “What happened to Minerva?”

  Rosie pulls her shoulders together as if she’s got a pain in her chest and says, “I don’t know.” She shakes her head. “For two years, we spent all our free time together, then one day, she up and disappeared. Just like that. She didn’t warn me. She didn’t call. She didn’t leave a note. Nothing. I asked Mrs. Hiltz about her but she didn’t know where Minerva was either. I was worried something terrible had happened—that she’d gotten lost or killed or her dad had come and taken her back. I was some scared.”

  Rosie rubs her fingers up and down her forehead. It’s as if Minerva just went missing yesterday.

  She swallows and takes a deep breath. “Mrs. Hiltz called the police, but when she found out some of her valuables were missing she just let it drop. She figured Mine
rva must have stolen the stuff and taken off with it. As far as Mrs. Hiltz was concerned, there was no point in making a stink about it. She didn’t want to get Minerva in trouble over ‘trinkets.’ Other than that, what could she do? Like she said, Minerva was eighteen by then. She was old enough to go where she wanted.”

  I say, “Was she angry, Mrs. Hiltz?” Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell me about the Bisters.

  “No. More like disappointed, I’d say. I think Mrs. Hiltz always wanted a daughter. She loved all the buying dresses and the primping and the making yourself look nice. She put a lot of herself into helping Minerva…It must have broken Mrs. Hiltz’s heart when Minerva took off like that.”

  Rosie shakes her head the way people do when something is too sad even to talk about, then she says, “You know, I walked by the old Hiltz mansion down in the Port every day after school. I’d see Mrs. Hiltz out front, having a cup of tea or cutting flowers. She’d always say hello and ask after my mother—but she never mentioned Minerva. Not once. I couldn’t understand it then but I guess that was just Mrs. Hiltz’s way. She had to put things behind her and carry on.”

  “What about you?” I say. I’m not sure if I should be asking. “How did you feel?”

  It’s a long time before she answers. She fiddles with her sleeve. When she finally speaks, her voice is sort of strangely happy. It makes me realize how bad she feels.

  She goes, “My heart was broken too. People think you need to have some big romance to break your heart but you don’t. Losing a best friend is almost as painful as losing a husband. I know. I’ve done both. When Minerva left, I cried and cried. My parents helped me look for her at first—we even took a boat ride out to Bister Island—but after a while they gave up. They found out my wallet had disappeared around the time Minerva left and that was that. ‘Typical Bister,’ they said. ‘Can’t trust ’em as far as you can throw ‘em.’ They forgot all about her good manners. As far as they were concerned, she was just as bad as the rest.”

  She looks at me. “Sorry,” she says.

  Why is she saying sorry to me?

  “Did you think she took your wallet?” I have to know.

  Rosie hesitates. “Sure,” she says. “I knew it was her. I kept it in my jewellery box. She was the only one who knew. I was hurt at first that she’d steal from me. Then I was mad. Eight dollars was a lot of money to me back then, but I could have stood that. What I couldn’t understand was why she had to go and take my whole wallet! I lost my birth certificate and my student card and all my photos too. There was a picture of my baby cousin and one of my dog and one of my favourite Sunday school teacher and me at the church picnic. I couldn’t replace those…”

  I have to struggle to keep listening, to keep breathing. I feel like my blood’s turned to Perrier water. It’s cold and it’s fizzy and it’s freezing my whole body from the inside out. Rosie looks at me to make sure it’s okay, then goes on.

  “I got over it, though. I knew Minerva. I knew she wouldn’t have taken my wallet if she didn’t really need it. Something had been bothering her in the last few weeks. I tried to ask her what it was but she always said, ‘Nothing.’ She didn’t want to talk about it. I just hope that wherever she is now, she’s happy.”

  Rosie is crying now. Not sobbing or anything but there are tears streaming down her cheeks. I should put my arm around her—ask if she’s okay—but I can’t. I just sit there, stupid.

  Stupefied.

  I’ll never talk again. You hear about that happening. People have this terrible shock and they never say another word for the rest of their lives.

  Rosie wipes her face, blows her nose then stuffs the Kleenex up her sleeve. She’s trying to smile.

  “We had a lot of fun together, Minerva and me. We used to talk about all the things we wanted to do when we grew up. I’d never been able to do that with anyone before. She knew how to bring me out of myself, I guess you’d say. I told her I wanted to have a daycare centre. I did—and I never really changed my mind. Minerva, though, had a new idea every week. It was like once she realized there was a big wide world beyond Bister Island, she couldn’t get enough of it. She saw a bus for the first time, she wanted to be a bus driver. She got her teeth fixed, she wanted to be a dentist. She went to the gas station, she wanted to be the person who cleaned the windshields. The funniest one, though, was when we took her out to get fish and chips. She decided she wanted to be a cook! That slayed us! The girl couldn’t cook for beans. The only decent thing Minerva could make were these old-fashioned molasses pancakes. Now what did she call them? She had some funny name for them.”

  I remember Mom and Dad and me at that cabin we rented. We sang songs, we played board games and Mom cooked. It was the only time I remember her cooking. I remember laughing so hard when she told me what those pancakes were called.

  “Lassie tootins?” I say. It’s funny—those were just nonsense words before. They didn’t mean anything. Now they mean everything.

  Rosie looks at me and nods.

  She says, “I knew it as soon as you walked in. You have her eyes.”

  50

  Thursday, 6 p.m.

  You, You and Mimi

  “Old Dogs and New Tricks.” Gerontologist Dr. Jonathan Allen looks at some of the amazing things octogenarians can teach today’s youth.

  We’re almost at Port Minton and I still haven’t told Mrs. Hiltz yet. The rain has just started. She’s driving this enormous old Mercedes and chatting away about the first settlers in the area and various sailing ships that landed here and the impact of the terrible winter of 1818 and I’m going, “Oh, yes” like I’m actually following but all I’m doing is waiting for the right time to say something.

  When is the right time to say something like this?

  She starts in on the early hunting practices of the native population. I notice she moves her head as if she’s outlining a square when she talks. She always uses complete sentences. She could be a television reporter. Mimi used to be a television reporter. Did Mrs. Hiltz teach her that too?

  There’s never going to be a right time to say something like this. I should just leap in right now. Get it over with.

  Mrs. Hiltz might still be mad at Minerva. I don’t want to open up old wounds or anything. How many valuables did she take off with? How much were they worth?

  Mrs. Hiltz slows down until she’s almost at a dead stop, then turns on to the Port Minton Road. The sky and water are grey. Rain is pinging off the hood. We’ll be eating our picnic indoors by the look of things.

  We’re alone in the car. There are no distractions. Mimi could buy Mrs. Hiltz as many valuables as she wants now. She could make it up to her. Mrs. Hiltz should know the truth. There’s nothing stopping me.

  “Mrs. Hiltz?” I say.

  She turns and looks at me with her eyebrows raised like two perfect little white umbrellas. She’s smiling. She’s probably happy because she thinks I’m going to ask her some probing question about shipbuilding or pemmican-making or something.

  I almost do—because I’m a chicken—but then I just blurt it out.

  “Minerva Bister is my mother.”

  Mrs. Hiltz’s eyebrows collapse and her lips go flat. She turns her head away from me as if she’s a mechanical doll. She looks straight ahead. She moistens her lips and says, “Yes. I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course I do,” she says. “Why do you think we’re going on this little outing? I knew it that first day, as soon as I saw your hands.”

  “My hands?”

  “Yes. Your nails. That’s what gave it away. And your hair too, of course. Your auburn hair.”

  I don’t understand. My hands aren’t like my mother’s. My hair’s not like my mother’s. What’s she talking about?

  “Oh, and I guess it wasn’t just that.” Mrs. Hiltz is smiling again. “There are those cold blue eyes, of course. And your manner too. Asking me about Bister Island and Port Minton and the Ingrams as if this were just some inno
cent little history project you’re working on!” She seems to find this funny.

  “You’re so like your mother. Really. All that lying, manipulating, sneaking around behind my back—”

  “No!” I go. “That’s not what I was doing. Honestly. I didn’t know Minerva was my mother until today. Honestly!” How do I tell her that I was lying for a different reason entirely?

  Mrs. Hiltz coughs out a laugh. She’s driving faster now. Too fast for a twisty road. I put my hand on the dashboard as she screeches around a bend. The ocean’s almost straight below me.

  “Oh, really, dear.” She puts on this squeaky voice. “‘Honestly!…Honestly!’” She shakes her head. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much. You’re a scheming tramp just like your mother. I clearly should have hit you harder when I had the chance.”

  It’s as if somebody slipped a rope around my neck and yanked. I get it.

  “You hit me?” I say. “In the car? That was you?” My skin shrinks.

  “Yes.” She sounds proud, as if I just complimented her on her prize-winning begonias.

  A picture of Mrs. Hiltz in her nightie flashes into my head. Just like that, I understand something else too. The way she was out of breath. Her cold hands. Her shoes—her outdoor shoes—crunching through the glass on the floor. The fact that Casper didn’t bark.

  My screaming didn’t wake her up last night. She’d been outside.

  “You threw the brick too,” I say.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Why?” My heart feels like it’s trying to break out of my chest. This is crazy. Why would she do that? You’d have to hate a person to do something like that.

  She laughs. “Because killing you on the road proved more difficult than I thought it was going to be. At the last minute, I held back. I was afraid to end up in the ditch myself. I didn’t have the courage to try again. I decided another really good scare might be enough to stop you. It had to. I couldn’t let you try to destroy us again.”

  “Destroy you again? What are you talking about?”