The not-so-perfect evening.
“How was it?” Evan says when I get home around four. He’s sitting on the floor, sorting through his Magic cards. Must be gearing up for another selling purge. That seems to be the only time he looks at them anymore.
“Great. Restful. And fun. But I’m exhausted from all this pre-wedding socializing.”
I sink onto the sofa, kicking my heels off.
“Want a foot rub?”
“I’d sooner a body massage.” Yea. I know. I like sex. A lot. If you had a man like Evan at your avail, you’d yearn for it too.
“That can be arranged,” he says. “But let’s start with the feet.”
Ahhhh. This is the perfect cap to the day. He slides my stockings down, taking his dead time in the process, massaging my calves and ankles and feet in the process. My eyes drift closed, and I can’t help but feel that life can’t get any better.
“Nice?”
“Find a far greater adjective than that, my friend.”
God. I love his chuckle.
“So, what’s your beef with this law school thing?”
The words come out so casually, so cavalier, as if this is the most natural time to talk about it. And then I realize what he’s done. He’s put me at ease, made this as non-confrontational as possible. I’m not sure if it’s the right approach, but I’ll give it a go. I’m still in a good mood and willing to talk this out.
“It’s not a law school beef. If you’d decided to pursue this all on your own, it would be a different conversation.”
“It is my idea.”
Really, Evan? You’re that clueless?
“No, it’s not. It hadn’t entered your head until Dad started talking about it a few weeks ago.”
“How do you know when I decided to think about it?”
“It hasn’t come up at all in two years. And suddenly, after a not-too-subtle Carew career advising session, it’s front and centre in your mind? Come on, Evan. Dad planted the seed.”
“So what? How do ideas germinate if they’re not created somehow? Just because your dad suggested it doesn’t mean it’s a terrible idea. Do you know there are no lawyers in this city right now seriously pursuing an environmental agenda? With all the focus on oil and hydro, no one is lobbying for better forms of energy production.”
“So be a lobbyist. How’s a lawyer going to impact change?”
“I can look for cases against the big corporations. Class action suits. Create awareness. And more. I don’t know everything I could do because I’m not in law school. I don’t know all the avenues open to me yet. But there must be something I can do.”
“What’s wrong with what you’re doing now? The energy retrofit business seems to be working out pretty good for you.”
“Nothing. But it’s hands-on. And while I’m helping people, I’m not making a difference. I’ll be dead before I can change every house in this city. And the only people interested in what I’m doing are those looking at the bottom line. They just want to save money. They don’t really care about the long-term effects of conservation.”
I love his passion. I really do. And I know he’s frustrated with working for clients who hire him to do a job and yet don’t even take recycling seriously, let alone the idea of repurposing what they already have.
“I just don’t see how becoming a lawyer does that.”
“I was talking about it with your dad this afternoon, and he says—”
“Hold on. You were with Dad today? I thought you were with Sam and the kids.”
“I was. But we were close to your parents’ house and the kids wanted to use the bathroom, so we went there.”
“And you just happened to bring this up?”
“No.” His tone is getting defensive. “He asked my opinion on Muskrat Falls.”
“He knows your opinion.”
“No, he didn’t. Why would he know that?”
“Because you’re an environmentalist. Of course he’d know where you stand on that money pit of a hydro project. He’d know you’d get into a debate and he could use some legal trickery, or whatever it is that he does to get inside someone’s head, to make you agree with him.”
“He’s opposed to it as well, you know.”
“I’m aware of that. I mean making you agree with him that if you were a lawyer you could somehow save the world. Which is nonsense. You want to save the world, go become a scientist. Or a crusader.”
The force that he uses to push my legs off his lap is startling. He seems huge towering above me, arms outstretched in argument.
“You think I’m being manipulated? Guided down some path unknowingly by your evil, mind-controlling parents? God, Jillian. Do you think I lack a backbone? Or are you so friggin’ damaged when it comes to your perceived slights by your folks that you believe they’re trying to use me to bend you to their will? Grow up.”
Never has he said something so mean, so hurtful, so...so...filled with anger. His tone is one I’ve never heard before. I don’t know how to respond.
“I’ve never taken sides or tried to tell you how you should act and feel when it comes to them. I’ve always figured you had a reason to react so negatively, so childishly. But I wonder if that’s the case, or is it that you’ve been the poor little rich girl intent on being the rebel for so long that your sense of reality is permanently damaged.”
“Excuse me?”
“I love you, Jillian. Despite some of your ways. God help me, but I love you. But for the love of Christ, can’t you grow up a bit? It’s time for you to hear some truths, my darling. You are spoiled. Your parents have spoiled you, your friends spoil you, and I sure as hell do as well. And instead of being grateful for all the love and understanding that we all lavish upon you, you act like a brat every time you feel the slightest offence. Your mother—”
That’s it. Gloves are off.
“Don’t you dare stand there holier than thou and claim to understand my relationship with her. With either of them. What do you know of being the only child, of having a world of expectations heaped on you from the time you first asked to go to art lessons but were sent to ballet instead.”
“There! There it is. Privilege, my dear. Oh no, I had to endure ballet when I really wanted to draw.” His impression of me is terrible. And so is he. “Do you know how many kids out there couldn’t afford either of those options?”
“Of course it’s about the privilege. I was never allowed to forget how lucky I was. Trust me, I’m well aware of the financial legacy that has allowed me to do all the things that many of my friends couldn’t. And I’ve tried not to rely on that. I’ve tried to get out from under the allure and control of their money and their expectations for ever.”
“That’s why you have two dresses at Ingrid’s? Why I broke the bank to buy you a dress that costs more than our monthly mortgage?”
“I didn’t ask you to buy me that damn dress! You did that. When you proposed to me. If you recall, I made a choice not to buy it. With my own money, mind you.”
“You dropped enough hints about how you loved it.”
“I thought I could safely look at things and covet them without it bothering you so much. Those weren’t hints. That was me, vicariously enjoying what I’d decided not to get.”
I storm to the bedroom and take out the Jenny Packham.
“Here you go.” I toss the dress at him. “See if you can sell it on eBay. I was going to wear it to our rehearsal dinner, but forget it. Forget the whole thing. I didn’t know how much of a chore it was being with me. Wasn’t aware of the heroic sacrifices you’ve had to make to endure my childishness.”
“Here we go. Grand fits again. I suppose you’re going to try to call off the wedding now, are you? Well, news flash. This is what grown ups do. We fight, we yell, we say mean things that are hanging out in our hearts, and then we let the air clear. The dust settle. We make a choice either to chalk it up to things that had to be said and forgive, or to act as if it’s the end of
world and add it to an ever-growing list of slights. I’d like to take the first approach. I know you’re fond of the second. So why not leave the house, cool down, and think about it for a while. Because here’s my promise to you. I’m going to marry you, and love you, and take great delight in setting you straight when you morph from smart, witty Jillian into sooky, touchy Jillian.”
He marches to the door, opens it and hands me a sweater.
“Don’t call this wedding off unless you mean it. And I mean really mean it. Because if you do, there’s no point changing your mind. It’s time for you to act like your words matter.”
I’m numb. I have no idea how to respond to what’s happening. I don’t know what to make of this Evan. This forceful, angry, bossy Evan who seems to think that I’m so terrible. This is the man I’m supposed to marry?
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I say as I grab the hooded sweater and stomp into my shoes.
“I’ll be here waiting for you to come home tonight.”
“You’ll be lucky if I ever speak to you again,” I hiss. Yes. I hiss. I’m pissed. And hurt. And I have no idea what to do right now.
Twenty minutes later.
Too mad to drive, I just walked. I had no destination in mind. And yet, here I am in the one place I’m both surprised and relieved to be.
I half wondered if Evan would have called her, but I can tell by the surprised look on her face that he hasn’t.
“Mom,” I wail when I find her in the living room. I fall into her arms in a crying heap, my head crushing into the book she was holding when I found her in the living room. I can’t remember the last time I cried in my mother’s arms. But at this moment, it’s the only thing I want.
I pour my heart out to her, sobbing, and refuse to let her go so that we have no choice but to sink onto the floor. She doesn’t say a word. Nothing. She just lets me tell her word for word what was said, and how I feel, and how I’m scared and confused and wounded.
How much time passes there on the floor, I don’t know. At some point I let her go and she gets me some tissues to blow my nose. Never have I cried like this. Great gut-wracking sobs where I can’t breathe and my head goes numb.
Never have I felt a kiss as soothing as the one she places on my head just before she smoothes my hair. “Go wash your face and I’ll make some coffee.”
She knows me after all.
Gentle God, I’m a state. I just paraded halfway though the city looking like this. A frilly dress, sneakers and an oversized hoodie. Mascara-streaked eyes, red puffy nose, and eyes sunken back in my head. As we’d say around here, I look like a skeet.
The facecloths smell of fabric softener, which Evan and I don’t use. But it means the thick cotton is soft and fragrant and feels like heaven. I wash my face with one and then take another damp one back out to the kitchen with me just for the cool comfort. The wash liquid might be full of chemicals and bad for the environment, but I love it.
“You want cake?” Mom asks, handing me the most perfect cup of coffee I’ve ever had.
I nod, because if I try to speak, I’m just going to cry again.
The most decadent piece of black forest cake is shortly in front of me and I eat it without saying a word.
Mom doesn’t say much. She’s commenting on simple things. The sunset. The residue on the dishes and the need for new detergent. Nothing about Evan, the wedding, or anything that could reduce me to tears.
When I’m finished my first cup of coffee, she pours us both another and leaves the room. I follow because maybe she knows how to fix this. Fix me. I steadily walk behind her through the living room and up the stairs, right up to my old room. It’s different, of course. She’s not the type to keep my room a shrine, but it’s still comfortable. Far prettier than it was in my day with whites and pale greens as far as the eye can see. It’s calming. She sits in the rocking chair by the window and I sit on the bed.
“First things first. Do you want to marry Evan?”
I hiccup and nod.
“Do you want to postpone the wedding?” She holds up a hand to stop me from speaking. “Forget what he said. Postponing isn’t cancelling. It’s delaying.”
I shake my head no.
“Can you forgive him? Truly forgive him? As in not parade this out before him years from now whenever a fight comes up, or set this up as the first issue on an ever-growing one?”
“You’re taking his side!”
“I most certainly am not. I’m so mad at that man right now that I’m tempted to go out there and stab him far worse than I maimed his dear mother. To say those things to you, ever, let alone when you have all the stress of a new bride on your head. Ohhhh.”
Okay. Mom is shaking with anger. I’ve never seen that. Not even when I did some pretty rotten things in my youth.
“No, my dear. I couldn’t give two farts right now about Evan, truth be told.”
How am I not supposed to laugh at that? Sometimes Mom slips into some real old townie slang, and when she does it cracks me up.
“But, Jillian, you do need to accept that some of what he said, only the things about our relationship, are true. And you’re right about us too. I know I can be overbearing. And I know Dad just thinks you’re the most brilliant creature to grace the earth and perhaps that’s why he’s always pushing you towards his vision. I’ve fought with him about that too, you know. I’ve always been on your side.”
It’s the same speech from before, from when I came accusing her of being ashamed of Evan. Since then I’ve watched her more. Paid more attention to what she says, and how she says it. And I believe her. You know I do. And you know I’ve tried to be better.
“I know, Mom. I do.”
She smiles. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that you came here tonight. I never expected you’d turn to me for advice.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t come only for your advice. I came for you. I love you, Mom.”
“Oh my darling girl, I know you do. And I love you. And tonight you’re going to sleep in this bed—”
“I can’t! If I don’t go back, Evan will think—”
“Who cares? He deserves a bit of discomfort. And tomorrow, you can go and work it out. In what way makes sense to you. But tonight, please, just stay here and rest. Think. Think about what he said. Think about why he feels the way he does and then decide what you’re willing to work on, and what he just needs to accept as part of who you are. You’ll know what’s what.”
She takes the cup from my hands, kisses me again, and as I drift off to sleep, much easier than I thought possible, I can’t help but wonder if she didn’t slip me a sleeping pill.
Memorial Day. July 1. The day the rest of Canada calls Canada Day.
The sky is somewhere between navy blue and rose when I wake. It’s not even six am. I quietly slip into the clothes that Mom has left in the room. It’s pure comfort clothes. Loose black yoga pants and a long-sleeve red cotton shirt. It’s good to get out of the dress and into something soothing. In the bathroom I find a new toothbrush and enough hair paraphernalia to tie my hair up in a loose bun.
The scent of coffee lures me downstairs. I’m expecting Mom. Instead, I find Dad.
“Mom told me you were here. I figured you’d sleep in later than this.”
I shrug.
“I’m going to the sunrise ceremony up on Signal Hill. Want to come?”
“I thought you boycotted Canada Day until noon?”
“Oh, I’m not going to participate. I’m going to peacefully protest.”
I notice then that he’s wearing a forget-me-not, the traditional Memorial Day flower in Newfoundland for July 1. The poppy is a November 11 symbol.
I won’t bore you with the history too much, but here’s what’s happening right now. Back in 1916 during the Great War, the battle of the Somme was about to begin. The Royal Newfoundland Regiment awaited orders in the trenches of Beaumont Hamel. Of the more than 780 that went over the top on the morning of July 1, only 110 survived.
It was a devastating loss for Newfoundland. So when we joined Canada in 1949, it was a bitter pill to swallow that this was also the day of the year when the rest of the country celebrated the formation of Canada. There’s about a million layers of complex politics here that you don’t need to know, but suffice it to say, for some people, my father included, this is a day fraught with internal conflicts.
That’s how I find myself fifteen minutes later standing with my father, back to the ceremony, overlooking the narrows of the harbour, contemplating loss and peace and forgiveness.
“I thought I’d find you here.” Evan lays a tentative hand on my shoulder. “Morning, sir,” he says to Dad. Sir. Sure fire sign he’s wondering if my father is going to shove him over the ledge we’re standing on.
“You want me to go?” Dad looks me in the eye. Who knew I had such a fierce protector? Maybe I am spoiled.
I nod.
“You went to your parents’?”
“Yea. Are you mad I didn’t come home?”
“No. Sad.”
“I think Mom drugged me. For real. I’m not exaggerating.”
“I wouldn’t put it past her. She was an angry bear when I called there last night.”
“You might be right about them, and me. They are a bit indulgent, aren’t they?”
“I wasn’t right at all. I was a dick.”
“A bit.” Let’s call a spade a spade, after all. “But I wasn’t much better.”
“Can we go home and talk?”
“Only if you can give a spoiled princess one thing.”
“Jill.” He rakes his hands through his hair. “I didn’t mean—”
“One thing.” I’m doing a classic Dr. Laura Carew hand in the air.
“What?”
“Marry me on Saturday.”
The rehearsal dinner.
I hope you don’t think that was the end of it. We had a lot of talking to get through and there were even a few more harsh come-to-Jesus moments as we worked our way through what was said.
Geek Groom (Forever Geek Trilogy #2) Page 5